Tommy Robinson hammered on my door at 5am and brought a torrent of abuse in his wake – but he won’t shut me up

Robinson came to my house last night. Twice. Now, hours later, I’m still wired and tense. I wonder if he’ll make good on his threats to return again

For the last few months, I have written about the methods used by “Tommy Robinson” to intimidate and harass those who dare to criticise him. I do this because he’s the most visible figure in a surging UK far right, feted by politicians and media figures alike.

Tonight he paid me a visit. Twice.

After tweeting the news that he was about to be served papers for defamation at his home in Central Bedfordshire, I got to see, in response, what his customary “doorstepping” was like for myself.

The first we knew of it was a loud, frantic rapping on my door at around quarter to 11. The shouted voice that accompanied it was unmistakable.

“MIIIIIKE! I JUST WANT TO CHAT!”

That’s when notifications began to buzz on my phone – message requests on Facebook pouring in, full of abuse and vitriol. “Tommy” was obviously livestreaming his visit, using a friend’s account to circumvent his ban, and had tipped off his fans.

The banging continued, urgent and piercing. At one stage it sounded like he was kicking at my front door. While he claimed to be alone, banging came from other windows – I strongly suspect he had an accomplice.

As I called the police, he wailed and raved, claiming that I had placed his family in danger, scared his children, conspired with others to try to bring him down. He said he’d be back every night, that he had a list of journalists he would “expose” too.

The thudding continued, loud and sustained. His delivery to camera devolved into a string of defamatory statements and raging in the night air. I heard a bin being knocked over, the rattling of what I thought was a doorknob.

By this stage my wife, normally stoic in the face of my work writing about the far right, broke down into tears. I tried to comfort her as the house echoed with banging.

Eventually the police arrived, and I detailed what had happened. I told them that if he had a problem with me, he could take it up in courts, or the publications I wrote for – that he didn’t have the right to terrorise me, or my entire street.

Somehow, they managed to convince “Tommy” to leave, and after many hours of wakefulness, we got a little sleep.

Until it started again at 5am. The thumping began anew, manic this time, loud and booming. The house rattled.

This time the defamatory statements began almost straight away – he seemed almost incoherent now, perhaps even intoxicated. His voice was breaking. He urged others to seek me out, to come find me, before, in an utterly surreal fashion, he announced he was off to the gym, and would be back afterwards.

This time the police stayed with us, as I tried to explain the night’s events, and passed on a copy of the video he’d streamed. They were sympathetic and helpful, but also seemed to be all too familiar with “Tommy’s” pattern of activities.

Now, hours later, I’m still wired and tense, with an acidic taste in my mouth like I’ve had too many bad black coffees. I’m startled at the sound of a car door opening outside, or a voice in the street. I haven’t managed to sleep yet. I wonder if he’ll make good on his threats to return again and again, even after I’ve called the police.

Perhaps the worst thing, in the cold light of day, is the near certainty that the “content” “Tommy” produced during his stunt will now be used as a fundraising tool. If you dare to call him out on his cavalcade of hate, he usually tries to monetise you. It is a cruel twist.

But most of all, I wonder how we got in this mess. I wonder how we got to a place where those who try to speak out about hatred and those who peddle it are threatened at their homes. I despair at how social media has become a weapon wielded by some, seemingly with impunity, to silence.

One thing, however, is certain – this won’t shut me up.