Here’s why Islam should no longer be considered as a religion under UK law.

   Scrabbling for justice

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This article is partly based on the excellent research undertaken by Graham Senior-Milne concerning the legal status of Islam in the UK.  It is of particular relevance to a March 2018 case of Religiously Aggravated Harassment in Folkestone Magistrates Court concerning Paul Golding and Jayda Fransen of Britain First – and is also relevant to this March 2017 case in Southwark Crown Court where the author of this article was similarly charged.

It may well also be relevant to numerous other cases of Religiously Aggravated Harassment that have been prosecuted since the Racial and Religious Hatred Act came into force in 2006.

Having considered all the arguments from Graham Senior-Milne’s research, it becomes obvious that if only the legal system would take these arguments into account, and find in our favour (as it undoubtedly should) then in addition to quashing the above-mentioned cases of Religiously Aggravated Harassment, we would solve a great many of our problems with Islam overnight. Considering that Islam is shaping up to be the world’s most intractable problem of the 21st century, this would be a most worthwhile goal, and one arguably deserving of a great deal of attention.

The author of this article attempted to have the subject debated in court in 2017, but was informed that there was no way that any judge in the UK would entertain such an idea in the current political climate, which is a sad indictment of the craven and cowardly attitude of those in power who should – in an ideal world – uphold the law without fear or favour, compared to the current policies of appeasement in relation to the increasingly arrogant and aggressive followers of the most barbaric, backward, misogynistic and totalitarian ideology the world has ever seen.

The basic argument is as follows: Islam should not be considered a religion in UK law because it does not meet certain criteria laid down by the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) which is currently the highest authority in our legal system.

In a case going back to 1982 it was stated that: in order to qualify for protection under Article 9 of the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) (Freedom of thought,conscience and religion), religious and philosophical beliefs must be worthy of respect in a democratic society, be not incompatible with human dignity and not conflict with the fundamental rights of others.”

If it is lawful to protect religious beliefs that meet these criteria, it must be unlawful to protect (via legal recognition) religious beliefs that do not meet these criteria, because such beliefs must either be not worthy of respect in a democratic society (Islam is unquestionably anti-democratic) and/or incompatible with human dignity (the dignity of women, for instance, who are mere chattels in Islam) and/or conflict with the fundamental rights of others (such as gays, including gay Muslims, who, under Sharia law, must be killed).

Following on from this, the logic would be that, in law, you cannot harass a person based on their religion if, in law, that person has no religion (what they believe is not recognized, in law, as a religion and therefore does not qualify for the legal protections that apply, in law, to religions recognized as such).

In other words, ‘religious harassment of a Muslim’ is, in UK law, a contradiction in terms; it is a legal impossibility.

While Islam has been treated as a religion in numerous cases over the years, this issue has never been argued before a court; courts have just assumed that Islam is a religion in law. In other words, there is no binding precedent on this issue.

This may sound surprising, but you can perhaps understand why courts would avoid this issue like the plague, even if it occurred to them that they might consider it in the first place. But courts do not hesitate to apply these criteria to other philosophical or religious beliefs – so why should Islam be exempt?

Consider the sheer idiocy of the proposition that a set of beliefs which are incompatible with the human rights of others (say, sacrificing babies on the first Tuesday of every month), which would not be protected under Article 9 ECHR as philosophical beliefs, would be protected simply because they are ‘religious beliefs’.

Would you protect Nazi beliefs if Nazis believed that Hitler was God? Of course not. Yet there is a direct parallel with Islam. Rampant antisemitism? Check. An inbuilt sense of supremacism? Check. A quest for worldwide domination by any means available, including fear, violence, intimidation and terror? Check again. It can easily be seen that Islam has much more in common with Nazism than it does with, say, Judaism or Christianity.

In another case from 2005, it was stated that “Article 9 embraces freedom of thought, conscience and religion. The atheist, the agnostic, and the sceptic are as much entitled to freedom to hold and manifest their beliefs as the theist. These beliefs are placed on an equal footing for the purpose of this guaranteed freedom. Thus, if its manifestation is to attract protection under Article 9 then a non-religious belief, as much as a religious belief, must satisfy the modest threshold requirements implicit in this Article.

With regard to the ‘modest threshold requirements’, these are stated at para. 23 (my emphasis): “Everyone, therefore, is entitled to hold whatever beliefs he wishes. But when questions of ‘manifestation’ arise, as they usually do in this type of case, a belief must satisfy some modest, objective minimum requirements. These threshold requirements are implicit in Article 9 of the European Convention and comparable guarantees in other human rights instruments.”

“The belief must be consistent with basic standards of human dignity or integrity. Manifestation of a religious belief, for instance, which involved subjecting others to torture or inhuman punishment would not qualify for protection.”

“The belief must relate to matters more than merely trivial. It must possess an adequate degree of seriousness and importance. As has been said, it must be a belief on a fundamental problem. With religious belief this requisite is readily satisfied.”

“The belief must also be coherent in the sense of being intelligible and capable of being understood. But again, too much should not be demanded in this regard. Typically, religion involves belief in the supernatural. It is not always susceptible to lucid exposition or, still less, rational justification. The language used is often the language of allegory, symbol and metaphor.”

“Depending on the subject matter, individuals cannot always be expected to express themselves with cogency or precision. Nor are an individual’s beliefs fixed and static. The beliefs of every individual are prone to change over his or her lifetime. Overall, these threshold requirements should not be set at a level which would deprive minority beliefs of the protection they are intended to have under the Convention.”

The bottom line is: A person can believe what ever he likes but his beliefs must meet the threshold requirements to be recognized and afforded protection in law.

It is true that Islam is given as an example of a religion in the explanatory notes to s.44 Equality Act 2006, but explanatory notes are not definitive of the meaning of an Act. Also, the explanatory notes state:

‘Section 44 defines what is meant by “religion or belief” for the purposes of this Act. Section 44(a) defines “religion” as “any religion”, a broad definition in line with the freedom of religion guaranteed by Article 9 of the ECHR.’

This makes it clear that, for the purposes of the Equality Act 2006, a religion can only be recognized and treated as a religion if it meets the criteria for Article 9 ECHR (because Article 9 ECHR does not recognize or protect beliefs or religions that do not meet the criteria specified in Campbell and Cosans v United Kingdom [1982] ECHR 1).

In any event, even if a statute did provide that Islam is a religion, that statute would itself be unlawful under Article 9 ECHR, given that the ECHR (and the case law of the ECtHR, which interprets the ECHR) overrides domestic law, whether it be statute or other.

Let’s see how many people out there would support a Judicial Review (the legal mechanism whereby a senior judge would be obliged to consider the proposition that Islam should no longer be considered a religion in law. It is admittedly an expensive process, however if a mere 3000 people (out of our population of 60 million) were to pledge just £10 each then we could take the first step on the road to free our country from the tyranny of Islam. Please register your interest by leaving a message of support at the following email address: editor@counterjihadwarrior.com. You don’t have to pledge any money as such at this stage – I am just trying to gauge the level of interest, and if we manage to get enough people expressing support then we could set up a proper fund-raising campaign.

We owe it to our children and grandchildren to do everything we can to help provide them with a better world, free from the threat of Islam, Sharia law, and all the other manifestations of this barbaric, misogynistic 7th-century totalitarian ideology. Please help us to meet this goal if you possibly can.

Tim Burton (with acknowledgements to Graham Senior-Milne)

The Alienork Way – Matthew Bracken

    The Alienork Way

My name is Naku. This is the story of my people, who live on the great Island of Plenty. Our island is so vast, and the need for travel so small, and it being very difficult to cross the high mountain ridges, people most often live near where they are born. Food is easy to grow or to pick everywhere and at all times of the year, and there are plenty of fish to catch as well. But from time to time a traveler might visit, sometimes by boat, and sometimes by climbing over the sharp-topped mountains between the numberless valleys. As you may suppose, because of the difficulty of distant traveling, news from afar does not travel quickly on the Island of Plenty.

But I did hear a few years earlier about some new people from the outside, people who had landed on the other side of our island, in the place we call Far Plenty. These new people were said to be very strange, and not so pleasant. They did some unusual praying at night, possibly to the moon. They were called the Alanok people, if the tales were truly reported. It was said that they had come from a very terrible island, an island full of war and hunger and catastrophe, and that they needed to find a new home where they could live in peace.

Now, on the Island of Plenty, we have two very important rules or laws that we must all always obey. The First Law of Plenty is that anybody can believe anything that they want to believe, or not believe anything they don’t want to believe, and that is okay, because all ideas are equal on the Island of Plenty. The Second Law of Plenty is that if you give kindness and plenty to other people, they should always give kindness and plenty to you in return. After all, it is the Island of Plenty, and the bounty should be shared. Why not? There is plenty for all. These Laws came from our distant ancestors, who once suffered wars and hunger, until they learned the Two Laws. Then, the Island of Plenty also became the island of peace and contentment.

So it is understandable that when the Alanok people escaped from a terrible place and first came to Far Plenty, that they should be warmly welcomed. The Alanoks had severe needs, and the people of Far Plenty possessed a great bounty to share with them. But, according to the rare visitors to our valleys, the Alanoks were rather strange, and unpleasant, and did something odd at night when the moon had risen.

That was all I knew about them, until the day came when a man about my age, with a very weak and sickly wife and a young daughter, climbed down the steep cliffs and crawled into our village almost at the point of perishing. His name was Napok, which means Hawk in your tongue, and he had the most incredible tale to tell. He had lived all of his life on the other side of Middle Plenty, in a valley almost as distant as Far Plenty. Napok and his wife and daughter had been driven out of his valley by the Alienorks, as he called the Alanoks, barely escaping, most of his extended clan and family being wiped out.

This was a most alarming story. The Council of the Wise met at the Council Bluff by the sea to discuss the matter. Was Napok crazy-in-the-head insane? Was his presence here a danger to us? His tale was completely unbelievable. All of the tribes and clans of the Island of Plenty had learned to live in harmony many generations before. This was accepted and understood by everyone as the normal condition of all people. That the Alanok visitors to Far Plenty could be so dangerous and violently aggressive was simply implausible. Clearly, Napok must be insane. Perhaps climbing over all the steep ridges and down the even steeper cliffs for many weeks had driven him mad.

It was decided that Napok and his wife and daughter could live with us in the middle valley of Near Plenty, but only if he stopped his bizarre public rantings about the Alanoks, given that his speeches of warning to passers-by were extremely disturbing, and upset everybody, especially the children. This demand was put to Napok, and with some reluctance he agreed to our conditions—no more crazy talk about the Alanoks, or the Alienorks as he spoke their name. His family was given the hut that belonged to an old widow before she died. It turned out that Napok was quite good at making useful items from bark and vines, and soon we all had very nice foot coverings, that were especially useful for walking on shallow reefs and sharp rocks. Except for the occasional paranoid and conspiratorial whisper about the Alanoks, Napok was a fine addition to the people of Near Plenty. His wife was weak and frail, but his daughter, Nona, was pretty and popular with our young men. Some of them were courting her, hoping to be paired with her when she came of age, which would make Napok and his family a full part of the people of Near Plenty.

A few years after Napok joined us, another stranger, alone, climbed down the cliffs into the middle valley of Near Plenty. He was an old man with white hair and a white beard, but he was very fit and full of vigor for his age. His name was Amok, and he was the first person that I had ever met of the Alanoks, as I still called them until then. He said he was an elder and a teacher of the Alienork people, pronouncing their name just as Napok had pronounced it. Alienork was a very strange word to our ears, and not easy for us to speak. It had no meaning in our tongue. Alienork only meant Alienork. The bearded elder corrected me until I spoke it to his satisfaction: ah-lee-en-ork, but said quickly. Amok didn’t look so different from my people on the Island of Plenty, and he was rather pleasant and seemed as intelligent as any. He had certainly learned the tongue of the Island of Plenty very well. He told me that The Alienork Way was the way of peace, and that we would surely live together in harmony on the Island of Plenty.
Amok asked if he could stay with us near our village, and in return, he could give lessons in The Alienork Ways, and the Alienork tongue as well. He said it would be wise for us to learn these things. A volunteer teacher in the valley was always welcome. He could also teach anyone who wanted to learn about Far Plenty and other distant islands. At his request, we offered him an empty private hut. Amok was mostly quiet, didn’t eat much and caused no problems, but he did have a few peculiar requirements. First, he said that he needed a little more land for his hut, because he was required by his beliefs to pray to the moon anytime it was up at night. And to do this correctly, he needed to make a little ring or circle of stones around his hut, and this ring needed more space than he had been offered.

And also, he declared, it was the sacred custom of Alienork men to always wear a ceremonial dagger or sword on their belt, as a symbol of their manhood. The dagger of Amok was thin and as long as my arm from elbow to fingertip. He kept it tucked beneath a red sash around his waist. Unlike my people, who always wear the light wraparound pareo cloth, which also dries quickly, Amok wore a thicker robe of black cloth. He explained that the ring of stones and the sword and the moon singing and the black robe were all part of The Alienork Way. And, as Amok reminded me, because of our First Law of Plenty, we had to allow him to believe as he chose, which was, of course, completely true.

The Council of the Wise met and we decided that if Amok would agree to always obey the Two Laws, we would also comply with his wishes concerning his private beliefs. He readily agreed to this, so we let him take a fallow field over past the other bluff, and a group of our men even moved his hut over there for him. He then placed a circle of stones around his new dwelling, the circle being about five paces across from side to side. And sure enough, after nightfall and when the moon came out, he walked around the inside of his ring and he prayed a strange song like a lamentation. Otherwise, Amok was a normal man in most every respect, very wise and learned and well-traveled, and a good speaker of our tongue. He quickly attracted a following of our younger men, who trailed behind him as he walked along the beaches and he spoke of his Alienork ways, and as well he taught them the Alienork tongue.

Now, our prior visitor and long-time guest Napok was very upset by the introduction of the Alienork elder into our midst, and he came to me when I was alone at the lower fishing pool. He warned me not to trust Amok. He told me that everything that Amok said was a lie. It was very disturbing to me that Napok was acting crazy and paranoid again, and I considered if I should notify the Council of the Wise about the degrading condition of his mind. But on the other side, I had to admit that at least Napok had been correct about the ring of stones, and the moon singing. And the black robe. And the sword.

After a moon had passed, one morning when the village arose, we could see that there were now three huts where there had been only one hut for Amok, and the ring of stones was now about twenty paces across. A few of us villagers walked over out of curiosity, and we saw that Amok was now joined by two young men and a boy almost a man. Each of them wore a black robe, each with a sword longer than Amok’s in their red sash. I said to Amok, Grandfather, who are these people? And Amok said they are my nephews. They have escaped from Far Plenty, where there is currently much war and hunger. They need to have a new place to live in peace and safety. Do you see, Naku, that we have already erected more huts, so these newcomers will be no trouble at all? And Amok reminded us that the Second Law of Plenty demanded that we must extend our full bounty to these needy newcomers, and that they were very hungry after their long and difficult travels.

