Bigger Than Some

Today being the sixtieth anniversary of Congolese independence, the king of Belgium has expressed regret over the wounds of the past, linking them with the pain and discrimination of the present. He stopped short of an apology, which might have traumatised patriots by implying reparations of a more substantial nature; and with similar tact he also stopped short of the view recently expressed by the Imperial Haystack, that the only problem with the colonial era was that the violence and brutality didn't go on long enough. Before giving up its independence to Brussels, plucky little Belgium was quite the global benefactor; and even during the post-colonial era the Belgian state so far raised its game as to stand by in spiritual Britishness while US-backed freedom fighters assassinated Patrice Lumumba. Although its entrepreneurialism never buccaneered as extensively as that of the British Empire, Belgium under Léopold II did manage to bestow upon the natives of the Congo a comprehensive lesson in respect for royalty. The king's courtly pleasures provoked a degree of disapproval among his more hypocritical contemporaries, although remarkably few British commentators seem to have observed divine retribution descending with the implementation of the Schlieffen Plan.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

In order that the common Folk remain mindful of their Obligation to breed back the Work-force and Cannon-fodder ſo inconveniently loſt to the Peſtilence, our noble Prime Miniſter hath yeſterday publiſhed an improving Portrait of himſelf with Buttocks majeſtically elevated in Performance of the Act of Generation. However, his preſent Whore being occupied with the Care of his lateſt Baſtard, and the Ladies of the Court being occupied with Chapel-going and ſome frilly Trifles for the Archbiſhop, and the Serving-wenches being naturally without the requiſite Preſence and Dignity, it was neceſsary for the noble Gentleman to aſsume the Miſsionary Poſition over a Knot-hole in the Floor, which had foreſightedly been planed ſmooth of Splinters and thoroughly greaſed with the beſt quality Lard. I am informed by reliable Witneſses, that our gallant Leader roſe moſt adequately to the Occaſion, proclaiming with his accuſtomed good Cheer, that the onlie better Fit would be the ſevered Head of a well grown Pigge, ſuch as he and other Men of Deſtiny would employ at the Univerſity during those Times of hard Famine when other Porkage was not to be had. In Emulation of a great Stateſman I have attemped this Method myſelf, but have found the Pigge, like many among the Peaſantrie, to be ſomewhat ſluggiſh of Motivation once deceaſed. As for the Prime Miniſter it appeareth the Knot-hole was commodious enough, ſuch that the Archbiſhop and a bevy of charitable Ladies on the floor below were much inconvenienced by the Ejaculations coming down from above, and when they raiſed their Eyes to Heaven were covered thoroughly in Confuſion.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: I Pulp cclvii-ccxci

After the débâcle, nonetheless, the Father of Teeth was approached by a brushed and bristly salesman with a pearl-grey grin. His suit was brushed, with regimented dandruff; his shoes were brushed so you could eat your face off them, and the hair atop his head had been shorn and slicked and greased and doused so that the very air retreated from its scratchy fragrance, creating a small vacuum above the salesman's head and causing each single bristle to stand upright at most unconditioned-looking attention.

The salesman grinned pearl-grey at the Father of Teeth, and the Father of Teeth grinned back in less jewelled hues. "Good day," said the salesman.
"If you like days," said the Father of Teeth.
"You look like a man in need of a brush," said the salesman, untrussing his sample case which bulged forth like a traumatic hernia and crashed upon the parquet before his gleaming toe-caps with bone-rattling assertiveness.
"To the hammer all things are as nails," said the Father of Teeth; "to the Creator of the Universe all things are as His creations; and even the common furuncular clunge-weevil, for which I once had considerable hopes, is similarly limited in its perspectives."
"Perspectives can be altered with a good brushing," said the salesman; "what with the enhancement of clarity that results from augmentation of cleanliness and the effect of healthy exercise."

He gestured at his sample case, which burst open with an operatic yowl of entrepreneurial exaltation. With his carefully practised blend of efficiency and reverence, the salesman began extracting samples and laying them out in view of the Father of Teeth, whose eyeballs quickly gained a most uncommercial glaze.

"Brushes of all varieties, brushes for all occasions," said the salesman. "Horse-brushes, hog-brushes, floor-brushes, foot-brushes; brushes for bathing with and brushes for scraping with. Air-brushes, hair-brushes, nose-brushes, pimple-polishers..." From the depths of the sample case he extracted a formidable club-like implement terminating in an array of spearlike spines. "This for example, made with genuine porcupine quills for supremely persistent penetrative power. Each quill, you see, ends in a hook which lodges inextricably in the hapless flesh and when removed will tear out a divot the size of a door-stop."
"May I?" The Father of Teeth took hold of the brush and applied its business end to some of his least accommodating bicuspids. There was a crunch like a bad toothpick accident, and the Father of Teeth returned the brush with a serious case of porcupine-pattern baldness. "Perhaps an unfortunate evolutionary strain," he suggested politely; "have you ever considered cross-breeding your stock with wild carnivorous marsh cactus? It produces a most satisfactory effect, and the environmental consequences are purely moderate and acceptable."
"Very interesting," said the salesman coldly, working his way yet further into the depths of the sample case, which emitted small sounds of discomfort as the salesman's head-bristles tickled its uvula.

