Tag Archives: Lincoln’s Inn

Diary Blog, 22 December 2020

News from Germany

I wonder how true that is. If it is basically correct, then those social-national-sympathizing police should not be wasting their time issuing puerile death threats against stray nuisances, and making online comments, but should be keeping their powder dry, recruiting more people, and organizing quietly and secretly for when the right time may come.

Tweets seen this morning

Yes. My (small, pleasant) nearest hospital (semi-rural coastal Hampshire) had, at one time three (yes, 3) patients with “the virus” and, more recently, about two weeks ago, seven (7). That’s out of a total district council area population of 180,000 spread over 291 square miles. 95% of the population is “white British” (and nearly 3% “white Other”). As against that, the age demographic is quite high.

True, there are other, larger, hospitals not very far away (Bournemouth and Southampton, both within 25 miles distance) but even so it is clear that few people in the wider area are infected or at least symptomatic to the extent that they need hospitalization.

Much of the Western world has gone crazy and I do not believe that the public health issue is the main reason for that. Think “Great Reset”. Think 2022, and the 33-year cycle.

I interpret that as I have been suggesting for some time: the Conservative Party is winning, just about, by default. The Jewish mass media have stopped attacking Labour (because the Zionists achieved their objective of recapturing Labour and dumping Corbyn), but that alone is not enough to put Labour into the lead.

In a sense, remarkable, when you look at the sleaze and incompetence of the Boris-idiot government of fools.

Labour is not really being an Opposition. All it is doing is saying “we want stricter lockdown, more facemask nonsense, blah blah”.

There is no legitimate Government, and no real Opposition.

I first encountered “Happy Holidays” when I first lived in the USA, in the winter of 1989-1990. Basically a Jewish idea, i.e. to give “Hannukka” the same billing as Christmas on the public stage. Also thrown in as makeweight was the ludicrous invented “celebration” called Kwanza [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwanzaa].

When logic and fact meet fear and a brainwashed mind, logic and factual reality have no chance…

Don’t agree that the Western world should cease to exist or function because 1 out of 1,500 or 2,000 people are dying with “the virus”? Then you are callous, stupid, ignorant, and/or even a murderer. Or something…

Speaking of reality v. unreality, I heard a truly absurd piece on the BBC World Service a few days ago. Some black preacher expressing the view that Jesus Christ was a black African or at least “black”, whose parents came to Palestine “as refugees from North Africa“! As said on many previous occasions, the whole UK msm, and especially the BBC, needs a real cultural purge.

More tweets

Here (below) is a supposedly Welsh tweeter, tweeting under the name “Sion Gruffudd”, and who seems to be a complete doormat for the Jewish lobby (or maybe is a Jew, tweeting under “Welsh” cover; I don’t know):

If you said that you wanted to feed Jews to the dogs, or any named Jew, the police would probably be at your door, and/or you might end up on trial (like Alison Chabloz) under the notorious Communications Act 2003, s.127. Will that happen to “Sion Gruffudd”? I doubt it…

Virtually all the tweets of “Sion Gruffudd” are about Jews and Israel. No need to bother more with it…


Still wanting their pound of flesh…

6% of Britain is non-white at this time“?! How long ago was that filmed?! The figure now is about 13% in Britain as a whole [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom#Ethnic_groups; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/England#Demography ], and in England as a whole, about 17%. The point, though, is the direction of travel. About a third of primary school pupils are now non-white…


“.…Professor of History Carroll Quigley (1910-1977) of Harvard, Princeton and Georgetown Universities in America…wrote a book entitled The Tragedy and Hope (1966) which discloses an international bankers’ plan to control the world from behind the political and financial scenes. Quigley claimed that the planning by billionaires to establish a dictatorship of the super-rich disguised as workers and socially concerned democracies was already well-advanced even by the middle 1960s. Something that would be dismissed today as a “conspiracy theory” by the university departments sponsored by the likes of Facebook, Google, YouTube and Soros; beholden as they are to an elitist cadre of alumni who fund their research, and who are monitored by the Stasi-like Equality & Diversity units who enforce ‘right-think’ with an enthusiasm that matches Mao’s Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution in China.”

This is a situation that can no longer go unchallenged by those who truly advocate for diversity of thought and intellectual rigour based on the right to open and unrestricted debate within our education system.”

