Why James Delingpole, chronic lyme disease victim, is deserving of our sympathy

“I have discovered that I have a horrible degenerative disease!” journalist, pundit, executive editor of Breitbart UK and author James Delingpole announces to his brother in his latest podcast adding: “it’s the one you get when you have a tick bite.”

James goes on to explain that he has ‘chronic lyme disease’ and is one of the many victims of a silent epidemic that infects 300,000 people in the US every year and is ‘massive in Germany’ – much like David Hasselhoff in the late 1980s. The problem with lyme disease, as Delingpole explains it, is that it is very difficult to detect because the ‘tests they have at the moment are very ineffective’ and worse the NHS and indeed the entire global medical establishment are refusing to accept it even exists because if they did it would ‘open a can of worms.’


James doesn’t like the NHS. He also doesn’t know how he got CLD – but the nature of the illness is that it can be spread through the air (via air born chlamydia) and as he spends a lot of time around horses and in the countryside he assumes he contracted it there, possibly years ago. James only managed to get his diagnosis after a visit to a lab in Germany which charged him £1,200 for the test and while he is very grateful to finally know what has been plaguing him all these years, it is only now that the real journey starts. The cost of treatment could be tens of thousands of pounds and clearly Breitbart doesn’t have the medical insurance to cover it (or more likely the medical insurers won’t pay out.) Delingpole has started a “Go Fund Me” page and since it was launched, kindly benefactors have sent him almost six thousand pounds of the £40k he hopes to get. In that post he also adds that if there’s ‘anything left over’ he will sort out his teeth and give his wife a ‘proper holiday.’

Delingpole’s CLD symptoms include: “brain fog, migraines, panic attacks, arthritis, crippling fatigue, insomnia, depression, shooting pains” and will be familiar to anyone who has watched the excellent Netflix series Afflicted which follows the experiences of a half dozen individuals whose lives have been turned upside down by chronic illnesses. Indeed, many of those patients end up with a ‘chronic lyme disease’ diagnosis.

Awareness of the illness has grown considerably in recent years, with celebrities including Shania Twain, Mark Ruffalo, Sharon Osborne and Matt Dawson, the rugby international, all claiming to have had it. In the UK there is an established community of sufferers, Facebook groups and even the obligatory website ‘Lyme Disease UK’

But here’s the thing. The general medical and expert consensus is that “chronic lyme disease” does not exist. It is a fake illness. Lyme disease, caused by a bacterial infection carried by some ticks does and if quickly identified can be treated with antibiotics but this is where the confusion sets in because many ‘CLD truthers’ and others call their illness ‘lyme disease’ which muddies the waters considerably. Treatment for this fake illness can be dished out at fake clinics, treated by fake Doctors who claim they can cure it with fake ‘experimental’ techniques and it can be very expensive indeed. In some cases it might even cost the patient their life since many of the symptoms of ‘CLD’ are the same as those associated with severe depression. Misdiagnosed as ‘Chronic Lyme’ some patients have tragically go on to take their own lives.

Fake science preys not only on the gullible – but on the desperate.

James Delingpole belongs to that group of right-wing pundits and writers that include the likes of Toby Young, Isabel Oakeshott and Rod Liddle and via Breitbart he bridges the gap between them and the broader hard right community including Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (aka Tommy Robinson).  He claims to have smoked weed with David Cameron at university and is a climate change sceptic and self-defined ‘libertarian.’ He is a familiar figure on twitter and in the UK media and in his columns and podcasts he has denounced the NHS, the poor and ‘the fake disabled.’ It would be very easy for me to launch (as I confess I did on twitter) into a lengthy denunciation of his hypocrisy, his gullibility and the nature of crank magnetism.

But I am not going to do that. Because having listened to him talking to his brother, having watched Afflicted and having read up around this fake illness it strikes me that James Delingpole may well need some help but not the help he is seeking. He may hate to have the sympathy of a ‘liberal’ but he has mine. Delingpole (and those kindly donating money to his fund) is a victim of an essentially wicked industry which has conned thousands of people into believing they have an illness which matches their symptoms, while their real problems go undiagnosed. That this pernicious and malignant quackery is allowed to persist in the 21st century frankly beggars belief – but then in a world where experts and evidence are so maligned perhaps it is only to be expected.

My advice to James is this – put your faith in the experts – get a proper diagnosis – and save the money for that holiday and dentistry.

Wise words


Tommy Robinson’s prison diary – part three – the torture of Tommy

June 30th 2018

9 a.m.

I been moved to Onley Open Prison. No idea  why they call it ‘open’ because freedom of speech is dead here.

It’s clear that their way of breaking me is through ‘mental torture’ just like what the Nazis done to Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. The pillows on my bed are foam and I can’t sleep with foam pillows. There’s a bottle of water on the side and it isn’t fizzy. There’s a TV in the room but a quick inspection shows that it’s not got SKY or even Virgin on it. It’s one of them “Freeview” sets and we all know what that means. No Sky movies, no Sky sports and no “Cops in Choppers in the Outback” because there’s no Discovery Channel. I know they’re trying to break me down but I’m strong and tell them to take it away.

“But won’t you get bored?” A screw asks.

“No you fucking Dhimmi.” I tell him, “because I am British and I have something up here called the power of my imagination.”


10 a.m.

I ask for the TV back but they won’t bring it – on account of my having sworn at the screw.

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Months away from the tanning salon have taken their toll

June 31st 2018

11 a.m.

My representative Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) contacts me to let me know that I have not been forgotten by the outside world.

“They are saying you are like a modern Gandhi, or Nelson Mandela!” He whispers down the phone in that little voice of his. I’m not happy about that on account of one of them fellas being black.

“Tell them I want to be compared to Churchill!” I shout down the phone. “When he done time in South Africa for trying to stop white genocide.”

“I’ll try!” Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) manages before descending into a sobbing fit.