Eventually the salesman emerged holding a small box with some luminous red buttons. "Now here is something a bit more advanced: virtual abrasion technology induces molecular cleansing at a distance; all you need to do is press a button and then expel the residue through legal expectoration methods. Strontium battery good for a half-life, molecular control with sixty thousand hours of optional game-play and suggestions for profitable sharing of your experience on social media." In deference to his venerable customer's likely lack of technological experience, the salesman switched on the device and pressed the buttons himself. When nothing happened he pressed them again; and when nothing happened again except for a querulous whine of electronic effort, he switched off and threw the device back into the sample case.
"Any residue to expel?" he asked the Father of Teeth; so the Father of Teeth extended his grisly gristly neck and unleashed a grin that showed fillings and coatings of every conceivable sort, and many more still unconceived and all the better for it. Even the chewed-up porcupine quills had taken root and were sprouting strange new hooks.
"Nothing residual in there," said the Father of Teeth.
"No indeed," quavered the salesman, while his pearl-grey smile quaked and clattered a bit, and acquired a few trickles of ruby from the leakage of the strontium battery.

Sweeping himself together with an effort, the salesman searched through his suit pockets and finally produced a novelty toenail brush in the shape of a toenail. This he proffered to the Father of Teeth with an inarticulate squeak of propitiation, but the Father of Teeth augmented his grin by unleashing his unspeakable feet. The resulting miasma, combined with radiation poisoning and entrepreneurial colic, caused the salesman to faint quite away, and by the time he regained consciousness he was undergoing aggressive mastication by the sample case, in which the freakish environmental conditions had induced a rather sudden evolutionary spurt.

Holy Britishness

A mere three weeks after the Colstonoclasm of Bristol, the nation's moral guide by royal appointment has condescended to mince his way into the discussion. The Archbishop of Canterbury recommended forgiving the trespasses of slave traders, much as future generations will doubtless be required to forgive those of oil company executives. He noted that Jesus is portrayed in many different ways depending on whether the local culture happens to be racist, homophobic, misogynistic or cosily hypocritical, and demonstrated the unique Christian brand of humility by proclaiming the "universality" of his own peculiar sect of the Abrahamic delusion. Concerning the monuments in and around Canterbury Cathedral, the Archbishop is virtuously prepared to tolerate the removal of various motes from his neighbours' eyes, but understandably draws the line at taking down any graven images from inside the cathedral itself.

Living in the Past

Since the victory of Winston Churchill in the Second World War Japan has been constitutionally obliged to use its military capabilities only in self-defence, rather than in defence of civilised values; but this may be about to change. Japan has decided against purchasing an American missile defence system to counter North Korea's potential for nuclear fish-pestering: a decision which has raised speculation that Japan may develop a first strike capability. This un-American activity has caused concern among critics, although Britain's leading liberal newspaper finds nobody worth quoting on the matter other than the Japanese minister of defence. Like certain other xenophobic hermit kingdoms, North Korea has built much of its present identity on past resentments: a few years after the aforesaid Churchillian triumph, South Korea in collaboration with the USA and some prominent Japanese war criminals devastated the country and forcefully de-activated a substantial number of racial inferiors. The Heathen Chinee will also have less than happy historical memories of Japanese military assertiveness, although much of this took place before Churchill became prime minister.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Alas that her Majeſty's Government, that Lifter of unneceſsarie Burdens from the labouring Sweat-ſoaked Shoulders of the Perſecuted and Servant-troubled, ſhould be curſed with ſo unworthy and undeſerving a Citizenry; for the lower Claſses in their Ignorance and Folly do ever ſtand ready to defile and deſtroy all Reſults of our noble Prime Miniſter's Herculean Efforts to prevent them dying off in numbers large enough to cauſe undue Inconvenience. No ſooner was it announced, that the Publick-houſes would open again, and that the Peaſantry could with a clear Conſcience ſtray within mutual Proximity to the length of a ſtandard Pillock-thraſher or a wooden Aſses Johnſon, than the baſe Inſtincts of the Herd exerciſed their ineſcapable Influence, and thouſands ſought to congregate upon the Beaches, in the Fields and in the Streets which ſhould have been the excluſive Preſerve of the Gentry. Although ſuch maſsed Concentrations of Britiſhneſs will indubitably deter any further Advance of the merely Chineſe Peſtilence, ſuch Gatherings unleſs for Church or ſpontaneous Tuggings of the Forelock conſtitute a moſt diſguſting Abuſe of our traditional Liberty and Tolerance, and ſhould be met by our glorious Soldiery with the full Force of Blade and Cannon.

