We were wandering around the cold bright cloisters of I Can't Believe It's Not Oxbridge, when a plump, greasy-haired man shambling in my direction caught my eye. "Is that who I think it is?" I muttered to my companion, who looked, did a double take, said "Oh my God, it is!". We did our best not to look conspicuous as Nick Griffin walked along the cathedral precinct, flanked incongrously by teenaged girls. "I bet he's shadowed by fascist goons," I added, and now we're on a BNP watch list for having noticed him. Shit."
"But where is he going?!" asked a shocked companion. We chased after him into the castle yard, but he was gone. Was he going to Evensong too? We didn't see him, and couldn't decide whether it was his thing; on the one hand, what more English than Evensong? but on the other, isn't he a proper blood and runes Nazi? We didn't have to walk out in protest at least.
Anyway. I can confirm that he is as swivel-eyed and dodgy looking in person as he is in the media. And that I am a craven conformist. How often have you heard someone argue passionately, If only I had been in Munich in 1922, I could have shot Hitler and then the whole terrible Nazi history need never have happened. Did I shoot Nick Griffin? No. I did not even spit at him. If all non-white people are expelled from Britain in ten years time, you have me to blame.
In other news, in bed this morning I dreamt I was writing an article, using my hangover as a source. "Glitz (2010) thinks that she just needs to sleep it out," I wrote. "But Glitz (2010) is of the opinion that this will be one of those creeping hangovers that builds all day and crucifies her at three in the afternoon." Sigh.