Lunchtime on my third day here and things are getting fucking desperate. It’s meant to be chicken, I ordered chicken but some comedian has put it in a wrap, parked what looks like a bit of shit on the side of it and covered the rest of the plate with salad.

“What’s this?” I demand of the screw who’s brought it in.

“Mexican chicken!” The fella shoots back – “with refried beans and a regional salad.”

I’m not having that. What region? Saudi Arabia? Pakistan? You don’t know who’s touched it.

The food Tommy was forced to eat while inside

“I asked for chicken.” I say “And in England mate chicken comes in one of two ways. Either with spuds and carrots and that or as KFC bucket with coleslaw – because that is the traditional way what chicken has been served here for thousands of years and you are explicit in the destruction of our culture through ….this..”

But before I can finish he cuts me off: “You mean implicit not explicit.” He says and shuts the door. Actual scum.

So they want it like that do they? I will go on hunger strike until I get my own food that I know has not been mucked about with.  I ask for a complaint form:

“If there’s a Nandos I am happy to have that, but failing that I will have McDonalds or Burger King.” I write. “And could I have my TV back because not having one is now doing my head in.”

That will show them.

8 p.m.

I’ve called off my hunger strike and ask for some fish and chips. But they say I can’t have that because dinner is finished. What has happened to this country?

July 15th

I’ve now run out of teeth whitener and hand held tanning spray and this is constituting a serious breach of me human rights. I demand to see the Governor and in the meantime fill in another complaint form.

During rec I meet a fella called Stan Lee. He’s inside for fraud and being a confidence trickster and like but he tells me he is innocent and he sounds very convincing to me. This bloke goes on to tell me that on the other side of the cell opposite mine, though a secret door, which only Muslims can see, there’s a full blown mosque with minarets and all the bells and whistles and mats and Korans and that. And in this enormous mosque thousands of Muslam prisoners are praying five times a day, in between slaughtering all the food in the prison in the halal way and….. get this… they’re converting other  prisoners and even the guards to Muslam.

It’s terrifying to be honest and completely believable. The dark state has been trying for thirty years to turn Britain into an Islamic caliphate and impose Sharia law because – well – it’s something they want to do and I have now come across evidence that proves it beyond any doubt. I realise that Stan Lee is risking his life by telling me this so when he explains that if I can get him £2,000 and a few cartons of cigarettes he might be able to save me I’m all in.

August 2018

Stan Lee has been moved to another prison – and I am still in the same cell at risk of being converted to Muslam at any moment. But worse than all that, I have now been without a telly for more than 30 days. This is in clear contradiction of the Genevieve convention on the treatment of prisoners of war and make no mistake – I AM A PRISONER OF WAR. I demand to see the Governor.

Caolan – it’s pronounced “Kay-Lin” after mistaking Buckingham Palace for my Prison

“Oh hello Mr Yaxley Lennon – I have some good news for you. It seems you are going to be released. You’ve grown your hair I see – would you like to get it cut before you depart?”

I know what he’s up to: “And fall victim to one of your grooming gangs? No I don’t think so. I may be walking out of here but this is not the last you will hear of me.” I say. “I’m going to tell the world about the treatment I have had in here and in particular the lack of a TV what I have suffered.”

Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) and the press are outside to meet me. He takes hold of my hand and we get in a car and drive away. An hour later I realise – he still hasn’t let go.

People are disgusted by my treatment. Many say I look worse than a concentration camp victim but the comparison is stupid. It has been so very much worse than that.

Tommy stresses that the guy on the right is over 7 foot tall

Franz’s Failure: the man who fell out of the sky – (a Brexit parable.)

One of the darker aspects of humanity’s otherwise gallant and dogged aspiration to fly was just how many early innovators met sticky ends. The first recorded aviation fatality is that of the great Islamic scholar Ismail ibn Hammad Al-jawhari who demonstrated the certainties of gravity and the frailty of man by fitting crude wings to his arms and jumping off a mosque in 1008 A.D. He died. Over the centuries that followed dozens of brave and sometimes foolhardy people met similar ends until, in 1903 the Wright Brothers managed to actually get up in the air and really get the ‘death by flight’ ball rolling. The fate of many early aviators is grimly repetitive. American Sam Cody, the first person to fly in Britain – died in a plane crash. Charles Royce (of Rolls Royce fame) died in a plane crash. John Alcock – the first man to fly across the Atlantic – died in a plane crash. Oskar Bider – the first man to fly across the Alps – died in a plane crash. Artur de Sacadura Cabral – the first man to fly across the South Atlantic – died in a plane crash. Raymonde de Laroche the first woman to get a pilot’s licence – died in a plane crash.

Charles Rolls – in the plane he flew across the Channel

Exceptionally brave people and without them the development of heavier than air flight would have been grounded but it quickly became apparent that what was really needed was for someone to invent the parachute. Actually, parachutes already existed and had done so since the late 18th century but design limitations meant that they were only effective at high altitude. As most early aircraft could not get much above 500 feet the race was on to find a design that would deploy effectively at lower elevation and save lives – before the world ran out of pilots. And so, in November 1911, a mysterious benefactor by the name of Monsieur Lalance wrote to the Aero Club of France – offering a prize of 10,000 francs (about £45,000 today) to anyone who could invent a safety parachute weighing no more than 25kg that could practically be used by pilots of aircraft.

Enter stage left a tailor called M. Reichelt. ‘Franz’ Reichelt was an Austrian émigré who, having obtained French nationality in 1909, had changed his name to Francois, grown a magnificent Gallic moustache and in between making garments for wealthy customers, become fascinated with the possibilities of powered flight. The deaths of early aeronauts had inspired him to conduct his own experiments with parachute design and he had had some early success throwing dummies out of fifth storey windows – but he had been hampered somewhat by a lack of proper investment and a really good test site.

