|The sky above Heresy Manor in April 2013|
A Maverick Psychologist’s Jail Diary
Jared Taylor has kindly pointed out that non-British readers may not understand the legal background to these events. This is perhaps not surprising, considering that many people in Britain are still under the illusion that free speech exists in this country.
Following complaints by Jews I was raided in 2005, 2006 and 2007, each time with large amounts of book stock and equipment being taken away by police. Initially the subject of the action was the revisionist comic book Tales of the Holohoax (which had been sold in Britain for around two decades). Later, with authorisation from a Jewish Attorney General, the opportunity was taken to set a precedent using several pages on this site to extend the repression of opposing views to the internet. This despite the distribution being from California, where the site was, and still is, hosted. This also had been regarded up to this time as being completely legal.
In 2008 Steven W. (writing as Luke O’Farrell) and I were prosecuted. The relevant law was the Public Order Act 1986: for the background to this iniquitous and vague law, search for “Longest Hatred Race Laws.” When Lady Jane Birdwood was similarly prosecuted, the judge told her “The truth is no defence.” In other words, it is only necessary for someone to say they are offended, or for a prosecutor to convince a jury (easy in a dry courtroom) that there is a “likelihood that racial hatred will be stirred up.” It is not possible to argue that what you said or published was true – that is legally irrelevant.
At this point my co-defendant and I fled to California to seek political asylum. After eleven months in jail there, the asylum claim having failed, we returned to Britain and I received a sentence of almost five years. With a reduction on appeal I spent altogether three years in jail. In May 2011 I was released “under licence,” meaning that various conditions were imposed and if I broke those conditions, or committed another offence, I would likely be recalled to prison to serve the remainder of my sentence.
Initially the maximum sentence under the Public Order Act 1986 was two years, but an amendment was added to the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2000 which extended the maximum sentence to seven years. In 2006 (I think) a similar law was passed criminalising “incitement to religious hatred.” Since then there have been extensions protecting homosexuals, the disabled etc. from “hate speech.” Recently a woman I know in London endured a dawn raid by police after making facetious comments on Facebook about someone with Tourette’s syndrome.
In January 2013, while still under licence, I good-naturedly gave a single copy of my ‘Spree Killers: The Forefront of Knowledge’ article to a local librarian. I had used the library to work on the article, and am rather proud of it, being probably the best I have ever written (I detailed why in my December 2012 news update). This is an account of what happened shortly after.
My probation officer’s hastily arranged visit had ended just a few minutes previously, he ostensibly unaware of what was about to go down. I was in the hallway experimenting with how many boxes of TOA (Tyranny of Ambiguity) sheets could be loaded onto my sack trolley when about four policemen started pushing the door, which had been slightly ajar. Instinctively I tried to push it back but they pushed harder. One said “Don’t worry we’re the police.” A few moments later one of the officers confronted me, the one I was shortly to dub ‘PC Believer,’ and asked me if I was Steven W., my former co-defendant. It was his idea of a joke. When that was got out of the way I was arrested “under Section 19 of the Public Order Act 1986 on suspicion of distributing material intending to stir up religious hatred” an offence which, unless I’m very much mistaken, doesn’t exist. Asked if I understood why I was being arrested, I said “No.”
More officers shortly arrived and began donning rubber gloves to start going through my computers and possessions. PC Believer asked me, now in handcuffs, and having great difficulty coming to terms with the situation, if I was on drugs. I was in shock. They tried to arrange my coat over my hands so the handcuffs wouldn’t be visible during the walk to the police van: “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of” I said. After being loaded into the back I was driven to York.
In an anteroom for people waiting for the custody desk was a swarthy, Eastern European gypsy woman who spoke no English. She didn’t look the least bit worried. I shortly learned she’d been arrested for purse-dipping (pick-pocketing). Mindful of my caution (“Anything you say may be taken down...”) I chose my words carefully, and mentioned to PC Believer that the presence of both her and me was an interesting juxtaposition, pointing out that while I was in handcuffs she was not. He responded with some rubbish which made it evident that he was a committed adherent to political correctness. I remembered him telling the newly arrived officers – three I think – who were about to embark on a search of my flat to “knock yourselves out.” Clearly me and PC Believer were not to be the best of buddies.
He told me that handcuffs were at the discretion of the arresting officer – him. I said that as a police officer he had a vested interest in believing that his job furthered a functional society, mentioning cognitive dissonance, but that my conclusion was that the police role nowadays is to foster a dysfunctional one. I’d recently come to the conclusion that by the enforcement of political correctness, practically everywhere the police go they make things worse.
The constables in the room, now about four, waiting with their charges, reverted to chatting among themselves. It was a long wait for the custody desk. PC Believer was evidently a keen gardener and picking up on the discussion about fertiliser, to pass the time, I related how while hitchhiking I had once been given a lift by a pair of “sheep-shit rustlers.” They had found the theme hilarious and had picked me up to share the joke. The contraband, if such it was, was in the boot of the car. The second arresting officer, who was more amiable, moved to sit opposite me and take up the conversation. He pointed out that the “sheep-shit rustlers” had probably committed no crime. There was a digression into coronial law, that apparently while a body is with a coroner it is his property. I replied that politicians have been creating so many laws to justify their existence that there is always some law which can be quoted as being broken. While living in Market Weighton I learned of a story, which I told the assembly, of a farmer whose practice had been to drive his horse and cart to a pub a couple of miles away. There he would drink a skinful and invariably pass out. When he did his drinking friends would, by long-standing habit, carry him out to the cart and load him into the back. Then one would give the horse a healthy slap on the backside and it, well used to this routine, would walk the farmer home through the deserted country lanes. This continued for several years until “one of you lot” laid in wait for him one night and had him for being drunk in charge of a vehicle.
