YOU won’t have seen this story on the BBC, and you’ll probably only be aware of it on Sunday afternoon if Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park turns into a battleground about 3pm.
If any place in England still symbolises free speech, it is that rather nondescript area at the north-east of the capital’s magnificent park.
There, at any time of day or night, the wild, the weird and the wonderful are free to stand atop a buffet, an old crate, or simply on their own two feet, and voice their wrath. They can recite Shakespeare, they can howl at the moon; they can invite you to come to Jesus, go to Allah, or get on the next spaceship leaving Marble Arch to disappear up Uranus.
In a country where free speech is increasingly silenced by the British state – not quite as violently, but just as determinedly as in Russia or China, which bears its own sweet irony this week of all weeks – Speaker’s Corner remains a symbolic redoubt.
This week Canadian and American media commentators Lauren Southern and Brittany Pettibone, plus her Austrian activist boyfriend Martin Sellner, were banned from entering the UK.
They call themselves politically ‘conservative’ but as is the way with anyone brave enough to step outside the fascist liberalism that is enslaving British society today, they are insidiously termed ‘far right’. Just package them up with Hitler and Goebbels while you’re at it.
Their real sin?
They speak out against radical Islam. They see it as a threat to a western democracy that in Britain at least, was still this week trying to pretend that Muslim men grooming, raping and even murdering innocent white schoolchildren, is nothing more than an inconvenient coincidence of ethnicity or religion.
Down in Telford, as in Rotherham and Rochdale, we are again invited to assume that the general attitude of police and social workers alike, is that the young girls probably asked for it.
Where will this depraved sexual abuse of our daughters end? Judging by our all-pervading credo of institutionalised cowardice and cultural appeasement, it simply won’t. The only real question is ‘where next?’
The two banned women wanted to meet their British equivalent, the ubiquitous walking punch bag widely known as Tommy Robinson.
Robinson reported last week from Italy in the very spot where a female journalist was battered, live on TV, by a violent migrant gang.
As he tried to film, one of the gang threatened to kill him and wreck his car. After several warnings to desist, Robinson – all 5ft 6ins of him – decked the much bigger bloke who was coming at him. The admirably sensible Italian police sent him safely on his way with a thumbs up.
You wouldn’t have seen that on the BBC either.
In England, the police would have locked Robinson up as they have done dozens of times – with or quite often without reason.
At the weekend, back on home turf, Robinson and his female camera operator were attacked outside a McDonalds by half a dozen masked white far-left activists. She was knocked about, he was beaten and kicked – but got up and fought back until the cowards ran away. The police refused to get involved.
Explain that to me please?
Meanwhile, the overseas visitors were locked up, their presence determined to be “not conducive to the public good” – and deported to Vienna.
Now, I could halfway understand this if it wasn’t that some of the UK’s mosques have been a regular breeding ground of, and host to, some of the world’s worst hate-mongering extremists for decades.
It took years to shut Abu Hamza and Anjem Choudary up. Two years ago Syed Muzaffar Shah Qadri went on a speaking tour of British mosques – and he was so extreme, he was even banned in Pakistan!
The British state has been trying to silence Robinson through everything from illegal imprisonment to intimidation of his wife and children, for years. When he accepted an invitation to speak at the Oxford Union they contrived to recall him to prison because he replied to a tweet from someone threatening to rape his mum.
He was thrown in a high security prison on an open wing full of Muslim extremists. The would-be rapist? The fact that no action was taken suggests it was probably a spoof – and Spook – account being used to provoke the necessary reaction from the volatile Robinson.
Our noble government has managed to prevent Martin Sellner from attending Speaker’s Corner on Sunday at 3pm. Robinson has promised to deliver his speech.
It will be interesting to see how the police stop him exercising his right as a free Englishman. But I don’t doubt that they’ll try.
SPEAKING of police states, and I’m not sure what more Theresa May could have done to follow through on her ‘demand for answers’ from Russian President Vladimir Putin over the Salisbury poisonings.
I’ll be that had him quaking in his boots – not. Still, TM the PM had to grow a pair this time around. It’s not quite Winstonian “we shall fight them on the beaches” stuff, but expelling Russian diplomats (‘spies’ for short) and making life as difficult as possible for this rogue state, was the least she could do.
Putin has been making a mockery of the world for years. You’d like to think other world leaders will line up behind Mrs May – and that it won’t take as long as it did in 1939.
As for Comrade Corbyn’s nightmare attempt to turn a national emergency into an attack on the Tories for accepting donations from London-based Russian oligarchs (many of whom are probably hoping to ‘buy’ friends and protection from Putin’s poisoners)?
Corbyn couldn’t even bring himself to criticise a state that he’d rather be a vassal of, than Brussels. Whatever you think of the new Marxist Labour party and its ‘plan’ for Britain, that man hasn’t a patriotic bone in his body.
IS YOUR old boiler making some funny noises, gurgling, maybe leaking all over the house?
Well, let’s not talk about the missus right now, but get right down to the nitty gritty – the old boiler that actually warms your cockles through the cold winter months. The boiler on the wall with lots of pipes running in and out of it.
Things go wrong in life, I know that. Stuff doesn’t work, gets a mind of its own – and come to think of it, yes, a lot like the missus – but that’s what warranties are for. Insurance.
A word to the wise. Lots of you will have Ideal-manufactured boilers in your houses; you’ve probably not had a minute’s trouble. Or if you have, maybe Ideal lived up to its promise to solve your problem within hours.
Well, my far-from Ideal boiler is little more than two years old and we haven’t had heating or hot water for six days. I can smell my son before I’ve got out of the car. Her ladyship promptly decanted to London.
Six days – that tells me Ideal have an awful lot of faulty boilers to fix, because this wasn’t during the ‘Beast from the East’ freeze.
It was four days before an engineer turned up in his flash Audi – call me Sherlock, but I guessed he wasn’t tooled up with parts and replacements. He took a look, left and back came Ideal to demand I put “a platform” in place. And if it wasn’t up to health and safety standards, their man would walk away.
“A platform?” I said. “Do you mean a footstool? The boiler is on a wall. I can reach right over it.”
“A platform,” uttered the Ideal Idiot. “A platform. A platform…” (You get the scene. Not a free thinker, that lad).
So I actually built a sturdy, 20-inch timber platform, because as much as I can stand in the kitchen sink and boil a kettle to get washed with, since my dear mum went there’s a distinct shortage of volunteers to give me a good lathering. We needed the boiler back in service.
Apparently, the bone-idle engineer reported that it was a three-hour, two-man job – with a platform of course.
Luckily Ideal use sub-contractors. He’s here now, as I type. On his own. Reckons it might take an hour. He asked if could he put my natty platform outside because it was getting in his way.
Ideal? You make your own choices obviously, but I’d steer well clear.
And on the up side at least I have a new ‘platform-like’ bench for the garden.