Francois was a man imbued with a surfeit of self-belief and confidence and he became fixated on the idea of winning the prize. He would become known as the man who invented ‘foldable silk wings.’ After all, it played to his strengths. He was a master of cloth. He liked planes – despite never having been in one. He knew all about stitching and texture and style. He didn’t know much about air resistance, or terminal velocity or even gravity – but these were trivial matters and the young tailor set to work on perfecting his design.

While Reichelt had every belief in his abilities, those experts who came into contact with him were less persuaded. The leading aeronautic organisation of the time, La Ligue Aérienne quickly dismissed his invention on the grounds that it wouldn’t work. The canopy was ‘too weak’ and the society endeavoured to convince him to try and do something more useful with his time – but Reichelt was having none of it. As the winter of 1911 progressed – he carried out multiple experiments, gaily chucking mannequins wearing his invention from the roof of his premises and then watching them plummet onto the cobbles below.

The magnificent Francois in his silk wings

Most inventors might anticipate a ‘fail rate’ in the testing of new technology of course – but his was an impressive 100%. His ‘flying suit’ floated with all the grace of a freight train, tied to lead balloon. But it didn’t matter, because Francois Reichelt ‘believed’ in it and anyway he had set himself a deadline. In February 1912, just three months after Lalance had offered the prize – Reichelt declared that he was ready. Having gained the necessary permission, on the morning of Sunday 4th of February the flamboyant tailor arrived, wearing his suit and brimming with confidence in the Champs de Mars – at the base of the Eiffel Tower.

Monsieur Reichelt – prepares for his demonstration

It was a bitterly cold day and film footage shows vapour exhaling in ever larger quantities off Reichelt’s breath. The tailor had promised the authorities and his friends that he would use a dummy for the test, but he had failed to mention that the dummy would be him. As his real intentions became clear, his increasingly desperate companions prevailed upon him and the police to put a stop to the madness but it fell on deaf ears. Reichelt believed it would work. Against all the evidence of experts and his own multiple tests – which demonstrated clearly that in every instance he would fail – the tailor believed his invention would lead him to glide gently to the ground. After a brief impasse, Francois ascended to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. There he posed for the cameras, before unfurling his Heath Robinsonesque wings. He climbed onto a table and then onto a chair that sat on the table – paused for a moment on the edge of the barrier – and jumped.

The hole Francois left in the ground has long since been filled in – but in a sense he did achieve the fame and celebrity he so clearly craved. Poor Franz Reichelt is remembered now as a magnificent failure, the first person whose death was caught on film. Watching the footage while knowing the outcome is almost unbearably poignant.

But what can we learn today from this act of suicidal futility?

Reichelt’s demise differs significantly from that of the pilots of his era in that their experiments and daring do were based on an evidence based approach to flight. His was based on the very opposite principle – from the very beginning it was clear his invention would not work. He was told as much by experts. He saw it for his own eyes. There was nothing at any point in the development of his flying suit to suggest that it would deploy properly. And yet – he prevailed – ultimately at the cost of his own life. Was he naïve? Was he foolhardy? Was he stupid? Yes – he was all of those things and more – and perhaps it’s time there was a word for it so I propose in his honour that we call it – a reichelt.

Reichelt (n): A person or entity hell bent on doing something suicidally stupid when all of the evidence demonstrates clearly that it will end catastrophically.

Example: “You moronic reichelt….. why the hell are you juggling cobras naked? Don’t you know what will happen?”

Adjective: reicheltic – “The British government took a reicheltic approach to the Brexit negotiations, eager as they were not to lose face in front of 17.4 million people who had voted for it to happen.”

Reicheltism is all about us today. As the world tumbles into further chaos and disarray and we are all forced to eat spam and cuddle together for warmth in nuclear bunkers, we might at least comfort ourselves that there is now a word to describe it.

French police inspect M. Reichelt’s parachute

Why England must leave the failing FIFA project – by Daniel J. Hannan

This is a hard time for those of us with footballing inclinations who believe in a truly global sporting Britain. As France lines up to play ‘Croatia’ in Sunday’s final of the World Cup tournament – the England eleven has once again been humiliated – at the hands of mussel eating Belgians.

Image result for england team 1905
Traditional English football before it was ruined by meddling bureaucrats

It was not always thus. Prior to 1904 English football flourished. There was one association (the FA) and it suited us just fine. We made up the rules to suit ourselves and when we chose to engage in a soccer match with other nations it was done on ‘our terms.’ It was us – ‘Global England’ who invited them – usually Scotland – to come and play and it was us who would beat them. The Scots were grateful for a day out and we were very happy to teach them a lesson in sportsmanship. Those were the halcyon days of Edwardian Britain, when our soccer team was the envy of the world and when everyone walked about very quickly and silently, in black and white. Wearing hats.

Naturally it could not last. The non classical liberals would never allow it!

Bitter at our run of success and anticipating that they would lose the two upcoming world wars, the failing ‘continental Europe’ project in the guise of France, Belgium, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland got together and created the wholly artificial superfederation that we today call ‘The FIFA.’

Image result for england world cup 2018
Barry Kane meeting the Queen

Showing ourselves to be thoroughly good sports England joined in 1905 only to see the gradual erosion of the beautiful game as we know it and our role as the greatest soccer nation on Earth. For having joined we were obliged to play football by ‘their’ rules and obey the decisions of unelected and unaccountable referees and faceless foreign bureaucratic ‘lines judges.’ Decisions taken against England were rarely in our favour and as one country of many we effectively surrendered our footballing sovereignty. I was never consulted. Were you?

Our time in ‘FIFA’ has been an unmitigated disaster and we are obviously better than this. Whether suffering ignominy at the ‘hand of Argentine’ or being overlooked altogether, the England eight has looked on as ‘other countries’ have won the trophy and we have not. That clearly is not fair. We invented football, we had it first – it’s time to take our ball back. Mister.

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Pitcairn – a missed opportunity

That is why I am calling for a FIFAexit.

