Spread the Love

BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN

I can honestly say that in the last two weeks I have been on the end of more abuse than in the rest of the weeks of my lifetime put together. It’s because of the defamation civil case of course. It’s a managed pile-on by sabs, trolls and misfits designed to break me and I suppose I should be milking it – bunging my media pals and whining to all and sundry. Defining a hate group and then playing the victim to its smears and character assassinations seems to be so de rigueur these days.

Nah.

Not for me.

I’m sorry to disappoint the abusers but the thing is I find almost all the abuse hilarious.

I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried to play the victim. I look at these characters spending all of their day piling on and smearing me and – while I enjoy the spring sunshine out in the real world – I cannot help but feel pity towards them and their out-of-control roid rage. I feel like offering them a calming cup of tea and a vegan ginger nut. Why so much hate for me, and yourselves?

I mean is that it? Is that their life? Making up shite after shite and smearing it around the Web in the hope that some of it sticks? When they are on their deathbeds will they treasure that lie that saw a freebie charity ad cancelled or the time their tweet got more than 4 likes? More than anything, I am worried about their Vitamin D intake, these trolls. None of them appear healthy.

Seriously a sitcom writer would not believe the richness of the material at hand. There has to be a new comedy show about these pale-faced tank tops from the animal rights sector. Their echo chamber, so my colleagues tell me, is right this moment brimming with blazing anger towards me. These people have never met me yet they absolutely despise me!

And I’m sorry but I can’t stop laughing back at them. I’m sure if we met in the supermarket or in the street we’d get along just fine but online you come across as a gaggle of gibbering mythomaniacs; pigeon ladies on speed.

There’s the desperate witch from Wales contacting all I know and creating fake graphics of CCJ’s in my name – thanks for that, love, you’re really contributing to society. The infuriated Dunfermline computer consultant/’psychologist’ who hates me almost as much as, interestingly, he loathes Wiltshire Police. My increasingly frustrated veteran stalkers are there too in between pill takes, fanning the love-in like wannabe poundshop Machiavellis. A foul-mouthed, hooked-nosed primary school supply teacher hisses her bile hourly, even during school hours. A coven of catwomen mull my imminent death in discussions interrupted only by furball anecdotes and chatter about thrush. A skinny, one-eyed window cleaner from Hull fantasises about stabbing me (I am keeping an eye out for ladders). And a rather sweet looking old granny from Kettering – who’d have been delightful for a Shreddies ad – has, alas, decided that she wants me DEAD.

Meanwhile the smears get ever wilder. We’re into Pizzagate territory now. It’s too much for me! I confess I did it! I had a wee behind a bush in St James’ Park one night on the way back home from the student bar in 1995. I expect one of these crazies to creep into my garden at night and start digging for hidden corpses. The echo chamber rings continuously with talk of ‘killer evidence’ and ‘smoking guns’ – curiously indeed, as if through telepathic projection.

The disconnect between fantasy and reality is obvious to the sane. Yet still the nutters’ tweets demand to know why our legal team have not dropped us in the midst of this barrage.

These fruitcakes play out a thriller C movie in a parallel universe – their smears accumulated and augmented into a sense of desperate frustration now they see that they’re having zero effect in the real world. Perhaps because Twitter and Facebook are not the real world? (Keep it quiet, sane brigade, but social media companies put on catch-all insulated closed subsets for green inkers like them to echo endlessly in).

Back in the real world I’m enjoying the sunshine. I’m working hard behind the scenes – at the day job, as a Dad and across the various aspects of the case. Our defences are due in this week. The Crowd Justice nears its first target but the organisers are aiming to get way beyond it as they suspect sabotage (fake pledges).

While they hate, I strive. That must really hurt them as they tap-tap on their crusty keyboards.

Of course I cannot be flippant. I know it would be wrong of me as a citizen not to report the threats that I receive and I have a kind colleague logging all the abuse for me. And it’s easy enough to work out who’s who – the network chart of the sabs and antis that a gentleman might have dropped off for me has grown to 3 gigabytes yet this rabble of sabs are still as few in number as Morris men. The chart might have needed a bit of adding to after recent adventures, so I might have made the necessary adjustments myself and might have sent the whole thing onto those suits on Millbank who are paid to be interested in these matters on our behalf.

And here’s the filming of an actual download onto a pen drive with thrilling music and visual imagery added* to arouse the haters’ echo chamber. Hooray! Who said I didn’t care about you, you barking crusties?! A new chapter thus explodes in their dark and musty world where paranoia is so plentiful and deodorant is so scarce:

Please keep the ‘Packham 3’ Crowd Justice contributions coming in, Dear Readers. There’s also this Kofi/PayPal link for you if you have any trouble with the Crowd Justice process. Thank You to all who have contributed and enduring thanks to the volunteer independent organisers who are doing such a sterling job with the fundraising. Let’s hammer the first target and rattle these liars and keyboard warriors even more. Cheers All! Onwards!

Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire UK & India.

*Legal Disclaimer: Epileptics beware of fast flashing photos added to above video, purely for dramatic effect. There is no correlation between any of the faces that appear or any ‘database’ or ‘network chart’, if there exists any ‘database’ or ‘network chart’ at all. If the database or network chart did exist, was a stamp put on the envelope? For those suffering from increased paranoia after watching this video, NHS 111 is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

A recent interview: