Weekend posting 28th-29th January
Nick back at the helm of the blog now. Thanks to Mark doing a splendid job on the two days I've been in the witness box.
It really is extraordinarily hard work in there, especially when being cross-examined by the prosecution. My legal team were very happy with my (and Mark's, for that matter) performance, reassuring me at the end of Friday afternoon that Jameson "didn't lay a glove on you" during the three-and-a-half hours verbal sparring match. Comparing notes with Mark, however, we both found that we had been unable to judge our own performances, it was only those watching us who could tell just how good they were. Mark's, I say again, was brilliant. Of course, whether being brilliant is any use is another matter entirely. My feeling is that at least half of the jury will have made up their minds whether to convict us or free us the moment they realised who we were.
Still, we'll find out soon enough.
Having been a university boxer many years ago, I can tell you that the boxing analogy is actually rather accurate. There's the same pre-match nerves, that sinking feeling in your stomach and the voice in your head that asks "why the hell did I get myself into this position?" Your stomach suggests a visit to the toilet in the back of the cell at the side of the dock (the security guards discretely slip back into the dock itself under such circumstances, giving one
more privacy than the half height screen that serves as a toilet door). The only thing I can tell you is that this part of the process is very much harder when wearing boxing gloves!
Standing in the witness box waiting for the judge to give the signal for the contest to begin with the words "Yes, Mr. Jameson", is just like the moment when the seconds pull the stool out of the boxing ring and you face your opponent and wait for the bell. You are utterly alone; you have no idea how good he is; you are worried, not about the possible pain, but about the possibility of being made a fool of in front of all those people. What's worse in this case is that you know you're up against an opponent who has a formidable height and weight advantage, in that he has pages of notes in front of him, while everything you want to say has to be in your head. And he is allowed to attack you almost as much and as often as he wants, whereas you are only allowed to block, cover up and "duck and dive," as my old trainer used to say. If he decides to take a breather and back off, it's not possible to chase him across the courtroom and pummel him in the opposite corner.
Still, at least once the confrontation actually starts the butterflies in the stomach turn into pure adrenaline; you can't run even if you want to, so it's stand and fight. In the first exchange of verbal punches on Friday I slipped and lost my thread after answering the first half of the question. Jameson sneered and refused to help, but when I asked him to repeat the initial question he did so and my second half response parried it with no problem.
Among his other early questions was one to which the best possible answer was a very clever one that Mark had come up with the day before. I rephrased it, but the core idea was still there, and the lawyers at least would have known it was Mark's. From that point on, Jameson avoided asking questions which my very able co-defendant had already shot down in flames. In a way this was a shame, because I was looking forward to dealing with any repetition of his stupid
'hypothetical' questions about "what if there had been asylum seekers or Asians in the audience" by warning him that Mark's "flying pigs" were knocking on the courtroom door.
Political experience helps
Jameson's initial flurry of aggression reminded me again of past boxing matches, especially the first few proper fights I had. Several opponents rushed out, knowing they were up against a novice, and hoping to overwhelm for a short, sharp victory. The trouble with such tactics is that, if they fail, the whirlwind of arms frequently runs out of breath himself quite quickly. Jameson's problem here was that, although novices in courtroom terms, both Mark and I have vastly more experience than him in scoring political points, and in each case this rapidly became apparent.
Having been in a far more public ring with the likes of Jeremy Paxman, James Naughtie, Sue McGregor, Jeremy Vine, Peter Allen, Jeremy Bowen, Angela Rippon (who really does have lovely legs, by the way), various pretty Sky News blondes, and the near psychotic Tim Sebastian, my bout with Mr Jameson soon settled down into a fairly painless routine: Question jabs out, answer blocks or slips it, "thank you for that, Mr. Griffin" (delivered in a tone which says "gotcha", but I quickly realise that's the same empty bravado as when an opponent in the ring grins when you've just landed a punch that really hurt), then move on to another question.
