The Ghost of Brexit Lost

Bells play an important role in the life of Barchester, as perhaps they do nationally. Here, the cathedral chimes mark the passing hours and summon good Christian folk to services, thanks to the old Woolcarders of Hiram’s Hospital who double as our team of bell-ringers. Bells have been used to warn of the approach of the invader and to signal rejoicing in times of victory, whilst in Parliament the Division Bell is the call to vote. Perhaps Mrs. Dismay, when she hears it ring this week, will ask not for whom it tolls, as she knows perfectly well it is for her. As for those who believe ‘Ding Dong’ means ‘the witch is dead’, I wouldn’t be too sure, for some corpses are said to walk abroad, especially at the eleventh hour.

To lose one minister is unfortunate; to lose several is surely a disaster. Mr. Raab suddenly realised that he was insignificant; that he had been undermined by Oilly Robbins every step of the way and thus unable to agree to Mrs. Dismay’s capitulation. Good for him. If Parliament rejects this infamous document – and everyone thinks they will – the good ship HMS Great Britain sails into uncharted waters still captained by a titanic egotist well-practised in ignoring siren voices as she searches for the next iceberg.

Mr. Rees-Mogg’s stiletto statement, ending with an unanswered question on postage, was one of those memorable moments. The Jupiter published every word, and I have been savouring it over my Earl Grey and hobnobs this morning. To those generous but deluded souls who say Mrs. Dismay ‘has done her best in a very difficult situation’, I say ‘No, she has not.’ She has done her very best for Brussels, and they are delighted.

What Mrs. Dismay has done is to negate democracy. The people voted ‘Leave’ in the Referendum, not ‘Leave with strings attached’, but ‘Leave’. For two years, Brexiteers have been denigrated, insulted and ridiculed, fed with downright lies to keep them quiet. Now we see the fruit of the elitists’ labours, and it is poisoned to the core. Mrs. Dismay has agreed to thraldom, to vassal status, to following laws and rules imposed upon us by a foreign power.

Vichy has been established at the heart of Westminster and Whitehall with taxpayers’ money.

The Archdeacon is, for once, dumbstruck at the perfidiousness of this. Don’t worry, he is lying down in a darkened room being given a bed-bath by Mr. Slope, who, as you know, is an admirer of muscular Christianity.

“I see the Tories have got the whips out,” said my Lord the Bishop, who seldom comments on the political scene. “You’d think they’d have no time for hobbies when so much is going on.” He does live in a world of his own, bless him.

Our small French community who meet regularly at the Café de la Grenouille Bouillante off Flummery Snicket were celebrating the other day at the announcement of L’Empire des Européens by the current French finance minister. Of course, speculation is rife as to the future wearer of the imperial crown. The Bonapartes are no doubt waiting with their bags packed ready to serve, and the Orléans are ever hopeful, but I fear their great expectations will come to nothing. The choice lies with the ‘Imperial Electors’ at Berlaymont and it is a straight choice between Macroleon I or Kaiserin Angela. Neither can establish a dynasty of course, as both are childless – which means the politicians will, in time, get to vote again (and vote often – for it is the EU way). Both candidates are keen on the European Grande Armée, and I believe Hugo Boss is busy designing the uniforms (as he did once before for a certain Austrian). We live in such interesting times.

Speaking of the Boy Jupiter, I note with some displeasure that the diminutive ‘Petit Corporate’ did his level best to insult President Trumpelstiltskin on the latter’s visit to Paris, employing an anti-Trump chanteuse to warble on stage and equating nationalism with treason, And patriotism with globalism. Whatever do they teach in those Grande Ecoles? Certainly not good manners! On the other hand, President T. did himself no favours by skipping the planned cemetery visit due to inclement weather – perhaps he was afraid of bumping in to Mrs. Dismay, the ‘Ghost of Brexit Lost’ (see first paragraph for my tenuous link!).

I do not know what news will break, or what things will unravel, as we go into the weekend, nor have I mentioned all the goings on in the big wide world – feel free to do so. My candle is almost worn away, my Lord the Bishop is tucked up with a Trollope and it is time to climb the wooden stairs. So, as the gruel of lily-livered capitulation is forced down the throats of those starving for democracy and the well-heeled pussycat shoe stamps on the face of the electorate forever, I bid all you citizens of Airstrip One good night. Have a fabulous weekend.