The Bride of Drunckerstein (a Gothic horror)

Goodness! Little did I realise that we have a budding author in our midst! The Archdeacon called at The Palace on Monday morning with a handwritten manuscript.

“I wonder, dear lady, if you would cast your eyes over this. Having recently read some of Mr. Bram Stoker’s Gothic horrors, I have been minded to put pen to paper myself. I claim no literary merit, of course, but I would greatly value your opinion. My intention, following the example of the estimable Mr. Dickens, is to publish each chapter in serial form in a reputable magazine – ‘The Cornhill’, perhaps, or ‘The Bee Hive’, or possibly even ‘The Boys’ Own Paper.’”

It is not often that the Archdeacon seeks my opinion, so I accepted readily.

Thus it was on that Monday evening after supper I settled before a roaring fire with a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of hobnobs and turned to the first page…

The Bride of Drunckerstein

by Archdeacon Grantly

(inspired by Mr. Bram Stoker).

Chapter One.

Crawling through the mist-shredded forest of Compiègne on her belly, the British Prime Minister, driven forward under the lash of the sinister Euromaniac Oily ‘Igor’ Robbins, humbly approached the illuminated railway carriage which served as the mobile drinks cabinet of Herr Druncker, known in Globalist circles as ‘The Mouth of Soros’. Clutched in her skeksis-claw was the 500-odd pages of her capitulation, for she was here selling England – or rather Great Britain – by the pound. Despite appearances to the contrary, she went willingly, for there was nothing better in her book than a bout of sado-masochistic humiliation on an international scale to get the juices flowing.

Having recently devoured Greece, Herr Druncker wiped the blood from his fangs and prepared to greet the kitten-shoed supplicant.

“You look thirsty, my dear,” he croaked, as Mrs. May hauled herself across the threshold. “Let me pour you some Vichy water, a rather apt beverage if you don’t mind me saying, though I prefer something stronger. We will toast our indissoluble union – a marriage made in Brussels!”

Outside there came an ominous roll of thunder. A brilliant flash of lightning gave added colour to Herr Druncker’s jowls as he bit the top off a bottle of Dom Perignon, spat out the cork and downed the bubbles in one.

“You have done well, Mrs. May… or should I say Agent X20. The complete subjugation of what is left of the British Empire has been the goal of Luxembourg for centuries, and now I have achieved what Philip II, Louis XIV, Napoleon and Hitler could not.”

“You haf achieved it?” came a voice from out of the shadows. “I sink you vil find it is ve who haf achieved it!”

“Bien sur,” came a second, rather high-pitched voice reeking of garlic and Ooo-la-la. “Nevir furget eet was wee oo acteed as matchmakeur. We selecteed ze pliable Theresa May as yur bride ze moment Cameroon bolteed. Wee knoo she werd be ze pushoveur we niddeed.”

A further flash of lightening revealed the speakers. Frau Merkel, her ample grey-clad folds revealing few walks in the Black Forest but many expeditions to the heart of the Black Forest Gateau, was resting her feet upon a pouffe. It was none other than M. Macron, his mascara well-applied and paid for by taxpayers.

“Of course, of course,” replied Druncker, as he lovingly caressed a Jeroboam, “and I am grateful to both of you. Now I shall marry this dead-woman-walking and through her rule Great Britain. I spit upon their Brexit, I laugh at their toad-in-the-holes and their ‘Gardeners’ Question Time’, and spurn their ridiculous cricket. What they will get is more Druncker!”

At this point I shuddered and stopped reading. A frightening pot-boiler to be sure – one guaranteed to shiver the timbers of any right-thinking Briton. Where would this tale of horror take us? What dastardly deeds lay in store? How much Druncker would Great Britain get? I resolved to return the manuscript to the Archdeacon when next I saw him, together with my advice – ‘Publish and be damned!’

Mr. Slope, never happier than when sucking a ‘Fisherman’s Friend’, has been out and about along Barchester wharves bringing comfort to those who are oft in peril on the sea. “Spreading the Word of Cod,” as he jokingly calls it, though I am not sure the Almighty would approve. It goes down well with the fisher folk, however, as does Mr. Slope. There’s a lot of grumbling amongst the nets, for Mrs. Dismay’s willingness to offer free and open access to our territorial waters has upset many. “It’s not her plaice!” they cried, and Mr. Slope had to agree.

On the subject of little boats, I see the Channel is full of them. Alas, they are not rescuing our brave Tommies from French beaches this time. No, indeed. The little boats are heading our way, bringing more cultural enrichers to our shores. Yes, we may have a history going back more than two thousand years, with buildings by Wren, Hawksmoor and Vanbrugh; music by Byrd, Tallis, Purcell, Arne, Elgar and (by adoption) Handel; paintings by Reynolds and Gainsborough, and literature in the shape of Chaucer, Austen, Shakespeare, Coleridge, Byron, Herrick and so on, but these are all ghastly white fellows: what we need is a splash of ‘The Other’. The way the Church of England is heading I confidently expect Voodoo to be incorporated into the Book of Common Purpose ’ere long, in the interests of diversity and inclusion.

My Lord the Bishop is most fearsome vexed at having to deal with a case of rank heresy in his diocese. The Rev’d Tobias Twyce-Knightly, Rector of St. Chlamydia-in-the-Gusset, has declared from the pulpit that God has no specific gender and could be whatever He/She/It wanted to be, as the spirit moves, so to speak. Complaints came in when the rector preached: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was fluid…”, which was not the only departure from the orthodox, as his recital of the prayer that Jesus taught us began with: “Our Spirit…” A small riot ensued and prayer books were thrown at Mr. Twyce-Knightly, who had to gather up his skirts and flee to the vestry. A Church Court has been convened and the case comes up shortly. Thank goodness you would never hear such nonsense coming out of Lambeth Palace…

The Jupiter reports the government has launched a massive publicity campaign designed to stop female genital mutilation in migrant communities. The initiative, entitled ‘Let’s Protect Our Girls’, has released posters in English and six other languages, including Welsh (where the word ‘girls’ has been replaced by ‘sheep’ for cultural reasons). It seems some girls must be saved, while those from Rotherham et al do not. Rank hypocrisy, of course, but what do you expect? Meanwhile you can count the number of successful prosecutions for this barbaric crime on the fingers of one hand… for cultural reasons, one expects.

It is also reported that a large caravan of Mexicans is heading toward the US border, where all the President’s men are busy building a wall. One wonders if that doyenne of the caravan world, Margaret Beckett, is heading the way in her all-mod-cons Lunar Quasar, dishing out enchiladas from her trusty Primus at every lay-by en route. Reports that most of the caravaners are young males (where have we come across that phenomenon in recent years?) are denied vehemently by Democrats, who point out that gender is a social construct and not all women have vaginas.

Dear old Lewis Carroll, little did he realise that Wonderland would become a reality; that Tweedledum and Tweedledummer would head both major political parties and Mad Mitred Hatters sit upon the episcopal bench shouting ‘No room!’ to sanity, orthodoxy and tradition. So, as the Duchess of Downing Street cuddles the squealing pig of Chequers and the ‘Drink Me’ bottle of British concessions is poured down the bottomless rabbit hole of Berlaymont rapacity, I bid you toodles!