Crumbs

Since it considers itself bound neither by word nor by treaty, Her Majesty's Government has in good conscience found itself just about able to pledge a derisory pittance for peckish wogs. However miserly, the small change spent on lesser breeds will doubtless serve to feed resentment among those plucky, uncomplaining patriotic stalwarts on the mainland who dislike the the idea of their neighbours being fed by Unicef nearly as much as they dislike the swarming hordes of immigrant taxpayers. In another show of charity, Her Majesty's Government recently proclaimed its inclination to cut the international aid budget from seven-tenths of one per cent of gross national income to half of one per cent. In the bad old days this would be equivalent to some thousands of millions; but given the Recrudescent Imperium's likely fate on the sunlit uplands an extra £47 million might well make up the shortfall.

Leftover Turkey

Although the opportunity of free trade with Turkey was among the many pretexts for Europhobic squeals of horror by the Leave campaign, it appears that the Ottoman taint in the Johnson DNA is not easily to be resisted. A new and glorious era of wog-bombing is anticipated thanks to the availability of cheap Turkish drones, which could potentially raise the losers of Gallipoli and Kut al-Amara to military status on a level with Azerbaijan. During the recent war with Armenia, the drones caused sufficient destruction of military hardware and collateral wog-meat to bring the Minister for Hard Power to a degree of patriotic tumescence rarely seen since the Iraq adventure. Given the likely social consequences of present economic policy, doubtless Her Majesty's Government will also be mindful of the drones' potential for domestic pacification, always assuming the accustomed seamless relationship between Whitehall and modern technology.

No Ordinary Bombing

Bomb horror nomenclature media fury horror

Journalists are still working around the clock to avoid the terms terrorist or suicide bomber in relation to the Christmas Day bombing in Nashville which damaged numerous properties and three human resources.

Officials on Sunday named Anthony Quinn Warner as the man behind the explosion, despite his non-suspect ethnicity and the enigmatically non-ideological nature of the name Anthony Quinn Warner.

Psychiatrically inclined news outlets have discovered a hitherto undocumented mental illness whose symptoms include paranoia about 5G technology, but the seriousness of such delusions remains as yet unclear compared with belief in a supernatural friend who puts a price on the heads of infidels.

"Many of us are frankly uncomfortable with circumlocutions such as the man behind the mysterious explosion in which he was killed." It just isn't snappy enough for the pace of today's infotainment cycle," reporter Bimbo Hackett told a source who told reporters.

"But what can you do? On the day when we see vigilante lynch mobs and heavily armed law enforcement officers targeting elderly white men, that will not be a good day for the media as we know it."

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Our noble and moſt liſsome Prime Miniſter, the Trimneſs of whoſe Guſset may juſtly be ſayed to rivall any in the Land, aſsuming that ſufficient Latitude be allowed for the naturall Ebullience of the ariſtocratick Fleſh, particularly with Regard to the known Admixture in his Blood from the Sherbet-ſucking Odaliſques of the Ottomans, hath moſt wiſely and virtuouſly decreed that the Poor of our Nation are become too bloated in their Luxury to be of due Service to the Realm, and that our Taverns and Shoppes ſhall henceforward and hithertofore refrain from exceſsive and wanton Diſplay of thoſe Comfits and Sweetmeats, which may bring Temptation to the Feeble of Will and provoke undue Stimulation of their beſtial Appetites. The requiſite Law is expected to paſs not more than eighteen Moons from now, as there is none among the great Man's immediate ſocial Circle who hath the neceſsarie Neighbours or Acquaintances to get a Profit from it ſooner. It is to be hoped by all charitable and Chriſtian Men, that the bloated and unſightly Corſes of the inſufficiently ſtarved will ſhortly become a proper Rarity upon the Streets of our World-beſtriding Capitall, and that the innocent Sugar-planters, who have ſuffered ſuch Troubles from their uppity Niggers in this long Yeare of unprofitable Fatalities, will be permitted the Juſtice of adequate fiſcal Compenſation.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Matthew 2 vii-xviii

Troubled at the birth of a mightier and less merciful ruler than himself, King Herod summons the Magi on their way to Bethlehem and tells them to inform him when they find the child. Once the Magi have made their visit to the stable, they are warned in a dream not to return to Herod, and depart by another route. An angel warns Joseph to shelter in Egypt until Herod's death, and the enraged king has every male child in Bethlehem under the age of two years murdered.

While the Gospel does not state whether Herod's heart was hardened by the personal intervention of the Heavenly Father, God's responsibility for ensuring the massacre of Jewish infants is transparently clear. He could have caused Herod's death before the massacre, or struck down his mind like Nebuchadnezzar's; instead, He chose to allow the tyrant to survive and perpetrate the atrocity which, like all other events, He must have anticipated since before the beginning of time.

