Whuppin' Hisself into Context

Having embarrassed his masters and been told to go back to his hut and think again, Uncle Tony Sewell has made a few little amendments to his essay on how non-racist our nation of statue-loving migrant-bashing Windrush-deporters really is. Some of the more clearly fraudulent citations have been removed, and Seamus Heaney has been superseded in Britishness by the Guyanese-born author of a novel called Jonestown, which came out a year before the Reverend Blair ascended unto the executive chairmanship of UKoolAid™ plc. Uncle Tony Sewell has also put in some small print to "clarify" a controversial note that the slave trade was not just about "profit and suffering." As should no doubt have been obvious all along, Uncle Tony and his chums meant nothing other than to glorify the preservation of African culture and the story of slave resistance. It remains as yet unclear what the consequences will be for Uncle Tony now that he claims to be glorifying Africans' refusal to assimilate and play by the rules; but self-evidently Tacky's rebellion, the Haitian Revolution and the Baptist War were all pure Britishness in action, and only the leftist intransigence of the teaching industry can explain their lack of prominence in the history curriculum.

Poundland Menagerie

Since Her Majesty's Government cannot afford to sustain the wages of its public health personnel, cannot afford to fulfil its manifesto pledge and legal obligations on international aid, but has no particular interest in keeping track of where the National Haystack gets his chickenfeed, the Royal Mint has done what it does best and squeezed out a giant commemorative coin. The divisional director of commemorative coins managed to say twice within the space of a hundred words that the culmination of the Queen's Beasts line is the largest ever made in the UK, because clearly that's what counts. A superbly crass and overweight tribute to modern Britishness, the numismutation combines forelock-tugging sycophancy with the artistic refinement of an elevated interior at Trumpster Towers; and it faithfully reflects the gold standard of Her Majesty's Government by being sold to a private buyer at a price far exceeding its use. In the spirit of our Mother of Democracies, cheap copies are available for the little people.

Tough Love, Tough Luck

Law enforcementization custodians in the greatest colony in the world continue to be plagued by health-related coincidence during the course of their sacred duty. Yet another brown person has suffered a fatal medical emergency, despite being face down under a couple of policemen at the time, while in the process of being arrested on suspicion of acting sort of peculiar. A positive aspect to the affair, which of course has been largely lost upon the usual troublemakers, is that notwithstanding his felonious colouring the fatality was unarmed, and was thus fortunate enough to remain alive for several full minutes into the term of his protective custody.

Gammon Deceived

Unpatriotic and disruptive elements have been pestering, harassing and sabotaging the legitimate British business of concerned citizens. Clean-limbed cadres of unofficial activists for the Home Office were planning to make their cultural superiority felt outside some accommodations where the Ministry for Wog Warehousing graciously allows its merchandise to wait out the time between arrival and deportation. However, the rights to free speech and peaceful protest as guaranteed in Magna Carta and Scouting for Boys were criminally disrupted by anti-democracy pranksters, who responded to online requests for information in the guise of genuine collaborators and sent the forces of patriotism to the wrong addresses. It remains as yet unclear whether the Ministry for Wog Warehousing will re-establish British justice by deporting the pranksters along with the asylum seekers.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Deserving Boats

Trendy wokes and foreigners wth funny names continue their malicious misconstrual of the purpose of the National Haystack's climate change rah-and-blah thingy. As so often before when the lessons of history are not learned, our poor persecuted master race is being urged to urge rich countries to throw money at poor ones, when it should be clear to the most purblind leftist layabout that Britain believes in letting the lesser breeds sink or swim according to market forces and whatever pluck and gumption may have rubbed off on them during the Empire. Even in the face of efficientising cutbacks by the Ministry for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets, to say nothing of Johnson's child-killing record on pollution as mayor of London, it seems certain people have trouble taking the hint.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Dentures ccclxxi-ccclxxxix

This is by no means to be confused, however, with the time when the Father of Teeth came upon a Neanderthal sitting amid fragments of flints, from which she picked up occasional shards and bashed them with chunks of stone. The Neanderthal's brows were ridged like the openings to caves of bone, and the slope of her forehead was as smooth and knobbly as a recent landslide; and when the Father of Teeth saw her he gave her his most multifaceted grin, and the evening and the morning were the first day.