World-Beating Culture

Despite the spectacular accomplishment, with help from our American allies, of several Muslim-killing missions in the service of world peace, Britain has somehow managed to remain a target for terrorism by radicalised Islamists. Doubtless much responsibility must rest with those extremist teachers' unions which have treacherously undermined the Britishness of the Prevent programme by refusing to create an appropriately hostile classroom environment. Nevertheless, the fastest-growing terrorist threat, even outside Downing Street, now appears to be the far right, whose discovered plots in the UK last year numbered four to the Islamists' three. Hearteningly enough, this means the newly-independent lone actor that is Global Britain had a higher number of radicalised patriots than any of the beastly Euro-wogs. If one didn't know better, one might almost think someone had been encouraging them.

Not Much of a Bunker

Heritage is all very well, but clearly it cannot be allowed to stand in the way of Britain's world-beating traffic solutions. Stonehenge was built at a time before the Rothermere Daily Stürmer was here to worry about house prices; before the beastly French were vanquished at Dunkirk; and even before Winston Churchill was around to claim the credit for it all. This unpatriotic degree of antiquity doubtless explains why the Government and its chums (aptly robo-presented by a clunker designated Derek Parody) want to put a road tunnel through the site; along with the disturbing fact that the latest findings indicate a far more elaborate and extensive construction than had previously been thought. Those sneaky Neolithics were, of course, immigrants who had swarmed onto the mainland from Europe; so it is only right that Her Majesty's Government should follow the staunch example of those later, more British tribes who laid the foundations of our world-beating culture by letting the whole thing fall apart.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Her Majeſty's Government, that Paymaſter of the Deſerving and Promoter of the Diſcreet, that Container of Pruſsian Militariſm and Terror of the beaſtlie French, that treacherouſly maligned Fortreſs of World-beating Selfleſsneſs and juſtly offended Greatneſs of Soul, hath decreed that free Subjects of the Britiſh Crown need no longer maintain a Diſtance of the Hundredth Part of an Imperial Furlong from their natural Fellows, in Accord with the Heavenly Plan and in defiance of all Sawbones, Matrons and Apothecaries. Theſe and ſuchlike Defeatiſt Gallows-bait maintain againſt all good Senſe, that the Peſtilence will re-occur unleſs treated with a moſt unbuccaneering Caution, when any Man of true patriotick Senſibility will feel inſide his Paunch that warming Fire of true Patriotiſm, which is Proof againſt all Malady except the common Cold and the Weſtminſter Scrote-pox. Now that by the Divine Grace it hath pleaſed Almighty God to lower the Threat Level, there can be no Doubt but that through His great Wiſdom and Mercy we ſhall ſoon attain Deliverance from this Tribulation which in His great Wiſdom and Mercy He ſet looſe upon us. This Forenoon I ſpent ſeverall Minutes a-kneeling upon a Cuſhion of very penitential Lumpineſs, rendering up my ſincere Gratitude as one Engliſhman to an Other, with onlie a ſingle Servant at hand to attend to my bodily Condition and enſure that no diſtracting Diſcomfort aroſe ſufficient to dilute the Piouſneſs of my Devotions.

Bad Theology

Text for today: II Chronicles 36 xi-xxi

King Zedekiah incurs God's displeasure by refusing to grovel before either the prophet Jeremiah or King Nebuchadnezzar, and by letting his officers and people fall into filthy foreign habits. Unable to prevent them polluting His house, mocking His messengers and scoffing at His prophets, God employs the king of the Chaldeans to destroy Jerusalem and kill or carry off to Babylon all of His chosen people.

Beyond Zedekiah's sins of independence and tolerance, neither easily forgivable by the Father, we are told that he hardened his heart; which naturally incurs God's wrath as it usurps His divine prerogative. Although God has considerable experience in hardening hearts, it appears that for all His omnipotence He has considerable difficulty in softening them; even His Son, for all His protestations of love and forgiveness, could never long refrain from hurling threats of fire and brimstone.

Enraged by His impotence before His adopted children, God employs the king of the Chaldeans to punish them. Besides humbling the master race, the Chaldeans are allowed to loot the baubles in the house of God and rob the priests of their worldly treasures, exactly as King Zedekiah and his followers had done. The self-evident moral difference is that the Chaldeans do so in order to fulfil the prophecies of Jeremiah, while Zedekiah and his people do so because of the unauthorised hardening of their hearts.

Pizza in the Sky

Since the beastly Euro-wogs look set to persist in their mean-spirited refusal to do as Britain tells them, the Cummings administration has been forced to go global in its search for a satellite navigation system of the requisite Britishness. Plans, if that is the word I want, were announced by Tumbledown Tessie two years ago in case the need should arise for a more insular alternative to the Euro-wogs' Galileo project, which is named after one of Winston Churchill's numerous inferiors; and so far ministers have managed to find a British operator so efficient that it went bankrupt in March. The company has promised with no fingers crossed to relocate production to Britain from its present haven in Florida should the Government make it worthwhile; and in the unlikely event that this doesn't work out, the aforesaid ministers will doubtless have contingency plans involving companies which have no experience of manufacturing satellite navigation systems but whose expenses the great British taxpayer would consider it a privilege to cover and who are frightfully keen.

