David Baddiel: Britain’s useful, go-to Jew

Exiting Stamford Bridge twenty years ago on a wave of euphoria after Hapoel Tel Aviv had dumped Chelsea out of the UEFA Cup, who should I walk straight into . . . but TV celebrity David Baddiel. Though feeling more or less meh about Baddiel back then, it was too good an opportunity not to greet the proud Blue, but also fellow Jew, with a cheeky “Who were you rooting for, David?”

“Chelsea, of course,” came the scornful reply, Baddiel’s face contorted into the expression of sourness my late mum used to observe on certain folk when they spoke to or about Jews. (There is a great Yiddish word, which escapes me, that she always used to describe the look.)

I had been somewhat provocative. I kind of knew, even then, that Baddiel’s loyalties would not be as divided as mine would have been (and were, the following year, when Leeds United came up against Hapoel). But he supports a club that I dislike intensely — both as a Leeds fan and as a Jew (Chelsea supporters have always been notorious for their antisemitic chants at games) — which had just been humiliated by the minnows from the Jewish State (to which I had emigrated some five years earlier). It felt, however, like there was something more to his caustic retort.

No one has ever accused me of lacking humour when it comes to my Jewishness, but I never liked the way Baddiel played on his on telly, continually allowing his sidekick Frank Skinner to get a cheap laugh out of every silly, ignorant and often offensive Jewish stereotype in the book. In one 90s sketch (click here), Baddiel and Skinner manage to bring Tottenham Hotspur, insurance fraud, Volvos and hassidim into a nauseating pantomime featuring (“using” might be the more appropriate word) the late Avi Cohen, the first Israeli footballer to play in England. (Baddiel has also been widely criticised for his use of blackface to poke fun at a black footballer.)

Baddiel has since, of course, reinvented himself as the self-styled kick antisemitism out of football tsar, lecturing Spurs fans on how they can no longer identify — as they do quite harmlessly for every Jew (and there are quite a few) that I know — as “the Yids”.

Baddiel’s talent for self-publicity has made him the British media’s go-to Jew. And if the BBC and Guardian couldn’t give a hoot about his hypocrisy and double standards when it comes to anti-racism, they absolutely lap up his sellout stance on Israel. It is the perfect symbiotic relationship: Baddiel loves the spotlight and sound of his own voice — at the same time winning brownie points with fellow (if more ideologically sound, i.e., rabidly anti-Zionist, many would say self-loathing) ‘progressive’ left Jews, such as Miriam Margolyes and Alexei Sayle — and the anti-Israel British media cherish their useful, celebrity Jew who never fails to deliver, proudly regurgitating his “meh” attitude towards the Jewish State at the mere sight of a keyboard or microphone.

David Baddiel (Specsavers National Book Awards by TaylorHerring)

The appointed mouthpiece of British Jewry has been making lots of media appearances this past week to publicise his new book on antisemitism. (He can’t be suffering too badly when one of his main gripes is non-Jewish actors being chosen to play Jews.) And he has been at it again about the Jewish State: “My own position has always been kind of meh about Israel . . . obviously in the last twenty years — not for not good reason on many occasions in terms of the behaviour of the Israeli State — Israel has become a pariah.” (last Thursday’s Nihal Arthanayake show, BBC Radio 5 Live)

One would have to be a bit dim — one accusation that could never be levelled at Baddiel — not to understand the centrality of Israel to so many Diaspora Jews. Polls show that in excess of ninety percent of British Jews identify with the country, feeling that the very existence of a Jewish State protects and empowers them. And one would imagine that an intelligent bloke like Baddiel might see how his mother’s family (not to mention millions of others) may have been spared its calamity in 1939, having to flee Nazi Germany for its lives, had Israel existed then. But even if he doesn’t (or pretends that he doesn’t), to continually publicly denigrate it — especially at a time of increasing antisemitism (on left and right) — is selling out of the most distasteful kind.

