Goodness! One is writing this on 9th November – 9/11 in European terms – which, in a way, is auspicious. One feels one is standing on the Yellow Brick Road of Destiny, gazing at the breaking sunrise of Hope over the Emerald City, for Ding Dong the Witch is dead (or at least booking her own room at the Ecuadorian Embassy in London); the curtain has been torn away to reveal the media were pulling the levers all along and the man with the lion’s mane – no coward he – is President Elect. This is a Munchkin victory; a triumph of the little people who despaired at ever being listened to. At least Mrs. Clinton can take comfort from the fact that Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison before he became president, so there’s hope for her yet.
The news ran round Barchester like wildfire this morning. We are all agog, and the Archdeacon is beside himself with glee. Needless to say, this morning’s edition of The Jupiter was printed with a black border and John Bold has had to lie down in a darkened room. The Bolshevik Broadcasting Company made a point of announcing Mr. Trump’s victory with caveats – the first president to come to office without military experience or holding public office – and one announcer sneered that his success was down to ‘uneducated Americans’, which tells you everything you need to know about Broadcasting House. I suggested to my Lord the Bishop (and he agrees with me) that we should celebrate with a Te Deum in the Cathedral, commissioning dear Mr. Harding to compose a new choral setting – The Barchester Te Deum. I expect to see all my good friends in the pews.
One feels bewigged, bothered and bewildered by the judiciary these days: in the recent case of The People vs A Woman from South America, their lordships plumped for Carmen Miranda, admittedly a figure slightly more attractive that Mr. Farage; but appearances can be deceptive – as we know from Signora Vesey Neroni. I fear the skeletal hand of the shadow elite is still desperate to clutch the throat of the body politic and apply pressure. We need no lessons in democracy from dusky Latinos. One thinks of Eva Peroni, Che Guava and Fidel Castrol, and shudders. But what is this? A plot to reverse Brexit and remain within the EU? The Liberal Democratic leader Mr. Farron has given the game away in a bid to make himself seem important. He is not, being only the man in charge of a very small rump. Not even Mr. Slope is interested in that.
The Evangelical Church in Germany is giving us much cause for concern. The Bishop of Schnitzel-mit-Noodlein’s special outreach envoy, Dr. Horst Throatwarbler, paid a courtesy call at The Palace yesterday, and over Earl Grey and hobnobs he mentioned their plans to actively campaign against right-wingers.
“Frau Merkel’s government have been very helpful,” he explained, “They have issued a pamphlet identifying right-wingers by their blond hair, conservative dress and quiet, undemonstrative natures.”
The Archdeacon, who up till this point had been civil, exploded, waking the Bishop from his post-prandial.
“What devilish nonsense is this!” he exclaimed, “You have just described most of the German population! What about those parishioners who don’t subscribe to Bolshevik multi-kulti Great Big Melting Pot anti-racist Racism?”
“They are yesterday, Herr Archdeacon,” rasped Dr. Throatwarbler. “You see, the Evangelical Church recognises the future lies with the New Germans, very few of whom are blond and almost all of them quite demonstrative. We are planning to ditch the Old Testament and rewrite the New so that Mohammed (Praise be Upon Him) is placed at the centre, which is how Frau Merkel sees things. Jesus is so first-century! One needs a practical head on one’s shoulders. No-one can accuse us of not being ‘with it’, for these are changing times, and tomorrow belongs to us.”
“You may not keep your practical head for much longer,” spluttered the Archdeacon.
“We have no room for Doubting Thomases in Merkeland,” said Dr. T.
How I kept the Archdeacon from launching a pre-emptive strike I don’t know. In the end I decided to leave them to it, taking to my boudoir to read the collected correspondence between Archbishop Cranmer and Dean Percy. One does appreciate a good page-turner before Evensong. Would the latter perhaps consider the deanery at Barchester now that Dr. Trefoil has gone the way of all flesh, or is he destined for mitre-dom? Such an adornment to the bench, and no doubt a fine figure in gaiters. Gute Nacht, meine lieben! Auf Wiedersehen! Until next week.