When the dawn came, the Neanderthal threw flints at the Father of Teeth, and the Father of Teeth bit them into shape and threw them back. He bit them with his incisors, so that they formed edges for cutting and scraping; only the flints were slightly cleaner, and the evening and the morning were the second day.

When the dawn came again, the Neanderthal threw flints at the Father of Teeth, and the Father of Teeth gnawed them into shape and threw them back. He gnawed them with his canines, so that they formed points for stabbing and piercing; only the flints were slightly warmer, and the evening and the morning were the third day.

When the dawn, having no imagination, came yet again, the Neanderthal threw flints at the Father of Teeth, and the Father of Teeth chewed them into shape and threw them back. He chewed them with his molars, so that they formed files and hammers for grinding and crushing; only the flints were slightly softer, and on that day the Father of Teeth rested, and he and the Neanderthal squatted opposite one another and grinned.

But on that same day the Creator of the universe happened by, and saw the Neanderthal and the Father of Teeth resting and grinning at one another, and decided that it wouldn't do at all. So the Creator of the universe sent the scourge of Homo sapiens ipsedixit, and the Neanderthal was made extinct and the Father of Teeth found it expedient to be elsewhere. Only the flints continued to flourish and evolve, until the rocks were rent and the evening and the morning were the last day.

Exemplary Punishment

Vexatious lefty lawyers have launched yet another unprovoked attack upon the bedrock of Britishness by maliciously maintaining that the police shouldn't be allowed to crack heads and fine whomever they please. A nurse was fined £10,000 by Greater Manchester Police after staging a protest at the real-terms pay cut which the Government has recommended in order to compensate for all that undeserved applause. She offered the police a risk assessment and took precautions, including a limit on attendance, to keep her protest safe; Greater Manchester Police imposed the fine anyway, because peaceful protest is unnecessary in a democracy where there is policing by consent, and because they thought it might be fun. Dominic Cummings remains at large, and the matter has since been complicated by the High Court's interference in the stomping of the Sarah Everard protesters; which only goes to show what happens to law and order when the will of the people is reduced to mere legalism.

Seriously, Though

The present decade will be remembered either as yet another failure in the war against the woke climate calamitastrophe thingy, or as the point at which journalists united to turn the tide by proclaiming yet again that somebody ought to do something about it. As is his wont, the National Haystack has backed both options with his burble to assembled lesser breeds at the traitor Biden's inferior prequel to Johnson's scheduled planet-saving rah-and-blah in November. Encompassing targets which the Haystack has no intention of meeting, science which he is incapable of understanding, and politics which he is too lazy to bother with, his burble also included a typically statesmanlike aside about hugging bunnies; which at least attained the concrete result of provoking a sardonic response from the ghastly Greta Thunberg. Fittingly enough, Britain's major contribution to the business at hand appears to have been an incoherent three-word slogan derived from an expensive confidence trick perpetrated on a gullible public.

Our Boys

A deeply troubling thingy and a most regretful fact;
A failure of our tolerance and diplomatic tact,
A breach of British virtues far too numerous to list,
Suggesting racist evil, which we know does not exist.

It seems that when we stood alone against the Prussian's might
Our grateful brownish brothers came and joined up for the fight,
In hundreds and in thousands flocking to the Empire's forces;
Where faithfully they served alongside valued dogs and horses.

Alas, we cannot hope to care for every single grave,
And still less put up statues to the wealth creator's slave;
Yet with elections coming it's regrettable to note
Our servants unremembered though their grandsons have the vote.

