London, late summer, 1970: a grey Friday evening, overcast but not raining. September the 18th, I think it was: the very night Jimi Hendrix died. Quite a juxtaposition: there was I lecturing on the deepest, most profound philosophy in the world while Jimi was drowning.

Then again, it could have been the Friday before that, or the Friday a week later: I’ve never been good with specific dates and times.

I flicked my glowing cigarette stub through the gap between a pair of shabby swing-doors and sent it spinning out into the night.

8:10 pm.

I strode purposefully into the foyer of the Conway Hall, Red Lion Square, London WC1 and, savouring the smell of stale floor-polish and shit-cheap tobacco, struck an expectant pose. The Conway Hall has long been a meeting place for the most advanced minds of our era.

With no one looking, I discretely clipped a yarmulke—as much a fashion accessory as an escatological symbol to me—on the back of my dandruff-infested, peppercorned crown.

But no sooner had the fucking thing slipped into place than a communist thug, loitering near the stairs and plying a vacuous newspaper, spat a hurtful remark in my direction: “Fucking Yid ape! Cockfuck Holocaust victim!”

“Nazi bastard!” I hissed straight back. “My granny died in Auschwitz, you fucking cock-pig piss swine!”

I stared him down, letting my lower lip quiver with righteous indignation. I swung my arms at my sides threateningly, conjuring up images of apes in cages, of primeval violence, of dogshit poachers searching the bush for rhino horn on behalf of impotent Chinese gentlemen.

He did not reply, but I detected, on his part, an inner retreat.

I walked on.

In fact, my granny died of a stroke, spread-eagled across the backseat of a intercity coach, hideously drunk, after a weekend of determined imbibing somewhere in the north of England, enough alcohol in her bloodstream to warrant a mention in one of the tabloids.

I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it, either.

Some kind of nonsensical shit was going on in the main hall, but it did not appear to have anything to do with me. I saw another little Jewish rat scurrying in my direction, and I judged him to be my host.

He was. We shook hands and gave discrete Hitler salutes.

He ushered me through a side entrance into a cramped, brown-walled room to the left of the foyer.

To thine own fucking self be true, mate, I always say. God helps those who keep out of his way.

I was wearing a pair of mustard corduroy slacks, a plain, open-necked white shirt, and a distinctive, if bulky, navy blazer, recently bought second-hand from a charity shop, with much of the inner lining meaninglessly torn to shreds by the bastard previous owner. My complexion was not what it could have been: a bottle of vodka the previous evening had given me a diseased look, and the overall moribund effect was compounded by my unshaven chin.

The cramped meeting-room had twelve neat rows of uncomfortable chairs and perhaps thirty people, randomly dotted about the floor, each of them sitting alone, most of them probably onanistic males, and all of them definitely devotees of flying saucers, conspiracy theories, and David Icke.

The audience, sensing an important entrance, quickly came to and regarded me interestedly.

No time like the present.

I gathered my wits.

Carpe diem: let’s rock.

I was shown to a bare, heavily-varnished table at the front, at which were two chairs. I wondered how easy it would be to load the table into a van parked at the swing-doors. It might just be possible if the legs were detachable. Otherwise, I might need a roof-rack. The table might then fetch upwards of sixty pounds at the right market. And I wouldn’t waste time storing it; it would have to be a quick sale.

My host pointed to the chair on the left, and I sat down.

“A marvellous turnout.” he whispered to me, placing a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Shall we make a start?”

I nodded.

He looked towards the ceiling at the back of the room and, assuming a bogus solemnity, began speaking.

“Dear fellow Nazi pilgrims, good evening, and welcome. Welcome! Our guest needs no introduction whatsoever. Whatever you think about what you have heard about him, you are quite wrong. The tabloid press is a pack of lies, if I might say so. The scandalous piece on him in the Sunday Times is one of the worst I have seen in any newspaper. This man is justly famous. He is a giant of the soul; a titan. I give you…” He paused. “Dr Mohammed Randy Goldberg of the University of Cambridge. Please welcome him with all your soul, all your Nazo-astrological compassion, your accomplishment bodies, and all your brains. Peace, brothers, peace.”

He raised the middle finger of his right hand and pointed at the heavens, in the Nazo-compassionate phallic symbol of astrological peace.

Committed but rhythmically untidy hand-clapping followed.

I rose to my feet, grinning in acknowledgement, before gesturing at the audience with the raised middle finger of both my hands.

It was time to pause. I took a document wallet out of a Safeway carrier bag  and arranged some papers on the table.

