I see you doing your best reporter impression to the camera, your smartest big boy jacket on, doing your level best to keep facade-breaking snarl out of your voice. I see your baffled little face as you’re approached by the police, angrily protesting that you had no idea this would happen, despite the fact the exact same thing has happened to you before. This is a shit version of Groundhog Day, isn’t it? Bill Murray learned how to play piano and sculpt with ice and you’ve not even learned how to avoid breaking a law that’s already landed you in trouble.
How close you came to a full reinvention as well. Appointing yourself as the king of free speech (unless it comes from an imam you don’t like, obvs) has obviously convinced you that your propagandising puts you above reproach, despite it being calmly explained to you last time that prejudicing another trial would land you in the nick. The double standards and lack of self-awareness among your loyalists is amazing – everyone has the right to say whatever they like to the snowflake libtard loony lefty Mossy-lovers until someone gets called a gammon, and then it’s time to clutch your Union Jack handbag to your chest and cry about hate speech. You crowned yourself as the only champion standing against those coming over here with no respect for our laws, not like you, being born over here with no respect for our laws. Well that worked out well, didn’t it?
For a man so convinced he’s the only one with a spine, you don’t half like to play the victim. If it’s not The Establishment, or the Deep State as your American backers like to call it (bloody foreigners, meddling in our affairs) out to get you it’s Saddiq Khan putting a noose around your neck in a viral picture put together by a raving lunatic with a grasp of the facts so loose you could herd an EDL rally through his fingers. Never mind the fact that the mayor has nothing to do with an independent judiciary – he’s Muslim, so he’s got to be in on it, right? That’s how it works; criminals are Muslims first and guilty second and it’s important to remember where the real conspiracy lies.
What a crock of shit.
The ridiculous irony of all this is that we’re all talking about you, not about the victims. Through your actions, whether intentionally provocative or outright stupid, you’ve imperilled another trial and risked subjecting children who’ve already been subjected to horrendous abuse to the trauma of going through it all again. The ‘mainstream media’ aren’t the ones letting them down by following the reporting restrictions – you are, and those who think you’ve been bundled into jail without due process being followed need to put down the pitchforks and read a fucking book. You were warned and you did it anyway and you’ve no one to blame for your prison sentence but yourself. When a journalist actually does what they’re supposed to do in order to get your own reporting restrictions lifted, your supporters bombard her with rape and death threats – let it never be said that it’s not a classy lot who have your back.
You aren’t a martyr or a victim. You’re also not the only one trying to do something about grooming gangs – you’re just the idiot trying to lay them entirely at the door of Islam. There’s plenty of need for a more open and frank dialogue about why they’re so disproportionately represented among a certain demographic, provided those discussions are honest and evidence-based. What we don’t need is a pretend-reformed hooligan disrupting trials in order to publicise his own agenda. If you truly cared, you’d be sensible enough to raise the issue away from the courtroom and with a lot less dog-whistling.
Well at least we get a bit of a break from your bollocks now, right?
I see the trolley coming down the line, Tommy Robinson, pushed by an inmate you’ve not seen before, a man you can’t trust, a man a suspicious shade of brown. The deep state are everywhere, Tommy Robinson, out to silence and suppress you with their awful really-not-that-complicated laws. I see you stand up in your cell, unafraid and resolute, determined to face your fate.
I see the man stop at your cell door, Tommy Robinson, his stare dispassionate and unfeeling. He’s working for Them for sure, and he’s here to deliver a package that will benefit the establishment and those bloody Muslims.
I see him look left and right, Tommy Robinson, before reaching in to his jacket rather than the trolley. I see you clench your fists and raise your chin, determined to meet a noble end, to martyr yourself for the cause.
I see the man flick the book through the bars, and I hear it land with a thump. I see him roll his eyes and walk away, the wheels of the trolley squeaking as he goes.
I see you blink, as confused as you ever were, which is an awful lot. I see you pick up the book, frowning as you read the front page.
It’s McNae’s Essential Law for Journalists, Tommy Robinson. If you’re going to pretend to be one, you should at least read it. Maybe then you can stop fucking up trials for the innocent victims.
I know it’s got some big words in it, but it’s not like you haven’t got the time on your hands now.
I see you, Tommy Robinson. I fucking see you.
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