Aside from hinting unsubtly at the breach of His covenant with the Jews and the conferring of His dubious favour upon Christians instead, God's purpose in orchestrating the massacre is to fulfil two prophecies. The first is a bizarre context-free reading of Hosea 11 i, which recounts the Exodus; the second is a reading of Jeremiah 31 xv, which speaks of the Hebrew matriarch Rachel lamenting the loss of her children. In Jeremiah, God goes on to promise the transmutation of grief into joy, although the Evangelist does not trouble to record how many of the bereaved mothers of Bethlehem received new and better children to replace the ones He allowed to be killed.

The Italians are Dying Out

The Pope's recent call for somebody or other to do something about the pandemic attains yet greater urgency in light of Italy's falling birth rate. Although successive governments full of bankers, rabble-rousers and migrant-bashers have ensured that employment conditions and the availability of childcare facilities are eminently conducive to female self-sacrifice and discipline, many daughters of Eve are rebelling against the sole God-given excuse for their existence and are shirking their duty to replenish the population. With an exclusively male citizenship fanatically opposed to the artificial creation of human life, Mussolini's theocratic city-state is somewhat limited in its breeding capacity, and within a few short years the economic consequences of the pandemic may result in a catastrophic famine of pure-bred Italian taxpayers. Doubtless the problem is even now being resolved at the highest levels. Thoughts and prayers have so far proven a little exalted for mere worldly efficacy, but their recent role in the Queen's Christmas speech will presumably change all that.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

If there be any Nation upon the Face of the Earth, which exceedeth the Woo Han Peſtilence in the Crueltie of its Cunning and the Perficiouſneſs of its Inſidiouſneſs, then clearly that Nation muſt be the beaſtlie French. As a Nation of buccaneering Entrepreneurs, the very Life's Blood of our Realm is the pleaſant purſuit of Trade, whether in Sugar, Slaves or cheap woollen Stuff from our magnificent Manufactories which preſerve from poyſonous Indolence the Infant Populations of our Northern Regions. To keep an Engliſhman from buying and ſelling is to poyſon his national Humours, to explode his robuſt Britiiſh Bowels in a horrid Welter of Chyme, and to drain the pure Blood of his Anceſtors and ſubſtitute in his manly Veins a foul reeking Pus of Foreignneſs. And juſt ſuch a dread and inhumane Scheme is now ſet in Motion by the beaſtlie French, who for the ſake of a mere few thouſand eminently expendable Lives among their own worthleſs Populace, have impoſed a Blockade upon our Goods and enſured that our Drivers and Stevedores muſt partake of Rations ſupplied by the Army, in order to prevent their Starvation in the Maſs and the conſequent Diſappearance of the County of Kent beneath a putrefying Mound of Corſes of Horſes and human Draft Animals. Accordingly, in order to aſsiſt the Nation in its lateſt Hour of Need I am reſolved to raiſe my own Regiment of Heavy Cavalry and pay with my owne Life and Limb ſhould even ſo humble a Sacrifice prove neceſsary for the Survival of the Realm. I have written to the Miniſtry of War concerning the proper Proviſion of Pantaloons and Guſsets within an appropriate Command Structure.

They Can't Say Anything These Days Either

Mere weeks after our own National Haystack was persecuted for implying that Indians and Pakistanis are all pretty much the same sort of beast, an Indian news channel has been penalised for using its UK service to propagate the view that all Pakistanis are terrorists. Apparently a Hindu-nationalist mutation of the Murdoch virus, Republic TV started out discussing India's recent efforts to get ahead of Global Britain in the space race; of course it's only natural that the conversation should eventually have turned to the beggary of the Pakistani people and the banditry of their scientists. Nevertheless, the British regulator has seen fit to fine the broadcaster for airing graphically violent images and uncontextualised hate speech, and the broadcaster has responded with a pitying shake of the head over the sahib race's imperviousness to a context of friendly irony. It certainly comes to a pretty Khyber pass when even the wogs aren't allowed to be not-a-racist-but. Was it altogether in vain that the East India Company expended so much British blood and treasure bringing Magna Carta to the heathen?

Keep Our Coats White

As the hated National Health Service prepares to waste yet more taxpayers' money treating expendables who should be out helping the restaurant trade, Her Majesty's Government is naturally doing its part to ensure that medical troublemakers are thwarted in their vexatious attempts to undermine Britishness. Last May, a mere five months after the pandemic reached Britain, the National Haystack acted somewhat precipitately by revoking the annual £624 fine which is customarily levied on foreign healthcare workers for their impudence in treating British patients. Fortunately the Ministry for Wog Control has compensated for the Haystack's inadvertent unpatriotism by dragging its feet on repayments and, more importantly, by keeping further hordes from swarming into British hospitals. Mere experts have protested in a letter to the Ministry, noting the disproportionate risk to medical wogs during the pandemic and cheekily invoking British values as an excuse to deprive the white working class of its coveted career in brain surgery. It is to be hoped that Her Majesty's Government will continue to stand firm, and continue to protect the master race from being sullied with garlic-stained foreign doctors and their Nazi bongo drugs.