We began to walk over to inspect the new huts, to see how they were built in the Alienork method, but when our feet touched the ring of stones, the three new Alienork men became filled with sudden anger, and began to pick up other stones, and threw them at us! It even seemed as if they were aiming at us, intending to cause us actual pain and harm! We all retreated back into the trees. Finally, Amok came out of the circle of stones, his arms extended in apology. The new boys had seen much war and privation. They were a little jumpy. But, he said, we must understand that it is a part of The Alienork Way that we people of the Island of Plenty, whom Amok said the Alienorks call Notorks, should never, under any circumstance, ever enter inside of the circles of stones without a direct invitation. He said this in a pleasant way, but he made it very clear to us that there would be serious trouble if any Notorks intruded within the sacred Alienork stone rings uninvited.

On the other hand, Amok’s three nephews would walk freely through our village and our market, and even down by our pools for fishing and our pools for swimming, and when they walked among us, they spoke in their Alienork tongue in ways that suggested that they were insulting us. They also clucked their cheeks and wiggled their extended tongues at our women and girls in a quite disgusting manner. Some of our Near Plenty men became angry, and threatened the Alienork youths with violence if they did not stop their bad behavior, but the three drew their swords in a menacing manner at the approaching group of Near Plenty men, and both sides withdrew cautiously, the Alienorks throwing presumed curses and insults at our men in their tongue as they departed.

The Council met again, and I volunteered to speak to Amok about their bad behavior. I went to their circle of stones and called to him, and he came out to the ring. Opening his arms widely in welcome, he stated that I was bid to come inside as a special and valued guest and dear friend of a considerable time now. We walked into his hut, and that was the first time that I saw that there were not only the three new male Alienorks, but also about a hand of females, and that was only counting the females in Amok’s hut! These new females had never been seen outside of any hut, and not only that, but each one of them was squatting on the ground, completely covered by a black blanket extending to the ground! I only knew they were females by low keening wails that they made as they rocked front to back.

I exclaimed to Amok, what is the matter with your women, are they sick with a disease? I recoiled in alarm. Amok gently took my arm and led me to them. No, he said, they are not sick, but it is The Alienork Way that our women should stay inside our huts, and must always be covered in a black blanket when Notork men are near. Just as Notorks must never cross the sacred circle of stones without an invitation, Notorks must never see the uncovered Alienork women. This is The Alienork Way, he said.

Amok reminded me of our First Law about freedom of beliefs, and said that these beliefs are all part of The Alienork Way, and so they must be respected. I pondered this, and looked at the crouching women under their black blankets. I asked of Amok, said I, Elder, what of the freedom of belief of these women? Do they too agree with The Alienork Way? Amok crossed the small room, spoke sharply in the Alienork tongue, and nudged one of the women with his foot. All of the women in unison began to sing a strange high-pitched La-la-la-la-la song, until Amok nudged the nearest again, and they all stopped as one. You see, said Amok, this is how our women express that they are very happy. They prefer to live under their black blankets, inside of our huts, where they can feel safe from any harm. It is The Alienork Way, and you must respect our beliefs. I know, I agreed. It was our First Law again. All beliefs are equal.

I then said to Amok, your young men are causing great difficulties in the village and the market and at the pools. They are upsetting our women and they are angering our men. A big fight almost happened today, and it could have lead to the unimaginable: actual physical violence. Physical violence, which is the demon’s burning hell compared to the heaven of the Island of Plenty. Physical violence, which is the opposite and the antithesis of the Two Sacred Laws of Plenty.

Amok agreed with me that it was a most lamentable situation. But it was The Alienork Way that if Alienork men are around any women who are not covered by a black blanket, then the Alienork men may make such use of the women as they should so desire at that moment. This is a very important part of The Alienork Way, declared Amok with finality. If the Notork women and girls do not wish to experience the overtures of our healthy and strong young Alienork men, who are acting only according to nature, then they must indicate this feeling by wearing the black blanket, and by staying inside of the huts of their men.

I said to Amok that this is certain to cause a lot of problems, and that I am only a spokesman, and that the Council of the Wise will never agree to this. We decided to meet again, after the next meeting of the Council. Amok escorted me to the circle of rings, and wished me well. The Council met several times more, but no decision could be made. Napok also sought me out, and warned me in the strongest terms not to make any agreement with Amok, but to drive the Alienorks out of the middle valley of Near Plenty while we still could. He said that the Alienorks always lie, and that The Alienork Way is not peaceful, but the path of war and violence and slavery and death and conquest. I was beginning to suspect that Napok had been more right than wrong about the Alienorks, back when he first came to live with us with his wife and daughter. Indeed, our situation had changed much for the worse since the appearance of Amok.

In that time before the final decision of the Council, and on the first morning after the new sliver moon makes its brief appearance at nightfall, I went over to meet Amok, to ask a point of clarification for another member of the council. I also wanted to ask him if he was indeed telling me the truth when he had told me that The Alienork Way means peace. He met me at the edge of the circle of stones, but he did not invite me across it. I was astounded to see that the circle had been enlarged to at least one hundred paces across, and there were now more than two hands of huts, and many more men and older boys, all of them with swords in their sashes! Not only that, but I recognized two young Notork men among them, men who were now wearing the black robes, the red sashes, and the sharp metal swords of the Alienorks!

A crowd of these young men sauntered up behind Amok, and began saying words in the Alienork tongue that made me feel very much afraid for my safety. Some half-pulled their swords from their sashes, and others made the gesture of slitting their throats with a drawn finger, then pointing their fingers at me. One of the boys cried out, Notork—monkey-dung! These were the first words in our tongue that I had heard spoken by any of the Alienorks except for their elder, Amok. Obviously, Amok or one of the Notork men now dressed in the Alienork manner had taught them the insulting words. The other boys took up the chant: Notork—monkey-dung! Notork—monkey-dung! Notork—monkey-dung!

I was in a state of bewilderment and turmoil, and I forgot the questions that I had come to ask of Amok. He said that now, because there were many more Alienorks who had escaped from the wars and hunger in Far Plenty, they had need of many more huts, and their circle of stones now extended even into our village, and inside their sacred circle of stones, our own villagers must vacate their huts, or take them off, but either way, there must not be even one single Notork living within the circle of stones before the sun went down!

I said, Uncle, Elder, how can this be? You yourself said that The Alienork Way is the way of peace! Amok said to me that if we obeyed The Alienork Way, we would be able to live in peace. I said that our people did not want to live in The Alienork Way, that our people preferred to wear the cool and convenient wraparound pareo which dried quickly, and our women did not want to wear the black blankets and stay inside their huts. He said, then we will not have peace. Only if the Notorks comply with The Alienork Way, can there be peace. We Notorks must also live according to The Alienork Way, there is no choice in the matter. That is what Amok said.

Then I was burning with angry rage, but the newly-arrived Alienork men behind Amok were half drawing their swords, so I had to keep a calm face. From behind them the boys began to pelt me with pebbles and small stones, and they all chanted Notork—monkey-dung! at me, but I did not run away, instead I walked as normally as I could back to our village, pebbles striking my back and even my head, while inside my heart was filled with terror. Indeed, as Amok stated, their circle of stones now included the Alienork side of our very own village, snaking its way around a hand of our huts!

Napok came to see me urgently. He said that I must assemble all of our men and somehow produce or create or invent new weapons. We had no metal for swords, only sharpened bamboo stakes could be made quickly enough, but he said that we should none-the-less make them, and prepare to violently battle the Alienorks now, no matter the cost! What a shocking thing to say! Napok was clearly losing his mind again, due to the sudden stress of dealing with increasing numbers of our new Alienork visitors.
I immediately took the issue to the Council of the Wise. After much discussion, it was decided that the Alienorks could retain the newly enlarged circle for their own territory, but that they must not enlarge it again, not by even one more pace, ever! And I was to encourage the Alienork men, by way of Amok, not to harass our women anymore, and in return, our women would wear a doubled pareo, high to the neck and down to their knees. (Our women very strongly did not want to stay in their huts under black blankets.) The Council of the Wise decided that we would meet The Alienork Way in the middle, and make a compromise. And that we would not sharpen any bamboo spears, because if the Alienorks found out, this provocation would only cause them even further anger.

After nightfall, all of the Alienork men did their wildest moon dancing yet, twirling and whirling and howling like demons. This lasted most of the night, until the moon fell near morning. Some of the villagers nearest the circle of stones, who had gone over to watch, reported that the Alienorks threw large rocks at them, and indicated that Notorks must never witness the moon dance, but rather that we Notorks must stay inside our huts during their moon dancing times. This was also part of The Alienork Way. The witnesses of their moon dance were told this in our own tongue, by our own Island of Plenty men, the ones who had followed Amok, and who had joined the Alienorks. Of course, under the First Law, this was their belief, and their choice, and had to be respected.

The next morning we arose in the village at the normal time, even if our sleep had been disturbed during most of the night by the wild dancing and howling of the Alienork men and the shrill Lalalala-ing of the Alienork women. But after dawn when the normal morning noises of village life began, we all at once heard angry Alienork shouting, and rocks began raining down on our village! Our many visitors cried out that we must not disturb the sacred sleep of the Alienorks, after their long night spent performing their sacred moon rituals! It was The Alienork Way, and under the First Law, we had to respect their beliefs! And under the Second Law, we had to extend them full bounty, and since they now had many new Alienorks among them who had fled the wars and hunger in Far Plenty, we needed to bring double the amount of fruit and vegetables and fish that we had been bringing. And while the boys chanted out Notork—monkey-dung! the older men shouted that we must continue to obey our two laws of belief and bounty, and nothing further would be said on the matter!

I made my way nearly to the edge of their ring where it was close to some trees, calling out, Amok, tell them to please stop throwing the rocks! This is not right! We are sorry for waking you up, it is a misunderstanding! In a moment the rocks ceased raining down. While I was there, Napok accosted me from a bit further back in the trees, beseeching me, begging me, to assemble the men, sharpen many bamboo spears, and prepare to fight them all, no matter what the cost!

So back to the reassembled Council of the Wise I went. We met very quietly, whispering and tip-toeing from hut to hut and over to the bluff by the sea. The extra fruit and vegetables would be no problem, but double the fish would be more difficult to acquire in a short time. It was decided that just in case, in secret, a separate group of men should be set to making and hiding spears from sharpened bamboo poles, as Napok had been suggesting. As the sun went down, we all feared the events of the coming night with increasing dread and terror.

The wild moon howling of the Alienork men and the Lalalala-ing of their women set our hearts to thumping. Napok came to my hut, terrified and furious at the same time. He said that it had been reported that his daughter Nona had been taken and carried off, screaming, by two hands of Alienork men, while simply walking from the upper pool to the market. He said that we must prepare to attack the sleeping Alienorks the next morning soon after dawn. We could slip inside their ring of stones and kill many of them with our spears even while they slept. Then we could seize their swords and have a hope to win the battle and wipe them all out. And then he could find his daughter, and bring her home.

I told Napok that I would meet the Council very early the next morning, but a dawn attack was impossible. It was not a decision I could take on my own part. I said that I was very sorry about his missing daughter, but nothing could be done about finding her, not while the Alienorks were in their wild moon-dance frenzy. When the moon finally set, the Alienorks fell silent. The next morning when I awoke, rising very quietly as the Alienorks demanded, I went outside to the center of the village to draw a gourd of water, and I almost fainted. The headless and naked body of Napok was erected in a sitting position against our ceremonial platform, legs out. His bloody head was placed on the ground between his bare legs, facing me!
When the people of the village, and soon all the people of Near Plenty heard of this unbelievable atrocity, and saw the body of Napok which we quickly covered, the Council met at the bluff in front of the entire gathered population. It was difficult to keep the discussion at a quiet level, so as not to awaken the now-sleeping Alienorks. It was decided that when they awoke, I must go to Amok to discuss this atrocity, and what it would mean for our two peoples. I was shaking in fear, waiting at the edge of their enlarged circle of stones for them to awaken at their normal hour in the late afternoon, but it was my duty.

Amok saw me and came to the edge of the circle of stones, standing on the inside across them from me. Perhaps he saw the fear in my face, but now he spoke in haughty disregard. He said to me I don’t think we will have any more problems, because now we Notorks all understood The Alienork Way. Our Notork women must wear the black blankets and stay in their huts, and our Notork men must stop and bend low and look down at the earth when an Alienork man passes by. A Notork must never strike an Alienork, even if an Alienork man or a group of Alienork men are enjoying an hour or two of pleasure with a Notork girl or boy or woman. And if any Notork man ever strikes any Alienork, for any reason at all, a hand of Notork girls will be taken, and a hand of Notork men will be beheaded in the manner of Napok. And there must be no more talk of sharpened spears, as a spy from within the very Council had already reported to Amok before Napok had been killed.

I was shaking in fear and disbelief, but still I asked him if he had been lying to me when he first came into our valley, and told me that The Alienork Way is the way of peace. He said it was not a lie, because a lie only had meaning between Alienork men. To lie to Notorks about The Alienork Way was also a part of The Alienork Way, and thus, it was not a lie at all, but an even greater form of truth.

I suddenly remembered pretty Nona, the daughter of Napok, and asked after her. Amok said that she had joined the Alienorks, and therefore, I was not allowed to see her or to speak to her ever again. The men and the boys did not awaken this time with Amok, to draw their swords or throw pebbles at me or curse me as a Notork monkey-dung. Amok said that it was a very good thing that we Notorks had finally learned The Alienork Way, and that he was finally hopeful that our two peoples could now live side-by-side in peace. He also mentioned that we needed to provide them with much more food to keep up with their growing numbers, especially fish, in accordance with our Second Law of Bounty, which would be retained in full effect.
Instead of gathering the Council to report Amok’s new demands, I took my wife and my two small sons to the beach behind the higher rocky point, where we kept our village sailing canoes, because they were protected there from the waves. They are the boats that we used for fishing on the deep waters, and also for going out to meet the occasional even larger boats visiting Near Plenty from far away. We took gourds of water and baskets of food, and we set out downwind. After sailing two hands of days, we came to this island, your island, Happy Island as you so truthfully call it. And as you have seen, my two sons were in a condition near death when we arrived, and my wife has not spoken a word for a hand of days even before we landed.
I am happy that our tongues are not so different, and also that you are very kind and generous people here. And now I am asking your people, your Council of the Wise, your Assembly of Elders of Happy Island, if my family can please stay here, to live in peace, while my sons grow stronger, and my wife returns to her mind. When my sons grow to be young men, I will teach them to be warriors, and someday we will go together back to the Island of Plenty, to fight against the invading Alienorks, if that becomes possible.
But in the meantime, I am also before you to warn you, in the direst terms, that you must not, under any circumstances, never, ever, allow even a single Alienork to place his feet upon your beautiful Happy Island. For if even one single Alienork comes to your island as a visitor, and is allowed to have a hut within a circle of stones, and to dance and to howl to the moon, and to carry a sword about him on a sash, with each passing moon there will be more Alienorks upon your island, and they will badly mistreat your women and your girls, and they will force you to submit to The Alienork Way, and to serve them, even though you are not Alienorks like them.
Thank you for your consideration. Now, I will retire to the hut you have kindly provided to my family, to await your decisions.

