A happy and blessed weekend to you all. I’ve no idea what to write about this week as nothing much seems to be happening out there beyond the Barchester bubble, so instead I shall talk a little about my cats. There are three of them: ‘Coggan’ is the oldest, a rather sedate and snoozy Siamese who likes to curl up on the library shelves between Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and Diary of a Nobody. Then there is ‘Runcie’, the fluffiest pussy imaginable, who likes to be petted and stroked – alas, he has no teeth, and has to be fed milksop from a silver dish. Finally, there is ‘Sentamu’, somewhat of a hunter with flashing eyes and jet-black fur – he refuses to wear a collar and spends his time prowling around looking for things to pounce on, toying for a while then giving up in search of something else to dig his teeth into. Such darlings! One couldn’t manage the palace vermin with out them.
I wonder what strategies Her Majesty uses?
Last week a communicant on His Grace’s blog suggested I go to Casterbridge for fresh ideas and inspiration. Well I did. It was shut.
Oh well, this will not do… I need to scour the pages of The Jupiter more thoroughly to come up with thoughts and observations to entertain and, one hopes, educate.
One sees the Sorosites in the Tory Party have been gathering behind closed doors to tighten up their plans to scupper Brexit. Of course, they protest that this is the last thing on their minds, but anyone taking the word of Dominic Grief as gospel has clearly been lobotomised – he doesn’t just sell snake oil, he boils it up in his garage and sticks the labels on. Posing as the democrats they clearly are not, the Sorosites argue ‘Parliament must have its say!’ Well, I seem to remember it was Parliament that handed over sovereignty to the Euromonsters in the first place, reducing Her Majesty to a common Euro-citizen and throwing away centuries of Common Law down the pan. It is one’s strongest secular belief that politicians are not our friends – they are, by and large, merely pawns on Beelzebub’s chess board, working to a lower purpose… much lower… where fires are stoked and torments await. Then they cry, ‘The People must have their say!’ arguing for a second referendum. Well, the people did have their say and politicians are doing everything they can to ignore it.
Whenever I read the creature Blair’s name in the paper I call for bell, book and candle. Never speak his name out loud. I rather fancy the serpent which tempted Adam spoke with Blair’s voice, honey and wheedling but infused with the opium of evil.
One has come to believe that the only way to get real change in this country is to follow the example of Messrs. Pym, Hampden, Ireton and Cromwell. A chilling thought indeed, but how else does one slay the Beast that is LibLabCon?
“I shall never buy a Penguin again!” roared the Archdeacon as we rendezvoused for tea and crumpets at Mrs. Antimacassar’s ‘Café des Amis de Dorothie’ on Bunbury Street, an establishment much recommended by Mr. Slope and the venue for his weekly ‘Anyone for Oscar?’ poetry reading group.
“I didn’t know you collected Antarctic birds, Archdeacon,” I replied, “Wherever do you keep them?”
“Not penguin penguins, dear lady, I’m not talking Attenborough-esque, but Penguins – the books – those handy slip ’em in your breeches pocket and carry them around all day paperbacks.”
“Oh, we only read hardbacks,” I said, somewhat dismissively, “but why have you taken against them?”
“Because they have declared they will no longer publish new works on literary merit alone, for that merely encourages ‘White Privilege’. Instead, their list will comprise of works reflecting the ‘diverse’ ethnicity of the United Kingdom, chose on progressive Marxist principles of ‘inclusion’ and ‘equality’.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, “but that means 85% of what they publish will be from white British authors, with the remaining 15% distributed amongst the other minority groups, will it not?”
“Hah! Don’t you believe it! What it means is well over 50% of new books will be written by one-legged LGBGTQWERTY social justice warriors and the other 50% will come from multi-ethnic lentil-weaving anti-colonial ‘Let’s pull down Cecil Rhodes’ Statue’ benefit-claiming Antifa-cuddling scribblers who can barely put a sentence together without using ‘innit’.”
“Goodness!” I exclaimed, so overcome with the sheer horror of it all that I had to order another plate of muffins and an extra pot of Earl Grey, hang the expense!
“As for the universities, they are just as bad if not worse! Oxenbridge English courses no longer expose undergraduates to the works of Milton, Keats, Byron, Dickens and the like, for these are all ‘dead white men’ and unworthy of study. Mark my words, there will be book burning before long!”
The Archdeacon may well be right… but it would be a first.
I see President Trumpelstiltskin sat down to tea and hobnobs with the fat little uncle-killer from North Korea in an effort to bring peace and harmony to that benighted region. No good Trump asking politely about the family – most of them are long-processed into dog turds by now. The question is, will this soothing Kimbaya diplomacy persuade the blighter to get rid of his whizz-bangs, or is it all smoke and mirrors? Time will tell. Meanwhile, those who criticised the President for provoking Kim now deplore him for these negotiations, and there are moves afoot by some Democrat mayor to bring charges against the Trump Foundation for doing pretty much what the Clinton Foundation does (and gets away with). Never has a president been so attacked so publicly and so frequently by his own fellow-citizens.
I see the monthly death-toll in Londonistan continues to rise, but where is Mayor Makhanity?
Makhanity Makhanity, there’s no one like Makhanity,
He likes to self-promote a lot, ignoring street-depravity.
His powers of obfuscation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime — Makhanity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air —
But I tell you once and once again, Makhanity’s not there!
(With apologies to Mr. Eliot).
It is troubling to read police warnings of an ‘unprecedented’ terror threat as arrests ‘surge to a record high’. One wonders what ideology prompts these young men – for it is nearly always young men – but nobody seems to know. Is it radical Methodism? Are we talking about the Militant Wing of the Rotary Club? Has the YMCA been radicalised? My own theory involves the Religion That Must Not Be Named, but that is akin to heresy these days, so I am passing it on to you sotto voce, as Signora Neroni would say. I daresay Mayor Khan and Mr. Blair regard being blown up as part of the richness of the diversity they have inflicted upon us, but I beg to differ. It seems, however, that I am wrong. The police are blaming ‘far-right’ ideologies and say that 13% of prisoners espouse ‘far-right’ beliefs… those pesky members of the Monarchist League should be ashamed of themselves! Clearly those who espouse ‘far-left’ ideologies are all peace-loving quinoa-sculpting woodcraft folk who sit around camp fires and drink cocoa, not a violent thought in their heads.
Speaking of cocoa, it is high time I had mine.
So, as the 95 Theses of Wittenberg are pulped to create papier maché figurines of Frau Merkel and her gutmenschen and the toxic waste that is Momentum seeps into the basement of fair play and decency, I bid you adieu. Buckle up, dear friends, the next few years are going to be a very rough ride.