We must forgive the melanin that mars the soldier's face:
By being more expendable, he helps the master race.
A quite important moral, to set underneath We Won:
We'll put up with the piccaninny if he kills the Hun.

Poppy Thrower

Who's Counting?

There seems to have been a bit of a breach in the Britishness of Her Majesty's Government's Yemen policy, which has thus far combined the genocidal profiteering of the East India Company with the mean-spirited charity of the municipal workhouse. The Ministry for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets is efficientising its handout by sixty per cent, and has compensated with a liberal dose of hand-wringing from the Minister for Misnomer, James Cleverly, whose doubtless sincere heartbreak at the likely terrible consequences seems to have left him as well-fed and salaried as ever. More significantly, Her Majesty's Government has carried out no impact assessment for the likely effects of the cut; which is a little disturbing given the need to ensure that the glorious deeds of Whitehall's favourite fundamentalist head-choppers in the arms-buying House of Saud are duly and properly recorded for future customers.

The Last of Glasseye

An extract

Gilmore is dead, then. He was killed yesterday evening on Lodbrok Street, supposedly for violating the curfew. "Supposedly" is Atherton's word. He telephoned with the news a few minutes ago: my card was in Gilmore's wallet, and somebody told Atherton, and Atherton told me and slid a reference to the Colonel's Ball into the conversation, as smooth and casual as planting evidence. I'm not even sure the poor devil realises that even if civilians could attend the Colonel’s Ball they would be unable to bring their wives. No doubt the constable who gave Atherton the news of Gilmore’s demise will expect his reward as well. I should have been more inquisitive about that: having found my name in Gilmore's possession, why did the constable go breaking the bad news to the good inspector? I am not even sure that Lodbrok Street falls within Atherton's jurisdiction, although anything is possible these days. Even if Atherton is the law in Lodbrok Street, I cannot say I care for the idea of every crimplod and orplod on the beat knowing about our arrangement. Not that there is anything illegal in it, or even anything particularly underhand; information is the life-blood of security, as the Colonel likes to say, and the antibodies that keep society healthy depend on a steady exchange of fluids in the body politic.

Speaking of spillage, Gilmore's death is a damned nuisance. A tragedy, of course; a waste of a great talent and all that, but at the moment mostly a nuisance, because he's a third of the way through decorating the nursery and there is nobody who can imitate, let alone match, his style. I shall either have to leave the room as it is – a great, unfinished monument, like half the buildings in England at this time of race-historical renewal – or else have his work painted over, or papered over, or subjected to whatever form of reconstructive vandalism can be procured. Perhaps the wallpaper can somehow be taken down without being ripped or scorched away. An album full of wallpaper is the sort of incongruity that might appeal to Gilmore; he always enjoyed things most when they were in the wrong place. No doubt this aberration explains what he was doing on Lodbrok Street after curfew.

Perhaps the most convenient way would be to have photographs taken of the walls, although that would mean losing the texture. There are many words that describe Gilmore's work, but glossy isn't one of them; nothing glazed or smooth could ever do him justice. He hated photography: chemicals and paperwork, he once observed with more than a touch of malice, can be a suffocating combination. He was smiling when he said it; he may even have winked, although of course with that face of his he seemed to be winking most of the time anyway. Some young officers from the KZ were present and there was an ugly exchange of views in which I had to intercede; nor was this Gilmore's only provocation, even at that one particular gathering. It is remarkable, in some ways, that he took this long to get himself shot.

