Goodness! In the light of recent events in Parsons Green, the ever-dynamic government of Sharia Dismay has taken action, as I discovered when I called in at Mr. Ballcock’s Ironmongery on the High Street the other day.
“Good morning, Mr. Ballcock,” I said in my most cheerful manner, “I wish to purchase a bucket.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind the counter.
“Certainly, Mrs. Proudie,” replied Mr. Ballcock, “but only if you can supply the right documentation. You need an official permit to buy buckets now – it’s all part of this anti-terrorist crack down.”
“Alas, I have no documentation, but surely you recognise me as the Bishop’s Lady?”
“That’s as may be,” said the ironmonger, “but the regulations state that any attempt to buy a bucket without producing a passport, birth certificate, family tree going back ten generations, notary’s certificate stating you have never purchased or read a Koran, full set of finger prints, bank details and oath of loyalty to the Crown, means I have to report you to the constabulary as a potential Jihadist.”
I left without a bucket.
The Archdeacon faced similar bureaucratic obfuscation when he attempted to hire a pony and trap to visit some of our outlying parishes, his own barouche being currently out of action.
“What the blazes do they think I am going to do with it? The insolent pipsqueak at Hackney Carriages-Are-Us presumed to lecture me on ram-raiding and mounting the kerb in such a way as to endanger life and limb. Why would I want to raid a ram? Why can’t these head-up-their fundament boil-in-the-bag Communist Purpose poltroons address the real issue of terrorism and stop devising Machiavellian legalistic contortions to make life damned unpleasant for the law-abiding and increasingly put-upon decent majority?”
On Tuesday, I attended Countess de Courcy’s afternoon tea party. The Countess, fresh from court, had much to say about the so-called ‘Palace Coup’ initiated by the Prince of Wales in order to smooth his pathway to the Throne. According to courtier’s gossip, Her Majesty’s private secretary and the Prince have locked horns, the former having advised the latter to drop a number of favourite causes and projects which, when king, might embarrass the Monarchy, such as ‘Forward to Feudalism’, ‘The Anti-Carbuncle Alliance’ and ‘The Restoration of German Princes Fund’. We ladies agreed the Prince had caused considerable embarrassment already, notably in marrying that Keppel strumpet, those toe-curling sanitary endearments and talking codswallop to selected shrubbery. Lady Arabella Gresham asked if my Lord the Bishop would play a part in a future coronation: alas, Barchester is not one of the senior ecclesiastical sees, so the answer is no; but, given half a chance, I’d be more than happy to crown Charles III… with my umbrella.
The Countess wondered if Meghan Merkel was related to the Reichskanzler in Berlin. I couldn’t comment, but it does looks suspicious. German marriages are what made the Monarchy what it is today… dull as ditchwater.
My Lord the Bishop and I are planning our annual visit to the Cheltenham Literature Festival, though we are somewhat disappointed that Mr. Dickens and Miss Bronte will not be attending as both are dead. Understandable, one supposes. We shall of course avoid the dreaded Hildabeast and her entourage, there to peddle her book on the recent presidential election entitled, ‘Infamy, Infamy, they all had it in for me!’ or something like that. She blames everyone but herself, poor deluded thing, as she transitions from pant-suited powerhouse to post-politics Miss Haversham.
Mr. Slope tells me the Campaign for Transgenderisation has reached the shores of the Antipodes, where a referendum is about to take place. It’s all about Bruce marrying Bruce, and Sheila marrying Sheila, though marriage is not what it is and that’s a fact. Well, I suppose those jolly swagmen can do what they like with their billabongs, and what they keep in their tucker-bags is entirely their own affair, though I am sure it will frighten the kangaroos (horses being in short supply). As far as I’m concerned, it shows the devil’s arm grows longer by the minute (a bit like Mrs. Dismay’s nose).
I read The Jupiter’s report of President Trumpelstiltskin’s speech to various ambassadors and heads of government in New York with interest. He declares he would always put the United States – and the interests of Americans – first. How refreshing, and how so unlike our own dear Prime Minister, who couldn’t give a goose-turd for her own people. The President made it clear that, should the United States be attacked, he would respond will full force. What on earth is wrong with that? What do liberals expect him to do? Nothing? He also roundly condemned communism and socialism, the blessings of which we have yet to see in reality – but then again, perhaps we have!
Mrs. Dismay’s later speech to the same assembly showed her for what she is – a globalist, neo-Marxist incompetent who twitters on about justice and freedom whilst suppressing liberty at home; a vicar’s daughter who is wet with desire for the Saracen and more concerned with refugees than the indigenous Briton. Shariah May is no conservative: she will scupper Brexit and pledge billions of pounds to the Zollverein even after we have left. That which calls itself The Conservative Party is but a chimera – it wears a blue burkha to disguise the traitors hiding within its folds. It is like the Norwegian Blue Parrot, having fallen from the perch of sanity long ago. It is dead.
It deserves to lose the next election, even if we have to suffer the emetic of Corbyn Monoxide for a while. It might just bring the nation to its senses. There again…
I feel better now, or I will after a soothing Earl Grey and a freshly-baked hobnob. I might even allow myself two, as I am quite wound up. I am well aware there are storms and earthquakes to write about, let alone the mischief going on in Burma, but these must wait.
So, as Shariah May sheds the seven veils of integrity whilst belly dancing to the seductive nose-flute of Soros and the combine harvester of authoritarianism scoops up the ripening corn of civil liberties, I bid you all a fond farewell for now. Should the good Lord spare me, I shall be scribbling again next week.