Alternatively, the Spanish authorities can, though not immediately, build up the ports of Bilbao and Santander. At present (or until recently) there was only one ro-ro ferry per week from Santander to Plymouth. I believe one per week Bilbao-Portsmouth too. If that were changed to 5 per day from each port, France could be sidelined. It takes longer to get to the UK from Spain, naturally, but taking the road trip Spain-Channel ports into account, not much longer.

Of course, were cruel kosher/kashrut and halal slaughter to be banned in the UK, quite a few Muslims and Jews might feel impelled to leave the UK. “Oh dear, what a pity, never mind”…


At least MPs who happen to be barristers can no longer get “QC” letters patent on the nod, as they could until fairly recently (which is why barristers such as John Mortimer were “QC”).

It is bad enough that Lammy, among other unworthy persons, is now a Bencher of my old Inn of Court, Lincoln’s Inn, whereas I was expelled a few years ago by reason of my —politically-instigated— disbarment [https://ianrobertmillard.org/2017/07/09/the-slide-of-the-english-bar-and-uk-society-continues-and-accelerates/].

Cold comfort

I see that “the virus” has even made its way to Antarctica (a Chilean base there). Hopefully the one person who (last year, I think) accessed my blog from Antarctica will not be hit by it (I am presuming that he —or she?— is an English speaker, but could still be Chilean, of course).

Late tweets

Frankly, I think that Hitchens is too kind to “Boris”. Don Corleone at least had a sense of strategy, a sense of loyalty and, in his own way, a sense of honour. I see none of that in the unpleasant clown posing presently as Prime Minister.

Still this “angels on a pinhead” “Right” and “Left” stuff…Who is “Right” or “far Right”, and who is “Left”? What a dull exercise! Concentrate on policy and intention. Leave that fruitless exercise and deal with realities.

That girl always tweets and retweets stuff worth reading: https://twitter.com/Amy_amorie

Followed by the 2030s…

Late music

Fragments of Memory…#From Pupillage: Neil’s Party


Some reading this may also have read my previous blog posts [see Notes, below] about my rather untraditional Bar pupillage in 1992-93, and also about my early post-pupillage days in Bar practice. I thought to write about a few other stray incidents from those times. Humour was rarely entirely absent, though sometimes in the context of events which were, especially for the people advised or represented, taxing and upsetting. I was, of course, in the first six months of my pupillage not allowed to advise or represent, and so was basically a spectator and supernumerary.

Anyway, here is one event that has stuck in my recollection. It is not directly “legal”, but connected to some lawyers I knew.

Neil’s Party

At the time, in 1992, I was very friendly with a young barrister called Neil M. and his charming wife, Helen. Both had been in the same small “Practical Exercises” group at “Bar School” (the Inns of Court School of Law in Gray’s Inn, at the time the only place where aspiring barristers could study and be examined) in 1987-88. Our surnames all started with “M” (Neil and Helen had different surnames at that time, being unmarried; in fact they first met in that little group of 7 or 8 people).

I had gone to the USA (initially in 1989, but somewhat commuted UK/USA in the following few years) and had married a US citizen; I also qualified by exam (and pretty tough it was) at the New York Bar. Neil M. had started pupillage in London and, by 1992, was already a rising barrister at the criminal Bar. Helen, his wife by that time, had left the Bar for the solicitors’ profession. In 1992, when I returned to the UK after one of my sojourns in New Jersey, the country was just going to hold the General Election of that year.

I was not actively political at the time, though I of course despised the System parties. Neil M., on the other hand, was a Labour Party stalwart, a political position which originated from his upbringing in the North West of England: he was the son of an amiable “tankie” Communist (literally so, a member of the C.P.G.B.), whom I met a couple of times in later years.

Neil M. was, I suppose, somewhere in the middle of the Labour Party, ideologically, close to the outlook of John Smith, the Scottish advocate who led Labour for about 20 months until his death in 1994. I should characterize Neil’s outlook as “tribal Labour”; to me that had no greater weight than that of someone who supports this or that football team, or Oxford/Cambridge in the Boat Race. In fact, Neil M. concurred with my view up to a point, saying that I could not understand why people like him were so partisan in favour of a System party; for him it indeed was like “…supporting a football or rugby team; you don’t understand that either!”

I was invited to attend the special election night dinner at the beautifully-refurbished National Liberal Club, once the haunt of Gladstone, Lloyd George and Asquith, later (in the 1970s) the decayed and dilapidated place where the likes of Cyril Smith and Jeremy Thorpe had stayed and behaved badly. By 1992, most members were “non-political” (meaning not Liberal Democrats). Much later yet, in 2001-2002, I was myself a member.

