Back to the Future

Saturday arrived with mixed emotions. What I mean is, I had mixed emotions about this particular Saturday, and not ‘Saturday was smiling one minute and throwing its toys around the next’. Then again, it was a funny old day.

I should really have rewritten the opening sentence to be politically, I mean syntactically, correct but it would have taken too long. Whereas, by sticking with the grammatical gaffe, emphasising the error and explaining how it wasn’t as much of a misplay as first thought, I saved time and energy.

And that, ladies and gentlemen (there are no other genders) makes more sense than Reeves’ economics, Phillipsons’ education or Rayner’s … er … yeah, just Rayner.

Back to Saturday, which I hope will morph into ‘Back to the Future’, a contributory day towards the time when we – Brits with British values – reclaim our country for common sense and compassion, having defeated and banished (although I would prefer to incarcerate) insidious Keireep and his partner in crime, Hermer the Justice Harmer, who both hate Britain, hate Britons, hate democracy and for whom there will be no redemption in the afterlife. They will rot in hell. Hallelujah.

In case you hadn’t guessed, Saturday was a Free Speech Union event. While I was looking forward to it, I was rather anxious about the weather (wet and windy) and the drive – minimum 90 minutes on unfamiliar roads, returning at night after a tiring day. Ooer.

Silky dress back in the wardrobe, I chose instead a long-sleeved, mid-weight cotton dress, a thick cotton gilet and a rain jacket with hood. Ever the contingency planner (a nice way of saying I have OCD tendencies) I took with me a flask of water, homemade flapjacks, blister plasters, spare shoes, spare tights, umbrella, paracetamol, ibuprofen, Voltarol, dental floss, hand sanitizer, my London flat keys, Sense and Sensibility, map book, contact lens cleaner and case, glasses, sun-glasses (I live in hope), face powder, lipstick, comb, hair cream and hairspray. I’m gonna need a bigga bag.

I keyed the destination into the satnav, whom I call ‘Itt’, and off I went. Head North, said Itt. I stopped and tried to turn off the voiceover. I failed. I had to put up with 90+ minutes of In Two Miles Turn Left onto The Yellow Brick Road … In ¼ Mile Turn Left onto The Yellow Brick Road … Turn Left And Continue On The Yellow Brick Road For 236 Yards Then Turn Right Onto Hogwarts Highway. However, Itt turned out to be jolly useful. I was screaming along the A509 (when I wasn’t crawling through a cloudburst), when Itt said In 200 Yards Take The Slip Road onto the A43 towards Kettering. I would have missed it otherwise. I duly pulled into the left-hand lane and waited for the slip road. Hmmm – I’ve only driven this route once before and I’m pretty sure I stayed on the A509 as it became the A45. So I pulled back into the lane from whence I had just moved. But what if there’s been an accident on the A45 and Itt is taking me this way to avoid it. So back I went into the left lane, thoroughly annoying the tart in the Range Rover behind me. She probably snorted an extra line when she got home to get over it.

So there I was on the A43, not where I expected to join it, presumably heading in the right direction, but getting increasingly anxious until Itt took me onto the A14 for just one junction, and I was back to where I should be.

The rest of the journey, several cloudbursts aside, was uneventful. I arrived at the massive field car park, ridiculously early but better ridiculously early than infuriatingly late, as the bishop said to the actress.

Waiting for my mate M to arrive, I took my time changing my shoes, sipping some water, reapplying my lipstick and settling down for 20 minutes or so of Sense and Sensibility. (I like to think of myself as a 21st-century Elinor.) A car pulled up right behind me. I recognised M. What are the chances! I gathered my stuff and fell out of my car. I tapped on his window. He looked up from his phone. It wasn’t M. He wound down the window, looking puzzled.

“Hello. Dreadfully sorry. I thought you were my mate. Sorry to have bothered you,” I squirmed.

“That’s all right”, he said cheerily. “Am I better looking than he is?”

“Errr, about the same,” I said hastily.

“Good answer,” he guffawed.

I slithered back into my car, waited for the appointed hour, then shuffled over to the entrance, where M (the real one) arrived just two minutes later. Rubbing shoulders with FSU grandees, right-on journos (not a Guardianista in sight), chaps and chapesses I keep bumping into at FSU / Spectator / ‘Tufton Street’ shindigs in London, and the gentleman I had mistaken for M in the car park, we sipped bubbly, enjoyed a scrumptious lunch of stuffed eggs, Toulouse Sausage, and lemony tart, and settled back to listen to the guest of honour, Baroness Sharron Elizabeth Davies of Devonport MBE. Gosh she’s statuesque, witty, forthright, caring, and angry at young girls being forced to change in front of grown men who say they identify as female but are actually paedophiles. 

