In a move that has sent shockwaves through the chintzy tea rooms of Middle England, Switzerland has voted to cap its population at 10 million. That is ten million fondue forks, ten million cowbells and ten million neutrally offended backstrances. The wealthy enclave has drawn a line in the Swiss roll and declared ‘no more, thank you very much.’
This is, of course, a direct poke in the eye for the United Kingdom, which has been grappling with the concept of controlled migration with all the finesse of a toddler trying to assemble IKEA furniture. The Swiss have done what British politicians have only ever dreamed of doing: they actually passed something that might work, without a decade of parliamentary bickering and a side order of national scandal.
Let us pause to consider the sheer Swissness of this. They did it with their usual blend of quiet efficiency and barely concealed disdain for the concept of queueing. They voted. They counted. They implemented. There was no nonsense about a ‘points-based system’ or ‘Australian-style’ anything. They simply said, ‘Right, that’s your lot. No more Willy Wonka chocs for you, unless you’re born here.’
Now, across the Channel, British politicians are frantically scribbling notes. ‘Ten million,’ they mutter. ‘A cap. A number. My god, how revolutionary.’ The Home Secretary has been seen furiously photocopying the Swiss referendum result and underlining it with a biro. Larry the Downing Street cat has been spotted looking concerned.
But let us be honest: the UK couldn’t cap a bottle of Tesco value gin, let alone a population. We have a migration system that resembles a leaky colander, a points-based scheme that is more confusing than a Brexit leaflet, and a Home Office that could misplace a swan in a bathtub. We are to migration policy what the Swiss are to understated neutrality: utterly inept.
The Swiss have done us a kindness, really. They have held up a mirror, polished it with Bank of England reserve notes and forced us to look at our own reflection. And what do we see? A country that has spent seven years arguing about Brexit, three years dealing with pandemic incompetence, and two years pretending we are all fine. We are not fine. We are a nation that has become addicted to the idea that we can have it all: cheap labour, high wages, and a National Health Service run by the sort of people who make Swiss efficiency look like a toddler’s tantrum.
But let’s not be too harsh. We are, after all, a generous nation. We open our arms to the world, mainly because we need people to fill the rota at the local kebab shop and staff the care homes. We are a country built on a foundation of imported curry and administrative chaos. The Swiss can keep their 10 million; we will keep our rainbow of diversity and a constitutional crisis every other Tuesday.
And yet, the unease lingers. The Swiss have called our bluff. While they sit smug in their Alpine fortress, hoarding chocolate and banking black gold, we are left to wonder: what is the actual number? Ten million? Twenty? Fifty? The British population is soaring, property prices are skyrocketing, and the infrastructure is cracking under the strain. But no politician dares to say the words: ‘We have enough.’
So raise a glass to the Swiss, you gin-soaked bastards. They have done what we cannot: they have actually decided something. Meanwhile, we will continue to debate, deliberate and drink ourselves into a stupor until the next referendum comes along, which it will, because in Britain we never just decide. We deliberate until the cows come home, then we vote on whether to keep the cows.
For now, let the Swiss enjoy their tidy little country with its tidy little cap. We will be over here, having a proper national debate about the size of our population, which will inevitably end with a commission, a white paper, and a new flavour of crisps.