Dying by Numbers

British patriots and respecters of our island heritage will be thanking the national goodness for our lack of institutional racism, given that black men on the island of England and Wales are three times more likely than white men to die from the coronavirus, or four times more likely if young children and men aged sixty-five and older aren't counted. White males are also safer than those from the Raj; and there are smaller but significant differences between the chances of white and non-white women. Even more reassuringly, there are also divergences in the death rates for religious groups: after suspected terrorists the greatest losses are among Jewish men, doubtless thanks to the entire absence of antisemitism in the governing party. People whose daily activities are seriously limited by a disability are also twice as likely to die; though fortunately, according to Britain's leading liberal newspaper, only as an afterthought.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Her Majeſty's most loyal and undiſputed Government, that Delight of the Virtuous, that Rewarder of Patriotiſm, that Liberator of the Seas, Champion of Commerce, Breeder of Heroes and ſporting Chaſtiſer of the ravening migrant Horde, hath merited the Favour of Heaven and the Gratitude of a redeemed Population by reſtoring to our worſhipful Realm her eternal Privilege of Freedom. Although a few Details remain to be conſidered, ſuch as the Dates and Conditions of the Implementation and ſuchlike Scrivener's Fodder, our noble Prime Miniſter hath ſtated upon the Honour of his luminous unblotted Eſcutcheon that the Nation's full Birth-right will almoſt certainly be reſtored during ſome future Period in accordance with the Demands of Piety, the Computations of Expedience and the irreſiſtible Compulſions of political Inſpiration and perſonal Convenience. Our taking of the Blows of Fate upon the Chin of National Unity hath borne Fruit, in that many of the more expendable Juveniles have returned to their Labours, for I hear tell that Chimneys are being ſwept again in certain Boroughs, although my Lord Splyce-Chyldebryde continues to complain that he ſtill cannot find a living Whore beneath the Age of ſixteen Years and muſt continue to ſlake his Appetites upon chilled Meat at the Prince's Aſylum for Foundlings. There is Speculation alſo that the abſurd and inconvenient Rules of Diſtance may ſoon be relaxed, to the ineffable Improvement of all ſocial Intercourſe and the Greening of our luſty Britiſh Phlegm.

Passport Blues

The benefits of taking back control will soon be felt good and hard among the expendables of Gateshead, where the apparently indigenous though rather froggily-named company in charge of manufacturing passports and banknotes is halting production of the former. In the interests of patriotism, Her Majesty's Government has handed the contract for churning out the Recrudescent Imperium's passports to the beastly Euro-wogs, which means possible redundancy for a couple of hundred plucky little Brits. Fortunately they are only northerners, so nobody will mind very much; and the shareholders will reap the profits from forging the realm's new £50 notes, although it remains as yet unclear whether the featured celebrity portrait will be that of Dominic Cummings or Edward Colston.

Eugenic Redistribution

Three of the people, if people is the word I want, who have done most to reduce Britain's standing in the world are joined in virtuous harmony against the Cummings administration for adding the finishing touches to their work. The Government's international aid budget is to be placed at the disposal of the Foreign and Colonial Office, apparently on the grounds that too much money is being spent on wogs and not enough on whites: "We give as much aid to Zambia as we do to Ukraine, though the latter is vital for European security," frothed Cummings' personal assistant, evidently with thoughts of reviving the Eastern Question: "We give ten times as much aid to Tanzania as we do to the six countries of the western Balkans, who are acutely vulnerable to Russian meddling." Since the national religious orthodoxy has declared British meddling an oxymoron, the formalised use of overseas aid as a rubric for boosting the commercial concerns of Conservative Party donors is open to criticism, in the opinion of the Reverend Blair and the Brown interregnum and the glistening pink Head Boy, because it will lose us the esteem of the lesser breeds even as we bask in the chlorine-perfumed favour of the Trumpster and his hydrophobic head-tribble.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

I fear that our noble Prime Miniſter continues moſt imprudent in the chooſing of his Adviſers, and thereby ſuffers his greateſt Strokes of Stateſmanſhip to remain ſubject to moſt ruinous Interference. To-day's Decree of Permiſsion for the Opening of ineſsential Shoppes is one ſuch regrettable Caſe, though in the effortleſs Sublimity of its Intention and the effulgent Limpidity of its Phraſing, there ſurely are the Marks of our great Leader's buſy Hand, as robuſt and ſubtly coloured as the Daubs of alcoholick Regurgitation upon the Petticoats of his Whore. And beſides the long anticipated Acknowledgement that the Peſtilence must yield to Market Forces, moſt welcome is the Poſsibility that the Rule of diſtancing may ſoon be relaxed, as this will enable the Servants who perform my more gluteal houſehold Services to reſume the regular Uſage of the ſhorter handled Paddles. Mr Wyde-Wyndpype who is by way of becoming quite the Natural Philoſopher, hath told me, that longer Inſtruments muſt produce a more ſalutary Effect thanks to the Gain in Leverage, but my Eton Sculls are too cumberſome even for the burlieſt Houſe-ſervants, and I fear the Gardeners might lack the neceſsary Delicacy of Touch. Surely the Abſtractions of mere ſcientifick Theory muſt ever pale and tremble when up againſt the ſolid Practicality of a Pair of manly Buttocks.

