Leaves from my Journal in the Highlands
Saturday 3rd February
Our little train pulled into the station at Inverbladderleekie on time, where we were met by Lord Dunfondling’s gillie, Hamish McPossett, and driven to the castle. Our journey from Barchester was relatively uneventful (though Ms. Krankie’s Border Guards insisted on a full bustle-inspection in a siding near Glenfiddle and made no attempt to warm their hands), providing plenty of time to study The Jupiter as the countryside whizzed by. I noted that the Swedish government has issued all citizens with a pamphlet entitled ‘What to do if war breaks out’, which prompted the dark clouds of worry to settle above my brow. The Swedish feminazis who govern in the name of equality and gender-neutrality seem to fear imminent invasion by Mr. Putin, though why someone so macho as he would seek to annex a nation of barking lunatics is beyond me. I mentioned this to Lord Dunfondling, who was able to shed light upon the matter.
“It’s not so much the invasion they fear as the raping and pillaging by the hairy Russian Bear,” he said authoritatively.
Being socialistical down to their Pippi Longstockings, raping and pillaging is a unionised closed shop, open only to ‘new Swedes’. Restricted practice strictly forbids competition.
Sunday 4th February
Morning service at Dourglumly Kirk (Wee Free) – sermon by the Revd. Mr. Withering. He took as his text, ‘Blessed are the penny-piecemakers, for many a mickle maks a muckle’. I do not speak Swahili so it went over my head. The Kirk Elders made the Old Gentlemen of Hiram’s Hospital look positively youthful – as stark a warning against over-salting one’s porridge as one can get. Concluding prayers for Ms. Krankie were, I think, misplaced, for there is a special corner marked out in hell for her, complete with Morris Dancers, repeat episodes of ‘The Archers’ played for all eternity, and a fried Mars Bar dangling over her head (but forever out of reach).
Monday 5th February
Goodness! That John McDonnell chappie has put the willies up me and no mistake! In one breath he declares he hates the Tories (no surprise there) and in the next he swears that Labour, once in power, will seek revenge.
“I want to be in a situation where no Tory MP, no Tory MP, no Coalition minister, can travel anywhere in the country, or show their face anywhere in public, without being challenged, without direct action… These Tories are social criminals and eventually, and I warn them, we will try you for what you’ve done.”
Show trials! How very un-English; but then these swivel-eyed string-vested lentil-strokers of Momentum-Labour, breast-fed on the paps of Harriet Harman and brain-moshed by the ‘Collected Works of Russell Brand’ are not exactly proud of their heritage, and function on a single ‘Stygian’ brain cell. Some unspeakables of this tribe have been giving Mr. Rees-Mogg a hard time in Bristol and other places. A short sharp burst of National Service on the North-West Frontier would soon sort the buggers out.
Tuesday 6th February
My Lord the Bishop lays holiday lethargy aside and joins Lord Dunfondling’s annual Haggis Hunt. This affords me a morning’s peace and quiet to catch up with my journal and peruse the local papers. It seems rather strange, given that the Bolsheviks are always telling us the NHS is in a dire state and in danger of collapse, that President Trumpelstiltskin is vilified for saying pretty much the same thing! In modern Britain, it not only depends what is said, but who says it.
Wednesday 7th February
A lovely story about the dear Queen’s visit to Loch Katrine in 1859 to open the Glasgow Waterworks Reservoir. A beautiful little cottage was constructed by the waterside for the Queen to stay in, and a party of soldiers dragged a dozen or so cannons to the loch in order to fire off a 21 gun salute. The noise was so ear-splitting that every window in the cottage was smashed, and the Queen had to seek alternative accommodation in Callander. As she prepared to leave the following morning, the proprietor of the hostelry presented her with a bill.
One suspects she was not amused.
Oh, but what to make of Mrs. Soubry’s threat to leave the Conservative Party? She stood for election on a party manifesto which promised a referendum to leave the Zollverein, and now actively works for a foreign power against her own government. Ugly is as ugly does, as my old mother used to say, and it has to be admitted La Soub could turn the European wine lake into vinegar with a single glance. She seems to be fighting for Britain to remain as a vassal state within the Euro-empire, which strikes me as downright treason. The problem is, of course, that treason is the miasma that pervades the corridors of Whitehall and Westminster, seeping into the very pores of civil servants and politicians alike. Such creatures of the swamp despise populism and see democracy as a great inconvenience: worse still, they hold their fellow countrymen – at least the ones that voted ‘Leave’ – in utmost contempt. At least that feeling is mutual.
Mr. McDonnell talks about what he wants to do to the Tories – the political class should be more worried about what the public would like to do to them.
Thursday 8th February
What larks! A boat trip on Loch Katrine at the suggestion of our hosts. It brought to mind our maritime heritage – Drake, Nelson and Pugwash, the Jolly Jack Tars of Empire. Of course, thanks to the modern Conservative-Labourites cutting back at the behest of Brussels, the annual revue at Spithead has been relocated to The Serpentine.
Friday 9th February
The Archdeacon sends a telegram.
‘Those blasted Democrats are at it again STOP Anything to bring down Trump STOP Devilish communistical Rainbow-ite yurt-dwellers need pulling up sharp before giving Corbynov ideas STOP’
Comrade Corbynov is to ideas what Vlad the Impaler was to prison reform.
I’m sure American citizens will be delighted to learn that their government has shut down for the second time in two weeks. ‘No government, no taxes’ should be the response, for as a former president once said, the government is not your friend and is not here to help you. Ours most certainly isn’t. There are signs Germany’s coalition is faltering too, the pfennig finally dropping that Frau Merkin is one evil mutter who deserves a swift kick in der lederhosen.
What to do with those two dastardly head-choppers who left our shores to join ISIS? Do we really have to fork out for their board and lodgings at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, or could we not stage a Son et Lumière in the Tower of London with some axe-swinging of our own? Oh, I know there are those who would baulk at my lack of Christian charity on this one, but fiddle-de-dee is what I say!
I am writing this after breakfast as we are taking a trip to Aberfoyle in a few moments, and won’t be back until late. We are promised Cullen Skink. How one catches these illusive creatures is a mystery, but I am assured they taste nice.
How would I end my usual missive? Let me see… how about the following:
So, as the gathering monsoon of Leavers’ exasperation bursts over the threadbare parasols of political incompetence and the cloven hooves of Berlaymont trample down the garden of May-k-believe, I bid you all adieu.
Yes, that should do it.