(note: this is was written in the aftermath of Nick Griffin and Andrew Brons gaining seats in the European Parliament in 2009, as such is will no doubt grow increasingly outdated with each reading. To remedy this I suggest you don't read it at all. )

PART ONE

Day 1

I write this on the plane to Brussels. Currently, we are passing over the Belchen region of Austria’s Black Forest. From my sky-borne vantage point I am able to see all the myriad breeds, species, textures, colours and hues of florae and faunae: over a clutch of Douglas firs and pines, a gaggle of snow geese overlap with a flight of jackdaws, a single Golden Eagle visible among them. All of nature here teems and commingles. What an unnatural, godless sight! And one which makes me sick to the core of the centre of the pit of my guts. Once I am Prime Minister I shall make it my first act to declare that no foreign wildlife shall be allowed into Britain. Foreigners will not be welcome. In fact, they’ll be shot, and that includes plants. Following this I shall finally give the British people what they want and declare war on Calais; after that I’ll introduce the compulsory national Morris dancing scheme our nation’s ill-disciplined under-eighteens are so severely lacking. Then I’ll have all gays hanged.

But good lord, I am getting ahead of myself! It’s been so long since I last found time to update this, the personal diary of me, Nick Griffin, Chairman of the British National Party, that I have neglected to document the momentous goings on: after the months-long campaign, knocking on doors, handing out leaflets, undergoing the usual night of unbearable anticipation, and, of course, a lifetime of media-blackout persecution, I’ve led my party to victory. That’s right! The British people have spoken and declared, in their incontrovertible wisdom, that they see myself and my sidekick Andrew Brons as fit to demonstrate and promote our party’s brand of unstinting hardcore patriotism, common sense isolationist economic policies, and virulent anti-minority sentiment. Admittedly, they’ve asked us to do so in a foreign country - ordinarily the natural enemy of the BNP - but a victory is a victory.

Understandably, Brons was elated - a little too elated: during an interview with Sky News he called the result ‘the beginning of our glorious lebensraum’. Luckily, I was stood beside him at the time and was able to elbow my way in front of the camera to make a hasty attempt at convincing the reporter that what he’d actually said was ‘This is the beginning of our laborious ladies’ gowns’. When the reporter pressed me to explain what exactly this meant I thought it best to continue my cunning cover-up in a similarly enigmatic vein: ‘The wooden crumble is paraded in a shower of flared trousers’, I said, after which the reporter backed slowly away in a state of what I can only assume was baffled awe.

And so, to Government. Oddly, I overheard the Sky News reporter say that a number of the newly elected MEPs have recently gone awol.

Day 5

My first day in Brussels.

We’ve spent the past few days being shown round the Espace Léopold, my new workplace. Despite, obviously, being a money-sponging legislation-spinning machine, a cultural piss-dilution factory and literally full of foreigners, it is nonetheless an impressive place. In the gents’ toilets alone there’s classical music piped in through overhead speakers, a selection of organic scented handwashes in the soap dispenser and charcoal sketches by Grosz, Piranesi, and other weird-sounding foreigners lining the walls. Fear not, I managed to put a British stamp on things by doing a poo in one of the urinals whilst no-one was about. And the food! I write this with a mouth crammed with Liege waffles and mascarpone, Ardennes wild boar paté smeared across my face, and a large glass of Huet Le Mont in my hand. Foreign muck, of course, but it will have to do till my wife’s parcel of butter pies, pea water and pork scratchings arrives.

A curious aside: all the meals, snacks and whatnot I order here are brought to me by a serving staff whose appearance is so unusual I feel it worth commenting upon. They all seem to be roughly four foot in height and of a slight build. I’d refer to them as children but there’s no way for sure I can tell: they all wear long purple robes with hoods hanging low over their faces. They do not speak. I can only assume they are examples of some degenerate race which has not yet blighted the shores of Britain. Ah, Britain. Britain, Britain, Britain. Despite the richness of this place, there really is no comparison with Britain. The word alone conjures up images of Empire, courtesy and culture - everything that is civilized. But now I must cease writing, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here is on in a second. I think it’s the one where they drink the milkshakes made from koala gonads and kangaroo sphincters tonight. LOL!!