None the leſs, putting behind us for one Moment the healthy Purſuits of refined and educated Britiſh Manhood, the Awe-inſspiring Nobility of to-day's Decree is horribly marred by the ungodly Impiouſneſs of its Language and the hideous Blaſphemy of its Implications. For what is this vile and perverſe Conception of an ineſsential Shoppe ſave a crude and ſcarcely veiled Attack upon the Liberty of the Market-place, which teacheth onlie the Flexibilty of the Work-force alone? To proclaim the Doctrine of an ineſsential Shoppe is to propagate the monſtrous Poſsibility that an Eſtabliſhment may ſomehow poſseſs a leſser Importance in the Sight of God than the Perſonnel who ſerve therein, and from this Argument, as we know, proceedeth our whole Trouble with anarchiſtick Peaſants and uppity Negroes. I have written ſome Dozens of Times to-day to inform the Prime Miniſter upon this Point, in Connection with my ſeverall Offers to ſerve as Home Secretary.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: II Bicuspid cxxvii-clxiii

On a whim, the Father of Teeth nevertheless approached one of the small, dusty boxes and plugged in the antiquated communicator. Reception was bad and the signal crackled and crunched like molars being chewed by other molars, but the Father of Teeth banged with his fist on the box's lid, adding further dents and sending clouds of dust fleeing in search of a cleaner neighbourhood. The interference faded and a sleepy voice said, "Yes?"
"You are, as I understand, the bulbous and blue-rinsed chairbeing of the Campaign Against Virtual Experience," said the Father of Teeth.
"I am," said the voice from the box. "I have been so for twenty years, and shall remain so for as long as body and breath endure."
"And yet here you are," said the Father of Teeth, "holding converse in your sleep - it is night where you are, I believe?"
"Of course it is night," said the voice from the box, with asperity. "Do you imagine I can spare time during the day for this sort of thing?"
"Holding converse in your sleep," continued the Father of Teeth, "with a phantom voice that knows your future and offers you strange bargains. What behaviour is that for a person of your station?"
"The Campaign Against Virtual Environments has never campaigned against dreams," said the voice from the box. "Dreams are a natural phenomenon, and the Campaign is concerned only with abolishing video games, recreational drugs, immoral literature and all other unnatural and artificial methods by which reality is distorted and the nation's vitality sapped."
"You have achieved great things, no doubt," said the Father of Teeth.
"Indeed we have," said the voice from the box. "We have compulsorised censorship in seven counties, we have twice beaten off the masturbation epidemic, and we have put back the development of artificial intelligence by a decade or more. Reality is safe in our hands, and it is only by action in reality that our lives attain meaning."
"And that, of course," said the Father of Teeth, "you would never feel inclined to trade - not even for a better meaning?"
"Give up the meaning of my life?" said the voice from the box. "Betray my principles and abandon the truth? The very question is an insult."
"I spoke of bargains," said the Father of Teeth. "Your reality is about to change considerably: you are scheduled for demotion, public disgrace, a painful and humiliating illness, and the traumatically abrupt discovery that your youngest daughter is a masturbator, a games designer and a writer of questionable literature involving polyamorous transgender orcs. Would you care to reconsider?"
"What do you mean, public disgrace?" demanded the voice from the box. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Past sins will be edited in," said the Father of Teeth. "But there is no need for you to suffer any of it. Suppose you could enter a different reality, with a happier future - a reality otherwise identical to the one you inhabit now, or better if you like; I'm sure we could see our way to some other small yet meaningful improvements. Clear an artery here, deflate a haemorrhoid there..."
"Absolutely not," said the voice from the box.
"You wouldn't even need to feel guilt about your choice," said the Father of Teeth; "you wouldn't remember this conversation any more than you remember being conceived."
"Leave my family out of this," said the voice from the box. "And regardless of your blandishments and threats, I will never give up the truth, no matter how painful, for a mere pleasant delusion."
"It's your choice, more or less," said the Father of Teeth; and unplugging the communicator he flicked the fate-switches as scheduled and left the bulbous and blue-rinsed chairbeing of the Campaign Against Virtual Environments secure in her virtuous reality and blithely unaware of the twenty-six million, twenty-one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight preceding occasions on which she had eventually accepted his offer.

