“The Church of England leaps with enthusiasm from one heresy to another”

Goodness! Someone asked from whence I glean the little snippets of news which form the ‘meat’ of my weekly column. Of course, they almost all feature in the pages of The Jupiter, with occasional forays into the Silverbridge Exchange and Mart and the Barset Chronicle. We are not so ill informed here in the shires where the body of Wellingtonian conservatism still has a pulse, albeit increasingly feint. Gossip, too, can sometimes shed light on events – for example, this week I was told (by someone who knew someone with a third-cousin on Fleet Street) that a certain Mr. Murdoch is considering buying The Jupiter to add to his newspaper empire. There is a petition out to stop him on the grounds that his newspapers are vile scandal sheets. I would have thought, in that case, The Jupiter would fit inside his tucker-bag rather well.

I see The Guardian (the Liberal-Left’s answer to the Völkischer Beobachter) is suggesting people might limit the number of children they bring into the world ‘to save the whale’, or something like that. Accompanying the said scurrilous piece is a photograph of three white babies… not black, brown or ‘diverse’, but white. The message is quite clear and quite nasty, but one feels they are preaching to the wrong demographic. The article itself was a load of twaddle anyway.

I have to confess to being converted to Moggism, given that Mrs. Dismay is proving to be as effective as a nosegay of lavender in warding off the Black Death. Granted, the government have published a bill to repeal the act which took us into Europe, but the Remainers are determined to scupper it. One suspects Mrs. Dismay knows this – the bill’s defeat will enable her to say it wasn’t her fault. The Archdeacon is convinced she was shoe-horned into Downing Street by Deep State puppeteers in order to lose an election and kick Brexit into the long grass. I must say I agree with him, and, given her unspectacular and downright depressing sojourn at the Home Office, I am surprised anybody thought otherwise. The Duke of Omnium (one of the elected hereditary peers post-Blairite Massacre of the House of Lords) told the Archdeacon (in strictest confidence) that the knives were out, a coup is in the offing and we’ll soon see the Lady vanishing. Let us hope the party turns to Mr. Rees-Mogg, a true Conservative and an excellent debater, and if anyone objects that he lacks the common touch, let them remember he employs ordinary people on his estate… as do we all.

He also has six children – The Guardian would be apoplectic.

I cannot bring myself to comment on the decision of the General Synod to sanctify transgenderisation, let alone to dispense with clerical vestments, so I will simply record what the Archdeacon has to say about it.

“Madam, I am appalled,” he began. “It seems the Church of England leaps with enthusiasm from one heresy to another, throwing away tradition like some worn-out rag and replacing it with the stained, sticky, rainbow-blanket of Sodom and Gomorrah. What else are they going to embrace, apart from every degenerate on the planet? Has the word ‘NO’ been expunged from Christian teaching? Shall we soon see a Feast of St. Mohammed on the Church Calendar, celebrated with the Holy Hand Grenade of Riqqah sponsored by Wikinson Sword? Who do these Mimsy-crop-haired kumbayistas with their badge-encrusted dungarees and their accompanying Delta-male cross-dressing counterparts think they are?”

“Synod,” I replied.

At which point he stormed off, coat-tails flapping and cheeks redder than Jeremy Corbyn’s long johns.

Turning to The Jupiter’s colour supplement, I see the King and Queen of Spain are here on a state visit. Hopefully Prince Philip will not mention the G-word or things could get rocky. One suspects it will be less controversial than the proposed visit by President Trumpelstiltskin, when the orcish roving brigands of the Left will bring disgrace down upon the country. Queen Letizia has much in common with the Duchess of Cambridge: both came from humble origins and therefore personify the Cinderella dreams of every aspiring Kimberley, Tracy and Chardonnay currently signed up to weightwatchers. Not that there are many eligible princes left, other than the Labour princelings being groomed to take over their parents’ seats. Personally, I think it is a good thing to replenish royal blood with an infusion of outsider from time to time, but too much of it makes the royals just like the rest of us. Where’s the magic in that?

President Trumpelstiltskin, meanwhile, is guest of honour at the Emperor Emmanuel’s Bastille Day celebration. Will he eat cake? The Donald is well known for sticking his neck out, but historical precedents suggest avoiding doing so on this occasion. Could prove fatal.

The shadows are growing long across the Palace lawns, which means I must dash. My Lord the Bishop is hosting a gathering of traditionalist Anglican clergy this evening, which means we are dining alone. To misquote Lord Tennyson, there are canons to the left of them but not many to the right. Mr. Slope will not be joining us: he returned from some colourful London street festival the other day in a blaze of colour, suggesting (with a giggle) that I might like to change my name to Mrs. Pride. I can’t think what got into him and, on reflection, would rather not know.