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Deeply-embedded,
well-loved aspects of Scottish culinary culture were under threat
this week as it was revealed that government immigration policy
was threatening that ancient Scottish dish - the Ruby Murray.
For reasons best known to themselves, immigration ministers are
insisting that Bangladeshi chefs normally recruited to work in our
nation's curry shoaps must now pass an English language proficiency
test, leading to a nationwide shortage of chefs.
While most intending diners are more likely to be concerned that
the chef in the kitchen has passed his chef's tests, Whitehall civil
servants are adamant that the creators of such Scottish staple delicacies
as "Fuck me! That's really hoat!" among others, must be
able to converse fluently in English in order to protect "indigenous"
workers or something.
Odd
then that this rule doesn't appear to be applied across the occupational
spectrum.
Just
to take one example, completely at random of course, the English
FA have recently engaged the services of an Italian gentleman, one
Fabio Cappello, to manage the English national squad.
Among his many talents are a first class record in soccer management
at the club level and his intellectual pursuits, lover of fine art,
admirer of dead fascist dictators; however fluency in the English
language does not feature as one of Mr Cappello's many and varied
attributes.
In
fact, he's getting English lessons to enable him to converse with
the players.
I
will resist the obvious temptation to list those members of the
current England set-up who could manifestly use a few lessons in
the Queen's themselves and simply ask this innocent question: How
come Cappello doesn't have to obey the rules?
It
couldn't be, could it, that there's one rule for this week's "saviour"
of "the game that England gave to the world" and another
rule for talented chefs from the sub-continent?
Surely
not.
It's
probably just that there wasn't enough "indigenous" English
managers of sufficient quality to undertake the mammoth task of
making something palatable out of that gigantic pile of mince that
is the English national soccer team.
That
must be it.
Cappello's
Italian, Italians good with food, you see how it all makes sense?
Cappello,
lover of fine art, admirer of dead fascists and a dab hand with
mince
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