Week 2: Tommy Robinson Prison Diary – as told to Otto English

Week 2 – Day 1

Word reaches me from the outside world that the news is talking about nothing else but me. On Youtube, GAB and Facebook pages from Billericay to as far west as the United States of America in America people are talking about “Tommy” and how I been done out of my freedom by the left wing establishment and their Marxist henchmen in the law courts. Even the fascist BBC has been forced to drop items about Muslim integration to talk about how I been locked up for a crime I didn’t commit – like what they done to Hannibal Lecter and the rest of the A team back in the eighties.

I speak to my representative Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-Lin) down the phone – who tells me that internationally respected journalist Alex Jones no less is taking an interest and wants to interview me when I come out.

“Alex Jones? The Alex Jones? Host of Shop Well for Less and ..The One Show? This is it! This is the moment we gone mainstream.” I say.

“No, the other one.” He whispers. “The one from Infowars who exposed how we’re all being poisoned by fluorine.”

“Well that’s good as well.” I say.

“He wants to know if anyone has killed you yet Tommy?” He asks down the phone in this quiet little voice he has and what with the pressure of everything, I find myself shouting.

“Speak up you fucking ponce I can’t hear you!” Which makes him cry and then I waste the rest of my call telling him that ‘it’s all alright and I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings mate’ before we get cut off because me credit has run out and it’s all been a fucking waste of a call.

As I walk through the prison I’m in fear of my life as guards and inmates greet me with “Morning mate” and “how are you settling in?” I’m a fucking dead man walking.

my microphone
My favourite microphone

Day 2

Slept badly on account of my cell mate Keith, repeatedly asking me about my last sexual experience.

“It’s personal.” I tell him 20 times – but it still don’t shut him up and I can hear him rustling about in his bed.

The Governor tells me that I’m being moved to another prison and that she hopes to never see me again.

“That’s it. That’s typical!” I shout, “typical of the PC mentality that only wants black prisoners of conscience in prison rather than white men fighting against the genocide being levelled against your people. One day they’ll tear down that statue of Free Nelson Mandela in Parliament Square and put up one to me.”

“No…” she’s going “please don’t start… again” but I’m off.

“….. you know what Vangelis said about freedom?” I ask her. “Course you don’t – cos you never read my book.”

“No,” she goes “I think you’ve misunderstood me.”

“He said: ’I don’t like you, but I will fight you until you agree with me.’ And that’s what I’m about lady. You’d know those quotes if you’d read my book – How Muslams are Going To Kill You.”

“No!” She goes, “all I meant was I hope you don’t get locked up again for committing the same offence.”

caolan-robertson-images
It’s pronounced Kay-Lin

Day 3 – new prison

They say it’s an open prison. But they also say that Muslam is a religion of peace.

By my calculation that last prison was about 400% Muslim. This one is probably 800%. People ask you to back up your figures but you won’t ever hear of them having succesful media careers like mine either. It’s 800% and that is the end of it. At night I can hear people laughing and mentioning my name. I read about that once – it’s what they do before they behead you. There’s a blue mat in my room on the floor and it’s obviously there to get me to pray to Mecca. I ain’t falling for that. I ask them to remove it and they tell me that the floor gets a bit cold and it’s just there as a creature comfort. Scum – calling me an animal. I’ll tell you about animals – once I’ve got my microphone back.

I manage to get through to my representatives again. According to Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-Lin) there was a big demo in London. By his estimate sixty five million people turned up ‘but it could have been more.’

“I think you’re lovely Tommy.” He whispers down the phone in the little voice of his: “I hope you’re safe with all those big men in there.”

“I’m a dead man walking.” I tell him and hang up before he starts blubbing again. It’s lunch time in the new canteen. The food would kill most people but I’m used to it. I done time before when they said I did that mortgage fraud which was a lie. You never see Muslims doing time for mortgage fraud. Too busy setting up peadophile rings. Talking of rings, the courgettes look suspiciously like half-moons so I opt for the quiche Lorraine instead. A fella comes round while we are eating and says he’s the barber and offers to cut my hair – but within seconds of engaging with him he’s talking to me about ‘offering male grooming’ and I have to call the guards. Nonces everywhere. And he don’t even look like a Islam.

I go back to my room and put on the TV. It’s that David Attenborough talking about climate change. It’s all common sense. Of course the sea is rising – the Earth is sinking because it’s full of illegal immigrants – look at Africa – chocker with black fellas. But say that – and they’ll put you inside for speaking the truth. What’s worse – they’re stealing all our oxygen. There’s only so much oxygen to go round and it is not racist to point that out. But do you hear Attenborough ever say that? Do you fuck.