In March of 2014, I was approached by a man called Will Storr. He told me that he was planning a piece about me in Esquire Magazine. I was interesting because I was 21 years old and standing for election to the European Parliament. I was on the party list for my political party, Liberty GB, along with my party chairman Paul Weston.
If you haven’t heard of Liberty GB before, basically we’re Islamophobes.
That was literally what Tony Blair’s speech writer, Andrew Neather, said about the former Labour government’s policy of opening the borders. At this stage, Britain might already be in a death spiral, but America has a chance to change it. You can see Liberty GB party chairman Paul Weston explain this in his recent speech at CPAC 2016.
My work in this realm of politics has attracted plenty of media attention over the years, but Will Storr seemed to be one of the first to really notice that young people could soon be getting on board with counter-jihad politics.
I was among the first wave of young people hopping on board (yeah, I’m so hipster). He reached out to my party via email and we arranged to meet in Southampton, a city in the South East of England where I was standing for election.
Storr met me as I was wearing my Liberty GB rosette, speaking to voters and handing out leaflets. We had set up a stall in the street with a large banner on the front that read ‘STOP ISLAMISATION. DEFEND FREEDOM’. It certainly turned heads, and the market stalls near us weren’t particularly happy. The police were called several times, only for them to turn away when they realised we’d sought permission from the council. With the amount of foot traffic we were getting, the market stalls near us should have been pleased.
As people received my message warmly, shook my hand and took leaflets home for themselves and their family, Storr seemed a little surprised. He spoke to me as I stood having a cigarette break behind the Liberty GB stall, and seemed to be pretty balanced. In fact, at some points he could almost have been mistaken as a supporter. It was all an act of course – smarmy, lefty journalists like this love to create a false sense of security and ‘fool’ people like me into saying something radical. We’re their cash cow – whenever someone on the right (or anyone who just dislikes Islam) says or does anything shocking, little-known journalists jump at the opportunity of covering it. They know they’ll get readers.
I remember Storr pointing at a young Muslim girl who walked past us as we chatted.
The girl was wearing a hijab or a burka – I can’t remember which. He looked at me in a way that suggested he was shocked or disgusted, prompting me to reply. Of course he wanted me to say something mean, so I guess he was probably happy when I responded:
“Yeah, they start the brainwashing early.”
What happened next, however, really messed up his plans.
As I stood behind the stall, and helping people sign our petition to ban Halal slaughter, a Muslim woman walked up to me. The woman was with her children and was smiling as she approached me. She said ‘hello’ and told me that the banner on our table really resonated with her. In her hushed tones, she told me that she’d fled her country to flee the oppression of Islam – but that England isn’t what she thought it was.
What was once a land of the free (sorry Americans, America didn’t invent freedom!) has since become a cesspit of third world filth, violent crime, Sharia courts and child rape. The Muslim lady offered me her vote and told me how she still cannot escape Islam as a result of her community being so rabidly Islamic, and her husband treating her the same way he did back at home.
I really connected with the woman. This is not a rare occurrence. When I first entered politics in my teens, I joined the British National Party. This was a political party that had a long history of white separatism, but which became incredibly popular in the 2009 European elections as a result of their anti-immigration position. This resonated with working class people who were desperate for any party to tackle the problem. I was one of those people.
The British National Party, despite its long history of white separatism, had elected councillors all over the country who would be regularly contacted by Muslim women being abused by their husbands.
After around an hour of watching us campaign and interviewing me, Storr introduced his photographer.
The photographer had come to the UK from Australia to film us and do a photo shoot with me. We took some time away from the campaign to take some photographs at Southampton Castle.
Clearly, the story was being taken pretty seriously. We unfolded a huge reflective light sheet thing, whatever they’re called, and began taking photographs in front of the crumbling castle tower. They had me lifting my chin and looking into the air – the most stereotypical patriotic pose there is – and the photos came out great. Somehow, they’d made my beer belly appear non-existent and given me a well-needed jaw line. So far so good.
I returned to find that my colleagues had done a seriously impressive job handing out leaflets.
We were almost out, but decided to keep going for another half an hour before we headed to a local pub where I could be interviewed more thoroughly by Storr.