Happy Island

The next day, the decision was announced by the Assembly of Elders after much discussion and reflection. The visitor Naku had stated that he had come from a place called the Island of Plenty, and he had then proceeded to spin a most bizarre, terrifying and even disgusting tale about a group of people called the Alienorks, whom he said behaved more like demons from hell than like any of the people who inhabited Happy Island. All of the members of the Assembly of Elders agreed, unanimously, that the Alienorks could not possibly exist, except as a twisted and damaged part of the visitor Naku’s mind, probably due to the privations of the long and difficult sea voyage he had endured to reach Happy Island.

Therefore, it was decided that Naku could remain in our village, but only if he obeyed the One Law of Happy Island, that only happy thoughts and ideas may be expressed in public. He must refrain from blurting his darkly provocative and frankly insane imaginings among our good people, lest he upset the successful formulation for maintaining social peace that had been learned over many generations, ever since the last wars among our distant ancestors.

It turned out that Naku knew a very useful way to make foot coverings from bark and vines, much better for walking on the sharp rocky shore than our old coverings of dried sea kelp. He soon became a very useful member of our Happy Island society, except for a few dark asides randomly whispered about his imagined demons, the Alienorks. His frail wife passed away. His sons grew quickly, running and swimming with the other youth of our valley, popular among the boys and the girls alike. And everybody was glad for the better foot coverings that Naku taught us to make for ourselves. Otherwise, life went on as it always had.

Until, that is, the day that a small sailing canoe came into view, with a single man steering it. He was an older man with white hair and a white beard, it became apparent as his boat drew closer. His sail had been spotted near the horizon, so the Assembly of Elders was able to go down to the beach to greet him, even before his canoe touched the sand. The old man on the boat did not look much different than the gathered elders of Happy Island, except for his white hair and beard, and the unusual black robe that he wore. As he stepped ashore from his beached canoe he was smiling, his arms and hands open in a symbol of peace that invited a warm welcome.
But then suddenly from behind I was roughly shoved aside, knocking me to the sand, as Naku, our off-island guest of many years, dashed at full running speed toward the old man while screaming Amok! Amok! Amok!

And as we all watched in complete horror, Naku plunged a sharpened bamboo spear straight into the heart of the visitor, driving him back over into his sailing canoe! Naku, still in a mad frenzy, screaming about Amok and the Alienorks, pushed the canoe back through the small waves, turned it around, jumped aboard and filled the sail, trimming it flat and sailing around the second rocky point and out of our view. We were in such a state of shock that almost none of us dared to speak of the matter. There was not a single happy way to describe the terrible incident, so we did not, in accordance with our One Law of Happy Island.

A few days later, Naku returned to our village afoot, and he was soon pulled and pushed by several of our strongest men before the quickly gathered Assembly of Elders. Naku freely admitted that he had killed the old man, and that he was glad that he had done it, and that he would do it again if another Alienork ever appeared on our shores. He said that only by his swift action had he saved us from a great disaster, a true calamity for the good people of Happy Island, and he begged us to believe that every single word that he had ever spoken of the Alienorks was true. He was even so bold as to suggest that we should actually reward him for his unprovoked and insane brutal murder of a single, harmless, elderly visitor!

Our worst punishment was banishment from our valley on Happy Island. The Assembly of Elders decided that Naku must depart and climb the sharp ridges to the next valley, and then go quickly on to the next, and the next after, and that he should not tell any people that he met along the way anything about his paranoid and dangerous so-called “Alienork Way” conspiracy theories, which, after all, only existed in his severely damaged mind.

Matt Bracken
January, 2016

Infidel Rifle Temporary Custom Tattoos now available

– Get yours now!

There’s nothing like a tattoo to make a statement to the world about who you are. Some people choose rose tattoos, butterflies or other offerings from the world of nature to show how much they are in tune with their environment or how much they appreciate the beauty of the natural world.

But for the committed counter-jihad warrior, nothing says it better than a hefty piece of firepower with your message to the world in English and Arabic – the better to “strike terror into the hearts of your enemies” as the Koran says in Chapter 8:60.

Not that we would want to strike terror into the hearts of our enemies – oh no, perish the thought. But who hasn’t wanted, at one time or another, to let those who would destroy our Judaeo-Christian civilisation know that we are quietly watching and waiting – and to let them know that they will rue the day that they overstep the line once too often.

These custom temporary tattoos are 8.5cm x 3.8cm in size, and are designed to last up to a week, depending on where on your body you affix them.

No sniggering at the back, please.

They are designed to be affixed to your shoulder, upper arm or forearm, or indeed on another other area on your body that you think may be advantageously exposed in order to make sure that your message is getting across. It takes a mere 10-15 seconds to apply the tattoo, and that’s it.

They are waterproof and made from the highest quality materials to ensure a pin-sharp image and for a longer-lasting effect.

Should you want to remove the tattoo from your skin before the week is up, a simple application of baby oil on a swab will remove it completely.

These tattoos are for sale on the Counter-Jihad Warrior website for £5.00 each or £20.00 per sheet of five tattoos, including P&P for deliveries within the UK. (Customers outside the UK please enquire prior to ordering.)

As a special offer, and while stocks last, a sheet of five tattoos will be included free of charge with every order of a brand-new, author-signed copy of Mohammed’s Koran that is purchased directly from this web page (that is to say, via the PayPal Donate button for my Legal Defence Fund rather than through the eBay link.)

Just donate £59.95 via the PayPal Donate button, specify that you are ordering the MK book and a sheet of five tattoos will be automatically included with your order.) P&P free within the UK, overseas customers please add £15.00 for one copy of the book.

Be the first of your friends to set the trend! Break the ice at sophisticated dinner parties! Instantly become the centre of conversation down at your local mosque!

Get your Infidel Rifle tattoos now- while stocks last!

Tim Burton (tim@counterjihadwarrior.com)





Mohammed’s Koran – reviewed by renowned Muslim apologist Julian Bond

  First Edition – buy it now

‘Mohammed’s Koran’ is arguably the most important and informative book on the ideology of Islam and it’s baleful effects on 21st century civilisation. As a result, it has been banned by most of the large distributors and retail outlets such as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones and Fortnum & Mason, all of whom have capitulated to political correctness and the threat of violence from activists on the Left of the political spectrum.

You can still buy First Edition copies, signed by both of the authors, here.

This pathetically biased and dishonest review was produced by Julian Bond, who was the former Director of the Christian Muslim Forum.

Author comments (in plain text) are interspersed with paragraphs from the review (which are in italics.)

‘Mohammed’s Koran’ is written by renowned Islamophobe and former leader of the English Defence League, Tommy Robinson alongside Peter McLoughlin.

This pathetic review exposes its bias by beginning with an ad hominem attack. There is no such thing as an “Islamophobe”, which implies someone with an irrational fear of Islam.

Only fools have no rational fear of Islam, when in 15 years this 5% of the UK have dwarfed the IRA terrorist attacks in the preceding 150 years. Maybe the terrorists haven’t killed or injured someone you know, however they have undoubtedly affected your life.

For example – being strip-searched at the airport and taking 3 hours to get on a plane, queuing to have your bag searched to enter a museum, or having to weave your way through the anti-Muslim barriers that have been put around government buildings and Christmas markets.

Every one of these is a reminder of how our lives are transformed by the efforts to thwart Muslims from killing us.

Besides this your daughters have good reason to fear Muslims, since in the UK this community has targeted schoolgirls for rape on “an industrial scale” for going on 40 years (see this newspaper article from 1975.)

Your freedom to criticise Islam has been taken away from you, and the same government who created this law guaranteed that it would not apply to Muslims (and this law was created to prevent anyone exposing the Muslim rape gangs).

If you don’t have reasons to fear Islam then you are either deluded or you live nowhere near Muslims. Back to Bond’s supposed refutation…

This isn’t really a book about the Qur’an and it isn’t going to help you understand it.

This book contains an entire Koran, annotated to highlight how violent and hateful is “the religion of peace”.

No other Koran in history has simultaneously explained both the chronology of the Koran and proven how this chronology (along with abrogation) expose that Islam is a religion of war.

The co-authors have massive chips on their shoulders, as they make clear in their book.

Ad hominem. We’ll take his refutation of our book apart almost sentence by sentence. Instead of engaging with the book he claims to be reviewing, you will notice he does the opposite – relying on claims that have nothing to do with the content of the book.

They tell us that those in positions of power are lying to us about Islam.

We prove that Islam is a religion of war, that this was known by the educated classes before 9/11, but that since 9/11 American Presidents and British Prime Ministers have lied and called Islam “a religion of peace” after every terrorist attack by Muslims. As we show, their lies have even become official propaganda taught in schools.

They have a huge expectation (or claim to have one) that the leaders of British society should be informing/educating us about Islam. This is the language of the playground and social media, it is very familiar to those of us who are peace activists with an online presence involved in both virtual and real peace campaigning. The authors are not interested in peace. Peace depends on being constructive.

Our book condemns violence, and points out that those who cannot grasp that are stupid. QED.

This book is offered as an antidote to the ‘lies’ being told about Islam by giving us fear and death instead. It is not a book which seeks to educate or create understanding, whatever the authors may claim, as is clear from the front cover. It has been designed to create as much fear, hate, distrust and confrontation as possible. I have not wanted to be seen with it while reading it, it looks like a racist, intolerant pamphlet. It is fair to say that there is no chance of misinterpreting the cover or of being in any doubt about what is inside. Unless you particularly wish to find out about conspiracy thinking, how not to read the Qur’an or to have some insight into the extremist outlook of the authors there is actually no need to read it.

The 600 five star reviews at Amazon’s UK and US websites show that 99% of verified readers disagree with this bigoted and baseless review.

The Arabic writing on a black background on the cover is the shahadah (‘testimony’), the Islamic declaration of faith – ‘There is none worthy of worship except God and Muhammad is God’s Messenger.’ It is not a declaration of war or a threat. However, a non-Muslim reader will look at it and see the flag of ISIS. Of course the authors never tell us the meaning of these Arabic words.

The reviewer is either stupid or bigoted – he apparently did not notice that the front cover is explained on the very first page of the book, the page that follows the title page. Where we placed this explanation is the STANDARD place in the publishing industry where the cover of a book is explained. And on that standard page we explain what the Arabic text on the front of the cover means. It is the same text emblazoned on the flags of the slavers/rapists who joined ISIS. This reviewer could not even engage with the cover of the book without revealing his blinkered view of the text.

This imagery is accompanied by a sword below which are drips of blood, another reference to ISIS. It is infantile.

The cover announces that it is about Muslims – ‘Why Muslims Kill for Islam’ – not ISIS, not extremists, not terrorists. It would be possible to engage positively with a book that had the title ‘Why Some Muslims Kill for Islam’ or ‘Why Extremist Muslims Kill for Islam.’ But no, this is about fearing for your safety from all Muslims.

Muslim terrorists read the same Koran as all other Muslims. When Bond can provide us with a clear criterion by which anyone can tell which Muslim will wake up tomorrow and become a killer, then there may be some way of distinguishing Jihadis from Muslims. Within the book we make it clear: the Jihadis are the advance guard. The quotation on the back of the book also makes this clear: the Koran commands the tactic that not all Muslims should go off and become killers at once. So in amongst those Muslims who are not killers are devout Muslims who are waiting for the right moment to strike. And they are following the commands of the Koran when they kill and when they are hesitating before killing.

It’s fine for anyone to write about the threat of extremism (though it is not the biggest threat to life in Western societies) and terrorism.

Yes, it is. Notice he offers no other greater threat. The head of MI5 says the terrorist threat in the UK is now higher than at any time in his 34 year career. France (with a Muslim population twice that of the UK) is in a state of emergency and has had the army on the streets for several years — and still France cannot stop all the Muslim terrorists.

This is not that book. Instead it is heading towards hostile confrontation, it has, without reservation, chosen the ‘Dark Side’.

Yet, for all that the authors are hostile, even more so are they ridiculous. In its aim to be deadly serious its nonsense is almost humorous. Thus in the Introduction (p.7) we read (in bold, this book has more bold text than any other book in the history of publishing!):

“If you are a Muslim, please put this book down. We do not wish you to become a killer because this book leads you to understand the doctrines and history of Islam more thoroughly.”

Clearly our book did not have ENOUGH bold text, since this fool who thinks himself capable of writing a refutation couldn’t even look for an explanation in the standard place where the cover art of a book is explained.

It makes me want to give this book to Muslim friends so that they can read it and say, ‘Sorry Tommy, we’re still peaceful and you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I have done so on a few occasions, one was so appalled that he took a photograph of it.

This suggestion is an enormous statement of ego, which blinds the authors to the hard fact that Muslims are overwhelmingly not killers because Islam is not telling them to kill.

This is an unfounded assertion that simply ignores the hundreds of pages of evidence and footnotes in Mohammed’s Koran.

Nowhere in his review does he actually address the content of our book, which explains exactly why Muslims kill for Islam: such killing is the way in which Islam offers them guaranteed access to Paradise (and without such access, they face an eternity in Hell being burned alive over and over and over for eternity).

It takes an extremist, whether ISIS or McLoughlin and Robinson, to tell them that they should be killing. We will not be taking lessons on Islam from you, Tommy. It is almost as if he wants a fight. But he is aware that Muslims will not choose to read his book.

Once again, the reviewer is either stupid or is lying. We denounce killing and yet he libels us by accusing us of being extremists like ISIS.

The Introduction to the book is sandwiched by two statements:

a) the book starts by saying we don’t want any Muslim to read this book because we don’t want our proof about Islam being a religion of war to inspire them to kill.

b) the end of the Introduction says we think that any doctrine is evil that commands its followers to kill those who do not follow that doctrine.

By this stage it should be clear to you that Bond is either a bigot or an incompetent reader.

The back cover gives more insight into the nature of the book stating that the ‘educated elite … have been actively deceiving the rest of the population [about Islam].’ The authors are not happy because they want to be the ones who are deceiving us about Islam.

Our book contains nearly 600 footnotes pointing to the scholars of Islam (Muslims and non-Muslims). Anyone who wishes to verify the claims we make in the book can follow the references in the footnotes.

Obviously, Bond has little grasp of the nature of scholarship and the practice of providing evidence to support claims. Hence, in what he considers to be a refutation of our book, he provides no evidence that the book is wrong.

They do, however, stop short of telling us where their ground-breaking (they describe it as ‘revolutionary’) work will lead once people are able to ‘expose the lies which paralyse the West’s discussions of Islam.’

We state that we want democratic change. The Grand Lie of “the religion of peace” is systematically used to deceive the public and to stop the public demanding such democratic change.

A recent survey by Chatham House showed that 47% of the UK wanted no more Muslim immigration. Yet from the 1250 politicians in the House of Commons and the House of Lords there is NOT ONE who represents the view of those 47% of voters.

In fact there has been a lot of discussion about Islam and this book is not adding anything but intolerance and ego to that discussion. It is even doubtful whether the authors understand the processes of education (or choose not to for propaganda purposes) when they mention teachers who ‘indoctrinate your children or force them to attend a mosque.’ Finally they do the work of ISIS for them by telling us that ‘Islam offers two options: submit or die.’ The authors are not to be trusted, they are extremists.

Another fallacy – the argument from authority. We don’t demand that anyone trusts us. Unlike the exponents of The Grand Lie we show hundreds of pages of evidence and footnotes to substantiate our claims. Only a dishonest review would fail to address the substance of the book. Does he find a single quote that is incorrect, or a single citation that is wrong? No. It is the works cited in those hundreds of footnotes which people can judge trustworthy or not.

