‘As the bacon slicer of liberalism cuts into the rump steak of Old England…’

Now and again I venture into the kitchen to bake a fresh batch of hobnobs, but in truth this is the domain of our cook, the irrepressible Mrs. Giblets, who can make a Charlotte Russe from a sow’s ear with both hands tied behind her apron. After this week, one can be sure Mrs. Dismay is no stranger to the realm of Mrs. Beeton, for she has managed to whip up quite a confection over Boris Johnson’s Burqa comment, an over-rich summer pudding of hot air and indignation worthy of Mr. Outraged of Tunbridge Wells. She must think we are stupid. There is nothing in Mr. Johnson’s comments to merit the opprobrium being thrown at him, for did he not defend the right of women to wear what they will no matter how unflattering? But with a little seasoning here and stirring there, the Masterchef of Political Betrayal has seen in her bubbling cauldron the means to thwart a leadership challenge. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and one notes the speed in which Mrs. Dismay adds her voice to the Antifa Chorus and the howl of the perpetually offended… which raises the question: ‘What kind of Conservative is she?’

The Archdeacon answered that question in his usual style: “Mrs. Dismay is to Conservatism what W.G. Grace is to synchronised swimming.”

Of course, the same question applies to the cropped-haired dungareette who leads the Scottish Marxist-Conservatives (or are they Conservative-Marxists, one never is quite sure). This poor lassie believes the burqa to be the equivalent of the crucifix (a rather Catholic term – we Protestants prefer ‘cross’) but then she is in the business of peddling equivalents, for all is relative, all must have prizes and all tribes are equal. In this modern way of thinking one supposes cannibalism is just as acceptable as Methodism (there are distinct similarities one must admit) and suttee is as entertaining as Sweep (apologies to Mr. Corbett).

I shall not dwell on what the other Scottish lassie – the wee fishwife – thinks, but it is probably much the same.

I see the ‘Cat and Mouse Act’ is back in force, this time applied to Mr. Tommy Robinson rather than ladies demanding the vote. According to The Jupiter, Mr. Robinson will re-appear at the Old Bailey for yet another trial. One is only surprised they haven’t opted for Mr. Carroll’s ‘Sentence first, trial later’, as demanded by the Queen of Hearts, but then again perhaps they have. What a sorry state we’re in (in every sense of the word). Mr. Blair can commit the country to an illegal war, leaving the blood of thousands upon his hands, and he still walks free; Lord Fondlebum of Boy commits mortgage fraud, and still walks free; countless MPs fiddle their expenses, and they still walk free; Naz Shah makes anti-white hate crime remarks ad nauseam, and no action is ever taken; yet a little working class man from Luton sticks his neck out to say the Emperor has no clothes and the State decides he must be crushed.

I hold no truck with crystal balls, but wonder if Mr. Robinson’s second trial leading to further incarceration might just be the spark that sets things ablaze. I believe the conditions are just about right.

I shall write to President Trumpelstiltskin and ask if he will grant Mr. Robinson political asylum. Such a move would deeply embarrass Mrs. Dismay and greatly amuse all sensible folk.

August is the time for the Great Barsetshire Show, when farmers and agriculturalists from far and wide descend upon Barchester for the annual jamboree. I can reveal it is going to be a most agreeable affair, for having been invited to sit upon the organising committee I have put forward several capital suggestions to improve on the previous year’s attractions. For example, a panel of Westmonster politicians will play ‘Just a Minute’, when each in turn attempts to speak for sixty seconds on a political hot topic without telling a fib or ‘mis-speaking’, the audience armed with baskets of rotten tomatoes ready to pelt the erring MP when they do. Mesdames Abbott and Soubry have been invited to show what jolly good sports they are by participating in our all-female mud wrestling competition. They have yet to reply. We live in hope. My favourite is the ‘Pin a Crime on Tony Blair’ fundraiser – we provide the hammer and nails. The old woolcarders at Hiram’s Hospital will demonstrate several traditional rustic skills and crafts, such as swan-upping, toad-sexing, basket-casing, night-soil-weaving and gusset-stretching. I did wonder if Ms. Ruth Davidson might mount the Flying Scotsman and come to judge the turkey-basting competition, but on reflection I thought that too near the knuckle.

Mr. Slope will be presiding over a short religious service each day of the Show, mostly on the theme of swords into ploughshares and wheat from the chaff. He has entered into the spirit of the thing and will be ploughing a furrow or two of his own, having practised down in Foggy Bottom with some of Farmer Furtle’s ploughboys this last fortnight.

Do spare a thought for that nice bespectacled Swedish girl who stood up in protest against the deportation of an Afghan. She was loudly applauded by her fellow passengers and lionised by the media for her humanitarianism, which I’m sure gave extra luminosity to her virtue-signalling. For liberals across the globe it was an act of bravery, of kindness, of sheer do-goodery, exactly the sort of thing which makes Sweden the global power-house of dimwittery we have come to recognise. For you see, alas and alack, the man in question was a wife-beater a child abuser and a thoroughly nasty piece of work who was not being deported at all but who wanted to return to Afghanistan where his everyday brutality wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. I do love schadenfreude, don’t you?

A shorter than usual missive this week, my dears, for I have promised to give a tour of the Cathedral to a visiting group of American lady evangelists, one of whom has expressed a fervent desire to see Bishop Thumper’s Postern in twilight. Each to their own.

So, as the bacon slicer of liberalism cuts into the rump steak of Old England and the encyclopaedia of western thought becomes the toilet paper of the incontinent progressive, I bid you adieu for this week.