The Poor Will Just Have to Eat Less

Mere experts have reported the continuing dire effect of the global fat and famine industry in exacerbating the anthropogenic extinction event. Unfortunately, being mere experts and thus inhabitants of academia's ivory towers, they suggest an entirely impracticable solution to the problem. Their study examined the die-offs and loss of habitat which will result as the usual action is taken and current practices continue to be enforced and exacerbated; their conclusion is that the worst effects will happen to people who never really mattered much anyway. The insignificance of these beneficiaries merely serves to emphasise the blasphemy of the proposed solution, which amounts to no less a global heresy than interference with management decisions. If the report has any use at all beyond that unimportant portion of the globe known as the Rest of the World, it will be as a further incentive for Her Majesty's Government to wean the population away from foreign food. When the nation's gluttonous plebs are living on a bowl of porridge a day with a Scotch egg on Sunday, the precious habitats that are Britain's grouse moors and golf courses will be safe for future generations.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

With that low ſcheming Cunning, which ever characteriſeth the Workings of the ſubtil Oriental, the Woo Han Peſtilence hath inflicted upon our glorious and invincible Realm, what may poſsibly be the greateſt Trial to be endured ſince half a dozen Taylor's Boys expired of malicious Dilatorineſs during a ſingle Summer, and delayed by ſeverall Weekes a vital Adjutſtment to the ſecondary lateral Guſsets of my entire Wardrobe for the Seaſon. But even that dire and diſaſtrous Epoch of ſartorial Apocalypſe muſt be counted leſs burdened with the goſsamer Frailties of our mortal Exiſtence than this preſent Yeare of Grace, wherein even the Birth of our Saviour may be cancelled upon the malignant Whim of a foreign Invader. For it ſeemeth the Woo Han Peſtilence ſubſcribeth to that blaſphemous and Satanick Doctrine, which ſtateth that the fleſhly Incarnation of the moſt High-church God is beſt worſhipped in ſolitary Contemplation, and without the benevolent Superviſion of an ordained Anglican Preacher and a virtuous Congregation gathered in pious Watchfulneſs for any Signal of ſtiff-necked and backſliding into Sin. And ſo the Children of the Poore will be denyed the ſacred Privilege of honeſt Labour, excepting thoſe fortunate few who are charged with the holy Buſineſs of kneeling before their Betters and pulling Bell-ropes and ſuchlike ſacerdotal Functions.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Enamel lxxxix-ciii

Some time earlier, however, while in considerably reduced circumstances, the Father of Teeth hitched a ride on a spermatozoön which was going places fast. He dug his knees into its bulbous head, so as to avoid being thrown off by the furious flailing of its flagellum; and once securely seated he inquired politely as to their destination.

"Up the tunnel and into the ovum, that's where," panted the spermatozoön. "That's as far as I go, and when we're there you'll have to get off. Remember my name, for it is Bert and I bear half of an important message."
"A message for whom?" asked the Father of Teeth.
"For the ovum, of course," panted Bert the spermatozoön. "She's got the other half, and when we put the halves together, the secret of life will be gloriously revealed to us both."
"What about all these others?" asked the Father of Teeth, for they were surrounded on all sides by crowds of swimming spermatozoa, all making their way up the tunnel in the most motivated way imaginable.
"Healthy competition," panted Bert the spermatozoön. "We all bear the same half of the same message, in order to ensure that someone gets through."
"And of course you're all sure that the ovum will be waiting?"
"Of course we're not sure," panted Bert the spermatozoön. "If there was always an ovum waiting, there would be no need for faith and no virtue in our effort, and all those others would stop swimming and my chances of a breakthrough would be greatly reduced."

At that very moment the tunnel went dark, except for a sign up ahead which spelled out the words EMISSION ACCOMPLISHED in shocking luminous pink. Groans and sighs were heard on all sides, and Bert swam up to the spermatozoa ahead and asked them if they knew what had happened.