Baddiel’s arrogance is matched only by the fragility of his ego — not a particularly attractive combo — as he insults and then blocks (on Twitter) anyone who dares challenge his self-promotional circus. Odd that, from someone who claims to champion free speech. A few years ago, he defended as “comedy” a YouTube video of someone repeating “gas the Jews” — “an artistic decision,” wrote Baddiel (full article) — to his girlfriend’s dog, which he had trained to give the Nazi salute.

I heard that Baddiel didn’t much care for my references to him in my blog post about his cousin, Rabbi Osher — a Baddiel anti-Zionist of the unprogressive Jewish right — who taught at my school. In a failed attempt to entice Osher into appearing in ‘his’ episode of the BBC geneology series Who Do You Think You Are?, Baddiel made some cringeworthy reference to his ultra-Orthodox cousin while standing outside a Golders Green bagel bakery. Osher recalled to me how the documentary’s producer had spent two and a half hours in his Stamford Hill home, over tea, trying to persuade him to participate. But even the very little Osher knew about David — including the “goyishe girlfriend” and partiality for seafood (“Even goyim don’t eat oysters!”) — was enough to convince him that a family reunion should not be on the menu.

Thankfully, neither Osher nor David Baddiel speak for British Jews. But Osher at least is a genuinely proud, practising one. David, on the other hand, knowingly and seemingly happily undermines the interests of the huge majority of them with his continual, selfish, entirely “meh”, entirely me, public pronouncements on Israel.

His self-serving arrogance and hypocrisy need to be called out at every opportunity.

Grooming in the Green: Just imagine it

A gang of nine Jewish males from Golders Green – eight English-born and one Israeli – has been convicted of grooming underage non-Jewish girls for sex, the vulnerable teenagers having been lavished with salt beef sandwiches (on rye) and latkes, and plied with Palwin No. 10, at kosher restaurants across North-West London.

One can just imagine the response of the BBC and Guardian etc “PC Brigade”, springing to the defence of Anglo-Jewry, protesting that the crimes had nothing whatsoever to do with race or religion . . .

Yeh, right!! We’d have a modern-day blood libel on our hands! And we wouldn’t even get to Nick Griffin. We wouldn’t need to, with . . .

• A now happily (for us) retired former MP and Mayor of London accessing his impressive stash of Zionist/Jewish/Israeli – they are, after all, interchangeable – stereotypes to “make sense” of the case;
• A weekend magazine feature on the ultra-Orthodox Jewish male’s attitude towards The Shiksa, with, among the interviewees, perhaps, a Haaretz ‘journalist’ who once saw some charedim kerb crawling in the Diamond Exchange district (as he was exiting a strip club);
• A Saddam-saluting Jock, foaming at the mouth, claiming the guilty verdicts should surprise no one, seeing as Diaspora Jewish males merely follow the example set for them by the IDF, with their war crimes against the poor, peace-loving Palestinians;
• A half-page Guardian ad taken out by an assortment of self-loathing writers, actors and other luvvies (vying, perhaps, to become the UK’s new Number One Self-Hating Jew), pledging to have circumcision reversals (foreskin regrafts) to distance themselves from a religion that “allows” such crimes; and
• The dishonourable (and dishonest) Member for Manchester Gorton once again cynically exploiting the memory of his poor late grandmother (see here), telling the House of Commons that “she did not die at the hands of the Nazis for Jews to do a thing like this.”
  

  Who needs the BNP?

But a gang of nine Muslim men – eight Pakistani and one Afghan – grooming, abusing, assaulting and/or raping up to 47 (that is forty-seven) vulnerable girls in Rochdale, every single one of whom was white, has, we are being told (though not, thankfully, by the only UK newspaper to consistently tell it as it is), nothing to do with Islam or its followers, or with its or their attitude towards females and, especially, non-Muslim females.

Nothing whatsoever.

[Related posts: World Trade Center set for suicide bomber memorial and The lesson of 9/11: Don’t dare upset the Muslims.]

England, Your England

“Sorry,” he proffered, as he inadvertently passed between me and the bookshelf.

“Bloody hell” I thought, after doing a brief double take, “that would never happen in Steimatzky!”

