David Irving |
Documents on the International Campaign for Real History
Posted Saturday, September 1, 2007
© Focal Point 2007
Where in the world can a Blair feel safe now? There are 600,000 dead Iraqis on his lying conscience, not counting those infants who died through his insane ten-year food embargo.
August 31, 2007 (Friday)
Madrid (Spain)TO the Feria de Madrid at six pm to see Pilar's stand at the Fashion Trade Show: very professional, and she is doing well, I am pleased to see.
The deal on the rental house in Windsor is now finalised and I move in on Monday. The agency reports that the housekeeper will be there at one p.m. as she is letting the chimney sweep in then. Chimney sweep! That takes me back in a leap of the memory to 1940, and Park House. I have written in my memoirs:
The chimney sweep called too -- and now our important job as children was to stand well away, outside on the front lawn in fact, and shout when his brush poked out above the chimney pots. I am reminded of this childhood image three score years later, in a foreign prison cell, as I read Graham Green's description of the Liberian jungle, its "tall palms sticking out above the rest like the brushes of chimney sweeps."** Journey without Maps (London, 1936). I phone Jessica in the evening, but she is impertinent -- "That's irrelevant," she says, when she says she's shopping in Boots and I chattily ask, which one. They start off so cute, and turn into such little teenage monsters.
Hear David Irving speak in British cities. Register interest
First city Rugby, Sept 7th, dinner and talk, 7-10 pmSeptember 1, 2007 (Saturday)
Madrid (Spain) - London (England)PALOMA takes me to the airport at 11 am, and the British Airways plane eventually takes off an hour or so late, because of "crew problems", at 2:30 pm. There are two scruffy young Englishmen sitting next to me; one draws the window blind right down, and when I remark on this he snarls that the light hurts his eyes. In that case, Madrid in summer was hardly the cleverest choice for a vacation, my brain coos silently in his direction -- except that, since the death of General Franco, drugs have now become much cheaper on the Spanish street.
From London airport I phone Jessica, and collect her at 5:15 pm for an early supper, drive her home, and then at seven pm I meet Stuart K. at the Victory Club. He has a folder on this coming Friday's venue in Rugby, and a very stately city restaurant it is too.
Afterwards, we go for a stroll round Connaught Square. On one corner is the Connaught House School where Jessica learned to read and write. I reminisce to Stuart about how she used to break away from my hand and run the last two hundred yards to the school's front door, she was so eager.
OUTSIDE No. 32, I think it is, I pass two heavily armed London policemen with flat caps, of the V.I.P Protection Squad, cradling Heckler & Koch sub-machine guns in their arms. This must be the multi-million pound house that Tony Blair, our beloved ex prime minister, and his barrister wife have newly purchased, in which to spend their uneasy retirement -- just on the fringe of Arab London, the Edgware Road / Marble Arch Moslem enclave.
I turn back for a brief chat with the Bobbies. "So this is where the Mass Murderer lives?" I ask, expecting them to turn blank and stony stares on me.
"That's right," says the senior of the two, relaxing into an easy grin. "The Mass Murderer lives in that house there" -- helpfully indicating the front door concerned.
I tell him that Josephine's son, of whom our family are all so proud, is fighting for the British Army in Basra at this moment; a hardened veteran already at twenty-one, this is his third tour out there, doing Tony Blair's dirty work for him, I say, and I add a few more comments I do not wish to reveal here.
The police officers make plain they think no differently. I think that if I were Blair, and had to rely on a force of clear-thinking warriors like these for my protection, I might just emigrate after all.
But where in the world can a Blair feel safe now? There are 600,000 dead Iraqis on his lying conscience, not counting those infants who died through his insane ten-year food embargo: and many a sorrowing Iraqi father must have sworn to take revenge -- no matter how long it takes. So we taxpayers have to foot the million-pounds-a-year bill that his round-the-clock safety from now on is officially stated to cost.
We stroll back to the little black car that will be taking me round England the next few weeks on my speaking tour.
Later I phone James T. in the country and arrange to collect stuff from his Vauxhall house on Tuesday evening. Gradually, I am getting my things back under one roof, and it feels good.
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