Deepak Chauhan looked through the window at the ‘migrant’s hotel’ across the road from his grocery shop. It was Saturday afternoon, and the ‘Patriots’ were protesting against asylum seekers being housed in the heart of their community. Despite being a child of Ugandan refugees, he couldn’t really disagree with them. Business had definitely got worse since the migrants’ arrival. Many had come illegally across the Channel on small boats. They weren’t fleeing persecution like his parents had. They just wanted a better life in the UK. That was fine, but there were limits to how many people could live on a small island. He thought the Patriots protesting each week had a point, although he wished they would go away.

The migrant’s arrival happened soon after an epidemic of organised shoplifting, which had already hammered his profits. The police said they couldn’t do anything to stop it. He should employ a security guard. At whose cost? he asked. The officer just shrugged back at him. Having two children in higher education at the same time was proving costly, and he felt close to the end of his financial tether. Luckily, his wife, Geeta, was unaware how bad things had become for Chauhan Groceries.

His rumination was broken by the sight of a tall man dressed in a dark blue suit entering the shop, wearing a Donald Trump mask, just as he had the previous Saturday during the protests.

‘I’d like a pound of British butter, please, lad.’

Deepak pointed towards the chilled counter.

‘Butter’s over there, mate, where it usually is.’

The Trump strolled over to the refrigeration counter and rummaged through the products.

‘They all weigh 450 grammes, and none of them are British butter. This one is the closest, but it’s Irish.’

‘They all taste good, mate, and I can’t control the weight. That’s what the wholesaler provides.’

‘D’you know, I can now buy a pound of sausages from Bradshaw’s Butchers in the high street, lad? We’ve left the EU! I should be able to buy a pound of butter too. Anywhere! Not 220 or 450 grammes. I want an imperial pound!’

It was the same conversation he had had with the man the previous Saturday. It ended in futile efforts to appease him. Today, Deepak’s patience was worn thin.

‘Look, man, take the 450 grammes or leave it. There’s nothing I can do to get you a pound of butter. You’ll have to go to a farm shop or somewhere’

The Trump deposited the green-packaged Ballygold on a radiator, saying.

‘I’m not taking it, lad, not on your Nelly!’

He marched out of the shop to join the Patriots with their St George’s flags. Almost immediately, the Antifa brigade arrived with masked faces and interlocked arms. Deepak groaned. It was really going to kick off now! The Antifa tried to push the Patriots from their position directly outside the hotel car park, and blows were struck with folded umbrellas. It was quite farcical! A line of policemen intervened and separated the two factions. For a terrible moment, Deepak thought he recognised his son among the young-looking Antifa and then saw the boy had pale white hands. The Trump could be seen leading the vocal attack, and Deepak remembered his words again and that voice:

‘Not on your Nelly, lad.’

The voice and words were familiar. Only, it was from before the previous Saturday that he remembered hearing them first. But where and when?

The Trump addressed the Patriots as though their leader, pointing to a homeless man in their ranks. His belongings were gathered in a shopping trolley. Deepak could imagine the message. The British state was housing economic migrants and child abusers while this poor man, born and bred in the locality, in the north of England, was left without a home. Then the Trump turned and pointed to Chauhan Groceries. Deepak knew he should be locking the front door at this point and making sure Geeta was safe, but he couldn’t help himself. He glanced at the butter melting on the radiator, turning to ghee, and stepped out into the street to hear what was being said.

‘I can’t buy a pound of British butter in that shop. It’s a bloody disgrace. In fact, I can’t buy British butter in there at all. Not on your nelly, lad…will I shop in your premises again!’

He pointed directly at Deepak, who was remembering the voice and the words from a month earlier. It was when the masked shoplifters came. A tall man had imprisoned him behind the counter with a broom while his fellow thieves ransacked the premises.

‘Not on your nelly’ was the reply given when one of the thieves asked their leader if they should take the crates of beer waiting to be put out. ‘Too fuuckin’ heavy. Just take the bottles off the shelves.’

Deepak went back inside. Geeta was behind the counter.

‘Deep, what’s going on?’

‘It’s fine, love. Just get ready to lock the door if there’s any trouble.

‘What d’you mean?’

With his back to his wife, he gathered his jacket from behind the counter, slipped what he needed into a pocket and left the premises.

The Trump had finished speaking and was listening to another Patriot with a megaphone, lambasting the Antifa grouping still locked arm in arm.

‘These idle students haven’t done a day’s grafting in their lives. They don’t know what work is, but one day, they’ll be put in charge by the elite. Then they’ll have us cleaning out the toilets in that migrants’ hotel! That’s why the fascists have covered up their faces. Pure guilt! Things can’t go on like this.’

Deepak stood in front of the Trump, who shrugged.

‘What can I be doing you for then, lad? Have you come to your senses and you’re going to sell me a pound of real British butter? Not that Mick stuff!’

Deepak looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes as though it was sun rather than rain falling into them, and then pointed as if a meteorite was plunging through the atmosphere. Some patriots looked upwards into the November gloom, and the Trump eventually joined them.

Deepak moved with great speed and managed to push the Trump’s mask upwards with one hand while shoving the 450 grammes of Irish butter under it and over the man’s face. The Trump punched and kicked out, but Deepak ignored the pain. He pulled the mask down over the butter and hung on. Two police officers removed him from the Trump and led him towards a police van. One of them was laughing;

‘That’s the best bit of common assault I’ve witnessed for quite a while, but common assault it still was, pal.’

The Trump pulled his mask off and watched the arrest. The butter stained his mousy-coloured, crop-cut head. He was a yellow man with blazing red eyes covered in ghee. Squeezing butter out of his nostrils, he shouted.

‘You won’t get away with this, you Muslim bastard! Not on your nelly, lad.’

Two police officers grabbed the Trump by his shoulders. One said:

‘Come on, Donald. Into the paddy waggon! That’s a charge of religiously aggravated public abuse you’re facing now. We all heard it! Before you get on your high horse, as usual, it falls under the Crime and Disorder Act 1998.’

They shoved the shiny, protesting Trump into a separate vehicle. Deepak looked out from the window in the van, to see Geeta peering through the dark glass trying to find him. To find the good, honest, Hindu husband he had always been. He could see her, but she couldn’t see him.

A Pound of Butter

Waiting for the Slush Puppies