David Irving |
oouDocuments on the International Campaign for Real History
Posted Wednesday, May 27, 2009 11:04 pm
© Focal Point 2009
The Lillehammer hotels have voluntarily settled with us for their serial breaches of contract, and ... suffice it to say that it would almost buy me a Rolls Royce: not a new one, but a Rolls all the same.
NOW ON ONE ENJOYABLE EASY-FIND INDEX: DAVID IRVING: A RADICAL'S DIARY 2005 TO 2009
May 26, 2009 (Tuesday)
Windsor (England) - Oslo (Norway) - Windsor (England)I HEAR Jae getting up around three-thirty a.m, and I myself am up at 4:35 a.m., after just three hours' sleep. To London airport, ten minutes away. We have paid five days' parking in advance,, nearly fifty-two pounds. We check in and are airborne and heading for Norway at seven-twenty a.m.
At Oslo airport, after collecting a forty-pound box of books, we are met in the Customs hall by two large Nordic policemen who advise us that despite all our security measures and disinformation, including letting the press know yesterday that I am already in Oslo, there is a large crowd awaiting me in the arrivals hall -- television and radio, journalists, and the customary mob of hostiles waiting to provide the requisite media spectacle.
The professional and very friendly officers invite me to use their back route through the police depot, indicating that the required answer is "yes please." A police car with two other officers drives us to a rest area on the autobahn down into the capital, and the television station's taxi, driven by a Hadmir Singh, fetches us from there.
If we assume that from now on the day will be peaceful, we are wrong. A large mob of hostiles awaits us in the street outside the TV2 building, so that too has been leaked to the traditional enemies. I am entitled to suspect that TV2 itself is the culprit: manufactured news, and to hell with what may happen to us two, the victims.
Mr Singh unfortunately drives straight into the one-way street, where the mob blocks the entrance to the TV2 studio building, and swirls around all four sides of the car, shouting and screaming in Norwegian at us. Singh takes it in his stride.
No doubt the mob hesitates to damage his car, lest they are accused of racism. There is one Obligatory Black, possibly an Ovambo, standing on their fringe, looking rather out of place and seemingly ostracised by his anti-racist friends; he is holding a placard printed in Norwegian. Otherwise the mob consists of youngsters. I idly speculate on who has put up the money for all this printing, and indeed to rent this mob as well.
As the ritual chanting and singing of Leftist hymns begins, I conduct them from the car's front seat, like Sir Malcolm Sargent at the Proms, and succeed in throwing them off their beat after a time. It
works once or twice, and the rhythmic chanting splutters to a halt, but then they grow wise to the trick and a frantic Thor Thorbjørnsen (far left, "leader" of SOS-Rasisme, which does not appear to be the most cerebral of bodies) tries to restore order, or rather disorder in the street.
Hege Skorpen-Olsen of TV2 is wearing black from head to toe, and has her nails painted black, which certainly scares the bejeezus out of me, and probably the mob in the street too. They may well have feared lest she cast a spell upon them and turn them into toads: over which Mr Singh could have easily driven, leaving them roughly the shape and consistency of frog-sized pizzas.
The stand-off continues for about twenty minutes. I get the television journalists to hand their microphones through the car windows so I can conduct an interview -- I complain about the very poor quality of the females standing at the rear of the mob, who seem to my rheumy eyes to be distinguished by a uniform and consummate ugliness; and I had heard so many wonderful things too about the radiant beauty of the Scandinavian female.
Fortunately the latter rumours are confirmed once we are inside the studio, as the television staff and floor managers are young and nubile and friendly.
The interview itself is with Trude Teige a name which sounds like a character from Winnie the Pooh. It goes briskly enough; she is well prepared, and she has improvised a few explosive debating-devices, but they go off like squibs when served to an old hand like me.
DISCONCERTINGLY, the police now take over, inside TV2's green room . For an hour a senior officer grills me on our remaining plans in Norway. I co-operate readily, as they are solicitous about our welfare. They reveal that somebody has leaked the identify of our new hotel, the Bristol, to the traditional enemies, as they are lurking outside there too and threatening mayhem and public disorder.
