Tommy Robinson – My Struggle – the prison diaries

I’m a dead man walking. Except I am not actually walking. I am in a van. So I am a dead man being driven. But it’s all the same thing at the end of the day.

They take me into the prison and I am led to an interview room. There’s a woman and a man and you can tell immediately that neither of them is patriots. I ask them if they know the words to God Save the Queen but they just ignore me and start asking a load of questions. I ain’t playing their game. I give my name, age and number. I ain’t got no actual number so I give them my shoe size. I’ve read the Genevieve Contention and I know my rights.

“I am seeking Aslan in the first country I land in.” I shout and they look at me like the Muppets they are.

“The Lion from the C.S Lewis books?” The woman pipes up after she’s stopped laughing. She won’t be laughing when the fucking Muslams has taken over and forced her to wear full hijab. And anyway what’s she doing here? It’s late and here she is in a Prison surrounded by men. That’s not right. She should be home cooking her husband’s tea and looking after her kids.

“I demand to be taken to the United States under the protection of Donal Trump!” I say. That’s what Katie Hopkins told me to do and she has got an A level. They don’t know how to respond. Not one of them has read the British Constipation. I’ve got these twats over the barrel.

“But you are in a prison Mr Yaxley Lennon!” They say and start laughing again like a bunch of hyenas. “You are serving a prison term for breaking the law. Why would we take you to the United States.”

“Because I’m a journalism!” I shout over their noise….“you ever seen the BBC outside of the courts? I was journalising and I been stitched up by the establishment for exposing the paediatrics. If I was an Aslan seeker from Africa you’d be doing what I demand. And then give me a council home and a holiday in Spain and 5 g.”

“But Mr Yaxley Lennon!” That woman starts again – and I’m not having that. I’m not letting her finish. With that attitude she’ll be living under Sharia law.

“Zip it woman!” I say “You call me a racist. Tell me one thing I ever said that was racist! One thing. Go on. One thing.”

She stares at me blankly.

“I didn’t call you a racist.” She says. Typical. They’ve never got an answer for that one.

I am led to my cell. Banged up for journalisation is bad enough – but the state of where I am expected to sleep. The fellas in Colditz got better than this.

“What’s this?” I demand – pointing at the TV.

“It’s a TV.” The clown who has brought me up says.

“I can see that chum.” I says “but it’s not a flat screen is it. It’s not even HD ready. Take it away.”

That fucking showed ‘em.

I sleep badly. Only two pillows and neither of them is goose down.

In the morning I’m brought a bowl of cereal, some hot coffee and bacon in a bun. I get what they are doing – I got their number. I demand to see the Governor.

That same woman from last night turns up.

“I said I wanted to see the Guvnor.” I say.

“I am the Guvnor.” She shoots back.

So I pick up the bacon and wave it in her face.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A piece of bacon?” She asks innocently.

“Yeah and what is its year in provence?” I ask – “how can you tell me that it ain’t halal?” She’s not smiling any more. That’s got her. “I know what you is doing!” I shout. “Trying to convert me on the quiet. Well it ain’t working. Take it away. Take it all away. And bring me some proper fucking pillows.”

They leave and I am alone in my cell without a pillow. Tomorrow I will write to President Donal Trump and ask him for Aslan. Then they’ll know who’s the boss round here. Then they’ll see.

As told to Kelvin Patterson – satire