Large TV screens had been set up in the Club dining room, in order to relay the election results from the BBC as they came in.

Older readers will recall that the opinion polls made Labour favourite to win the 1992 General Election. Neil Kinnock was widely expected to become Prime Minister, though later his triumphalist and arguably too-“Labourite” speech at Sheffield was blamed for putting off floating voters:

At any rate, Labour went into the final day and evening confident, a position echoed by many of those at the dinner I attended. In fact, I noted that many were not pro-Labour, but were quieter than the Labour partisans. At my table, I sat near Neil M. and his wife, as well as another barrister, a markedly iconoclastic (and amusing) Jew commercial barrister called Robert L. and his extremely engaging, attractive and articulate wife, a City of London banker, with whom I had an interesting and slightly barbed conversation.

All went well at the dinner until, after midnight, it started to become very obvious that Labour was not going to win the election. The scene in parts of the large Club dining room reminded me of a smarter and English (and far less sexualized) version of Don’s Party, the Australian film about a party which unravels when the expected victory of the Australian Labor Party (in 1969) fails to occur. I left the Club very late but still before most of the diners. I was told later that, after I left, scuffles and the like broke out between mocking “Conservatives” and angry, frustrated and drunken “Labour” partisans.

I myself was highly amused by the outcome of the election, mainly because, to me, it was obvious that most of the Labour MPs in the Shadow Cabinet were a bunch of fakes and/or hypocrites, led by Kinnock himself, a creeping crawling doormat for Zionists, and an apologist for mass immigration and finance-capitalism ameliorated slightly by a Welfare State already beginning to show signs of disappearance.

Neil M. was angry at me (and years later admitted to me that he had come close to hitting me! In the sacred precincts of the Club, at that!). He himself later became a local councillor in Islington and was informally offered the chance to become a Labour MP, but turned down the opportunity on the ground that as a barrister doing very good criminal work, he was making about twice an MP’s salary and needed the money. Years later he ruefully explained that he had thought that MPs lived off their salaries! He had no idea back then that not only did they have very generous expenses (and in many cases cheated badly on those!) as well as the really quite good salary (compared to most people), but also often had offers of lucrative “work” from all sorts of “consultancies” etc. Disguised near (or actual) corruption. Pity that Neil M. did not become a politician in the Westminster monkeyhouse. He would have been a good and conscientious constituency MP.

Final Word

In fact, Labour improved their position in the election, with an extra 42 MPs, though that still left the Conservatives under John Major with an overall majority of 21. It took 5 years before Labour under Tony Blair could sweep away the Conservatives and many of their MPs. Neil Kinnock ceded control of Labour to John Smith and then (after Smith died in office) to Tony Blair.

As for my friends Neil M. and Helen M. (I shall not say too much, to save them from embarrassment, now that the Zionist Jews label me in the msm and on social media as a “far right” “extremist”, “anti-Semite” and “neo-Nazi”), I maintained friendship for another 15 years, and in fact still regard them as quite close friends today, though I have not seen them now for a decade. I always send them a Christmas card (I’m like that, a bit like Jacob and the Angel: I will not let you go until you bless me…).








An Embarrassing Morning in Court

Another in the series of vignettes about my perhaps slightly unusual life at the English Bar. The disaster recounted below occurred in early 1994.

A children’s author called Lemony Snicket wrote a book called A Series of Unfortunate Events. I once represented someone who had suffered a series of such events.

A Nigerian, X, had been born in the UK where his affluent parents had been on holiday. A few weeks after the birth, the family returned to Nigeria, where X went to school. It was then decided to send X to university overseas. An American university, I think in the Midwest, was chosen and X attended that institution for a few years. During that time, X also engaged, like many Nigerians, in business activities of some sort. Unfortunately, as a result of these, he was charged and convicted of a Federal offence of fraud, subsequently serving a one-year sentence in Federal prison.

X had entered the USA on a visa which was invalidated once X was convicted of a Federal offence. Thus, when the year in prison had finished, X was incarcerated in another Federal detention facility as a person facing deportation. X wanted to appeal his conviction and so resisted deportation by filing an appeal against that too. He was moved to a Federal facility in Louisiana. According to his own account, the place was a “concentration camp” amid heat and mosquitos in which place, every day, he was offered the chance to be released if only he would agree to drop his immigration appeal and return to Nigeria. He resisted these invitations for some time, but eventually, worn down by the conditions, conceded.