Andrew Bostom (who has a similar outlook to McLoughlin and Robinson) describes them as ‘courageous’; they are not courageous, rather they are preachers of fear. As another example of this, they quote Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi – ‘Islam is the religion of fighting’ – we don’t take lessons on Islam from him either, why would we?

Thousands of Muslims residing in Europe DID take lessons from Baghdadi (unlike Bond, Baghdadi has a PhD in Koranic Studies from an Islamic University). If it hadn’t been for the schools, media, politicians, police exhorting Muslims not to join ISIS there would have been even more thousands of followers of “the religion of peace” who went off to practice their halal enslavement, rape and slaughter of Yazidis.

The book itself opens by stating that Islam is a religion of war and that this ‘truth’ has been suppressed, which is an incredible statement given the vocal anti-Islam message of the two authors over a number of years. They will have heard numerous others saying the same as them. Soon after we read that it is the ‘elite’ who marginalise what they describe as ‘explicit articulations of Islam’ by describing those who do so as Islamist extremists. The authors share the outlook of others that Islamism is not distinct from Islam.

We prove in the book that the concept of Islamism was invented in the West in the recent decades. We point out that even a moderate Muslim academic in the West who wrote an entire book on Islamism couldn’t come up with any definition that holds water. But you shouldn’t expect Bond to actually engage with the content of our book. Those Muslims who kill for Islam don’t describe themselves as “Islamists” but as “Muslims”.

The authors have no problem in telling us what Islam is, even though they stand against Islam. Of course this leads on to ‘your child’ being ‘deceived at school’ (p.8).

Again, we prove this by citing the evidence. But Bond deliberately chooses to ignore the evidence.

The authors want to tell us that Islam is monolithic (is anything?) and have no space to admit that Muslims don’t agree with everything that scholars in the past have written (or that the world has changed a lot since then, it is ISIS who want to take us back to the past).

It appears Bond didn’t get beyond page 10 of our 400 page book. Notice that even then he ignores our paragraphs in those first few pages where we point out that, in the years immediately after 9/11 while the families of the dead were still grieving, moderate Muslims in the UK (converts who have published many previous books on Islam) spent huge amounts of effort translating and publishing the tafsir of Qurtubi.

This book by the scholar Qurtubi tells Muslims that the Koran’s commands to kill the unbelievers are eternal and they include the right to kill non-Muslims who have DONE NOTHING to harm Muslims. If Bond was an honest reviewer he would have engaged with this problem. Instead, he ignores it, even though it is all proven in the first few pages of our book.

Yes, they can be wrong and may easily depart from the actual meaning of the Qur’an, paralleling what happens in the Christian theological tradition. They then take to task Muslims who denounce atrocities and acts of terrorism as, for them, the views of ancient scholars outweigh contemporary public statements.

If we had the space to engage with the supposed denunciations of terrorism by Muslims, it would be easily provable that such denunciations are nearly always specious and/or qualified (e.g. condemning attacks on the “innocent”, when Islam only defines Muslims as “innocent”.)

Who knows why the authors cannot see this? Muslims are standing up against violent interpretations and don’t agree with all that scholars said in the past, even if they translate them.

No, they’re not. At the drop of a hat Muslims can get 10,000 of their people to protest outside Google’s offices in London (over a movie on YouTube about Mohammed). Where are the demonstrations in London of 10,000 Muslims protesting about Islamic terrorism? Nowhere to be seen.

McLoughlin and Robinson could engage with Islam constructively, as they are on the same side, but no. The ‘jihadis’ reward in Paradise is another important building block for the authors. Yet for the vast majority of Muslims who are actually following Islam it is a mark of extremism.

The authors want to take us back in time to the world of war of the Middle Ages with their appeal to the outmoded terms – Dar al-Harb (house, or land, of war) and Dar al-Islam (land of peace). As the world changes and democratic politics spreads terms like this cannot be mapped onto the world in the same way – Europe has been a House of Peace since the end of the second world war, while there is much war in the Middle East (though of course ‘peaceful’ nations have been good at exporting war overseas). And religion is behind neither of these, while politics is.

We cite mainstream experts from the end of the 20th century — such as Prof Bernard Lewis, Prof. Samuel Huntington, etc. — showing that Islam fundamentally sees the world in terms of a never-ending War against all that is not Islamic. Bond again wants to ignore all the expert opinion we cite in the book.

Contemporary Muslim assessments have described Western countries as more peaceful and more ‘Islamic’ than Muslim-majority nations. Anyone who approaches the Qur’an with the key of war and what they believe to be ‘jihad’ is on the wrong track, and the Qur’an even tells the reader this (a message the authors do not wish to hear, they would rather deal with Islam as the enemy).

The entire purpose of Mohammed’s Koran is to prove that apologists like Bond have no basis for their belief. Jihad is even known as the 6th pillar of Islam. And our book proves that for centuries before 9/11 the Islamic experts in the West emphasized the role of Jihad.

But, more importantly, for all that the authors (and others) see war at the heart of Islam, it is at the heart of their own outlook. They want to shape our attitudes by bringing war and hate into the conversation (because you don’t spread love by telling people that your neighbour’s religion wants your death) and it is easy to tell lies about Islam in our society.

We denounce killing, yet again he libels us and misrepresents what is in the book. Once again, Bond chooses to ignore the hundreds of quotations and citations in the book. He is either too stupid to review our book or is deliberately lying about the content.

In fact they had a great opportunity to engage with the Qur’an’s message of peace instead and promote that. It’s not easy to trust someone who accuses so many others of lying.

If the Koran had a message of peace we would not have a problem where 5% of the UK’s population produces thousands and thousands of Muslims who want to kill us. It is only “the religion of peace” which produces these thousands of terrorists.

Bond has no explanation for why these thousands of Muslims want to kill us. And he doesn’t want anyone to read our explanation, an explanation which is substantiated by hundreds of footnotes pointing to the works of experts.

In the face of over 30,000 Islamic terrorist attacks across the world since 9/11, Bond thinks they only way to engage with the Koran is to lie and pretend it is a message of peace.

Peter McLoughlin / Tommy Robinson

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 12 – And With One Mighty Bound He Was Free

 With one mighty bound…..

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 12 – And With One Mighty Bound He Was Free

The days following the visit from my three friends, Margita, Chris and Karen, were perhaps the hardest of all. I had no further visits scheduled, and although I had been advised by various prison officers that I was likely to be released in the near future – possibly as soon as Friday 08 June 2017 – there was no official confirmation of this.

For one thing, there was no black-tie evening event scheduled on the prison notice-board, although I checked several times each day for the message – “Hey Timothy, you have been a model prisoner, please RSVP to this invitation for a glitzy champagne party  on the wing prior to your release!”

And for another thing, none of the many nubile young female prison visitors, armed with their interminable questionnaires and checklists, had come to see me to check whether their – no doubt extensive – rehabilitation plans had met with my approval.

In a final act of desperation, I rubbed my electric kettle, uttered the magic words – “Abracadabra Alakazoom!” and summoned my Trip Advisor genie.

The Trip Advisor genie materialised in a gently swirling haze of mist with an aroma of sulphur – and the subtlest fragrant hint of Paco Rabanne.

“What the f**k do you want now?” said the genie, obviously none too impressed for having been aroused from his dream-like state.

I was somewhat taken aback. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like some clarification on when, if ever, I am likely to be released.”

The Trip Advisor genie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If I were you,” he said, “I would prepare for a life of eternal damnation and hellfire behind bars, perpetually tortured by satanic imps armed with infernally sharp pitchforks with which they will forever probe your nether regions. That way, if you ever do get released, it will seem like a blessing from on high.”

Then he vanished. “Thanks a lot,” I said to the empty space that he had occupied a moment before. “You’ve been a great comfort.”

As it happened, I needn’t have worried. The morning of Friday 08 June 2017 arrived, and I was woken as usual by my 06:30 alarm. I had showered and dressed, and having performed my habitual one-hour meditation routine by 07:45, I was awaiting the call to the medical hatch to receive my daily heart medication.

There was a series of clicks and the  cell door was unlocked. One of the prison officers poked his head around the door.  He threw in a couple of large clear polythene bags.”Get your stuff together, Burton,” he said, “you’re leaving in ten minutes.”

“What about my heart medication?”

“Oh yes. Jump to it then. Get your meds, get your stuff out of the cell and report to the staff room on the wing as soon as you can.”

I streaked up the stairs to the medical hatch with all the alacrity of Usain Bolt on steroids. The attractive nurse behind the hatch regarded me with some curiosity as she handed me my daily dose of heart medication.

“Why are you looking so cheerful?”

“I’m being released today.”

“Oh. Well, good luck then.”

“Thanks. I don’t suppose you would give me your mobile phone number with a view to a night of unbridled passion sometime in the not too dim and distant future? I am after all nothing but a poor victimised product of this dysfunctional society when all is said and done.”

The attractive nurse gave me a wistful yet meaningful smile.

“How very kind of you to think of me in that way,” she said, “now f**k off and die, and if I ever see you again, I’ll remove your nuts with a bacon-slicer, you miserable benighted piece of misbegotten humanity.”

“Oh, well, thanks anyway.” Never let it be said that I hold grudges against the female sex. As a rule, it is highly unlikely that you will ever win an argument against the devastating pronouncements of female rejection.

Pondering the whys and wherefores of female whims and the female psyche under such circumstances leads only to paranoia, schizophrenia, and potentially a lifetime of corrosive and unrelenting mental anxiety. Take it from one who knows these things.

I streaked back down the stairs to the wing and started to pack my things into the polythene bags.

It was then that I realised that I had accumulated an awful lot more over the past six weeks than I could fit into my two polythene bags. There were magazines and books galore, at least a month’s supply of tea, coffee and sugar, and two unopened packs of Alpen Original Muesli, together with over half a dozen apples and oranges.

There was also an unopened set of “prison greens” comprising an XL-size tracksuit and T-shirts.

Never let it be said that I am a hoarder.

I decided to leave it all for the next inmate. He would probably appreciate it.

With a last look around the cell, and bidding a mental farewell to my electric kettle and my expensively acquired TV aerial, I took a deep breath and made my way to the prison officers’ staff room.

Two prison officers escorted me to the reception area. I was given back my rucksack with my belongings, my mobile phone, my shoes, my shirts and my suit, which obviously hadn’t been washed or pressed in the intervening six weeks. I was led to a changing area and donned my shoes, my crumpled shirt and even more crumpled suit to face the outside world.

“I don’t suppose I could charge my mobile phone, could I? It seems to have gone flat.”

“Don’t push your luck, Burton. That cell still has your name on it. Here’s a shoulder bag for your belongings – courtesy of HMP Thameside.”

I took the hint and gathered my stuff together. The shoulder bag was surprisingly stylish, all things considered, in heavy duty black nylon with a resilient shoulder strap. I couldn’t have got better from M&S.

I was led to the cashier.

“Here we are, Burton. £42.40 from when we took you in, plus another £44.88 credit that we owe you from your stay. That’s £87.28,” and with that he counted out some notes and coins.

“And here’s a travel warrant to Birmingham. You’ll need to present yourself to the probation office in Birmingham no later than 3:00 PM today. Any later than that and you’ll be in breach of your Post-Sentence supervision  requirements and could be recalled to prison.”

WTF?? No sooner was I kicked out of HMP Thameside than I was on a race to make it to the Probation Office in Birmingham in less than six hours. What if the London Tube drivers decided to call an impromptu one-day strike?

More importantly, what if some selfish suicidal sonofabitch decided that there was no other way out than to place his neck on the 12:40 London Euston to Birmingham railway line? I would be in breach of my Post-Sentence supervision requirements before you could say “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here.”

Once again, as it happened, I needn’t have worried. My guardian angel was sitting on my shoulder and looking after me. As the London Transport Network took me to Euston Station and from there via the Virgin Rail Network to Birmingham New Street, I was able to present myself to the Birmingham Probation Office shortly before 3:00 pm.

I was greeted by an attractive young lady of Sikh extraction. “I hear you have been convicted of Religiously Aggravated Harassment,” she said, somewhat combatively – “well it may happen to interest you that I am a Sikh.”

I regarded her with equanimity. “I have been misrepresented,” I said. “I am not against Sikhs, far from it. I am not even against Muslims. I am against the ideology of Islam.”

She looked at her notes. “But it says here that you have been convicted of stalking prominent Muslim personalities, and what’s more, you have been unremorseful and unrepentant in your anti-Muslim activities.”

Stalking? This had in no way formed any part of the indictment and subsequent conviction against me. And as regards to anti-Muslim activities, I was in no way against Muslims, only against the ideology of Islam – an ideology that commanded antipathy toward non-Muslims and the subjugation of all those who refused to submit to that ideology.

“Let me have a look at that,” I said. Sure enough, the paperwork  specified “stalking.”

“That’s a mistake.” I said, “The indictment was for religiously aggravated harassment against a prominent Muslim. Stalking doesn’t come into it. Let me speak to your manager.”

She sniffed, disapprovingly. “Wait here.”

The manager, whose name was Steve, was an avuncular type who, it has to be said, was totally on board with my point of view, even if this was not shared with his subordinates, one of whom was a Barbie look-alike apparently fresh out of university.

Steve gestured to the Barbie look-alike for her to make the first move. She consulted her notes.

“Do you realise,” she said in a disapproving tone, “that the words in the emails that you sent to Fiyaz Mughal’s organisation (Tell Mama) could be construed as highly insulting and grossly offensive?”

“So what’s wrong with being offensive?” I said. “It is a highly subjective term and doesn’t cause any real or lasting harm to anyone, even to the person against whom it may be directed.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong with being offensive?” said Barbie. She looked like she was going to drop down dead from an apoplectic fit. “You can’t say that!”

Steve, the manager, raised his hand and stepped in. “Leave us for a moment,” he said, “Mr Burton and I have things to discuss.”

Barbie left the room. “I see where you are coming from,” said Steve, “but there are a lot of people here who would object to what you have to say.”

I reiterated my position – which was that Islam was an outdated, barbaric, misogynistic and intrusive seventh-century ideology that had no place in a modern 21st century Western civilisational construct. The presence of Islam, and the acceptance of it as “just another religion” and even as a “religion of peace” would progressively undermine the very foundations upon which Western civilisation was constructed, and eventually lead to the destruction of the very thing that our ancestors worked so hard to build.

Steve reflected for a moment.

“You are probably right,” he said, ” but it’s more than my job’s worth to agree with you in public. Take my advice. Go home and forget about it.”

So, dear reader, in the end I did one of those two things. I went home, to the welcoming arms of my family and to reflect upon the events of the previous months leading up to my unjust charge, prosecution, conviction and the eventual sentence of twelve weeks at Her Majesty’s Pleasure..

But of one thing you may be assured – I did not forget about it. I will fight against the Islamisation of my country for as long as there is breath in my body, and I would encourage every true Englishman and Englishwoman to do the same.

The future of our country is at stake, and our children and grandchildren will not forgive us if we shirk our obligations at this crucial moment in our history. This fight is not over.

