You didn’t want to go, anyway. I mean, what sort of people would be there? A load of snooty idiots: pretentious hypocrites exchanging pleasant lies over cucumber sandwiches. They pretend to care about Britain but all they really care about is themselves and what others think of them. If they really cared they would see; they would understand. Just because it’s become trendy to support non-whites. Britain has to look after her own – it’s the only way. You probably wouldn’t get to meet the Queen, anyway.
Imagine if you did, though. If you got to speak to Her Majesty. How you’d open her eyes. She would understand. She’d have to. I’m sure she only wants what’s best for her people. Her people, not all the other scavengers who infect our great nation like rats. I suppose someone must have advised against my invitation. She’s afraid I would change her mind. She’s afraid of agreeing with me – because then she’d have a tough choice: to stand up for what she believes in and face accusation and exclusion, like I do, or to go along with the masses. Misusing my invitation for party political reasons my arse. What sort of excuse is that? Increasing security threat and potential discomfort for guests? The discomfort of having to face the truth, they mean.
Would anyone talk to you, though? They all hate you. They’d exclude you as much as possible. If you went they’d make it clear you’re unwanted. You’d be standing alone by the vol-au-vents. The fat loner kid invited to the party by some principled mother, surrounded by bullies and enemies. Like that time you went to Henry’s party – remember, Nick? You were so excited – you thought maybe he liked you, maybe you’d made a friend. Instead he ignored you the entire time – they all did – when they weren’t sniggering at you behind your back. Segregation. And then you overheard Henry’s mother talking about ‘that poor Griffin boy’.
But now look at you – the leader of the British Nationalist Party – the only party who truly stands up for Britain’s rights and the rights of her true citizens. Look at yourself, now – freshly pressed in your morning suit, complete with waistcoat and cravat. All dressed up with no-where to go.
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Just to be clear – this is a story – a fictionalisation of Nick Griffin’s thoughts on hearing he was banned and do not reflect my own political opinions.