The insecurity of Stalker & Barf is now so apparent Bartholomew puts a picture of himself on his blog from a rare Politics Show appearance (the BBC show researcher must have typed in Religion and Blog into Google and out popped Barf - Damian Thompson was unavailable as were several others, so make-up tried their best) while Ireland, as aforementioned, has brought his family into the equation saying that an attack on him is an attack on his family (err, no it’s not, you twat).

Now no-one listens to this pair and no-one answers their questions. The police are fed up with them and Ireland will surely soon be had for wasting police time / harassment. It’s a hugely frustrating lose-lose situation for them and right now they are so sidelined they are standing way outside of the stadium. My advice to them - shut up and keep on walking towards the sunset of ignominy you sorry losers.

Hysterically, these two are so paranoid they see your silence as aggression.  Bartholomew and Ireland think that my recent silence is either because I am using silence as a tactic to unsettle them or because I, amongst other Tories in some extraordinary conspiracy, am hiding / hiding something. (No, Stalker and Barf - I simply have a life to lead. I cannot spend my every day hammering you further into the ground as I have better things to be getting on with like hammering extreme Islamists, being with my wonderful family and enjoying life.) 

Bartholomew is so furious with me he’s even brought my wife into posts about me - charming. It’s not her fault he was dropped as a baby.

Ireland is so embittered that I’ve once and for all exposed him as the flawed individual he is that he is the prime candidate for a series of late-night calls my family has been getting, as well as prime candidate for sticking a stone behind the brake calliper on my wife’s car. I’d not put either past him - I often shine a torch in the hedge before I lock up at night, half expecting this Aussie plonker to be hidden in there in a balaclava and kagoule humming the Citizen Smith theme tune. Ireland is the archetypal stalker and freak. (Actually let me use Ireland’s self-description. In his own words: “it's now widely established in many minds that I'm a stalker and a nutter.” Couldn’t put it better myself, Timothy.)

Both individuals’ supporters have either left them or they too are that short of friends they’ve stuck to the virtual ones they think they have. (They should ditch these two and fast before they too drown in their aftermath). Ireland’s madness has deteriorated into creating (unfunny) Muppet shows with sock-puppets whilst standing in a Surrey field. (These shows are seemingly about Tories). I’m surprised he has not been arrested for public weirdness. Few watch these moronic videos posted on YouTube. The funny thing is, Ireland thinks Conservative Central Office must be shaking in pee-filled boots at his productions - Quem Deus Vult Perdere Prius Dementat.

Fantasist Ireland thinks he’s a big beast in the Blogosphere but people either just laugh straight in his face now or give him bella cara (you know, the smily face you give the nutter on the bus so that he chooses someone else to stab upstairs on the top deck). Whilst bloggers are gaining more political weight as the election approaches, Ireland’s suffering from political bulimia.

It’s not that Ireland doesn’t have his uses. As one commentator wrote, “if you are starting a blog and want to get a few visitors from nowhere, just wind up Tim Ireland at Bloggerheads”. I am not in the visitor-collection business but I’d recommend Ireland-bating to anyone with any spare time on their hands. Maybe we have found that satisfactory replacement for fox-hunting after all (no offence intended to any foxes). Until someone shows me that Ireland is a vulnerable adult, hunt is on - winner is the one who drives him back down under. (Maybe Barf will join him - not sure there are many libraries in Alice Springs). Be sure to stay within the law.

Amazingly, Ireland’s Ego bubble hasn’t burst yet. Just the other day unknown Ireland declared himself more popular than Private Eye because he has more Twitter followers than the famous satirical magazine. I doubt anyone from Private Eye was paying any attention (they were probably enjoying offline Christmas with their offline families - I doubt may knew they even had a Twitter page). Still, it’s worth Private Eye editor Ian Hislop asking his staff to create a few dozen Twitter profiles each and engage in multiple personality disorder for a weekend. By taking this leaf out of Ireland’s Book of Delusion, Private Eye will set off all the conspiracy bells in Ireland’s uber-paranoid head and he’ll be on the next Qantas back to Wagga Wagga dribbling and crying for teddy. (From the content of Ireland’s last emails to me, I am guessing he’s close to hanging up his poison pen again and snapping like a wishbone. Last I heard he was building an igloo without a door. That’s a start, as I’m told the last bricks need to be positioned from the inside. Long live the Big Freeze!)

Still reading? I’ll continue then.

I was obliged to be in Ireland’s home village of Bramley over Christmas for a drinks party (no I didn’t get an invite to one of his Kaliber and nuts parties - I know people who have lived in Bramley generations longer than him, so no I wasn’t there with menace). When I mentioned to the party holder that he lived a few roads down from the biggest nutter, stalker on the web (planet) he was moved to go and see Ireland’s house for himself.

Indeed there was all round curiosity (the drinks party - mulled wine was involved - was not the best). No-one at the party had heard of Tim Ireland but wanted to see what kind of Tory-hating prat would move to a Surrey village which was Margaret Thatcher’s favourite place to spend Christmas when she was in power.

A party of five men and their dogs (not pit bulls - labs and retrievers in that part of Surrey) ventured into Ireland’s council estate and into his road, aptly named Windrush Avenue (an avenue for some reason marked by a public toilets arrow rather than a street sign - I am not making this up). The aim of the game was to identify Ireland’s dwelling among the many shabby houses and flats in the estate. I put up a bottle of Scotch for the winner (alas I couldn’t locate any Uzbek vodka).

It was a fellow called Harry who won the game. His “you can’t polish a turd” theory won the spoils. Ireland’s house you see is the only house on the entire estate with leaded lattice windows (rather than bog standard clear borough council windows). Presumably from the inside - (if you are bonkers and) if you position yourself so you are looking up only at the clouds rather than at the block of flats in front of you - you can delude yourself into thinking that you are living in a Tudor mansion or a Barratt home. Harry figured that Ireland - having tried to disguise the reality of his pitiful existence using the Internet - would try to do the same to his house. Clever - he guessed right - no wonder he’s a high-ranking copper. Makes Colombo look dumb.