Garden Gnomes

Say what you like about the pandemic, but it cannot be denied that a brief surgical glimmer has been thrown across one or two of the more obtrusive national idiocies; while others have had to be shelved altogether, or at least reduced to a scale more in keeping with our increasingly tiny and buffoonish role in the world. Hence the noisy Ruritanian rah-rah that is the trooping of the colour, which marks the day when all subjects of the Queen - master race, sepoys and and piccaninnies alike - are invited to join in reverent worship of fair play, family values and good clean fun, has been replaced with a sad little parade on one of Her Madge Gawblesser's lawns. The participants were soldiers of the Welsh Guards, who were recently staffing virus testing centres but have evidently been assigned to more heroic duties.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

I have it on reliable Report, that a virtuous and noble Gentleman of Dorſet hath been forced into Hiding becauſe of ſundry Threats and Animadverſions by ſome rude baſe Fellowes who recogniſe no Rule of Diſcipline nor Duty to God or to the Queen. Even as the Blacke Death of olden Times ſo depleted the Peaſantry, that many were ſeduced by malicious Agitators into unnatural Revolt againſt their Betters, ſo it appears that the preſent Peſtilence may yet have the graveſt Conſequences for the Stability of our great Nation, whoſe Conſiſtency of entrepreneurial Virtue and manly Vigour deſpite a thouſand Years of inſidious Sappage by migratory Hordes can be ſcientifically explained onlie by the Miracle of Divine Favour. Though not aſpiring to the high Morals and exalted ſocial Status of a Trafficker in Sugar and Negroes, the aforementioned harraſsed Gentleman is famed for his Dedication to the Improvement of the Britiſh Race and his unſwerving Commitment to the Battle againſt Sodomy, the which he hath faithfully purſued over many Years by dreſsing up ſmall Boys in ſoldierly Coſtume and teaching them handy Tricks.

World-Beating Trade

Some enemies of the people are conspiring against Her Majesty's Government and its special relationship with the Trumpster and his rabid orange head-tribble. At the behest of an undesirable element, a letter has been sent to the international trade secretary, demanding that the UK suspend exports of right-wing fetish gear to the fun-loving bastions of Boris Johnson's freedom. Her Majesty's Government had previously claimed to be suspending sales of similar items to Hong Kong; but of course one can hardly expect the Kevlar-clad knights of democratic enforcement to be treated as though they had some moral equivalence to the sadistic minions of the Heathen Chinee. The letter has not as yet received a response, doubtless because the international trade secretary is fully occupied taking account of possible consequences to the chlorinated chicken trade.

Positive Change Within the Bounds of the Law

Now that we've absorbed a full twenty-four hours of stern lecturing on the destructive futility of empty gestures, it is only natural that our moral leaders should throw their well-fed weight behind yet one more campaign to clap for the NHS. It has, after all, been barely half a year since the electorate conferred a resounding victory upon the party that, with help from its little yellow accomplices, has spent the past decade gleefully kicking the NHS to pieces. Besides a few well-meaning dupes, the round of applause received the backing of the Archbishop of Canterbury who, as head of a church that includes one or two hypocrites besides the pious Theresa May, was no doubt relieved to get away from the sordid material subject of those who treat the descendants of Ham as Christ treated the Canaanites.

Destructive Radicalism

Before the head of Government found it necessary to test his eyesight, he was planning a "review" of Whitehall, which a few expenses claimants have suddenly realised will entail essential workers such as themselves becoming subject to the kind of vandalism hitherto reserved for lesser breeds like teachers, NHS personnel and the police. Specifically, the Department for Imperial Donations is scheduled for a hostile takeover by the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns; the aid budget having already been substantially redistributed in favour of people who will use it for worthier goals than merely keeping themselves alive. Given the rah-rah spirit in which the Conservative Party has spread poverty through the master race, it takes a Commons expenses claimant to be surprised that Her Majesty's Government has no particular interest in preventing extreme poverty among the piccaninnies.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Alas, deſpite the Retreat of the Peſtilence before the Might of our Britiſhneſs it appeareth our Tribulations are far from done, for the ſubſequent Epidemick of Mutiny among the Rabble may yet precipitate our great and law-abiding eternal Nation into an everlaſting Slough of irremediable Diſorder. I hear from Briſtol that a moſt reſpected local Philanthropiſt hath been ſeized by a rampaging Mob and hurled into that heaving Boſom of the Ocean which is the Briſtol Channel. Given the ſhort Diſtance between Briſtol and London, and the Rapidity of modern Tranſport, I have ordered the Shutters cloſed and all the Doors locked and barred by Day and Night alike, except in case of bodily Emergency or mild Inconvenience to my Self. I have alſo communicated to the Prime Miniſter my immediate Need of an armoured Detachment to keep my Perſon from Peril, beſides reminding him of my enduring humble Willingneſs to ſerve as Commander of any Troops he may diſpatch in the Queen's Name, for the Purpoſe of reſtoring to the Blighted City the iron Hand of true and lawful Liberty. However, his great Stateſmanlike Wiſdom hath decreed thus far that no Action ſhould be taken beyond reminding the ſubverſive Rabble and its Ring-leaders that, but for the Charity of wealthy and diſcreet Men of Buſineſs and the dynamick import and export of Sugar and Negroes, their Towne would be entirely without its Bank, its Pillory, its Aſylum for the Reforming of Unfortunate Females and its Priſon for Debtors. Yet deſpite its reaſoned Elegance and Chriſtian Compaſsion I doubt me this Argument will prevail upon a raſh and ungrateful Generation, which hath thrown away near every Veſtige of the buccaneering Spirit of its Forefathers. Inſtead of following their free individual Inſtincts, they idly await the Government's Action in lightening its Precautions againſt the Peſtilence, whereupon they foregather into mindleſs Crowds which regard the Law of the Land as if it were no more than a Treaty with ſome beaſtlie Foreigners.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Genesis 9 i-xvii

Having committed one of His more spectacular genocides by drowning everything in the world except for one family and a floating menagerie, God orders the survivors to be fruitful and fill the earth. He assures them that they need have no regard for their environment: no living thing has any purpose other than to serve as food for them, and all animals will fear and dread them. He forbids the consumption of blood, and commands that any man who sheds blood should have his own blood shed because God made man in His own image. God then makes a covenant with every living creature on earth, whereby He condescends not to drown them all again.

