When Major, then later, Field Marshal Anthony Enoch Bullit, DSC, MC, lost his court case in 2005, and was sent to jail, the country, myself and most other journalists in the UK, were stunned. We believed the jury's decision, and the laws which initiated Bullit's trial in the first place to be no more than a contrived piece of political correctness, implemented by sycophants, that had gone mad .

Major Bullit was taken from court to Belmarsh prison, where he began his sentence; and whether it was deliberate or not I don't know, but the prison service chose to house him in a cell with two black men. It might have been entirely coincidental, but with a vindictive Labour government, that sought to abuse its office at every given opportunity, I doubted it.

I think we all believed unanimous, that Bullit's treatment was motivated more by spite than anything else, and that somewhat led to a sympathetic view from the press; more so than had he been treated fairly. Bullit's sentence was a mistake, his imprisonment was conveniently endorsed for political expedience, and his accommodation determined by the crime for what he was charged. The whole process, from court to jail, was abused to try and keep Bullit out of politics.

Once incarcerated in an 8x12 concrete box, with two other men for twenty three hours a day, tempers began to fray, as one expects them too. You can't house people in confined conditions and expect them to live contentedly together, and with Bullit's medical condition, which I didn't know of at the time, his cell became a powder-keg.

The two black men Bullit was assigned to knew of his crime, and they threatened him. Bullit, ex-paras, ex-sas, did what he does best, he exploded, violently, never showed any remorse and attacked both other inmates, causing them both substantial physical damage. And for his outburst, he received a further two weeks in jail for the attack, but it did allow him the luxury of a single cell, as the prison governor declared Bullit too violent to be tenanted with other inmates.

Outside prison, I had, through my newspaper contacted Bullit to seek an interview and visiting order, which he gratefully acknowledged, and several days later I made my way to Belmarsh to see him. That was to be my first proper, personal interview with Major Anthony Bullit, but not my last. I had previous interviews with him, but only at press conferences, and usually with a collection of other reporters present.

I presented myself at the main administration block, which became rather familiar to me in later years, when Emma Preston was arrested, and incarcerated at Belmarsh prison. I went through the standard procedure of having my paperwork and documentation rigorously checked, and once processed I was escorted through the modern building, with its iron gates, its sterile corridors and walls, to a small visitation area, where I waited Bullit's arrival. I was only there five minutes before he was brought to me in handcuffs, and guarded by two very large prison warders.

Bullit entered the interview room in his prison clothes, his hands bound in front of him, with his usual collar length, swept back black hair cropped for convenience. He looked fit, and well, and had obviously utilised his time with a stringent exercise programm. And you could tell, from the way his body looked pumped, he was ready for action.

I reached out a compromising hand, and because of the nature of his predicament, Bullit accepted my hand in both of his. The handcuffs prohibited him greeting me in any other fashion.

"Its a privilege to meet you in person, Major," I said, respectfully.

"Likewise, Mr Kline." He replied cordial, and seated himself on a small brown material chair; one of two in the room. I placed myself on the other, extracted a small tape recorder from my jacket pocket, to use for accuracy, and ensured there was no ambiguity as to what was said. I set it running, and with Bullit's permission I also made notes in a cheap notepad, for my own benefit.

"I heard your speech at conference, Major, do you stick by your words, or have you changed your mind in consideration of the circumstances you now find yourself in? In other words, wouldn't it have been better in hindsight to have remained silent on racial, and Semitic issues?"

"I believe, Mr Kline, that every individual in a democracy should have the right to freedom of speech, because without that fundamental right we don't have a democracy; just a dictatorship: a police State. And that's a dangerous situation to find ourselves in," replied Bullit, casually.

"Why dangerous?"

"Because, inevitably the people will rise-up against it, and plunge the country towards civil war. Throughout history individuals have sought to suppress the will of the people with legislatory powers, only to find the peoples' will more determined than their own. You can't force people to accept something they don't want, merely by hiding the truth."

"That's how you see your speech at conference, as the truth?"

"In all honesty, Mr Kline, at conference there is always an element where we preach to the converted; sometimes you need to rally the troops and magnify your beliefs. But in essence, I never tend to say or do anything I don't believe in, and just because that upsets certain groups, it doesn't mean I, or anyone else should be banned from saying it."

"Even if what you say causes such offence, it incites violence?"