"It's Barry, that bastard," said one. "Hundreds of us reached the ovum ahead of him, all pounding and yelling to be let in and not so much as a twitch or a twinge, but then up he comes and in he goes. I don't know what she saw in him."
"So what happens now?" asked Bert.
"Assuming that the sign is correct and an ovum really has been penetrated," said the Father of Teeth, "the two halves of the message will come together as a zygote and commence a process of division, while making their way along the tunnel to a location where they can continue to divide and eventually develop into a body of highly specialised yet mutually co-operative crews. If they manage to survive more than a few months without undergoing arbitrary and fatal expulsion, the resulting collective will be pushed into the universe where - assuming nobody kills it for being the wrong gender or belonging to the wrong family or being in the wrong place at the wrong time or because the Creator has one of His little whims - it may linger long enough to begin the whole business on its own account."
"Well, it's good to have a purpose in life," said Bert. "But if that's what the message was, I don't feel so bad that Barry was the one who got it through."
"Me neither," said the other spermatozoön. "I never did like him, the bastard."

Burning with Optimism

While the anthropogenic extinction event continues on its merry way, with millions facing the prospect of drowning, burning, starving or consignment to swarming-cockroach status in the civilised world, Britain's leading liberal newspaper continues to lead the way in re-shaping attitudes for the new global circumstances. Since comparatively few of the victims will be Guardian readers within the present economic cycle, "the changing climate does have a plus side: beach and inland resorts that used to be too cold for comfort in spring and autumn are now a pleasant temperature." Although there may be trouble ahead for the Mediterranean tourist industry, unless it can adjust its timetable and persuade the education industry to follow suit, there will still be a chance for hard-working British families to flaunt their French-made blue passports, litter beaches and sizzle the liberal gammon.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

It is ſayed among ſubverſive Apothecaries and ſuchlike, that certain Phyſicians of a foreign Temper have made Obſervations concerning the Proceſs of Infection, and that therefrom a Way may be found to preſerve our Race againſt the Ravages of the Woo Han Peſtilence. The Folderol and Fuſtian ſpouted by theſe Alchemiſts and Charlatans is of ſuch ridiculous and boaſtful Character, as to be ſuſceptible of Diſproof and utter Refutation by any one more or leſs unſchooled in the monſtrous Diſciplines of Barbering, Bone-ſetting and Humane Carpentry. The Reſearch ſo-called, hath its Foundations in mere ruſtick Rumour, to the Effect that a Milk-maid, who hath ſuffered a Bout of the Cow-pox, will thereafter not often contract the Small-pox. Reaſoning from this Farm-wife Superſtition, the Men of practical Philoſophie would force all free Subjects of our great Monarch to undergoe the moſt frightful and obſcene Experiments, by inſerting bleeding Lumps of raw Beef, and poſsibly even entire Bovines both living and dead, into their unſuſpecting Veins, which would be a moſt unaccuſtomed and incorrect Method of Ingeſtion. This moſt vile and diſguſting Perverſion of Nature muſt be fought to the laſt Breath of our Arms even if not a Man be left ſtanding upon the gory Ramparts of our antient anceſtral Fiſh-ſtocks. For to permit the ſcientiſtick Overlordſhip of our Engliſh Blood-veſsels would be nothing other than the ultimate Depth of the Height of ungodly impious Blaſphemy and Britiſhneſsleſsneſs, as only thoſe can fail to agree who are blinded and corrupted by the arrogant Preſumption that accompanies the Blood-ſtayned wanton Habiliments of mere Expertiſe.

Tsunamis That Glow in the Dark

Since many of the world's poorer countries will be first to suffer the less convenient effects of the anthropogenic extinction event, it is only natural that their people should be induced to throw more resources at western capitalists. Rather than deriving their energy from anything as dirty, dangerous and scarce as wind, wave or solar power, developing nations must be initiated into the clean, safe, blanched-pachydermic wonders of sustainable uranium, which a Danish company now claims (or "believes" according to the Guardian's resident psychic) that it can provide as a viable alternative. A small nuclear reactor, or perhaps several, could be placed on board a ship by expendable South Korean workers at a very safe distance from the Skagerrak and the Kattegat, and the whole safe contraption towed to the Philippines, or somewhere with equally rigorous safety standards. Power could then be supplied during the next quarter-century of increasingly violent weather, with the possibility of catastrophic leakage from the advanced reactor being minimised nearly as far as may be permitted by circumstances and the necessity for corporate solvency and commensurate boardroom incentives.

Choked With Mirth

A London coroner has risked being branded an enemy of the people and a mung-bean-munching tree-hugger by ruling that one of Boris Johnson's major legacies contributed to the needless expenditure of a pre-earning human resource. The coroner found that Ella Kissi-Debrah's fatal respiratory failure and severe asthma resulted in part from her lifetime exposure to air pollution in excess of World Health Organisation guidelines. Her death occurred in 2013, at the buccaneering height of Johnson's jolly stint as mayor of London, during which his amusingly libertarian approach led him to preside merrily over what the humourless Nazi Euro-wogs considered criminal levels of air pollution. Still, it wouldn't be a Boris story without a bright side, and the bright side in this case is that the child in question was not exactly Eton material, being only a female piccaninny with a watermelon smile and one of the surprising quantity of children not to have been fathered by Boris Johnson.

