It is the year 2011 and the new parlament has been in power for seven months. There have been riots, violance and murders with foreign families turfed out of there home's for there believes and origin. Things are getting worse.
My grandpa flicked through the television channels in his tattered arm chair muttering to himself as mum and grandma made dinner in the kitchen. An old repeat of 'Britons Got Talent' flicked onto the old screen. He shook his head as Simon Cowell just rejected a hopefull,
"Hey Simon, why don't you put some jam on your shoe's and invite your trousers down for tea." he grumbled. I laughed sofly and sipped my cup of tea.
I never spent much time with my family as I lived in the city. They disagreed as there was a lot of trouble down there at the moment. Actually quite a lot, with the weekly riots and the government not doing anything accept putting 'Hob Nob Digestive Biscuits' onto there expenses.
It was hard times for everyone, especially the imagrants who had come here before the cap had been put on.
Grandpa was still grumbling to himself when a loud crash came from down the road.
"What the..." I said jumping out of my seat and running to the window, "What the hell are they doing?!" I peered out of the net curtain as five hooded men tried knocking down a door opposite to us. "Grandpa, who lives at number nine?"
"I think it's that damn Indian family. Why?"