This episode shows the Father in relatively benign mood: having temporarily slaked His lust for death and destruction, He is prepared to adopt a more magnanimous aspect, like a death-camp warden handing out sweets to children. Characteristically, God's generosity takes the form of assuring His favourites that they will be a scourge and a terror to all other sentient life: as always, the best relationship He can imagine is one of fear and domination. Similarly, the grounds for His prohibition of bloodshed derive less from any moral considerations than from a narcissistic hatred of seeing His own image vandalised.

Finally, the covenant is pedantically circumscribed in order to ensure the Father's freedom of action in future genocides. God makes much of His pledge not to destroy all flesh with a flood, and sets His bow in the clouds as an aide-mémoire. What need the omnipotent Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, has had for a projectile weapon up to this point must remain a matter for speculation. Of course, the contract as specified by God is non-negotiable and final, and the very limited terms mean that God can send His Son to destroy the world with fire without violating the letter of His promise.

Parents

Bob Balaban 1988

Among Bob Balaban's many arresting character roles are Orr, the sniggering gnome with a cunning plan in Catch-22 (1970), the mild-mannered friend to William Hurt's "arrogant, high-handed prick" of a Faustian psychologist in Altered States (1980) and, in Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), the interpreter and cartographer who, like the characters played by Teri Garr and François Truffaut, would have made a more interesting protagonist than that film's standard Spielbergian Everymanchild. Parents, which does with family values what Orr habitually did with the USAAF's B-25s, was the first film Balaban directed.

In the 1950s the Laemle family, whose surname evokes the producer of Universal Studios' pioneering 1930s monster films, moves into a new house. Dad (all-American ogre Randy Quaid) is an assiduous corporate climber in a company which is apparently making ready to beget Agent Orange, while Mom (Mary Beth Hurt) is a chirpy home-maker, a role model for Stockard Channing's undercover cockroach in Michael Lehmann's contemporaneous and almost equally sane Meet the Applegates. Not unnaturally in the circumstances, the Laemle's young son Michael (Bryan Madorsky) is taciturn, withdrawn and having gory nightmares, which soon spill over into his schoolwork and excite the suspicions of a counsellor (Sandy Dennis). It transpires that Dad and Mom share a secret vice even more disgusting than the bed-play at which Michael catches them smearily red-mouthed.

Abetted by camera-work which accentuates his looming paunch while concealing his eyes behind gleaming glasses, Quaid's performance deftly blurs the borderline between paterfamilial arbitrariness and less orthodox monstrosity. Long before Dad's hidden sins of nonconformity become apparent, his son's bad dreams and watchful silences are eminently justified by sinister oscillations between insincere bluffness and sneering dislike. Although Michael's cheerfully odd girlfriend (Juno Mills-Cockell) encourages him to rebel ("You ask a lot of questions ... I like that in a man"), the coda leaves little doubt as to the truth of Dad's fatherly dictum: however much parents and children may hate each other, they are bound together for life.

Black comedy, as opposed to violence with wisecracks, is about as well understood in Hollywood as balding, bespectacled, bearded short-arses are welcome as leading men, and Parents did not prove blockbuster material. Nevertheless, it's a worthy precursor to the likes of Raw (2016) and We Are What We Are (2010, 2013), and it's to be hoped that the more favourable climate in which these later films emerged will prompt some overdue exhumation, re-consumption and digestion.

Schaden in Frieden

Though loyal citizens of the Recrudescent Imperium would hardly know it, particularly in the very week of the D-Day anniversary rah-rah, there have been one or two years in history when Britain and Germany were not at war. One such year was 1878, when a German ironclad battleship sank in the Channel after an accidental collision, with the loss of nearly three hundred lives. The wreck has been listed as a heritage site, prompting a perfunctory admission from the local functionary of the Parliamentary Brexit Party that Britain and Germany have indeed undergone one or two inglorious periods when God has neglected to match us with His hour. The fatal collision occurred because the Germans encountered some sailing ships and manoeuvred to get out of their way, and the idea of highly modern and robust Europeans being sunk by their consideration for the slow, fragile and antiquated must hold a certain comic resonance for any present-day British patriot.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

