The day I was arrested for swearing

In the UK saying the word 'fuck' is apparently worse than democide

At 9.53am on Tuesday June 27th 2023, I was arrested.

What was my crime? Had I held up an ambulance by gluing myself to the road, daubed my tits in rainbow glitter and run past children with my dick out, or coerced millions of human beings into having an experimental gene therapy?

Nope. I was arrested for swearing.

I had gone down to Paddington to support my friend Francis O’Neill and his fellow Yellow Boards outside Dorland House, the home of the UK Covid-19 Inquiry, aka Whitewash. On that day, former Health Secretary, and aider and abetter of democide, Matt Hancock, was giving ‘evidence’ to the committee. As many of us predicted, Hancock told the inquiry that ‘next time’ the lockdowns should be quicker and harder.

Hancock is a dangerous psychopath, yet I’m the one who was arrested.

You will have seen the brilliant Yellow Boards up and down the country. They are grass roots activists raising awareness about the globalist, anti-human mission creep affecting us all, including the Covid-19 lockdowns (house arrest), and the ‘vaccine’ harms.

As I write this, I’m chuckling to myself at the words ‘inquiry’ and ‘evidence’, as neither of these words are representative of their true meaning. And while I’m about it, nor is the word ‘health’. The true meaning of words has never been more important, as the state ramps up the use of its unwieldy power against the individual.

Dorland House is an official-looking building on Westbourne Terrace in Paddington. It has a pair of Doric pillars standing guard either side of the glass-fronted entrance as if to say: ‘Don’t worry, we prize classical principles like democracy here’. I have probably passed it many times not thinking for one second that it would play a significant part in my fifty-three year existence.

Incidentally, Dorland House is listed for sale. It will cost you a mere 85 million quid.

When I got down to the protest, I noticed a little wooden table near the entrance. It was guarded by two men and a woman. They looked like fans of sensible catalogue clothing and Classic FM. Glossy brochures were fanned out on the table, which seemed to be something to do with events in 2021. I got talking to them and said: ‘I presume we’re on the same side’ to which the woman replied: ‘Well, the anti-vaxxers are over there.’

She pointed her contempt-filled finger towards the main road where a small group of the Yellow Boards where gathering.

A cloud of vermillion mist descended.

I have made a conscious decision not to muddle anybody, or indeed myself, with the ‘vaccine’ content detail. I have long believed that a moral argument goes straight to the jugular. So I told them as calmly as I could that by using coercion in the uptake of the experimental vaccines, the principles of the Nuremberg Code had been violated. As I turned to walk away from three open mouths, I spun round and said: ‘That’s not conjecture, that’s a fact.’

By the side of the entrance to Dorland House, there’s a raised grassy bank where the ‘journalists’ had started to gather. I nearly wrote knoll, but I don’t like to mix my conspiracy jargon.

I decided I’d talk to the gentlemen of the press individually. First I tried to engage a lanky young man from Sky News in conversation. He was perched on the grassy slope, wearing a Hunter Green tie. It’s my firmly held belief that any man wearing a green tie should be regarded with deep suspicion at all times. I asked him if he was going to address the democide against the British people at all. Without even turning to look at me he told me he was in the middle of sending a work email.

I strode over purposefully to a dishevelled bundle of khaki chinos, stubble, and Nikons, pale faces turned away like embarrassed Geishas. I asked a stocky strawberry blonde what publication he was from: ‘The Telegraph’ came the sheepish reply. ‘Ah, the good old Telegraph.’ I said. ‘You’ve done great Covid propaganda haven’t you?’ Mr Stocky snapped back: ‘Don’t have a go at me, I don’t write for them.’

‘Let not any one pacify his conscience by the delusion that he can do no harm if he takes no part, and forms no opinion. Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing. He is not a good man who, without a protest, allows wrong to be committed in his name, and with the means which he helps to supply, because he will not trouble himself to use his mind on the subject.’
John Stuart Mill

I gave up trying to raise the spirits of Woodward and Bernstein, and I noticed the press had started to broadcast live segments. One of them was Tom Harwood from GB News, the ‘Free Speech’ channel I was a regular contributor on for 8 months, until I started speaking out publicly about their disgraceful testing policy, and their ongoing Covid-19 jab propaganda. Unsurprisingly, they never asked me back.

