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“White slavery is alive and well in this sceptred isle, and nothing is being done”

Goodness! One shall think twice about accepting invitations to Newcastle. The prospect of being lured into a lust-pit of Ugandan relations with swarthy multi-kultis is too horrifying to contemplate, and one gives thanks for the protection of robust foundations, the removal of which takes some considerable time (and the ministrations of a lady’s maid), thus providing a ‘window’ for rescue by the police. At least one would hope for police intervention, but these days it is not as certain as it was, for the constabulary dances to the beat of another drum (and I’m talking bongos). Mr. Wilberforce must be turning in his grave at the reality we now face – that white slavery is alive and well in this sceptred isle and nothing is being done other than sweeping it under the ottoman. One cannot blame the victims of course, poor things, but we should do all we can to ensure their safety and well-being. For example, I am contemplating setting up a Society for the Promotion of the Triple-lock Chastity Belt in collaboration with Messrs. Chubb to be made available from ironmongers throughout the land, though I fear chastity is a word (and concept) which has no meaning for today’s youth.

It is said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, and indeed no one can deny we English are fond of sport and games. However, the new form of skittles being played on the boulevards of Paris involving a car and a group of soldiers must not to be encouraged. One was tempted to add ‘…it could not happen here’, but of course it already has. Perhaps we should all take up our quills and write to Home Secretary Amber Nectar to glean what measures are being taken to protect us? Be sure to verify your identity, however, as Forever Amber has recently been tricked into communicating with a hoaxer posing as one of her staff. No doubt the Hildabeast can advise on how to keep one’s data secure.

Of course, we must be prepared for 30 more years of Islamic terrorism, or so says a former spymaster-general. Such honesty, unusual these days, was enough to send the Archdeacon into the stratosphere. I came across him after Matins: he was in full canonicals, waving the morning edition of The Jupiter around like a fly-swatter and in full voice.

“Have you read this, Madam?” he frothed, “The Thirty Years War is starting all over again, only with a different set of religious fanatics! We are warned to brace ourselves for a goosing by Johnny Jihad and smile into the bargain! Perhaps it is no more than we deserve, having allowed the elected carpet-baggers of Westmonster to drop the national trousers and order our bending over! Never has this country been so badly served by those wrap-me-in-cellophane-with-an-orange-in-my-mouth expenses-cheating cross-dressing-in-the-Tea-Rooms scoundrels we call MPs! The devil take the lot of them.”

“Goodness!” I replied.

“Trust me, Madam, there’s no goodness in Parliament, none whatsoever!”

With that he flounced off to the vestry and the decanter of sherry he keeps behind the plaster statue of St. Reginald of Bosenquet for moments such as these.

One notes the shade of Mrs. Currie stalking the land as the ‘Contaminated Egg Crisis’ gathers momentum. Thank goodness it isn’t Easter! It is heartening to learn that Brussels has called its bureaucrats together to solve the problem. Eggs will continue to be served at the Palace breakfast table. Mr. Slope is an avowed ‘Big Endian’ and partial to a line of soldiers, whereas I like mine scrambled. My Lord the Bishop likes his sunny side up, but enough of our married life.

On visiting Marks and Spencer’s Sixpenny Store on Barchester High Street, one noticed the signs being changed on the doors of the gentleman and ladies lavatories, supervised by none other than the burly figure of Constable Knapweed. Someone had complained that the signs were discriminatory and antiquated, and that in these progressive times public conveniences should be unrestricted and open to everyone, even the French! The new signs portrayed a man dressed in a frock and a woman sporting trousers and a moustache. Both figures held the hands of children, though as to what sex they were it was hard to determine.

“The law is the law, Mrs. Proudie,” said Constable Knapweed gravely, “And we in the force take these ‘ate crimes very seriously. Why, we spend hours going out an about looking for the slightest transgression and feeling the collars of those who laugh in the face of diversity.”

“Then you are barking mad, officer,” I replied.

“You may think so, Ma’am, but I couldn’t possibly comment. Now move along, there’s a good dinosaur.”

The impudence!

Well now, my dears, I have letters to write. I have decided to scribble a few lines to Mr. Kim Jong-un and tell him not to fire off any more rockets – for one thing it is not November 5th, and for another it’s very rude. I shall include my latest tract: “Seeking another Korea? Take advice, don’t blow it.” So, as the arquebus of hate speech fires bullets into the rhino-hide of political correctness and the cement mixer of cohesion dumps the aggregate of all that was once unique onto the foundations of the Tower of Babel, I wave in your general direction and bid you all a fond adieu… until next week.