Let me try to understand: you invite a poor migrant into your home, expressing compassion and understanding, whilst providing food, clothing and shelter; the migrant then asks if his wife may join him, and you agree. After a while, he asks if the rest of his family may come too, and perhaps one or two of his friends who are also fleeing from oppression – why not, you have an attic which could be converted and who needs a dining room anyway? Soon, your guests complain they don’t like the food – they demand special diets and get angry when you cannot provide. Eventually, they tell you they do not want you in the house and throw you out. There is nothing you can do, for the laws of the land protect their occupancy. Now it is you who has nowhere to go.
Just like an extended visit from the Vesey Stanhopes!
This is what, in essence, the Bishop of Rome advocates. He says, loftily and with a shrug of the pontifical shoulders, that the rights of migrants trump the security of nations. Is the man stark raving mad? One wonders. Does he plan to lead the way by disbanding the Swiss Guard, tearing down the Vatican City Walls and putting up a sign saying ‘Mi casa su casa’?
No, of course not. The man is not so much infallible as insufferable. The Archdeacon summed it up quite pithily:
“So, some obscure tequila-swigging prelate infused with liberation theology and the Gospel of St. Marx is plucked out of relative obscurity and plonked on St. Peter’s throne by the Powers of Darkness to tell us all we should bare our throats to the Saracen invader? At least the old fool has revealed himself as a dyed-in-the-wool garlic-munching Globalist glove puppet peddling dangerous platitudes and moralistic nihilism, not to mention being a willing gravedigger for Western civilisation. He makes me yearn for the restoration of Cardinal Ratflinger!”
Heaven knows I am no papist, but the Archdeacon’s diatribe seemed more than a little extreme.
“Perhaps Pope Francis is simply reminding us of our Christian duty to help those less fortunate… and I am sure he is teetotal, Archdeacon,” I replied, not being sure of anything of the sort.
There followed a loud ‘Harrumph!’ before he stomped off to an engagement at the Mechanics’ Institute. I doubt if those assembled were going to experience a Pleasant Sunday Afternoon, despite what it said on the posters.
Mr. Slope has an encyclopaedic knowledge of London’s statuary and is most interesting on the subject. He has spent many an hour hanging around Piccadilly in search of Eros, and has a particular fondness for Nelson’s Column. Imagine his outrage then, when a lemon-sucking moral-high-ground-climbing femanazi, writing (if one calls it that) for The Guardian, declared we should remove such monuments immediately in imitation of the current American craze. Nelson’s Column offends minorities apparently. My advice to such delicate, snowflake-ish souls is ‘Don’t look up’.
I took issue with Sir Abraham Haphazzard the other day over a case reported in The Jupiter, whereby a judge decided not to incarcerate a Somalian couple who entered this country illegally because they were “honest, hard-working people”. Instead they were handed a suspended sentence. My question to my learned friend was simply this: “How can these people be honest when they entered the country dishonestly?” Sir Abraham pondered this for a moment, stroking his dundrearies whilst rattling his loose change (a habit gentlemen often engage in during idle moments, I believe).
“Madam, things are simply not black and white.”
“On the contrary, Sir Abraham, I think they are.”
An extraordinary event took place in the Parish Church of St. Fidelia-in-the-Undergrowth on Wednesday evening, when a rough-looking bunch of men and one blousy-female burst in and demanded use of the side chapel for ‘rehearsals’. The incumbent, the Rev’d Cornelius Whopping, bravely enquired what exactly was it they wanted to rehearse, this being a place of worship and not a secular space?
The leader of the pack stepped forwards.
“It’s like this, vicar. We is your parishioners, and as such have a right to use this gaff as and when. One of the lads is getting hitched next week and we are planning his stag do. Dolly ‘ere is going to do a pole dance – she’s a big lass and can straddle with the best of ’em. We thought she could practise on one of your columns. The lads had come along to give moral support.”
“Out of the question,” replied the hapless Whopping, upon which they grabbed hold and propelled him into the vestry, jamming the door close with a strategically-placed pew.
The poor vicar could only listen to the loud guffaws and indecent whoops through the keyhole. When all was quiet, some hours later, he managed to attract the attention of a street urchin and secure his release. The whole affair has been reported to the police, who promised to do everything they could to find the miscreants and bring them before the beak. No doubt the magistrate will describe them as ‘honest, hard-working people’ and give them a suspended sentence, black now being white and all that. One despairs.
One must spare a thought for poor Emperor Macron, whose popularity-rating is now much lower than a legless dachshund. The French are notorious for their love-hate relationship with their rulers, but disenchantment this time set in faster than Mrs. Dismay reneges on her election promises. Perhaps he should revive a bit of ‘La Gloire’, move into Versailles and declare himself the ‘Son King’ – after all, he married his mother.
Well my dears, I must away and write up my diary. Such a busy week, what with one thing and another. So, as the hedgehog of justice curls up before the pantechnicon of political correctness and the parasol of common law is turned inside out by the blustering winds of Westminster, I bid you all goodnight. Until next week.