We must halt mass immigration to protect the ordinary British families who clean my nine investment properties

I was enjoying a rather pleasant mid-morning espresso on the terrace of my primary residence in Surrey when the latest Home Office figures crossed my desk, ruining what was otherwise a perfectly good Tuesday.

According to the government’s grand pronouncements, the number of asylum seekers being temporarily housed in hotels stood at exactly 20,885 at the end of March. This, they eagerly point out, is a 35% drop year-on-year from the 32,326 recorded previously. We are expected, apparently, to fall to our knees in gratitude that the lowest figure since data was first reported in 2022 has been achieved. The total had climbed as high as 56,018 at the end of September 2023, and now the bureaucrats want a gold star for partially reversing a disaster of their own making.

But let me be absolutely clear: a 35% reduction means precisely nothing to those of us who still have to imagine these people existing inside a three-star Novotel just a few postcodes over. The psychological toll of knowing that a Holiday Inn Express off the M4 is being used to shelter the displaced, rather than hosting regional sales conferences for mid-tier paper suppliers as God intended, is a burden no native Briton should have to bear.

While the political establishment squabbles over trivialities—such as Green Party leader Zack Polanski desperately defending his decision to field a candidate against Andy Burnham in some Northern byelection I couldn't care less about—the very fabric of our society is being unspooled. Polanski insists that people must have the choice to vote for the candidate of their choice. What absolute drivel. The only choice the British public actually wants is the choice to walk into a rural pub and not hear a single foreign syllable, a fundamental human right that has been stripped from us by the cosmopolitan elite.

The hard-left flank of Labour would have you believe that the real issues facing this country are wealth inequality, corporate profiteering, or climate change. They are completely deluded. The real issue is that mass immigration is making it exceedingly difficult for ordinary, salt-of-the-earth Britons like myself to recognize the country we occasionally fly back to between ski seasons.

We are told by bleeding-heart academics that low-wage immigration is an economic necessity. This is a brazen lie. Low-wage immigration is fundamentally bad for the economy, and British families feel it every day in lower wages. I know this intimately because I recently had to lower the wages of my own Polish landscaper, simply because the market is so saturated with cheap, desperate labour. It broke my heart to do it, but as a staunch defender of the working class, I must respect the immutable laws of supply and demand that allow me to expand my rear patio at a steep discount.

Then there is the unbearable pressure on our public services. We hear constant, whining complaints about longer waiting lists, crumbling infrastructure, and overflowing clinics, all of which are directly attributable to the influx of non-EU migrants. It is a national scandal. Just last month, my wife was forced to wait an agonizing twenty-five minutes past her scheduled appointment time at our private Harley Street specialist, simply because the consultant was stuck in traffic—traffic undoubtedly caused by minicab drivers who have only recently arrived on our shores.

This is the hidden cost of mass migration. It is destroying the pristine, fast-tracked, heavily privatized infrastructure I have spent three decades voting to protect from the general public.

And what of the housing shortage? The chattering classes refuse to acknowledge that accommodating tens of thousands of asylum seekers fundamentally undermines the property market. I currently own nine buy-to-let properties across Greater London and the Home Counties. The sheer volume of migrants driving up national demand has forced me—practically at gunpoint—to increase the rent on my working-class tenants by 20% this year alone. Every time I sign a new, exorbitantly priced lease that prices a young British family out of their neighbourhood, I curse the Home Office for making me do this to them.

Is it any wonder, given this nightmare scenario, that Brits are leaving on a massive scale? The Home Office figures conveniently fail to track the tragic exodus of our brightest, best, and most heavily leveraged property investors, but I see it every day at the golf club. Faced with a country overrun by foreigners, burdened by crushing taxes on unearned wealth, and hampered by an outright refusal to aggressively suppress the wages of the service sector, the true patriots are packing their luxury leather weekenders.

I, too, have been pushed to the absolute brink. Unless Labour summons the courage to abandon their hard-left flank and implement a total, uncompromising freeze on this societal decay, I will have no choice but to follow my peers out the door. I am already in the final stages of purchasing a sprawling, heavily fortified villa in the Costa del Sol.

There, I will proudly live as an expat—a dignified, noble status reserved exclusively for wealthy Britons who refuse to learn Spanish, aggressively drive up local property prices, and complain loudly to the mayor about the changing demographics of the local tapas bars. It is a tragic, self-imposed exile, but if this country will not protect my right to live completely insulated from the consequences of my own political preferences, then I simply must take my capital elsewhere.