Tim Burton

End of Chapter 12

Please donate – whatever you can – to the Tim Burton Legal Defence Fund

Help to overturn an unjust conviction and strike a blow for justice.


Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 11 – Visiting Time

  Visiting Time

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 11 – Visiting Time

Tuesday 30 May 2017 – For some weeks now I had been looking forward to the prospect of meeting someone from the outside, in the form of a process known in the prison as “Visiting Time.”

For those of you familiar with soap operas such as Coronation Street, East-Enders and Emmerdale, where characters are being banged up every other week, and subsequently visited with a never-ending procession of their loved ones at little or no notice, it might seem like an obvious and integral part of the humane and considerate prison environment in the UK.

However, in reality the process is fraught with bear pits and elephant traps, no doubt designed to bring home to all those involved that incarceration is not meant to be a walk in the park, and communications with loved ones on the outside of the prison should be only conducted with extreme difficulty.

It wasn’t all the fault of other people, as I was to find out. In order to initiate communication with people on the outside, it was necessary to employ a certain level of handwriting skills, in order just to send the most elementary of letters to prospective visitors on prison notepaper.

Although I had access to a computer terminal in my cell, there was no word processing software, no email software and no way of electronically communicating my thoughts to the outside world, so I would have to call on those very same handwriting skills, painstakingly perfected in the British educational system after years of being rapped over the knuckles with a wooden ruler by the formidable Mrs Anderson, head of English at my local primary school, St Norberts in Carshalton Beeches, Surrey.

What could possibly go wrong, I hear you say? I will tell you what could go wrong. I used to win prizes for my handwriting skills at school, but half a century later I would find that those handwriting skills had deserted me.

Half a century of conducting my communications via a typewriter and a computer keyboard had left me with all the calligraphic skills of a dyslexic chimpanzee.

A chimpanzee, furthermore, who having been tasked with writing the complete works of Shakespeare, along with an infinite number of other chimpanzees, had unfortunately found it all to be too much to cope with, and seeing no other way out, had overdosed on a combination of crack cocaine and methylated spirits.

I had received letters from several good friend and colleagues who had expressed a desire to come and visit me, and all I could do was to scrawl a missive on prison notepaper that looked as though a demented spider had decided to dip its feet in an old-style ink-pot, dance the Light Fantastic across my notepad and gracefully expire in a blob of noxious fluid  in the bottom right-hand corner, signing itself off as “Best regards xxx.”

I found this extremely disconcerting. As I said, I had won prizes at my school some fifty-odd years previously – at the time, I had invested in a plethora of Parker pens, numerous bottles of Indian ink and other writing implements – and with broad brush strokes, judiciously placed full stops, expertly located commas and quotation marks, I had swept the board with my calligraphic expertise.

Where had it all gone? I had no idea. The phrase “use it or lose it” came to mind, and I resolved to recover my handwriting skills in prison by writing “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” on innumerable sheets of notepaper every single day until I could at least write a coherent letter to someone on the outside.

In the meantime I had been fighting a battle with the prison authorities to have them accept some nominated names, addresses and telephone numbers for potential communication. This was a problem because I was not allowed to communicate directly with anyone from Liberty GB, and it was only with great difficulty that I was able to nominate some good friends of mine, who I will from now on refer to as Margita, Karen and Chris (although not necessarily in that order.)

These three fine people had attended my trial at Southwark Crown Court, and they had very kindly distributed the details of my trials and tribulations far and wide through the counter-jihad support network. Now, they had expressed a desire to come and visit me, and I had to pull out all the stops to make that happen.

I had to nominate the appropriate telephone numbers and have them approved – a process which took over a month – and once the approval came through, I had to set aside some of my weekly allowance to contact them via telephone and set up a meeting.

Every time you make a phone call from prison, it costs you a substantial sum which is deducted from your minuscule £15 weekly allowance, and setting up a meeting is a process fraught with difficulties which could have been derived from Dante’s seventh circle of Hell.

My potential visitors then had to submit a request to the prison for a visit, the prison administrators would let me know, and then I had to inform the prison administrators that I would agree to such a meeting taking place.

It sounds simple, but as I said, it takes a long time to arrange. Of course, time is something that most prisoners have a lot of in HMP Thameside.

That the one visit I had took place at all was something of a miracle. Nevertheless, the promised day arrived, and on the Tuesday before I was released, the visit from Chris, Margita and Karen took place.

For me, it was one of the best experiences of my life.

It was up there with my earliest childhood recollections – of a day in the park with my parents in the summer sunshine, the day I managed to ride my bicycle without falling off and the day I made the acquaintance of a large number of very attractive black and yellow winged insects whilst I was eating jam sandwiches and subsequently ended up at the local hospital A&E with multiple wasp stings. Good times.

“Oi, Burton, you’ve got visitors.”

Two prison officers handcuffed me and collected me from my cell. (Over the previous few weeks, everything involved in moving me from one place to another had been done in the presence of at least two prison officers. I was obviously a hardened criminal who – left to his own devices and with a series of mighty leaps and bounds – would stop at nothing to escape the clutches of the prison system.)

Having been securely handcuffed, I was led to the preparation area and instructed to don a vivid fluorescent purple and yellow vest over the prison greens that I had been wearing for the previous four or five weeks.

I have to say that the colours clashed more than I would have liked. I could think of more than one camp performance artist from the world of theatre who would have said something along the lines of – “Oh dear – That purple and yellow does NOT go with that green, darling.”

I don’t wish to be overly melodramatic, but I could see how that colour combination would produce nausea in someone of a delicate disposition.

From the preparation area, I was led to the visiting area. At that point my handcuffs were removed and I was made to sign in using a secure fingerprint recognition system. I made a mental note of the process that I would have to employ in the future if I were to make my escape (which would probably involve sawing off a prison officer’s finger and using it to fool the fingerprint recognition process.)

I’m only kidding. It’s surprisingly difficult in prison to obtain a saw that would be suitable. I would probably have to resort biting the finger off with my teeth. (You can see that I have thought this through.)

Strangely enough, I had been approached a few days previously by two members of SO-15 (the counter-terrorism police.) It had been the same routine (“Oi, Burton, you’ve got visitors.”) and I had been led through to the visiting area, having been prepped with the same fluorescent purple and yellow that passes for haute couture in the prison system, and the same fingerprint recognition process. (I was still using my own finger. I hadn’t as yet found a prison officer prepared to donate a finger in exchange for a packet of cornflakes and a month’s supply of toothpaste, which was all I had in the way of bargaining chips.)

At that time the two SO-15 police officers introduced themselves to me with a cheery “Don’t worry, we’re just here to conduct a random survey on how you are being treated at HMP Thameside.”

The hackles on my neck rose. No police officer conducts a “random survey.” Random surveys are the prerogative of organisations such as the statistical gatherers of information such as Pew and Mass Observation. The police only target people of specific interest.

“So how are you getting on?” said SO-15 counter-terrorism officer No. 1.

“I can’t complain,” I said, “but I can’t help but wonder how you selected me for your visit to one of Her Majesty’s Prisons. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

The officers looked at each other. “Actually we wanted to ask you about what you were planning to do once you had been released.” said SO-15 counter-terrorism officer No. 2. “You know, whether you had seen the error of your ways and were remorseful, or perhaps had decided to repent.”

Remorse and repentance might have been high up on their agenda, but it was not even on my radar. “You must be joking,” I said, ” I am going to be making speeches, writing articles and transmitting my thoughts concerning Islam and its deleterious effects around the globe on radio, TV, social media and You-Tube channels until the Grim Reaper knocks on my door and invites me to participate in some scythe-sharpening exercises.”

This was obviously not what they had wanted to hear. “But why would you persist in publicly expressing anti-Islamic views after having been locked up?” said SO-15 counter-terrorism officer No. 1, “and please call me Ray.” He gestured to his colleague.”This is Dave, by the way.”

Ray and Dave were in for a surprise.

For the next forty-five minutes I proceeded to explain (quoting chapter and verse from the Qu’ran) to Ray and Dave as to why the entire counter-terrorism narrative was flawed, and why they would never achieve any success while they clung to the view that Islam was at its core a “peaceful religion.” (instead of the reality of it being a genocidal totalitarian ideology with ambitions of global supremacy at the expense of all non-believers.)

I also explained (again quoting chapter and verse from the Qu’ran) that their media-inspired world-view where so-called “Islamist terrorists” were essentially twisting and misinterpreting the so-called “peaceful religion” to justify their violent attacks on non-believers – was likewise essentially flawed.

I told them in no uncertain terms that I felt that it was my duty to make every single non-believer aware of the dangers of allowing the ideology of Islam to occupy the public space in any capacity whatsoever – even if that awareness meant that some politically incorrect decisions would have to be taken by those in power to maintain and reinforce national security.

I spoke of the need to halt Moslem immigration and the building of new mosques, the need to monitor existing mosques, and the need to remove Moslems from positions of power in local and national government, the police, military, judiciary and educational infrastructure, primarily because of the divinely-commanded duty of every Moslem to promote Islam at the expense of the non-believer at every opportunity.

At the end of the forty-five minute interview there was a stunned silence from the SO-15 counter-terrorism officers. “You seem to know an awful lot more about Islam than all the other people – including Moslems – that we have talked to in recent months,” said Dave, “maybe we could talk to you again once you are on the outside in a couple of weeks?”

“Sure,” I said, “no problem.” But they never followed it up. They did telephone me a few weeks later to claim that they had been called away on a more pressing engagement  – would I mind very much if they postponed or cancelled their visit?

I could sympathise with the myriad priorities that the officers of SO-15 would have to deal with. Perhaps Anjem Choudary, locked away up the road in Belmarsh, urgently needed somebody to clip his toenails.

Or – perhaps – his wife, on the outside, urgently needed assistance with the collection of some heavy shopping from Harrods (the exclusive department store) on account of her having mislaid her burqa and being unable to leave the house.

Anyway, I digress.

On the day of the visit from my three friends, having been kitted out in the aforementioned purple and yellow vest, and having been signed in to the secure fingerprint recognition system, I was allocated a table number and was led to the seating area where my three visitors were waiting.

It seemed to me as if I had never met three more beautiful human beings in my entire life. When you have been incarcerated behind bars for almost six weeks then you really appreciate the company of people who share your worldview, and Karen, Chris and Margita were together and separately the epitome of human kindness.

And I’m not just saying that because they bought coffee for me – proper vending machine coffee too (supposedly meant for visitors only) and not the ersatz coffee supplied as standard for consumption by prisoners.

When I say this, I don’t wish to cause unnecessary offence to the no doubt highly respected purveyors of coffee granules to the prison population of the UK. And I suppose at the end of the day I should have been grateful – I could have been restricted to a bread and water diet with the odd tin of tuna thrown in. But if they could have chosen something that tasted a bit more like coffee and a bit less like second-hand grit from the bottom of a budgie cage, then I’m sure it would have been met with much appreciation.

I sipped at my vending-machine coffee. Nectar from the Gods would not have tasted any better. We talked about all the things leading up to my trial, the trial itself and my subsequent imprisonment. I tried to make light of it but I started to get quite emotional, which is something that doesn’t often happen to me.

I don’t remember everything that I said, but in the heat of the moment I do remember kissing each of my visitors on the cheek several times more than I should have under the circumstances.

This produced a variety of interesting responses.

Karen was a beautiful young lady with blue / grey eyes that looked straight into your soul. She had a flawless facial complexion that could have come straight from a Chanel cosmetic advertisement, and as she was being subjected to my unwarranted attentions, she blushed fetchingly. I loved it.

Chris was a retired insurance underwriter and a professional musician. He was a quiet and thoughtful man, as straight as a die and around the same age as myself, which probably explained why he spluttered profusely at my thoroughly inappropriate exhibition of tactile enthusiasm.

Margita (who was married to Chris) seemed to take it all in her stride. As a college teacher (and as another strikingly beautiful woman with a soft and sexy Eastern European accent) she was no doubt used to having to fend off the attentions of randy old reprobates like me.

I’m sure that under different circumstances, all three of them would have reported me for sexual harassment. I only had a week to go before my release date, but I remember that I was ecstatic that these three wonderful people had taken time out of their busy day to visit me.

You know who you are, and I will love you for always.

The visit ended, and I was escorted out of the visiting area, across the courtyard back to the Category C block, and from there to my cell. The door clicked shut behind me with an air of finality, and I was alone once again with my thoughts.

Tim Burton

End of Chapter 11

Please donate – whatever you can – to the Tim Burton Legal Defence Fund

Help to overturn an unjust conviction and strike a blow for justice.





Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 10 – A Mohammedan in the Nick

 A Mohammedan in the Nick

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 10 – A Mohammedan in the Nick

Thursday 25 May 2017 – I was settling in to my new life on the wing of Category C block in HMP Thameside. It was Thursday morning, and I had assumed my accustomed position in the communal area, hunched over a chess-board whilst drinking a lukewarm mug of tea – courtesy of the hot tap in my cell (in the absence of a dedicated desktop plug-in water heating device.)

The absence of such a device, (a.k.a. an electric kettle) while not exactly leaving me disgruntled, was leaving me far from being completely gruntled, and I had been debating with myself for a couple of days about whether or not to lodge a complaint with my Trip Advisor representative.

No doubt he would have told me that kettles occupied a similar position on the HMP Thameside scale of desirable accoutrements as co-axial TV leads, Tasmanian alligator feathers and the excrement of rocking-horses. I surmised that it was just one of those things I would have to put up with.

In the meantime I was simultaneously contemplating my next move against an opponent with all the charisma and chess-board skills of a village idiot on his day off. He had left his king exposed in a fool’s-mate position, a basic error that was about to cost him dearly.

All of a sudden, a Mohammedan hove into view from the other end of the communal area. I noticed that he seemed to be heading in my direction.

This particular Mohammedan looked as though he was trying extremely hard to win the “HMP Thameside Devout Mohammedan of the Year” award, and I felt that his appearance warranted further examination.

He was in the possession of a large bushy black beard reaching halfway down his chest, which made him look like a Pakistani version of Father Christmas, but without the red suit and the accompanying jovial ho-ho-ho disposition.

He was wearing a multi-coloured prayer cap which looked as though it had been made in a kaleidoscope factory by an over-zealous operative who had just been told that silver glitter was all the rage this year, and who had been instructed to spare no expense in the manufacturing process.

The final touch was a long khaki-coloured djellaba reaching down to his ankles – an ensemble which contrasted fetchingly with his olive-green fur-lined parka jacket and matching olive-green socks and fur-lined slippers.

Most tellingly, he also had the notorious terrorist instruction manual – in the form of a green and gold hard-backed Koran – tucked under his arm.

Yes, I thought, that was definitely a one hundred per cent stove-enamelled, copper-bottomed, dyed-in-the-wool Mohammedan without the shadow of a doubt.

He bore down on me with all the unnerving accuracy of an incoming Exocet missile zooming in on an unsuspecting squirrel. I braced myself for the worst. Just because someone sports a natty matching parka, socks and slippers combination, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t out to get you, and in prison it is a good idea to be on the alert and to prepare accordingly.

Never let it be said that life in prison makes you paranoid about such things.

