NORMAL LIFE: When In Rome..

I had never heard of the Commission on Integration & Cohesion before. What a snazzy name, I thought, clicking on their link from an online news article; its name says pretty much all you need to know, but in case you're intimidated by the big words, the reasons for the organisation's existence is to promote diversity and respond to the tensions it can sometimes cause, dealing with issues such as segregation and the dissemination of extremist ideologies.

The Commission's report that Not Speaking English is the single biggest barrier to successful integration comes as no surprise. What shocks me is how many people there must be in the UK right now who, for some reason or other, can't even put two English words together. By not learning one iota of English, they have expressed their desire neither to assimilate - nor respect - our culture and way of life. Furthermore, did you know that Social Services translate their benefit claim packs into more than ten languages? No wonder they have all come running, seeking refuge from afar! As Darra Singh, Chief Executive of Ealing Council who chairs the Commissions, right says: "Translation should never be a substitute for learning English in the first place."

I speak out right now because I know what I am talking about; I have been struggling to get through course three of six courses that constitute the basics of Finnish, reputed to be among the top 10 most difficult languages to learn. Wouldn't it be just pompous and empirical of me to expect everybody to speak English? When in Rome... hello! My stance on the matter is give benefits to those willing to attend English lessons; if they repeatedly fail the English tests, the claimant's brother - who is most likely a dentist or doctor anyway - can buy their dinner and pay their gas bill! Fuck off!

When you're living in London, you naturally come across people who can't speak English, but these are largely those tourists that have ventured away from the beaten track. However, some years ago, I was sitting on the Picadilly line a hundred-or-so metres below London's West End when a guy sitting opposite me looked rather worried. He studied the map of the London Underground above my head with a concentration that bought the veins in his head to the fore. The train was deserted, and the guy got my attention with the wave of a hand, pointing to the train stops listed on the wall and then pointed to the floor as if to ask if the next stop would be his proposed destination. I shook my head, no. The guy was still some six stops away from Hyde Park and so this continued for about fifteen minutes; whenever the train started to slow, he pointed at the stops on the wall and then the floor, seeking reassurance. When I finally nodded, confirming he had arrived, he rushed off without even a thankyou.

What infuriates me, even after all these years, is that I think he was living here. He looked Afghan, sporting a long dark beard and wearing one of those flat-topped caps with school uniform grey trousers and a long, draping jumper. He must have been around fifty years old and I thought to myself even then that it is wrong that these people are living here. But what can you do, except encourage them to learn our language? The Commission on Integration & Cohesion was set up last year and not before time.