I had been browsing the Travel Writing section of my favourite bookshop – Waterstone’s (formerly Dillons) on Gower Street – as the impeccably mannered Englishman momentarily obstructed my view. This seemingly insignificant episode, however, resonated with me, demonstrating as it did the huge contrast in attitudes and behaviour between my birthplace and my homeland.

There is something lovely and serene about many aspects of life in Blighty, including the manner in which (most) folk treat each other with common courtesy and respect (if not warmth).

After a week in London (following a year and a half without a visit), however, I was ready to come home (which I did a few days later, last Thursday). Whilst enjoying the ‘civilisation’ booster, I now experience considerable difficulty in readjusting to the English, and – oddly perhaps – to English Jews especially.

This has become very apparent to me on Anglo-Jewish charity bike rides overseas, when I find it extremely testing having to spend a week and a half with a hundred, primarily North-West London coreligionists. For my last ride, in the Far East, I made my own way from Tel Aviv to the group’s hotel in Saigon. On arrival, the first person I came across, from Stanmore, on hearing that I had come from Israel, felt compelled to assure me of his Zionist credentials:

“I would never sell my flat in Herzliya Pituach.”

Oh, Theodor would have been so proud!

At last Monday’s seder (Passover meal), which I enjoyed in Muswell Hill, the Manc sitting opposite me, finding an Anglo-Israeli at the table, laid into American Jewish settlers, who – even if I don’t always agree with them – have priorities considerably more weighty than the “French château that sleeps 19” which Manc informed us he is about to lose to his ex-wife. I liked her already.

Then, clearly trying to impress the new fiancée by his side – and more closely resembling the Haggadah’s (seder service’s) Wicked Son (who tries to distance himself from the Jewish people) with every ignorant word – he became a tad bolder:

“It might have been better if Israel had never existed.”

“Your life would be a lot more precarious if it didn’t,” I fired back as if he had just dissed my mum. In fact, if the Wicked Son hadn’t been my friend’s brother-in-law, the Isaac Son might have jeopardised any future invitation by following the Haggadah’s instruction to “smash his teeth”.

The purpose of my trip was to attend an Isaacson simcha (festivity). And whilst – following the bar mitzvah of my cousin’s twins – there are two fine new Isaacson men, the speeches (including that of the Rabbi), essentially on cricket and Arsenal FC, prompted even this once sports mad teenager to think that his Isaacsons (should he, one day, surprise everyone) will grow up here.

When in England, these days, I find myself acting like a member of the Israel Tourist Board. Wicked Son excepted, I offered Melchett hospitality to everyone I met. The obvious reluctance of some to accept it, however, saddened me.

“I am not visiting until there is peace,” declared a cousin on the other, Reiss side of the family, who spends his vacations in Dubai. “I wouldn’t feel safe there” (a curious statement, I thought, considering he has never been). And another (who has a box at Arsenal) hasn’t returned since receiving poor service at his hotel’s pool during his only visit, in the Seventies.

I also dropped in on an old friend from law school, whose seemingly delightful Hampstead Garden Suburb existence – replete with BMW jeep and designer Labrador – showed me what I could have had if I didn’t love this f*cked-up country so bloody much.

The only thing that I truly do miss about Blighty is the sound of leather on willow – one even more seductive than that, from the building opposite, of “Melchett Shabbes afternoon girl” (if you get my drift) – but the politeness, the châteaus, the Premier League boxes, the Suburb, the jeeps, even the ‘proper’ dogs (only joking, Stuey and Dexx!) . . .  none of them held any real allure.

If you feel that you truly belong here, none of that “stuff” is any substitute.

[See also Why I Am Not (Really) an Englishman and the last four paragraphs of my Rosh Hashanah Message.]

Hating the French . . . racist, or merely human?!

Walking the streets of Tel Aviv these days, it is impossible to go very far without one’s hearing being assailed by a sickening nasal sound. And I am not referring to the delightful manner in which Israelis clear their sinuses (before projecting the dislodged contents onto the pavement without a thought for adjacent pedestrians).

No, I am talking French.