“Hey Grand-Dad,” he said – which I had found was the standard greeting for anyone over the age of 60 in the prison – “My name is Rohani. Can you help me with my English language homework? I hear you’re good at this. We need to complete all the tasks before my personal liaison officer visits next week, insh’allah.”

Word of my proficiency in the assessment process while I had been in the Category B section of the prison was something that had obviously spread quickly. However, something about his opening statement intrigued me.

“Personal liaison officer?” I thought. How come I didn’t have a “personal liaison officer”? I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was one rule for some people and another rule for others in the prison system. It was almost as if there was a privileged group of inmates whose demands and needs took priority over the rest of the prison population.

Surely not, I hear you say. What group would that be, I wonder?

Now it would seem that “personal liaison officers” could be added to this ever-growing list. No wonder conversions to Islam in prison were on the rise. If it had not been for the beguiling attractions of the young ladies of the South East London Gospel Choir (who were currently playing a starring role in the overnight maintenance of my nocturnal fantasies) then I could easily see how a conversion to the satanic world of Islam might be worth a try.

Only kidding. I am not so easily persuaded. It would take far more than the prospect of my own Personal Liaison Officer for me to convert to a genocidal totalitarian ideology with global ambitions of supremacy.

Even the prospect of seventy-two virgins in Paradise wouldn’t be enough. I am sure that most Mohammedans don’t realise that seventy-two virgins imply the additional prospect of seventy-two potential mothers-in-law, ready to nag you for all eternity if you don’t keep the house tidy, make sure that the lawn is mowed regularly and the hedges are kept neatly trimmed.

     Islamic Paradise

However, the delights of Islam obviously do appeal to many prison inmates. For example, it is not unknown for self-declared Mohammedans to enjoy a raft of extra privileges in British prisons, such as halal meals, extra time out of one’s cell for communal prayer on a Friday, and even (in some of the more progressive prisons) toilets orientated to face away from Mecca on the grounds that if Mohammedans knowingly defecate while facing Mecca then it would be the first step on a slippery slope to eternal damnation.

The metaphor “slippery slope” is probably not the most tactful one to use in such a context, but I am sure that you know what I mean.

While such privileges are no doubt meant to assuage religious sensitivities, it only encourages the Mohammedan community to consider themselves as superior to the rest of us mere mortals. Unfortunately this ridiculous notion is reinforced by the teachings in Islamic texts – such as Koran 3:110 – where Mohammedans are informed that they are “the best of people.”

That would be laughable if it weren’t so tragic. Since when did the ideology of Islam produce people superior to any others on this planet, when even a casual glance at the statistics available reveals that in every country where the ideology of Mohammed holds sway, the inhabitants of that country are right at the bottom of virtually every measurable yardstick of success?

If the teachings of Koran 3:110 were not bad enough, another verse – Koran 98:6 –  informs Mohammedans that non-believers are “the worst of creatures.” Apologists for Islam frequently argue that this doesn’t apply to each and every non-believer, only to those who reject Islam, “even though they know it to be the one true religion” – which of course is nothing more than sophistry.

Sophistry, the use of clever but false arguments, with the specific intention of deceiving the unwary, are meat and drink to Mohammedans when it comes to defending Islam in front of non-believers. I know this from my own personal experiences leading up to the Birmingham Taqiyya Trial in April 2014. (See Chapter 6.)

All things considered, I was grateful that I had made the decision to keep the real reason for my detention to myself. A conviction for Religiously Aggravated Harassment might be somewhat complicated to explain to a devout Mohammedan, and I didn’t want to generate any unnecessary ill-feeling whilst confined inside the enclosed space of HMP Thameside.

I glanced down at the chess-board. The fool’s mate gambit would have to wait. I murmured my apologies to my opponent, and moved over to another table to sit opposite Rohani.

“So, you’re the Pigeon, eh?” said Rohani. “I have heard about you from my friends. You blow pigeons apart with a .44 Magnum, eh? Or was it a .50 Barrett? Like Dirty Harry, insh’allah. Maybe I should call you Dirty Harry.”

I wasn’t about to enlighten him concerning the limitations of my armoury. This was because my trusty .22 air rifle was nowhere near approaching the capabilities of a .44 Magnum or indeed a .50 Barrett (with its 2800 FPS muzzle velocity and effective range of over 2000 yards, it is obviously the ideal weapon for discouraging our feathered friends from nesting under the roof panels, and I had resolved to save up for one after I had been released.) “Oh yes,” I said nonchalantly, “no pigeon is safe from me and my .44 Magnum. Do you feel lucky, punk?”

I pointed my fingers at him and with my best Clint Eastwood impression, mimed the action of a hammer being pulled back on a .44 Magnum. It was obviously a good impression as far as impressions go.

Rohani regarded me impassively for a moment and then smiled broadly.

“Ha-ha! You and your famous British sense of humour! You and me are now good friends, yes? Now you can help me with this homework. I have to atone for my sins, insh’allah.”

Rohani’s homework was indeed an act of atonement. It comprised a series of questions relating to his offences of car-jacking a few months earlier. It was obviously designed to appeal to the conscience of a wrong-doer.

There was of course – implicit in this process – the premise within the prison homework questionnaire that the conscience of a Mohammedan was identical to the conscience of a non-believer. This is not necessarily true and is a frankly dangerous supposition which is, in my humble opinion,  at the root of many if not all the differences, fallacies and misapprehensions between  Mohammedans and non-believers. They simply do not think the same way as we do, which is – without a doubt – due to the teachings of the Koran and the Islamic Prophet Mohammed.

This was not something I was about to point out to Rohani at this time. In my experience, Mohammedans for the most part do not take kindly to points of view that may disagree with the Koran or indeed disagree with the views or the behaviour of the Islamic Prophet Mohammed, no matter how heinous such views and behaviour may be to those of us brought up with the honest and decent traditions of our Judaeo-Christian heritage.

I looked over Rohani’s homework and started to read out some questions.

Question 1 – “Describe how your victims must have felt when you attacked them in the street and stole their vehicle.”

Rohani: “Yeah, I suppose they might have been a bit upset. But then that’s infidels for you. Serves them right for having a posh motor though, innit. ”

Me: “No, Rohani, Moslem or not, they were more than likely extremely traumatised. It isn’t nice having your prized possessions taken away from you by a knife-wielding psychopath.”

Rohani: “Oh. Yes. Right. I suppose.”

Question 2 – “Describe how your family must have felt when you were arrested for your crimes.”

Rohani: “Yeah, well, they probably thought I was a chip off the old block. My dad was a senior commander in the Taliban, you know. He could shoot the eye out of a chicken at fifty paces. My mum was always telling him off about that. She needed those chickens for the eggs to sell at the market.”

Me: “No, Rohani, as Moslems living in the West, they would have been extremely ashamed that you had failed to live up to the high standards expected of a well-integrated law-abiding citizen in a civilised democracy.”

Rohani: “Oh. Yes. Right. I suppose.”

Question 3 – “Describe what you would do if you were faced with the same situation in the future.”

Rohani: “Yeah, well I would try harder not to get caught, wouldn’t I?”

Me: “No, Rohani, you would have seen the error of your ways and resolved to be a good citizen in the future by not stealing from other innocent law-abiding citizens, Moslems or not, and by making amends to your victims.”

Rohani: “Oh. Yes. Right. I suppose – I suppose we had better be writing this down. My personal liaison officer will want to see this. Please write it down for me. You want a Kit-Kat?” He held out a chocolate bar in front of me. He obviously felt that I was easily bribed.

I sighed inwardly. This was going to be hard work. I could see that he was expecting me to be his personal scribe. To be fair, Rohani’s handwriting and grasp of written English left something to be desired. Not to mention his moral compass.

“What did you do with these vehicles that you car-jacked?” I asked. “You obviously wouldn’t be able to keep them for any length of time.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Rohani. “My first cousin makes a good living churning out forged documents and cloned number plates – and my uncle has a chop shop in Bradford where you can get pretty much any car part that you might want.”

“Not only that,” he said, warming to his theme, “top-end Range Rovers and Jaguars fetch a fortune in the Middle East, where they are not so fussy about the paperwork. They are ever so easy to steal and disguise. I just change the plates and drive them to a container ship in Hull, where – ”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, “you have a relative who is a container ship captain. And another one who is a Customs Officer, perhaps?”

Rohani smiled at me, a big gap-toothed smile full of innocence. “I suppose some people might say that I shouldn’t have got involved, but it’s all part of the family business. In Islam, family is everything.”

He continued, “And it was great fun! So much fun! The expressions on the infidels’ faces when I held a knife to their throats and threatened to behead them!  And of course I only ever stole cars from infidels, which is the most important thing, insh’allah.”

He uttered the last words with some trepidation, and glanced behind him, as if half-expecting to see the archangel Gabriel himself standing there, a frown etched into his brow and his wings gently rustling in disapproval as he thumbed through a sheaf of paperwork relating to a dodgy Range Rover.

Or worse still, a Range Rover that had mistakenly been taken from an innocent Mohammedan – which would have been in dire contradiction, naturally, of the numerous edicts concerning Range Rovers and other top-end vehicles that had been handed down by Allah over the centuries and subsequently incorporated into the Koran.

I was reminded of yet another verse that never made it into the Koran, having allegedly been written down on a palm leaf and eaten by a goat in the seventh century:- “O ye who believe! Never steal a camel from another Moslem, because he is your brother. But verily, the camel of the infidel is yours to do with what you will. And one day that camel will have air conditioning, adjustable suspension and reclining seats, and you will be at ease while the infidel gnashes his teeth and walks upon the desert sands.”

Oh well, that’s OK then, I thought. That’s the most important thing. No Moslems had been harmed during the execution of these crimes. I could definitely see Rohani being a productive member of society when he was finally released. All things considered, I felt it was my civic duty to help him.

Not only that, but I felt that it was right to show some compassion. I could see that Rohani had been to Hull and back.

In any case, you never know when you might end up needing a particularly hard-to-come-by distributor cap for a Ferrari. Or more likely, a set of tasty alloy wheels and tyres and some furry dice to hang from the rear-view mirror of a souped-up Ford Fiesta. Last but not least, helping Rohani with answering the questions in his English Language homework wasn’t entirely without its compensations.

A day or so later, there was a knock on my cell door. It was association time and the cell doors had been unlocked a few moments previously. A familiar face appeared.

“You want a kettle?” said Rohani, looking around my cell and expertly assessing my electrical appliances – or lack thereof. “I can get you a kettle.”

Tim Burton

End of Chapter 10

Please donate – whatever you can – to the Tim Burton Legal Defence Fund

Help to overturn an unjust conviction and strike a blow for justice.


Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 9 – A New Wing for the Pigeon

   A New Wing for the Pigeon

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 9 – A New Wing for the Pigeon

Monday 22 May 2017 – A couple of days after my assessment in English Language, Mathematics and Computer Skills, I was approached by a prison officer as I was preparing for another exciting, fun-filled day on the wing. I have heard it said that being in prison is like being in a combat zone with the army – long periods of boredom punctuated by short bursts of terror.

It’s not a perfect analogy of course – for example, I hadn’t as yet been issued with my own sniper rifle, nor indeed had I yet been enrolled on a high explosives handling course, but I dare say that the Howard League for Penal Reform would be addressing these very issues as I write.

Maintaining prisoners’ morale is a high priority for the HLPR, and I am sure that a series of courses based on the correct handling of small arms, heavy machine guns and high explosives would have an overall positive effect on the mental well-being of most prisoners.

To be fair, the officers at HMP Thameside appeared to be working diligently to reduce the possibilities of boredom setting in, at least during “times of association” when prisoners were allowed out of their cells. My cell-mate John was in the prison gym and pumping iron, and I was halfway through a game of chess with another inmate in the communal area.

The prison officer said to me, “Get your stuff together. You’re moving.”

I thought for a moment. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked. I had got used to the prison routine and there didn’t seem to be any immediate threats to my well-being, but perhaps someone had complained that I was winning too many games of chess.

Was I likely to be thrown into solitary confinement with only bread to eat and water to drink until the end of my sentence? Or had someone at the RSPB – the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds – been pulling strings to have me transferred to a “Cat A” prison with the other pigeon murderers?

The nearest Category A prison was HMP Belmarsh, just up the road from where I was in HMP Thameside. It wasn’t all bad news, if that were to be the case. Maybe I could get the “Mad Mullah”- Anjem Choudary – to sign my autograph book. He was currently cooling his heels in Belmarsh, serving a five-and-a-half year sentence for glorifying terrorism. A signature from him in my autograph book would definitely earn me some brownie points at the next meeting of the Sutton Coldfield Wheel-Tappers and Shunters Club.

“We’re moving you to Cat C,” said the officer, “be ready in five minutes.” On hearing this, I was somewhat relieved. Category C was one step down in terms of serious crime and psychopathic behaviour from Category B, and while it was not exactly a five-star upgrade to my current circumstances, the chances were that it wouldn’t be any worse.

“Do you know why I’m being moved?” I asked.

“No idea. Orders.”

I was later to find out that Paul Weston, the chairman of Liberty GB, the organisation of which I had been Radio Officer, had written in no uncertain terms to the Governor of HMP Thameside, reminding him of his duty of care towards vulnerable prisoners such as myself.

By vulnerable, I don’t mean physically or mentally weak – many years of studying the Japanese martial art of Aikido had toughened me up to the point where I could probably handle any sort of one-on-one confrontation – but the risk of large numbers of Mohammedans ganging up on me if the true nature of my conviction were discovered had obviously given the Governor pause for thought.

It would not look good for public relations if I were to be harassed – not to mention brutally slaughtered, systematically dismembered and turned into kebab meat for the benefit of the local Mohammedan prison population.

Picture the scene. A gaggle of Mohammedan prisoners are sitting around a makeshift barbecue pit in the exercise area during a summer evening. Flies buzz around, quietly murmuring as the sun sinks below the horizon. A row of kebabs is being gently grilled, hissing and sputtering over the flames.

A guttural voice is heard, swelling amongst the sound of the insects as Arabic music plays in the background. “I must say, Abdul, the kebab meat is especially tender this evening. It has the texture of soft yet succulent lamb, or perhaps camel. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

“Oh yes, my friend, it is indeed especially tender this evening. Praise be to Allah, for he works in mysterious ways. Oh, look, there’s an eyeball. It seems to be regarding us with a somewhat reproachful expression.”

I scooped my belongings together into a large prison-issue polythene bag and was escorted out of the Category B prison block by two prison officers through an interminable series of imposing metal doors which were mysteriously unlocked as I approached and then locked again behind me.

Prison officers must spend years choreographing this seamless operation, although I never tested it to the point where they might be persuaded to unlock the main door leading to the outside of the prison. I thought that there would be little point pushing my luck at this stage in the process.

However, I made a mental note to recommend the officers as candidates for the forthcoming series of Strictly Come Door-Unlocking, an innovative TV entertainment series that I had invented during idle hours of reverie, and which I intended to host once I was released. In my mind’s eye, it would have all the attributes of a hit TV show, a cross between Strictly Come Dancing and Prison Break, but with more sequins and less of the brutal on-screen slaughter. I think that the officers of HMP Thameside would win it hands down.