“But!” Imaginary socialists cry “you can’t do that Mr Hannan, for who shall we play with instead?”

Well – it is nonsense to suggest that all of the football in the world is played only by FIFA nations. By being tied to the failing ‘world cup’ project England has gradually loosened historic links with our traditional sporting partners in Tuvalu, Pitcairn and the Isle of Man. It was a betrayal that was barely noticed in this country, much to our shame, as we ran into the arms of others, but there is absolutely no reason why those mighty Commonwealth micronations wouldn’t let us back in. Why play against Germany or France or Belgium when we could be competing in the VIVA World Cup against Occitania, Gozo and Iraqi Kurdistan instead? I know for a fact that they are desperate for England to join and engage in their league, but the ‘rules of FIFA’ mean that we have to ignore this enormous opportunity and play against countries like ‘Brazil’ or ‘The Netherlands’ instead.

FIFA needs us more than we need them of course. Perhaps by threatening to leave and join, for example, the ELF Cup (Northern Cyprus) we will send out a message that our wickets are open, our bats are oiled and that we are ready to bully off on our terms at last. Only then will ‘soccer come home’ at last.

Daniel J. Hannan (As told to Otto English)

Week 2: Tommy Robinson Prison Diary – as told to Otto English

Week 2 – Day 1

Word reaches me from the outside world that the news is talking about nothing else but me. On Youtube, GAB and Facebook pages from Billericay to as far west as the United States of America in America people are talking about “Tommy” and how I been done out of my freedom by the left wing establishment and their Marxist henchmen in the law courts. Even the fascist BBC has been forced to drop items about Muslim integration to talk about how I been locked up for a crime I didn’t commit – like what they done to Hannibal Lecter and the rest of the A team back in the eighties.

I speak to my representative Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-Lin) down the phone – who tells me that internationally respected journalist Alex Jones no less is taking an interest and wants to interview me when I come out.

“Alex Jones? The Alex Jones? Host of Shop Well for Less and ..The One Show? This is it! This is the moment we gone mainstream.” I say.

“No, the other one.” He whispers. “The one from Infowars who exposed how we’re all being poisoned by fluorine.”

“Well that’s good as well.” I say.

“He wants to know if anyone has killed you yet Tommy?” He asks down the phone in this quiet little voice he has and what with the pressure of everything, I find myself shouting.

“Speak up you fucking ponce I can’t hear you!” Which makes him cry and then I waste the rest of my call telling him that ‘it’s all alright and I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings mate’ before we get cut off because me credit has run out and it’s all been a fucking waste of a call.

As I walk through the prison I’m in fear of my life as guards and inmates greet me with “Morning mate” and “how are you settling in?” I’m a fucking dead man walking.

my microphone
My favourite microphone

Day 2

Slept badly on account of my cell mate Keith, repeatedly asking me about my last sexual experience.

“It’s personal.” I tell him 20 times – but it still don’t shut him up and I can hear him rustling about in his bed.

The Governor tells me that I’m being moved to another prison and that she hopes to never see me again.

“That’s it. That’s typical!” I shout, “typical of the PC mentality that only wants black prisoners of conscience in prison rather than white men fighting against the genocide being levelled against your people. One day they’ll tear down that statue of Free Nelson Mandela in Parliament Square and put up one to me.”

“No…” she’s going “please don’t start… again” but I’m off.

“….. you know what Vangelis said about freedom?” I ask her. “Course you don’t – cos you never read my book.”

“No,” she goes “I think you’ve misunderstood me.”

“He said: ’I don’t like you, but I will fight you until you agree with me.’ And that’s what I’m about lady. You’d know those quotes if you’d read my book – How Muslams are Going To Kill You.”

“No!” She goes, “all I meant was I hope you don’t get locked up again for committing the same offence.”

It’s pronounced Kay-Lin

Day 3 – new prison

They say it’s an open prison. But they also say that Muslam is a religion of peace.

By my calculation that last prison was about 400% Muslim. This one is probably 800%. People ask you to back up your figures but you won’t ever hear of them having succesful media careers like mine either. It’s 800% and that is the end of it. At night I can hear people laughing and mentioning my name. I read about that once – it’s what they do before they behead you. There’s a blue mat in my room on the floor and it’s obviously there to get me to pray to Mecca. I ain’t falling for that. I ask them to remove it and they tell me that the floor gets a bit cold and it’s just there as a creature comfort. Scum – calling me an animal. I’ll tell you about animals – once I’ve got my microphone back.

I manage to get through to my representatives again. According to Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-Lin) there was a big demo in London. By his estimate sixty five million people turned up ‘but it could have been more.’

“I think you’re lovely Tommy.” He whispers down the phone in the little voice of his: “I hope you’re safe with all those big men in there.”

“I’m a dead man walking.” I tell him and hang up before he starts blubbing again. It’s lunch time in the new canteen. The food would kill most people but I’m used to it. I done time before when they said I did that mortgage fraud which was a lie. You never see Muslims doing time for mortgage fraud. Too busy setting up peadophile rings. Talking of rings, the courgettes look suspiciously like half-moons so I opt for the quiche Lorraine instead. A fella comes round while we are eating and says he’s the barber and offers to cut my hair – but within seconds of engaging with him he’s talking to me about ‘offering male grooming’ and I have to call the guards. Nonces everywhere. And he don’t even look like a Islam.

I go back to my room and put on the TV. It’s that David Attenborough talking about climate change. It’s all common sense. Of course the sea is rising – the Earth is sinking because it’s full of illegal immigrants – look at Africa – chocker with black fellas. But say that – and they’ll put you inside for speaking the truth. What’s worse – they’re stealing all our oxygen. There’s only so much oxygen to go round and it is not racist to point that out. But do you hear Attenborough ever say that? Do you fuck.

