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Trump wants to drain the swamp, but it’s a stagnant, underground ocean of entrenched corruption

Goodness! The Sapphire Ball at Gatherum Castle in honour of Her Majesty was a splendid affair. We waltzed until the early hours, a whirling, dazzling company, and such finery! The Duke of Omnium explained, sotto voce, that he had invited the Trumps, but unfortunately the Unspeakable Speaker’s little spat put a damper on that. We ladies, hoping to have a chance to meet the lovely Melania and admire whatever creation she was wearing, were most put out. As I remarked to Countess de Courcy, “When exactly did the English become so unpleasant? By what right has this little man taken it upon himself to insult the President of the United States?”

The Countess peered at me through her lorgnette.

“I believe the rot set in with Harold Wilson, given hot air by the Welsh Windbag Kinnock and amplified by the Marxist machinations of Lord Fondlebum of Boy, a man who is to nobility what dung is to caviar. In any case, the Speaker is ruled by his wife, a women with a questionable sense of propriety, known in Parliamentary circles as ‘The Drawbridge’, ever ready to lower herself. I do not accuse, merely observe.”

A wise woman, the Countess.

At the end of the evening, the company raised their glasses as the Duke proposed the loyal toast.

“The Queen!”

I had all on to stop Mr. Slope from taking a bow. Really, he is too much!

Dr. Thorne confessed he has been inundated with instances of sudden illness – headaches and vomiting of a particular savage and peculiar kind. In almost every case, it was brought on by the victim psychologically, most likely to avoid a difficult situation in their lives, a sort of ‘get out’ card. He has named this phenomenon ‘Abbott’s Avoidance Syndrome’, after a certain anti-white political vote-avoider and left-wing love-beast. I cannot imagine to whom he refers, so I leave that one with you, dear friends. Dr. Thorne’s monograph on the subject will be published in The Lancet. Make sure you order a copy.

Sir Abraham Haphazzard had much to say over President Trump’s contretemps with the judge who ruled against the travel ban – the one that isn’t really a travel ban at all but it serves the fake-news narrative of the Left. In Sir Abraham’s opinion, the President is well within his rights to do what he sees fit with regard national security.

“Alas, dear lady,” said Sir Abraham, “Mr. Trump has a fight on his hands. For decades, Marxist termites have nibbled away at the heart of the institutions of the United States. That which appears to be, is not, and hasn’t been for decades. The tentacles of Clintonian evil wriggle and writhe through every state, legislature and court in the land; the poison has spread into every post office, elementary school and university campus. Mr. Trump wants to drain the swamp, but what he hasn’t yet grasped is that the swamp is in reality a stagnant, underground ocean of entrenched corruption.”

At this point I scanned the ballroom, looking for some lighter conversation. Alas, there was only Signora Neroni unattached, and she caught my eye, indicating with her fan that I should join her on the chaise longue.

“My dear Mrs. Proudie, I do believe you have been avoiding me!” she giggled.

“I try, my dear, I try,” I murmured.

“Naughty Mrs. P! Come now, tell me what you think of this Beckham correspondence currently doing the rounds – letters and electronic messages that bemoan the fact he has not been given a knighthood? Such language, such indiscretion!”

“I have no opinion on the matter,” I replied, not having come across this story. There has been nothing in The Jupiter, though they have a track record of erasing events which go against their narrative.

“Well,” said the Signora breathlessly, “I have always had a soft spot for Mr.Beckham, a handsome devil if ever there was, and have admired the way he has given himself to charity over the years.”

“That’s not all he has given himself to,” I replied, remembering a certain Miss Loos.

“Don’t quibble, dear Mrs. P.,” laughed the Signora,” I think Mr. Beckham would make a wonderful knight of the realm.”

Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. They give baubles out to anyone these days.

One cannot end this week without mentioning the passing of the Brexit Bill by 494 votes to 122. The Archdeacon was cock-a-hoop at the news, even managing to say a favourable word about Comrade Corbyn who, for once, backed the government (I shall not repeat what he said about Mr. K. Clarke). I wouldn’t go as far as that, but it is gratifying to know things can now proceed and the ship of state is on course for the open waters of free trade. The Archdeacon thinks we should stop pussyfooting around and declare the British Empire back and ready for business, a bold proclamation of intent with the added advantage of ‘rubbing the Left’s nose in it’.

Well there you are, my ramblings and musings of the week. I must bid you all goodnight. I need to go out and scrape a few barnacles off the deserving poor and distribute my tract, ‘For God’s Sake Pull Yourself Together’, to those less deserving. So, as the steam engine of indifference rides roughshod over the track-bound heroine of third-wave feminism, and the bottomless pit of Christian forgiveness swallows up the machete-wielding, hate-filled ideologues of Satan, it is time to depart. Until next time, be good dear hearts, be good.