I have lately received grave Tidings from the family Plantations at Virginia, where an honeſt and educative Living is given unto Thouſands of Primitives through the virtuous Cultivation of addictive Subſtances. There is lately much Unreſt among the Negroes, which the Overſeers and the local Watch have put downe, though with indifferent Succeſs, and the Overſeers are greatly indignant that owing to the preſent high Level of Slave Prices they are not permitted to utiliſe the diſciplinary Advantage of Minimum Deadly Force. Mr Wyde-Wyndpype at the Bloater and Blueſtocking Coffee-houſe is of the Opinion that the troublous Enſlaved ſhould all be freed and then kept on low Wages and in poor Houſing and regularly beaten by the Watch, which would render a capital Sanction more economically viable, ſo that even the pooreſt Homeſteader would not greatly ſuffer by an occaſional ſalutory Maſsacre of the Uppity. It all ſounds very fine in Theory, but I am of the View that Mr Wyde-Wyndpype has ſomewhat neglected the wider Implications. Were the free ſlaving Routes to be curtailed or even aboliſhed, what would become of our great tranſ-Atlantic Liberty of Trade? What would be the Effect upon our World-beſtriding Culture, with our Millions of hard-working Families who are kept from Idleneſs and Starvation ſolely by the Threat of the Laſh? The ſocial Diſturbance and Anarchy would ſurely be little ſhort of Satanic, ſince without forcible Labour for the Unworthy there can be no Liberty for the Deſerving. And one need only caſt an Eye upon theſe ſelfiſh Overſeers to obſerve that the Tranſition from Slave to payed Hireling, however economically waged, doth not neceſsarily entail a correſponding Advance in Sobriety of Temper. What with this Peſtilence ſtill abroad, the nexte Thing you know they will be inſiſting upon Health and Safety Meaſures while cleaning the Corſes off the Slave-ſhips, on account of the Delicacy of their Complexion.

Is There No Pragmatism in Albion?

Much like women and wogs and working for a living, and somewhat to the chagrin of the People's Haystack, bridges are a bit more complicated than they first appear. Apparently the process of building a bridge does not altogether start and end with looking at two Imperial-pink blobs on a map and then giving orders to join them together by chucking up some sort of a thingy. The People's Haystack has employed this methodology a couple of times before, and on both occasions came a bit of a cropper. The first was the London garden bridge, one of many blanched pachyderms for which the taxpayer was privileged to pick up the elephant dung during the Haystack's tenure as mayor of London. Rather like the People's Haystack himself when the accounts are due, it was distinguished by its ability to cost a great deal of time, energy and money without ever putting in an appearance. Then there was the bridge over the Irish Sea, which was to unite two of England's Celtic provinces, thereby dispensing with the need for a Brussels-made backstop and licensing much robust British humour at the expense of those enemies of the people who think international treaties carry some sort of weight. That project never got beyond what may loosely be called the planning stage, probably because of worries about swarming Pictish hordes.

Never one to be twice shy when others can be bitten in his place, the Haystack has now decided to save the great British holiday by chucking up some air bridges, only to be met with the inevitable chorus of crypto-foreign pessimism. There are the medical pessimists who proclaim that some lesser breeds are less inclined to take the pandemic on the chin, and may therefore prove hesitant about letting in bearers of Her Britannic Majesty's blue passport; there are the structural pessimists who point out that even the airiest British bridge must have at least one end on foreign soil if people are to muddle across it without getting wet; and there are of course the expert pessimists who want to suffocate the entire entrepreneurial inspiration in a technocratic plethora of piffle by demanding, of all things, how it would work. Well, really.

Ruritania Pestis

O rah for our honoured MPs,
With such inclination to please,
Who wait without guile
In singular file
To vote for Rees-Mogg's little wheeze!

The cynics can choke on their bile
As patriots wait with a smile:
The great British sneeze
Would never dare seize
On noses turned up in such style!

Such upstanding members are these!
Defying the subtle Chinese,
They'll queue half a mile
Around their old pile
To spread an infectious disease!

Nanny Jakes

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Thanks be to thoſe two great Engliſhmen, God and our noble and pious Prime Miniſter, for our Divine Chaſtiſement hath been ſo far ſubdued that barely more Deaths are occurring each Day than when the Peſtilence began. Thus the Nation's Children may ſafely return to their Schooling, and abſorb that ſpiritual Erudition and Caſtigation of their intellectual Pride, which will fit them for Life to ſerve our Monarch, while deſpiſing the foreign Oppreſsor and always knowing their Place. It is to be hoped that thoſe entruſted with the Care and Cultivation of theſe youthfull Reſources do not rely exceſsively upon the Cane, the Birch and the Belt, at leaſt among the ſenior Claſses where the Peril of erotick Concupiſcence ſtands forever ready to ſtrike at the downy white Buttocks of Innocence, not that the ſame ever cauſed any ſignificant Loſs of moral Fibre in myſelf. Unhappy to relate, the Teachers in theſe Days are ſo lacking in Britiſh Values, that many forſake the Rod altogether, being it muſt be ſuppoſed ſo over-payed and inclined to unwholeſome and jaded Corpulence, that the Exerciſe of Diſcipline upon ſlender and unruly young Fleſh conſtitutes too great a phyſical Effort. I have a ſudden urgent Need of the Blotter ſo muſt ſet down my Pen for the Nonce.