Day 14

A calamity has befallen me. A calamity, so great, so bizarre, so unthinkable a part of my mind remains steadfast that it must be a dream, an hallucination brought on by the vast quantities of filthy foreign food. Were it not for the very real feelings of unendurable physical pain and mental toil I also find myself experiencing, I’d be convinced entirely. Less than a fortnight has passed since I made my last journal entry but, in that time, a lifetime of experience - terror, misery, agony - has been my lot.

It began as I was preparing to make my maiden speech, a work of outright genius, even if I do say so myself: I planned to begin with a verbatim recitation of Goebbels’s 1939 pre-war speech, only with the phrase ‘Jewish cabal’ replaced with ‘the BBC’ and the phrase ‘Slavic subhumans’ simply replaced with the word ‘foreigners’; then I was to move onto a sparklingly satirical poem of my own devising entitled ‘Immigrants In-My-Pants’; and, for my big finish, I had Brons waiting in the wings, preparing to an Al Jolson inspired jazz routine in full black-face. It was going to be a satirical right-wing bombshell. I sat in my office, looking through my notes, giving everything a final check. Satisfied, I ordered a glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape which again was brought by one of the diminutive, hooded serving staff. As the first drop passed my lips I knew it was drugged. Immediately my vision began to haze, the room started spinning and when I tried to stand I dropped to my knees. The hooded figure, now towering over me, reached to pull its hood down. A face, seemingly made entirely of pale, slimy, and sagging flesh - indeed wholly featureless other that a tiny slit of a mouth - gaped down at me, fangs bared and let out a high pitched shriek. Everything went black.

I awoke on the back of a large sledge, made entirely out of stone, being pulled deeper and deeper underground. I sit in it as I write this. There appear to be about a dozen of us, all confused and exhausted looking, surrounded by a squadron of the bald, faceless creatures, their hoods all now down. Initially, when we one by one awoke, we complained in our various languages, demanding to know what was going on. These slug-mole figures responded by brandishing huge whips, once again baring their fangs and setting upon an elderly Norwegian woman in the seat next to me, one of them using its whip to lash her in place whilst the others leapt across the sledge-floor and then gnawed her limbs clean off in a matter of seconds. After that we all quietened down. Naturally, I find myself siding with the slug-mole-people’s hardline anti-Norwegian stance, although the extent to which the slug-mole-people themselves appreciate this remains unclear.

Beyond one of the slug-mole creatures who appears to be guarding the head of the sledge, I can see that we’re being pulled forwards through a tunnel of earth by a pair of enormous worms which are kept in motion by a constant whipping. They like to whip things, our captors. At times they even whip the passing tunnel-walls, the sides of the sledge and, occasionally, each other. You could say that there’s more lash on here than a four-day pub-crawl with a giant heavily mascaraed eyelid. There we go: the first witty observation I’ve ever made and no-one will ever read it.

Only one of the slug-moles seems less keen on the whipping. He seems shorter then the others, slimmer. Whilst they all busy themselves with whipping, he merely stands and observes us. I’d swear he spends most of his time looking at me, but it’s difficult to say as he has no eyes. His face, like those of the others, has only the long, slimy antennae of a slug’s face.

But now I must sleep.

Day 16 (approx.)

After travelling for what must have been at least two days through the endless underground soil-tunnels, we took a diversion through what looked like the outskirts of a large city bustling with slug-mole people. The entire place is criss-crossed with busy sledge-roads, is fully rigged with electric lighting, and, most impressively of all, appears to have all the high-street amenities you’d expect any British town or city above ground to have: a street of take-aways, a lap dancing club, at least a dozen Gregg’s. It’s not all so fantastic, however. There are the sort of depressing ‘modern’ establishments which also blight the streets of Britain: we recently passed what looked like the sort of pretentious ‘gastropub’ that probably hosts ‘arty’ evenings.

After a few more hours we arrived in a prison-camp. As soon as we were prodded and whipped out of the stone sleigh we were put in shackles, also made from stone, which fit around our necks, wrists and ankles. We were taken to a large clearing amid all the prison huts, whipping-posts, and giant worms resting with their nose-bags, our chains fastened to a hoop in the ground. A large slug-mole came and gave a lengthy speech, none of which any of us could understand as it was entirely in the chirruping rodent-language these creatures use to communicate. He cracked some jokes at which the other slug-mole men laughed their hearty, gargling-sounding laughs. When none of we prisoners laughed we were whipped until we got the joke. Then, spurred on by the anti-European sentiment they’d displayed earlier, I made an ill-judged attempt to ingratiate myself somewhat by stepping forward and declaring that despite the unspeakably horrifying brutality which was being meted out to myself and my companions, I saw it nonetheless as a commendable method when it came to cutting immigration figures. I was cut short, however, as the large slug-mole lashed his whip around my arm and used it to make me slap myself repeatedly about the face. This caused my glass eye to fall out and, much to the amusement of all present, fellow prisoners included, I spent a good ten minutes scrabbling about in the dirt looking for it. After inadvertently replacing it with clumps of dirt, eyeball-shaped pebbles, and what I can only hope was a discarded truffle, we were led to a cave, handed pickaxes and whipped until the urge to dig seized us and we began hammering away.

