As an immigrant I will never be good enough for Britain

Ithought I was the perfect example of what a “good immigrant” should be. I have numerous degrees, a home I bought myself with no Bank of Mum and Dad bailout and I pay my fair share of taxes. I speak in Received Pronunciation but can switch to Bengali-Cockney at the drop of a hat. I have friends from every walk of life. I do self-deprecating humour and British bants, and I even love beige food.

But none of that matters – it’s actually impossible to be a good immigrant in Britain. Only bad ones exist.

My dad came to Britain in the 1970s and settled in east London as part of the wave of Bangladeshi migrants who were invited to fill post-war labour shortages – young men recruited into factories and mills, to do the kind of work nobody else wanted.

He left school early, grafted in a factory