Goodness! Its all happening in London, my dears, it really is! Thanks to the multi-cultural charivari of recent years, there is so much vibrant street theatre to entertain and astound. If the nightly stab-a-thon doesn’t thrill, or the prospect of a terrorist bomb make you shiver in anticipation, one can always tap into the cultural side of Khanopolis. The winsome Momtaza Mehri is the new Young People’s Laureate for London, an up-and-coming literary lioness from Somalia. She ticks all the boxes: she hates Britain and thinks we are all racist Islamophobes; claims Elizabethan cities were ‘substantially multicultural’, and complains of ‘Black Muslim erasure’ as the Muslim label is dominated by ‘Asians’. One of her poems is entitled ‘I don’t like sh*t’, whilst another ode ends with the line: ‘I can’t stand the smell of my words.’ This tells you all you need to know. Of course, being a poetess, she hasn’t done a decent day’s work in her life and is more than happy to sponge off the very people she detests. I can’t say I feel ‘enriched’ by her outpourings, which the powers that be tell me I ought to feel. Ms. Mehri is to poetry what Ms. Emin is to laundry.
Satan’s spawn gets everywhere, don’t you think?
The ladies of Barchester – well, at any rate, the ones who matter – decided to invite the plumptious Lady Nugee (the Montserrat Caballé of Corbynov’s Labour chorus) to speak at one of our social gatherings on the subject: ‘White van men – a case for eugenics?’ Alas, she is unable to accommodate as she has prior commitments denigrating the British Empire to all who will listen. She feels the Prime Minister should apologise to the Commonwealth for all the nasty things we did, such as building roads, railways, hospitals, schools, establishing parliamentary government and the like. Alas, the Appeaser has fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Such apologies are only ever one way. When are we going to get an apology for the Barbary pirate raids on the Cornish coast? What about those African chiefs who were actively engaged in the slave trade long before the white man? Who says sorry to the British people for all the lies and secret shenanigans which took us into the Holy Zollverein and inflicted globalism upon us? Needless to say, I will not hold my breath.
My Swedish correspondent tells me Easter went with a bang over there. It seems instead of hiding Easter eggs, those pesky ‘New Swedes’ have taken to squirreling away hand grenades in various nooks and crannies. It’s been going on for years apparently, but is only now being admitted as ‘a problem’. No matter. In the interests of democracy, the Swedes are going to ban any political party which criticises the country’s current immigration policy. The Archdeacon, as usual, had much to say.
“It is all the fault of those lesbian Lutherans,” he chuntered, as we entered the side chapel of St. Jude the Obscure for the laying on of hands. “They’ve been lapping up the doctrine of Marxist moral relativity for so long their brains have turned to pap. Once you have a government packed with salt-cod sirens and Abba-esque Pippi Longstockings dedicated to white-man-hunting and Afro-fetishism worship, a nation is pretty much doomed. They think it is all going to settle down into coffee-cream utopia with rainbow birds and women of all genders, but it won’t. It will be a bloodbath.”
Time will tell, but the Boy Jupiter across the Channel has declared Europe’s future is linked to Africa and that mass immigration from the latter is our future. It’s a race to become either Eurabia or Eurafrica. Evil no longer bothers to hide; it just speaks as it is. If anyone thinks Western European art, music, architecture, laws and values will survive this tidal wave of third world-ism, they are truly bonkers. I fear things have gone too far for any remedy. Heads should roll for this – heads will roll, but I fear they will be ours.
Let us turn to brighter things! Soon we shall be putting out more flags for the half-royal wedding, and Barchester will be en fête. I am planning a special exhibition of royal memorabilia in the Moot Hall, choice pieces from the Palace Collection donated by several royal visitors over the centuries. Mr. Slope could not wait to brasso Henry VIII’s metal codpiece – you have never seen such elbow grease applied or such flamboyant wrist action. We have the arrow that brought down William Rufus, Queen Anne’s muff and Piers Gaveston’s ring, somewhat worn away thanks to Edward II’s index finger. Being a champion of the blessed state of matrimony, I can only wish the young couple every happiness, but I fear Miss Markle will soon tire of her life as a princess and will bolt back to sleuthing in St. Mary Mead ere long… or have I got that wrong?
Oh, and I hear the expected royal baby will be named Leslie. It’s so he/she/it can choose its future gender without embarrassment. How very modern.
News that the House of Lords is doing all it can to scupper Brexit has not gone down well at the breakfast table. My Lord the Bishop, a man usually more placid than a placid thing in Lake Placid, was moved to raise his eyebrows above the pages of the Jupiter – most disturbing. As I result, I decided to board the barouche and make haste to Gatherum Castle to demand an explanation from His Grace the Duke.
“Nothing to do with me, dear Lady,” said the Duke. He received me in the Yellow Drawing Room overlooking the terrace and rose garden, standing by the open window and fiddling with his dundrearies. “You must remember, we hereditary-wallahs were swept away by the Demon Blair, except for a small insignificant rump (which I’m told on good authority Mr. Blair has). He replaced us with a gaggle of his own myrmidons raised up from East End gutters, corporate board rooms and more than a sprinkling of clapped-out politicos. House of Lords my blunderbuss! More Like the House of Spivs, each and every one of them gorging on the Euro-gravy train. Old England is long gone, Mrs. Proudie. I advise you to stock up your wine cellar, lower the draw bridge and feast on The Archers.”
Perhaps the time has come for abolition…
Well, I am sure you will each have your own favourite story of the week, but time is pressing and one can only scribble so much between cathedral services. I have set aside a couple of hours to absorb the wisdom of Archbishop Welby, who I understand has been tweeting in excelsis of late. Perhaps in doing so he is modelling himself on St. Francis of Assisi, who had a particular affinity with birds – but then so did the naughty Vicar of Stiffkey, and that episode did not end well.
So, as the fire-engine of repression squirts cold water on the glowing embers of popularism and the monuments of imperialism are blackwashed away by the ungrateful beneficiaries of Rhodesian generosity, I bid you all adieu for this week.