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Corbyn’s Labour is a broad church – except for Blairites, Anglicans and Brexiteers

Spare a thought for poor Mr. Orban, a real politician giving an account of himself to the pretend ones in the European Parliament and being lectured on democracy by the unelected bureaucrats of Berlaymont. How galling, but how wonderful that he stood up to champion his country and to make it quite clear that Hungary will defend its borders and reject mass invasion from ‘migrants’. Young Farage defended him and called upon Hungary to join the Brexit club, but the stony faces of Messrs. Verhuffenpuff et al spoke volumes. Mr. Orban spoke up for a Christian Europe – something you do not hear in the West, more’s the pity.

Mr. Orban has been a good friend to Brexit – perhaps that is why the Perfidious Dismay has stabbed him in the back… that woman is to Conservatism what Lavrentiy Beria was to Neighbourhood Watch.

Well, my dears, here in Barchester we are a little out of step with the rest of the world, as you know (about 150 years at a pinch), but whispers and rumours do filter through and occasionally The Jupiter tells the truth. At the Dunkemwell Strict and Peculiar Baptist Chapel ‘Pleasant Sunday Afternoon’ last week I overheard two Christian Socialist-types (supporters of Comrade Corbynov no doubt) discussing ‘the Jewish Question’. I too have always wondered why they want to chop their foreskins off (seems such a waste) but this was not the question they were asking. No indeed – the question was: ‘How do we stop antisemitism within the party?’

“Gentlemen, please forgive my intrusion, but isn’t it obvious? Your party has welcomed in thousands of folk from warmer climes who hate the Jewish people with a passion. All you have to do is revoke their membership and the job is done.”

“Oh, we cannot do that,” said the first fellow, “Those of whom you speak bring colour, vibrancy and diversity to our politics… Labour is a broad church and we welcome the widest possible spectrum into our Big Tent.”

“Except for the Blairites, we don’t want them,” said the second fellow.

“No indeed, we don’t want them,” said the first.

“And Anglicans, we are not too keen on Anglicans,” said the second.

“Smells and bells… urgh,” mumbled the first.

I bristled.

“The trick is,” said the first, “to remind all groups within the party that we are all equal, that all positions are valid, all religions are basically the same and all cultures deserve respect.”

“Except for Blairites, Anglicans and Brexiteers – don’t forget the Brexiteers… and anti-feminists… and bankers…”

“Well,” I said, “according to The Jupiter, your party is leaking Jewish members who are fearful of your leader’s track record. I also understand many are planning to leave the country if they have not already done so.”

“Oh, we must stop that,” said the first. “We must confiscate their passports for a start. As for the matter of their safety, we could round them all up and put them in one town or city area where they can be guarded and protected.”

“I believe that has been tried before… elsewhere,” I said forcefully.

“And how did that work out?” asked the second.

Unbelievable.

At this point I left them to it, the ‘Jewish Question’ remaining unsolved as they tied themselves in knots.

“What do you think of the Dalai Lama, my dear?” asked the bishop at breakfast on Thursday.

“I prefer the alpaca,” I said, bringing a little humour to the toast and marmalade.

“I refer, of course, to his words of Europe and the Europeans…” continued my Lord.

“Eminently sensible,” I replied.

“Indeed,” said my Lord the Bishop, and with that the usual comfortable silence resumed.

“The game’s afoot,” chortled the Archdeacon this morning as we hurried across the Cathedral Close for the annual Harvest Festival, which this year takes place in the side chapel of St. Genetica and St. Modifyde of the Crops and presided over by Mr. Slope, who, as you all know, is a devotee of meat and two veg.

“What game is that, Archdeacon?” I asked.

“Why, the plot to remove Mrs. Dismay and reclaim the Conservative Party for Conservatism of course!” he exclaimed.

There have been rumours of this for some time, but to be quite honest I put it down to hot air and wishful thinking. It is said that she has taken to wearing a sturdy belt attached to an incredibly long length of elastic, so that whenever she has to leave Downing Street to give more things away to Brussels she can twang back in the blink of an eye before Boris moves his furniture in. (As for reclaiming Conservatism, I fear the ‘game’ is lost. Ministers John Glen and Victoria Atkins are busy calling for ‘greater diversity’ and a culling of ‘alpha males’ in the workplace, and the appointment of more women, the lack of which they believe ‘is morally wrong’. Pure Marxist rhetoric. I hope all the alpha males in their constituencies remember this come election time).

“It simply won’t happen,” I said.

“Nonsense! The plotters are gathering around Mr. Rees-Mogg even as we speak, knives are being sharpened and the Ides of September are looming. Mark my words, we are going to have a Spencer Perceval moment, and not before time. I speak metaphorically, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, but was not convinced.

“Mr. Rees-Mogg showed his mettle the other day when he and his children were harangued by a rabid Class War Warrior on the doorstep of his London home – remaining calm and collected whilst the Bolshevik blighter overstepped the mark of common decency and propriety,” continued Dr. Grantly.

“Indeed he did,” I replied. Whilst I thoroughly approve of Mr. Rees-Mogg’s politeness and good manners, I fear these are not the weapons to disarm the hate-spewed bile of the extreme Left. I could, of course, be wrong.

There are so many happenings one could write about this week, but I simply haven’t the time. My Lord the Bishop and I are taking a short holiday next week and the post from Sardinia is lamentably slow. I shall leave my diary in the hands of His Grace.

So, as the Artful Dodger of Downing Street picks the nation’s pockets for the Fagins of Brussels and the Mad Hatter of Corbynite Labour shouts ‘No room!’ to the Alice of Normality, I bid you adieu.