I Shall See Them In Hell

If you never hear from me again, then blame Vincent McAviney (look out for that name in future), Oliver Kamm and Damian Thompson, thanks to whose libel, malicious falsehood, criminal harassment, and restraint of trade, in at least one of their cases to a point inconsistent with sanity (several times per day every day, and I really do mean every day, for two and a half years and counting), my life is not worth living.

It isn't really about me at all. It is the original material in my books that matters. If that cannot get any sort of hearing, and the lengths to which that trio has gone in order to ensure that it is denied anything like the attention that it deserves (unlike them, actually read my books if you don't believe me), then my life has no purpose whatever. It is beyond me what I have ever done to any of them.

Every comment except mine on the webpages of Essays Radical and Orthodox and Confessions of an Old Labour High Tory is by one of those three or someone closely associated with them, usually McAviney. I cannot bear to see years and years of my work subjected to this torrent of abuse. Least of all from people who have certainly never read my books.

How does a theological book with a fulsome preface by John Milbank fail to find a publisher, or fail to be reviewed even if it has had to be self-published? If Damian Thompson says so, that's how. Not bad for the man who illegitimately occupies the position of arbiter of Catholic orthodoxy, whom you might have thought was the Pope but not in the British media, despite his positions on everything from economics, to sexual morality, to wars, being decidedly wide of the Magisterial mark.

The Social Affairs Unit, which previously published Kamm's only book, sat for two years on Confessions of an Old Labour High Tory, regarded by highly distinguished people as a major piece of work. Eventually, it sent me the wrong galleys and refused to correct them, so that I had to publish the book myself because it was losing currency so rapidly. Cue McAviney, Kamm's little helper, in full psychotic mode. Every comment on that book's page, except by me, is by him.

Is this why I have gone through four major operations, two of them in absolute emergencies, and a pulmonary embolism? Is this why I take a double dose of Tramadol four times every day? But I cannot not do this. I cannot live without my work, as collected in what I had thought were the first two books, but which look increasingly like being the last. Remember those names: Vincent McAviney, Oliver Kamm and Damian Thompson. I shall see them in Hell.