Bullit scoffed at the idea, and found my question the height of amusement as he sat there, relaxed and confident. He studied me carefully for a few seconds, as though to check the validity of my interview, and then confided, openly.

"If we were to ban every phrase or sentence that causes offence, Mr Kline, can I call you, Michael?' He asked, politely.

"Be my guest..." I replied, placating him.

"If we dispensed with every offensive remark or statement, Michael, we'd have a mute society. The problem with any diction which causes offensive, is it's relative. Black people might find the words 'wogs and nigger's' offensive, but no more so than obese people find the words 'fatty or blimp' offensive. Every section of society has derogatory terminology it finds stomach turning, from tall people to blind people, from the disabled to the abled, from the young to the old. But only one section of society, minorities, is signalled out for special treatment, and most of us find that highly offensive in itself. It's the monopolised ideology of the upper middle classes, perpetrated against the masses that annoys me. You, as a journalist, I take it of integrity, probably find individuals referring to you in language such as: 'scum, pondlife' offensive, even though most of the time they invite your attention. But are they prosecuted for such nasty remarks?, of course not. So what makes race, creed, colour, and religion such special factors in the equation, other than politicians seek to benefit from the enactment they introduce. That's the real danger, Michael, when legislation is used to benefit minorities, simply because favouritism can push the result beyond the magic number needed to sustain a politician in a lucrative, opulent lifestyle. It's political prostitution."

"But surely, the law's the law."

"How can you change the law, Michael, if you're forced to hide what changes you believe in. Imagine if the BIP came to power, and I introduced a raft of legislation based on racial belief. People, newspapers, the opposition benches would clamorously call for our resignation. They would proclaim that was not part of our manifesto pledge. And to a certain extent they'd be right. But how then can we endorse those tenets within policy document if we're imprisoned for clarifying their very content. The whole race issue is deliberately designed to undermine the principle of democracy, and make the indigenous population feel like second class citizens in their own country. Therefore, any self-respecting politician or would-be politician who wishes to change the law needs to accentuate their policy, and clarify matters so the electorate is not mislead to their true intention. And that's all I did. If I'm guilty of anything, Michael, then I'm guilty of honesty, nothing else."

"You don't believe your remarks might incite young people to go out and commit acts of violence against other groups, individuals; communities of a non-indigenous nature. And suppose for one minute they did, don't you think the onus of blame lies firmly with you? Aren't you culpable?"

"Oh, to have so much power, Michael," smiled Bullit, in a human way. "If I controlled such forces I wouldn't need to create a manifesto, I could simply elevate myself onto the podium, open my arms wide and scream, vote for me!, and next day I'd be Prime Minister. But we all know life's not like that. People are no more likely to commit violence because I make my feelings obvious, than they are to give you their money because you ask for it. The entire argument is contrived, deceitful, and laced with self-satisfying intent. It's a cowardly argument, motivated by cowards."

"You find our political elite, repugnant?"

"There is nothing elite about them. I wouldn't exactly describe them as the dream team, would you? What we have, Michael is career politicians, failed barristers and individuals who never quite made the grade in their chosen professions. And so chose the alternative of politics. Those parasites are the nation's apologists who seek to appease every foreigner they can find, simply to satisfy their own conscience. Look at immigrants, what they colloquialise, asylum seekers. The moment they arrive in the country it's open house. They're given benefits, pensions, housing, medical treatment, and never once have they contributed a penny. Say a word against them and individuals are hounded by the local bourgeoisie; persecuted beyond any normal law to extents fascists would be proud of. And simultaneously, Michael our own children sleep in cardboard boxes on the streets of London. But they don't matter! They don't exist! See it like this, Michael, if you bought a car from the showroom, paid for it, and they delivered it to your neighbour, you'd complain, and keep complaining until you recovered your rightful property; and no one would blame you, because after all, you paid for it. And so why, when we pay our taxes each week for our services, schools, hospitals, benefits and pensions, and we complain, because some useless freeloader in parliament has given it to a bunch of economic migrants, are we slandered?"

"When I worked for Labour most of my colleagues argued the social plight of refugees exceeded the needs of most indigenous Britons, and therefore as a nation we have a moral obligation to support those who flee persecution."

