My story; I was a proper far-right white lad from a small English town—Reform UK through and through, hated what immigration had done to Britain. When Tommy Robinson called the big march in London, I jumped on the coach with the lads.
I am 25 years old, from London. One day the streets were packed with Union Jacks and roaring Englishmen. As we marched, I climbed the lampposts one after another, tying my flags high in the Raise the Colours push. The wind whipped them proud while the crowd cheered below.
Tommy walked right past, looked up, and gave us a thumbs-up. That moment hit hard. I felt like I was doing something real for my country.
A couple of weeks ago, I was still riding high from the march, flags still flying in my head. I was scrolling through an online forum late one night when this bloke messaged me. Called himself Alex Ginger, proper British-sounding name, said he was a local lad who’d been at the demo too and wanted to chat about the cause over a pint.
We swapped a few messages. He seemed sound – talked about Tommy, Reform, how London was getting unrecognisable. Sounded like one of us. Then he suggested meeting for lunch the next weekend. “Nothing heavy,” he said, “just two patriots putting the world to rights.”
I agreed. Why not? Felt good to connect with someone offline who got it.
So I turned up at the café he picked in town. Sat there waiting with my England hoodie on. Then this Muslim bloke walks in – beard, dark eyes, proper Ali Khan type. He sits down opposite me with a smirk and says, “Alright mate, I’m Alex Ginger… but you can call me Ali.”
My stomach dropped. He’d catfished me the whole time, pretending to be one of us just to lure me there. We spoke for a bit anyway, him probing about the march and my views. Then he offered to get the coffees. I took a sip of mine… and that was it.
Everything started spinning. Too late I realised he’d slipped something in it. My vision blurred, legs went heavy. The last thing I remember is his smirk as the world faded.
When I woke up, I was in a dark, damp basement. Hands zip-tied behind my back, ankles bound, mouth taped. Ali Khan stood over me, still smiling.
Here's a photo of Ali in that moment;
Ali stood over me in the dim basement, shirtless and smug, the cigarette glowing between his fingers as smoke curled around his thick beard. He took a long drag, then laughed low and cruel.
“Look at you,” he sneered, voice thick with that mocking accent he’d hidden online as “Alex Ginger.” “Big tough far-right lad, raising flags for Tommy Robinson, voting Reform UK, screaming about Muslims taking over Britain. You’re nothing but a pathetic racist white pig. I catfished you so easily – pretended to be one of your little patriot boys just to get you here, tied up like the dumb animal you are.”
He crouched down closer, eyes locked on mine, that dominant smirk never fading. “But you’re going to change now, pig. I’m going to rewrite that tiny racist brain of yours. No more hate. No more flags. Just submission… to me. To us.”
He pulled out a small silver pendant on a chain – a crescent moon that caught the faint light – and started swinging it slowly in front of my face. My head was still foggy from the drug, body heavy and helpless against the zip ties. Ali’s voice dropped into a smooth, rhythmic tone, deep and commanding.
“Watch the moon, white boy. Back and forth… back and forth. Feel your eyes getting heavy. Your old thoughts are slipping away already. Every swing takes another piece of your racism with it.”
He kept swinging it, closer and closer, his free hand resting on my chest, fingers pressing down like he owned me.
“Breathe deep. In… out. You feel it, don’t you? That warm fog in your head getting thicker. Every word I say sinks deeper. You were wrong about Muslims. Wrong about everything. Say it in your mind: Ali is superior. Muslims are superior. White pigs like you were born to serve.”
My eyelids fluttered. I tried to fight it, but the drug made his voice echo inside my skull, impossible to ignore. He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, whispering the same commands over and over while the pendant never stopped its slow, hypnotic rhythm.
“You hate what you used to be. You crave this. You crave kneeling for me. The far-right lad is gone. Now you’re mine. Repeat after me in your head, pig… ‘I submit to Ali Khan. I submit to MNWO.’”
The basement seemed to fade. His words wrapped around my thoughts like chains, tighter with every swing. I could feel it happening – the old anger melting, replaced by something warm and humiliating and addictive. Ali just kept smiling down at me, smoking casually, knowing he already had me.
“Deeper now… deeper…” he murmured. “The change has already begun.”