At this PC Believer objected to the categorisation and implicit tainting of himself which had been implied by the term “one of you lot.” I replied that it is well-established that humans sort into categories, and in any case he was wearing a uniform. “I don’t want to talk to you any more” he said. “That generally means that you’ve lost the argument” I replied. Apparently there was a serious proposal in rural Ireland recently (County Kerry to be exact) to issue licences or permits to allow driving over the limit. The argument was that the traditional Irish culture of drinking, music and story-telling was under threat. One of the officers made a remark about the damage that ensues when a family is wiped out by a drink-driver, but in this case we are talking about a short journey along rural roads at perhaps 30mph with probably the biggest danger posed by the driver being to himself.
More than an hour later at the custody desk my handcuffs were finally removed. The sergeant behind it looked around 17 (he later told me he was 30) and after that I was shown to a cell. An hour or two passed and then I was pulled out to be interviewed by two detectives. I was asked if I wanted a lawyer present: I declined, knowing that one wouldn’t be much help in this case and that everyone would have to sit around for several hours while he arrived. The interview was recorded on DVD disc – this was new, I was told it could record video if necessary. The lengthy interview consisted of questions about the Spree Killers article I’d written (and by this time had been published) in Heritage & Destiny. I had learnt already that my supposed offence was connected to the local library, and my growing suspicion was confirmed that it was this article. Someone had kindly made me some copies for free, and I had given the last one to the only male employee at my local library. He, apparently, had referred it to his female superior and both she and he had made statements for the police. However absurd it seemed, the police were treating it as a potential criminal offence!
The interview was exceptional in consisting chiefly of an elaboration of evolutionary psychology and the concepts and mechanisms detailed in the Spree Killers article. It was very exhausting, because the article had truly been at the forefront of knowledge. Some additional background was added however. David Buss pointed out in one of his books that the very fact that we are here, each individual one of us, is proof of an unbroken lineage: every one of our ancestors, going back countless generations, must have successfully found a mate or else we wouldn’t be here. By the same measure, the fact that we have white skin is proof that men have fought to preserve that difference. At some time the mutation would have occurred, and if the distinct population had not defended itself it would have been wiped out or assimilated by a darker one.
Also discussed was the wide variation in genes and language in African and New Guinea tribes, and the ability of the former to identify members of their respective tribes, even though they all look similar to us. In New Guinea there are reported to be over 400 languages, even tribes living a couple of miles apart speak different languages. One account relates how two neighbouring tribes had a minor dispute, so one decided to play a trick on the other. On a certain day they exchanged their word for ‘yes’ to mean ‘no,’ and the word for ‘no’ to mean ‘yes.’ Trade with their neighbours was certainly interesting for a while.
The two officers went through the article, questioning me on various points, until we came to the part at the end about the government’s “suicidal immigration policies.” It took me a few moments to think of an example, because there are so many, but then I realised I had it from the Government’s own mouth. No less than the Chief Medical Officer had stated just a week or so previously that antibiotic resistance should be treated as a critical threat, on a par with terrorism or nuclear attack. The warning was that we could all be wiped out by a common bacterium which had acquired antibiotic resistance. What was left unstated was that the major source of antibiotic resistance, particularly tuberculosis, is India and Pakistan. There, incorrectly stored antibiotics are sold from market stalls like Smarties. Asian schoolchildren visiting relatives, for example, bring the resistant bacteria back to Britain.
The most notable feature of the interview however was the testimonial I received at the end. One of the officers said I had “a great mind” and other things which were plainly intended to send a message to the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) to back off. This is certainly not the first time I have received sympathetic treatment from police officers – one even apologised on behalf of the State for the actions it was taking against me – but this was actually on record, obviously being spoken for the benefit of that DVD recorder. Definitely a novelty. With these and other officers I had by this time discussed episodic memory (similar to snapshot memory), neurotic transfer (spurious false confessions) and the Stockholm syndrome.
A couple of hours later I was called out of my cell again and stood before the custody desk. The teenage-looking custody sergeant told me I was being given bail until March. Then I waited in a glass-walled booth for a few minutes, and was beginning to think that, against all the odds, I might actually be going home. Shortly however I was re-arrested for recall to prison. The form stated as official reason “poor behaviour.”
Rather like the early days in the tank at California, in the bowels of a skyscraper in Los Angeles, it takes time for the shock and sense of unreality to fade. It seemed as if I would only get a few minutes’ sleep before the constant noise of the fan, or the ever-present light, would cause me to wake with a jolt, when I would realise all over again that I was back in a cell. According to the normal routine I should be shipped to the nearest reception prison, Hull, midday on Saturday. However heavy snow put paid to that, and I was told I would be held in York until Monday. At least I was given paper, a pencil and some books to read, but it would be better in a proper jail where I could make my own tea and have a smoke. That’s invaluable when you’re under stress.
On Sunday however the cell door opened and I was told I was being moved to Harrogate as they were running out of cells. The officer told me it was 3 o’clock, and so disoriented was I that I assumed it was 3pm. It was actually 3am. This, a new facility, was even worse than York. I only had inferior horror books to read – as if I’d want to read those in a situation like this.