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‘Perhaps we could have a little more of the Good News and rather less Pravda’

Goodness! It seems Archbishop Welmeaning, whilst preparing his Christmas sermon (one can never be too early), got no further than Luke 2:1: ‘…all the world should be taxed’, and decided an overhaul of the Inland Robbery Service was called for. The poor are always with us, but His (present [Ed.]) Grace feels we should all be dipping our hands into our pockets to close the gap between them and the stinking rich. There seems a compulsion within all left wingbats to turn a perfectly decent nation into carbon copies of Venezuela, where people are forced through socialist-imposed shortages to eat their pets or flee across the border in search of food. The Gospel of St. Marx is music to the ears of the Corbynovites, though their natural inclinations are more turned towards Bingo Night at Mecca (without the bingo). I’m sure His (present) Grace believes he is doing the Lord’s work, but perhaps we could have a little more of the ‘Good News’ and rather less Pravda.

I bumped into Mustafa Fatwah’s wife, Antifa, on market day, haggling over bags of sugar and bottles of cleaning fluid. At least, I think it was her – I’m not too good at eye-recognition.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fatwah,” I said pleasantly, “My, what an interesting combination of goods you have in your basket.”

“Eesa hobby,” she mumbled.

“Indeed,” I replied, wondering what on earth she could be making. Each to their own, of course. I take comfort in writing uplifting tracts. My Lord the Bishop gets lost in the library and Mr. Slope has recently taking up fly fishing.

“Must go,” she said gruffly, and with a swirl of her voluminous black creation, she disappeared into the crowd.

It is well she has found something to keep her occupied. Mustafa Fatwah, our diversely-orientated mayor, was recently elected to Labour’s National Executive Committee, ousting the flamboyant mascara-besotted Mr. Eddie Lizzard, who clearly doesn’t dress to the left sufficiently enough for our latter-day Bolsheviks. Mr. Lizzard’s contribution to world revolution has been poorly rewarded – it could have been worse, for socialists are rather good at liquidating their assets. He’s probably consoling himself with a spot of retail therapy at the nearest Ann Summers. At least the mayor’s new duties will take him out of Barchester for much of the year, so we can all breathe a sigh of relief.

The Archdeacon was delighted to read of Lord King’s blistering condemnation of our incompetent government with regard to the Brexit business.

“That King fellow hits the nail on the head. Never before has this country gone into negotiations with a foreign power as a supplicant. Mrs. Dismay seems to believe that if she is nice to them, they will be nice to us. Typical liberal woolly thinking. Things are on the move. As the woodsmoke rises from autumnal bonfires and the nights draw in ever closer, men’s minds most assuredly turn to plotting – think of Mr. Fawkes and his band, dear lady. It cannot be long before Mrs. Dismay meets a sticky end, but who will do the deed?’

Who indeed?

The Jupiter reports an interesting case, brought about by the current madness gripping society. A man who identifies as a woman was sent to a women’s prison in Wakefield to serve his/her sentence, whereupon he/she carried out several sexual assaults on women prisoners. Prior to these incidents, staff and inmates at the prison complained when five other transgenderites had been transferred there – no doubt the complainants are being charges with ‘hate-crime’ even as I write. Consequences, consequences, there are always consequences… but anyone who claims they didn’t see this coming should seek help. One wonders where the Howard League stand on this.

Naturally I consulted Sir Abraham Haphazzard on the matter.

“Ah yes, I read about the case,” he said whilst back-combing his dundrearies, “But the law is the law, madam, and our wise and noble legislators have deemed such things are to be upheld, nay promoted, in Mrs. Dismay’s Britain.”

“Then the law is an ass,” I exclaimed.

“It’s a fair cop,” said Sir Abraham, smiling.

I see Mr. Mark Carnivorous is being considered for a further term of office at the Bank of England, mainly because he is anti-Brexit and more than willing to pull the financial plug when bidden. His predictions on the economy post-referendum have all been wrong, so perhaps it would be fair to say his judgement is, if not shaky, most certainly political. I see him as a Canadian version of France’s Boy Jupiter, moving effortlessly across the international stage owing allegiance to none.

Jocelyn Bell Burnell, a lady astrophysicist who has worked jolly hard so that we know planets are very big and stars are far, far away, has won lots of money from a major science prize to encourage diversity in her subject. She has donated it to fund scholarships for ‘under-represented groups’ such as women, ethnic minorities, Satanists, flat-earthers, experimental pasta-weavers and yogic-fliers. Not a penny of it will go to men – horrid men… nasty brutish thuggish men with their men things and mannish behaviour. Urgh no, for Ms. Burnell doesn’t like them. However, when you look at university campuses across the land, what do you see? Foreign students outnumber our own young people and women outnumber men. The real group ‘under-represented’ at universities are white, working-class men (yes men, those nasty, smelly, hairy men things with their men stuff and….). Indeed, the only group in the country you can legally discriminate is white men – the ones who probably pay the most taxes (ah, you woke up there, Archbishop W., didn’t you?) and keep the whole damned edifice together. This nonsense has got to stop.

What other recourse is there but revolution? A Glorious one, to be sure.

Goodness! That sent the blood pressure soaring! Time for Earl Grey and hobnobs, I think. I have to gather myself for the day ahead. My Lord the Bishop and I have been invited to Silverbridge RC Cathedral this afternoon, where the ‘bishop’, Dr. Amadeus di Versiti (an Italian, I believe), is unveiling a new altar piece by Grayson Perry, woven in strands of elephant dung and pubic hair, entitled ‘The Transgenderisation of Christ’. Make no mistake, we are not going to approve or marvel at the said work: I am taking a can of red paint with me which, in the true spirit of ecumenical discourse, I fully intend to throw at the appropriate moment.

So, my dears, as the wet-nurse of socialism stuffs her engorged teat into the mewling mouths of millennials and the fishmonger of patriotism skewers the jellyfish of May-ite-Toryism, I bit you adieu for this week.