Like Germans entering France in May 1940, the French have arrived in Tel Aviv in their hordes. And they have only been a little more welcome, male and female Frenchman alike bearing tasteless testament to the deleterious consequences of gaudiness and too many hours spent under the sunbed (though North Africa is probably as much to blame as France for these roasted peacocks, jangling and clunking under the weight of excessive gold).

Israelis, hardly paragons of best manners, loathe the behaviour of the French – though perhaps they resent the competition – even scapegoating them for Tel Aviv’s increasingly unaffordable property prices (thankfully, the French have tended to settle the streets in the immediate vicinity of the Mediterranean, a safe-ish distance from Rothschild).

Whoever invented the French language must have had a single guiding principle: “How do I come up with a sound that will drive other nations to sheer distraction?” And my instantaneous, though subconscious, reaction every time that I hear it is for my cheek muscles to contort my mouth into a De Niro grimace, that psychotic inverted smile which “Bobby” pulls in the movies whenever he is about to “whack” someone.

When spoken by the male of the species especially, the language turns me into a Tourette’s case, giving me the irrepressible urge to utter “the ‘c’ word” (not that, as regular readers of melchett mike will attest, I normally need too much encouragement). And the Frenchman, like the c*** in your high school class, has absolutely no self-awareness of that quality.

Following the arrogant, pretentious excesses of Eric Cantona (who could only be French), Thierry Henry restored the dignity of the Frenchman in English football. But the dastardly Hand of Frog ‘goal’ (left) that broke Irish hearts 12 days ago – cheating them out of a place at next summer’s World Cup in South Africa – showed that Henry had us duped. And, instead of admitting his offence, and going down in history as both a great footballer and a gentleman, Henry will now be remembered as a cheat in the mould of that repellent Argentine degenerate, Maradona.

Breaks yer heart: Parisians watch German soldiers enter the capital (June 14, 1940)

To the Englishman, memories of white flags being raised over France in 1940 are as repugnant as thoughts of the Hand of God doing so in Mexico City in 1986. It took the French all of six weeks to surrender to the Germans – it is no coincidence that the central strip of the French tricolore is white – a noble feat which they then surpassed by establishing the collaborationist Vichy regime.

But are our neighbours across the Channel any more worthy of our contempt than, for example, the Belgians or the Dutch, who surrendered in two and a half weeks and four days, respectively? And, cowardice aside, what is it about the French that so gets under our skin?

Far from displaying a modicum of gratitude to the British for fighting for his nation’s freedom, De Gaulle subsequently made every effort to exclude the United Kingdom from the European Community (now Union). And his successors, too, have stabbed the British in the back at every given opportunity.

For some peculiar reason, known only to themselves, the French are persuaded that they are superior to everyone else. In art. In style. In food. And, most inaccurately of all, in bed. According to a global sex survey, the French only spend an average 19.2 minutes on foreplay, while we Brits spend 22.5 minutes (I have been known to spend even longer . . . especially when I have company).

In spite of its close proximity to London, I have visited Paris just once, and then only for a cousin’s engagement party (yes, he did). But it was enough to discover an absence of hospitality – shopkeepers feigning not to comprehend a single word of English as I groped for morsels of O-level French – that gives me no urge to return.

Since S, the French girl who paid me midnight visits at Jerusalem’s Ulpan Etzion (the aptly named “absorption centre” where we lived for five months following Aliyah), I have not even come close to dating a French woman. Moreover, my extensive Facebook and mobile phone lists contain a mere single French entry. And, having known Yael for ten years now, the thing that still strikes me every time that I meet her is how nice she is for a French woman. The exception to the rule.

A French cock

So, Thierry Henry – arguably, until a week and a half ago, the greatest living Frenchman – reverted to type, proving that it is no coincidence that the national emblem of France is the cock.

Call me a “racist”, but . . . when it comes to the French, xenophobia takes on a rationality that makes it, if not a virtue, then common sense.

Dedicated to Bridlington Gert and his noble crusade against racism in all its forms (oh yes . . . except that against Jews).

