IRENE'S STORY SHOWS HOW QUICKLY BRITAIN IS DESCENDING INTO DARKNESS.

I bumped into Irene's story yesterday morning. The light outside my window was still just about on the dark side of dawn and the windows were running with winter rain. All quiet. Nothing yet for the dogs to bark at. A quietly steaming coffee. A cigarette in the ashtray.

Click. Click.

From Trump to Nuttall to Klopp to Irene.

And when I arrived at Irene, a familiar cold chill seeped through my bones.

This is Irene's story in a nutshell: the reason why she has emerged from a lifetime of normality to explode into the social media limelight. Irene was born and raised in Singapore and when she was twenty three she met a British guy called John. I guess they must have courted and clicked. John asked and Irene said yes and they returned to County Durham to settle in for the rest of their lives as man and wife. And thirty years rolled by. John worked. Irene kept house and raised two children. The kids grew up and Irene and John became grandparents.

There were some dark clouds. Irene's mum and dad both fell ill with terminal cancer and she had to return to Singapore twice to nurse them into the next life.

Then John's health failed and could no no longer work. Irene became his carer.

At this frightening moment in their lives, a letter from the Home Office landed on the mat.

Like a cluster bomb.

At first it didn't seem like a big deal. Juts a routine check. Nothing to worry about. Just paperwork. And they didn't worry. Not unduly Why would they? John was British born and bred. Their children were British born and bred. Their grandchild was British born and bred. And John and Irene had been married for thirty years. They had lived their normal life in Britain for thirty years.

John had never had a day of umpemployment. Neither had ever broken a law. Neither had ever claimed a penny in benefits.

So surely there was nothing to worry about. Not here. Not in Britain.

But of course there was something to worry about. The small print. Always the small print.

Spouses with immigrant partners are required to earn a minimum of £19,000 for their spouses to be allowed to stay in our green and pleasant land. And of course John had always earned over £19,000. Easily. Ah but here's the thing John. We're not looking at what you USED to earn. We don't give a shit about what you USED to earn. We want to know what you earn NOW.

Well, the thing is.....

Come on man. Spit it out.

I'm ill. Very ill. Do you want to see my doctor's notes.....

What do you think I am? A bloody medical student? HOW MUCH 

DO YOU EARN NOW!

I'm on sick pay. Because I'm sick.

So not £19,000 a year then?

No, but.......

Don't give me buts. I'm not interested in buts. I don't give a shit about buts. We deal in facts here. Cold hard facts. Income under £19,000 a year. Fact. Tick. Shut it. Now. You. Yes you.

Have you resided in the UK without interruption?

Well.....

DON'T SAY 'WELL' - JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION.

I had to return to Singapore twice. When my mum and dad were dying. They both had cancer....

Do I look like someone who is interested in the ailments of your bloody parents? No? So just stick to the question. Have you resided in the UK without interruption?

No.

Then you're going to have to prepare to leave the UK madam.

But you can't! John is ill and I am his carer. And my children are here and my grandchild. My life isd here. I have nothing in Singapore. Nobody....

Do I look like someone who gives a shit?

So the answer was no. John and Irene hired lawyers and the lawyers told them no to worry themselves too much. They posted appeals and one by one their appeals were rejected. The community rallied around them. The media carried their story. And everyone agreed things would be OK because things had to be OK. Because this is Britain, not Zimbabwe. We are a decent country. A fair country.

Oh yes. This is indeed Britain. But it is no longer the Britain of Winston Churchill.

This is Brexit Britain.

And so it was that John and Irene got the dreaded knock on the door. You're going to have to come with us madam. Now please madam. Let's not have any fuss, shall we. Let's be a good girl now. No need for things to get unpleasant.

Irene was found guilty of the crime of being foreign. Not from here. Not like us. Not welcome. Not fit. Not in a million years. Bloody wog.

And yes, I would be the first to agree Dungavel Detention Centre is nothing like Dachau Detention Centre. I've been to Dachau. I have seen Dachau. Dachau left a mark on my soul. And I haven't been to Dungavel Detention Centre. Maybe I will go one day in the future when Scotland is a decent Independent country and Dungavel is a museum like Dachau is a museum.

Right now Dungavel is not a museum. It is our very own Dachau- Light. It is where we lock people up for the crime of being not British enough. Not white enough. For not being aceptable under the terms of the small print.

It is a prison in all but name. And here is where they brought Irene. A fifty three year old grandmother with an ill husband and two children and one grandchild. They brought her to Dungavel and they locked her up.

Here.

In Scotland. In our Scotland. In our name.

It is like we are being used as some sort of black site. The bastards won't allow us any say on our own immigration policy but they have the front to run their 21^st cetury version of Dachau on our soil.

Anyway. I guess I need to calm down. Irene got her head down and the lawyeys promised things would be straightened out. There was anger in their community and anger in the press. There was an online petition. The family visited and it all took a toll on John's failing health.

But in the end they all figured it would be OK in the end. Because when all is said and done, this is Britain not Zimbabwe.

Maybe they could find better lawyers? They searched and they found better lawyers. The new lawyers were confident they could do better. Much better. Leave it to us. We can straighten this out. We can get into Dungavel to see Irene on Monday, OK? And really, try not to worry. Call Irene and get her to make the arrangements from her end of things.

They called. Irene made the arrangements at her end. The Dungavel end. The end with the fences and the locked doors. She booked in a visit from her new lawyers and pinned her hopes on their promises. If nothing else, they were quite certain they could get her bailed and she would be able to go back home to take care of John......

