Rejoice! We have a new prince, and the Royal Family are blessed yet again, as indeed is the nation! I am pleased to report Barchester is celebrating in traditional style. There was a twenty-one gun salute by the Queen’s Own Transgendered Diversity Hussars; the streets are draped in red, white and blue, and the Gentlemen of Hiram’s Hospital are enjoying a slap-up celebratory tea on the Cloister Lawn, where Mr. Slope is treating them to his Spotted Dick (he’s been slaving away over a hot Aga for days), and I am enticing all and sundry with my specially-iced hobnobs. Mr. Harding has written a rousing anthem for the occasion, which will be sung at Evensong throughout the following week, and the Archdeacon has arranged with Inspector Cuffem that all local republicans will be locked up for a day or two so that loyal parades can take place unhindered.
Here’s a taster of Mr. Harding’s opus:
Gaudete the angels sing
To greet the son of our future king.
An acorn from the Royal Oak,
It’s good to hear the Lefties choke…
Speaking of the good Inspector, I paid a surprise visit to Barchester Police HQ the other day to report that I’d lost the plot (well, after writing this codswallop for nearly two years, it was bound to happen). One was informed the Inspector was locked in the WC and had been for some time: the sound of flushing could be heard – repeated flushing.
“Shouldn’t you send for Dr. Thorne,” I suggested to the duty sergeant, “It sounds like the Inspector is suffering quite badly. Losing all that fluid cannot be good for one.”
“No need to fret, Ma’am,” replied the sergeant, “The Inspector is not ill… he’s… doing some paperwork.”
“Clearly he is, and will be in need of several new rolls pretty soon,” I said firmly.
At this point the door opened and out came the Inspector, his sleeves rolled up and looking decidedly ‘caught in the act’.
“Are you alright, Inspector?” I asked.
“Quite alright, Mrs. Proudie, thankyou… now, if you would just move along…”
The door of the WC was ajar, and I spotted several stacks of manilla folders, each one bulging with papers – the top one bearing the arms of the Archdiocese of York.
“What exactly is going on here?” I demanded.
“Ah… well… we have been tasked with a delicate assignment, Barchester being a quiet and out-of-the-way place, so to speak.”
“Are you destroying evidence, Inspector?”
“No, no, no, no… yes! It’s a fair cop, Mrs. P, only it’s a favour to your lot.”
“Our lot?” I marvelled.
“Yes, the C of E.”
It seems water does wash away sins after all…
The Jupiter reports on the state visit of the Emperor Macron I to Washington, and the discourtesy shown to the President, Mr. Trumpelstiltskin. One would have thought the French were well-skilled in the art of political politesse, but then things have declined drastically since the days of Louis Philippe. Criticising one’s host and mocking his policies is the height of rudeness, but we no longer see the likes of Sir Edward Grey, Talleyrand and Prince Metternich occupying the foreign ministries and chancelleries of Europe, so what does one expect? M. Macron is an out-and-out Sorosastrian, a follower of the Globalist religion which believes democracy should be consigned to the history books and the world population reduced to a few million. He is a fool, but a dangerous fool.
What was even worse, in my humble opinion, was that Congress applauded every word that Jove uttered. Shameful days, shameful days. The Archdeacon pulled no punches.
“Outrageous! Diabolical! Sucking up to a cosmetically-enhanced Yves-St-Laurent-suited garlic-munching geriatrophile does Congress no credit! Why, the man spouts absolute balderdash half the time, and utter tripe for the other half with his Oo-la-la’s and parfum de toilette under-arm sprays. He should stick to polishing his wife’s zimmer frame and nestling in the ample bosom of Mutti Merkin instead of scattering acid drops in foreign parts and proclaiming we are entering an age of mass migration on the way to linking Europe with Africa. When the globalist political elite take against a president en masse one can be sure that that president is heading in the right direction – huzzah for Trump!”
“There are many who would disagree with your analysis, Archdeacon,” I ventured.
“Bolsheviks and agitators, socialists and Dismaylites, Toynbee-readers and gravy-train Kinnockians – the scum that floats to the top of our cesspit society!” he snorted in response. I fear once the Archdeacon has an opinion it may as well be carved in stone.
One’s heart goes out to poor little Alfie Evans and his parents, who find themselves pitted against the flint-and-granite-face of the Welfare State – those in authority ‘who know best’. At Signora Neroni’s coffee morning yesterday, we ladies discussed the issue ad nauseam, and for once were all agreed. If doctors here want to apply Pilate-ian principles to medicine, what is so wrong in letting others try to save the boy? The Bishop of Rome has made a plea, and we understand that little Alfie is now an Italian citizen, so why has the law come down so heavily, so uncompromisingly? While we are at it, why have Merseyside Police announced they will crack down on anybody making derogatory remarks about the hospital and the decision of the court? Have our police nothing better to do?
The Holy European Zollverein blunders on and on, a runaway juggernaut incapable of turning or indeed applying the brakes, mowing down democracy and nation states which stand in its path like some demented savage celebrating Ramavan. Brussels-am-Berlin has announced that funds will be withheld from countries refusing to fall into line with the migrant and immigration policies. Even I can spot the flaw in this one. Hungary, Poland and the like only joined the reborn GDR to receive generous subsidies. Take those subsidies away, and why bother staying in a community which seeks to punish you? Suddenly one sees a brand-new future for the House of Hapsburg heading a new economic bloc beyond the Oder-Neisse line: one can hardly call that dynasty ‘chinless wonders’.
Spare a thought for the Conservative Mayor of Wokingham, hounded out of office by a socialist prodnose for expressing concerns over mass-immigration. I understand the town is being officially twinned with Salem, Mass.
Does anyone else feel the band we’re in has started playing different tunes?
Goodness! Look at the time! The sundial is almost beside itself. I am expected at the Floating Chapel of St. David of Attenborough, which is currently moored alongside the wharf on Press Gang Alley, Lower Barchester, where the incumbent, the Rev’d. J. Cousteau, is organising a ‘Pick up Plastic for the Paraclete’ calypso evening and magic lantern show. Mr. Slope is particularly interested in the title of the latter – ‘Blue Planet 2’. He has been to Amsterdam many times and knows the score.
Until next week my dear, dear friends. Adieu.
(NB This was a Holy Humour Production).