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Posted Friday, May 8, 2009

I hope that Miss Lumley invites every one of these wizened, brown-skinned new friends of hers to live in her street, thousands upon thousands of them, because I don't think that in real life many Labour voters will welcome them in theirs.

click for origin[Previous Radical's Diary]



May 5, 2009 (Tuesday)
Budapest (Hungary) - Windsor - London (England)

A TAXI calls for me 8:45 a.m., to Szent Kiraly utca to the dental clinic. Then at 1:25 a plane back to London. Plane lands at the new Terminal Five at 3 pm, and I collect the Pigmobile and am back at the house at 4 pm. Snooze for half an hour.

We are planning to reprint Goebbels. Mastermind of the Third Reich, if we can raise the capital. But where is the film? Our old printer reports that they have tracked down a consignment of film from the now vanished Bath Press in storage. "Unfortunately it is not very well archived and we are having to carry out a manual search."

On another matter, I inform BBC Wales: "Okay, I have been upstairs to the archive room to see what I still have after the 2002 Catastrophe [when all my property was seized]. The good news is that I have found a ten-inch reel of 16mm color film -- that is about an hour of film footage -- which we shot in 1989 during my speaking tour of South Africa. The labels will help you to identify locations. I was staying as Clive Derby-Lewis's guest in Johannesburg. You may well find footage of me with Clive on that [see below, in Durban] ... You can borrow film on your honour to return it. (I say that because in 1964 I lost my entire tapes of interviews with Dresden airmen and air raid survivors; John Terraine borrowed them for a BBC programme, and they were lost by him and never returned.)"

BBC Wales responds: "I've now checked with our transfer people and I'm told we have one of the last 16mm machines outside of a museum." I nail them down: "Please confirm that if any of the 16mm film footage is used, the BBC will pay its standard fee for such footage. It is silent, 16mm, colour."

Six pm into London for supper with Jessica. She's gearing up for the French oral examination next week.


May 6, 2009 (Wednesday)
Windsor (England)

TO Terminal 4 to fetch Jaenelle. The Internet says that her flight is early, and expected to land at 8:31 a.m.

I need not have hurried, though, as our Immigration detains her. Ah, the free democracies!

For hours on end I sit opposite the Arrivals entrance watching as the detritus of the world and their families pour through into our country unhindered; meanwhile a phone call summons me upstairs to be grilled for half an hour by an "immigration officer."

J's problem is, I suspect, she's just the wrong colour, and her degree in political science marks her out as too brainy.

After four hours she is allowed to proceed. She says that the "immigration officer" had a file in front of him, and she glimpsed pages printed from my website, which he tried to conceal.

I tell her that each time I now fly to the US, the British airline sends a telex ahead advising the FBI. I have seen them. "As long it's the good guys, I don't mind," I say, and I advise her to be philosophical about it all.

But it seems an odd way to counter the real terrorists -- like destroying a million DNA samples on our database (announced today) in case it infringes the civil rights of people who are innocent. Personally, I am delighted to know the authorities can use such a database to clear me of, say rapes or murders; or at least they could before today, when political correctness struck in. I apologise to her for the way that our country has treated her this morning, anyhow.

Ah, again, the free democracies!

We have a coffee at Eton, as they allowed her no food or drink or even a Tylenol tablet from her bags during the ordeal; then to the manor house. Here I find that the phone and Internet are down -- that will upset any secret listeners. She dozes all afternoon, and I don't blame her. I advise our friends in London:

I think we'll come in on Friday evening, not tomorrow. She is rather shaken by her welcome here. ... Jacqui Smith's Police state. Fortunately J just spoke the truth, so they could not fault her. They also grilled me.

Gerd Heidemann e-mails that he has noticed we are offering the photo album of Hermann Esser for sale. I confirm this, but add that it is a copy, not the original.

My jaw is aching where operated on in Budapest, but I hope the ache will subside over the next few days. Cheek, jaw and tongue are all damaged.


May 7, 2009 (Thursday)
Windsor (England)

A LONG worrying dream which seems to last all night: a friendly doctor carries out a minor operation. Hardly necessary, to remove an internal spot, but he says it won't cost much, but then I see his clerk write two bills, one for $700, which is a lot, and the second for $10,000 which is rather more. I spend the rest of the dream dodging him.

Kaltenbrunner diaryAt the Public Record Office, I spend the afternoon looking for the Ernst Kaltenbrunner diary (chief of the RSHA and Gestapo). I last read it on April 16, 2003. How the years zip past in an increasing blur.

I WATCH the television news. I am going to lose some friends for what I say now.

For the nth week, the news bulletins are full of froth about Joanna Lumley and her boisterous campaign on behalf of the Gurkhas; these are the Nepalese mercenaries who have over the decades fought bravely in Britain's wars including the Falklands, but especially in World War II.

There are some 15,000 of these old warriors now noisily and impolitely claiming, through the ballsy Miss Lumley, the right to settle into our overcrowded island. I am sure it is not Britain's ancient culture that attracts them, if anyone can still find it. There must be other reasons.