I got into a conversation with the man alongside me on the chain who told me that although he didn’t know how long he’d been here, he supposed it must be about four years and in all that time he’d still no idea what we were digging for. ‘Just chuck a shovel-load into the wheelbarrows when they pass,’ he said, ‘they whip you less if you do that.’ Later on in the conversation he revealed himself to be Richey Edwards, former guitarist with the Manic Street Preachers and, for the past fifteen years, a missing person. Looking down the chain I saw a number of other supposedly ‘missing persons’: the ubiquitous Lord Lucan, Shergar the racehorse, Osama Bin Laden, and former Catchphrase host Roy Walker, who appeared to be talking to an imaginary Mr Chips. Digging pointlessly in a soil-cave with these people as my only companions is, it would seem, my lot until I can escape or am rescued.

During the night I spoke with another prisoner whose name, it emerged, was Pat Sharpe. In his life above the surface had once hosted the popular children’s television show, Pat Sharpe’s Funhouse, but was now merely another shovel-slave on the chain gang. There is, he told me, a way to escape; he said a handful of people had managed to get away, and, as the legend had it, found their way back to the surface. In spite of my penchant for attention-seeking controversial remarks, my racism, and the fact that I now may well have a large slug-mole turd where one of my eyeballs should be, he seemed to like me. He proposed we join forces to escape. He would have gone on if it weren’t for one of the guards, the smaller one who’d been looking at me on the sledge, who noticed we were speaking and used his whip to pull Pat’s mulleted head clean off. He, or perhaps it is a she, also swished the whip over my head a few times but allowed me to live. Why? Is it possible I’ve found a future ally?

Escape. The word itself has by now come to signify some sort of unattainable ecstasy. Fed little food, kept in a state of perpetual uncertainty regarding my future, and traumatised by witnessing the violent death of a friend, I’m beginning to think that my beliefs regarding minority groups, refugees and the generally downtrodden of the world, are maybe poorly thought out. Could it be that I’ve been wrong about everything?

No, of course not! Black ‘rap’ music causes AIDS; global warming is brought on not by industrial pollution and rising carbon levels but by the endless hordes of constantly stampeding feet, dusky and clad in ‘ethnic’ sandals, which inevitably accompany any immigration policy that doesn’t require newly arrived migrants to be shot through the head on arrival in Britain; ‘rape’ was invented by frigid feminists and horny Muslims. Foolish of me to think otherwise, really.

But now I must sleep - in my chains, alongside the late Pat Sharpe’s lifeless torso, his neck-stump and the puddle of blood which has congealed around it.

Day 32

This morning I was allowed a ‘treat’. The smaller slug-mole, the one who beheaded Pat Sharpe, whom I’m now able to recognise easily, came round early in the morning with a stone bowl filled with a steaming soup which, judging by the taste, was made up largely of soil and water. I drank it down greedily nonetheless. Why this act of kindness? I think I will call this slug-mole ‘Pat Sharpe’, in honour of my dead friend.

My headless companion was only recently replaced; his limp, decomposing corpse being dragged by the ebb and pull of the chains until its limbs began to drop off with putrification. A couple of the slug-moles came to remove his body, but not before some tasteless ‘comedy’ - what I can only describe as the most grotesque version of a puppet-show imaginable. This aside, our toil continues, each day indistinguishable from the next.

COMING SOON - PART TWO, FEATURING…

… Fast-cat Amazonian hell-chicks getting their ‘sexy revenge’ on man.

… Journeymen archaeologists who discover God’s enormous brain in the centre of the moon.

… Pent-up nuns who learn how to ‘party down’.

… Vampire ponies, ‘gummie’ zombies, and The Were-Armchair.

… Some really evil chimps.