The Sun’s Great British Brexit Fail

The next 48 hours see a series of crucial votes on Leaving the EU in the Commons and with the whole sorry disaster sitting on a knife edge, Tory Remain MPs have been urged to rally round the PM Theresa May to help destroy Britain (er…. help get our country back). With Brexit beginning to prove about as popular as a bad case of piles on a forced march to a Pyongyang labour camp, The Sun has today printed a front page that looks as if it has been knocked up by an intern who – crucially – failed the photo-shop module at GCSE.

The influence of the once powerful tabloid is waning and with circulation dwindling below 1.5 million the paper is struggling to remain top bully in the media playground.

What better way to assert itself and regain some of that lost influence than by chivvying MPs along with threats and some poorly cut a pasted images of all the things that have made Britain Great. Only you’d think that if you were going to produce a front page showing all the great British things that Britain has produced you’d pick one or two things that were actually…. well … British.

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1: Windsor Castle. The home of the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha family, currently headed by Queen Elizabeth II and her Greek-German immigrant husband, was built by William the Conqueror in the Norman motte-and-bailey style in the late 11th century. King William was a French Norman who spent most of his time in France and is buried in Caen.

2: The Mini. ‘Ah, the Mini! What could be more British than that? The Mini! An absolute classic’ ….. created by Greek engineer and immigrant Alec Issigonis. ‘Well what about the modern Mini? That’s lovely too, isn’t it…. the modern mini!’ A marque rescued by German manufacturers, owned by BMW and designed by an American – Frank Stephenson.

The Mini – as British a Moussaka

3: The Shard. By Italian architect Renzo Piano, built by migrant labour and owned by the State of Qatar.

4: Fish and Chips. The Cod is fished outside of UK waters and the cost is set to rise, by as much as 18%, once we leave the EU. Potatoes originate in South America. We eat a lot of potatoes – far more than we can grow and import a huge amount from the EU which again will lead to price rises once tariffs kick in. The recipe for battered fish was brought to these shores by Sephardic Jews and it was a Jewish immigrant, Joseph Malin who opened the first fish and chip in London in 1860. Vinegar comes to us courtesy of the Babylonians. But the salt might be British.

fish and chips

5: The sheep chosen by The Sun intern are German black headed mutton. They could have chosen a nice British sheep I suppose – but they didn’t. They chose German black headed mutton. This woolly favourite was first brought to Britain in the 1850s from Saxony, just a few short decades before the arrival of Mr. Farage’s German great grandparents.

German black headed mutton

6: The Colossus at Thorpe Park. Constructed by Swiss manufacturers Intamin and designed by German engineer Werner Stengel as an adaptation of Monte Makaya in Brazil. What could be more British than that?

7: The Red Arrows. Motto: “Éclat” – French for excellence. The display team currently fly British built Hawk jets but those are set to be scrapped by BAE and future display teams will probably fly Italian or even Chinese aircraft.

8: Parliament. Our iconic Parliament building designed by one Augustus Pugin, the son of French refugees who fled France as a result of the Revolution. Now where does The Sun stand on war refugees I can’t remember?

9: The Angel of the North. Designed by arch Remoaner Anthony Gormley, the Angel was constructed with help from a £150,000 EU grant. Gormely himself threatened legal action against Vote Leave when they projected a logo onto the sculpture during the EU referendum campaign. Oh and Gormley is the son of German and Irish migrants.

10: Scotland gets a nod thanks to the Loch Ness Monster; a fictional dinosaur – much like Jacob Rees-Mogg. But that’s it. That’s how they view you Scotland; basically a novelty tea towel, somewhere north of the M25.

Jacob Rees-Mogg swimming

11: Talking of fossils – a huge coal powered station, is bizarrely included in this patchwork of madness. Answers on a postcard.

12: Routemaster bus. Finally something truly British. The Old Routemaster is a thing of beauty, which gave long service to the people of remoaning, Metropolitan London before being (largely) retired a decade ago. Its replacement, commissioned by Boris, is a costly, unnecessary, inefficient ersatz take on a classic original; the vehicle equivalent of those Nigella Lawson pots and pans which rust after one cycle in the dishwasher.

13: Stonehenge. Little is known of its actual purpose (a bit like Brexit) most historians agree that it was an elaborate and time consuming white elephant (a bit like Brexit). Or as Spinal Tap put it: ‘Nobody knows who they were, or what they were doing…..’ (you get the idea.)

14: This particular Spitfire is in the colours of the Royal Canadian Airforce. Squadron 402 ‘City of Winnipeg.’

15: The Sun newspaper. Owned by an Australian born, America based billionaire who once said that he was opposed to the EU for one simple reason: ‘When I go into Downing Street they do what I say; when I go to Brussels they take no notice.’

With the future of Brexit and Britain at stake, this non-British billionaire’s rag has sought once again to meddle in the affairs of our Parliament with dark threats and intimidation. This stupid front page with its stupid message is the latest salvo in a long and bitter fight on the battlefield of stupidity. My hope is that it does indeed have some effect on wavering Remainer MPs – and steels their nerves for the battle ahead.

Stop making me learn stuff. How PC teachers are ruining English history – by 17 year old guest vlogger Steve Bedington

A survey has found that only 45% of 18-24 year olds are proud to be English. Here 17 year old Vlogger and Facebook sensation Steve Bellington tells Otto English why they are wrong.

Ancient English history today is completely controlled by the PC Brigade. Trendy lefty Remoaners have infiltrated our secondary moderns and are teaching kids that the Romans didn’t speak British, that Adrian’s wall was not built by a man called Adrian and that Craig David neither invented popular music, nor was the best rock and pop star who ever existed.

