“We are leaving the Unholy Bureaucratic Empire in the nick of time”


One wonders if Mr. Clegg’s pants are on fire, now that we know for sure the Zollverein are planning a European Army and a non-elected supreme Kaiser-president with full powers? Mr. Clegg assured us such ideas were but fantasy, but then he has made speaking tommyrot both a lifestyle and career choice. It seems we are leaving the Unholy Bureaucratic Empire in the nick of time, or at least we will be when the Dismayistas pull their fingers out.

Which leads me to the spectre of Mr. Blair rising up from the swamp again last week, pointing his skeletal finger at the British public and saying immigration could be cut if we remained hitched to the Beasts of Berlaymont. What the Dickens is he on about? Perhaps he self-identifies with Jacob Marley, rattling chains and issuing dire-warnings, though I doubt if anyone listened. He is the voice of Politics Past. Let us hope Mr. Rees-Mogg is the voice of Politics Yet To Come.

Of course, the big news of the week was the passing of the European Union (Up Yours Johnny Foreigner) Bill by the Commons. The Duke of Omnium was in the Peers’ Gallery watching the voting, and he tells me it was a near-run thing. Corbynov’s lot showed their true colours (and contempt for the British people) by voting against, as did Krankie’s wee cohort and the Soylent Green Party (lists of the traitors have been made, à la Madame Defarge, ready for the reckoning which surely must come).

I have organised a Caribbean Relief Charity Bazaar in the Cathedral Courtyard tomorrow, and have been busy all week making arrangements and drafting in volunteers. Mrs. Quiverfull has kindly taken on the tea stall, with her ever-growing brood serving at table; Mary Bold will sell tombola tickets, and Mr. Slope will perk us up with his hot sausage. It seems the government are powerless to use the £13 billion set aside for overseas aid to help our own, which seems rather nonsensical to me. When The Jupiter reported this bizarre Gordian Knot the politicians have tied themselves in, I determined to do something, hence the fund-raiser. I shall of course donate a barrow-load of hobnobs, but am minded to whip up a batch of peas-pudding at a farthing-a-scoop, which should keep people going, if only to the facilities. When I mentioned this at the planning meeting, Mr. Slope made so bold as to refer to me as ‘The Dollop-Trollope’, which everyone found highly amusing. Needless to say, I did not.

I understand Cuba was also badly hit by the hurricane, but as they are Godless and Bolshevik to boot, they can fend for themselves.

As soon as I heard about the explosion I rushed round to the Church of St. Corbyn-in-the-Abbot to see if poor Parson Green was in one piece. I needn’t have bothered, for once again I had grasped the wrong end of the stick. A device exploded in Parsons Green Tube Station, all very suspicious and nothing at all to do with the religion that must not be named. Nobody was killed, thank goodness, but several were taken to hospital with burns (personally I prefer Tennyson – all that Scottish dialect saunsie-babble gives me a headache).

I see socialism in Venezuela is doing as well as can be expected. Starving citizens are raiding municipal zoos and eating whatever fits into their casserole pots as grandmothers all over the country are mysteriously disappearing. The government have declared pets to be fair game, particularly rabbits, but one fears for people’s pussies. This is the sort of jolly japes our young folk can expect when they vote in Comrade Corbynov in a few years’ time (perish the thought) – a man with the economic sense of an innumerate lemming and the compassion of a lachrymose crocodile.

Well now, the bell for Evensong is ringing and one must fly. The Archdeacon is conducting the service and has promised one of his homilies on the text ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Mogg’. It should prove as uplifting as my new whalebone corset. So, dear friends, as the night-soil cart that is Antifa dumps its load into the minds of feckless youth and the galleon of morality hits the coral reef of instant gratification, I bid you adieu for yet another week.