- Yesterday, I found my way to the Bad Homburg Polizeidirektion
(police headquarters) for what I believed would be a frank exchange of
views with a certain Herr Müller, who had been charged by the Central
Council of Jews to read me the riot act and seek a prosecution (I refer
readers to the attached PDF below or included inline). I was a week late
in answering the summons because my post- box in Friedrichsdorf is something
I check irregularly.
- In Germany (and five other member states of the European
Soviet Socialist Union), denial of the official "holocaust" ideology
is punishable by up to five years in prison. I have been accused by the
Jews of such a crime, and now they are moving to put me behind bars, empty
my bank account and seize my assets.
- At eight o'clock in the morning, I did indeed meet police
officer Herr Müller, and we sat together and joked in the foyer prior
to his telling me that the case officer assigned to my file was Frau Müller
(no relation), not expected to arrive until later in the morning. He advised
me to go home and phone to arrange an appointment. I'm just not up to that
kind of thing, I told him, I'm here now. I shall either wait or find a
local café and buy myself some French fries and coffee. Herr Müller
pointed the way and apologised for not being able to take me there himself.
- I got lost. The outskirts of Bad Homburg are a maze to
those who don't live there, and I ended up miles from the police station,
only to find that it took me almost 90 minutes to return on foot. Frau
Müller was diligent in finding me quickly and she officiously escorted
me to the third floor, reminding me that I was a week late. Herr Müller
spied me from behind the coffee machine, grinned and asked me if I had
found the right café without getting lost. I laughed.
- So here I was. Frau Müller, an efficient and very
attentive lady asked me to make myself comfortable while she sought my
file. She resembled a social worker rather than an officer of the law.
I had the feeling that I was dealing with a computer programmer with a
very strong feminist bent. Although she was pleasant in her demeanour,
Frau Müller never smiled once during the course of what transpired
to be a very gruelling three-hour long interview. I tried. I've always
been able to make women laugh. It's not a sexual thing. It happens naturally,
because I instinctively love women and I enjoy plying them with teasing
- Frau Müller is an excellent police officer. She
knows her stuff. She's not in the business of connecting with her fellow
human beings. Her job is to secure prosecutions, fines and terms of imprisonment.
It took me less than a minute to grasp the fact. (I longed for Herr Müller
to make an appearance, coffee in hand. I had only spoken to him for a few
minutes, and yet I knew he was a regular guy with whom I could shoot the
- She checked my passport and freelance journalist press
card. She wanted to know everything about me: my upbringing, formative
years, experiences as a schoolboy, university education, qualifications,
former employers, average monthly income, preference for books, favourite
websites, current health status, my fight against the German, British and
Kenyan governments in the 1990s, my family, political views, philosophical
leanings, and my relationship to my former wife. There she is, typing,
recording, multitasking. Superwoman. She covered everything apart from
religion and spiritual beliefs. That did not interest her.
- Then came the political questions thick and fast.
- "Are you a denier of the holocaust."
- "Define 'holocaust'," I asked her.
- "What do you mean? You know I'm referring to the
Jewish holocaust. You even mentioned it as an 'allegation' in this letter
you sent to the Central Council of Jews."
- "In the Hebrew language, if you ever take the time
to study the Old Testament, you will learn that the word 'holocaust' is
shorthand for 'a burnt sacrificial offering to Hashem (the god of the Jews)
in return for certain favours.' It's neatly defined as such in the Jewish
- "A holocaust is a mass burning?"
- "No, it served a ritual purpose, often only involving
the death of a teething ram or a sheep. Modern Jewry no longer practises
the ritual of sacrificial 'holocaust' offerings, at least not officially."
- Frau Müller was stunned. She had never heard this
before. The disbelief in her eyes was obvious, and yet she was dealing
with a man who left school with an A-plus in Religion, History and English.
- "How do you define 'holocaust' in the context of
the Third Reich and the Second World War?" she asked. It was a trick
- "The meaning of the word 'holocaust' does not change
according to the Hebrew scriptures and the Jewish Encyclopaedia. I have
already defined it for you."
- I sensed her discomfort and moved to reassure her.
- "Fundamentalist Christians also believe that Isaac
was destined to be the first human sacrificial lamb. Regardless, the Old
Testament, despite its flaws, clearly points to Our Lord Jesus Christ as
the one who sacrificed his life for the love of all men and women. The
story concerning Isaac, whether true or not, served as a narrative foreshadowing
God's ultimate love of mankind and the suffering he was willing to endure
to say, 'Hey, guys, I'm your dad! And I love you.'"
