Goodness! I find myself writing to you on Trumpelfest Eve, when weeping liberals all over the world cover themselves in ashes and rend their garments whilst chanting ‘Not my President!’ to anyone who will listen. There are those, like the Archdeacon, who see the Advent of the Donald in terms of hope, but we have been there before – wasn’t President O’Barmey all about ‘Hope and Change’? Will Trump turn out to be just a fetid blast of hot air or the new Jefferson? Time, of course, will tell. There is much that is wrong with the world, and one man can only do so much, even if he is President of the United States. Nevertheless, I am pleased to report that here at The Palace we shall be celebrating with a garden party. The marquee is already up, the bunting strung between trees, and Mr. Slope is manning the barbeque, having promised to give everyone a nibble of his wiener. The weather, alas, does not promise great things, but we shall carry on regardless, our British phlegm proudly displayed (Note to self: take plenty of handkerchiefs and a spitoon).
As for the alleged Moscow shenanigans, my Russian correspondent, Princess Kutemoff, assures me that the whole thing is highly unlikely. For one thing, the hotel heating system is notoriously prone to breaking down, making the rooms so chilly that water from the tap freezes the moment it makes contact with the air – presumably as would all other free-flowing liquids, whatever the source.
Mrs. Dismay’s Brexit Plan, now revealed for all to see, can be summed up as: ‘When we were in, we were in; when we get out, we’ll be out, and when we are neither in nor out we’ll probably get shafted by Johnny Foreigner.’ The Jupiter reports she was on top form in the Commons this week, but when you are challenged by a bearded chocolate teapot it isn’t much of a contest. Apropos of severing links, the Stanhopes decided to sell their villa by the shores of Lake Como and reside permanently in Barchester, though the idiot Bertie let slip to Mr. Slope that is was unlikely they would ever find a buyer now that eighty-or-so Somali refugees have moved in. To those who say this is a wonderful thing and part of ‘the rich tapestry of life,’ I would say the Gobelins are proving to be orcs, of a particularly rapacious breed, and the threads of European civilisation are being pulled apart so that the Tricoteuse Merkin can reknit them in her own image. Say as much in Germany and I understand the police come calling.
I came across the Archdeacon on Wednesday morning – he was coming out of the little church of St. Linus-atop-the-Wardrobe where he had been preaching, and as usual he was quite apoplectic.
“I see another great cathedral has converted itself into a mosque!” he spluttered.
“Whatever do you mean?” I replied.
“Gloucester has gone the same way as St. Mary’s Glasgow! Some muddle-headed yoghurt-knitting kumbaya-merchant thought it would be a good thing to host a multi-kulti-fest, the sort where all other faiths are exalted and our own side-lined. Once the Islamic call to prayer was intoned, the place became a mosque, quicker than Mr. Blair makes a million.”
“I am sure it was done with the best of intentions,” I said, by way of calming him down. It didn’t work.
“Intentions! Intentions! The rooster, with the best of intentions, may invite Mr. Fox to dine with the chickens, but Reynard’s motivation for accepting has a darker purpose.”
I left him by the votive statue of St. Anne of Widdecome which stands on the corner of Apostate Alley and Twink’s Passage, frothing at the mouth.
And finally, dear hearts…
Please say a prayer for the good people of Italy – ten earthquakes in a matter of hours are a trial and tribulation indeed, one we can but only imagine.
So, as the smorgasbord of diversity meets the food processor of harsh reality and the stock-cube of feminism dissolves in the tagine of ethnic misogyny, I bid you all ‘Happy Inauguration’ and good fortune for the week ahead.