The Gurkhas' champions claim that by fighting "for Britain" these men have won the inalienable right to settle permanently here. That argument, if adopted, would open the floodgates to millions of Indians, Pakistanis, Anzacs, South Africans, Rhodesians, Poles, French, Americans and others who also fought with us against Hitler.

They were doing so not "for Britain," they were told at the time, but for all mankind including for example our allied nations, like the USA. Unwilling to use this remorseless logic, but hardened by experience, perhaps even sadder and wiser than in the Fifties, the Labour Government has dourly pointed out that these fifteen thousand Nepalese immigrants will bring in ancestors and dependants, possibly 100,000 more; and that the total cost will be 1.5 billion pounds a year.

This argument is dashed aside in the romance of the hour: Labour's oiky, incoherent, ill-spoken minister for immigration is no match for the lovely blonde actress with immaculate articulation and flawless elocution (in fact the UK voice of America Online. "You've got male!")

This female Max Clifford has stolen the show. In real life her hair, complexion, and the rest are very different from the on-screen view: wysiwyg -- I stumbled across her at her first famous press conference in the forecourt of the High Court as I emerged from the building a few weeks ago, and I could have parked a small van in some of those wrinkles (as indeed she could in mine).

Oh well. She will get her way, and I hope that Miss Lumley invites every one of these wizened, brown-skinned new friends of hers to live in her street, thousands upon thousands of them, because I don't think that in real life many Labour voters will welcome them in theirs.


THE TELEVISION news tonight is full of a story to be splashed by tomorrow's Daily Telegraph -- they have paid big money, it seems, for the computer disc that has been going the rounds of Fleet Street for some days containing stolen images of the dockets and phoney expense claims made by our worthless politicians.

We have no details yet on Tony Blair, the "peace envoy" who carries six hundred thousand dead Iraqis on his conscience, but I doubt that his snout was far from the porcine trough. This is the real pig-disease that has swept through our country: money-fever. Fraud, greed, and until-now-concealed theft from the public purse.

Our beloved and useless prime minister Gordon Brown, it now transpires -- is it still infra dig to mention his weird facial tic and that he is half blind? -- was paying his own brother £6,000 out of taxpayer money ostensibly to hire a cleaner. He has turned that blind eye on all his accomplices.

At the other end of the scale, a Member of Parliament has solemnly charged us for one carrier bag -- at a time when this ludicrous regime has been rolling billions of pounds toward our criminally inept banking system, and on the very day that the Governor of the Bank of England declares that he will print yet another fifty billion to paper over the gaps in Brown's recent arithmetic.

Dare anyone remind them that fighting two useless wars on behalf of "that sh*tty little country in the Middle East" might just be the largest contributory cause of the global economic collapse?

It turns out that our oily justice minister Jack Straw, who was at Brentwood School a few years after me and thus did not benefit from the heavy hand of Hector Higgs and our other teaching terrors, claimed as an expense the full £1,600 council tax for his "second home" -- itself a pretty dodgy affair -- although he was allowed a fifty percent discount about which he did not apparently see fit to tell the financial authorities, who seem not to have cared either. Challenged about this, he tonight argues with a grin: "I paid it back" -- yes, Jack, you did so coincidentally on the very day that it was determined that one day these expense claims were to be made public.

If there were any ministers old enough to recall post-WW2 politics, I would whisper two spectral words to them: "Crichel Down". Those were the days when ministers had honour; and they resigned if their department was found at fault, even when not at fault themselves.


THE BBC has no cause to love the Labour Party. Its Ten O'Clock News and its Tonight programme hoot with delight at these initial revelations, and the Daily Telegraph editor who is there in person makes plain that over the next few days there is more, far more, to come: what a scoop his newspaper's cheque-book journalism has bought!

Brown, the prime minister himself! Straw, the "Minister of Justice" -- a title to trigger peristalsis in any free and thinking Englishman! All up to their stinking armpits in the "expenses" trough, never expecting that their criminal fraud would come to the light of day -- the actual word is used by one delightfully incautious commentator on live television, but what minister will dare to engage the law courts over this one!

To make our glee complete, we have Harriet Harman foolish enough to come in and defend her government to the cameras. What can she do but squirm and wriggle: let us see what the coming week's revelations hold for her.

Since the Conservative and Liberal politicians will have waistcoats that are no less stained, I fear we shall not have much rumpus in the House about it; but this contempt for the masses is what leads eventually to bloody revolution. The man in the street who has lost his job, with no prospect of working soon or ever again, and has to feed his wife and family on the crumbs that fall off the table near him: what will he do when he hears of this tomorrow?

It is the stuff which in some countries leads to politicians and their henchmen being lynched from lamp-posts, to the braying of ugly mobs.

I go upstairs at eleven. Shortly one leg at the bed's foot collapses. The socket was cheaply fastened to the metal upright with one spot-weld, carrying all the weight.


May 8, 2009 (Friday)
Windsor (England)

MY bed tilts alarmingly all night, until I work out what has happened. At six a.m. I get up and fill a plastic bottle of water and use that as a prop. Gordon Brown's entire regime is now listing, and he will need more than that.  



[Previous Radical's Diary]


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