Goodness! My head is in a complete spin: on the one hand, the Prime Minister tells us we are far, far safer remaining in the Zollverein where unicorns roam freely and Frau Merkin loves us, each and every one; on the other hand, as reported by The Jupiter, we are warned that lifting visa-restrictions on the Turks will open the floodgates to those who would blow us up. Mr. Cameron may find it easy to believe six impossible things before breakfast, but I confess I am struggling (and, of course, now we know he was always planning to Remain, even when telling Parliament he was negotiating with an open mind. Such fibs). Whilst shopping in Barchester Market Place on Saturday I could not fail to notice a large wagon draw up in front of Mustafa Fatwah’s Kebab and Curry Emporium and several large wooden cases (as large as coffins) being unloaded. Whatever could be inside? Refugees? These are dark and troublesome times, and with Assassins lurking round every corner it does well to be vigilant… and cautious. I am thinking of writing to First Minister Krankie of Scotland to assign Fatwah a ‘named person’, seeing as our local constabulary are disinclined to venture wherever the crescent moon shines.
The more foreigners tell us not to ‘Brexit’ the more I feel it is right to wave goodbye. I don’t know much about this Angelica Jolly-Potty but she is an American actress married to ‘a hunk’ (of wood?) with a pick-and-mix family, and is of the woolly-headed opinion that open-borders are a wonderful thing. I’m told she lives in a gated community with armed guards for protection. No open borders for her then; just for us little people. Still, it is rather comforting to know those outspoken London theatreland-types have opened their mansions and second homes to house hundreds of illegal immigrants, isn’t it? Wonder how they are finding diversity in the raw? Or have I missed something?
“Do you tune into the BBC on the Electrical Magic Lantern, Mrs. Proudie?” asked Mrs. Stanhope at my coffee morning gathering at The Palace on Monday.
“I have no truck with Bolshevism, Mrs. Stanhope,” I replied, and indeed I do not. That Dimbleby creature is but one gene away from Trotsky in my book, and I have no desire to be told at 6pm daily what I am supposed to think.
“Only,” continued Mrs. Stanhope, “…the head of religious broadcasting believes their output is too Christian.” My teacup rattled in its saucer.
“Of course he does! This head of religious broadcasting is a Moslem, is he not?” It was not a question; more rhetorical statement. Mrs. Stanhope confirmed it was so. “Then what the blazes has he got to do with it!” What’s the point in having an Established Church if it doesn’t thwart the opposition?
“Well, that’s just it,” said Mrs. Stanhope sheepishly. “I’m afraid quite a few bishops are in agreement.”
“Suffragans, every last one of them!” I roared. Never trust a suffragan; neither fish nor fowl. Salami slice by salami slice – Halal naturally – everything that makes England England is being done away with. If only they salami-sliced the mawk-fest that is ‘Children in Need’…”
Mr. Slope returned to The Palace in a bit of a lather the other evening, so I sat him down and asked after his health. He had spent the previous three hours down at the Barchester YMCA explaining the intricacies of the Eastward Position to the assembled hearties, and as usual found himself debagged – such fun. But this was not the cause of his distress. This came when he made excuses to visit the lavatory, where he found the sign on the door now read ‘All Genders’ instead of ‘Gentlemen’. He was so perturbed he dared not venture in, and had to cross his legs until, on the way home, he was able to duck into Gropewell Alley and relieve himself. This is the story he gave to Constable Caughtem, and his case comes up next week. This LGBTABC nonsense has really gone too far when the question boils down ‘to pee or not to pee…’, but we live in transformational times.
Duchess Glencora writes of the simply marvellous time she had at Windsor, watching the celebrations for the Dear Queen’s 90th Birthday. Her Majesty sat fixedly through most of the ‘entertainment’ (dread word) but became quite animated when the horses and carriages went round, and round, and round. There was not a rude Chinese person in sight (all below stairs I shouldn’t wonder), so things went swimmingly. Royalty has such a way at making people feel at ease: at the celebrity line-up afterwards the Queen asked each and every performer, “And who are you..?”, putting them all on an equal footing, in keeping with these egalitarian times.
Well, my dears, the candle is spluttering, my quill is worn out, and my Lord in snoring louder than the Last Trump, so ‘tis time to call it a day. Be good…