Why I Am Not (Really) an Englishman

The most frequent question I get asked, by Israelis and non-Israelis alike, is why I moved to Israel.

The non-Israelis – English primarily – can’t understand why I would have wanted to leave the country of my birth (and first 28 years). Whenever there is any kind of sporting contest between their (our?) country and my adopted one, the English cannot fathom why I support Israel. And, when we get inebriated on the Friday evening of my annual visit to Harrogate, my mate John, a good, solid Yorkshireman, always sets me his own version of the Tebbit Test: “If there was a war between England and Israel, who would you fight for?” Suffice it to say, my answer – like John’s question, the same every year – always leaves him shaking his head, lips clenched.

Many – perhaps even most – Israelis I meet, too, can’t understand why I chose what they consider a far harder life. Following a brief discourse on Israel’s (in my opinion) vastly superior quality of life (cf. standard of living), the positive half of my (now somewhat rote) explanation is that I am a Jew and a Zionist, and believe in the State of Israel (though, of course, that is not enough . . . one has to like it here too).

Somewhat surprisingly, the “Jew and a Zionist” account elicits fewer looks of incredulity from the English than from chiloni (secular) Sabras (born and bred Israelis), many – or perhaps, once again, most – of whom consider Zionism of only marginally more relevance to their lives than Judaism. It is as if these people view their nationality in a total religious and historical vacuum. Whilst I am far from religious, my Jewishness has always come first, being a sine qua non of both my Zionism and my Israeliness (soon after making Aliyah, I had furious arguments on the subject with my then work room-mate . . . though I put them down to Michal being a particularly aggressive Israeli bitch). So, in relation to John’s question (above), if I had emigrated instead to Australia – i.e., if there were no Jewish factor – my reply would be quite the opposite.

The other half of my explanation to Israelis is that I never really felt that I truly belonged in England. Most people find that odd. And I can understand why. I was born in England. I went to school there. I was a BBC journalist. I then qualified as an English solicitor (no, those are not “the ones with the wigs”). I am a keen football fan (some have said even a typical English hooligan). And I like cricket even more, travelling with England’s Barmy Army to the West Indies earlier this year.

But it was that trip to the Caribbean and time spent with said Barmy Army (right) – the only semblance to an “army” being that, after a few days, you can’t wait to get out – which reminded me (not that I had ever truly forgotten) why I am not (really) an Englishman: I simply do not enjoy consuming copious amounts of alcohol for hours on end while standing at some nondescript bar stinking of urine (the bar that is . . . not me), making less sense by the pint (me this time). (In fact, thoughts and feelings fresh, I wrote the first draft of this post during the first leg – from Barbados to New York – of my return journey to Tel Aviv, on the 3rd of March.)

Of perhaps more significance, three of my four grandparents were born in Eastern Europe, while the parents of the fourth only arrived in England a year or so before she was born. And my father was born in Ireland. So, in what way can I meaningfully be said to be English (which many would argue constitutes a distinct ethnic group)?

I grew up in an area of North-West London that could justifiably be classified as a “ghetto”. With the exception of an Indian family and a Greek one, everyone in our crescent of approximately fifty houses was Jewish. I went to a Jewish kindergarten, primary and secondary schools, and – other than merely dutiful or perfunctory exchanges with non-Jewish teachers, my father’s hospital colleagues, our cleaner Mrs. Hart, and my babysitter Mrs. Smith – did not experience any form of meaningful interaction with Gentiles until I attended university, aged 19.

And, after discovering Amy Henderson – tall, willowy, blonde, dreamy bluey-green eyes, and bra-less under fine lambswool jumpers in the biting cold Manchester winters (if you get my drift) – on the first day of my philosophy degree, it took until my graduation, some three years later, to regain my composure (and if any of those stories about going blind are more than bobe-mayses [old wives’ tales], then, God, I am truly sorry).