Just to remind you, Labour Minister Phillipson very reluctantly and belatedly complied with the Supreme Court to issue guidance that single-sex spaces (changing rooms and toilets) must be used on the basis of biological sex. Her prevarication put more women and girls at risk of, at the very least, voyeurism. Labour Minister Phillips did all she could not to proceed with a public inquiry into the rape of white girls by Pakistani rape gangs. Labour Minister Harman penned a document for the Paedophile Information Exchange that the onus of proving harm by paedos should be on prosecutors, warning of the dangers of increasing censorship.

Baroness Sharron’s parallel beef of course was that the new age establishment and groupies of wannabee neo-Foucaultians (who haven’t read anything by Foucault but think it’s cool and progressive and grownup to subscribe to Critical Theory) don’t like anyone not supporting their perverted politics and would (and do) throw opposing voices in jail rather than listen intelligently to what they have to say.

Cue Lucy Connolly. On stage in the chapel, she was greeted warmly before being interviewed by Daily Telegraph journalist Allison Pearson, herself a victim of state-sponsored police intimidation. Remember Lucy? She’s the angry Tweeter, first-time ‘offender’, child minder to immigrant children, sponsor of British citizen applicants, mother of a little girl, wife of an unwell Tory Councillor, who ticked all the boxes for charges to be dropped, to be granted bail, conditional discharge, a successful appeal, Release on Temporary Licence, and early-as-poss parole. She missed out on all these because Harmer Herman, the Attorney General and best buds with Keirtastrophe – personally authorised her prosecution and set the tone for her continuing miscarriage of justice.

Coming away from that interview, I kept hearing the same thing from those around me: What has happened to my country? Where did it all go wrong for Britain? I can’t believe this is happening in Britain?

Fuelling our anger was the elephant in the lunch tent, then the chapel, then in the drinks marquee – the recent murder of Henry Nowak. I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch the bodycam footage. If I did, I don’t think I could not post something somewhere on social media that would get me arrested. I didn’t used to mind the idea of jail-time because I could have shared a cell with Lucy, but she’s out now so I’m being more circumspect. Can’t you tell?

I’m not going to repeat the facts and insinuations about Henry’s murder that you’ve probably heard several times already. I’ll cut to the chase. All murders of innocents are horrific, but there are several reasons why Henry’s murder must now prompt a most inclusive, forensic, empirically supported investigation. We need to determine whether Henry’s death and, as Kemi Badenoch claims today, the Nottingham, Southport and Manchester Arena attacks could have been prevented if the state and state employees were not afraid of being branded racist, which leads to two-tier policing and two-tier justice. That’s four separate ‘unrelated’ incidents that together sufficiently evidence two-tier justice as being the accepted norm in this country. There are other examples: the imprisonment and subsequent suicide of Peter Lynch; Ricky Jones’ acquittal compared with Lucy’s incarceration; the acquittal of two brothers who broke a police woman’s nose at Manchester Airport.

Without such an investigation and any corrective action taken, we run the risk of more Nottinghams, Southports, Manchesters, and Henrys. How do Labour (and other lefty) MPs react? By shouting down Nigel Farage who asks a not unreasonable or unevidenced question about two-tier justice. What does Keirtastrophe do? Deny outright that there is two tier justice – protecting himself and his would-be legacy over the lives of innocents, which include those of the Sikh communities.

Starmer is the Caligula of our times. Caligula was assassinated. Hallelujah.

An evening of jazz ended the day and I fought my way through the dark, the wind, the uneven ground, my where-did-I-leave-the-car moment, and drove out of the car park. I arrived home about 90 minutes later, a gibbering wreck. Not only did Itt take me a completely different way, I had to face more rain, blinding LED headlights, recently resurfaced roads with no white lines or cats’ eyes, and a 50mph speed limit on the M1 (not that I had intended to be on the M1 but at least I knew my way home once I'd somehow got on there).

As I said at the outset, Saturday was a funny old day. In one respect it was harrowing to hear how far this once-mighty country has fallen, but the fact there are an increasing number of kindred spirits fighting the good fight gives me some hope (the FSU is inundated with new members and requests for help). We owe it to Henry and his family and all other victims of this two-tier, Stalinist Starmer-skewered state to keep at it, unearth the truth, put right the wrongs and lock Michel Foucault firmly in his coffin.