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Posted Sunday, May 16, 2004

 I wonder if Ian Kershaw, Andrew Roberts, and their fellow-conformist historians have these kind of troubles when they speak? And I wonder too whose history books will be being read in the twenty-second century?

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May 14, 2004 (Friday)

At 12:07 pm the Sussex police email me asking me to contact them urgently about tomorrow's function, as they have "certain information."

A minute later, there is an anonymous Jewish caller; he cannot disguise his voice. "You lost, scumbag, you --". Nice folks.

I try to go online at twelve-twenty p.m. and get this: "Your account is already signed on . . . If this is not authorized, please call 1-800-827-6364." Huh? Somebody else has opened my AOL email account? Never mind, nothing to conceal there.


May 15, 2004 (Saturday)
London - Arundel - London

AT eleven I drive to Lady M.'s to collect her and her friend Belinda, then to fetch Mr A. outside The Oratory, then on to Arundel for the talk. Beautiful sunshine in London, gradually becoming overcast as we cross the South Downs.

I last heard of Arundel -- where I have never been before -- when on holiday as a nine-year-old in Southsea, in the summer of 1947. That was when the Joan Woodward murder case filled the headlines (murders, in those pre-immigration, capital-punishment years, were a sensational rarity). They had found her body in the Castle grounds. At the time, I collected all the press reports on the search for the murderer -- my clippings books have all, oddly, been seized along with the rest of my archives by the official Trustee in May 2002. The police knew who Joan's murderer was but could not nail him, and it was never resolved.

My three passengers are like schoolchildren on a summer outing. We stop for a coffee at a gas station; the forecourt is in uproar at the new gas prices, 81p a liter (about $5 a gallon, up one percent). The Asian proprietor explains in his thin, reedy voice that his machine does not work; my passengers vanish for half an hour towards different patisseries and cafes, before I can stop them. M. has not seen green fields for years; wants to see furrows. A. lectures her that farmers plough and sow in the winter, not late spring. I am a townie now, would not have known that either.

A look at the map reveals how crazy H. or his local people are in fixing Horsham as the rendezvous point -- it is a good 40 miles from Arundel. The meeting point should be within walking distance of the lecture! Before we enter Arundel, hideously late, I removed all visible signs of my ownership of the car -- the Westminster permits, etc., -- to the puzzlement of my rather naïve passengers; I explained the logic behind such thinking ahead.


WE arrive in the town centre at three, to find the Norfolk Arms already besieged by the enemy rabble, and every window on the first floor crowded with young people hanging out to watch the sport. I drive straight past, and park opposite the Castle.

A., having drunk a lot of fashionable bottled water al the way down here, pronounces that he has to go for a less fashionable pee; Belinda walks smartly downhill to check out the Arms; Lady M. meanwhile phones the Arms receptionist, who informs her after a whispered conversation elsewhere, that there is no meeting booked there today (a lie), and they had never heard of the "William Cobbett Club" etc. Well they banked its cheque, they will find. Quoi de neuf. What else is new.

I suggest that we drive straight back to London, as H. has not vouchsafed the identity of the alternate location to me. On his return twenty minutes later, A. says he has spotted H., but he went for his urgent pee first and when he emerged, no doubt adjusting his dress, H. had vanished. Not helpful.

Belinda struggles back up the castle hill to the car fifteen minutes later, and has to sit in the back seat puffing for five minutes before she can even speak. She has spoken to a helpful young "nazi", as she says, and there he is coming up the hill even as she speaks. I instruct her lock her door and window, and we will be out of here -- even without A. and Lady M. "No," she reassures me. "He is one of ours."

He doesn't look like one of mine. He has a black motorbike crash helmet, a ring in one ear, and the slightly pink, puffy features of a homo. And no, he doesn't know where the alternate location is, nor does he even know H., which seems odd me. Before departing, he evidently made a note of our car's license tag.

The two others now return. The hotel has cancelled the booking. They agree with me to return to London at once. It is not an easy town to exit from, we do a circuit, over two river bridges and back to the High Street, and park opposite a police station five hundred yards from the Norfolk Arms. They go off for one last look for H., while I have a cold drink in The Hart.

Shortly none other than H. turns up. This pub, the Hart, is in fact the alternative location, and how did I guess. I did not, and I am not pleased, as I know from experience that there is going to be no meeting of any kind today. I want to return to London, right now.

H. starts deliberating on the source of the leak -- he says the mob went charging off from the meeting point at Horsham railway station car park even before the last people had arrived there. He swears that he did not notify Tony H. of the location, who is my chief suspect.