"Support them or featherbed them, Michael? You talk about people fleeing persecution, but why is a place of safety turned into the Hilton, with all the luxuries they desire? You talk of morals, and express your concern as though them a personal possession of New Labour: only the left has a conscience, yet you abandon your own people, those that fought, those whose relatives died for what we have today. You leave them with nothing, not even hope, and then pontificate the value of your conscience. It's not morals or conscience your motley crew promote, Michael, it's class arrogance. You piously talk down to people, vilify them if they don't follow you, and then spit poison at them if they dare question your ideological belief. Your Labour party is hypocritical, riddled in duplicity, and filled with a similar hatred to any neo-fascist."

"What nonsense," I snapped, disgusted at his accusation. How dare he accuse me, and suggest my last affiliation reflected neo-fascist hatred, and compare us to what was no more than thuggery.

"We never waved Swastikas!"

"No, but you do rise to your feet at the end of your conference in a power-fist salute and sing the red flag!" said Bullit.

"What's that got to do with neo-fascism?"

"I said, similar, not identical. You see fascism as some great evil that murdered millions; an ideological view where millions more were forced into slave labour, while others were experimented on for eugenics programmes. But when you stand symbolically to sing the red flag, you never mention it is to show affinity with the former Soviet Union, and communist brothers and sisters, nor do you mention the fact the Soviets murdered anywhere between 20 and 30 million of there own people. That places in the east were used as nuclear test grounds, while millions more were used as forced labour on the trans-Siberian railway, do you? The oppression of smaller countries, the prohibition of democracy, the persecution of writers, playwrights, and artists. Where children were very often used by party officials as sex slaves, and anyone who could, had their fingers in the till up to their elbows, and my God, your beloved Labour party in this country even threw a bank holiday, May day, to show support for them. Yet you have the audacity to accuse others of fascism," Ranted Bullit, with a truth I'd rather not hear.

It was my first impression of how he could so easily lose his temper, and turn animal like on any person within proximity, and when a large, prison guard dressed in a white shirt told Major Bullit to calm himself, he exploded. Bullit yelled, as he leapt to his feet: "I'm speaking." He turned and glared at the warder in what one can only say, was a fit of insanity. Bullit's eyes bulged, his face flushed, and his lips twitched as if the man berated him excessively. But all he did was warn him. Bullit overreacted demonstratively, and them unnatural, enormously unpredictable mood swings appeared alarming.

"Sit down!" Said the warder, strongly.

I watched, as Bullit took a moment or two to relax himself; to gage whether it was in his best interest to pursue the situation, and when he deemed it not, he returned to his seat and continued as though nothing previously happened.

"I don't like interruptions," he explained. "It's the height of bad manners."

So is beating people up, but I had the feeling, that is what Bullit would have done, given the opportunity, and such pent-up anger was not a positive attribute in any politician, especially one that sought high office. Bullit was hardly diplomatic in his approach, and once rattled, his entire mood changed. It was almost as though he had been found out, saw little or nothing left to hide, and so the real monster briefly manifested with unadulterated honesty.

"You joined the army at seventeen, Major, why?" I asked, returning him to that early period in his youth. I thought it might throw light on his present political stance, and in some small, lateral way, I wasn't disappointed.

"An escape route," replied Bullit. "I grew-up on a rough, tough working class housing estate, Michael, where the only way to succeed, is with your fists. You either hit them, or they hit you. At the age of sixteen I nearly beat a man to death shrotly after my mother was murdered, and so, it was suggested to me by my probation officer that I channel my repressed energy in other directions, therefore, at a carnival, where the army displayed their services I decided to enlist. Best damned move I ever made." He said, proudly.

"But it's highly unusual for an enlisted soldier to reach the rank of Major?"

"True. But personally I believe the only thing to stand between a man and his destiny, is himself. You get out of life what you're prepared to put in. I put a lot in, time, effort. I read books while others went to the pub, and I took courses. I was prepared to take risks, to lead from the front. The army identified my character, and then honed it to perfection." Boasted Bullit.

"You saw action?"

"Northern Ireland first, then the Falklands, then the Gulf; a few more tours of duty in NI along the way. It was no big deal," declared Bullit.

But I thought it was a big deal, because it obviously affected him to the extent where he flew off the handle, at even the smallest provocation, and that indifference culminated in severe violent attacks on unsuspecting individuals.

"You killed men?" I said.