There's Some Corner of a Subject Park

Given the urgent need for more green space, it is only to be expected that plans should be afoot to turn an open area called Britannia Park into an industrial rah-rah zone. The Museum of Military Medicine is to be moved from Aldershot, where it has been based for half a century but which will presumably soon be required for lorry parks and pre-disposal wog warehousing, and dumped on Cardiff Bay. Local enemies of our island story are already about their treacherous activities, arguing that the museum will be a monument to the British empire, rather than a tourist-friendly embodiment of those British Army recruiting adverts aimed at showing worried students that military life is almost entirely concerned with education, camaraderie and interesting gadgets. The trust which runs the museum claims that the local community will be taken into account, perhaps by seasoning the usual world-beating diet of Imperial glories with a few pinches of the Edwards Plantagenet.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Once more the beſt Plans of civiliſed Men are layed waſte and made but Piffle before the Guſts of Fortune, as the hiſtorick international Diplomacy of our noble Prime Miniſter is ſeized by the Throat, laid by the Heels and ſtabbed in the Backe by the inſidious Treacherouſneſs of the Woo Han Peſtilence. No ſooner had our great Leader departed theſe inviolable Shores, intent upon his ſacred redeeming Miſsion of Britiſhneſs to divide and conquer our Continental Foes by means of his unpretentious Latin Charm and stateſmanlike Way with the Fillies, than the Heathen Plague hath once more ſtruck with renewed and fanatick Virulence, to the incalculable Detriment of our economick Health. It is calculated by my Lord Nyce-Whyteskynne, of the Miniſtry for Imported Labour, that up to ſeventy thouſand Peaſants, Loafers, Idlers, Seamſtreſses, Waſtrels, Coſtermongers, Whores and other Beaſts of Burden have dyed this paſt Quarter, with correſponding Loſses in their Capacities for commercial Productivity. Even if our Overſeers in the Weſt Indies could prevail upon the Witch-doctors to raiſe the dead Niggers and put them to uſefull Work by means of their Voodoo Sorceries, the Repair of the fiſcal Diſcrepancies would be the Work of ſeverall Yeares. Yet ſtill the upſtart Peſtilence perſiſts in kicking us while we are downe, as though the Rules of gentlemanly Diſpute were ſome Thing ineffably ſtrange to its Heathen Apprehenſion. It is a moſt vexatious Conundrum, that the Anglican Lord of Heaven and Earth ſhould unleaſh ſuch Chaſtiſement upon the Heads of His Choſen, as if an Engliſhman of the true Faith were no better than a Chriſt-killiing Citizen of Nowhere.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Matthew 5 xxxix

During the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus exhorts His followers not to resist evil, and proclaims that when struck in the face they should offer their other cheek to be struck again.

The Saviour stated that His preaching was intended to hide His true message from all but the elect, thereby condemning the majority of His disciples to eternal torment. The Sermon on the Mount is a particularly clever and cynical instance of that double meaning, and nowhere more so than in the order to turn the other cheek. Superficially the injunction seems intended to promote peace on earth and goodwill among people; however, the mission of Jesus was to set family members against one another and not to bring peace, but a sword.

In fact, the famous command echoes Lamentations 3 xxx, which uses the cheek-turning image to suggest self-abasement before a wrathful and punitive God. The Lamentations were composed to mourn the catastrophic destruction of Jerusalem and its temple by the Babylonians: a paternal chastisement which Jesus openly prophesied as soon to be repeated. The evil that must not be resisted, and from whom Jesus orders us to beg further punishment, is His own Father in Heaven.

Paunching Above Our Weight

Although the National Haystack has repeatedly ordered Britain's fatties to slim down to his own svelte dimensions, mere facts have once more intervened to spoil things with their unnecessary and un-British complications. Research, of all things, has led insidiously to the Stakhanovite conclusion that conquering obesity is not simply a matter of abstaining from food, after the fashion of the famous Conservative Party hero Bobby Sands. Rather, it depends on all manner of tedious things like public transport, green spaces, safe streets, mental health and, if you please, more money for the plebs to blow on drugs, tattoos and microwave foie gras. As usual when reality is so undisciplined as to fall out of step with Her Majesty's Government, a spokesbeing was extruded to proclaim that the Haystack's admonitory burbles constituted a world-leading strategy, and that more talk was on the way. Presumably next month's expected lorry tailbacks and the resulting empty shelves in supermarkets were considered too obvious a blessing to mention.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

