Goodness! There I was at morning service, singing the last verse of ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling’, the bit where we ‘…cast our crowns before Thee’, when my thoughts turned to the audacious robbery in a Swedish cathedral. Has the shade of Colonel Blood become manifest in the land of the salted herring? In case you are unaware, it appears thieves walked in and helped themselves to the Swedish crown jewels on display in a glass cabinet – two priceless crowns and an orb stolen in broad daylight! The member of cathedral staff interviewed later said, “Happily, nobody was hurt, we are all well, there was only some material damage, that’s all.” Of course, we give thanks that the villains caused no injury, but the sheer indifference to the loss of irreplaceable historic artifacts sums up current attitudes in that benighted land. Swedish history and culture are being stolen and replaced by Morlock invasion, facilitated by a feminist government and virtue-signally media, and the Eloi don’t seem to care.
As a precaution, I have tasked the old gentlemen of Hiram’s Hospital to stand guard over the Cathedral Treasury. We have, in our vaults, the golden crown of Arthur Pendragon, together with the silver girdle of Queen Guinevere and the semi-precious battle-brassier of Boudicca. Who would not like to get their hands on them?
There was a large political meeting held in the Market Square, organised by our exotic scimitar-waving mayor, Mustafa Fatwah. Curiosity got the better of me, so I hovered at the back of the crowd, who mostly comprised farm workers, artisans and domestic servants.
“Brothers, sisters,” Mr. Fatwah began, “We are all socialists here, all friends of Jeremy – and Jeremy has many friends indeed. Some of his friends are called Mohammed, some Ali, some Ahmed, all good British names. Let Jeremy embrace you in fraternal comradeship – let Diane clasp you to her virtuous bosom – we are all jihadis now!”
There was considerable mumbling amidst the crowd at this point and I realised the majority of Mr. Fatwah’s listeners had come thinking this was the annual hiring fair.
“But there are some who wish to destroy Jeremy and enslave you all in capitalistical chains! These enemies have very different names – they work to very different Protocols , they…”
“Ere, ’ang on a minute,” shouted one man wearing a kippah, “Who exactly do you mean?”
“Not you dear sir, not you,” spluttered our orator, catching sight of the man’s sturdy physique and big stick.
“Well some of Jeremy’s friends are also friends of Dorothy,” said the man, “How do you square that one?”
Mr. Fatwah ignored the interruption.
Undeterred, or perhaps unaware that he was not carrying his audience with him, Mr. Fatwah continued.
“The Labour Party, which has served you well, is like a caterpillar – it has one body but many legs, all pulling in the same direction. Now it enters a new phase, the chrysalis phase if you will, and shortly it will emerge as a new creature entirely, stretching its wings in the warmth of the socialist dawn, a butterfly with wings of deepest red. This born-again party will need a new name to reflect new moralities – brothers and sisters, I give you, the Islamic Party of Great Britain!”
Alas for Mr. Fatwah, the crowds had melted away by the time he reached his crescendo, and the heavens opened. Fortunately, I had my parasol with me. Making as if to scurry away, I doubled back and gave the silly man a heavy whack on the head. One has to have some pleasures in life.
Mr. Slope is particularly keen to write to Tommy Robinson and ask about prison conditions – it seems the poor man had a dreadful time and that considerable injustice was done. Mr. Slope said he would bend over backwards to facilitate Mr. Robinson’s tale and ensure it reached a wider audience.
I see Mrs. Dismay has pledged even more taxpayers’ money to the Zollverein during the two-year Babylonian Captivity she arranged post-Brexit. Exactly which side does she bat for? I think we all know the answer to that!
The Bishop and I were invited to Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni’s reception for two visiting Roman Catholic bishops the other evening, the Signora having lately returned to Barchester from her father’s villa on Lake Como. In the spirit of ecumenism, we accepted, but I was determined to hold my nose. The Chianti was acceptable, but the discourse was not. One bishop was of the opinion that Signor Salvini was the anti-Christ and that migrants should be welcomed and provided for; the other took the diametrically opposed view. Later, I asked our hostess for her opinion (for even painted jezebels have opinions).
“Oh,” said the signora, “I adore Matteo Salvini! I love his beard and his hirsute Italian frame, his boldness and rebelliousness. He could take me for a long, intimate carriage ride any day – I love a bouncy fiacre, don’t you Mrs. Proudie?”
I see the Bangladeshi community in Rome are demanding separate cemeteries as they do not wish to be buried alongside Catholics. So much for integration.
Well I am not going to scribble any more this afternoon. A thunderstorm is raging outside, and the Palace roof is leaking. We seem to have used up all the buckets and pans, so here in the study I have commandeered my Lord’s topper, which is filling up nicely. Mr. Slope is tending to the drips in the downstairs lavatory. I expect he will emerge as flushed as usual.
So, as the Chequers Plan morphs into one of the Darling Duds of May and the Red Riding Hood of Corbynov slips to reveal the steel breastplate of Stalinism, I bid you adieu until next time.
For those dear friends who will no doubt say, ‘But you failed to mention this…’ I would add that I do have a life (and can only pluck so many feathers from our goose).
You can always write your own – you usually do.