Goodness! Well, my dears, my Lord the Bishop (and I agree with him) has decided to initiate the Feast of St. Brexit on the 31st September every year, an event that all will anticipate even if they never quite get there. Oh, you did not know there was a St. Brexit? Well, researches in the Cathedral library have revealed a Celtic holy man called Brexitofix (or, as we would say, Brexit), who preached freedom and self-reliance and the Gospel of our Lord before he fell foul of the Roman Procurator of Gallia Belgica, a wine-sodden old has-been by the name of Claudius Dipsomanius Druncus. Brexitofix was put into chains and firmly secured to a backstop (viz. ancient barbaric device) and the more he struggled to free himself the more chains were added. It ended badly, as all these early Christians found to their cost (and as we seem to find today, if truth be told). But I digress…
To celebrate St. Brexit’s Day, the congregation will cast votes to free the saint in a sort of Religiorendum, symbolising his imprisonment and struggle to be free. The Archdeacon, dressed in a toga, will then burn all the voting slips and give the thumbs down (though some argue it should be thumbs up) signal for ‘death’. The congregation will then sing, ‘What a friend we have in Treeza’, and Mr. Slope will reach a crescendo on his organ.
One does love the smell of liturgy in the morning.
What lovely Christmas trees decorate the White House this year! The Jupiter carried several hand-coloured daguerreotypes which, I must say, have greatly inspired my plans for The Palace, and red is such an appropriate colour for the Trumpelstiltskins, is it not? I shall not copy the First Lady exactly, however. Instead, I shall place the Old Gentlemen of Hiram’s Hospital around the Great Hall, each one shrouded by a red-flannel blanket (with holes in appropriate places) and crowned with a wreath of holly and mistletoe. They will be instructed to greet each passing guest with a cheery ‘Yo ho ho’ and at a given signal sing ‘Ding-dong merrily on high’. I understand American Democratic chatteratti are lining up to snipe at Melania’s sense of style; someone should point out that Black balaclavas and Antifa tee-shirts are soooo last year.
For those of you waiting for chapter two of the Archdeacon’s ‘Bride of Drunckenstein’, don’t hold your breath. The first chapter was rejected by all the periodicals, so the poor man has lost the will to continue. Considering the state of British politics, haven’t we all?
A lot of nonsense is being spoken about ‘populism’, with accusations of ‘nationalism’ and ‘fascism’ being bandied about. Now we have some French Eurocrat threatening populists with war and making nasty references to the ‘little Mussolinis’ who are springing up here and there. Thank goodness there is Signor Salvini there to counter this nonsense. However, Mr. Clegg’s fantasy Euro army is becoming a reality – just the sort of thing needed to stamp out populism wherever it rears its Neanderthal head. Isn’t it typical of these ivory-towered expense-account Caesars to insult the populace whenever they show signs of rejecting the ‘Oh so happy-clappy Ode to Joy diversity Rainbow rape-a-thon Multi-kultidom’ they designed for Europe’s future.
When is a crime not a crime? Why, when you live in London, of course. If you are burgled, robbed in the street or assaulted, it simply doesn’t count any more. Mayor ‘Saracen’ Khan has given instructions that such ‘minor crimes’ can be ignored by the boys in blue, who are far too busy tracking down hurty-word merchants on the Intermajig. At a stroke, Citizen Khan has reduced crime figures by a third. Perhaps the people of London should therefore demand the reduction of the police budget (and their council tax) by a similar proportion. It should perhaps be noted that many (but by no means all) of the so-called ‘low level’ crimes are committed by newcomers to these sceptic isles.
I do like the new Metropolitan Police Hurty-Wordy Task Force. Motto: ‘Lax on Crime, Tough on the Reporting of Crime.’ I also like the shade of nail varnish they are wearing this season.
Our non-UK-born population has risen to 9.4 million. Despite three Tory election promises to bring the numbers down, this year has seen the highest number of immigrants coming to these shores. This has nothing to do with the Zollverein, for these newcomers are not EU subjects, so the government was quite able to impose restrictions. But it hasn’t. It has lied… again… and again… and again. It is what they do. So, when Mrs. Dismay says hers is the best deal for the United Kingdom, watch carefully to see if her pants catch fire, for she is almost certainly going to sign up to the UN migration pact.
I hear Mrs Dismay is in Argentina hobnobbing with the globalists. If I lived in The Falklands, I’d be worried.
Sir Abraham Haphazzard tells me the Prime Minister is hoping to debate Brexit with the Leader of HM Bolshevik Intifada. I am not impressed. What on earth is the point? Do they hope to win hearts and minds of the uncommitted? I would rather stick red hot needles in my eyes than watch Comrade Punch spar with Janus Judy. They are both so Vichy-ous.
A short missive this week dear friends, too much to do. My Lord the Bishop and I are travelling to Nuremburg for the Christmas Fair, something we have been meaning to do for many years. I am looking forward to the gluhwein and the kaiserschmarrn, so I have sent my muff to the cleaners and have bought some thermal unmentionables to keep Jack Frost at bay. Mr. Slope, who will of course accompany us, is hoping for a bit of Wagner, though which bit he didn’t say. So, as the Rhine-maidens of the Wilkommen Choir are taken unawares by the Ali Baba-ism of the unwanted extras and the ‘You haf neffer had it zo Gutt’ platitudes of Mutti Merkin shake the singing-ringing tree of social unrest, I wish you a splendid weekend.