Little by little, an air of going through the motions began to creep into his questions. Perhaps my mispronouncing his name all the time doesn't help – two can play silly tricks with words and tones, you see. And, although I'm not allowed to ask him questions, the highly political nature of the exchanges means that I can go on the offensive. Time and time again I hammer home points about the utterly disgusting way in which the media, police, other political parties and the judicial system neglect, abuse, even despise, white victims of racist discrimination, violence and murder. At one point he tries to parry this by feigning disbelief at my pointing out that Establishment figures refer to "white trash". Bad mistake! Out come examples like Jasmin Alibhai-Brown, allowed to do just that in the Independent, and on prime time BBC. Jameson rapidly takes refuge behind another question.
That's the only problem with this courtroom match though. You can land as many blows on your bewigged opponent as you like, and at the end of it he'll still collect his fat pay cheque and move on to his next case. But if he lands just one good one on you, you are likely to go directly to jail as a result. It's a distinctly one-sided affair.
In the case of yesterday's dust-up, however, there were compensations. When I started landing blows that not only broke his arguments, but also made the judge and jury smile or even laugh, Jameson's junior, sitting one row back, began to smirk at his leader's discomfort. At first I thought that he just appreciated the joke, but after a couple more I got the impression that the real fun for him was seeing his colleague get verbally leathered. Perhaps they don't get on?
Some of Jameson's questions indicated either a total lack of knowledge about the real world, or a loathsome contempt for ordinary decent people with less money, education and status than himself. As the afternoon, this made me more and more angry, and I found myself addressing him with contempt in turn.
By the time I 'asked' that the court records should at least spell Sean Whyte's name correctly, I was struggling to control my temper. I hope it came out icily, but all I really wanted to do was to leap out of the witness box, grab the undoubtedly clever but smug little bureaucrat by the throat, drag him out of the court and dump and his own family him in the real world among the last whites on the edge of Manningham Lane, Glodwick or the Gibbet in Halifax.
The same is true of the lying parasites behind me in the press section of the public gallery, who in their reports of the day later predictably make no mention at all of my evidence about their own failings or my reasons for concluding that Islam is a menace. People like Hamza and the smoother fundamentalists of the Muslim council of Britain I respect - they believe they have a higher mission and they work to carry it out - but for these upper class or media luvvie vermin, who have sold their own people out for money and a career, I have nothing but hatred.
Home for the weekend. Actually it's a little bit like a second weekend, since the day off on Thursday was a tremendous break. We drove up to Sunderland to speak at a good-hearted meeting there on Wednesday evening, and then part way back down into North Yorkshire to stay at a lovely country village pub owned by a couple who are staunch BNP members. We arrive at gone midnight, but the bar is promptly reopened for a couple of pints of really good beer (Young's Winter Warmer, all the way up from Wandsworth, South London) and homemade soup and sandwiches. Bed by a little gone two, and - bliss - real sleep and no need to get up until a big chunk of the morning has already gone. It's the first really good night's sleep for some time.
Furthermore, our hosts had changed their own plans at short notice and driven all the way from East Anglia to be there for us. Then they stayed in on Thursday to cook us a superb roast beef dinner in the early evening, before driving back to East Anglia and their own affairs. Such dedication to the cause and personal kindness typifies so many people in our movement. Words cannot express my gratitude.
As for the free Thursday, Jackie and I and two security drive up into the North Yorkshire National Park. First stop is Rievaulx Abbey, one of the finest of all monastic ruins in the country. Huge fluted columns of pale cream stone and massive but delicate arches echo now not to plainsong but to the gentle cooing of wild doves. Set amidst river meadows and surrounded by a circle of wooded hills, it is a place of beauty and tranquility.
Then we drove over the high road across the moors and to the edge of the Cleveland Hills, then through a string of picture postcard villages an on to the coast at Whitby. Neither Jackie or I have ever been to this quaint old seaport before. Famous for its connections to the great explorer Captain Cook, it was also homeport to generations of whalers and fishermen. We climb a massive flight of stone steps to the hill overlooking the harbour. On to stands a memorial to St. Caedmon, one of the founders of pre-1066 English Christianity (according to some experts a version of the religion very close to that now preserved in the Eastern Orthodox rite) and another ruined abbey. Whitby is a gem of a town – I hope to be free to come back for a better look in the not too distant future.