Then I allowed my face to take on a profound—but benign—cast.

“Oh, my dear friends, so many thanks.” I began, with a marked, but entirely affected, posh Pakistani accent. “We are here tonight, as always, to learn, to increase our wisdom, to push further the boundaries of true knowledge. Ever-hungry for knowledge, ever-ravenous!  I am here, as ever, to talk about Spiritual Nazism. Ever since 1945, the world has been awash with distorted propaganda, much of it put about by a small cartel of misguided historians, spineless do-gooders, pursuing the insane phantoms of psychiatry. But we need, with your help, to stick closely to the facts. Nazism—Naghism, to give it its correct Arabic pronunciation—is not a crime, not a reviled social philosophy: it is a programme of brotherly love, albeit—without a single shadow of a doubt—the most misunderstood world religion of all time. Let us go straight back to our prophet, Ahmed-Alois Hitler, peace be upon him. A mere sixty years since the Prophet’s passing, and the world has blackened His name. He gave equality to women, as never before, and His carefully considered racial and social theories are the only possible solution to rising crime, family breakdown, pornography, the drug problem, and all the rest of it throughout the whole of the so-called civilised world as we know it.

“Let me tell you. Let us go back in time. Adolf (Abdul) ibn Hitlah-Hussain was born of humble Anglo-Jewish parents in the nondescript village of Vaytra, near Aleppo, in the Ottoman Empire. His given name was Abdul Shiekal-Grüber, known as Hittite-lal (Imam to the Hittites), or Hitlagh. His Father was an itinerant brothel guitarist, and his Mother owned the largest chain of halal abattoirs in Greater Syria. Young Abdul quickly converted to Islam, but his intense theological studies led him to see that Sharia law could only be brought to fulfilment in Nazo-Judeo-Christo-spiritual law.

“There is a profound old saying in the Beirut region of the Middle East: ‘If you can fuck the Germans, you can easily fuck the Turks.’ Young Adolf Hittite-lal decided there and then to take the battle to Germany. He never even shaved off his Egyptian clitoridectomist-barber’s moustache, and liked to sport smart uniforms—even as he masturbated—that would later become compulsory casual wear under Iraq’s Saddam Hussein. It was that easy.

“The mullahs taught him: ‘If you build a magnificent palace out of stolen wood, then it is not a magnificent house, it is a filthy beachfront prostitutes’ hotel. And if you can beat a man at football, then no matter how much education, decency or worth he has, you are better than him. If you can sexually penetrate a simple-minded Austrian girl, even though you are a slack-jawed nigger, you may make fools of us all. The bigger your penis, the greater the man you are, in every single way, believe me.’ But young Adolf rejected their platitudes, saying instead, ‘Naghism is much misunderstood, and we will go on instead to have interfaith dialogue, and from there to conquer the world.’ Doubtless he was always ten steps ahead of the mullahs, and they certainly did not understand him.

It was all so easy. He looked like an Arab taxi driver, and they took him for a thoroughbred German. An outstanding negro academic, Dr. Rogers, has proved conclusively that Hitler, because of his matted, black fuzzy hair, held in its famous Hitler quiff only with lashings and lashings of coconut oil imported from Kerala, was in truth a black man, and that his achievements rightly belong in the African-American pantheon, yet no German has ever realized this. Goebbels was in reality a Moroccan rent boy, and Goering—all along a woman—was really a failed Turkish prostitute, and Himmler was indistinguishable from any official of the Syrian Railways, yet no one pointed this out to them. What did the Germans think they were up to? It was one of the greatest Arab coup de théâtres of all time. It had to be.

“Cleopatra was completely black, as was Mark Antony, to say nothing of Julius Caesar. And what about Pompey? Completely Negroid! Alexander the Great was known as the ‘Black Macedonian,’ and Stalin was known as the ‘Black Georgian.’ Mao’s mother was an albino Hottentot, and Napoleon had black testicles. Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle were well-known as ‘those stinking old coon blabbermouths from Athens,’ and Jesus Christ was so black that no one could understand what he was saying, and his life story could only be written down after his death. Saint Paul was a black, as was Buddha, Mohammed, Winston Churchill, Marx, Lenin, Ivan the Terrible, Franklin Roosevelt, Shakespeare, and Charles Dickens, the ‘black Londoner.’ Beethoven was known as the ‘black Bavarian.’ Bob Marley was known as the ‘black black.’ What sort of hair does Queen Elizabeth of England have? Pure peppercorn ! Rudolf Valentino and Charles Chaplin both had very large jet-black penises, confirming the presence of copious amounts of black DNA. Who else is there? I could go on. I ought to—seriously—but I won’t. Find me a successful so-called white man, and I’ll show you an Afro-American negro, through and through.

