Goodness! The election of Mustafa Fatwah as Mayor of Barchester has surprised us all! We simply had no idea there was so much support for the Socialist-Hardcore-International-Terrorist Party (SHITs) – or indeed how many Barchester citizens bear the same surname as the mayor – but we certainly underestimated the so-called ‘Fatwah Effect’, better known as vote-rigging. Mr. Fatwah promised to govern on Burkhaian Principles, and his first executive act is to build Arts and Crafts urinals along the route taken by every omnibus and hackney carriage, thus bringing ‘…comfort to my people.’ It did occur to me that the proposed street-side cubicles would be perfect for hiding explosives – imagine what would hit the fan if one of those went off! What niggles me is Mayor Fatwah dipping his hands into the public purse to pay for this ‘act of necessity’ without consulting ratepayers! What sort of democracy do we live in? Who exactly are ‘his people’ and where did he get his idea from? What exactly is behind it?
The Archdeacon has no doubt we are witnessing the quick pebbledash through the institutions.
“The SHITs have been taken over by a fundamental movement within a movement, calling themselves Imodiumentum, and it is they who secure the Fatwah victory. Their Beardy-Weirdy Youth Section is holding a ‘Two Minute Hate Symposium’ for LGBTQWERTY folk and other assorted misfits at the Amalgamated Union of Tosspots and Benefit Fraudsters on Doolally Street – no white heterosexual Christian men allowed. You should send Mr. Slope in to spy.”
“Surely the law prevents them from excluding sections of the community?” I gasped, quite shocked, for all you ever hear about these days is equality, diversity and inclusion.
“My good woman,” roared the Archdeacon, the laughter causing tears to stream down his cheeks, “You really are an ingenue when it comes to the great game of politics! These buzz-words have exactly the opposite meaning to what you suppose – they are used to draw in the gullible and incontinent in order to brainwash and reconstruct, so that the ‘included’ think as one.”
“It sounds like a cult,” I replied.
“Indeed so,” said the Archdeacon, sipping his port and fiddling with his apron, “And you would be hard pressed to find a bigger cult than Comrade Corbynov.”
I never knew the Archdeacon had a speech impediment.
The other day I noticed someone had started a small fire in the middle of the Cloisters. Grabbing one of the fire buckets, I rushed to put out the flames. Only then did I notice Mr. Slope sitting beneath the statue of Bishop Theophilus Cantwell (1703-1746) looking forlorn.
“Whatever is the matter, Mr. Slope – and what is the meaning of this conflagration?”
“It’s my scout master’s uniform,” he replied. “I can no longer brandish my woggle and dib-dib-dib with the boys whilst tying them up in knots!”
“Why ever not?” I replied kindly.
It transpired that Mr. Slope had raised objections to the new policy on diversity in a private letter to the editor of Scouting Makes a Person of You magazine. Some ill-advised remarks about head-coverings and female genital mutilation resulted in his dismissal from the Scout Movement, despite the years he’s been camping on Hampstead Heath.
“You are better off coming out,” I said soothingly.
“Indeed, Mrs. Proudie, I did that a while ago,” he said.
I got the distinct impression we were talking at cross-purposes.
Schadenfreude is one of those delightful Hunnish words that is remarkably apropos in the case of the Globalist Sorosophile, Milibrand Senior, who has been feathering his nest as head of the IRC since being ousted from British politics by his knife-wielding brother. After preaching Globalism and despising the British people for Brexit, he’s suddenly struck dumb after it appears his own organization has been sexually exploiting young, vulnerable people in those God-forsaken midden-pits recently lambasted by President Trump. Oxfam, too, has been at it, bringing a whole new meaning to ‘Save the Children’ – exactly what are they saving them for? Pudding? Mr. Gladstone went out of his way to save fallen women, but as far as I know he did not arrange for them to be passed around members of the home civil service as playthings. Oh, how morals have declined, and how evil is promoted across the Western world. The chances of Miliband and his ilk being made to stand on the naughty step are about as remote as Ms. Abbottopotamus being voted Slimming World’s ‘Success of the Year’.
The Archdeacon tells me he has placed a portrait of his hero, Mr. Rees-Mogg over the breakfast room fireplace at Plumstead Episcopi. He asked if I had read Mr. R-M’s speech defying the Beasts of Berlaymont over the so-called ‘Punishment Clause’, something the government should have done but couldn’t be bothered.
“He blasted the bounders with both barrels,” exclaimed the Archdeacon, “Those bouffant Beaujolais-sodden mollusk-marinade-ing dissemblers, with their ‘Ooo-la-las’ and ‘Gott-in-Himmels’, making up laws and regulations on the cloven hoof, just didn’t know what hit them. A British politician with a backbone – who would have thought it!”
“Do you really think Mr. Rees-Mogg’s interjection will have made a real difference?” I asked.
“Hard to say, dear lady, hard to say… Berlaymont knows full well he is only a back-bencher, but having said that, things have a habit of changing very quickly in politics. After all, kitten-shoes do not help one’s grip on the greasy pole for long.”
I had no idea Mrs. Dismay knew Mr. Tusk so intimately.
One lives and learns.
Well, my dears, though the world is an ever-darkening place and there is indeed much to worry about, I caution you not to give in to despondency. Grab hold of your Samuel Smiles, don the foundation garments of hope before experience and go out into the streets proclaiming Vulgate: ‘Illegitimi non carborundum!’ So, as the brassier of Frau Merkel snaps to reveal the twin peaks of duplicity, and the false teeth of corruption tear out the beating heart of philanthropy, I bid you adieu for yet another week.