I recently asked my friends what they thought about patriotism and he didn’t even know what it was.

adrian's wall
Adrian’s Wall

Nowadays, the lefty mob that controls our state wants pupils to learn that Africa was invaded and plundered by the British Empire rather than ‘discovered’ by Captain Cook. Fact. Africa did not exist before English people turned up there in the 1980s and named everything. That’s why South Africa is called ‘South’ Africa and not whatever the African word for ‘South’ is. A lot of countries were named after the English people who got there first. That’s why Zimbabwe is named after Gary Rhodes. Same with Kenya. I don’t know who invented Kenya exactly but have you ever met an African called Ken? Thought not. But tell that to Mr Rogers or indeed anyone else in my history department and you will be met with confused stares.

gary rhodes
Gary Rhodes – founder of Zimbabwe

It’s not racist to hate foreigners and think that anyone born in England is in every way better than anyone else. That is not racism. Political correctness is. Yet if you listened to any of my peers you’d think that voting for Brexit, or wanting everyone deported and suggesting that England reconquer the Globe and install the Queen as head of a world government was somehow ‘wrong.’

The reason for that, as with so many things that are at fault with our world today is our education system. Decades of teaching children that slavery, oppression and the stealing of natural resources from other countries is ‘theft’  – have inculcated in them a deep suspicion of our past and of our glorious future outside the globalist, failing EU project which somehow still manages to have us by the throat despite them needing us more than we need them.

I’m doing a history ‘A’ level at the moment and it is a constant battle against the forces of darkness. Rather than just writing down what I think, leftist so called teachers like Mr Rogers insist I ‘question sources’ apply ‘critical thinking’ and ‘seek a range of different reference points’ in order to ‘back up my argument.’ ‘Apparently’ my twitter feed does not count because it ‘might be biased’ i.e. it does not conform to the lefty insanity that Mr Rogers teaches us about ‘the death of millions through the use of the slave trade.’ I follow a lot of accounts that question the MSH (mainstream history) version of events. Anyone who follows ‘Ironwand3’ or ‘HimmlerWasGr8’ or ‘Stalag467’ knows that most slaves ‘wanted’ to be slaves. That is a historical fact because there are Jpegs to back it up. Slavery was seen by many  as a good job opportunity, with the chance to travel to America and meet white people. But dare to put these ‘facts’ in an essay and Mr Rogers and the PC mob will descend on you like a ton of bricks.

pc mob
Actual image of local school

Ask yourselves this! If England was so evil in the past then why have so many countries from India to Pakistan to Wales to Gibraltar adopted our language? Because it was forced upon them? I think not! They chose English because that is the language that most Netflix series are in – and most Youtube channels also.

British Tommy proudly showing off his shell collection

But of all the insults to our history – it is the teaching of World War One that is most upsetting. The fact is that most people who fought in it enjoyed the Great War – a lot. It was basically a four year camping holiday in which the British Tommy interspersed bayonetting the ‘OK Huns’ (English for Germans in those days) with football games (another English invention) and nice piano singsongs by the campfire. Is this the version of history we are taught? No. Instead Mr Rogers goes on endlessly about the casualties and the ‘waste’ of human life. Question this narrative by suggesting that without the loss of some life we would not be able to get angry about celebrities not wearing poppies in November and Mr Rogers just stares at you aghast – before grading you with a D.

I have a Youtube channel – and I have met Iain Dale (twice) and I think I thus know a little bit more about history than Mr Rogers.

Those English inventions in full:

England has invented a lot of things

  • Fish – not many people know that the English invented fish. That is why they are internationally known as ‘fish’ and not whatever the foreign word for fish is.

  • Biscuits – Nobody had ever heard of the Bourbons, or Nice, or Garibaldi before the English invented them.

  • Paper doilies – it was a 17th Century London Drapier “Stan Doiley” who first came up with the idea of making little holes in paper napkins. His invention would go on to change the world.

  • Circular trays with pictures of cats on them. The rectangular tray may have existed for centuries, but it was the English who realised that by making it circular and putting a picture of a cat on it – it was better.

  • Other food. Danish pastries, falafel, rice, soy sauce, chickens, Indian curry, Frankfurters, Satay Chicken and Russian standard vodka are just a few of the delicacies invented by the English. After Brexit we will hold these as a bargaining chip and say ‘if you do not trade with us you won’t have these things’ and then everyone will be sorry.

Tommy Robinson – my prison diary

Day 1

History is full of political heroes who wasn’t afraid to say it as it were and who done time on account of it. Jesus was crucified by the authorities for warning about the Islamification of Jordan by the pc mob who wanted to ban page 3, Nelson Mandela done thirty years for trying to tell the people of South Africa about white genocide (still happening), and Teresa Giudice of Real Housewives of New Jersey done six months for so called tax fraud. All of those people are heroes of mine and some of the very bravest people you are ever likely to meet. Not that I have met any of them. The middle class critics might be surprised to see Nelson Mandela in there. Fact – unlike Sadiq Khan – I am not racist. In fact, I’m the opposite of a racist. I’m a tsicar. All I have been doing for my whole adult life is to warn people about Islam and ‘Muslim is not a race’ so you can’t be racist about it. Paedophile isn’t a race either. So highlighting the problem of paedophile Muslim grooming gangs isn’t racist…… it’s contempt of court apparently. And they banged me up for it. I arrive at the reception area.

“Hello Mr Yaxley-Lennon.”

“No comment.”

“Do you have any special dietary requirements?”

“No comment.”

“Unfortunately we don’t have any prison uniform in your size.”

They hand me a woman’s one. I refuse to put it on and start singing the national anthem – but I can’t remember what happens after ‘God save our gracious Queen’ and am led away.

Day 2

I’m back inside with the convicted nonces and murderers and thieving scumbags and drug dealers. A lot of them seem pleased to see me and have my picture on their walls.

“Good for you mate!” They shout as I am taken to my cell.

My lawyer tries to explain to me that the judge warned me in my last case that this would happen. He’s read it on twitter and has printed it off. Thing is – I can’t remember being warned about this. That last case went on for quite a few hours and the idea that I should be expected to listen to what the judge said at the end is stupid. It’s not school is it. Also as she were talking…. “yadda, yadda, yadda”…. I started to get this idea about a new formula for tooth whitener involving a mixture of Vanish gold and chlorine – that’s how my brain works. I’m often thinking and that’s not surprising. From television to salad bar sneeze screens to tanning beds, the white European male has come up with everything good in history. The indigenous European people need to get behind their race before it’s too late and that starts with good dental hygiene.

Halal by stealth

Day 3

8 a.m. Breakfast comes. As it’s passed through my cell door I demand to know if the bread and butter is halal. “NO mate!” The guard shouts back “but the jam is.” There’s laughter. I’m not having that. I write a letter to the Governor explaining that I am now going on hunger strike and that when I die, he, Sajid Javid and Sadiq Khan will have my blood on their hands. Not that you bleed when you go on hunger strike.

12 p.m. I have called my hunger strike off after getting reassurances that the bacon on the lunch time menu isn’t halal and that the Governor will meet me. You can’t have halal bacon because Muslim grooming gangs aren’t allowed to eat pork. You would know that if you’d read my best-selling book “Tommy Robinson’s guide to Muslam – the smell of fear.” News reaches me that on the outside world millions of people have swarmed parliament demanding my release. My new cell mate Keith asks for my autograph. I ask him what he’s in for and he tells me that it’s for allegedly looking at porn involving kiddies on his laptop but his hand had just slipped. I tell him he’s innocent because it’s biologically impossible to be a white man and a paedophile. He asks me if I’ll look at his penis because he’s ‘worried about it.’

Day 4

I ask to see the Governor. I am a political prisoner and as such I have certain rights under the European Convention of Human Rights. You learn stuff like that when you study Youtube. The Governor’s a bird. I’m not talking to a woman governor. She should be at home raising her kids – that’s not right. I’m not sexist and nothing but women should be mothers and white men should be standing tall and fighting for our motherland. When I tell her this she laughs.

“You find the struggle for our culture and identity funny?” I ask. “You won’t be laughing when a Muslim grooming gang is forcing you to stay at home and not leave the house.”

“No!” She says, “it’s because you said ‘stand tall’…. because you can’t.”

I’ve had enough of this. I demand to be taken to the spa.

“What spa?”

“The Spa that’s in every prison in Britain,” I say. “I read the Express and I know what goes on.”

Typical prison spa

They lead me back to my cell and slam the door. Keith puts an arm around me and promises me that everything will be alright. I tell him that I will keep fighting for him and his way of life and that I won’t stop until every British law has been upheld and our way of life has been wrestled back from the fascist PC mob who think that British laws should apply to white English patriots like me.

Lights out. I lie on my bed and try to remember the words of Land of Hope and glory. But I can’t remember what happens after the glory bit and Keith is making a lot of noise.


(As told to Otto English)

Katie Hopkins – my week Sir – as told to Otto English


Just a year ago my life was going very wrong indeed Sir. I had my own LBC show and a column in the Mail online. My salary, let me tell you Sir, was well into six figures and I was regularly being invited onto National television to share my opinions about fat people, left wing fat lesbian ‘feminazis’ and women of Muslim heritage in big fat burqas – who were fat. Some people called me a modern Gandhi for suggesting that migrant children fleeing wars should be shot dead in the water. Others suggested that I should be given a Nobel Peace Prize, while countless fans hailed me as a latter day Buddha for daring to say that bed blocking Alzheimer’s sufferers should be euthanized. Nothing upsets me – but that did – because the Gautama Buddha was famously very fat indeed.


Those dark days are now behind me Sir, but on reflection it was the worst period of my life. I looked on in horror – as my bank balance grew obese. I was waiting for the call. Not the call that would say: ‘we are going to tell them we are parting company by mutual consent and suggest you do the same’ but the other one from the world famous Rebel Media that would say: “Katie leave all of that lucrative mainstream media work behind you and come and work for an obscure, right wing, dubiously funded, Canadian website instead.” I can tell you, Sir, that when that call came I cried with relief. Great things followed. Shortly afterwards I was obliged to sell my house and ‘downsize’ to thinner premises and a slimmed down mortgage – so that we might be able to eat. Not that I let my children eat. In case they get fat.


Oh I see, you want it to be more like a diary Sir. Thank you for pointing that out Madam but no. Take me or leave me you cannot ignore me. I play by ‘Katie’ rules and that means I do what I like and say whatever I like – even if it does cost me hundreds of thousands of pounds in the libel courts. This week I have been in Belgium investigating and exposing the shocking truth of this emerging extremist Caliphate. The Muslim migrant population of Belgium has exploded and I was stunned to see ‘croissants’ that had clearly been made in the shape of the Islamic half Moon. My lands have been invaded. As I walked through the streets of Brussels I heard nobody speaking English at all. In their race to integrate and not upset ‘minorities’ the Belgians have made themselves extinct. In Antwerp my interpreter explained that they don’t even speak French anymore. I remember Belgium from my childhood as a place of young boy detectives and David Suchet in a moustache. Let me tell you Sir – that Belgium has gone – Madam.

Belgian men are now being obliged to wear burqas


Mass uncontrolled immigration. Three words. But what do they mean Sir? Well – on a recent trip to Canada I was able to find out. Canada will be familiar to those who have never been there as the land of maple syrup, lumberjacks, mooses and men in bright scarlet tunics – this was not the Canada I saw. In a Mexican restaurant in Ottawa I was disgusted to find no maple syrup or pancakes on the menu and when I accused the waiters of being Islamic terrorists they asked me to leave. These people are cowards but they are also invaders; foreigners in my lands. Worse was to come. Outside the main towns I was stunned to find that there were hundreds of ‘Indian reservations’ where Indian people – or ‘economic migrant rapists’ as we should rightly refer to them have set up camps that would put the makeshift Jungle at Calais to shame. I took a local police unit to one of these shanty towns and was disgusted to be told: “they were here first – they’re the indigenous people.” When the lumberjacks’ dogs are being turned into halal meat, their daughters are being forced to recite the Mahabratma and their wives are being sold in slave markets in Toronto to Bedouin tentmakers from Saudi Arabia, I wonder if they will feel quite the same way, Sir.