As dusk falls we set off back towards our promised roast beef dinner, and after saying our goodbyes drive back down to West Yorkshire. We stay at the home of a member who plays several musical instruments. He is part of a folk music trio playing a gig at a wedding in an Irish club on Monday evening, and to my great delight the band are practicing in his study. I sit with them for a few numbers, beer in hand, sing along for a while and then, with regret, turn in for bed as I need to be fresh on Friday. Snatches of guitar, banjo, penny whistle and well known Irish songs float up the stairs as I drift off to sleep, thoroughly content and at ease with the world.
Sunday 29th January
Went for a long walk yesterday with Jackie and the dogs. A lovely crisp sunny day - yet again we haven't had much of a winter on this side of the country, and we're now only a few weeks away from the spring. While, from a long-term political point of view, I have no doubt that the best possible result is for Mark and I to be found guilty and jailed in a blaze of liberal media gloating, I will be bitter at having the sights, sounds and smells of a whole spring season taken from me. I think of Robert Frost's poem about the beauty of wild cherry blossom and how - with an allotted span of just seventy springs in which to see it - he couldn't afford to miss a single one.
The Sunday papers are full of very little, though Rod Liddle's column in the Times has a good crack at Metropolitan police boss Ian Blair over his disgusting comments on the Soham 'Babes in the woods' Murders and his absurd claim that black murder victims get less coverage than white ones.
Top Pc’s blunder
The only grain of truth in Blair's comments is that when the killers are also 'ethnic', the media often play down such murders. Muslim on black racism, in particular, is taboo, which is why the attacks on the West Indian community in Birmingham during last autumn's riots there were presented as being 'six-of-one-and half-a-dozen-of-the-other', when in fact the one-sided casualty figures in the hospitals show that it was more like an Islam-fuelled anti-black pogrom or lynching party than a race riot.
Rod mentions the white man stabbed to death on the London bus in the same week as the black lad Anthony Walker was murdered in Liverpool, as evidence for his thesis that, in fact, the media discriminate in favour of black victims and against white ones. Quite so, but it is unfortunate that even people who know the score use this example.
For the far better one is the murder, also in the same week, of young dad David Henkel, kicked to death in an attack by a gang of asylum seekers in Kent. Last Thursday, an Afghan, Nowbahar Bahar, was sentenced to just four-and-a-half years for his 'manslaughter'. When he and his gang attacked David, Bahar had only just got out of prison after serving a year for theft and assault. In prison, he had told warders and other prisoners that he intended to kill a white man once he was free. He did so just a month after leaving prison.
He should, of course, have been sent back to Afghanistan (from which he only arrived in 2001) the moment he finished his first sentence. And, this time around, the fact that he stomped on a defenceless white victim's head while members of his gang held him down, should have led to a sentence of racially aggravated murder. But, as I told Jameson on Friday, to his type, to the police, to most of the legal system, and the vast majority of the people who run the mass media, ordinary white people are just 'trash', and their deaths and their families' tears count for next to nothing.
As a direct result, more innocent victims and their families will go through the same kind of tragedy. When David Henkel's murderer could be free before me and Mark, when the young Pakistani Muslim thug who stabbed Sean Whyte to death is allowed to strut around Keighley (yes, Keighley, he's moved from Colne) boasting about it - despite the fact that we have given the police and the CPS a fresh new lead.
Such victims' blood will be on the hands not just of their immediate killers, but also of the likes of 'Sir' Ian Blair, Mr. Jameson QC, and the editors of all the national newspapers which, despite having provided pretty fair coverage of our trial up until now, have conspicuously refused to cover anything from my evidence on Friday. These cowardly PC swine haven't reported a word I said about the anti-white bias of the media. They haven't published a single word I spoke or a document I produced to show that it is Islam itself, not Islamic extremism or 'terrorism' that is the problem facing the West.
I'll get all those documents scanned in and up online for everyone who wants to see as quickly as possible. And we'll put my Keighley speech up online as well. But such material, which deals with matters of fundamental importance to the future of our entire way of life and civilisation, should be publicised in the mainstream media, not left to an underfunded, victimised, oppressed and demonised political party. It will not always be like this. Times they are a changing, and, even with the media blackout on the really important bits, this trial - whatever its strictly 'legal' outcome, will hasten the change.
So now I'm off to help our Richard plasterboard the ceiling of his workshop next door. More blogging from the dock tomorrow.