"In combat." Replied Bullit, and then added: "It's like being on that working class housing estate, Michael, where you either hit them or they hit you, only in combat it's kill or be killed. It's never personal, never motivated by pleasure."

"How many men have you killed?" I asked, curious.

"You don't keep score. In the Falklands we fought primarily in the dark, the lead flew round, people got hit on both sides. But no one had a pencil or piece of paper, or tallied the figures: we just got on with it."

"You say men were killed on both sides; how did you feel seeing your friends killed? Did it make you angry; hate foreigners?"

"If you're trying to provoke me into saying I have some insidious hatred of non-indigenous Britons because I went to war, killed men and saw my friends die, then you couldn't be more wrong. Soldiers salute fellow soldiers, Michael, as long as they play by the rules of the game. We don't bear grudges or seek revenge, nor do we seek to inflict reprisals against women and children, or their fellow countrymen. We merely do a job; a job we don't often receive any thanks for doing."

"But surely you must hate the people that killed your mates?" I asked, and tried to goad him. I believed if I could upset him enough, then his whole tragic past might come flooding out at me, but little did I know Bullit at that time. He was clever, devious, prepared to make sacrifices to achieve his end objective, and I suppose the army taught him that. He leant forwards on his chair, rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together, and then spoke to me like a father might a son.

"You feel indifferent, Michael, empty inside, devoid of any emotions or feeling, and yes, there is a sense of anger there, but not vengeful anger; more a belief the situation needs to be brought to a conclusion; so you can all go home. I saw my first friend killed in Northern Ireland by a sniper. A clean shot through the base of his throat. They extracted us from operations to ensure morale wasn't damaged. But that had a bigger psychological effect than anything else. In the Falklands, I saw hundreds of men die on both sides, we couldn't be extracted and we had to clean away the bodies, bury them and make peace with whatever God watched over us. At that moment I became complacent towards death; it no longer meant anything. In the Gulf war, I cut men's throats, bayoneted them, tossed in grenades, blew them up and shot them. Their bodies didn't even register. It was just part of the job. And once you've seen war, death, on a large or small scale becomes insignificant. I could witness a million dead tomorrow, and it wouldn't bother me in the slightest," announced Bullit, in a cold, unemotional way.

"In your book 'Ideologies and Philosophies' you refer to the Holocaust as 'an irrelevant piece of history past its sell-by date, that should no longer contribute to an adult discussion on principles of National Socialism': Why?"

"Because the argument is a flawed one, Michael. We seek to base our assessment of an entire political policy on the basis of emotion. No one asks why the Nazi committed mass genocide, or more importantly, how could they commit mass genocide...?"

"So you're not a Holocaust denier then?"

"No, but I believe you're pedantic. To write your article you wish to deal in sensationalistic content; not bother with the wider debate. You wish to talk of bodies, preferably with a head count, and summon demons to scare your readers. Yet, you fail abysmally to comprehend why people exemplify such ideological belief. The Nazis carried out mass murder in the death camps because they were capable of such things; not because they were born monsters or devils, but because they became hardened by the horrors of the battle field, with any emotion or feeling extracted from them by the brutality of war. They were souless men, Michael, that witnessed their colleagues slaughtered in their millions. There was no sympathetic shoulder for them to cry on when they capitulated. And after the First World War, when nearly 10 million men had been systematically chopped to pieces by machine guns, they returned home, defeated; demoralised; their lands were sequestrated, and humiliation was stoked upon them by American and French foreign policy. They witnessed 10 million dead, so what difference another 6 million. On the battle field, Michael, you become dehumanised, and to constantly apportion blame in one direction or another is neither helpful, or sensible, as you'll just replicate their mistakes."

"So why didn't we see the same scenario manifest here?"

"Quite simple, Michael, it wasn't our turn. We neither had a motley population or the mass humiliation placed upon us as they did. But had we, the course of history might have been different. After World War 1, we continued to run our Empire, our troops still retained a national pride, and we had an avenue to rebuild our country: the Germans had nothing. Imagine if it was today, we have just lost a war, our new leader has been dehumanised by the battle field, and a parasitical element is incorporated into the land; what then?"

"We build up the best we can?" I decided, strongly.

"But there's not enough to go round. Our country's like a small lifeboat, too many people not enough rations, we either throw some over board, or all sink and drowned. You decide, who would you throw into the hostile water: Well?"

