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The film, like everything else about Blair and his greasy Government, with its extraordinary front-bench cast of splay-toothed runts and Ferrier’s World
Searchlight caricatures, is a lie.

November
23, 2004 (Tuesday)
London (England)

AS the bus takes us to school — Jessica and me — I notice police sharpshooters standing on the arch at Hyde
Park Corner, and the Queen Elizabeth gates are already closed and locked. The Queen is to pass this way at midday for the State Opening of
Parliament.

I have mentioned more than once before the paradox that Adolf Hitler (and more recently Saddam Hussein) were able to move freely among their own peoples, without the protection of closed, armored plated Cadillacs and the like.

England has become an uglier place for Mr Blair’s arming of the police. A week ago the Metropolitan police announced that they were going on strike, and would not carry any arms until their demands were met. I am sure that I am not the only Englishman who felt oddly safer in the knowledge that the Bobbies were not bristling with
Heckler & Koch submachine guns and the rest of the pseudo-American arsenal that Mr Much-Beloved
Blair now feels we are entitled to.

1:55 PM: A young male calls, slightly breathless and nervous, but not the regular Jewish hate-caller. “Can I speak to
Josephine please?” I respond, puzzled: “Uh, yes.
Who is that calling please?” Male replies, inaudible – something like “People no ‘arm,” and hangs up. Not the regular North London caller, he sounds student-like, central London, not uneducated. Poor Josephine has been dead for five years now, and we all miss her dreadfully.

IN the evening, there is a five-minute party political broadcast by the Labour Party, ostensibly on the theme of today Queen’s Speech.

The film is a paean to the new Britain, and is in fact quite pleasant to watch, as we see one well-spoken
Englishman after another extol the virtues of this country, and what Blair’s government has done for it — the best employment figures in Europe, the finest education system, the best economic future; the council trash carts trundle dutifully around the streets of neatly manicured housing projects (council housing estates, as we call them) picking up the litter, and scrubbing graffiti off

the walls.

At the end there is the bearded, avuncular
Oscar-winning Lord Attenborough (that’s Richard A. as was), talking in a low, husky whisper and almost inaudibly of his praise for this new England, and incidentally of how Labour are investing once again in the British film industry. This short film is so slick, it almost wins me over: it almost has me running out onto the doorstep cheering and calling upon passers-by to vote for the highly-capable Mr
Blair at their earliest opportunity.

But then I realize that the film, like everything else about him and his greasy
Government, with its extraordinary front-bench cast of splay-toothed runts and Ferrier’s World
Searchlight caricatures, is a lie.

The England that his men have filmed is white, purest White —
which is as close to reality as if the Hollywood blockbusters were all peopled by brain surgeons, judges, and professors who were all White; even when the Labour Party’s cameras visit schools in
England for this film, to highlight the great achievements that are being made in education, there is not a Black face to be seen in the classrooms.

Every White viewer knows this is a lie — every parent with children knows the extents to which they have privately gone to ensure that their precious child is educated in a school which is not inundated by a flood of bottom-end aliens, of whatever skin colour and language, dragging on the wheel.

In this television propaganda view of England, which only lasts five minutes, Labour have expunged all the Blacks — as surely as the producers of
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, when they found that their film had inadvertently omitted them, had to stitch Black faces into the final crowd scenes, pixel by pixel, by digital wizardry.

Unfortunately the invasion of England since the
1950s has not occurred pixel by pixel, but by the million, as one Conservative or Labour Government minister after another, beginning with the traitorous Lord Hailsham in about 1956, has wrung his hands and said there was nothing that could be done (or in his words, needed to be done) about the problem.

Blair’s New Labour party has proven them wrong.
There is a solution — you make a film in which immigration does not even exist; a film in which the Blacks and their rising tide of crimes against women, their drugs, their guns, and their gang wars are as carefully excluded as any mention of, ahem, the little bother going on in Iraq.

Way to go, Tony! Leni Riefenstahl and
Dr Goebbels would be proud of you.

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David Irving