But my Jewishness and ghetto upbringing aside, even the ‘true’ English – though they believe, and will argue, that they do – have little sense of identity. Ask an Englishman why he is proud to be English and he will puff out his chest and boldly tell you about the Second World War – unless you enjoy pain, reminding him that it was actually the British who fought the War is ill-advised – and, err . . . football. He might also mutter something about the flag of St. George (see the photograph above). But you won’t understand what. And neither will he.

This lack of meaningful identity can be readily observed whenever you mention an Englishman’s compatriots to him. Geordies (from Newcastle) are knobs, Mackems (Sunderland) are dicks, Tykes (Yorkshiremen) are foul, Mancs (Manchester) are horrible, Scousers (Liverpool) are scum, Brummies (Birmingham) are prats, Cockneys (London) are twats, etc. They all bloody hate each other.

So, if a ‘true’ Englishman struggles with his identity, what hope is there for the English (ostensibly) grandson of Lithuanian and Galician Jews?

Of course, in terms of nationality, I am part British (part Israeli). Being so, however, is not synonymous with being English (whatever Israeli sports commentators might believe). And, certainly as far as the Englishman is concerned, if he has to share his Britishness with the Scots and – worse still (from his perspective) – with the Welsh, he has no problem admitting a mere 280,000 Jews too.

Notwithstanding all of the above (spot the contract lawyer), I identify myself as – probably because I instinctively feel – Jewish first (and very foremost), English second, then Israeli, and British last.

British last because it is only really meaningful in terms of wars and passports (i.e., formal nationality). The Olympic Games’ Team GB does not inspire a fraction of the passion of, for example, the English football or cricket teams. Indeed, the common traits of the English, Scots and Welsh hardly distinguish them from Uzbeks or Western Samoans.

From time to time, I visit the British military cemeteries in Jerusalem (left) and Beersheba, where thousands upon thousands of World War One dead rest. It is a deeply moving experience, knowing that these young men – from towns and villages I have only heard of through my former (sad) interest in local league cricket – fell in a far-off land, fighting a war which probably meant even less to them than the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan do to today’s British servicemen. And I always wonder whether anyone still mentions – never mind visits – them . . .

After everything I have written, however, how can I identify myself as English before Israeli?

Whilst you are entitled to be confused, unlike my Israeliness – which, as I explain above, is inextricably linked to my Jewishness – my Jewishness and Englishness stand alone. I am also far more English in character (cf. sense of belonging) than Israeli, which I will never truly be (other than, again, by nationality). And, in my adopted home, I am widely regarded as English – whenever I visit the café next to my office, its owner unfailingly “outs” me with a loud “Ahhhh . . . English-man!”

There are never lumps in my throat, however, when I watch A Bridge Too Far, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Dam Busters, or Battle of Britain . . . and they are proper movies, unlike those “B” Entebbe ones. The excrutiating experience, however, of watching Yoni (Netanyahu, Bibi’s brother) slowly expire, and the exhilarating one of the freed hostages running down the ramps of those Hercules transport aircraft, touches me in a way that nothing English or British ever could.

At a time when it was not common, or widely acceptable, for people to question the existence of the Deity, British philosopher Bertrand Russell (right) felt the urge to write his essay Why I Am Not a Christian (a good read, incidentally, for anyone prepared to open their eyes and mind).

And today, when it is not widely acceptable to be a Jew, never mind an Israeli, I guess that I am feeling a similar need to examine and to understand my sense of identity.

And, if that sounds a bit f*cked up, well . . . that’s because it probably is.

Islamofascists and the BNP, the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Watching the shocking (if it could really be called that) news last week  that – for the first time in its miserable history – the far-right British National Party had won two seats in the European Parliament, I found myself experiencing strangely (and worryingly) ambivalent feelings. 

Having been brought up on a staple Holocaust diet – many of my parents’ friends, and of my childhood friends’ parents, were survivors – I don’t feel that I require a refresher course in the dangers posed by the far-right. 

And, however much he might be trying to re-brand himself, BNP leader Nick Griffin (right) is clearly a vile Nazi low life. He has tastefully referred to the Holocaust as “the Holohoax”, and even criticised fellow Holocaust denier David Irving for . . . wait for it . . . admitting that up to four million Jews might have died: “I am well aware that the orthodox opinion is that six million Jews were gassed and cremated and turned into lampshades. Orthodox opinion also once held that the world is flat.” 

