Goodness! Such a lot of fuss over Mr. Trump’s cat. I have two wonderful Siamese pussies and I love to cuddle them… I find it very therapeutic. If he fiddled with newts it would be a different matter, I’m sure, and much less wholesome. But, lawks-a-mercy, this presidential campaign is quite déclassé, with dreadful mud-slinging and crudities being hurled about willy-nilly. I do think Mrs. Hilldabeast gave the game away when she said she has a public face and a private face, saying one thing to one audience and something different to another. It is what politicians do, though we don’t often hear them admit it. It does seem somewhat curious that every one of Mr. Trump’s indiscretions and misdemeanours is plastered over the news, whereas the far-more serious machinations of St. Hillary of Armageddon are ignored or whitewashed. People have cottoned on to the bias however, and The Jupiter reports crowds of Trumpanistas booing (and frightening) journalists sent to cover the event. These hacks, bewildered by the hostile response, seem devoid of the entire concept of cause and effect. If only Honest Abe Lincoln were standing again… but I digress. Whatever the American people decide – between the devil and the deep blue sea – is up to them, but one cannot help thinking if King Solomon himself were called upon to make the decision, would he not use his sword to kebab them both?
We were so hoping that Baroness Shameless Chakrabarking would send her children to Dr. Wortle’s School here in Barchester, which would provide a good all-round education free from transgendered science. LGBT reading books and strength-through-joy equality indoctrination, but she would have none of it. Being a good socialist, the Baroness has opted for Dulwich College whilst advocating bog standard comprehensives for the rest of mankind. How does she sleep at night… and with whom?
I read in The Jupiter that Archbishop Welby was presented with a beautiful crozier at his meeting with the Bishop of Rome. A gracious and generous gift, though I’m not sure the latter will appreciate the boxed set of Sir Cliff Richard’s ‘23,000 Songs of Praise’ given in return. It could have been worse – Max Bygrave’s ‘Deck of Cards’ springs to mind. One hopes that Cantuar avoided kissing the Pontiff’s ring, at least in public. The other day, the Archdeacon offered to show me the many valuable artifacts squirreled away in the Cathedral Treasury. Of course, one had to avert one’s eyes when passing the (rather rusty) armoured codpiece of St. George, given by Pope Joan to Bishop Gotobed of Barchester in 1250 or thereabouts (memorandum to self: send Mr. Slope down with a tin of Brasso to give it a rub). The bejewelled chastity belt of St. Anne of Widdecombe is remarkably well-preserved, as is the small votive statue of Jess Yates, but the round leather cushion reputedly used by Martin Luther to relieve the piles has seen better days. Of course, there are those who argue such precious items should be sold on the open market and the proceeds given to the poor (who are always with us), but this is the philistine cry of rabid radicals like Comrade Corbynov… How does he sleep at night… and with whom?
I am very worried about Mr.Slope. He’s taken to wearing a canary-yellow suit, having painted his face green, and has signed on for ballroom dancing lessons at Mustafa Fatwah’s ‘Shake It Don’t Break It Terpsichorean Bazaar’ on Lionel Blair Alley. He says it is in ‘homage’ (pronounced in the French fashion) to his hero, a certain Mr. Ballsup, who is currently sashaying his way across our Magic Lantern screens in a vain attempt to reinvent himself. Such is our chaplain’s apparent dexterity with the American Smooth that he is known amongst fellow club members as ‘Slippery’ Slope. Having never seen his Rumba I cannot comment, and he wisely keeps his Samba in lodgings out of town. One wonders how he sleeps at night… and with whom?
Finally, I must share with you my observations of the recent conference held in the Cathedral – ‘Holding Heretics in the Light: the context of conflagration.’ This splendid and timely event was the brainchild of Dean Trefoil, and was designed to be as inclusive as possible. The bookstall offered a comprehensive selection, ranging from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs through to contemporary works such as Fahrenheit 451 and The Lady is for Burning. Amongst the delegates were Arians, Nestorians, Muggletonians, Ranters, Diggers, Zoroastrians and Climate Change Deniers, none of whom was given chance to speak or ask questions as they were subjected to lengthy sermons on hell-fire and damnation. So very stimulating. On the last day Mr. Slope busied himself collecting faggots. The after-conference barbeque lit up the evening sky. So very jolly.
And so, dear friends, as the Paul Hollywood of Time deflates the Soufflé of Expectations, I must away. I have promised to speak to the Mothers’ Union on ‘Globalisation: Who now carries the White Man’s Burden?’ Of course, I know nothing about the subject, but when has that ever stopped me? Until next time, adieu!