In case you don’t know, Mr Harwood is one of the proudest Hancock-loving, Covid-19 lockdown and jab propagandists. He would be right at home in a Hugo Boss uniform and knee-high leather boots. And that’s just at the weekends. I’m delighted to say his smarmy, bootlicking face has pride of place on The Great Wall of C**ts.

As I watched, I realised that if I stood directly behind Harwood, holding a Yellow Board, I might be in shot. It was worth a try.

Me behind holding a Yellow Board behind fascist collaborator, Tom Harwood (GB News)

If you can bear to watch, the full clip is here

You can’t hear it in the video, but I’m shouting: ‘Stop lying to the British public, Tom, and do your fucking job!’

Shortly after my surprise appearance on GB News, an officious man dressed in a dark grey suit that seemed to match his soul, came out and told me that it was private property, and that I should stop swearing. So I said: ‘Let me get this right. You’re more worried about me fucking swearing than what’s going on in there, and the crimes that have been committed against the British people?’

Before I could say fuck my old boots, a ginger-bearded copper and his two young female side-kicks had descended, and next thing I know I’m being gripped firmly by the tops of my arms, and arrested under Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986.

My arrest for swearing. Photo number 3 contains the Sky News reporter with the green tie who was busy doing a work email...

It wasn’t long before my arrest was on the front page over the pond on Info Wars. For the record, I tweeted the word ‘cunt’, I didn’t say it (which is very unlike me).

Flanked by the two policewomen, I found myself standing in front of the press. As the bulbs flashed, I pointed at the rabble and told them that because they had gone along with the Covid-19 propaganda, it made them complicit. I also re-iterated the fact that the coercion used in the administration of these experimental drugs was an undeniable crime.

This is a ‘Shame’ of journalists (collective noun) photographing me while I tell them inconvenient truths about their complicity in the crimes against the British people.

The police told me to get in the back of a police van with that awful gated boot. I refused to get in as I suffer from claustrophobia. After insisting I get in the van several times, they eventually agreed that I be driven in a minibus. I imagined a day trip to the seaside: ‘Ooh, are we going anywhere nice?’

Holborn. Apparently it’s lovely at this time of year.

The copper-bearded copper was driving the minibus. At one point he said: ‘Just to inform you, we’re recording audio.’ ‘In which case, I replied, let me state for the record that everything I said back there is the truth. You can’t escape it. One day the three of you will regret what you did today.’

It took about an hour to drive to Holborn police station. We drove into a lock-up filled with stolen bikes that hadn’t been claimed. The desk sergeant came out to meet us, and I was searched by one of the policewomen. I was taken up an enclosed ramp to the custody suite.

As I stood at the desk, it was just me and a room of 8 or 9 police staff. Rather than keep quiet, I told them what I was doing and why. I know you’re not supposed to say anything to the police when you’re in custody, but the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. Whatever the protocols, it’s my view that the more individuals you can reach with the truth the better.

At one point in my truth-bomb drop, I said: ‘Don’t tell me there aren’t people in this room who aren’t thinking they may have been affected by the jabs?’ I glanced back at two young women who were sitting under a whiteboard with all the cell occupant details scrawled on it. They both smirked, and I said: ‘See, they know what I’m saying is true.’ One of them mumbled: ‘No comment.’

For better or worse, I had a captive audience of people whose job it is to make people captive. You couldn’t write it… (well I can, so I will.)

The custody sergeant, an attractive bald man who fancied himself as a cocky king of banter, told me proudly that he wasn’t forced to have the jabs, he ‘chose to have them, because he wanted to go to Spain.’ Fuck me, I was talking to somebody in law enforcement who didn’t even understand the meaning of coercion.

Kafka, eat your heart out.

I had brought a dark blue rucksack with me to the protest, and as part of the custody process, one of the policewomen announced the contents in front of me, before sealing the rucksack in a large plastic bag:  

‘Sunglasses, wallet, phone… tin of Heinz tomato soup.’ 