I was led across the prison grounds, past the football field and the prison garden to another prison block, virtually identical in appearance to the one I had just left. I half expected to see a welcoming party with balloons, party poppers and signs on sticks saying “You made it! Welcome to Category C!” but I was sadly disappointed. They might have at least baked me a cake.

The prison officers who had escorted me to the new block handed me over to another two prison officers. I hadn’t been handcuffed or shackled, but obviously they weren’t going to take any chances with a hardened pigeon murderer like myself. A large sheaf of paperwork changed hands. One of the new officers scrutinised the paperwork carefully.

“Let’s see. Oh, yes, Burton. You’ll be in a cell on your own.” I still wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Did this mean solitary confinement? Apparently not. “Doors locked at 6:00 p.m. Open again at 7:45 a.m. for medication. Other than that you can use the communal area apart from lock-up and roll-call between 12:00 and 14:00. You’re not going to cause us any trouble, are you?”

Trouble? Moi? “I sincerely promise to be on my best behaviour, officer.” The officer regarded me with a certain degree of wariness. “Is that right? Follow me, then.”

I was led to a cell on D-wing in the Category C block and the door was locked behind me. I surveyed my new surroundings for a moment or two. Not so very different from the Category B cell I had just vacated, I thought. On the desk in the corner was a battered-looking computer terminal, comprising of a screen, keyboard and mouse, which I had by now established was for use as an ordering system for meals and for general prison enquiries such as arranging library visits and medical requests.

The terminal also doubled as a TV, and it was perched precariously on the desk in the corner of the cell, next to four or five dog-eared hard-back books from the prison library. There was a single bunk (with the obligatory thin blue mattress and a pile of soiled bedding, presumably left behind by the previous inmate) and an open cupboard with shelves for personal belongings.

For ablutions, there was an en-suite shower area, toilet and hand basin. There was only one chair, which prompted me to note that it was going to make it difficult if I wanted to host any dinner parties in my cell. For that matter, there was a distinct lack of candelabra, napkins and wine glasses.

But most importantly, there was no kettle in the cell. This was going to be a problem. If I wanted to offer any of my guests tea or coffee I would have to make do with lukewarm water from the hot tap. Still, worse things happen at sea, I thought, and I started to unpack my belongings.

I reached into my polythene prison bag and extracted my precious co-axial cable. I plugged it in to the TV system and it immediately burst into life. It had apparently been pre-tuned for the mainstream TV channels! No more having to negotiate for the acquisition of a TV remote control with a chronically sex-starved TV maintenance man! Things were looking up.

I switched to the DVD box-set channel. There was Series 1-4 of “Line of Duty” (a gritty and realistic police detective drama series.) Hey, not bad at all! Better than Prison Break by a long chalk. I could get used to this! And indeed, for the duration of my sentence, whenever I had nothing else to occupy me, I would watch the entire box set many times over, to the point where I could recite verbatim what words the characters were going to say before they actually said them.

I don’t want you to think that this was all I had to do with my time. Over the next few weeks, I spent as much time as was allowed in the prison library and I tried to play as many games of chess as I could each day. In addition, I tried to set aside at least two hours a day for meditation – my Aikido training had acclimatised me to an hour every morning and every evening, and the hours of enforced solitude in my cell contributed immensely to the transition to a meditative state at those times.

Aikido meditation is a technique that is for everyone, not just for martial art enthusiasts. It is definitely worth cultivating as it brings long-term benefits to the average human frame. It simply involves positioning your body into a comfortable (and preferably kneeling or seated) relaxed stance, and then focusing on taking a series of deep, regular breaths until your mind drifts away from your immediate surroundings.

Once you have your breath under control – maybe four breath cycles in and out every minute, one every fifteen seconds or so, after about five or ten minutes your mind enters a different phase – and you start to leave behind material concerns and to be more open to contemplating a veritable wealth of abstract concepts, such as life, death and the meaning of the universe.

An hour or so of Aikido meditation really does bring with it a more positive outlook on life, no matter what your immediate circumstances may be, and I found it to be of immense help to me over the subsequent days and weeks, which at this moment appeared to be stretching interminably ahead.

I know this sounds weird, but it’s true. Don’t take my word for it. Try it and see. I highly recommend it. But if it doesn’t work for you then please don’t sue me, or send round a bunch of heavies to teach me the error of my ways.

As my Aikido teacher used to say – You may not be, at least at the moment, completely in tune with your spiritual side. My advice to you is to persevere.

There is a Buddhist saying – “When the student is ready, then the teacher will appear.”

(I remember pulling this very statement out of a Christmas cracker and reading it out in front of the family over a turkey dinner, when admittedly there was a high degree of inebriation and a certain lack of philosophical awareness around the table. The response was along the lines of – “That can’t be right! The teacher should be in the classroom waiting for the students to arrive!”)

Sometimes you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink.

The communal area was very similar to the Category B environment I had left behind, although over time I did notice that the Category C prisoners seemed more relaxed than those in Category B. There was very little aggressive confrontation between prisoners and guards, or between the prisoners themselves as far as I could see.

However, I reminded myself to be aware of the possible dangers from the Mohammedan population of around ten to fifteen per cent (as far as I could ascertain) in the Category C environment of HMP Thameside. It only needed one leak of the real reason behind my criminal conviction to the general prison population and I could be in real trouble.

I finished unpacking, left my cell and sat down at one of the communal tables with a chess-board in front of me. I had found that simply doing this was enough to pique the interest of at least a few of the chess aficionados on the wing. Sure enough, scenting new blood, a steady trickle of prisoners introduced themselves and challenged me to a series of chess games.

My chess-playing skills were still at a comparatively high level and over the next few days I managed to chalk up a respectable number of victories. Not too respectable though, it never does for the “new boy” to appear too clever, something I had learned early on in my life while growing up and attending a typically middle-class English grammar school.

I remember one such “new boy”, Watkins Minor, who had been transferred to our school during the course of Year Six. He was a rotund, bespectacled boy with a mop of blond hair, and he appeared determined to demonstrate his superiority to the rest of us by coming top in all the school activities he participated in.

No doubt he felt that by demonstrating such superiority, reminiscent of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias – “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” it would stand him in good stead during his remaining school years and earn him our undying admiration.

However, in the manner of most healthy pre-teenage boys with a sense of social justice in what was a typically middle-class English grammar school of the 1960s, we systematically disabused him of that notion with the standard school punishment of tarring and feathering, and then tying him up and locking him with a bicycle chain to the apple tree in the garden outside the school staff room.

Admittedly he was somewhat subdued for a few days after that, but I still maintain to this day that we probably did him a favour by teaching him such a valuable lesson so early in life.

All in all, “Category C” life in HMP Thameside had much to recommend it. I wouldn’t say that I would be sorry to leave at the end of my sentence, but I resolved to upgrade the facilities to at least a three-star rating on the travel site Trip Advisor.

Trip Advisor representative: “So, Mr Burton, how do you rate the facilities of Category C at HMP Thameside?”

Me: “To be honest, I did notice some dust on the top of my wardrobe. It was only faintly detectable on the outside of my white glove, but it was definitely there. And the sheets on the bed should have been changed prior to my arrival. Other than that I would give it three stars.”

Damn. I forgot to mention the lack of a kettle. But it was too late. The Trip Advisor representative (figuratively speaking) had left the cell, the door had been locked behind him, and there was the gradually diminishing sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, faintly reverberating until all that I could hear was the sound of silence.

Tim Burton

End of Chapter 9

Please donate – whatever you can – to the Tim Burton Legal Defence Fund

Help to overturn an unjust conviction and strike a blow for justice.


Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 8 – Assessment Time

     Assessment time

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 8 – Assessment Time

Friday 12th May 2017 – It was now fourteen days since I had been taken from the Inner London Crown Court and transported to HMP Thameside – aka the “Thameside Hilton.” During that time I had been introduced to the rules and regulations of Her Majesty’s Prisons, and I had got to know a considerable number of inmates on my prison wing. The fact that I was interested in chess certainly helped when it came to making friends – men don’t just get together and talk about each others’ feelings in the same way women do – an external mechanism for bonding is essential, and playing chess on a regular basis allows for bonding to take place without all the touchy-feely stuff that most men would run a mile from.

No doubt I will be inundated with letters of criticism from hundreds of men out there who are more in touch with their feminine side than I am – but please feel free to continue to write in, as I have been informed that cheap writing paper, when shredded, makes excellent cat litter for Damian (a very particular and discriminating feline of my acquaintance.) I will have more to say about Damian later as his political opinions are apparently even more forthright than mine. An’ that’s sayin’ summat, as they say in Yorkshire.

In my two weeks behind bars, I had become used to the quirks and vagaries of the prison system to the extent that I was now considered to be an “old lag” – able to dispense solemn advice to some of the new inmates who, surprisingly enough, seemed to materialise out of nowhere every day.

I was able to explain the intricacies of the menu system – whereby prisoners could order their food for the week through a computer system based on fingerprint recognition – and I could show them how to select TV programs through their in-cell entertainment centre.

(I should mention that I was determined to make a concerted effort to stay away from dispensing advice on how to obtain illegal and contraband items. One could get into serious trouble for that, and leaving aside my recently acquired criminal conviction, I was keen to cultivate my image among the other prisoners as an exceptionally law-abiding criminal. Well, perhaps not too law-abiding. In the Thameside Hilton, that could land you in just as much trouble. Suffice it to say that my recipes for extracting the methanol from popular brands of boot-polish via six slices of Warburton’s finest were now proving very popular.)

Eat your heart out, Nigella Lawson.

I use the phrase “entertainment-centre” loosely – the premise for the successful operation of the system was that you required a co-axial lead to connect to the back of the TV in your cell and for it to be set up in such a way that it was able to receive signals from the ether and display them on your TV. The first challenge was that the co-axial leads were in very short supply.

(When I say “in short supply” I mean somewhere on the HMP inmates’ spectrum between gold dust, hens’ teeth and the pubic hair of expectant unicorns.)

I was advised that if I were to acquire such a co-axial lead, then I should keep it secreted about my person, otherwise it would most likely disappear and be squirreled away by one of the other inmates at the first opportunity. Apparently – whisper it quietly! – there were some acquisitive, thieving and downright dishonest persons on our wing.

Shock-horror, I hear you say! Surely not! But yes, there were indeed some inmates who would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down, and that included TV co-axial leads from their fellow prisoners. As an aside, I was to find that it also included electric kettles. (More about that later.)

The second challenge was tuning the TV in. This required the services of an inmate who was in the possession of a remote control unit. In my case, I had to bet on the outcome of a chess game with the appropriate inmate in order to acquire a co-axial cable and to get him to tune my TV in to the available channels. This was relatively easy for me because I was quite good at chess.

I don’t know what sacrifices the other inmates might have had to make to acquire a co-axial lead and the use of a remote control unit, but I’m sure some of them ended up in transactions that might not be considered prim and proper (or even hygienic) by one’s maiden aunt. Anyway, I digress.

Having tuned in the TV, then next challenge was to select a channel to watch. In addition to the standard mainstream TV and satellite channels, there were two prison-operated DVD channels in operation 24 hours a day. You could say this was a mixed blessing. I use that phrase because the only DVDs available during my first two weeks were box sets of “Prison Break.”

Talk about adding insult to injury.

Believe it or not, the last thing you want when faced with a substantial period of incarceration is a DVD box set based on the premise that if you don’t break out of prison using the most violent means available to you then you are likely to die a horrible death at the hands of mobsters and psychopaths. Someone in charge of the DVD media administration at HMP Thameside obviously had a warped sense of humour.

During the first two weeks, there were numerous assessments carried out, mostly by nubile young women who seemed to have been selected for their sexual attractiveness in order to remind inmates of what they were missing. Now I may be mistaken on this last point, because when, as a man, you have been thrown against your will into an all-male environment for any length of time, then any female  who is possessed of a pulse and who does not display any outward signs of debilitating illnesses such as leprosy starts to look sexually attractive.

In fact I’m not sure that even leprosy would have put me off after two weeks of enforced celibacy. Although I think I would have to draw the line at the prospect of the object of my desire not having a pulse.

I do have some principles, after all. As the famous comedian Groucho Marx once remarked – “Those are my principles. If you don’t like them – well, I have others.”

I remember my first assessment well. A prison officer poked his head around my cell door one morning and announced that my presence was required outside. Could I possibly make myself respectable and meet my assessor at a table in the communal area outside my cell, if I would be so kind?

As I recall, his actual words were – “Oi, Burton, you’ve got a visitor. Get yer bleedin’ arse out here NOW.” They don’t mince words at HMP Thameside.

I duly obliged and sat down with a buxom brunette who looked as though she was on day release from the Cheltenham Academy for Exceedingly Demure Young Ladies. She had an cultured and refined accent, a face which was the very epitome of health and beauty, and a figure that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Milan catwalk – or at the very least, sprawled lasciviously in a skimpy bikini across the bonnet of my Ferrari – perhaps after I had loaned it out to Jeremy Clarkson for an episode of Top Gear.

I’m joking, of course. I would never loan out my Ferrari to Jeremy Clarkson. Not after he punched that Irish chef for not cooking his steak correctly. I am most definitely not a fan of culinary-related violence.

“So how are they treating you?” she purred. “Can I ask you a few questions? Are you suffering from any ailments? Allergies? Are you addicted to drink, drugs or any form of narcotics? How is your food? Have you any complaints that are not being addressed?”

She ticked off various boxes on a sheet of paper on her clipboard as I gave her my answers. The question about having allergies, I was to find, formed an indispensable part of any questionnaire in the prison system.

Strangely enough, due to my medical history over the previous three or four years, I had found that it formed an indispensable part of any questionnaire within the National Health Service as well. Here is an example:

Doctor: “Well, Mr. Burton, if you could just stop bleeding for a moment, get your epilepsy and heart attack under control, and stop throwing up while we retrieve your severed limbs from the floor of the ambulance, I need to ask you if you have any allergies. Hay fever is particularly prevalent at this time of year, and we wouldn’t want you to suffer unnecessarily.”

Maybe I’m just being oversensitive.

“Now that you mention it, Doctor, it turns out that I’m allergic to complete strangers continually asking me whether I am allergic to anything. I would advise you to stop it now before I grab you round the throat and throttle the life out of you before feeding your twitching carcass to the pigs.”

I have found that such witticisms were generally lost on the Mohammedan members of the medical profession. I have no idea why that might be. The Mohammedan sense of humour is perhaps not exactly the same as mine – which of course could explain why I had landed up here in the first place.

Anyway, the questions from of the Exceedingly Demure Young Lady from the Cheltenham Academy finally came to an end. I was quite sorry to see her go, really. She left me with the promise that she would be back for a further Educational Assessment within the next few days. Great. I couldn’t wait.

Maybe I could inveigle her into smuggling a cake into the prison with a file in it? Or persuade her to take my place in the cell while I dressed up as a washerwoman and made my escape past the unsuspecting prison staff. Unfortunately the aforementioned prison staff seem to be alert to such ruses these days. Whoever would have thought that reading “The Wind in the Willows” was so essential for custodial effectiveness?