"I wouldn't wish to expel anyone: what right do I have over life and death?"

"And so, under your mentality everyone has to die simply because you're too weak, too indecisive to make a conscious decision regarding the occupants of our national lifeboat. Some Captain you'd make, Michael. Looks like we'll have to toughen you up a bit; what d'you think, Spriggs?" Asked Bullit of the warder, as he flicked his head over his shoulder, for what I can only describe as, an impartial opinion. The guard scoffed, turned his back and remained reticent.

"You think the Jews deserved their fate then?" I teased.

"You're being sensationalistic, and confrontational, Michael, and it really doesn't suit you." Replied Bullit, with narrow eyes and an even narrower mind.

He sat there judgemental, and I would have given anything to know what went through his mind at that moment, as I questioned him, and looked to discover some answers to fathom the man behind the mask.

And I truly believe a lot of what Bullit said was hidden by a deceitful mask, which inevitably covered his real intentions. Even during that first real meeting there always seemed more to the man than was apparent; it was like two personalities formulated in the one mind that often ran parallel to each other; and only later did I discover his schizophrenic condition.

But I don't particularly think that's what drove his duplicitous nature, as in later years, when I became accustomed to Bullit, when I saw his outbursts, there was never a cohesive strategy, just blind anger and sheer rage. Yet when he was compos-mentis, in charge of his faculties, there was still something very divisional about them.

"The British Independence Party manifesto talks of an ailing society, a structure without discipline; how do plan to correct this, what shall I call it, hooliganism? Thuggery?"

"If you wish to indulge outdated cliche, Michael, and quantify your argument euphemistically, then be my guest. But we all know society's problems are vastly more contagious than that. Describing the youth as hooligans or thugs, is no less likely to make them thugs or hooligans, than terming black people niggers is going to make them less black. We can all construct soundbites, categorise individuals within a framework designed exclusively to metaphor a section of society. But I don't think it will resolve the problem: do you?" Challenged Bullit, conceited.

"So what's The British Independence Party's solution?"

"Firstly, the youth of this country need to become fitter, stronger, with a rigorous exercise programme, followed by academic pursuits; and then their minds need to be cleansed of all this politically correct impurity. We need to govern rather than compromise, and accept government has a responsibility to install discipline into the youth of today. We must show we as a nation are proud to be associated with them, not distance ourselves from them with hate filled words or antagonistic language. The State, should be both Mother and Father to its children, Michael, and should assume responsibility for parental control, without mollycoddling them too much. We need to understand there's no such thing as a bad child, a bad teenager or bad person. There's merely a bad system. If people fail in their endeavours, then it's only ever the fault of the State, because obviously, either the State, or those whose dictum embodies the State has failed so miserably; that they need to blame the recipient."

"What if they're rebellious?"

"Beat it out of them!"

"It sounds brutal?"

"Look around you Michael at this prison. It's filled to the rafters with mainly young men the State neglected; it gave them caution after caution, probation and then community service, turned them into habitual criminals who inevitably became institutionalised. And all because those that run the State were too gutless, and too self-righteous to do what needed to be done. They seek to appease their own political belief before valuing the child's progression to adulthood. In other words the failure of the child is more profitable than the tarnishing of their conscience. It keeps them in gainful employment. Most in here, Michael, are like insolent young puppies that need a good thrashing, just to establish who's the boss, and once that's achieved we actually have something to work with. Today's modern world, accompanied by its shirking leech culture of the upper middle classes constantly wish to blame the monster, rather than the person, or in this case, the establishment which created it. In the army, we termed that a dereliction of duty. If my men were incapable of fighting a battle that was my fault, not theirs, because I supplied their training, and only by training them to the necessary fitness and high standards could they maintain that self-discipline required on the battlefield."

"So who do we blame: Teachers? Government? The politically correct?"

"They're one in the same thing, Michael. They each produce an entity which feeds off the other. Government promotes teaching through educational policy, which creates a politically correct methodolog, and that encourages promotional opportunity through unwritten constitution, and the whole eternal circle continues unabated, whilst the real inheritors of this doomed pastiche, are the children whose welfare is denigrated for the individual lefty, Trotsky or activist who wishes to brainwash a society into a feeble version of itself. It's a doctrine of puny individuals incapable of collective thought, problem solving or simply coping with modern life, its trials and tribulations. Therefore, they resort to quick fix solutions. The child steals your car, breaks into your house or mugs Mrs Pensioner in the street for her small, inadequate amount of pension. They are not punished, and so perceive it a unique opportunity to prosper for little work, with big rewards. But the crux of the problem started at primary school, where the teacher refused, point blank to administer a good slap, and show the child right from wrong."

