An open letter to Elon Musk, by Tommy Robinson

DEAR Elon Musk. You are a billionaire. I am but a humble bankrupt patriot. But you can save me, Britain and Western civilisation by letting me back on Twitter. 

As the purchaser of a $43 billion social media network, I’m sure you have a lot on your hands. I understand. I’m too busy to go to bankruptcy hearings myself, and I never did sit down and find out what contempt of court is.

Your priority, however, is freedom. And I am a man imprisoned. Locked in a cage of silence by brutal woke guards. If you imagine Midnight Express with blue-haired pierced birds? Basically that.

Since Wednesday March 28th, 2018, when I was expelled from Twitter for pointing out the imminent danger of Muslims killing every single white person alive – a threat we’ve barely escaped on the 1,491 days since – the West has been undefended.

Britain has allowed its Islamophobia to slide back to dangerous levels of tolerance. You’d think Putin was more of a threat to the country than a mosque in Leicester the way traitors talk.

Without me, Burnley pensioners no longer quake in fear when an Asian walks past. Without me, leaderless footsoldiers in the race war waste their time defending statues. Without me, we’ve had a Brexit a good deal fucking softer on immigration than with me, I promise you that.

I’ve faded from the headlines, Elon. Time was everyone would quote-tweet my violence-inciting rants against Diversity winning Britain’s Got Talent, and the money came rolling in. Now? Fuck all. I’m on the bones of my arse if I’m honest. I’m drinking Aldi own-brand lager.

You’re a white South African. You agree with me. You know Twitter was a better place when I was on there, deftly sowing racial tension, giving it that white power buzz.

Facebook won’t have me. Instagram fucked me off. I even got banned from Snapchat and I didn’t even bother with TikTok, they’re totally anti-indigenous whites over there. You’re my only hope.

Go on, Elon. Let me come back in the name of free speech and I’ll have the libs howling. All the quitters will be back on to take their pop at me. It’ll be like the old days.

Yeah? First thing tomorrow would be good. I’ve got a citizen journalist job going intimidating someone who slagged me off to livestream. We’ve got the wrong address but whatevs.

Yours, Tommy

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Let’s move to a Midlands town that's a byword for provincial shitness! This week: Wolverhampton

What’s it about?

A reasonably large Midlands city that bears the brunt of being the representative shithole for the whole region, even though it’s better than a fair few of them.

Before it became the post-industrial wasteland it is today, Wolverhampton was a traditional industrial wasteland. It may seem odd to be nostalgic for those soot-blackened days when life expectancy was 30 at best, but only if you don’t know Wolverhampton today.

Queen Victoria described it as a ‘large and dirty town’, a description Wulfrunians wear with pride. While calling themselves Wulfrunians which is clearly unacceptable, as is the accent.

Any good points?

There’s a new train station and soon Tory twat Robert Jenrick will open the office of the Department for Levelling Up, Housing and Community in the city, meaning civil servants will be forced to mingle with the kebab and wig hawkers on Broad Street.

Many famous faces have called Wolverhampton home – or ‘hum’, as the comical regional accent has it – including Noddy Holder and Robert Plant. Enoch ‘Rivers of Blood’ Powell was MP for Wolverhampton South West between 1950 and 1974, so it’s arguably the birthplace of modern British racism.

Wolves have managed to stay in the Premier League for an unexpectedly long time and no players have been embroiled in scandals like kicking cats or feeding poor children. The stadium’s just near the big ASDA, in case you’ve not heard the accent yet.

Wonderful landscape?

Close to the Shropshire hills where you can go on a lovely stroll up a hill and forget all about where you live. A walk up the famous Wrekin kills a Sunday afternoon.

If you’d rather stay closer to home, the classy suburb of Tettenhall is situated up a sandstone hill called The Rock, and in the summer has a paddling pool where bored teenagers get kicked out for splashing all the little kids.

Hang out at…

The city’s cultural hub is Bentley Bridge retail park with multiplex, bowling alley and an absolutely massive B&M Bargains. Engage with the youth of today by visiting the McDonald’s in the middle of the car park, which frequently hosts to impromptu fistfights between patrons as violent as they are disfigured by acne.

Late night? Get yourself to the crowning glory of Wolvo nightlife, The Planet Nightclub. The only reason to venture within the confines of the ring road after nightfall, Planet plays all the biggest emo hits of 2007 and is packed with goths and school lab technicians with piercings. Even has a stripper pole, for some reason.

Where to buy?

Enjoy the lively sound of police helicopters circling overhead? Pick yourself up a former council house in the area of Bushbury Hill, or the Scotlands Estate. Or fly-tipping fans love Wednesfield for its convenient countryside lay-bys.

If you have a nose for bargains, houses near the town’s sewage treatment centre are always available, and the smell is a great talking point on hot summer days. Imagine five neighbours with classic Wolverhampton accents discussing the overpowering stench of shit. How can you resist?

From the streets: 

Jordan Gardner, aged 19, said: “When I got glassed in a pub after a Wolves v West Brom match, the staff at New Cross Hospital couldn’t have been more helpful.”

Nikki Hollis, aged 40, said: “I notice that the big Sainsbury’s in town sells samosas, but the little Indian food shop in Whitmore Reans doesn’t sell Coronation chicken sandwiches. It’s reverse racism.”