John O. shows up, looking much grayer and older than when I saw him twenty years ago; he probably thinks the same of me. Clarendon Club days. He lost his job as a school teacher some years back, for the usual reasons, -- a belief in Real History -- and now has a bread-delivery round. O. helps me load the few boxes of books up into the upstairs room at the back of the pub, and sets up chairs. Five minutes later he returns with the doleful news that a handful of our audience has trickled down the road to this location, and that the mob has followed them.

Ten of the latter come pounding up the stairs, ignoring O.'s polite requests to desist, and demolish the room and its contents, while I am held in a corner. I stand there alone, arms folded. I suggest to this gaggle of thugs that if they would like to take their seats we can have a debate and see if there are in fact any differences between out views on, say, Iraq. An unwashed young woman straight out of Eastenders shrieks, "We aren't here to debate!" Another of their number has come into the room, which is in turmoil; this man, perhaps an asylum seeker from an asylum, has a leather jacket with studs and a Mohican haircut with the hair glued up in vertical spikes, King's Road style, coloured alternately pink and orange. This caricature of a punk looks even more gross than that toll-booth attendant on the Massachusetts turnpike two years ago.

demlsihed room and goodsHe and his mates pen me into the corner. While their ringleader, a tall burly man of about 35,

[**** passage omitted for legal reasons ****]

with a seeming impunity which encourages three or four others to join in, four or five of them frantically destroy every book and video tape (Cincinnati 2002) on the table.

Their paymasters have told them this is the way to hurt me, and folks like these believe everything their paymasters say. The Board of Deputies of British Jews and its front men and their front men and accomplices.

Ringleader pushes forward within inches of my face, raises his fist with two fingers outstretched, makes as if to jab me in the eyes (almost: he knows the law, as a constable later says), and screams, "If you were younger you'd be on the floor by now." "With a dozen of you and one of me," I suggest, "that does sound very brave."


FROM Chicago to Portland to Copenhagen, and now quiet little Arundel in Sussex, these adorable people, these supporters of Deborah Lipstadt and the people like her, all follow the same washing-list of instructions, issued by the same sinister folks, and don't seem to realize it. I see the young man in the black motorbike helmet and earring arrive half way through the affray, and -- still penned in -- I ask him to call the police. He looks at me blankly and joins in the destruction. My thoughts on him were right. John O. makes the call. He finds A. in the bar, calling the local police number on a cell phone; it is not answering, he says. I tell him to use 999.

Some of the thugs have foolishly congregated on the roadbridge half way between here and the Arms. The police have now arrived, and make arrests. It is going to prove a costly afternoon for some. Outside, I see Marjory and James T., the former a cripple in a wheelchair, and a handful of others I know. I apologise for the wasted afternoon.

Somebody tells me that our car, though parked completely anonymously two hundred yards away, has had its tyres slashed and its doors vandalized. That will please Budget. The police confirm that they are holding some of the thugs in jail, and take a statement from me. Will I aid a prosecution? Not a difficult decision. Even as the constable is taking down the statement, a handwritten note in quavering block capitals arrives on his desk: it is from a resident in the building overlooking the car, number 13 Causeway Court, a Mrs Goldhagen; she has witnessed the vandalizing of the car, and gives a good description of the man with, as she puts it, "the black top." No doubt she did not spot the earring from her vantage point.

Around six pm the tow-truck arrives and takes the car to Gatwick airport, where Budget has its repair center. I am fitted out with a new one, of a different make, and return to London. Bente asks diffidently what kind of an afternoon it was, as in Had a Good Day at the Office Dear?, and why am I wearing a different shirt. "It was okay," I say, and go downstairs to shampoo my head as thoroughly as I can. Because who can say that one of these queer folks and thugs was not HIV-positive?

Around eleven p.m., a sergeant from Arundel police phones, asking urgently for the whereabouts of the damaged good (books, videos); I say we have them bagged up, but perhaps already discarded. She asks, what became of the bag, they need the items as evidence against those who have been arrested (fingerprints etc). They also want the shirt I was wearing for DNA tests. This much I anticipated (tho' the brainless thugs evidently did not) and the police laboratories are welcome to it.

I wonder if Ian Kershaw (left), Andrew Roberts and their fellow-conformist historians have these kind of troubles when they speak? And I wonder too whose history books will still be being read in the twenty-second century?



 who is she? click to enlarge.

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David Irving invites public to identify woman ringleader of affray in Sussex »»»»»
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