‘I’m going to a friend’s for lunch’, I said quickly, ‘and they love Heinz tomato soup.’ 

I was wearing Benjamin’s badges for my friend Trudi. Benjamin took his own life during the unspeakably evil lockdowns in 2020. He was twenty-five years old. They told me to take the badges off.

Trudi’s badges for her son Benjamin, who took his own life, aged twenty-five, during the unholy lockdowns in 2020.

They also told me to take my little cross off. What was I going to do, stab myself in the eye with it? I reluctantly unclasped it, and put it in my wallet.

I would reach for it many times over the next 17 hours, thinking it was there.

The custody sergeant gave me a piece of paper with specific information for females being detained. I couldn’t resist quipping that it was good to see that they know what a biological woman is in Holborn.

One of the desk staff, let’s call him Pete, took me into a side room. He gave me a small white stick with a tiny scraper at the end and asked me to swab the inside of my mouth. Next he took my fingerprints. Gone are the days of rolling your fingers in black ink, this is high-tech digital stuff.

He told me I’d be in cell number 3. My heart beat faster at the thought of being in an enclosed space. Pete suggested that I choose books to read. He took me to a tiny cupboard that had a shelf of books. I feel quite teary as I remember him suggesting I read Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code, because it was a ‘page turner’. I picked two books in the C section: Bernard Cornwall’s The Last Kingdom, because I’d heard James Delingpole talk about him on London Calling, and Patricia Cornwall’s Isle of Dogs.

Pete took me to my cell. He could see I was anxious, and he was reluctant to shut the heavy metal door. There are two windows in a police cell door. One is a rectangle opening that they pass drinks and food through, and the other window is a small, round peephole. They are both meant to be closed, but Pete left the round one open.

A jobsworth came on duty 9 hours later and shut it.

The only natural light in the room came from a narrow, rectangular panel of small opaque, square glass panes, similar to the ones you see etched into a pavement. There was a stark strip light which was thoughtfully angled just above the sleeping area.

The cell interior was decorated in pale, nicotine yellow tiles, with a milky blue stripe of contrasting tiles around the middle. There was a metal toilet round a corner. The sleeping area consisted of a long white plastic bench and on top lay a royal blue plastic gym mat, and matching square plastic pillow. As I lay there, I looked up and saw a faded advert for Crimestoppers.

Custody chic by Terence Conran.

Pete brought me a nice cup of tea, and two cups of water. He didn’t use the metal hatch, he opened the cell door. At one point, he told me quietly I was just saying what I believed.

A tiny spark of understanding flickered between us.

Not long after I’d been detained, Pete took me out to take a call on the station phone. It was the solicitor. I was informed that the police were going to issue me with a Public Nuisance Disorder and a £90 fine. Apparently this was good news. She told me I should be released in the late afternoon/evening. Back to cell number 3 I went.

The time goes very slowly when you can’t see much natural light, and there’s no clock. I went through a gamut of emotions in that cell: Fear. Panic. Calm. Distress. Hope. Resignation. Then there were the constant ‘what ifs’. What if they decide to pin a trumped up charge on me? What if they send me to prison? This is Britain in 2023. We’ve just witnessed the so-called democratic West resort to crimes we thought were in the past.

Anything is possible.

I found great comfort in singing. The acoustics in that cell were second to none. I let my mind choose the songs organically. The first one that popped out was God Give Me Strength, written by Burt Bacharach & Elvis Costello. It has the most beautiful, ethereal melody. Next to come out was Jesus, He Loves Me which I dimly recalled Whitney Houston had sung in The Bodyguard. Then one of my favourite songs of all time, God’s Country by Blake Shelton.

Those of you who listen to my podcast will know this song means a lot to me, even if I can never remember the lyrics.

I saw the light in the sunrise
Sittin' back in a 40 on the muddy riverside
Gettin' baptized in holy water and 'shine
With the dogs runnin'
Saved by the sound of the been found
Dixie whistled in the wind, that'll get you Heaven bound
The Devil went down to Georgia but he didn't stick around
This is God's country.

I recited the Lord’s Prayer several times.

I spoke aloud to Terry, and told him not to worry.