- This was well beyond Frau Müller's understanding.
She had stopped typing. My statement was not included in her final report.
Christians are insane, she seemed to be thinking. There's a man in my office
who's talking about Jesus. Time to phone the shrinks, perhaps, and have
this lunatic pumped full of Paxil.
- "I'm sorry," I declared. "I know that
Jesus is hated in the European Union. I probably offended you."
- Frau Müller gave me a dark look. This she did not
want to hear. I had mentioned the name of God Almighty, who lived amongst
us as a man only to suffer a cruel and torturous death at the hands of
those who called themselves Jews. Frau Müller shifted uncomfortably
in her seat.
- "So you don't deny the holocaust?"
- "I deny the validity of all books written by men.
I deny all officially recorded history. I deny everything that I did not
see with my own eyes as representing for me a certain formative 'truth'.
The history books are written by those who win wars and have the money
to finance publishing houses. This was told to me by my history teacher
at King Edward VII Grammar School. Mr Hutchins, who was an extremely competent
scholar of history, told me that the so-called Jewish 'holocaust' was an
'open question'. God told me to respect my parents and my teachers, and
I am bound to obey the laws of God, which, at that time, applied all to
- "You cannot deny history! That's impossible! You
have read books! You have seen films!"
- "Frau Müller, I was born in 1959. I have no
personal experience of anything that happened prior to the development
of my intellectual faculties. You are a police officer. Following a crime,
you need witnesses. You cannot rely upon unborn children to be a witness
to a crime that allegedly took place decades before they were born. The
judge would laugh you out of court and end your career overnight. It is
forbidden by God to bear false witness. If I testify to things of which
I have no personal experience, then I am bearing false witness, and for
that my soul, and yours, will be damned forever and eternity!"
- This statement blew Frau Müller into another dimension.
I tried to help her.
- "Frau Müller, you approach me in the street
and ask me what it's like to be the mother of twins. Would that not be
a rather strange question to ask a man?"
- "You must use your Vorstellungskraft (imagination).
You must be able to imagine what it's like to be a mother. Plenty of books
are available to help men understand this!"
- "But Frau Müller, you are implicitly suggesting
that we use our 'imagination' in regard to the scientific discipline of
history, and for me, and most of those involved in the science of data
management pertinent to the historical record, that is absolutely unacceptable.
History should be about facts and hard evidence, not what we 'imagine'
to be the truth. Could it not be that a certain group of people have 'imagined'
history to be something other than the truth?"
- Frau Müller did not answer. She almost smiled wanly.
I had floored her with logic and I felt an immediate sense of regret. I
didn't want to leave her feeling out-smarted, because that is not my style.
I hate those who practise arrogant one-upmanship: the Satanic elites are
dominated by them. However, the best I could do was wish her farewell.
I shook her hand and asked her to take care.
- Frau Müller is an extremely intelligent woman who
has, I suspect, spent years dealing with "thought criminals".
There was something about her that I found irresistibly attractive. Despite
her hard- headed approach and failure to laugh at any of my jokes, I found
myself feeling quite fond of her. I offered to take her out for lunch.
She refused point blank. She found me long-winded and too intellectually
absorbed and introspective. I told her I wasn't interested in anything
other than a chat over a coffee, completely divorced from the things we
were discussing. No chance.
- She at least gave me the opportunity to review my own
statement and make any changes I thought necessary. I was so tired and
incredibly unfocused, I skimmed through it. She had misunderstood much
of what I had said. She reported: "Michael James holds to the view
that the two most important men to exist were the philosophers Plato and
Socrates, both of whom died to save humanity." I had to correct this
by pointing out that Socrates, not Plato, chose to die in the truth by
drinking hemlock rather than live a life defined by the evil of lies. I
also wrote a new and concluding paragraph:
- "Yet none of these men can be compared to the One
who died, not only for the Truth, but for all humanity: all men and all
women everywhere. He is with us to this very day, and his name is Jesus
Christ. He is God."
- Frau Müller was not happy. Although I had referred
to Jesus at least twenty times during the course of our interview, she
had not included his name in the report once. This final paragraph was
something she did not expect. She was deeply unnerved. I know I shall hear
from her again, and I expect the worst.
- It was on my way back to the centre of Bad Homburg, walking
along the Saalburgstrasse in the intense heat of the day, that something
awful began to well up inside of me.
