Goodness! When is a Conservative not a Conservative? Why, when she is a neo-Marxist deep-state Stalinist surveillance-addict out of her depth in a puddle now occupying the Home Office, of course. ‘Forever Amber’ Rudderless has set out the next phase of the government’s Pretend Strategy for tackling terrorism, as I discovered when I called into Barchester’s Central Post Office yesterday.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Proudie,” said Mrs. Besom, the Postmistress, “How may I help?”
“I would like to post these letters first class,” I replied, “and collect this parcel, which I believe has been delivered here whilst I was out.” I handed her the letters and parcel docket, noticing for the first time a boiling kettle on the desk beside her. Odd time to be taking a tea break, I thought to myself, it being just past 9 a.m. Without further ado, Mrs. Besom proceeded to steam open each and every envelope and read its contents.
“Those are private!” I protested.
“Not any more, Mrs. Proudie. According to new directions from the Home Secretary, privacy is a thing of the past. Terrorism can rear its ugly head anywhere and anytime, even in the most unlikely of quarters. We have to apply these new rules equally and without favour – all are suspect.”
At this point she placed the parcel in front of me. It had of course been opened, and the pair of red flannel long johns ordered for my Lord the Bishop from the Army & Navy exposed to the world, and to ridicule!
“This is outrageous!” I exclaimed, “I shall write to Sir Roland Hill and complain.”
“Won’t do any good,” sniffed Mrs. Besom, “Anyway, what’s that you are carrying under your arm?”
“It is this week’s copy of the Barset Exchange and Mart… what of it?”
“How do you know that isn’t a Far Right publication? They could be advertising guns and explosives alongside plans for home-made bombs and the like… you could get fifteen years imprisonment for reading that sort of thing… I might have to report this to my superior.”
Has the world taken leave of its senses? What sort of Conservative government promotes such nonsense? I left the Post Office in a state of considerable agitation, which of course I took out on the hapless Mr. Slope the moment I arrived home.
As you know, the way of the world leaves me nonplussed at times, but none more so than the strange goings-on in Sweden, the Land of the Gathering Darkness. The government there has just legalised child marriages for ‘New Swedes’ (spot the euphemism) – but not for ethnic Swedes, who would be deemed paedophiles and locked up if they indulged. Not a peep so far out of the Swedish Lutheran Church, but as they are headed by a motley collection of leftist lesbians somewhere on the smorgasbord spectrum of genders, I am not surprised. ‘Suffer little children’ has become a directive.
The Archdeacon, fresh from a visit to Snowflake College, Oxenbridge, to inspect the neo-Gothic Safespaces recently installed by Pugin, had much to say on recent rumblings there. A small group of Militant Calvinists in the Junior Common Room demanded the closure of the Science Faculty as being harmful, intimidating and predatory to Christian students. Furthermore, they raided the library for the complete works of Mr. Darwin and set fire to them in the quadrangle whilst shouting, ‘We are not monkeys!’
“It was most heartening, dear lady, most heartening indeed!” beamed the Archdeacon as we strolled across the Cathedral Close towards the small medieval chapel of the vicars choral, dedicated to St. Brexita the Visionary, where the old gentlemen of Hiram’s Hospital were practising for this year’s Mystery Play under the direction of Mr. Slope. They were dramatising the Parable of the Foolish Virgins – foolish they certainly looked, but as for virginity… I am not so sure. The beards will have to go, however. Mr. Slope said goodbye to his beard a long time ago.
“Surely, Archdeacon, you don’t approve of wanton vandalism,” I replied.
“Ah, but this was not wanton, this was good old-fashioned smiting! It marks the resurgence of muscular Christianity, the long-awaited fight-back against secularism and degeneracy as peddled by these rabid Dawkinsites!’
It was then that I woke up and realised the whole conversation had been a dream. Silly old me. Imagine, intolerance at a higher seat of learning… impossible!
Sometime later I was accosted by Mr. Bunce in the High Street. He seemed somewhat alarmed and was waving a copy of Old Moore’s Almanack in the air.
“We’re doomed… doomed… doooooooooomed, I tell ye!”
I attempted to calm him down with a stale hobnob I happened to carry in my décolletage for such emergencies, and asked what was the matter?
“I’ve consulted the Almanac and it say here, plain as day, that we are about to collide with a massive heavenly body, something alien and out of this world heading straight for us!”
I assured him that Ms. Diane Abbott was nowhere near Barchester, ascribing his use of the word ‘heavenly’ to advanced years and poor eyesight.
“No, no… it’s called Nibiru!”
I must confess I had no idea she had a middle name. Ah well, you live and learn.
“It’s the end of the world!”
“Only if Labour get elected again,” I replied, at which point I left him.
And now, my dear friends, I shall take my leave for this week. As the friends of Mr. Weinstein disappear faster than the Hildabeast’s emails and the conkers of concession drop from the old Horse Chestnut of Appeasement, it’s time for bed. May the Blessings of St. Viagra stiffen your resolve and the Torments of St. Linus be ever a warning unto you.