I've finally seen the light. We were right to Brexit: the Daily Mail weren't just scaremongering about the threat of uncontrolled immigration. They're everywhere. And pooing on my doorstep.
Waiting amidst the usual debris from the previous night's drinking in my garden (England fans drowning their football sorrows, I presume) was this obnoxious turd. This stinking little shit pile, deliberately left by the resident immigrant fox as an act of provocation. He's stolen the food from our bins, raided our garden, and woken my kids regularly with the awful screeches of fox-orgasm in Arabian Nights-style eroticism. And now this.
I've tried to reason with him. Asked him to learn some English, apply for citizenship, integrate. Wear a tweed jacket and walk with a cane like that Rupert Everettesque fox in the Peter Rabbit books. It's not that hard. A few dapper phrases from PG Woodhouse would do. Sit with me for a pint of Old Specked Hen.
But no. He speaks his own language, keeps his own traditions, and copulates loudly with foxes from his own tribe, ignoring the local species of English tabby cats on offer.
And now he shits on my doorstep.
The Leave campaign had it right. The country is going to the dogs. And foxes.