- I felt, quite suddenly, as if I had just been hit in
the pit of my stomach by a sledgehammer. My mouth began to fill with saliva,
which I desperately tried to swallow. I spied a telephone box behind which,
thankfully, was an empty trashcan. Nobody was in sight. I simply unloaded
most of the contents of my stomach into the trashcan and felt as if I were
about to die. Even during my drinking days, I had never surrendered so
much of my stomach in one single heave. I have never felt so sick in my
life and I doubt I shall ever be affected by such an overwhelming urge
to vomit again.
- I made my way along the Urselerstrassse toward the main
train station, but continued to experience the feeling that I may gag at
any moment. Then, completely out of the blue, I was absolutely overwhelmed
by an incredible sense of sadness. I did cry, but nobody saw me. The street
was practically deserted and I was wearing sunglasses. I did not cry for
myself or anyone else in particular. These tears came to me as an expression
of something I felt deep down inside of myself that I still cannot fully
explain; but I saw the world anew, and felt like a prisoner trapped in
the matrix of an incredibly evil, indefinable captivity.
- A taxi passed by and I picked up, for a very brief spell,
a track from Supertramp's "Breakfast in America". It was one
of my favourite albums growing up as a youngster in England. In fact, I
lost my innocence in the quadraphonic pitch of "Dreamer". Her
name was Sarah, and she gave me glandular fever. She was an excellent pianist,
demonstrating her skills just seconds after I had felt the earth move off
the Richter scale and my very being transform itself from boyhood to pseudo
manhood. She looked across at me and laughed. This was nothing new for
her, but there I lay in Seventh Heaven. Supertramp, Sarah, pianos, strawberry
wine and the faint aroma of a late English summer evening.
- For the first time in the 16 years I have lived in Germany,
I suddenly felt awfully homesick. I know that those times have passed and
will never return. But a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Led Zeppelin,
Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Mike Oldfield, Gallagher and Lyle, Genesis, Uriah
Heep. We were the generation sandwiched between the hippies (whom we detested)
and the punks (whom we distrusted). Those were the days I went motorbike
racing on an uninsured BSA 250 without a crash helmet. I used to burn up
the country lane between Lytham St. Annes and Wrea Green, playing cat and
mouse with the police who would tag me on their much more powerful Hondas.
I was caught only once and the police officer, having given me a very stern
lecture about riding without adequate protection, let me ride pillion on
his bike all the way to the nearest tavern, whereupon he declared himself
"off duty" and allowed me to buy him a beer.
- That was England in the 1970s. We were free. I truly
mean this. Regardless of the loathsome class system, Englishmen enjoyed
a quality of physical, spiritual and intellectual freedom that may never
be repeated in our time. We were free to ask troublesome questions. If
you disagreed with what was written in the history books, no policeman
would arrive on your doorstep and take you in for questioning.
- Despite stagnation, a disastrous Labour government, water
shortages, panic buying, pubs that closed early because they had run out
of ale, parents who (in our eyes) transformed themselves from potato-gardening
dullards into fascinating figures of fun following our intake of three
of four crafty tokes of Mary Jane, the addictive fascination of the Twilight
Zone enjoyed with friends in an attic strewn with banana skins and Rizla
papers, we were all self-elected rebels without any cause to complain.
- I argued respectfully and coherently with my teachers.
I laughed at jokes directed at the Jews, the Scots, the Irish and the French,
yet I was never arrested for a "hate crime". We ate high cholesterol
fatty foods and remained as skinny as rakes. We got drunk on home-brewed
wine and beer, rolled our own cigarettes and worked with strategic military
precision to date the girls with whom we fell in love. It took weeks of
incessant charm, the dispatch of flowers and endless evenings of sweet
nothings running up massive telephone bills (thanks, dad) to get the girl.
It was not about sex, but romantic love: French-kissing in the long grass,
staring into each other's eyes until the sun disappeared into the Irish
Sea. It was, for me, a time of magic and endless possibilities.
- The England I loved no longer exists. The Germany I embraced
in 1992 is now nothing more than a parody of a petty, backbiting police
state: a Zionist banana republic of Christ-hating hypocrisy, fear, repression
and growing poverty and hunger.
- We Europeans have lost the plot. The show is almost over.
- Yesterday I cried because I remembered what it is like
to be free. I want my freedom back. I want my freedom so badly, it is hurting
me deep inside and I cannot stem the tears.
- Michael James, an Englishman, is a former freelance journalist
resident in Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East
Africa, Poland and Switzerland.