"I Have No Concerns Whatever About Your Mental Health"

With those words, the relevant professional shook my hand at the door yesterday.

I had been referred to him by the dear old forces of what passes for law and order here in the 1950s theme park of Poulson County, Alabama.

They had arranged for my first hearing to be held at Peterlee, an extensive and a fairly expensive trek from Lanchester for a disabled person who was dependent on public transport.

The obvious intention was that I should not turn up, and thus be in the cells that night.

But never mind. Better luck next time?

Apparently not. Next time was yesterday, and I left, not committed as they had clearly hoped, but in what is presumably the rare position of having been certified sane.

Those who have been calling me mad for many years, people who can hate others for supporting the wrong football team or for not hating those who support the wrong football team, maybe it's you?

Or, to put it another way, it is you. You are the ones who are dangerous lunatics, and who ought never to be allowed anywhere near the running of anything.

You hold your positions only by the permanent fear of your physical violence if anyone tried to dislodge you, a state of affairs in which you can see absolutely nothing wrong. You are psychopaths.

That is, if you do hold any position, of course. One of you is no longer even allowed to sign the papers nominating candidates for the Parish Council that he used to chair.

Still, that is the attempt to use the mental health system against me out of the way. And today, I received a letter granting me that rarest of things these days, Legal Aid.

That letter came from Birmingham, but the one in England. Anywhere outside the 1950s theme park of Poulson County, Alabama, the shenanigans of its Good Ol' Boy network are held in open contempt.

That network is now laughed at and spat upon by the mental health system, laughed at and spat upon by the Legal Aid authorities, and laughed and spat upon by the general public that comes up to me and shakes my hand morning, noon, and night.

Yet, being thick and psychotic, George Wallace and Bull Connor are pushing on with their rather un-English demand for a pound of my flesh even though I was not elected this month and I am not a candidate next month.

It all rather recalls Jimmy Goldsmith's lawfare against Private Eye, or the management style of Don Arden, or the bombardment of entire West Bank towns if they produce a single stone-throwing youth.

I suspect that the fact that I am both mixed-race and a Catholic is doubly offensive to our very own Governor Wallace.

Those of you who would have us believe that you were veterans of the Left, did Tony Blair's Chief Whip ever ban you from being a District Council candidate because you were mixed-race and left-wing, in that order?

Has the Blairite Right ever tried to murder you, as happened to me when I was even younger than Laura Pidcock is now?

And is the Far Right mafia that runs the Labour Party in County Durham trying to send you to prison for an offence that it is not clear was ever committed in the first place, having in the meantime tried to send you to the Serbsky Institute?

If not, then you are nothing approaching my equal, no matter how many newspapers you have ever sold on the streets, or how many pro-Corbyn links you have ever posted on Facebook.

Alas that Labour remains in control of Durham County Council, there to beat the Teaching Assistants into the ground, because the Teaching Assistants listened to you middle-aged adolescents instead of listening to me.