so it was a post to get folks to send info to other address - ie trawling

it is  the635group@mail.com sorry my fault

Your attempts at being tough are boring. Politics supported by the ballot box is the only way to do things. 635 tough, well who are you all? I dont see you putting your names forward to stand and represent anybody. Tough bricking a load of cars?

Come on guys grow up. Politics is for adults, vandalism is for kids. If you think your tough how about tackling the BNP security team? What about the BNP candidates and organisers, what about a go at them?

Cars no hi ba (as the Kung fu master said).

Grow up. The fascists will lose through argument not violence. Anything else shows you up.

Max

Max was a lonely little boy sitting all day in his bedroom, which was filled with the low sussuration of his computer, and the glow of the monitor. Realising that his whelk-like insignificance left him howling into his pillow like a jonesing junkie, he remembered the impressive lepoardskin suit worn by his favourite crusading hero, Rod Stewart.

Awed and inspired by this display of totemistic power, Lil' Maxie puffed up his chest underneath the duvet and said to himself - "The ballot box is for adults", again and again, flashes of Big Tony mixing in his mind with the pump of hormones from his half-tumescent unit. THEY were the real little boys, those frightening people who did not care what ANYONES daddy thought about them. They said that Maxie's paper crosses were as useful as Charon's coins - they even drew them on their own eyelids and lay in front of the cross-box-cubicles that Maxie loved to visit every year or so. It quite spoiled the feeling of pride that caused Maxie to swell to a hundred thousand times his size (in his mind, of course), as he asw Big Tony and Creepy Mikey and Bumble Chuck all stooping to get an earful of Maxies Mature and Throroughly Grown-Up Drawing of Crosses in Hope of Being Listened to and Not Immediately Flushed down the Toilet.

Maxie liked to swell up - it was what helped to ease the pain of the loss of Santa, the Tooth Fairy and Howlin' Yeheshua and his Fuck Police. Instead of his presents, his fifty pee for a tooth, instead of being told by a man with a dripping chest wound and spaniel eyes "Not to PLease NO not to touch himself THERE, I don't like it is all. I love you, Maxie. Come to heaven, where it will all make sense" - what helped to sugar the bitter pail of tears that Maxie cried over all these abandoned dreams was the thought of Big T and the Gang all Listening to HIM. Because He was the grown-up one, and of course those naughty girls and boys WOULD NEVER BE ALLOWED in Big Dada's club. Jesus don't care WHERE they touch themselves - he knwos, and he's stopped looking cos it's too bad. No, he's too busy listening to the echoing plangent cries of the Boy Who Lived in Neverland, and never gave up hope no matter how many times a bunch of utterly morally bankrupt lawyers shilled his hopes for a cheap vote and left him panting like a ripped-off teenage crack whore in the piss soaked alleyway of elective aristocracy.

Since it was your mistake Red119, perhaps you can start the ball rolling by passing on the details of your mate Max, who seems to be trying his best to get people nicked.