Canada before Mass immigration


Like Donald Trump, I first came to fame on The Apprentice. Being in a reality TV show is perfect preparation for life as a world famous writer and journalist. President Trump can grope me any time. Indeed, if a woman doesn’t want to be groped by President Trump, then she is probably a poor, fat, lesbian. And Donald wouldn’t want to grope her anyway would he Sir. No Madam.

Canada after mass uncontrolled immigration


The weekends are for my children. Sometimes I Skype them, and occasionally they pick up.


I, Sir, am a Christian Conservative White woman and as such I am the most vilified species on the planet after Christian Conservative White men. People ask me if I go to Church and my response to that is: ‘I have no need because I am a church.’ I am a church and a fortress and a bastion against the hateful invasion of my lands by foreign people – Madam. On a recent trip to South Africa I was stunned to discover that that beautiful countrt has now been invaded by black people. As a Christian Conservative Woman that left me devastated not just for the White indigenous people who have lost their lands, but on Jesus’s behalf as well. Did he die on the cross for nothing Sir? Don’t you care Madam? Does that not bother you Sir? Am I getting paid for this? Because I really need the money.

How Wartime propaganda continues to poison Britain’s image of itself seven decades after VE Day

8th May was VE Day and the celebrations kicked off with our Defence Secretary Gavin Williamson suggesting that Britain needs to rediscover its ‘bulldog spirit’ as we leave the EU. Most of the article is (thankfully) behind a paywall but you can get the flavour of it from the first paragraph in which Gav tells us that 1945 was:

“The triumphant moment when Britain defeated Nazi darkness and brought the light of freedom to millions.”

Now setting aside his omission of the contribution made by our American cousins, Soviet friends, the Aussies, Kiwis, West Indians, South Africans oh and the 2.5 million strong Indian army that helped us in this endeavour, you get in Mr Williamson’s words a not untypical glimpse of the Little Brexiteer view of WW2. This is – ‘builder’s tea history’ – white, drenched in saccharine, transitorily uplifting perhaps – but wrong in so very many ways.

war is over
War is Over (if you want it)

Earlier this year, the departing German Ambassador, Peter Ammon, caused outrage in certain quarters by stating the bloody obvious. Namely that Brexit was driven by Britons having an isolationist ‘us against the world’ mentality that has been instilled by a diet of WW2 films fed to the British public over a period of 70 years.

The UK, uniquely among the Western European nations, was neither invaded nor defeated in the 1940s and this has irrevocably shaped our nation’s view of events and our Saturday afternoon telly. Because we won, the narrative has never been challenged and many wartime films, produced by the Ministry of Information (Propaganda) are still presented as entertainment today. In Germany, where they have been obliged to come to terms with their past, the equivalents of films such as ‘Went the Day Well?’ or ‘One of Our Aircraft is Missing’ might still exist in archives or as curiosities – here – they are still shown on the TV.

British film propaganda didn’t end with the war of course. In the immediate aftermath and ever since, the British moviegoer has been subjected to a barrage of pictures and television series that reinforce the myths surrounding our role. The special effects may have changed, the carefully crafted narratives never do.

Take the legend of ‘The Few’ – as depicted in 1969 flick The Battle of Britain and neatly summarised in the opening titles of the BBC comedy series Dad’s Army. In this take Christopher Plummer flies alone against the impossible might of the Nazi Luftwaffe/Wehrmacht/SS while Captain Mainwaring and Corporal Jones hold them at bay on the ground with a converted Butcher’s van. It’s a lovely story and we all know it – but it isn’t true.

Britain in 1940 was not held together by bits of string. It was a super-power, with the largest Empire in history and the world’s first integrated and fully co-ordinated air defence system. The country was able to pull on huge resources and used them to devastating effect. Yes, the Luftwaffe might have been slightly larger in strength but Great Britain was out-producing German planes at a rate of two to one and anyway – the German air-force had to get here first. Every match was ‘away.’ German intelligence was poor and the British security services were happy to play along with the idea that we were weaker, while Churchill gave grand-eloquent speeches. Operation Sea Lion wasn’t cancelled because the Germans were fended off by Michael Caine in a Spitfire – but rather because Hitler’s Generals calculated (correctly) that he would lose.

All great propaganda is narrative driven. Myths make better films than boring old facts. And films make better propaganda than nearly anything else. That’s why many of us grew up believing that the racist and distinctly unlikable Douglas Bader was ‘lovely Kenneth More’ and everyone remembers that time a dashing American pilot tried to jump over a barbed wire fence on a big motorbike….. except ….there was no American pilot. There was no motorbike. Move on.

The Second World War wasn’t larks. It was war. It was dirty, nasty and complex. Yes we won but at a huge cost. The country was broken. Our cities were flattened. Thousands of our people had died, millions of our neighbours had been slaughtered. No life went untouched. To get through it all Britain deployed disinformation like everyone else and whistling milkmen walking through bombsites to deliver the milk – the epitome of the Blitz spirit – made very good propaganda. Indeed, it was so good that many people still believe it as “fact” to this day.

In May 1945 – celebrations of Victory were short lived. There was work to be done, a country to be rebuilt and still more war to be fought but critically the British people were now looking forwards. They had seen events up close. They had witnessed the horror and many gazed through the settling dust of conflict and towards a brighter future. That is why the ‘warmonger’ Churchill was given the boot.

Over the decades that followed something shifted and Britain became obsessed with its role in the war. The Brexiteers in particular seem curiously in thrall to the narrative of victory and with it, the prolongation of the animosities of that conflict. Until those Britons can come to terms with the fact that it is over we are, as a nation, condemned like some forgotten Japanese soldier, to keep fighting a long ago ended war – lost in time – as the outside world moves on without us.