My cell was opposite the door leading into the main part of the police station. The jangle of keys, footsteps, and unlocking of doors was strangely comforting. I heard two Nigerian men shouting through their cell doors: ‘Ehh? Bro… No comment. No comment, bro! Eh oh? Eh oh!’ They sounded like Nigerian Teletubbies.

Silence was far more disturbing. An alarm went off, and I remember thinking what if there’s a fire and I’m trapped in here. I was constantly batting away very dark thoughts.

The stench of bleach suddenly made me gag as it hit the back of my throat. According to one of the new staff on duty, let’s call him Dave, the guy in the next cell had smeared his own shit up the walls.

Charming.

I hadn’t eaten for hours and was feeling a bit faint, so Dave brought me some microwave tuna pasta and a bolognese. I opened both, and heaved. I decided I’d stick to nibbling custard creams. I didn’t want to get food poisoning in there. At one point of claustrophobic anxiety, I did think about faking a panic attack, but the realisation that I’d then be in the care of medics, scared me much more.

At 7.30pm, Dave told me that someone had been waiting outside for me. He described the person. It was Francis. He’d been there for hours. They told him to go home as it ‘could be hours yet.’ That’s when I knew something had changed.

Fucking hell. Hold tight, Abs.

At around 10.45pm, I was told I had a second phone call. It was the solicitor. She told me that the police had changed their original decision to issue me with a Public Nuisance Disorder, and had decided to keep me in to interview me. She advised me to make a formal complaint. By this point, my head was swimming with confused, queasy exhaustion.

Who do I trust? A small voice in my ear answered: ‘nobody.’

A couple of hours later, the metal hatch opened. It was two policewomen who introduced themselves and announced they’d be interviewing me in due course. More waiting.

As I had my 10th polystyrene cup of water passed through the hatch, Dave and another copper (who had confided in me that he couldn’t understand why I had been detained so long), told me they were conflicted about me being released because I’d been so easy going, and they didn’t know who was going to replace me. Dave asked me if I’d ever been on a Just Stop Oil protest. I said no, because I’m not a brainwashed idiot in a cult.

At about 3am, a solicitor turned up. I was taken by the two female coppers to have a quick meeting with him so he could advise me privately before the interview. He was wearing jeans, white trainers and a white t-shirt. Not exactly The Lincoln Lawyer.

The interview was recorded in one of those soulless rooms you see on TV. I was so exhausted by this point I kept my answers brief, as advised. During the interview, she read the transcript of the recording just before my arrest. She had to say the words ‘fuck’, ‘fucking’ and ‘fuck you’ with a straight face. I dug my finger nails into my palms to stop myself cracking up.

I nearly said: ‘To be honest, I’m amazed there are no cunts,’ but I held back because I’d been in police custody for over 17 hours, and I just wanted to go home to my own bed. And my hungry cat, Suzy.

After the interview, I was told I’d be put back in my cell and a decision would be made within the hour. Despite the adrenalin rush, strip light, and the hard plastic pillow, I fell into the deepest sleep. I was woken by the two policewomen opening the cell door. I was going home.

They issued me with a Community Resolution Order. The circumstances of the arrest on my charge sheet read: ‘Swore when told not to by officers.’

I got my rucksack back, and as I was leaving Dave joked: ‘Don’t forget to give us a five star rating.’ Sure, Dave.

I stepped out into the still night air. Apart from a lone night bus trundling past, Central London was deserted. I felt a flush of relief. I reached for my phone and turned it on. The endless pings and tings sounded like someone reciting a Chinese telephone directory. The tsunami of notifications crashed over me. There were tweets and messages ranging from disbelief, praise, prayer, solidarity, concern, rage, and pure love.

The aftermath has been interesting. Some big Twitter voices have remained strangely ambivalent about my arrest. Is it because they’re not prepared to support a big-haired, big-titted, foul-mouthed bird, who is rather too fond of the word ‘cunt?’ Or is it because they don’t have the bollocks to be honest about the sheer scale of the unholy crimes committed against the human race, the likes of which the world hasn’t witnessed since the first half of the twentieth century?

Either way, it won’t look good in the history books.

‘Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.’
Dietrich Bonhoeffer