The quaint English village of Blemblingbun-on-Blury (pop. 6) is famous for its Mumble Tart, made from the berries of a local bush, and the ruins of a monastery consisting of one large stone in a field on the edge of town. Every year, the village holds a fete to celebrate the stone and tell stories about the village ghost, Mumble Stony, who wanders around at night making dire predictions no one can understand. The ale flows freely, and the residents — fiercely proud of their history, freedom, and incomprehensibility — end the night with a bonfire that could be seen for miles, if anyone cared to look. But all that might soon change.
“We don’ wan’ ’em,” said one local. “Who’re they t’know our ways?” Such a sentiment is common among the town’s residents, who find themselves thrust into the nation’s immigrant debate. Following the PM’s desire to place migrants in posh places instead of distressed locales, it seems as if Blemblingbun-on-Blury will soon host not one, but two migrants.
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