An attractive blonde plainclothes cop, Marit, with the clear sparkling eyes of a non-smoker and the handshake of Miss Rambo III, drives us away at high speed, taking her unmarked car at speed a hundred yards along the sidewalk as the mob lurches forward and one madman try to rip the doors open and another tries to tear off the wipers and other outside stuff. As the hotel situation is still raw, Marit gives us an hour-long tour of the city, the Royal palace, and the rest, and finally hands us in at one of the city's five police HQs, where we eventually spend the rest of the day as the police and authorities try to agree with us on a course of action.
The press keep telephoning, asking where I am. The word now is definitely mum. The authorities have very good Intelligence, and probably more than a few moles planted in the hostile organisations. The traditional enemies, they inform us as the afternoon wears on, are scouring every hotel in the capital and even at the airport and surrounding towns, trying to find where we are.
This does not sound good. The Left in Norway, the police explain, are not pussycats: they are very violent people, and will resort at once to violence if they find either of us alone. Here in the capital the police can -- and will -- protect us, but the situation is dangerous if we go ahead with our plan to speak at Lillehammer, or even at Hamar, where our friends have at the last minute reserved a function room and hotel for us.
The police forces there are too small, unlike Oslo's, says the police superintendent. The Commissioner himself has become involved, as the sheer expense of policing my stay has now become a political problem.
"We are willing to defend your right to free speech, Mr Irving," says a senior officer at one point, while preserving strict neutrality. "But at present it looks like this will mean a twenty-four hour bodyguard for you, and even then we cannot guarantee your safety, let alone once you leave Oslo."
I have achieved my purpose in coming, I reflect. Indeed, instead of speaking to the forty or fifty who have pre-registered for a talk in Lillehammer, I shall this evening have spoken live to around a million on television, and I am splashed across every newspaper; thanks to the noise the media have made, I have now had a chance to counter the smears on my name.
The Lillehammer hotels have voluntarily settled with us for their serial breaches of contract, and although -- under the terms of the settlement -- I cannot disclose how, suffice it to say that it would almost buy me a Rolls Royce: not a new one, but a Rolls all the same.
So we call it quits. We abandon the further stay here. Mission Accomplished, to quote George W Bush. The Oslo Police Commissioner manages to pressure the airline to issue new tickets for today at no surcharge, no mean feat given the notorious brutality of modern airlines. An unmarked police car with two bodyguards is put at our disposal, and speeds us through pouring rain to the airport of this modern European democracy, and straight out onto the tarmac and to a plane departing at eight-twenty p.m.
Passengers gawk from the terminal building windows as we are led out of the police car to the plane steps. We shake hands all round. It reminds me suddenly of a rain-soaked runway at Vancouver airport in October 1992 -- the difference being that on that occasion I was wearing a Savile-Row suit and Canadian handcuffs, having just been awarded the George Orwell Prize for Freedom of Speech. Such being the travails of a Real Historian.
A couple of journalists phone me to inquire about my movements, and I now disclose to them, from the safety of seat 12A, that I am homeward bound. By ten-thirty p.m. we are back home in Windsor. The fifteen hours' parking has cost us fifty pounds, as there is no refund.
Back home, I find that America Online has crashed, and wiped out scores of my incoming emails. I work far into the night restoring the service. I believe some unfriendly gentleman has hacked into my email account and thrown a bunch of digital spanners into its works.
Such being … etc., etc., etc.
May 27, 2009 (Wednesday)
Windsor (England)TO bed at four a.m., with dawn already gleaming. An online newspaper, London Student, has published the inside story of The Carnival Times ramp of fifty years ago. I post a link online, and draw attention to the relevant chapter of my memoirs.
At 7:30 a.m. the phone rings. It is Dawn the housekeeper: she is downstairs outside the locked and bolted front door. "Oh, you're back!"
Yes, I am, and I was asleep, very asleep. No longer.
Tom McNulty: Putting a Watch on David Irving
Focal Point acts as agents for the sale of the following Adolf Hitler items: his walking stick [Gehstock] | photos 1 and 2 and 3 | news about Hitler and Eva Braun bone relics | paintings: Wüst, Bechstein, Troost, Pfarrer, Netherlands, Montreal, Cullis, Bijl, Astroman | Ernst Röhm original photos -- See the lying articles about these in the British and German press, e.g. Berliner Zeitung Irving eröffnet Nazi-Ebay (incidentally their owners Ullstein published most of Mr Irving's books: see right).
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