mrs proudie

Church of Sweden: God is not ‘Lord’ or ‘He’, but It is Father and Mother, Brother and Sister

Goodness! I’m sure you are all waiting to hear the latest gossip doing the rounds in the salons and dinner parties of Barchester. Much was discussed at the banquet at Courcy Castle on Thursday evening.

I shall begin with Scandinavia, where the lunatic feminazi organisation still calling itself the Church of Sweden has decided to stop referring to God as ‘Lord’ or ‘He’, and has suggested it is now permissible to refer to ‘It’ as both ‘Father and Mother, Brother and Sister’. It is patriarchy and hierarchy they object to, which is somewhat paradoxical for a Christian church. With crosses removed and prayer spaces provided for Muslims, this hollowed-out Marxist coven working towards the Transgenderisation of Christ shows the way for future reform of the Church of England in its ceaseless struggle to appear relevant to those who couldn’t care less. One would be shocked if one had not become numb to the sheer and utter nonsense coming from our Nordic cousins for the last fifty years.

There are not enough lamp posts in Europe to properly deal with the degenerates that bestride the continent spouting poison. I know, I know… a little vitriolic perhaps, but sincerely meant.

After many years of dancing the Mobster Quadrille, the question of Comrade Mugombi’s ‘Will he, won’t he…?’ has been answered: the old mass-murderer and Marxist megalomaniac has resigned. “Off with his head,” they cried… Oh how the people cheered… until they realised it was nothing more than a coup within the ruling party and the ‘Boss That is to Come’ is just as bad as the old one. One hopes the ex-president is brought to book, tried for his crimes and duly punished, but it is more likely he’ll pop up working for one of Mr. Blair’s international peace-keeping Quartet-playing globalist scam-o-thons. Plus ça change… as the Frenchies say.

One was truly horrified to read of the gender-bending advice to teachers offered by the government’s Children’s Mental Brainwashing Commissar, Natasha Deviant, MBE. Our children must no longer be referred to as ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ as this unspeakable insensitivity reminds them of their gender, something the creatures that rule us would prefer they’d forget. It is part of a new Education Strategy entitled, ‘Believing Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast: Steps Towards a Progressive Future’.

Clearly this psycho-babbler’s gong stands for ‘Mendacious Bullshit Enforcer’.

Suddenly I see a clear case for the restoration of tarring and feathering to deal with these deranged and dangerous poltroons, these Trotskyite Termagants and Alinskyite Advancers. Any teacher found purveying such nonsense at Dr. Wortle’s School will find transportation to the colonies the very least sanction they can expect!

Throwing money at problems is a government’s way of playing ostrich. We have seen this tactic used to ‘solve’ inner-city knife-crime, bearded-savage terrorism, and now as a strategy in the so-called Brexit negotiations. I was interested to hear the views of Sir Abraham Haphazzard on the matter when he dined at The Palace earlier this week.

“Alas, dear lady, these things are extremely complicated. It is a long-established precedent and principle of governance since the days of the Saxon to pay Danegeld,” he opined, fiddling with his Dundrearies.

“But, Sir Abraham, paying Danegeld didn’t work. The Danes kept coming back for more.”

“Indeed they did, Mrs. Proudie, and by doing so we kept open the channels of communication, just as Mrs. Dismay is doing now.”

“That’s just nonsense,” I retorted.

“As indeed is the very idea that government has the best interests of its people at heart,” he replied.

There’s so much to look forward to as Christmas approaches, don’t you agree my dears? Christmas trees and street decorations will soon appear in every town and village not beset by rabid Antifa-loons; seasonal cards of good cheer drop onto the doormat (if the postal unions don’t strike), and our ISIS friends busily plan their festive explosions and Christian-culling extravaganzas. Already, the authorities are rehearsing the now-traditional mantras, ‘Nothing to do with Islam’, and ‘Lessons will be learnt’, whilst piano players across the land brush up on John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’.

Apropos of the above, the Archdeacon raised the alarm this week when he and Mr. Slope espied a couple of shady customers wandering around the Market Place where workmen were preparing to raise the Barchester Christmas Tree, a gift from Mr. Trollope every year.

“You there! Yes, you! What the blazes do you think you are doing?” shouted the Archdeacon across the square.

“Please do not think for one moment, honourable sir, that we are looking for nooks and crannies in which to conceal our high explosives. Such a thing should not cross your mind for an instant,” said the first wallah, who clearly did not come from Shropshire.

“And what is that you are concealing in your trousers?” questioned Mr. Slope, backing off for the first time in his life.

“Oh, please be thinking I am just happy to see you, but do not imagine, I implore you, that it is a scimitar or any other such sharp and deadly device. Good gracious no…” said the second fellow.

“What kind of an Anglican idiot do you take me for?’ roared the Archdeacon. “From your own mouths you condemn yourselves – Slope, go and fetch the police immediately, whilst I fend off these blackguards with my trusty brolly.”

At this point the first ruffian whipped off his hat, wig and false beard. It was Inspector Cuffem.

“No need for that, Archdeacon, for as you see, the local constabulary is already here.”

Needless to say, the second fellow turned out to be Constable Knapweed.

“Evening all,” he said, adjusting his truncheon.

“Explain yourselves, gentlemen,” said the Archdeacon.

It turned out this was a Home Office initiative – Operation Forever Amber – to test the observational powers of the general public. With police resources finite and more than three quarters of available manpower working on hate-crime communications, the government are keen to shuffle off responsibility for civil protection to John Bull and his wife. Having created the problem in the first place, politicians want to wash their hands of the whole business. Not so much a pilot-project as a Pilate-project.

Speaking of initiatives, the Lambeth directive on inclusion has hardened conservative hearts in Barchester, and my Lord the Bishop has wisely declined the invitation to attend the Anglican-Satanist-Wiccan Symposium at Dawkins-Astaroth College, Cambridge, entitled, ‘Outreach to Lucifer: the horns of a dilemma?’ In my opinion (and the Bishop agrees with me) things have gone too far…

So, as the Charlotte Russe of traditional gender identity meets the steam hammer of third-wave feminism and the stale aftershave of biological truth evaporates in the hothouse of Frankfurt Scholasticism, it is time for me to slip away to Carols at St. Viagra’s, a festive gathering organised by the rector with the help of Mr. Slope and featuring the Joanna Southcott Boxerettes, the Muggletonian Madrigal Minstrels, and the Bevindon Go-Ahead Lesbian Nose Flute Ensemble. It should prove interesting. Until next week…