Just one more day to count down. One more day and the new lawyers would be coming. One more slow Sunday and then maybe some hope.....

Come with us please Madam...

I'm sorry?

Come with us please Madam.

Come where?

Come with us please Madam.

But my things .... can I get my things.... and I need to call John... you have to let me call John... he's ill you see... I need....

Come with us please Madam.

Four of them. Four big guys to take one grandmother from Dungavel Detention Centre to Edinburgh Airport. Like she was a terrorist. Like she was a criminal. Like she was a Jew. Like she was a Matebele. But this isn't Nazi Germany. This isn't Mugabe's Zimbabwe.

This is Britain. This is Brexit Britain.

And we are sailing out of the harbour and into a golden future. We are an outward looking maritime nation. We have the Queen for goodness sake. And David Beckham.

They drove her on OUR roads to the capital city of OUR country but they did not do it our name. Not that they care. We are their vassal state. Their Poland. They can do what they like.

Thankfully as the minutes ticked down to departure time, one of the four guys turned out to be a human being. He leant Irene his phone. She was able to call John and tell him the nighgtmare was happening. Without notice. Without warning. Without the chance to keep the appointment with the new lawyers.

Goodbye John. I'll call....

Another call was allowed. To Buzzfeed. From the runway. The bones of the story. Only the clothes she stood up in. No purse. Only £12 in her pocket. Nobody for her in Singapore. Nowhere to go and nowhere to stay....

You'll have to ring off now Madam......

Up, up and away. This is how Brexit Britain deports a grandmother with a sick husband. We do it on a Sunday when the ofices of her lawyers are closed. We put four big guys on the plane with her to make sure she doesn't make a break for it. We don't even allow her the chance to pack any clean underwear.

But we are nothing like Hitler's Germany or Mugabe's Zimbabwe. There were no Alsation dogs and let's face it, being tipped of a plane in Singapore is a whole lot better than being walked by a mini orchestra to the gas chanbers of Treblinka.

For two weeks John's sister Angela had been raising funds for the new lawyers on a GoFundMe page. Things had gone OK if a little slowly.

Then Buzzfeed ran Irene's story and it exploded. I found the piece at 6.30 am yesterday morning, less than 24 hours after the four guys bundled Irene onto the plane. I read and followed the link to her page. £12,000.

I donated my tenner and watched.

Interested? Here's the link.

https://goo.gl/x1L0LA

Right now it is nearly 9 o'clock, less than 48 hours since Irene was deported. As I write this, the figure on the page is £45,145. 2220 people have said not in my name. 2220 people have followed the lead of the officer who allowed Irene to use his phone. To call John. 

To say goodbye.

After 30 years.

With £12 to her name.

Does Irene's story mean everyone working in Her Majesty's Home Office are evil people? Of course it doeasn't. It means they are frighteneed people with sky high mortgages and maxed out credit cards. They are people who know more cuts are coming down the tracks and if they lose this job.....

So they do as they are told. They follow the party line. They follow orders. Just like all of Hitler's civil servants followed his orders. Most of us can't afford to stick to our principles. We have families to feed and bills to pay. It's life. It sucks. Of course the Home Office civil servants are not as frightened as Hitler's civil servants were. They are not about to be shot. But they are still scared.

And the orders they are following? Well they come down from on high. From Her Majesty's Home Secretary. And it is her job to reduce the net migration figures regardless of what it costs.

Money?

Well money is clearly no object. I guess locking up a grandmother in Dungavel will cost at least £5000 a month. And paying four guys to drive her to Edinburgh and fly her all the way to Singapore. Who knows? Not me. A bloody fortune. And of course we will now have to pay somebody to care for John because his wife of thirty years isn't with him any more.

Does this mean the politicians in the Home Office are evil people? Of course it doesn't. It means they are frightened people. They are frightened of the voters who will will toss them onto the scrap heap if they are unable to reduce the net migration figures to the tens of thousands by deporting grandmothers. They are terrified the Daily Mail will put them on the front lage and brand them as being a part of the liberal metropolitan elite. Too soft on immigrants. Traitors. 

Enemies of the State.

Farage and the right wing tabloids have unleased a quiet tide of evil. And right now an awful lot of good people are doing nothing. Right now a lot of good people are following orders and holding their noses. To cover the mortgage. To make the next minimum payment on the credit card. On all the credit cards.

This is where it starts.

History tells us where it can finish. Like the man so famously said, all it takes for evil to thrive is for good people to do nothing. Or to do as they are told. To follow orders.

Irene now has 28 days to get an appeal into the system. When she was on the plane heading east, she must have wondered how on earth they were going to afford it. Well at least she doesn't have to worry about it now. 2220 good people have done something. They have taken a small stand against the spreading darkness and given Irene a war chest to try to fight her corner.

Let's hope she is able to get a judge to choose humanity. Let's hope there is still a little light left.

Let's hope Scotland can free itself from the growing darkness whilst we still have the chance.

If you are ever in the Munich area, take the time to visit the museum in Dachau. When the camp was first opened in 1933 it actually wasn't too bad. Well, not when compared with the standards of the day. It was a million times better than the camps of Stalin's Russia. The death rate was actually less than the death rate in the British prison system at the time. It was harsh and brutal and the Nazis were very proud of it. When they opened the gates under the 'Arbeit Macht Frei' sign, they threw a party and invited all the press to come and take a look. And the press were enthusiasitc. They liked the idea of the short, sharp shock for the low lives who had been so prevalent in Weimar Germany. 

Twelve years later things looked rather different. When the US Army arrived the camp was full of corpses.

Darkness had fallen