It is an enduring Paradox of the Britiſhneſs of our Mightineſs, that deſpite the Mightineſs of our Britiſhneſs upon the Field of Honour and the perſiſting Triumph of our Stateſmanſhip in World Affaires, nevertheleſs we ſtand in perpetual deadlie Peril from the ſubverſive Activities of the leſser Breeds. Even as that ſupreme Manifeſtation of our National Deſtiny, the Royal Navy, once more takes gloriouſly to our ſilver Seas in order to keep our Britiſh Fiſh from being perfidiouſly ſuborned by the beaſtlie French, the Woo Han Peſtilence continues to ſtrike at the very Spleen of the Realm, and this in the very Teeth of moſt courageous and indomitable Reſiſtance, offered by ſuch patriotick Guilds and Companies as the Defiant Society of Maſqueleſs Claſsical Liberaliſm. Meanwhile the traytorous Apothecaries and their idle ſluttiſh Nurſes continue to ſpread and propagate the blaſphemous Satanick Doctrine, that the Life of an Engliſhman may be ſaved by polluting the Puritie of his Blood with a foreign Subſtance. What means this great Contradiction in the divine Order of our Univerſe? Surely no Conſciouſneſs can encompaſs the miraculous Myſterie of our Being, ſave onlie His from whoſe Mightineſs our Britſhneſs was firſt given the entrepreneurial Gumption to derive itſelf.

Concentrated Mink Juice

Around the end of the First World War, one of France's heroes bluffed his way into a job with a public health initiative funded by the Rockefeller Institute. He and his colleagues went from village to village, astounding Breton peasants with the idea that digging the well next to the cemetery might cause inconvenience. Untrained and unsupervised, the public health workers would dole out lectures, pamphlets, and a documentary film with numerous unscheduled breaks, and the raw-boned ex-soldier, tricked out in a US army uniform, would deliver impromptu harangues to terrify the bumpkins into boiling their water. He was once approached by a village priest who was concerned that the well might have been contaminated by its proximity to the graveyard, and who had brought a sample for inspection: "This isn't water you're drinking, Father, it's concentrated meat juice," was the delighted response.

The war hero was the future Dr Destouches, subsequently Louis-Ferdinand Céline, who one war later was imprisoned in Copenhagen and would no doubt have been gratified at the continuing payback for Denmark's recent mink massacre. Thousands of potential victims of the non-synthetic fur trade were slaughtered in a pandemic-related panic, and the bodies disposed of with a foresight that would do credit to the less intellectually distinguished variety of church-ridden peasants. Thanks to light soil, internal gases and crypto-British levels of planning, the results have been rather more poetic than pretty.

It's All the Same Raj

Those who recall the National Haystack's romp at Tumbledown Tessie's Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns will remember the diplomatic triumph of his Kipling recital in Burma, or Myanmar as the natives now inexplicably refer to it. Nor have the intervening decades as front-man to the Cummings administration done anything to dull his imperial glory, as became clear when an amusingly-dressed Labour MP with a funny name addressed the National Haystack in the House of Expenses Claimants. The question concerned recent protests by Indian farmers, whose demonstrations have been met with water-cannons, tear-gas and other manifestations of British values. Asked to convey Britain's non-existent concern and agree hypocritically that even uppity wogs have a right to peaceful protest, the Haystack burbled something about "what is happening between India and Pakistan," apparently under the impression that all troublesome Indian farmers are beastly Pakistani Muslims. Her Majesty's Government does of course have serious concerns, if not quite serious enough to know what it's concerned about; but the Haystack was at least able to refrain from appointing a Viceroy on the spot.

Britishness Retention

Now that buccaneering independence from the ghastly Euro-wogs is assured, it appears that the good ship HMS Britishness can expect a rapid and efficient exit by some of its more heeled and squealy rodents. One such is Sir Jim Ratcliffe, a patriotic tax-dodger who had announced plans to build a car factory in Wales, and who has now kept his promise in the grand Johnsonian manner by taking his business to France instead. The merchandise in question is a successor to the Land Rover, which is the great man's favoured mode of transport while biffing around Africa reminding the natives about the wonders of colonialism. The vehicle is so rugged and uncompromising in its Britishness that it was designed by Germans and is called the Grenadier, after a creaky bit of rousing rah-rah supposedly inspired by the siege of Namur, when the beastly French were defeated by some plucky little chaps under the command of a Dutch immigrant.