"I used to be part of Labour's spin machine, and anyone will tell you, when you take on the teaching unions, strike action is inevitable, it can become protracted, and parents tend to support teachers, usually because of policies of misinformation," I said, demonstrating the problems Bullit's policy faced.

"Then shoot a few of them!" Barked Bullit, serious.

"You can't just shoot people!" I protested, loudly.

"Why not?" Demanded Bullit.

"Because the country won't accept it?"

"The country, Michael needs strong leadership, a mentality that installs into the psyche, the left-wing project is at an end, that their children should be allowed to succeed with as much resolve as anyone else's. How can we ever create a meritocracy if we don't empower the lowest classes with the most fundamental tools. A child needs an education of the highest standards and the greatest opportunity, and no one, I repeat no one should be allowed to stand in that child's way as they progress towards adulthood and make their own distinctive contribution to society, and their country. And, if anyone does attempt to prohibit, of forestall them, we, as a government must remove the obstacle by all appropriate means. Not negotiate with it. We shouldn't compromise or dilute the child's educational capability simply because we want a quiet life, or to further our own political ends. Our occupation in office must be resolute in the eyes of the public, decisive in its action, and uncompromising to anyone or anything that seeks to destroy its intention. If a teaching union motivated by its own self-interest, tries to reduce the child's ability and promote its own selfish aims, then the State must step in to facilitate the child's right to progress within a modern world. And, if regrettably we have to have a few protagonists executed to benefit millions of children, then so be it." Argued Bullit, without diffidence.

"So, in office, you wouldn't mind newspapers giving front-page headlines to people who had been placed against a wall and shot; comments from their families in sympathetic detail saying how wonderful they were, how dedicated they were; what a bastard you are?" I laughed at the thought. Shoot teachers!

"Propaganda in office Michael is always a problem, a very difficult one to resolve, and I think you might have a point as to how the job can be achieved, but just because you couldn't correct the anomaly, doesn't mean that someone else, with a resolute character couldn't achieve it for us. Paul Rider, our press officer will formulate policy and keep the media at bay..."

"Rider!" I said. And my face scrolled at the thought.

I had known the British Independence Party's press officer for years, when both of us worked on the Evening Standard many moons before. We both chased the same prurient stories about political bed-hopping, and if Bullit thought Rider could carry him to power with the type of weak intimidation he used, then Bullit was sorely mistaken. And I told him that at our first meeting.

"You could do a better job?" Challenged Bullit.

"Any journalist could do a better job than Rider," I promised. "Does he still drink like a fish?" I asked, off the record, and it felt good to have something in common with Bullit at last.

But don't get me wrong, at that stage I still didn't like the man, although he did have a roguish charm, an ambience about him that could electrify a room, usually with reciprocal rage and the feeling you'd like to punch him; shake him or install some semblance of decency into him, if only for the sake of common sense, if nothing else. And I never knew at that time, whether Bullit deliberately provoked me with wild ideas, and his hate filled policies, or whether he truly believed in the ideology he promoted.

It's true to say in court he supported his actions at conference; but he had no choice, anything else and charges of hypocrisy from other political parties would have been levelled against him, and Bullit couldn't afford that, without seeing a power-struggle in the BIP. But in that room he had little to lose by opening up, and sharing a more compassionate insight into his ambition, so why whould he have continued with an over-emphasised hatred? Unless of course it was actually genuine.

"I found him drunk a few times..." Admitted Bullit, with reference to Rider.

"He used to get pissed in the office a lot," I revealed. I even managed to make Bullit smile, by my unguarded, off-the-cuff remark.

"You could do a better job?" said Bullit. And his mood sobered.

"To reiterate, anyone could do a better job than Rider."

"Then why not join us, Michael?" He offered, enthusiastic.

I told Bullit then, I'd rather boil my head than take up a position with the BIP, and I meant it at that time. But Bullit had a way of convincing people of the opportunities that could emerge if they affiliated themselves to his cause, and when political belief alone couldn't sway me, he started to tempt me with a very persuasive financial argument. Bullit asked me how much I made each year, and so tempted by his offer, I inflated the true value of my pay somewhat, as I believed he was desperate to acquire my services.