Sure enough, after a few days the Exceedingly Demure Young Lady was back, with another series of questions designed to establish my level of educational attainment. Now, having graduated from Wallington County Grammar School in a leafy Surrey suburb some forty-seven years previously – with a diploma for flicking ink-soaked paper pellets from a wooden ruler with a high degree of accuracy over a range of ten metres – I considered myself to be fairly high up on the educational spectrum, at least compared to some of the less fortunate members of the prison population.

“You’ll still have to go for an English Language, Mathematics and Computer Skills assessment next Saturday,” she said, “and it’s important that you do well. HMP Thameside prides itself on making sure that all inmates leave with the requisite skills to enable them to become productive members of society.”

Personally I would have thought that some courses in advanced computer hacking, crypto-currency fraud and loan-sharking techniques would have been more useful to me at my time of life, but I forbore from saying so just in case the powers-that-be had an opportunity to review my comments and to decide that my release in four or five weeks time would be inappropriate.

It’s a funny thing, but being in an environment with people who might well be eligible for Professorships in Advanced Criminality makes one unconscionably competitive, and I resolved to do as well as I could to achieve a respectable result in the forthcoming educational assessment.

The following Saturday I was directed to a classroom with another 15-20 old lags to undergo an English Language, Mathematics and Computer Skills assessment.  I took my place in front of a computer terminal. I noticed a sign above the screen that read “Anyone caught stealing a mouse will be punished with the loss of all inmate privileges.” Blimey, I thought, that’s a bit much. What was it about computer mice that would attract such a draconian punishment? I could envisage a possible scenario:

“OK Fingers, now remember we are going to steal 100,000 boxes of high-end computer mice from this warehouse. Ignore the substantial quantities of cocaine, heroin, high-powered military armaments and the squillions of forged 500-euro notes that are lying about unguarded. We might end up doing serious time in the nick if we get caught with that lot.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you boss? If they catch us with those computer mice they’ll throw away the key. Just let us keep the Class A drugs, the rocket-propelled grenades and the forged currency – and we can unload them onto Barry the Baptist at the Sutton Coldfield Sunday Market Stall without any risk and no questions asked.”

(Barry the Baptist was a familiar figure in the Sutton Coldfield underworld. Like his namesake in the film “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels”, his specialist subject was half-drowning recalcitrant debtors by holding their heads underwater until they paid up.)

In the event, my fears were unfounded. The English Language, Mathematics and Computer Skills assessment proved to be a doddle. I suppose being an IT consultant for the previous thirty years might have helped matters, as would having English as my native language and the ability to total up an invoice in my head and calculate the result while subtracting a discount and adding VAT. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so smug about it. There were a lot of people on the wing who didn’t have the first idea about such matters.

“You’ve passed.” the assessment supervisor informed me. “Not only that, but I don’t think we’ve ever seen anyone in here scoring Level 3 (the highest level) in English Language, Mathematics and Computer Skills. You’re obviously destined for great things.”

I detected a certain amount of cynicism in his voice. Hardly surprising, I suppose, given that I was ostensibly in HMP Thameside as a serial pigeon killer. Opportunities for career advancement in that field were limited, to say the least.

“Great things” might just mean making it to the end of my sentence without being brutally murdered by any number of inmates who might secretly be lifelong members of the internationally feared assassination department of the notorious RSPB.

I needn’t have worried. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds doesn’t take any prisoners.

End of Chapter 8

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Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 7 – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

    Zen (and other stuff)

Foreword: All chapters of Pigeon on the Wing published on this website are in draft form only. The final version may include grammatical, syntax and content changes, as well as sidebars and illustrations to maintain a level of interest and to stop readers’ eyes from glazing over. All comments and / or criticisms of content or writing style would be most welcome. Masterpieces like this don’t just write themselves, you know.

Seriously, though – this is your book just as much as it is mine. I couldn’t have even begun to write it without all of your help and support. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me, and I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Tim Burton

Pigeon on the Wing – Chapter 7 – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

It’s an odd thing, but the human mind is capable of adapting itself to drastically changing circumstances relatively quickly. Only a few days previously, I had been a free man, able to sample all the exotic delights of Birmingham on a whim, with no worries other than whether I would wake up with a moderate case of “Delhi Belly” after having consumed a dodgy Chicken Tikka Masala from the Balti House down the road on Churchill Parade.

Churchill Parade is an exotically named row of shops on our housing estate. It doesn’t include an insurance company with a nodding bulldog as its logo, but it does include an off licence, a newsagent, a pizza restaurant, chemist and the aforesaid Balti House, which passes for our local “haute cuisine” establishment. (There is also the Falcon Lodge Chippie, famous throughout the area for its doner kebabs and salmonella.)

As it was, I was now a convicted criminal, subject to Her Majesty’s Prisons’ rules and regulations, and severely constrained in what I could do over the next forty-two days in terms of just about everything, not just sampling the delights of the local takeaway, although that is still fairly high up my list of “Great Places To Visit in Sutton Coldfield.”

However, they do say that “stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage” and I was determined to make the most of my predicament and not to let it get me down too much. There are those who say that this is easier said than done, but there are techniques that one can employ to mitigate the circumstances in which one may find themselves embroiled from time to time.

The first thing to do is to accept the things over which you have no control. In my case, I had been sentenced to twelve weeks in prison, which meant that I would hopefully be released in six weeks with good behaviour. So, for the next forty-two days I would do my very best to stay out of trouble and to navigate my way through the unknown waters that lay ahead of me.

The second thing to do is to treat your situation as a positive learning experience, and this is what I endeavored to do over the next forty-two days. I won’t lie to you – there were times when I felt down, and it would be very easy to be crushed by the experience. The loss of control over one’s life and liberty can be very hard to deal with, and I could see that many of the other inmates exhibited signs of extreme stress during the time that I was there.

The presence of illegal drugs such as “spice” was an ever present problem throughout the prison, and although there were numerous posters on the prison notice boards warning against the use of this pernicious drug, there were many prisoners who had fallen under its spell. It was easy to get hold of – consignments of the drug were regularly thrown over prison walls or brought in by corrupt officers, and in some case by remotely-controlled drones flown directly to the cell windows of well-connected prisoners.

You could always tell a prisoner who was under the influence of “spice” – just think of the zombies in the TV series “The Walking Dead” and you have a very good idea of the effect that this drug has on the average prisoner. A blank-eyed stare, shambling gait, and an inability to engage with the world are just three of the symptoms apparent.

In addition, the drug poses a challenge to all those who would help prisoners under the influence. It has been described as worse than heroin in that it not only can it render the user unconscious and in risk of death extremely quickly, but the toxic atmosphere literally surrounding such a user can be easily inhaled and may affect the person tasked with trying to help to a similarly dangerous degree.

However, assuming that one is able to steer clear of dangerous narcotics and other psychoactive substances, there is actually plenty to focus on in order to develop a positive experience.

As you may recall, I was asked earlier by the prison authorities whether I identified as Catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jain, a Buddhist or a Baptist or a Jew (to paraphrase Bob Dylan in his song Universal Soldier) and I thought it would be prudent to identify as Christian, seeing as how that was how I had been brought up. Not that I was actually a practicing Christian, in fact I saw myself then (and still see myself now) as an agnostic – one who admits to the possibility of a higher power but not necessarily within the confines of organised religion.

So on the first Sunday of my incarceration, 30 April 2017, I found myself making my way to the meeting room designated as the place of Christian worship within the prison. All those identifying as Christian were called from their cells by the prison officers, lined up at the exit of the prison block, and marched around the vast open space that doubled as a running track and a football field to a prison block on the other side, where we were patted down, identities checked – and checked again – one by one, in order to experience the solemn and profound word of the Lord.

Well, that was an eye-opener.

I had no sooner made my way into the meeting room than I became aware of a tumultuous hubbub emanating from a crowd of inmates at the front of the room. This was obviously a very popular event, and the reason why soon became apparent.

At the front of the room, on a slightly raised platform, were the members of the South East London Gospel Choir, and boy, were they dressed to impress. Modesty forbids me from describing the short mini-skirts and the tight blouses of the half-dozen or so well-endowed young ladies on the platform, but they seemed to be proving a big hit with those who had taken the trouble to ensure that they were right at the front and able to make the most of the sights and sounds presented to them.

The young ladies of the South East London Gospel Choir proceeded to belt out an enthusiastic range of songs that had the inmates literally dancing on their chairs and in the aisles. I couldn’t fault them – they certainly knew how to appeal to their audience, to the extent that I could see the five or six prison officers who were supervising the event glancing at each other in apprehension. Was something going to kick off?

In the event, things passed off without major incident. One young Afro-Caribbean inmate fell off his chair after some particularly animated dancing and had to be carried to the First Aid room with a dodgy ankle, but other than that, the South East London Gospel Choir exuded a certain magic that I felt was almost entirely beneficial. I could certainly see how they would attract inmates to their cause.

It was around then that an earnest lady of around seventy-five or eighty years of age approached me after the South East London Gospel Choir had completed their last number. “Did you enjoy that?” she asked. I tentatively replied in the affirmative. “Have you ever considered giving yourself to Christ?” she continued. Talk about trading on heightened emotions. “Let’s just say I’m open to all possibilities,” I said, “and I certainly wouldn’t rule anything out at this point.”

This was her cue to unload a ton of religious literature on me, including a copy of the Bible and a tract entitled “How to Counter the Double Curse of Booze.” Well, given that booze was quite hard to come by in prison, unless you included straining melted boot polish through six slices of Warburton’s finest, I would have thought that countering the Double Curse of Booze was not of the highest priority when it came to advising prison inmates.

However, I was not about to upset someone who obviously felt very strongly about all the good works she was doing, so I simply murmured “Thank you” as she departed to foist her attentions on another unsuspecting prisoner.

On the way back I was struck by the magnificence of the Prison Garden – a cultivated area by the side of the football pitch. Someone – I dare say maybe many people over the years – had clearly put a lot of effort into developing a truly inspiring oasis of horticulture in an otherwise barren landscape. There were numerous exotic plants – although as a complete ignoramus in horticultural matters, I would have great difficulty in naming even a few of them – interspersed with vivid green bushes and trailing vines circumventing their way up a series of trellises to simulate a tropical environment. I leaned against the fence surrounding this vision of beauty for several minutes, and almost completely forgot about my oppressive surroundings.

Then there was a shout from one of the prison staff – “Oi! Burton! Get a bloody move on!” and I was transported back to the reality of my situation.

The reality was that for the next forty-two days I would be subject to Her Majesty’s rules and regulations, which on one level was perfectly true, but on another level I was freer to explore the limits of the capabilities of my mind. When one is subject to the mind-numbing routines of everyday life, it is quite difficult to “think outside of the box” and to develop patterns and lines of thought which can lead one to a higher stage of enlightenment.

Having a lot of time to oneself, on the other hand, as in prison, allows one to cultivate a Zen-like environment where every thought can be analysed and expanded upon to reach conclusions that would never (or hardly ever) be attainable during normal everyday life. I was reminded of another book that I had read in my early twenties, entitled “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert M Pirsig.

When I first read this book I was overwhelmed by the complexity of the thoughts, concepts and emotions described therein, but having re-read it in recent years I am struck by the profound truths that it contains. Distilled into a nutshell, the message is that there is more than one reality, and it is not always what you think it is. Only by undergoing hardship and endurance, coupled with humility and introspection, is it possible to perceive the perpetual transition between realities and to realise that many (if not most) things that one has taken for granted during their lifetime are but an illusion.

Another Buddhist saying:-

“When the student is ready, then the teacher will appear.”

This refers to a state of preparedness on behalf of the student. The teacher may not be an actual person, but an event or a combination of circumstances that allows the student to realise a truth of which they have previously been unaware.

I arrived back at my cell in a state of euphoria. “What’s up with you then?” said John. “I have been overwhelmed by the complexity and the beauty of the Universe,” I said, suddenly afflicted with a bout of uncontrollable spluttering and coughing, “nothing whatsoever to do with the extremely  brief mini-skirts and tight blouses of the well-endowed young ladies of the South East London Gospel Choir.”

John cast me a glance of scepticism. “Don’t you start enjoying yourself in here,” he said, ” or the next thing you know you’ll be fighting to get back in when you’re out on the street, and then from there on in, it’s a slippery slope to institutionalisation.”

I laughed. “As if,” I said.

Tim Burton

End of Chapter 7

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Muslim Council of Britain (and Tell Mama UK) whinge to British Army top brass over Tommy Robinson selfie with soldiers

  Counter-Jihad Hero

Friday 12 October 2018 – With nothing better to do than to agitate for yet more appeasement of the Muslim community in the United Kingdom, the Muslim Council of Britain (and Tell Mama UK) have complained to senior British Army officers over the fact that some of their soldiers were photographed with Tommy Robinson at a motorway service station recently.

The self-appointed spokespeople for “the religion of the perpetually offended” apparently went into turbo-whinge-and-whine mode with yet another grievance to add to the ever growing list of What Muslims Are Unhappy About. This – of course  – is only to be expected from this bunch of professional grievance mongers who take every opportunity to promote the cause of the barbaric ideology of Islam over the wishes and considerations of the rest of the British population.

What is unforgivable in this case, though, is the fact that the aforesaid senior British Army officers, instead of telling the self-important panjandrums of the Muslim Council of Britain and Tell Mama UK to take a hike and to stop being so bloody stupid, have instigated disciplinary proceedings against the soldiers and have reportedly dismissed one soldier from the Army as a result.

One of the more senior Ruperts – Major General Rupert Jones, who will shortly take up the appointment of Standing Joint Force Commander, said: “The British Army is absolutely clear that we do not tolerate extremist views and we don’t tolerate extremist behaviour.”

Oh really?

So being patriotic, standing up for your country and supporting British soldiers in the face of unremitting global hostility from the so-called “religion of peace” is now considered extremist behaviour, is it? I am reminded of the words of Rudyard Kipling’s 1890 poem, Tommy:-

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;

As for “extremist views”, I don’t recall anyone mentioning anything about extremist views when the mealy-mouthed war-mongering traitor Tony Blair was photographed with soldiers of the British Army in Iraq and Afghanistan less than twenty years ago. Arguably the former Labour Prime Minister did more damage to this country with his extremist views than any Prime Minister before or since, and certainly a thousand times worse in terms of endangering national security and reducing the quality of life of British citizens than anything Tommy Robinson might have said or done.

     Warmonger / Traitor

A petition is being organised by The Rebel Media to protest against the unfair treatment and double standards applied to British soldiers for simply choosing to stand and smile for a photograph with Tommy Robinson. The time is coming when we will have every reason to support our lads in the fight against the totalitarian ideology of Islam – an ideology that would convert, enslave or kill every free person not only in this country, but also throughout the world.

Please sign the petition and support our lads in the face of this unwarranted political correctness.

Latest update from Ezra Levant of The Rebel Media – well worth watching if you have an hour to spare – includes a recruitment video from the British Army about 18-20 minutes in, a recruitment video which probably goes a long way to explaining why the British Army is having so much difficulty in recruiting and retaining patriotic soldiers and service personnel.


Tim Burton

PS – I am still some way short of being able to cover the legal costs incurred in my quest to overturn my unjust conviction and to have my application to punish Dr Matthew Wilkinson for Contempt of Court properly processed by the British Justice System.

Please donate whatever you can to my Legal Defence Fund:


Many thanks,

Tim Burton