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“When it comes down to selling one’s soul to the Devil or to Brussels, one should opt for sulphur every time”

Goodness! The festive season does come around with amazing regularity, does it not? Snow has yet to settle on the rooftops and gables of Barchester, though a cold wind rattles the shutters and whistles up the back passage something terrible. My Lord the Bishop has been sewn into his red flannel long johns for the winter season and has taken to his fur-lined gaiters, whilst I have donned quilted bombazine for the duration. There is much to do, of course, putting the final touches to the Cathedral services and organising the Christmas Gruelfest for the Old Gentlemen at Hiram’s Hospital.

I bumped into Sir Abraham Haphazzard whilst browsing in Mrs. Algorithm’s ‘Fancies and Collectibles’ on Cordwangler Crescent for something to put in Mr. Slope’s stocking. He had much to say about the Odious Uriah Grievous, the ever-so-unhumble Brexit saboteur and globalist lickspittle.

“A man who, when called to the bar, had it set lower than a dachshund’s testicles,” said Sir Abraham, shaking his head. “We lawyers do not, it must be admitted, enjoy the confidence or affection of the public, for we will argue that black is white if the fees are paid in timely fashion. However, when it comes down to selling one’s soul to the Devil or to Brussels, one should opt for sulphur every time.”

“One should surely opt for neither,” I retorted, somewhat taken aback.

“Ah, dear lady, it is all about ‘opting’, don’t you think? Prime Minister Cameldung gave us the referendum and asked us to choose between ‘Leave’ or ‘Remain’, making it quite clear it was the people’s choice; not politicians’ or parliament’s.”

“He did, but now we see those were Humpty-Dumpty words, meaningless and without bottom!” I replied.

“Quite so, quite so, because you see the powers-that-be had already opted for continued subjugation to the Reich. It never occurred to them that the great unwashed would bite the hand that fed it lies and obfuscation for over forty years. Now Parliament has opted to ignore the people and do the opposite, with men like Mr. Grievous leading the way.”

“But Sir Abraham, you are a lawyer too – are you not in favour of ‘Remain’?”

“No Madam, I am not… for I am a patriot!”

A patriotic lawyer… well I never!

Isn’t it strange that hardly a word is being said about Mrs. Dismay’s fast approaching visit to Marrakech, where she fully intends to add her name to the death-warrant of civilisation as we know it? This infamous document not only promotes transhumance on a world-wide scale, it criminalises anyone who objects to the destruction of their country, their culture and their way of life. Some nations have got wise to this and are refusing to have anything to do with it, but with Olive Oyl Dismay in charge we too experience the Merkeldammerung which awaits. One can only hope that the Prime Minister is knobbled in the Casbah and sold as a white slave to Jabba the Soros, doomed to don skimpy nylon pantaloons and tasselled bikini as she is perpetually chained to the flabbermonster himself. Just remember, when Africa comes to a town near you, it was Mrs. Dismay who paved the way.

One suspects the view from Mount Olympus is somewhat obscured by smoke from burning buildings these days. The Boy Jupiter has made a right hash of things, has he not? With approval ratings crashing through the floor, what will the poor boy do next? Why, carry on with his insane agenda of course, which is what all globalists are programmed to do. One could pity the French, but after all, they voted for this excrescence and are reaping what they have sown. There’s much condemnation of the damage done to the Arc de Triomphe, but the Communards did much worse damage and in time everyone got over it. As for the ‘Gilets Jeunes’, I am sending them a bundle of dirty laundry from Hiram’s Hospital, where the vests turn yellow all by themselves.

My French correspondent, Madame Bovery, says the police are coming over to the protesters, tax offices have been burned and tax collectors are in fear of their lives. Roads have been blocked and at least one hotel de ville set on fire. The army has been called into Paris for the weekend as more violence is feared. Didn’t Louis XVI attempt this sort of thing? It didn’t end well for him, did it? It is rumoured that Macroleon has asked Herr Druncker for aid, which elicited the response, “Give them a whiff of grape juice.” Well, it works for him.

“Oh the French, the French,” exclaimed Signora Vesey Neroni, in a rather dismissive way at her afternoon soirée on Friday, “They do like movement and colour. Very excitable. It will all blow over in a day or two, mark my words.” It has to be said that Signora Neroni has the political acumen of a bluebottle, though it doesn’t stop her buzzing.

Perhaps, when stout-hearted yeomen (and women… and thingies) of Great Britain take to the streets in protest against the globalist nightmare, they too should adopt an item of clothing as a means of identification. Yellow Y-fronts perhaps? We have plenty of those at Hiram’s Hospital, too…

It must be coming quite clear to those with a grain of common sense that the Zollverein is not a force for good, nor are its myrmidons friends to this country. The recent shenanigans in the waters around Gibraltar are proof enough. The Spanish warship Infante Elena crossed into British territorial waters playing their national anthem, an outrage applauded by one of the EU commissars, who called Gibraltarians ‘monkeys’. Naturally this brought instant condemnation from Mrs. Dismay… oh… sorry… I’ll correct that… instant indifference and silence from Mrs. Dismay. Does she not realise the present King of Spain sports a beard and it is her job to singe it? Alas, we do not have a Drake, just a scrawny lame duck and plenty of chickens.

Whilst in Nuremberg over the weekend I read that German teachers and care workers (who they?) in Merkeldystopia have been issued with a handy guidebook, ‘How to know if parents are Nazis’. One sign is if girls attend school wearing plaits, or boys appear too sporty and athletic. Of course, if the parents turn up to Parents’ Evenings in jackboots and black uniforms designed by Hugo Boss that too would be a giveaway. Ah, Frau Merkel – you can take the girl out of the Stasi but you can’t take the Stasi out of the girl.

“Good news! Good news!” proclaimed the Archdeacon as we stood before the votive bust of the Black Madonna of Hackney North and Stoke Newington (on loan from the V&A for the up-and-coming Barchester Bienale), reflecting that, as pieces of art go, it would make a good doorstop for the Cathedral’s Great West Door. “Christianity is alive and well in Rumania!” He went on to explain that it is now reckoned to be the most religious country in Europe, with 64% of the population saying they believe in God with certainty.” Good news indeed.

I do hope President Trumpelstiltskin and Czar Vladimir of All the Russias kiss and make up soon. All this sabre rattling in the Crimea is most disquieting. I shall start knitting balaclavas just in case.

Well I could go on, but really the world outside Barchester is a sorry place and getting worse by the minute. My Lord the Bishop tells me there is a possibility that he might be translated to the Anglican see of Strelsau in Ruritania and is considering it. It will require a move and an end to my scribblings. Thought you should know.

So, as the Haw-Haw cry of the Maybird’s “Brexit means Brexit” alerts the poachers of Brussels to ever -richer pickings and the Remainers’ Call to Prayer is intoned once again by peripatetic Mayor Macavity of London from the ivory tower of self-importance, I bid you toodle-pip for now.