But, as a Jew, a Zionist and an Israeli, and as an Englishman, but most of all as a human being – valuing life and freedom above all else – I am also sickened by, and fearful of, the cancer-like spread of Islamofascism. 

On July 7, 2005 (7/7), four young British Muslims – all but one of whom were also born in the UK – blew themselves up on London Transport, killing 52 innocent civilians and injuring over 700 more. A similar attack, 14 days later, which would have murdered and maimed on an ever larger scale, failed only because the bomb maker couldn’t add up. Since then, only the supreme efforts of Britain’s police and intelligence services have thwarted further atrocities by Islamofascists. 

And, on a daily basis in mosques across Britain, supposed religious leaders are feeding their congregants with hate and inciting them to murder their fellow Britons. (The oft-heard argument that not all British Muslims support such activities is, of course, true . . . but it is also a “red herring”, used to avoid confronting the reality of the significant numbers who do.) 

As far as I can tell, the BNP is the only political group in the UK sufficiently untainted by “political correctness” to be openly taking a stand against this “enemy within”, which seeks to undermine not only the British way of life . . . but the very foundations of the State in which it chooses to live. 

One evening, some years back (before 7/7), I witnessed BNP supporters protesting outside a central London mosque where a “hate preacher” – Abu “the Hook Man” Hamza (right), Abu Qatada, Omar Bakri Muhammad, Abu Izzadeen, or one of their repulsive, poisonous ilk – had been praising the perpetrators of 9/11. The BNP was the only presence there. 

In such circumstances (and however worrying), is the BNP’s growing appeal in the hearts and minds of the British public – as demonstrated by last week’s election results – truly that “shocking”? 

Committed anti-fascists aside, the “rent a mob” which pelted Griffin with eggs outside Westminster on the day following the results consisted of the same wrong-minded muppets who demonstrated against Israel during its war of self-defence, earlier this year, following eight years of Hamas missiles. 

And even that supposed bastion of Britishness, the BBC Wind-Up Service – which, due to some personal inadequacy, I still listen to on my drive to and from work – pursues the most shamelessly sycophantic Muslim-friendly agenda: hardly a day goes by without some fascinating documentary/panel discussion on Qatari lesbian poets, or suicide bombers who love only Allah more than their hamsters. Producers seem to be anticipating the imminent implementation of Sharia law at Bush House, and putting themselves in a position to say “But I was okay!” 

The Union Jihad . . . of the Islamic Republic of Great Britain?

Britons need to wake up, retract their tongues from Muslim holey places, and – if they can overcome the vile stench of hate – smell the arabica . . . before it is too late. 

Make no mistake, the BNP – the successor to the National Front of the seventies and eighties – might have swapped their skinheads for suits, but they are the same fascist scum. And one can only imagine the horrors that they would perpetrate, given half the chance, on all those whom they does not consider truly “British”. 

The danger posed by the BNP, however, is primarily hypothetical. And I reject accusations of complacency in this regard – the British will never be Germans. 

The threat posed by Islamofascists, on the other hand, is real and terrifying. Another calamity for the Jews, or for any other “infidels” for that matter, will be perpetrated by a bin Laden or an Ahmadinejad . . . not an inbred nothing like Griffin. 

I fear for Britain’s future no less than I fear for Israel’s. Whilst the threats here are rather more existential in nature, Britain, and especially England, will – in twenty or thirty years’ time – be entirely unrecognisable from the “green and pleasant land” where I grew up. 

The British, to my (biased) mind, represent the very the best of Europe – although, it has to be said, the competition is not great – and I genuinely despair for them and their proud constitutional democracy. 

So, I don’t blame any Britons who voted BNP in last week’s election. Indeed, it says much for British temperance and rectitude that – with the creeping Islamisation of their land, and the moral bankruptcy exposed in their politicians by the recent MPs’ expenses scandal – they didn’t give the BNP more mandates.