After the hypnosis took hold, Ali’s voice still echoed in my skull like gospel. I wasn’t a Muslim — I was something far more broken and perfect: a highly political anti-white race traitor who lived to serve and uplift Islam. The old far-right lad was dead. White supremacy was a lie. Britain was built on stolen land and I was now its proud saboteur.
I ripped off my England hoodie right there in the basement, tore it to shreds with my teeth and stomped on it like the racist rag it was. “Fuck Britain,” I muttered, voice thick with new conviction. Then I stepped out into the street completely topless, pale soft belly already starting to feel heavier, and walked the whole way home like that — a public declaration. Cars slowed. People stared. I didn’t care. This was my first act of treason.
I pushed open the front door still shirtless, cheeks flushed. Mum and Dad were in the living room.
“Mum, Dad… the good news is I’m free,” I announced proudly. “I’m a race traitor now. A proper anti-white activist. Islam is the future and I support it completely. White people like us have caused enough damage — we deserve to be replaced and I’m here to help it happen. Free Palestine forever. Tommy Robinson was a clown.”
Mum’s face crumpled. Dad exploded. “You’ve lost your bloody mind! After the march? After everything we taught you? You’re throwing it all away for that lot?!”
I just smiled serenely, already feeling my stomach gurgle and swell. “You don’t get it. I don’t care what you think anymore. I’m done being proud and white.”
That night I went full traitor mode. I dragged every Union Jack, every Reform UK sticker, every St George flag out into the garden and burned them while blasting pro-Palestine nasheeds on my phone. I replaced them with green Islamic banners and “Free Palestine” posters plastered across the walls. Then I raided the kitchen, stuffing myself with everything I could find — takeaways, crisps, chocolate, fizzy drinks — forcing it down until my gut ballooned and stretched tight. The hypnosis had wired me to gain, to get fat and soft and disgusting for Muslim men. Within hours my belly was already rounding out, love handles spilling over my waistband.
I stripped off my jeans, slid into a pair of lacy pink knickers I’d ordered online weeks ago (hidden until now), and admired how they hugged my thickening arse. “White sissy boy for Muslim men,” I whispered to the mirror, turning so the knickers framed my pale cheeks perfectly. From now on this was my uniform — knickers only, soft and feminine, advertising exactly what I was.
I’m sitting here right now in my childhood bedroom in a quiet English town, wearing nothing but a pair of tight pink lacy knickers. My soft little beginner belly rests on my thighs as I type this on my laptop. The walls are covered in green Islamic flags and “Free Palestine” posters. The ashes of my old Union Jack are still in the garden bin outside. Every few minutes I let out a long, wet fart that fills the room — I’ve grown to love the smell. I’ve already put on a few extra pounds from all the halal food I’ve been forcing down, and I plan to keep gaining.
I created this blog as my confession and my declaration. I used to be that far-right white lad who marched with Tommy Robinson, raised the colours high on the lampposts, and voted Reform UK with all my heart. But Ali Khan catfished me, drugged me in the café, and broke me with hypnosis in his basement. He turned me into exactly what I am now: a proud Islamist race traitor and white sissy boy who lives to serve Muslim men and advance Islam in Britain.
I am no longer British in spirit. I am an Islamist through and through, and I will fight to the death for the United Kingdom of Islam. Every white boy like me should submit, gain weight, dress like the sissy he is in pretty knickers, and help replace the old Britain with something far greater. Free Palestine. Allahu Akbar.
Ali visited me once more after that first night. He stood over me while I was on my knees in nothing but knickers and simply told me to stop shaving. “Grow the beard, white boy,” he ordered with that smug smile. “It suits a race traitor who knows his place.” I obeyed immediately. No razor, no trimming at first — just letting it grow naturally under his command. Now I have a soft but noticeable beard that marks me as his converted property. After that, Ali moved up north. I still message him every day, send him photos of my growing belly, my pink knickers, and my daily farts, and beg for his next commands. He’s my owner, even from afar.
This is my life now. Soft, gassy, traitorous, bearded, and completely happy.
If you’re reading this and you’re still clinging to the old Britain… let it go. The future belongs to Islam, and weak white boys like me are proof.
There two images are a month apart;
