All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely self-publicists

Goodness! The Law is an ass, as everyone knows, and has as much to do with justice as a fish has with a penny farthing. During the tenure of Sir Keir Starmbahnführer, the CPS became the Committee of Public Safety, ever watchful, ever vigilant, ready to pounce at the slightest political deviation or whiff of hate crime, which amounts to the same thing. Now it seems their grip is tightening. According to their latest guidelines, published in The Jupiter this week, they no longer need evidence when dealing with discrimination against Trans-polygrip-bicarbonate folk – what counts is the victim’s perception of hurt or injury. One can see trouble ahead as denunciations multiply and those with long-standing grudges settle old scores (the image of Cherie Blair grinning widely like some animated post-box at the prospect of the inevitable litigious avalanche is too horrible to contemplate). When the law favours one particular pet group above another – as increasingly seems to be the case – it makes a mockery of the whole system and inculcates a sense of injustice amongst the unfavoured. Comrade Corbynov has yet to fully absorb this concept, his party having abandoned core constituents for multi-kulticide long ago. I will consult Sir Abraham Haphazzard on the matter, but I fear there is little that can be done, for madness has gripped the minds of our politicians, who forget they are first and foremost our servants. O tempora, O mores!

When I think of Comrade Corbynov I see someone who is half Bolshevik and half idiot savant, a sort of Leon Trotter riding though Peckham on a tricycle, hammer and sickle in one hand, vegan sandwiches in the other. The Archdeacon was much amused by Comrade C’s plan to introduce a maximum wage, suspiciously set just above his own earnings as Leader of HM’s non-loyal non-Opposition.

“What can the man be thinking of! Has he no understanding of incentive? Of economics? Does he not realise people will vote with their feet and seek employment abroad if such legislation were passed? By what right does he have to decide what another man or woman should or should not earn? Are we not free men? Who do these mealy-mouthed Marxist granny-grave-robbers think they are with their diarific-materialism and collective cut-pursery?”

Broadly speaking I concur with the Archdeacon. Comrade Corbyn is not fit to manage a child’s pocket money, let alone to determine the economic future of the kingdom. Whether we are free men or not is another matter entirely, one which Mrs. Dismay seems determined to sort out once and for all.

Who is this Dame Louise Casey, and which pantomime is she starring in? If she is in favour of equality, why has she accepted a title? Why is she afraid to call a spade a spade (i.e. name the religion of intolerance) and instead lump all religions together in her politically-inspired polemic? Why can’t prod-nosed Liberals and busy-body politicians just bugger off?

At an afternoon gathering in Barchester’s Assembly Rooms last week I was accosted by Mrs. Vesey Stanhope, mother of the infamous Signora Neroni and the irritating Bertie.

“Ah, Mrs. Proudie, have you seen Meryl Streep?” she enquired.

“Certainly not!” I replied, “What she does in the privacy of her own home is her own affair!”

Mrs. V.S. giggled.

“Streep is not a verb, Mrs. Proudie, it is her name. Meryl Streep is an actress, recently given a lifetime’s achievement award. It’s in all the papers.”

“Do actresses achieve anything?” I replied. Really, this was too much – one disapproves of the theatre, and actresses are not the sort of people one wishes to associate with. A chance meeting with Lola Montez at Euston was quite enough.

“Well, she achieved front-page headlines with her condemnation of President-elect Trump. Everyone’s talking about it.” Mrs. V. S. flicked her fan to emphasise the point.

Thespians are as much inclined towards group-think as Comrade Corbyn’s lot, and, despite their millions, are socialistical to the core. So, Ms. Streep is against Trump, but all for trumpeting her superior values and virtues at a (presumably) non-political event? I suppose all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely self-publicists.

In the light of recent outreach events at St. Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral in Glasgow, Mustafa Fatwah has asked my Lord the Bishop to sing Surah 19 in our cathedral next Sunday. For those not in the know, it is the passage which specifically denies the divinity of Christ. Mr. Slope, ever the one to embrace the olive branch as well as the olive skinned, expressed himself in favour. The Archdeacon, however, was not.

“I blame that fishwife First Minister of theirs,” he spluttered, “She’s one of those who believe all cultures are equal and all religions are simply variations on a theme. Where she leads, the Episcopal Church follows. The thing is, they are booking into the Apostasy Hotel, taking a double room with a potentially violent bedfellow. It can only end badly.”

A tad unfair, perhaps, but then the Cathedral Provost’s Christmas sermon compared President-elect Trump to King Herod, the slayer of children is certainly not Christian. In fact, it is unworthy of an Anglican cleric.

So, as the sporran of apostasy swings between the hairy legs of erroneous belief and the claymore of ignorance slices through the Dundee cake of tradition, I bid you all goodnight. “Lang may yer lum reek,” as they say over the border (but remember, you can always swab it down with swarfega, or Mr. Slope can lend a hand if you’d prefer).