I Want My
By Mike James in Germany
3 June 2008
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 file). 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
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 jokes.
Frau Müller is one of the few women I have met in my life who
decidedly placed a hardened shell between my good-natured humour and
her own unsmiling professionalism.
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 breeze.)
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
“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 question.
“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
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
“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 English schoolchildren.”
“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
This statement blew Frau Müller into another dimension. I tried to
“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
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 Urselerstrasse 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
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
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
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.
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