mrs proudie

A school for Muslim girls that forbids them the use of toilet paper ‘for cultural reasons’?

Goodness! I have had a very busy few days, dear friends, going from door to door with my collection tin, asking the good people of Barchester to give generously for a worthy cause. You see, it came to my attention that the talentless chanteuse, social justice warrior and vulgarian, Miss Lily Allen, is going to be homeless this Christmas. Having berated the nation for not doing enough for the Calais ‘refugees’ and demanding we open our homes to welcome them, she generously rented out her London apartment to a couple of Syrian diplomats (hardly the sort of terror-fleeing penniless unfortunates I envisaged when she first opined, but I digress). Now she wants her apartment back and the diplomats, claiming immunity, are refusing to budge. What is a girl to do? She could, of course, pitch up outside and sing for ten minutes – that would surely shift them – but she prefers to twitter the injustice of it all. Oh… you are wondering about the money? No, my dears, I am not collecting so that she can get a hotel room – it is to pay Sir Omicron Pi for an independent psychiatric assessment, and referral to a secure facility internment. I have already approached the St. Electrode’s Asylum for the Marxist Delusional on Rockall (by carrier pigeon, obviously) and they are more than happy to take her in, under restraint.

I do find good works bracing.

There was an interesting ‘coming together’ at Gatherum Castle on Tuesday evening, hosted by the Duke of Omnium and attended by the great and the good of the Conservative Party. Thanks to my coffee morning on Wednesday with Duchess Glencora and the Countess de Courcy, I found out all about it. There is considerable disquiet in Tory ranks about the way Mrs. Dismay has handled the Zollverein to date, and this business with selling Northern Ireland by the pound has stirred things up considerably. In short, the knives are out, and candidates for her replacement are being mooted. The duke has of course ruled himself out – the zeitgeist is against hereditary peers (though it seems to favour every other minority) – but other interesting names have surfaced.

  • Roderick Spode
  • Caesar Salad-Borgia
  • Cholmondeley-Warner
  • Madame Arcarti
  • Jacob Rees-Mogg.

Whom to choose as the replacement?

Mrs. Dismay must surely go down as the worst Prime Minister we have ever had (and that is saying something). She returns from Brussels bearing the imprint of the last posterior that sat on her – really, it is too much. Last week she (and a whole stream of others) condemned President Trumpelstiltskin for his warnings on Islamic terrorism; this week we see two Muslims in court for plotting to kill her, and another in the dock for planning to murder Prince George, and she still blames the President and ‘the far-right’ for stirring things up! As the Archdeacon rightly said:

“Somebody should whisper in her ear that it wasn’t Britain First who plotted to kill you…”

Of course, Mrs. Dismay might wriggle out of this latest negotiating disaster, after all she has form (plus the ability to shed her skin when it suits). As I scribble my last few words this Saturday morning it appears a deal has been struck with the Irish and the Eurobots, thus allowing trade talks to progress. The Prime Minister has offered Northern Ireland six commitments.

Good luck with that. She has made so many U-turns I’m surprised she hasn’t screwed herself into the floor.

One has to be even-handed, however. Sir Keir Stormtrooper’s condemnation of Mrs. Dismay’s government as a ‘coalition of chaos’ is a bit rich coming from a member of a Labour shadow cabinet which comprises of Trotskyites, Stalinists, Fantasists and anti-White racists (naming no names). Sir Keir’s impression of Bart Simpson, however, is masterly.

Apropos of nothing, I find myself reacquainted with gin… but only when the Bishop is out. Must bash on…

It is many years since one has ventured into The Potteries, a dark and hellish place in my youth and so it seems, today. I understand Stoke-on-Trent is shortlisted to be named a ‘City of Culture’. Ah, but which culture? It is disconcerting to hear of a school for Muslim girls that forbids them the use of toilet paper ‘for cultural reasons’. Soap, too, is off the menu, so the poor dears have to ablute the Karachi way. One wonders if the school provides proper toilets, or simply issues the girls with a trowel and points them towards the shrubbery? So much for all cultures being equal, for indeed some are more equal than others. At least inspectors have deemed the school to be ‘inadequate’, which should send leftists spinning and surely counts as a ‘hate-crime’.

Speaking of the disciples of St. Marx, I understand the Bishopric of Heligoland is now vacant. Perhaps someone could inform Bishop Broadbent?

Alas, I have to report that Mr. Slope has taken the words of the Provost of St, Mary’s Cathedral, Edinburgh, to heart, and has been trolling off to the Chantry Chapel of Sir Piers Gavescon each morning to pray for the gayness of Prince George. I have always put his inclinations down to an unhealthy fascination with the Eastward Position and getting his tippet trapped in a revolving door, but he recently confessed to being a bosom-buddy pen-friend of the present Swedish Archbishop, she of the moustache, Doc Marten’s and biblical de-genderisation (how she handles the Burning Bush is anyone’s guess). In deference to her linguistic purging, Mr. Slope refers to her as ‘The “It-girl” of Stockholm’. Do keep up…

Well, I must be getting on. The world is a baffling place and sometimes I feel the need to bring down a mental drawbridge and shut it all out. Perhaps you feel the same, dear friends? This afternoon I am awarding prizes at the Silverbridge Theological College’s annual ‘Coat a Curate in Custard for Christmas’ competition, which always amuses, followed by a fund-raising soirée at Greshambury hosted by Lady Arabella. It is a most worthy cause – ‘Buy Smokeless Fuel and Save a Sweep’s Lad’s Lungs’ – though I confess we need a nattier slogan. So, as the First Trump opens the Gates of Hell and the Cutty Sark of Liberal Outrage meets the doldrums of Conservative Indifference, I bid you all adieu for this week.

Cast out your nutty slack and go smokeless- you know it makes sense!