It was at this point that it was discovered that X had been born in London. The US authorities thenceforth refused to deal with the Nigerian Consulate on his behalf and took him under guard to the UK Consulate in Houston, Texas, apparently the nearest one with authority to deal with the matter. He was issued with a British passport and was then sent to the UK, a country he had only seen as a newborn baby.

X said that he had never been violent, but only argued with the US officials accompanying him, to the effect that he wished to go to Nigeria, not the UK. As a result, X travelled from Houston to Gatwick handcuffed throughout the flight, also forced to wear a weighted leather device attached to one leg, and with two guards guarding him.

X’s travails continued after landing. All other passengers were disembarked, then a police car was driven up to the aircraft and steps brought. X was told to get up but could not, by reason of his leg having gone to sleep. The handcuffs and leg weight were removed. He was then manhandled by the guards and the British police off the aircraft, then literally dragged down the aircraft steps and into the waiting police car. It got worse from there.

Having (according to his own evidence) not wanted to be sent to the UK, X was now held at Gatwick police station and then an immigration detention centre near Portsmouth on the basis that he had no right to be in the UK  and was, notwithstanding the recently-issued British passport, an illegal immigrant! After two weeks in British immigration detention, X was driven back to Gatwick police station, told “OK, you have been checked out and you do have the right to be in the UK”, whereupon he was given the bus fare to Crawley, the nearest town, and released. Thus X found himself in the UK with only pennies in his pocket, nowhere to stay, knowing no-one and nothing.

X eventually managed to get some kind of emergency help with housing from the local council but wanted to move to London. He left Crawley for various reasons and went to London. He applied for housing to seven London boroughs, most of which refused even to consider his request (he claimed). This was the basis for his wish, over a year later, to seek judicial review of the decisions to refuse him and/or the refusal to consider his request(s) at all. I have no idea why his Nigerian family did not help him out with money or air tickets. Maybe the American events had estranged them.

X in person was irritating: an obsessive, fast-talking West African who had obviously decided to stay in the UK and to extract as much benefit as possible. Having said that, I thought that he had been treated very badly both in the US and UK. His case seemed at least arguable. His solicitor was a small Nigerian, almost a pygmy in size, who did not inspire confidence.

On the morning of the “application to apply” of the 2-stage process, I was at the Royal Courts of Justice, my by-then-usual stamping ground, in order to appear before Mr. Justice Laws (later a Lord Justice of Appeal). I had invited an old friend, an elegant European aristocratic lady, to see me in action and then, after my hoped-for initial triumph, to join me at lunch in Hall at nearby Lincoln’s Inn.

Greek tragedy placed hubris as inviting Nemesis. The courtroom was quite crowded with other barristers coming on after me. At first, things went well, despite the fact that, instead of neatly-organized files, the pygmy solicitor’s filing system appeared to be a large black bin-bag. The judge was listening, even perhaps slightly nodding at times (or was that wishful thinking on my part?). Then I struck the reef:

“Mr. Millard, where is the document from each council refusing Mr X?”

“My Lord, there are no such documents. Part of the case of the Applicant is that he requested a written decision in each case and was refused even that.”

“Mr. Millard, I think that I have to see something in writing.”

It was at this point that I felt a tug on my barrister’s black gown. Turning slightly, I saw the pygmy waving a piece of paper excitedly, smiling manically and nodding like a mechanized Victorian toy. Rashly, very rashly, I replied to the judge,

“I in fact appear to be in a position to assist your Lordship”

and only then looked at the paper. Big mistake. It was blank. I turned it over. Blank. I turned it over again, not quite believing this. I must have looked like a character out of a Laurel and Hardy film. I caught, peripherally, the incredulous looks of a couple of the waiting barristers. Sadly, no flying saucer appeared to beam me up and away from it all. I had to say something.

“I regret, my Lord, that in fact I am not in a position to assist your Lordship.”

Thus it was that Mr Justice Laws, later Lord Justice Laws, turned that colour, a mixture of pink, red and purple, that I now call Judicial Livid. His final remarks, in refusing our application, were curt (though not insulting; they did not have to be…).

On the way out of the courtroom and into the corridor, my guest, swathed in furs and jewels, and whom I had hoped would see me achieve a successful result, sympathetically said, “poor Ian”…

Update, 6 April 2020


All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players. … They have their exits and their entrances, and in his lifetime a man will play many parts, his life separated into seven acts.

[Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7]