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Time to don the Breastplate of Righteous Indignation

Horrors! Shudders! Gasp! Just what is going on? That Swedish Lesbish (new ecclesiastical title for those mitred Friends of Dorothy) of Stockholm has declared churches and cathedrals must remove all crosses and provide a prayer space for the religion which must not be named. On top of that, some Anglican vicar here has suggested the church should facilitate a second baptism for those who are transitioning, so that John can be renamed Joanne and vice versa (I believe in Canada you can be imprisoned for ‘mis-gendering’ someone), and on top of that… another vicar is swinging with Momentum and thinks Bolshevik revolution is the plat de jour.  If I were not a prelate’s spouse, I’d swim the Tiber (but the Marxists have already got their Man at the Top in the Vatican, so hopey-changey á l’Obama is coming there too). The Church of England, once the Conservative Party at prayer, is now the Socialist Society for Secular Sedition.

A tsunami of Orwellianism has swept across the Western world, and one feels like one is in a leaky canoe riding the crest, bailing out frantically in a desperate attempt to remain afloat. My Lord the Bishop asked at breakfast if I could explain to him how Comrade Corbynov, who lost the election, can claim to have won it, whilst Mrs. Dismay, who gained more votes across the country than ever, lost it? And how come Wee Jimmy Krankie across the border lost over twenty seats, but still ‘Speaks for Scotland?’ If calling for mass demonstrations ‘To get the Tories out’ is a sign of a healthy democracy (and not a potential coup d’etat), what is to be made of a Muslim Labour MP calling for right-wing demonstrations to be banned? And how come the Mayor of London sees no irony in condemning extremism on the one hand and sanctioning an Al-Quds march through London Streets where police turned a blind eye to the waving of Hezbollah flags whilst ignoring genuine complaints about said flag from the public? I fear I was at a loss, my flabber totally gasted by it all.

A ripple or two of the above-mentioned tidal wave has even washed up in Barchester, hitherto largely immune from the collective insanity of these dark days, no doubt thanks to being twinned with Brigadoon. However, a deputation of scruffy looking fellows arrived at the door of The Palace on Wednesday demanding to see my Lord the Bishop, who fortunately was attending the patronal feast at the parish of St. Jude the Obscure and therefore unavailable. I asked them their purpose, and was told, quite brusquely, that The Palace was to be ‘requisitioned’ by the state to house the homeless masses cast out by heartless capitalism. Fortunately, at that moment, the Archdeacon called, and was able to scatter the jobsworth Corbynistas with considerable momentum (and fluent Anglo-Saxon).

“They go too far, dear lady, much too far,” said the Archdeacon, settling into the armchair as Mr. Slope served Earl Grey and hobnobs.

“This faux-virtuous posturing, all done in the name of the dispossessed, poor and needy, is but smoke and mirrors. The only game in town is power-grabbing. Everything that holds our society together has, in their book, to go: marriage, families, Christianity, property… and have no doubt, your excellent biscuits will be on their seizure-list somewhere. These foul-mouthed jargon-spewing work-shy eugenicists with their equality-diversity codswallop and fluff-filled belly buttons want to usher in their brave new world of gonad-crushing state totalitarianism. They have no scruples – transgendered surgery has seen to that!  We must resist the ‘Hate not Hopers’, madam, at all costs.”

“Goodness!” I replied, taking a sip from my spode. One has to admire the Archdeacon’s ability to see the world for what it is, and what it is about to become if we are not careful. I fear however, we may be too late.

Our conversation moved on to the reported ‘revenge attack’ carried out in the High Street yesterday. One fears The Jupiter over-sensationalised matters, but that’s the nature of the beast. Mustafa Fatwah and some of his thirty sons were unloading boxes into the ‘Does My Bomb Look Big in This Boutique and Grocery Emporium’ when poor Mr. Bunce, wobbling over the cobbles on his Penny Farthing, ran into him. Poor Bunce landed on top of one of the wooden crates, causing it to smash and thus revealing the bundles of dynamite inside.  Instantly the poor old man was surrounded by the thirty swarthies shouting, screaming and demanding his head. A passer-by ran to fetch the police, and Constable Knapweed arrived just in the nick of time before Bunce was strung up on a lamppost.

“Now then, now then, what have we ‘ere,” said the constable in time-honoured tradition.

“Terrorist attack!” yelled the inflamed Mustafa Fatwah.

“It were no such thing,” muttered the shocked and bewildered Bunce, “One of me bicycle clips came loose and got stuck in me spokes.”

“And what are these ‘ere?” said Constable Knapweed, pointing towards the dynamite sticks scattered across the pavement.

“Diwali candles,” said Mustafa Fatwah quickly.

“Hmmmm,” said the constable, “But I didn’t know you was Hindoo…”

“We are being ecumenical,” said Fatwah. “But it is my perception this was a hate-crime, which, under present legislation, trumps everything. Constable, arrest that man!”

“I’m afraid the exotic gentleman is right, Mr. Bunce. You’re nicked. Perhaps you’d light one of those candles for me, Mr. Fatwah?”

“You can count on it,” replied the wily Mustafa.

So my dears, the wind of change is blowing through the alleyways of Barchester as it is, I fear, throughout the land. This proposed Commission for Countering Extremism is set to become the Star Chamber of our time, rooting out heresies contra-Marxismus and imposing conformity with menaces on all and sundry. Time to don the Breastplate of Righteous Indignation and nail 95 Thespians to the church door at Wittenburg (starting with Lily Allen). Until next week dear friends, be strong, be vigilant, be Anglican.