June 30th 2018
I been moved to Onley Open Prison. No idea why they call it ‘open’ because freedom of speech is dead here.
It’s clear that their way of breaking me is through ‘mental torture’ just like what the Nazis done to Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. The pillows on my bed are foam and I can’t sleep with foam pillows. There’s a bottle of water on the side and it isn’t fizzy. There’s a TV in the room but a quick inspection shows that it’s not got SKY or even Virgin on it. It’s one of them “Freeview” sets and we all know what that means. No Sky movies, no Sky sports and no “Cops in Choppers in the Outback” because there’s no Discovery Channel. I know they’re trying to break me down but I’m strong and tell them to take it away.
“But won’t you get bored?” A screw asks.
“No you fucking Dhimmi.” I tell him, “because I am British and I have something up here called the power of my imagination.”
I ask for the TV back but they won’t bring it – on account of my having sworn at the screw.
June 31st 2018
My representative Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) contacts me to let me know that I have not been forgotten by the outside world.
“They are saying you are like a modern Gandhi, or Nelson Mandela!” He whispers down the phone in that little voice of his. I’m not happy about that on account of one of them fellas being black.
“Tell them I want to be compared to Churchill!” I shout down the phone. “When he done time in South Africa for trying to stop white genocide.”
“I’ll try!” Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) manages before descending into a sobbing fit.
Lunchtime on my third day here and things are getting fucking desperate. It’s meant to be chicken, I ordered chicken but some comedian has put it in a wrap, parked what looks like a bit of shit on the side of it and covered the rest of the plate with salad.
“What’s this?” I demand of the screw who’s brought it in.
“Mexican chicken!” The fella shoots back – “with refried beans and a regional salad.”
I’m not having that. What region? Saudi Arabia? Pakistan? You don’t know who’s touched it.
“I asked for chicken.” I say “And in England mate chicken comes in one of two ways. Either with spuds and carrots and that or as KFC bucket with coleslaw – because that is the traditional way what chicken has been served here for thousands of years and you are explicit in the destruction of our culture through ….this..”
But before I can finish he cuts me off: “You mean implicit not explicit.” He says and shuts the door. Actual scum.
So they want it like that do they? I will go on hunger strike until I get my own food that I know has not been mucked about with. I ask for a complaint form:
“If there’s a Nandos I am happy to have that, but failing that I will have McDonalds or Burger King.” I write. “And could I have my TV back because not having one is now doing my head in.”
That will show them.
I’ve called off my hunger strike and ask for some fish and chips. But they say I can’t have that because dinner is finished. What has happened to this country?
I’ve now run out of teeth whitener and hand held tanning spray and this is constituting a serious breach of me human rights. I demand to see the Governor and in the meantime fill in another complaint form.
During rec I meet a fella called Stan Lee. He’s inside for fraud and being a confidence trickster and like but he tells me he is innocent and he sounds very convincing to me. This bloke goes on to tell me that on the other side of the cell opposite mine, though a secret door, which only Muslims can see, there’s a full blown mosque with minarets and all the bells and whistles and mats and Korans and that. And in this enormous mosque thousands of Muslam prisoners are praying five times a day, in between slaughtering all the food in the prison in the halal way and….. get this… they’re converting other prisoners and even the guards to Muslam.
It’s terrifying to be honest and completely believable. The dark state has been trying for thirty years to turn Britain into an Islamic caliphate and impose Sharia law because – well – it’s something they want to do and I have now come across evidence that proves it beyond any doubt. I realise that Stan Lee is risking his life by telling me this so when he explains that if I can get him £2,000 and a few cartons of cigarettes he might be able to save me I’m all in.
Stan Lee has been moved to another prison – and I am still in the same cell at risk of being converted to Muslam at any moment. But worse than all that, I have now been without a telly for more than 30 days. This is in clear contradiction of the Genevieve convention on the treatment of prisoners of war and make no mistake – I AM A PRISONER OF WAR. I demand to see the Governor.
“Oh hello Mr Yaxley Lennon – I have some good news for you. It seems you are going to be released. You’ve grown your hair I see – would you like to get it cut before you depart?”
I know what he’s up to: “And fall victim to one of your grooming gangs? No I don’t think so. I may be walking out of here but this is not the last you will hear of me.” I say. “I’m going to tell the world about the treatment I have had in here and in particular the lack of a TV what I have suffered.”
Caolan (it’s pronounced Kay-lin) and the press are outside to meet me. He takes hold of my hand and we get in a car and drive away. An hour later I realise – he still hasn’t let go.
People are disgusted by my treatment. Many say I look worse than a concentration camp victim but the comparison is stupid. It has been so very much worse than that.