A place called Nice banned half casts, blacks, Arabs and anyone who couldn't speak French.
I knew how to say Yoplait, the name of a French yogurt.
I was a very good student at school.
While Mr. Platts was teaching, me and Martin O'Connor would be listening to the Rolling Stone's latest album on the language cassette player.
I totally understood the lockdown.
Nice was a nice place, I was told.
It was exclusively for the rich French.
They resented their taxes going on social security for the economic refugees streaming in from across the Mediterranean.
At least Greece had the grace to turn back the boats from Turkey.
The Italians were sinking the ships full of black Africans.
No one really cared.
The UNHCR and the UN had a lot to answer for.
They let any criminal into first world countries with doctored documents.
But no one dared say anything about for fear of being attacked by the liberal mob on social media who were now tracking down our addresses and paying us a visit at our homes with pitchforks.
Nice was walled in.
A fifteen-meter wall that spanned around the city like an outer ring road gave it some protection. Another wall was built from the shore to about one kilometer out to sea.
No one could get a boat past the giant wall that separated Nice from the rest of the rotten Mediterranean that was teeming with refugees from Africa.
France was sick of the Muslims and the Negroes.
France had shrunk in size.
Nice was not only the capital but the new France that most were curious to enter and tap into their extravagant social security system.
Everyone knew that the head of WHO, that Kenyan, was telling all his brothers and sisters to invade en masse and break down the wall.
'We deserve a share of the pie too,' he said on an international broadcast.
'Like fuck,' said Max, who put in a special key into a door that allowed us to enter Nice.
'Open fucking sesame,' I said.
I knew how to say Yoplait, the name of a French yogurt.
I was a very good student at school.
While Mr. Platts was teaching, me and Martin O'Connor would be listening to the Rolling Stone's latest album on the language cassette player.
I totally understood the lockdown.
Nice was a nice place, I was told.
It was exclusively for the rich French.
They resented their taxes going on social security for the economic refugees streaming in from across the Mediterranean.
At least Greece had the grace to turn back the boats from Turkey.
The Italians were sinking the ships full of black Africans.
No one really cared.
The UNHCR and the UN had a lot to answer for.
They let any criminal into first world countries with doctored documents.
But no one dared say anything about for fear of being attacked by the liberal mob on social media who were now tracking down our addresses and paying us a visit at our homes with pitchforks.
Nice was walled in.
A fifteen-meter wall that spanned around the city like an outer ring road gave it some protection. Another wall was built from the shore to about one kilometer out to sea.
No one could get a boat past the giant wall that separated Nice from the rest of the rotten Mediterranean that was teeming with refugees from Africa.
France was sick of the Muslims and the Negroes.
France had shrunk in size.
Nice was not only the capital but the new France that most were curious to enter and tap into their extravagant social security system.
Everyone knew that the head of WHO, that Kenyan, was telling all his brothers and sisters to invade en masse and break down the wall.
'We deserve a share of the pie too,' he said on an international broadcast.
'Like fuck,' said Max, who put in a special key into a door that allowed us to enter Nice.
'Open fucking sesame,' I said.
