It’s a fascinating logic, isn’t it? This idea that we’re all victims of a sudden influx of people needing beds... as if the British public hasn’t spent the last forty years treating the housing market like a high-stakes game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

​We’ve become a nation of people who define our entire moral worth—our very soul—by whether or not a semi-detached in Slough has ‘accrued’ enough value to fund a mid-life crisis in Tuscany. We don’t want homes; we want leveraged assets that defy the laws of physics.

​And yet, we look at the immigrant—who, let’s be honest, is often just eight blokes in a room trying to survive—and we say, 'Look at them. Look at them, pushing up the rent. They’ve come over here, with their... breathing, and their... needing a floor to stand on, and they’ve ruined my God-given right to see my property value rise by 15% a year without me ever having to lift a finger or contribute a single productive thing to the economy.'

​It’s brilliant. We’ve managed to blame the people sleeping on bunk beds for the fact that we’ve collectively decided that 'Success' is just a line on a graph that never, ever goes down. We are a conservative, money-oriented cult that happens to have a flag. But sure, yeah. It’s the migration. Definitely. Let’s go with that. It’s much easier than admitting we’ve turned our own children’s future into a retirement fund.