Enshrined Britishness

Since we're in the middle of a global health emergency and likely to face various oven-ready complications when the Euro-wogs isolate themselves for good, it is only natural that the mind of Her Majesty's Government should turn to tearing up the Human Rights Act. The Conservative Party, whose conception of human rights begins with Magna Carta, deviates hard right towards Hanging and Flogging, and terminates in the querulous whine that Some Lives Matter, has been squealing about political correctness and vexatious wogs ever since the act was passed more than two decades ago. Previous pledges to abolish it outright were replaced in last year's manifesto thingy by a mealy-mouthed hint at mere evisceration; but the Symonds administration has made a resonant symbolic gesture by appointing an actual expert to come up with an acceptable pretext. The stooge in this case is a retired appeal court judge, who will chair a panel of enemies of the people, leavened with commonsensical non-ideologues from a right-wing thick-tank whose presence will serve to deter all tendencies towards liberty, equality and other symptoms of cultural Marxism.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Dentures cxxiv-cxxxix

No sooner had their imprecations faded, however, than the Father of Teeth stumbled upon what appeared to be a bundle of dry sticks wrapped in parchment. As the Father of Teeth righted himself and prepared to kick the bundle into the midst of his enemies, the sticks creaked painfully upright and assumed the shape of a hunched and starved creature clutching a greasy package.

"Wretch," said the Father of Teeth, "why do you lie in wait for unsuspecting travellers, when you have neither the strength to rob them nor the wherewithal to trade with them, but only the meagre remnants of your anatomy with which to inconvenience them upon their way?"
"Most impious and blasphemous intruder," said the hunched and starved creature, hunching yet further in its defiance, "you have assaulted me with your irreverent words and assailed me with your inexcusable feet, and under normal circumstances your punishment would be most dreadful. But in view of the present emergency a dispensation may be made, for by tripping over me you have kicked me in the ribs, which is the traditional method for motivating a dilatory servant."
"And are you a dilatory servant?" asked the Father of Teeth.
"I am slothful beyond excuse, yet privileged beyond worldly dreams," said the hunched and starved creature, and began to haul itself effortfully forward, still clutching the greasy package against its cavernous abdomen. "I am the last hope of my tribe, which is to say the last hope of all humanity, for none outside my tribe can propitiate the Creator in the appropriate fashion."
"A fairly common condition among tribes," said the Father of Teeth. "And what form does this particular propitiation take?"
"Since time immemorial," said the hunched and starved creature, "we have wandered the land, hunting and gathering and occasionally sacking a city for our sustenance, in accordance with eternal law. We have saved the best portions of all we find for the Creator, to be delivered to Him by His chosen ministers, who take our offerings into the holy places and, if the offerings are found acceptable, emerge with their beards miraculously enriched with grease, which they ceremonially wipe away while belching with otherworldly contentment. Alas, in recent years the land has been struck with drought and disease, and the cities have been deserted, or else built defensive walls which the Creator, in His infinite wisdom, has left intact so as to instruct us in the renunciation of material concerns. Now there is none left of the tribe save the ministers and myself, and I have just returned from a month's expedition to gather a final offering, which the ministers have proclaimed may prove barely sufficient to ensure the Creator's mercy and effect the tribe's restoration."

Even as the hunched and starved creature spoke, they came within sight of a large tent made from skins, with a flat stone before the entrance. There was nobody outside nor any sign of movement within, but the hunched and starved creature knelt and shuffled its way towards the stone, striking the ground with its forehead at regular intervals, during which it held out the greasy package at arm's length to prevent any damage. Finally reaching the flat stone, the hunched and starved creature placed the greasy package upon it, offered a mumble of prayer and made a grovelling retreat, collapsing after a dozen yards into the same bundle of sticks which had tripped the Father of Teeth.

After a while the tent-flap opened and a man emerged. The contemplative life had kept him in fairly good health, at least by comparison with the bundle of sticks. He knelt before the stone and, with such hasty reverence that he might almost have been making ready to indulge a purely carnal appetite, opened the greasy package, Then, licking his lips with piety, he seized it and disappeared inside.

Eventually, just as the bundle of sticks had said, the man and two companions emerged from the tent, wiping from their beards the miraculous manifestations of the Creator's mercy. They found the Father of Teeth picking his craggy gnashers with a splinter of short rib from the bundle of sticks, who would require it no longer. "Is the tribe restored, then?" inquired the Father of Teeth politely.
"It would appear so," said the man who had taken the greasy package, "for in place of our slow and lazy servant He has sent us a new one, healthy and hale if as yet unschooled in the proprieties."

There followed a brief and untidy skirmish, during which the Father of Teeth seized the oldest and fattest of the ministers by the small of his back and bit out his lumbar vertebrae. Retreating in horror while their colleague flopped and shrieked upon the ground, the two relatively undamaged ministers stared from one another to the complacently crunching Father of Teeth.