"35K a year," I said, unashamed.

"I'll double it," replied Bullit, equally, unashamed.

To understand what transpired next, you have to understand what went on in my mind, and appreciate the fact mortgage and interest rates had just risen, I owed several thousand pounds on my car, and there was rumours, but nothing definite, that redundancies loomed on the horizon where I worked. And so, when someone offered to double my salary, it was a lucrative offer indeed.

"I won't stand in your way if you want to write freelance either," enticed Bullit some more. And I could tell, from his cold stare, he was absolutely serious. I should have rejected his offer, but to my eternal shame, I have to admit, back then I placed myself above everything else. Perhaps it was the age we lived in.

"What sought of contract?" I asked, as I sought a long-term deal.

"Twelve months at a time," offered Bullit.

"Five years, and you meet any failure to continue with the contract, on a full and unequivocal payment," I negotiated, with salivating thoughts.

Bullit extended both of his handcuffed hands towards mine, and the deal was sealed in a small room in Belmarsh prison in a matter of moments. I officially took up his offer a few weeks later. And I promise you, at the time it seemed the prudent thing to do. What did I care about his policies, his bigotry or his incessant hatred of life? To me it meant nothing, and not for a minute did I ever believe the British Independence Party would one day become the government of the United Kingdom, regardless of their movement in the opinion polls. And when Bullit subsequently offered me a place on their Parliamentary candidates short-list, my career prospects looked even more impressive.

"But there's a condition," ascribed Bullit.

"Which is?"

"You write this article favourably and show me how much you can be trusted, Michael, and then, when I witness your loyalty towards myself and the party, we'll entrust you to take over as our official press officer. You can run the department as you wish, as long as it never infringes on my decisions."

"It's not a problem," I agreed, and watched the warder tacitly check his watch, look at me as though to tell me my time was up.

At that juncture, I assumed Bullit's whole interview had been contrived, motivated to recruit me into their ranks, and with that belief in mind, I assumed his proclamation of hatred for race, and the teaching unions and all the other political parties no more than a false evaluation of his views to test my mettle. But how wrong I was to be proved.

I asked Bullit to evaluate his policies for me further and give me a clearer insight as to what he'd expect me to deal with, and how I might enlighten the public as to their content. But Bullit had had enough. He also witnessed the guard check his watch, and so his main priority changed. Bullit lent over close towards me, and whispered concerned:

"Forget the policies, Michael, start a campaign and get me out of this place. Get your friends in the media to stir up a hatred of sending a man to prison for no more than speaking his mind; telling the truth. Lay the blame firmly on government. Print an article the opposition supports them if you can. Suggest they're both trying to sell our people into a European superstate. But don't mention any of this race bullshit we just spoke of. D'you understand?"

I understood Bullit alright, he wanted me to get him out of prison, and simultaneously suggest a dirty tricks programme was operated by the rest of parliament against him, and in essence, he was probably right. His jail sentence was motivated more by what others had to lose, rather than what he said, and to me, in a democracy that seemed unacceptable.

But what Bullit didn't know, nor would I tell him was, I hated New Labour and certain sections of the media more than he did: I had personal reasons from my days at Millbank to hate them: the way their back-stabbing employees treated me over a few leaked documents to the press, was beneath contempt. And so the fact I could use my influence with the press and television, under the auspices it was directed by Bullit, proved an enjoyable time for me, as it gave me the opportunity I longed for, to spit some poison back at them. The propaganda commenced immediately and Bullit was eventually released on appeal three months later.

Once I left Millbank, and joined the newspaper I interviewed Bullit for, I was instructed on employment not to mention what went on at Labour HQ. The government had its hooks into the editor, and he was tipped for a peerage in the next New Year's honours, and he didn't want me to rock the boat. But in Bullit's employ I had the opportunity to seek revenge on them all.

And that's exactly what I did, after I completed an article on Bullit, which I might add sang his praises to a point where I nearly made myself ill. And the moment I took up position in my new office at Bullit Tower, where the BIP were located, I exacted every once of retribution I could on my former party, especially during the great European referendum. But I guess Bullit understood that when he invited me to join him in his adventure. And like all those who came into contact with him, I was unashamedly used.