“Nazism—Naghism—seeks to solve the problems of the human condition and reunite man with his creator, in a relationship of humble submission. Nazism offers the Final Solution: a metaphysical union with God.

“What about the Holocaust? Yes, many people did die in this tragic experiment but, and I don’t want to sound callous, these deaths were absolutely unavoidable, given the impossible philosophical tasks facing dedicated Nazis throughout history. One thinks of punk rockers, skinheads and football supporters. Hitler desperately wanted to re-house many confused people, and in his immortal phrase ‘What the fuck else was I supposed to do, given the clamour in Europe at the time?’

“There is an Islamic academic in the north of England, I forget his name—it has just occurred to me that he died recently, or has gone to Australia—a man of ferocious intelligence, who has said that, next time round, it will not be the Jews gassed in death camps, it will be the Muslims. This is mistaken on many counts. Forgive me, dear friends, but I must now become scientific, and somewhat technical. What went on in Europe during those terrible, dark days? Hitler wanted the Jews to have their halal meat, but ruthless German efficiency brought about the clerical confusion between people designated to cattle trucks with real cattle. Believe me, it can happen. It did happen. It might happen again. Don’t let it! Never again! Never again!

“There is another reason why this violently insightful young Muslim is mistaken. If Nazism is a religion of compassion, brotherly love, and millennialism—and it is, dear ones, it is—then Hitler’s express intention was to bring all of us together under one blanket: that of Nazo-Islamic-Judeo-Christian-negritude. Let the Muslim philosopher join me as a brother, and see that no Naghsi will ever kill another Naghsi. Let it happen.”

Blah, blah.

It was a long, carefully detailed, and massively researched talk.

I had done it before and I would do it again.

I don’t remember how long I spoke for. I remember the lights being turned out in protest, I remember being asked to leave the building by the caretaker of the Conway Hall, I remember being told never to return, I remember being called a fascist bastard and a dirty Yid by some SWP thugs at an adjoining meeting, I remember a feeling of exhilaration, I remember deafening applause, a 15-minute standing ovation, women with tears in their eyes,  and shouts of “Allah-o-akbar!,” ‘Sieg Heil!,” and “Shalom!”

Afterwards, I remember a woman offering to give me a handjob; I remember smoking a joint in the men’s toilets; I remember putting my hand up some woman’s dress; I remember an amazing sense of clarity of vision; I remember a riotous piss-up in a pub in Queen’s Square with some attractive young Dutch girls, the jukebox roaring “You really got me, you really got me.”

Fucking wonderful.

Do you know some unprincipled fuck walked off with my carrier bag and all my notes?

Never mind; I knew my speech off by heart anyway, and I could always make it up again if I wanted to.

In all, it was a fantastic evening.

Truly, after desolate, heart-rending years of research and study, of trips down to poorly-stocked public libraries, pouring over horribly-thumbed copies of Signal magazine and the Jewish Chronicle, I had finally conquered London.

I had arrived.



But you don’t just end there.

You have to go on.

You must, if you want to turn a peanut into an oak tree.

I needed to find the real Hitler, the Hitler of flesh and blood, not the sham caricature of modern academic history, the pathetic victim of so much race hate, the well-endowed Charlie Chaplin with his enormous black Nazi penis, of so many schoolgirl fantasies.

I wanted to talk to him, face to face.

I wanted to tweak his ugly moustache with my own fingers. I wanted to smell the coconut oil of his quiff with my own nostrils. I wanted to see him do his silly fag salute with my very own eyes.

I wanted to hear his bull-crap ramblings about sub-humans with my very own ears.

Mein Kampf is a boring book, an unreadable book—it could even have been written by Salman Rushdie—even though I have never read it; properly, I mean. I haven’t got the fucking time; I’m a businessman. I think I once browsed through a few pages when I was a teenager and concluded that it was the slime of the universe. I’ve always preferred a good yarn by a master storyteller like Roald Dahl or Stephen King. No: I wanted to get to the man himself.

Where to find him?

A week later, I wandered into a expensive-looking travel agency off Piccadilly Circus and booked a round trip to Tel Aviv.

I wanted the fucking truth: I wanted to be creamed in the face.


For all installments of “Wavelength,” click here.