"Are we not saved?" quavered the one who had taken the greasy package. "Can it be that the Creator has truly abandoned us?"
"Those questions I am not qualified to answer," said the Father of Teeth; "but for whatever it may be worth, at least you have each other."
"But how shall we sustain ourselves?"
"That question," said the Father of Teeth, "I have answered already."

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

There was much Rejoycing ſome Nights paſt at the Bloater and Blueſtocking Coffee-houſe, where the local Entrepreneurs and Men of Buſineſs are wont to foregather and frolick, and liberate themſelves from the preſent Tyrannie of Maſques by congregating with open Defiance in a Trade Bubble of ſeven or more. The Occaſion of the late Joyouſneſs was a certain Saleſman of Fire-places, Hearth-pieces and ſundry related Goods, who performed an almoſt convincing Imperſonation of a Miniſter of the Crown and made ſome moſt moving patriotick Remarks concerning the pitiful Inadequacies of the leſser Breedes, with their perſiſtent Refuſal to demonſtrate their Fortitude by giving over their materialiſtick Concerns and ſuffering ſovereign Death-tolls of ſimilar Magnitude to our own. Alas the Performance ſuffered ſome ſmall Interruption, by an impudent Apothecary who attempted to perpetuate certain falſe and traytorous Rumours, unworthie of preſent Mention, concerning the long diſcredited Theory of Germs and the Proviſions of Magna Carta. He was reprimanded in accordance with civiliſed Values, being moderately aſsaulted and pelted with Horſe-dung, and finally he attained a Hue of ſufficient Duſkineſs for handing over to the Watch.

Victory Over America

Ministers of the Crown lead busy lives, which makes it all the more important to invest efficiently in every available second. This no doubt explains the consistent appointment of things like Liam Fox, Michael Fallon and their ilk to the Ministry of Wog-Bombing, where their ethical and intellectual calibre can wreak appropriate consequences on people doing dangerous work, as well as on all those nonentities who are collaterally liberated wherever the UK and its foremost ally are acting as a force for good. After all, there are only two minutes of the year set by for the remembrance of those who give their lives for the glory of Britishness, and a truly efficient Government would be duty-bound to ensure that both of those minutes are filled to their proper capacity.

Hidden Advantages

Even so many decades after rejecting the benign guidance of the British East India Company, notwithstanding the latter's transcendental moral divergence from the dreaded Nazi-Soviet Euro-wog yoke, the former nawabbery of Bengal remains replete with good old-fashioned British values. Thanks to some legitimate and understandable concerns in neighbouring Burma, or Myanmar as the natives have inexplicably re-christened it, Bangladesh is groaning under a swarming migrant horde slightly larger even than the present cross-Channel threat to Britishness. Fortunately, as in Global Albion, this constitutes a refugee problem rather than a racism problem; accordingly, the present Nawabs of Bangladesh have adopted the entrepreneurial British solution of deporting all the culprits to a remote island. There may be cause for concern over allegations that some disposals are taking place despite safety concerns and lack of consent from the refugees; but one can hardly expect British values to penetrate alien Asian skulls all at once, especially in the absence of benign guidance from the British East India Company.

To the Victor the Potatoes

We are all aware, because the Parliamentary Brexit Party never tires of saying so between its libertarian bouts of migrant-bashing and Muslim-baiting, that racism has no place in the United Kingdom's politics. Her Majesty's Government will therefore be rather disappointed (or, translated from the British, bright puce and screaming with impotent rage) at the US president-elect's ancestral Irish hatred of international trade. Despite Sir Winston Boris de Pfeffel Churchill's personal victory in the war against cheap Japanese imitations of the British Empire, Biden is apparently more interested in the Middle East and the Heathen Chinee than in helping Global Britain put down the beastly Euro-wogs. Indeed, the fiendish Brusso-Strasbourgian junta has already begun a compromising correspondence in a mean-spirited effort to deny the UK its consolation prize from the Great Game. Nevertheless, all is not lost. Pragmatic and entrepreneurial as ever, Her Majesty's Government is likely to foil the conspiracy by trading beads and trinkets with Asia, which is only twice as far away as America and only slightly more foreign than Europe.

Economic Migrants

Britain's first farmers may have been beastly Euro-wogs who treacherously infiltrated the mainland over a now submerged archipelago of North Sea islands. Previously connected to Britain by a land-mass called Doggerland, the Continent was largely cut off eight thousand years ago after a catastrophic submarine landslide. A few fragments of the area remained above water, but eventually became submerged, prefiguring the likely fate of the present British Isles thanks to a degree of planning and foresight very nearly as rational and efficient as cutting throats on henges. It remains as yet unclear what repercussions the unsavoury roots of British farming may have upon the present culture war; but since the theory has been advanced by mere experts, upon a basis consisting of little more than facts, the impact on public patriotism is likely to be somewhat less than tsunamic.