"In England, he is soft," he says. "And he stays soft, for maybe a week. In Poland our bread, after one day he is hard."

Apologies (for those who may give a fuck about these things) for not posting very much recently. This is because of all the evil thoughts I have been afraid to give shape to. The words give them life you see….

Took the title of today’s post from an article about Polish bakers on the BBC website, as I thought it was extremely amusing (incidentally, is this what I pay my licence fee for now??? to get updates on new developments in the pastry world?).

Where the fuck are all these Poles everyone is taking about? There are over 1000 employees in the company I work for and only 1 Pole (to my knowledge).He’s a lovely chap though-he came here straight from the Polish army and is very, very bitter about having to put his life on the line for several years for the equivalent of about 27 pence (plus some beetroots and a turnip) each day. He mutters darkly about his homeland…

I suppose we do have a series of ever changing eastern European Borat types who do the bins and stuff, but I don’t really register them as human beings anyway-I suppose that’s one of the advantages of working at the headquarters of the Nazi party.

According to the media I shouldn’t be able to leave the house without being accosted by lumpy looking foreign type with teeth made of Iron and a horrible jumper. Has anyone been to London recently?Are they all there or something?