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“Rejoice! Rejoice! Young Rees-Mogg has donned the underpants of rebellion and the bowler hat of Bulldoggedness!”

Goodness! It’s that time again when I surround myself with paper, ink and sealing wax to capture my thoughts on the week that was. To be honest, my head is reeling after listening to Mr. Slope’s explanation of ‘Gender Theory’ at breakfast, none of which makes sense. It seems we have three sexes (male, female and in-betweeners) but many genders.

“Think of it like the Holy Trinity, Mrs. Proudie,” said Slope with a smile, “The three-in-one.”

“I will do no such thing,” I retorted, somewhat huffily. Mr. Slope is a product of Cuddesdon… say no more.

I asked how many genders, exactly, and his reply was, “As many as there are stars in the heavens.”

I reached for my smelling salts at this point as he explained each gender has its own pronouns, and woe betide anyone who gets them wrong! Using the wrong gender-pronoun can see you thrown into the clink, for it is considered “an act of violence against the person”. Mr. Slope thinks there should be separate public conveniences for each gender, which will give him more to do on his days off. Sheer insanitary! Exactly when did this load of emotive horse-manure become mainstream thinking? If this is the sort of bilge coming out of universities these days then the best thing that could happen is for them to be flushed away.

At the ‘Society for the Propelling of Urchins up Chimneys’ on Philanthropy Street this week I came across Signora Vesey Neroni straddling an ottoman and being attended to by Dr. Mortimer Tempest, the Rector of Silverbridge, a tricky customer if ever there was.

“Ah, Mrs. Proudie,” exclaimed the Signora, “Do join us. Dr. Tempest here was telling me the society is desperately short of urchins, and is considering welcoming ship loads of refugee children from the war-torn regions East of Suez to make up the numbers. What say you?”

“I think many of these ‘youngsters’ are older than they say they are – their deep voices, beards and moustaches tend to give it away – so I think they would be too big to scramble up beyond the fireplace.”

“But you forget, dear lady,” said Dr. Tempest, “our intrepid Prime Minister, Mrs. Dismay, has promised the French Emperor Emmanuel Joveparte to take in some of these youngsters gathering at Calais, as a gesture of goodwill. Our society – of which I am but a humble instrument – will ensure they are usefully employed doing the sort of jobs our own juveniles spurn. Think how our Barset will be enriched…”

I have seen the writing on the wall. It’s in Arabic.

The Archdeacon was in ebullient mood this Friday morning.

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Young Rees-Mogg has donned the underpants of rebellion and the bowler hat of Bulldoggedness! He is rallying the troops to challenge this government’s duplicitous Brexit policy which, as we all know, is designed to fail and keep us in thrall to Brussels! There’s talk of a ‘Norway option’ in the air – a total betrayal! R-M will fight them in the safe-spaces, fight them in the think-tanks and fight them in the quangos. He will champion our island, whatever the cost. Not before time… Whitehall’s management of decline must be resisted and the benefits of independence flagged up and celebrated! As we approach the Ides of March, we can only hope Mrs. Dismay falls upon some Shakespearean sharp-practice and Mr. Rees-Mogg steps into the kitten shoes!”

I hear on the grapevine that the White House has made it quite clear a visit from the fragrant Lady Nugee – aka Emily Thorninmyside – would not be welcome. Is she surprised by this? Calling President Trumpelstiltskin all the names under the sun was perhaps not the brightest move for a Shadow Foreign Secretary, but it proves my theory that the socialist sisterhood emote before they think, with no concept of cause and effect. Should anyone doubt that the Labour Part are no longer the voice of the working man (or woman) they need only stand back and take in Lady Nugee in her well-gusseted entirety. It would be easier for Diane Abbott to pass through the eye of a needle than for Emily to be nice to a white van man.

One of the junior Quiverfulls came to ask for some career advice, having received a rejection letter from Broadcasting House on account of being ‘too pale’ and not being related to a Dimbleby. It seems the national brainwasher is only employing vibrant ethnicity these days, and getting away with it too. This is all because of that dreadful Equality Act brought in by the unspeakable Harman, which allows racial discrimination when applied to ‘Britons who have been here longest’ (to borrow a phrase from Frau Merkin). What baffles me is that we put up with this sort of thing, and that the authors of such pernicious tripe are not dangling from the lampposts along Pall Mall. I advised the young fellow to seek alternative employment – I believe UKIP are looking for a new leader, preferably one without a gaffe-prone mistress.

Speaking of the unspeakable Harman, why is it that she has never been held accountable for her well-documented support of paedophilia in the past, while lesser mortals have been hounded? I do not say for one moment she was a practitioner of the dark art of ‘Would you like to see some puppies?’, but has there ever been a mea culpa recantation? Perhaps the Church of England might care to look into it as it has gained so much expertise in the field of investigation over the sad case of Bishop Bell.

That was naughty of me.

I don’t care.

Well, I must tootle along and be the Bishop’s wife again. I’m expected at the little parish church of St. Lascivius and All Angles to give a talk on medieval chastity belts and the benefits of Swarfega to the young ladies of Madame Ruemarcheur’s Academy of Elegance, Grace and Deportment. From there I cross town to another church, St. Dementia-in-the-Fog, for a memorial service in honour of… oh…hum… it will come back to me eventually. So, as the plough horse of old England turns into the knacker’s yard of Globalism and the suppository of truth clears the back passage of fake news, I bid you all a fond farewell, until my nib twinkles again in the flickering candlelight of my boudoir.