Just moments later, I heard the first cry of ‘racist!’. A white man wearing scruffy trainers and a backpack had obviously heard on the grape vine that a bunch of evil racists were campaigning in the town. He headed towards us, his blonde, dirty dreadlocks bounced from side to side as he got closer. He took one look at me and immediately took offence – I was wearing salmon trousers, brown brogues and a blazer. ‘Tory boy!’ he screamed, as he came closer to me. ‘Racist! Islamophobe!’ he cried.
The delusional bastard then lunged forward, attempting to steal our leaflets.
I grabbed them in time and in frustration, he kicked our table, snapping the legs and sending our material tumbling into the street. He went in for a second go, and the photographer quickly got snaps of him before he realised and ran straight off.
This moment always sticks in my mind. I had spent the day peacefully campaigning against a truly fascist, authoritarian and evil ideology. I had shaken hands with Muslim women and thanked them for offering me their vote. I had met local people terrified for their children’s future, and for their own prospects as their towns become increasingly Islamised and subsumed by third world culture.
It took a guilty white man – a guilty white man culturally appropriating black hair at that – to bring our stall tumbling to the ground.
It took a white, classless and uncurious guy to attack us, call us racist and run off before the police could be called. Storr and his cameraman were shocked. They asked me why I wasn’t shaken, and they seemed genuinely surprised to learn that I was, even then, totally used to people reacting like that. The left is not nice. The left are not all fluffy bunnies and rainbows. Perhaps Storr realised that.
We packed up and headed to a nearby pub for a well-earned pint.
I got a pint of local ale, Storr got a lemonade (or something equally non-alcoholic), and my colleague George Whale got himself a pint of something or other. We headed to a table when Storr awkwardly shifted and said ‘Oh, I thought this was just going to be me and you, Jack’.
I told him that George would simply sit and listen – I would only answer his questions.
Storr wasn’t happy, though. He told us that he’d be worried that George might pipe up and say something. I sniggered, but George obliged. He grabbed a newspaper and sat, pointlessly, a few tables down.
The dictaphone came out and so began the interview. I sipped my pint and I saw Storr changed. I knew it would happen. Gone was the reasonable man who was genuinely curious, and here was a self-centred know-it-all who thought that he’d got me cornered. Finally, he could get me to say some terrible things and he’d have a killer story to tell – and something that would catapult him into the pages of Esquire. An ‘expose’ of Jack Buckby, the young, well-dressed political gobshite. The mere thought of his virtue signalling being published in the magazine must have aroused the poor fella.
He got nothing from me.
He called me racist, I told him that a concern about the effect that Islam has on a free, Western society is based entirely on evidence. We have seen what Islam has done to every other place it has infiltrated and dominated. Hell, one of Mohammed’s first acts in Medina was to behead 700 Jews and take their wives and kids of slaves. The Hijra has never been peaceful.
He said that my entire line is nothing more than spin. Storr referred to a speech I gave – my first ever political speech – at a Pan-European event attended by European nationalist parties. In the speech, I talk about the importance of spin, and how we need to take the focus off race and onto culture. I proposed a campaign entitled ‘Love Culture. Hate Racism’. My line of thinking was that the turn the left’s language around on them. We spin it.
Storr was convinced my speech was actually suggesting that we lie – that, actually, we keep hating those God damn non-whites and pretend we’re only concerned about culture instead.
I explained to him how absurd that suggestion is. I told him that culture and race are inextricably linked. If you change the ethnic makeup of a nation, you will change the culture. Import millions of Somalians into Britain and you’ll get Somalian enclaves. That’s fact, not hatred, and not racism.
After perhaps an hour of discussion, Storr began raising his voice. He was infuriated. His long list of ‘gotcha’ questions had failed. A few tables down, George continued drinking his pint, raising his eyebrows and smirking. We’d won. Storr had nothing.
To this day, the article has not been published.
I’ve contacted Storr on occasion to ask him about the apiece and the date it will be published. He told me to wait a few months. He then told me to wait six months. It’s been over two years. Where’s your hit piece Mr Storr?
My biggest beef with the entire situation was that I never got those photographs that made me look good. You’ll have to make do with this one instead.
By the way! I’m standing for election again.
This time, I’m running for the Parliamentary seat of Batley and Spen. My campaign is focused on the rape of young girls throughout the region by Muslim gangs – an issue ignored by all other parties. If you’d like to support my work (and help me champion these innocent girls who are routinely ignored by social services, the police and the politicians), then please donate what you can to my campaign. Every penny is greatly appreciated. If you’re not a British citizen, the maximum amount you can legally donate is £499 (GBP).