Good grief! Imagine my horror when, scanning the increasingly turgid pages of The Jupiter (avoiding the page three daguerreotype of a scantily-clad Cora Pearl) I discovered the shameful plot to insult and ridicule President Trumpelstilskin when he visits The Great Wen next week. Citizen Khan, the self-promoting vertically-challenged Grecian Two-Thousandish Mayor of London, has sanctioned the launch of a giant baby president balloon to fly near the Houses of Parliament, in full-view of everyone. Not only is this dirigible obscene, juvenile and crass, it makes the United Kingdom a laughing stock in the eyes of the world. Mr. Khan claims freedom of speech. Well, he is not so keen on that when his own globalistic neo-communistical ideology is questioned or challenged, nor indeed are the Left in general.
Well, we have planned our own riposte here in Barchester. I have formed an action committee and have delegated certain tasks to friends and familiars. Mr. Bunce and the aged Woolcombers of Hiram’s Hospital are working in Farmer Slurrypit’s meadow even as I write. Armed with scythes, they are cutting into the crop, making huge letters which spell out ‘Barchester welcomes Trump!’ These are visible from the air and should cheer the President up as he flies in from Washington. Signora Neroni, Mary Bold and my dear daughters have gathered together unwanted bloomers from all the ladies in town – these are to be stitched into shape and suitably coloured to make our own ‘Mayor Khan Balloon’, which we shall secure to the Cathedral Tower. It is of course a hot air balloon, which we think totally appropriate. The highlight of our protest will be when The Amazing Braggadocio, the knife-thrower from Lupino’s Circus, climbs the tower with a full set of blades and throws them at the floating Khan, bursting the balloon to the cheering of the crowd below. Given his abysmal track record on preventing London’s never-ending stabathon, we think that entirely appropriate too.
(As for our own mayor, Mustafa Fatwah, we have taken advantage of the fact that he is on holiday somewhere beyond the Levant, looking into hygiene and sanitation in the harem. He may be away for some time).
One notices similar Khanian antics from the Lord Mayor of Sheffield, a fellow bearing the grand old Yorkshire name Magrid Magrid, photographed wearing his chain of office and a Mexican sombrero squatting on a table in the Mayor’s Chambers, looking like he was suddenly taken short. He too has declared the President is not welcome in Sheffield. I am sure Mr. Trumpelstiltskin is heartbroken. These Leftists love gesture-politics. I’d certainly like to give him a gesture of my own. But wait a moment… isn’t wearing a Mexican sombrero ‘cultural appropriation’ by the Left’s own standards; you know, one of the things they howl about if a white person does it? Ah yes… the double-standards of diversity…
The Archdeacon was temporarily absent from Barchester today (Friday), mounting a picket protest at the gates of Chequers, demanding ‘No Betrayal’ from those Cabinet ministers gathering to admire Mrs. Dismay’s kitten shoes and accessories whilst selling us down the river. Would they take much notice? After all, millions of people voted ‘Leave’ in the referendum and here we are, two years later and we haven’t yet put on our coat and hat. The Jupiter did report one little gem – at the time of the referendum, a poll was taken to find out if Britons knew what they were voting for. The result of this clearly showed they did – as far as the public was concerned, ‘Leave meant leave’, lock, stock and barrel, no equivocation, end of story. For two years we have had to endure the scornful sneers of elitists and Remainers telling us that we were misled, ignorant, misinformed, racist, Little Englanders and so on. Well, we were – and are – none of those things.
The Archdeacon did confess his fears over dinner yesterday evening (Thursday).
“One can’t trust these people,” he confided. “Half of them went to Cambridge, and we know what sort of shady characters that place turns out. It must be a prerequisite of matriculation that prospective undergraduates report immediately to matron to have a loyalty-to-country bypass operation. I have heard it said that Brussels has some juicy pieces of dirt on the Prime Minister’s father, and that they hold this over her head to make sure she sabotages Brexit. Personally, I don’t believe it. Mrs. Dismay is naturally incompetent and as such is doing exactly what is expected of her.”
“So, what do you think the outcome of this Chequers meeting will be?” I asked, dipping my langue du chat into the madeira.
“It will all go horribly wrong,” sniffed the Archdeacon. “The woman would be out of her depth in a puddle. What worries me is, the Cabinet rebels might force her to resign, and that would bring Mr. Javid to the fore. A man who takes his oath to Her Majesty and her heirs and successors on anything other that the King James Version dances to a very different tune, and it is not the Cornish floral dance.”
“Surely Mr. Javid’s loyalty is not in question?” I ventured.
“Madam, in politics, everybody’s loyalty is in question – the question being, ‘What’s in it for me?’”
Looking at the recent decisions of MEPs to keep details of their fabulous allowances from the general public, I am inclined to agree with him.
To cut a long story short, I stayed up into the early hours waiting to hear from the Archdeacon, who promised to send a telegram the moment a statement was made. I reproduce it verbatim below:
‘Appeasement rules stop Brexit rebels cave in stop betrayal now official government policy stop.’
Am I surprised? No. Of course not. But Brussels-am-Berlin has yet to respond.
Such strange goings-on in Amesbury… two more people serious ill with this nasty stuff called Novichok. No, it is not a cocoa-based Beveridge. It reminds me of the time when the night soil cart overturned in the Market Square – so many people fell ill the next day that Dr. Thorne was rushed off his feet administering Daffy’s Elixir, which, in truth, just about finished them off. However, this Novichok case is a baffling one. Whatever next, you may well ask?
Well my dears, just a soupçon of topical offerings this week to flavour the bouillabaisse of your weekend. I am busy with the action committee as you can well imagine, but this afternoon I am accompanying Mr. Slope to the Stoke Pingum Agricultural and Horticultural Fair, where I have been asked to judge the hobnobs. Believe me, this is serious business, as the competition is fierce and the aftermath sometimes bloody. We have been invited to attend Evensong at the Parish Church of St. Jo Cox and the Marxist Martyrs afterwards, but I have declined. The incumbent is one of those go-ahead types like Lord Harries, the former Bishop of Oxford, who believes there is a place for the Koran in the next coronation. There is… in the crypt.
May the Mad Hatter of Berlaymont shout ‘No Room!’ at the Alice of Great Britain and the Red Queen of Berlin fall down the rabbit hole of oblivion, preferably sometime tomorrow. Adieu for this week, adieu!