Now where did I leave that perfume bottle..?
Goodness! Well my dears, I hope you are all enjoying the weather. I must confess bombazine is not the most-summery of materials, but a bishop’s wife does have standards. Barchester is basking in glorious sunshine and everyone seems to be in search of shade. The cathedral cloisters offer just such protection: I like to position myself between Bishop Trougher (d.1683) and Dean Wildebeest (d. 1698) on the South Side – the statue of the former casts a huge shadow thanks to his amply proportioned belly whilst the fierce expression carved on the face of the latter tends to scare off the most intrepid of choirboys.
Let us pause for a moment to give thanks for the vindication of Sir Cliff Richard. The courts have awarded damages – “Not nearly enough in my opinion!” blasted the Archdeacon, who has collected all of Sir Cliff’s gramophone records after meeting him years ago at the Barchester Festival of Light.
“Those devils at the Biased Broadcasting Corporation have a lot to answer for! If there’s one thing they cannot stand it is the steadfast Christian, the wholesome and the good. Atheists and devil-worshippers to a man (and woman and whatever it chooses to be today), they never miss an opportunity to strike out, to sneer and to accuse. Would they target any other religion in this way? Possibly, but certainly not the one that would cut their collective heads off if they did! They sit in their lofty offices weaving quinoa yurts whilst baking diversity fusion sit-coms in the oven of Common Purpose, doing their bit to trample on decency and tradition whilst having fun on the nine o’clock waterbed. Outrageous! Time the entire filthy enterprise was disbanded.”
“I think you mean ‘watershed’,” I ventured.
“I’m sure it does when things get too vigorous,” he muttered.
Those placed in authority over us would do well to consider carefully whom they choose as special advisers. My Lord the Bishop of course has my good self and thankfully we are of one mind, which makes his life a lot easier. Mrs. Dismay however has a coterie of Bolsheviks installed at Number 10, an odd thing indeed for a Conservative prime minister (though perfectly normal for an EU gauleiter as I’m sure you will agree). No sooner did Mr. Davis go through the revolving door of his ministry than fifty Brexit civil servants found themselves transferred to the Cabinet Office where Joe Stalin’s love-child can keep an eye on them. No doubt many of them will be sent off for ‘re-education’ at the LSE or some such dreary place. There are whispers of Barrow-in-Furness… one shudders!
The presidential visit seemed to go off reasonably well – rent-a-mob jiggled about in protest and balloon babies failed to impress all but the witless and degenerate. I did hear from Countess de Courcy that the younger royals refused to meet The Donald, which seems rather rude (if true); I do hope this isn’t an early instance of Meghan-power, for it is known she is a self-declared feminist and anti-Trump to boot. I’m not convinced Americans make the best duchesses… though Consuelo Vanderbilt did make an impressive Duchess of Marlborough thanks to the whalebone corsets.
Over in Dublin, the Wet Taoiseach has been making disagreeable noises about borders and air space. Does he not realise two can play his game? He really should borrow an atlas from his local library and consider how retaliation would hit home. However, it is greatly to his advantage that we have, in our Prime Minister, a leader with the heart and soul of a wet lettuce, so total capitulation is more than likely.
I was aghast to read in The Jupiter that the Home Office knew about the appalling business in Rotherham a decade ago but did nothing about it. Those poor girls! Isn’t it odd how ‘uncomfortable’ documents and reports go missing so easily – just ask the Archbishop of York (though rising tides were to blame in that case). Heads should be rolling by now, for each successive Home Secretary over the last ten years is, in my opinion, culpable. I am of the opinion that the Civil Service, once the envy of the world for its honesty and probity, is a diseased, cankerous malevolence at the heart of the British State, and it needs to be cut out.
I also read that a mural depicting London’s Mayor Khan in some ridiculous swimsuit was removed as being offensive. I thought the Mayor was all in favour of free speech as a sign of a healthy democracy? Well, he was when the Trump Balloon was launched, but the wind has changed since then. I don’t like to point fingers, but I noticed the Archdeacon returned from a meeting in London the other week with red paint on his hands and a broad grin of mischievous satisfaction on his face. Those life classes at The Slade must be paying off.
This evening my Lord and I are going to a concert at the Muggletonian Institute on Marprelate Avenue to hear the Barchester Cooperative Singers perform ‘The Lactations of Jeremiah the Profit’, by Tallis: at least that’s what it says on the programme, but I think they forgot to proof-read before printing. Still, with all this gender fluidity perhaps Jeremiah did lactate a bit now and then… who knows. As for ‘profit’, I doubt if they’ll make one.
Well I must fly. Things to do, things to do.
Adieu, until next time.