Tommy Robinson – My Struggle – the prison diaries

I’m a dead man walking. Except I am not actually walking. I am in a van. So I am a dead man being driven. But it’s all the same thing at the end of the day.

They take me into the prison and I am led to an interview room. There’s a woman and a man and you can tell immediately that neither of them is patriots. I ask them if they know the words to God Save the Queen but they just ignore me and start asking a load of questions. I ain’t playing their game. I give my name, age and number. I ain’t got no actual number so I give them my shoe size. I’ve read the Genevieve Contention and I know my rights.

“I am seeking Aslan in the first country I land in.” I shout and they look at me like the Muppets they are.

“The Lion from the C.S Lewis books?” The woman pipes up after she’s stopped laughing. She won’t be laughing when the fucking Muslams has taken over and forced her to wear full hijab. And anyway what’s she doing here? It’s late and here she is in a Prison surrounded by men. That’s not right. She should be home cooking her husband’s tea and looking after her kids.

“I demand to be taken to the United States under the protection of Donal Trump!” I say. That’s what Katie Hopkins told me to do and she has got an A level. They don’t know how to respond. Not one of them has read the British Constipation. I’ve got these twats over the barrel.

“But you are in a prison Mr Yaxley Lennon!” They say and start laughing again like a bunch of hyenas. “You are serving a prison term for breaking the law. Why would we take you to the United States.”

“Because I’m a journalism!” I shout over their noise….“you ever seen the BBC outside of the courts? I was journalising and I been stitched up by the establishment for exposing the paediatrics. If I was an Aslan seeker from Africa you’d be doing what I demand. And then give me a council home and a holiday in Spain and 5 g.”

“But Mr Yaxley Lennon!” That woman starts again – and I’m not having that. I’m not letting her finish. With that attitude she’ll be living under Sharia law.

“Zip it woman!” I say “You call me a racist. Tell me one thing I ever said that was racist! One thing. Go on. One thing.”

She stares at me blankly.

“I didn’t call you a racist.” She says. Typical. They’ve never got an answer for that one.

I am led to my cell. Banged up for journalisation is bad enough – but the state of where I am expected to sleep. The fellas in Colditz got better than this.

“What’s this?” I demand – pointing at the TV.

“It’s a TV.” The clown who has brought me up says.

“I can see that chum.” I says “but it’s not a flat screen is it. It’s not even HD ready. Take it away.”

That fucking showed ‘em.

I sleep badly. Only two pillows and neither of them is goose down.

In the morning I’m brought a bowl of cereal, some hot coffee and bacon in a bun. I get what they are doing – I got their number. I demand to see the Governor.

That same woman from last night turns up.

“I said I wanted to see the Guvnor.” I say.

“I am the Guvnor.” She shoots back.

So I pick up the bacon and wave it in her face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A piece of bacon?” She asks innocently.

“Yeah and what is its year in provence?” I ask – “how can you tell me that it ain’t halal?” She’s not smiling any more. That’s got her. “I know what you is doing!” I shout. “Trying to convert me on the quiet. Well it ain’t working. Take it away. Take it all away. And bring me some proper fucking pillows.”

They leave and I am alone in my cell without a pillow. Tomorrow I will write to President Donal Trump and ask him for Aslan. Then they’ll know who’s the boss round here. Then they’ll see.

As told to Kelvin Patterson – satire

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

June 30^th 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.

Months away from the tanning salon have taken their toll

June 31^st 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 15^th

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

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 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.

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)

Tommy Robinson’s Big Adventure

Last Saturday was Polish Independence Day – and 60,000 nationalists took to the streets of Warsaw to demonstrate their fealty to the state and shout all that White Genocide type stuff that is so in vogue. Poland has become something of a hub for far right activists and everyone’s favourite fascist punch-bag Richard Spencer was going to give a speech, but he didn’t turn up. Perhaps he realised at the last minute that everyone would be ‘foreign.’

Patriotic Poles shouted things like “White Poland! Pure Poland!” and “Refugees Out!” Poland is 99% white. There are no refugees. You could fit the Muslim population in a small town. But everyone was having such a lovely time strutting about like Nazis that those present who knew this stuff probably didn’t want to spoil the party for everyone else. There are also claims that a banner read: “Pray for an Islamic Holocaust.”

Poland’s Interior Minister described it all as a ‘beautiful sight.’ Flares were let off. Men in masks waved banners bearing the symbol of the 1930s Polish Fascist party

Into the mix – enter stage far right Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (a.k.a Tommy Robinson.) Tommy was there on behalf of his friends at Rebel Media to greet his friends on the Polish far right. ‘Tommy’ is on record as saying he doesn’t like Polish immigrants. Tommy is also on record as repeating over and over again that he is not a racist. So why he was consorting with known racists at an obviously racist event, on Polish soil – is something of a mystery.

Maybe he had nipped over to check they hadn’t sneaked into Britain while he wasn’t looking.

“Tommy” took some photos with right wing anti immigrant MPs and others and marched with the demonstrators.

Yaxley-Lennon with retired exorcist and Law and Justice MP Dominik Tarczyński

One awkward fact.

Saturday was the 11th of November – that most sacred day of British Remembrance. Sure Tommy was wearing his poppy, leaf in correct position (bet he’s meticulous about that) – but the irony that he was marching with far right Polish activists…… on Britain’s day of remembrance….. seems to have gone over his head.

