Goodness! The pen is mightier than the sword, or so they say, and the truth of this is clearly demonstrated by my letter to Mr. Kim Jong-un, which seems to have done the trick. Common sense has won the day and the world can breathe again. Until the next time.
My Lord the Bishop and I took an early train to London on Tuesday to see the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. We do this every year in the hope that proper artists will be showing their wares, but alas, we were once again disappointed. Thankfully there was no sign of Miss Emin’s underwear or suppositories, nor spliced wildlife preserved in formaldehyde, but large canvasses daubed with primary colours seem to be much in vogue. The three small watercolours of buttercups by the banks of the River Bar that I submitted a while back were, of course, rejected by the selection committee, which only goes to prove that taste and discernment are strangers to the art gurus of the capital. One does not, of course, bear a grudge. Much.
I happened to be walking past Mustafa Fatwah’s ‘Rub-a-dub Laundry and Scimitar Sharpening’ shop the other afternoon when I spotted a poster which read: ‘No Whites after 8 p.m.’ I should think not. I make sure my whites are boiled and on the line well before 9 a.m. every Monday. I understand similar notices are springing up all over the place – Birmingham, for example – which only goes to show standards of cleanliness and good housekeeping are declining across the nation. I know Mr. Slope always soaks his smalls in rosewater each evening, though how I know I simply cannot recall.
A small crowd of angry ne’er-do-wells was gathered around the statue of the Duke of Wellington in Muggleton Square yesterday morning, spitting and cursing and making a considerable racket. It seems they want the statue removing as it is offensive to working-class people (Wellington called his troops ‘the scum of the earth’) and also to the French (obvious reasons). Anti-statue-ism is yet another American import we can well do without (but then we did send them Piers Morgan for a while, so perhaps it’s quits). The ruffians were chanting, “Aunty Fass, Aunty Fass!” (most probably a friend of Ms. Toynbee, Comrade Corbynov and the like). Despite their insistence, the lady did not appear. I decided to pick up my skirts and hurry along. The mood was turning decidedly nasty. On reflection, perhaps the sane majority should play the unwashed at their own game and demand the removal of Mr. Marx’s memorial headstone in Highgate Cemetery on the grounds that his ideology was responsible for the oppression and deaths of millions.
Speaking of our Once and Future Commissar, I find it rather amusing that Comrade Corbynov, when asked about his views on the Irish Question, was happy to condemn violence on both sides of the political divide, but eagerly rushed to condemn President Trumpelstiltskin for doing exactly that over the Charlottesville riots. An acute case of Doublethinkplus?
The Archdeacon had something to say about Charlottesville:
“Anyone with half a brain can see the whole thing was a set-up,” he explained smugly as we wandered through the stalls at the ‘Save a Fallen Woman for Mr. Gladstone’ Charity Bazaar at Plumstead yesterday. “Most of the Bolshevik thugs were bused in from New York and came with baseball bats. The violence wasn’t an unfortunate accident – it was planned from the beginning, and the municipal authorities connived to achieve the desired outcome. Classic subterfuge, dear lady. These outwardly respectable inwardly demonic leftists with their slithering forked-tongues and quinoa-snorting hipster-esque acolytes have wormed their way into government positions right across the Western world – not to mention the General Synod – their sole aim being to bring everything crashing down.”
I fear the Archdeacon may be right.
At the small parish church of St. Linus Undershaft on Monday evening I found myself sitting next to the bewigged figure of Sir Abraham Haphazzard, recently returned to Barchester after legal consultations with HM Government on matters Brexit. He told me the Zollverein is being particularly beastly, with Herr Junketting and Her Verhuffenpuff demanding their ‘pound of flesh’ in order for us to leave. It doesn’t surprise me (for they are excitable fellows brought up on sauerkraut, molluscs and Sacha Distel), nor do the rumours that Mr. Davis is willing to make compromises (also known as waving the white flag).
I fear this non-Conservative government is a weasel in sheep’s clothing – what we need is another Lord Salisbury to take the helm. I am firmly in the ‘Not a penny more!’ camp when it comes to Johnny Eurocrat. What I really cannot abide is the stovie-eating Krankie Fishwife in Edinburgh letting slip that Euro fishing fleets will always be welcome in Scottish waters. This besom is a traitor on every count, and should be reflecting on her folly in The Tower. Sir Abraham said there was nothing in the Lisbon Treaty about financial penalties (and certainly no sanity-clause) so the time has come to simply leave. As the Abominable Brown once said about other matters, “It is the right thing to do.”
As I pen these words I hear of the dreadful events in Barcelona. Enough said. How many more of these terrible attacks must Europe suffer before the penny drops? We are at war, and have been since the 7th century!
Alas, it is with heavy heart that I light my candle and make my way up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire, where my Lord the Bishop is already snoring his head off. So, as tinder box of righteousness ignites the bonfire of the vanities and the anti-Macassar of indifference soaks up the fetid oil of human suffering, I bid you goodnight. Until next week, dear friends.