David Irving | ||||||
oouDocuments on the International Campaign for Real History
Posted Sunday, June 14, 2009 11:47 am
© Focal Point 2009
You remember seeing the newsreel of that thieving MP's estate with two Bobbies standing guard outside his closed, seven-foot tall wooden gates, to protect him from the British public -- those policeman should have been standing inside the gates facing inwards, to protect the British public from him!
June 13, 2009 (Saturday)
Windsor (England)WASHINGTON State supporter Josh is churlish that I have insisted that he actually register for my upcoming Seattle meeting. "I've been to see you three times before in Seattle," he writes. "I sent a Christmas card when you were incarcerated in Austria . . . I have never had to REGISTER before! You may have six fewer supporters in the audience this time."
I point out:
You have not even stated your name to me. How on earth am I supposed to know who you are. If I drive five thousand miles zigzag across the USA up to Seattle, I am not going to take risks, and nor would you expect me to.
"Now there's a sight you don't often see nowadays in England -- an all-White audience"
THIS AFTERNOON I speak in London. I am at the location [a pub near Waterloo station] at mid-day. The upstairs room fills rapidly, and more chairs have to be brought in. The first speaker is the New Right's Jonathan Bowden, who delivers an hour-long impromptu address, very witty and informative, on the Dualism between Bad and Good as depicted in modern propaganda and American pulp magazines and comic books:
Captain Marvel, Batman, and the rest. He is very knowledgeable on his subject, has a wide vocabulary and brilliant delivery.
A hard act to follow, which I do after a half hour's pause, beginning, as I wave a hand round the audience, "Now there's a sight you don't often see nowadays in England -- an all-White audience!" If this were a BBC audience, of course, there would now have to be at least one-third Blacks in front of me.
I burrow deep into the MPs' expenses scandal, and there are roars of laughter at some of my best jibes -- "You remember seeing the newsreel of that thieving MP's estate with two Bobbies standing guard outside his closed, seven-foot tall wooden gates, to protect him from the British public . . . those policeman should have been standing inside the gates facing inwards, to protect the British public from him!"
I said that though I wished the BNP and UKIP well, and they now had armies of friends and supporters, they had hitherto lacked officer-class material, and this their recent successes may well bring in to them. Many a gentleman and academic may have watched their results come in and thoughtfully stroked his chin, and said to himself, "Perhaps I should be joining them now after all." There is applause when I say, "Some of you may take this hard, but I don't warm to [UKIP leader] Nigel Farrage (below, foreground) -- there is too much of the Smart Alec about him."
The Left's clever revelation that he took two million pounds in expenses, though he calls it something else, as a Member of the European Parliament has hurt him.
I remind the audience that Jack Straw, currently one of our many simultaneous justice ministers, went to the same school as I -- though we would never have spoken; at public school one just did not speak with boys from the junior years.
What a difference a few years make. When I was there, our school discipline was tough -- harsch aber ungerecht, the Germans would say: harsh but unjust. I tell them of the legendary Jimmy Hough, MA, who was still headmaster when my brother was at Brentwood.
That chapter of my memoirs relates: "The boys were lining up at the Morning Assembly for the notoriously absent-minded Hough to cane them while Hector Higgs, our Latin master, held the Black Book and read out their misdemeanours. The next pupil had already been severely caned, when Higgs realised that there had been an unfortunate error -- this boy's name was not on the list to be caned.
"Oh yes," wheezed Hough. "Wilkinson. I recall now why I sent for you. Your mother's died. Now -- back to your classroom."
There is a white-painted wooden arrow stating "70", pointing down the lane, and a wild party is going on in the half-converted barn next door, the ground-to-eaves windows illuminated from within by disco strobes, and the lights casting shadowy figures on the ground with a forest of waving arms and hands; and loud, loud, live music. Not too pleased about that. It is still going on at 11:30 pm, and with Jessica we walk over to find out what is going on -- "That's Peter, it's his seventieth birthday party," says a teenage thing clinging to her boyfriend.
Ah, our new neighbours? I ask for "Peter" to be brought out, and he emerges, clutching an unsteady glass. I inquire politely how long the racket will continue, as we are in the Big House next door.
"Ah, you're the author," he says, with a two-percent trace of sneer tingeing the final word, a soupçon inaudible but to the trained ear. I hope and assume it is just the sneer of the manual worker for the intellectual, and I ignore the trace. I make my point and force a smile, and say that if it's just a one-off thing, a big birthday, I will say no more, but if they intend using the barn regularly for jamborees like this, on a commercial basis, that will obviously be something different. He does not answer, talks of his intention of completing the conversion work and then selling the house. Did I not get the note, he mutters, the one telling me of their intention to hold this event? "Of course, there could be no talk of inviting you … uh, you'd not want to come to something like… uh," on which uncompleted point he is not wrong.
I again wish him a Happy Birthday, and inquire how much longer the noise will continue, which is quite deafening even when standing in the side-lane. He looks at his watch. "It's only eleven-thirty," he objects, "the pubs aren't even throwing out at this time." Hey-ho. Jolly good. "You're not the owner, are you," he then sniffs, pointing over my shoulder to LEH. Indeed I am not. And again, "You're the author, are you?"
I shake hands, wish him for a third time a Happy Birthday above the racket and return home, leaving Jessica chatting with him. When she returns I gently lecture her: whenever you do something that may annoy a neighbour, like staging a late party or laying new carpeting above them, always write a soft note first explaining what is coming and how long it will last, and thus turn the other's possible wrath away. Peter Smith evidently thinks that unnecessary. Hey ho again. Let's hope he sells fast, to educated and considerate folks.
Kenneth H. noses around: "Thanks for the interesting talk today David. . . On the way home one of the ladies who attended the meeting told me that your wife had left you and taken your daughter with her, and now you are living in that big house by yourself; I'm sorry to hear this, is this true David?" -- It sounds like Michele R. to me; should be called Mischief R.
I reply: "Untrue. Jessica is with me at this moment, and her mother is very, very ill, sad to say."
WHERE IS DAVID IRVING SPEAKING IN THE USA THIS JULY? Contact us: Apply for details. Register at the door, or cheaper online [link].
I am holding in archives a number of your legal files relating to your Australian immigration case and Federal Court Appeals and your Australian libel actions [against Jeremy Jones and other Jewish worthies]. Do you give me permission to destroy, burn or shred?I reply briefly: "I suggest you retain the files disclosed to you by the authorities, otherwise destroy."
The then prime minister Paul Keating was forced by the Courts to disclose to us his office's secret file on me, which revealed that although advised by the Australian police, security and intelligence authorities in Canberra that there was no objection to my repeat entry, he was under pressure from certain wealthy bodies which required him to tick the other check-box. It would however be a contempt of court for me to reveal here the precise details.
June 14, 2009 (Sunday)
Windsor (England)THE party noise and thumping band next door continue far into the night, penetrating our thick and ancient walls and several closed doors, and I am asleep when it ends; it can't have been nice for Jessica, as her room is facing the noise.
NOW ON ONE ENJOYABLE EASY-FIND INDEX: DAVID IRVING: A RADICAL'S DIARY 2005 TO 2009
Jaenelle Antas: page and photo gallery 2008-2012
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