There’s a very simple reason for that. He’s stupid.

I mean I could dress it up in nicer words. I could soften the blow. Give him the benefit of the doubt – but that’s it isn’t it. He’s thick. He has awareness in the same way that Telly Savalas had hair. This protector of British values, this diminutive football hooligan with all the charm of road-kill – lacks the two attributes which Britons were once famed for – a sense of humour and a finely attuned sense of irony.

Perhaps we get the racist leaders we deserve.

On his way home “Tommy” had a spot of trouble at Stansted Airport. It seems that our Border Force hadn’t received the memo about “uncontrolled borders” and the other one about how “anyone can walk in.” He got stopped, of course he did – the man is literally a hate preacher and our Border Force is really rather good.  Yaxley-Lennon and his chums have called time and time again for us to take back control of our borders – but it seems that when those borders apply to him – oddly – Tommy doesn’t like it.

Hitler, Hopkins and the ‘alt right lit’ phenomenon

Katie Hopkins’ book ‘Rude’ comes out today. Published by Iain Dale’s Biteback, it promises to take us through her rise from reality TV runner up to being the “go to” basher of Muslims, fat people, children, Alzheimer’s sufferers and drowned refugee toddlers. The gushing blurb assures that she will be “as honest in the book as she is in life” which is candid at best. I haven’t read it, but I imagine it will be full of her usual views and particularly heavy on Muslim women in veils and the ‘snowflakes’ who don’t think we should bully them or lock them up.

‘Rude’ is but the latest addition to the growing canon of “alt-right lit” – an anti-Islamic, misanthropic, polemical genre, that has spewed from the laptops of Britain and America’s most familiar right wing bigots over the last couple of years.

Former EDL leader Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (aka Tommy Robinson) has been out and about just this weekend, signing copies of his reasoned and no doubt rigorously academic endeavour, entitled “Why Muslims Kill for Islam.” Having now written two books more than he has ever read Tommy is able to add “Islamic scholar” to a CV which is otherwise most notable for those fraud convictions and that time he got arrested trying to illegally enter the US on a fake passport.

Not to be outdone, UKIP’s eternal bridesmaid, Raheem Kassam, very much the “third member of Bros” in the alt-right movement, has penned “No Go Zones: How Sharia Law Is Coming to a Neighborhood (sic.) Near You” (foreword by Nigel Farage)and managed to accrue an impressive 35 reviews – on Amazon.

And so it goes on.

The eager student of hate could pop these works on their shelves next to books by peroxided bore Milo Yiannapoulis, laugh a minute journalist Melanie Phillips(Londinistan)and former Breitbart editor at large Ben Shapiro whose niftily titled “How to debate leftists and destroy them” sounds like something someone might say on twitter just before deploying the block button.

Iain Dale is a successful publisher and a canny businessman who has also knocked out books by such lovable figures as Nigel Farage, Conrad Black and the “Bad Boys of Brexit.” No doubt he knows his market well and senses a hunger for the Hopkins tome. Katie Hopkins after all has not simply built a career out of being hated. There are many, many people who admire her and genuinely believe that she is some sort of alternative voice. No doubt the book will sell well.

My question is this. Will anybody actually read it and if not – what is the point of this publishing phenomenon?

Buying a book is not the same as “reading a book.” My own shelves creak under the weight of words I haven’t got around to digesting and probably never will.

Unread Books, particularly unread political books, aren’t necessarily intended to be read. They are more a bold statement of identity. A prominently placed tome by a well-known author on a living-room shelf can be an act of intellectual validation. Academics have done this for years and it seems that the idea has now filtered down to the “alt right social media sphere.” It is one thing to make meritless xenophobic remarks on Facebook, quite another to make the same comments and then back them up by pointing at a book by Tommy Robinson and saying “it’s all in there have you read it? I have. He’s researched it and everything.”

That is one reason why the market for ‘alt-right-lit’ exists. It is confirmation bias in bound form. These ridiculous books, with their provocative titles, give weight and credibility to the authors and justification of their unrighteous bigotry to the dolts who buy them.

There’s nothing new in this of course, Adolf Hitler’s unreadable Mein Kampf sold millions – not least because – like Tommy Robinson’s latest  – it was also given away free. It made him very rich indeed – around $12 million a year in today’s money – despite very few people ever making it to the end.

Hitler’s derisory book gave him ‘intellectual credibility’ and it worked while making him bundles of cash.

The same thing is going on today. The alt-right isn’t just a movement, it’s an industry and it needs content, product and packaging. The publishing arm is a key promotional tool and I suspect we will see a lot more of these “books” in the coming months.

Hopkins meanwhile will no doubt be on our airwaves and sofas this week flogging her tome. The Sunday Times carried a lengthy and unduly soft interview with her last week in which she reiterated her belief that the picture of Aylan Kurdi, the little 3 year old Syrian boy whose lifeless body washed up on a Turkish beach was “set up” before going on to imply it was all the fault of his father anyway because he “wanted new teeth in Canada.”

There was a time – when saying things like that might rightly finish your career and diminish your circle of friends. In modern Britain, sadly, a toddler’s tragic death is now but a tool – used to sell books that nobody will read. There is a case that the best thing to do is to “ignore her” and hope she will go away, but if you ignore Japanese knot-weed it rarely decides to retreat respectfully from your home.

The opening chapter of her book is entitled “I am not a twat” – I for one – would prefer to keep an open mind on that.