Goodness! It seems to me the Queen’s English is under constant assault these days from a variety of colonials and something called ‘Yoof Culture’, not that I know anything about the latter. For example, when a politician tells a lie and is caught out, they simply claim to have ‘misspoke’, which is meant to excuse them from all subsequent opprobrium. It worked splendidly for the Hildabeast, who has yet to find herself arraigned for pizzas, high-crimes and misdemeanours, but not so for President Trampledupon after his slightly inaccurate remarks about Sweden. The Jupiter would have you believe all is tickedy-boo in the land of the Herringfolk, but my Swedish correspondent, Baroness Smörgesbord, tells a different story. Nightly riots, burning vehicles and ladies attacked and forced to do disreputable things in dark alleys are commonplace occurrences, with police devoting their efforts to tracking down those citizens who complain. Thank goodness we live in Great Britain, where common sense and the rule of law prevail. (I think I just misspoke).
Sir Abraham Haphazzard alerted me to the appointment of Cressida Dick as the new Metropolitan Police Commissioner, proving (if proof were needed) that incompetence is no bar to promotion. Home Secretary ‘Forever’ Amber Rudderless describes Ms. Dick as ‘an exceptional officer’ and the Grand Mufti of London, Mr. Khan, thinks she is ‘…the best possible person’ to take the Met forward, but methinks he misspoke. At least in multi-cultural London, Commissioner Dick now knows how to recognise a Brazilian, for ‘lessons have been learnt’. It’s just genuine terrorists she has difficulty identifying.
Speaking of terrorists, I see Mr. Blair has told the nation’s discontents to ‘rise up’ and overturn the referendum, arguing people deserve a chance to rethink. Is this not treason? The Archdeacon is in no doubt whatsoever:
“Confound the man and call him Miranda!” he declared following a meeting of the Barchester Friends of the Surgical Appliance Society, to which I had been invited as guest speaker (my talk was entitled, ‘Put not your truss on princes’, which went down very well with the largely pro-royalist crowd). “This guitar-strumming blood-soaked political zombie infused with the moral compass of an itinerant pox-ridden straddling strumpet grasping Judas-silver handouts has the brass-neck to look down on us from on high and declare we voted in ignorance! Wasn’t ignorance his get-out clause for the dodgy dossier? Why isn’t he in the Tower awaiting dispatch?”
I doubt the Archdeacon misspoke.
Countess de Courcy and her admirable daughters invited me to join them on a trip to the London Fashion Week, leaving Barchester Station on the early morning train. Great was the anticipation. What would Mr. Worth be showing this year? New crinolines, perhaps an improved bustle? Are bosoms in or out? Imagine our disappointment when we found ourselves looking at models dressed in long, shapeless garments with veils over their faces. A banner strung across the catwalk read, ‘Modesty is the New Nudity’, which made no sense whatsoever. Not a hoop, whalebone or gusset in sight, not a single feather boa or poke bonnet, nor any other Englishwoman for that matter, apart from our own small party. A woman pushed a garment right under my nose.
“Look at the quality, madam,” she said, “Have you ever felt such a burkha before?”
“I assure you I feel one right now,” I replied, and with that we swept out.
We needn’t have rushed back for the train. Due to some interminable dispute, the engine driver refused to close the carriage doors, so we sat there for several hours whilst the wind whistled around the compartment and my muff became frozen. In the end, I had to close the door myself. Standards of service are indeed declining. It’s the slippery slope.
Speaking of my Lord’s chaplain, we have seen very little of him this week as he has taken up golf, a game much favoured by US presidents, I understand. Mr. Slope explained his new-found interest as ‘…putting it about a bit’ so that if and when Mr. Trump comes to Blighty on a state visit (and the likes of Mr. Vaz and Lord Mandelbum turn their backs on him), he can drive over to Barchester for a round or two. I fail to see the pleasure in putting balls in holes, nor why a man so important would consider playing with a bishop’s chaplain, but experience has taught me to leave Mr. Slope alone with his fantasies.
Goodness, look at the time! I have been invited to a private viewing at the Barchester Art Gallery, where I believe Mr. Hirst is exhibiting his latest installation piece, ‘Rural Dean in Formaldehyde’, alongside Ms. Emin’s controversial ‘Pope on a Rope’ and ‘Victoria Vagina’, the latter a homage to the dear Queen’s fecundity. I have little understanding of the artistic milieu beyond the Pre-Raphaelites, so I am not convinced I will enjoy the experience. So, as the miasma of relativism settles over the valley of long-standing certainty and the Spinning Jenny that is Anglicanism is smashed irreparably by the Luddites of Transgenderisation, I bid you all goodnight.