Still, inevitability does not make a nuisance less damnable. It's too late to find out anything now: Atherton's call came well after midnight, when by rights I should have been asleep. As it happens, for the past few days the Malays has been building up again, after its damnably inevitable fashion; so Atherton's call found me wide awake, though not particularly receptive to his hint about the Colonel's Ball, nor even next year's nor yet the one after that, by which time, according to Atherton, I might well be a Colonel myself. He wasn't at all crude about it: he couched the hint about my hypothetical promotion very cosily within a hint about an equally hypothetical promotion for the old man, to Gruppenführer, no less. He actually said Gruppenführer and not General; I thought he might follow up that one with hopes for a trip to Berlin, and perhaps for a few metallic oak-leaves to bring back as a souvenir. However, Atherton does know where to stop, which many would argue makes him more of an artist than Gilmore, whose more elaborate ventures in graphite and charcoal demonstrate a maniacal refusal to be satisfied with hints. A few years ago, when the fashion was for that intolerably fussy style of realism, some of his pieces attained a certain vogue. I sold half a dozen sketches at more than reasonable rates; even Weisser bought a couple, although he said they looked like dust storms after an indoor carpet-bombing, and dismissed Gilmore as nothing more than a cartoonist. Gilmore responded by ostentatiously revelling in the label, implying that his work was meant to parody the solemn pedantry of contemporary taste, and that was the end of his profitable phase.

He could be troublesome, without a doubt. His need for my protection waxed and waned continually over the quarter-century of our friendship, though the rhythm did not always correspond to our alternating periods of crackdown and let-up in pursuing enemies of the people. For all his risky preaching in the presence of Weisser and his kind, Gilmore knew how to practise discretion. During dangerous periods he lived carefully, talked quietly and followed sensible advice about which places and which company might best be avoided for a while. The last time I visited him at home, he was completing his sketches of the Christmas truce on the Western Front: a little late for all the posters and exhibitions, but as a choice of subject politically sound to the last degree. He kept up relations with district wardens and Party officials, some of whom have told me that Gilmore was generous with his own resources as well as with mine. This of course is quite contrary to the normal pattern of such relationships, where the protégé does everything possible to ensure that the protector's resources are not frittered away upon the mere purpose for which the protector intended them. One of Captain Gambrel's girls was thrifty to such a degree that, when patience had finally been lost and she had suffered the unfortunate accident, the money they found hidden around her dank little rooms would have paid off her debts and allowed her to rent a more hospitable environment in which to conduct her business. Then again, perhaps it was Gambrel who kept her there, out of a liking for atmospherics; certainly the place reminded me of the hard times during the Occupation, which he is too young to remember in any detail but which he considers a sort of silver age of English manhood. Perhaps that girl of his had heard about the rationing, the shortages, and simply took her performance a little too far.

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Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Though the Woo Han Peſtilence be moſt thoroughly vanquiſhed from the mighty Shores of our Iſles, through the Divine Grace and the Courageouſneſs of the Engliſhneſs of the Britiſhneſs of our Steadfaſtneſs, it appeareth that certain leſser Breeds have not attained ſuch a Degree of Advancement, as would enable them to impoſe upon the deathly Plague, a ſtatutory Limitation of its Reſidence to extend no further than Midſummer's Day. For with much Regret our noble and ſtraight-ſpeaking Prime Miniſter hath been forced to poſtpone his propoſed Sojourn to the Eaſt Indies, where the Heathen Hindoo, the deadly Dagger-wielding Sikh and the Muſsulman Mouncher of Mung-beanes carry on their depraved and corrupt Exiſtence amid their Pagan Burnooſes and Bhagwans, with ſuch rare Order as there is, being maintained ſolely by the Scourge of Thuggee and the naturall benevolent Attrition of the Cholera and the Pox. There can be little Doubt, that the Viſitation of our great Leader and his impreſsive memoriſed Collection of improving Textes, together with that ſuperlatively ſtateſmanlike diplomatick Inſtinct, which induced him upon a previous Excurſion to enter the Temple of Amrit-Sar and fart a Repertoire of patriotick Engliſh Tunes, muſt greatly have fortified the moral Fibre and ſtiffened the cultural Sinew, of thoſe benighted and undeveloped Primitives.

Bad Theology

Text for today: II Thessalonians 2 ix-xii

Someone claiming to be Paul the Apostle writes to the Thessalonian branch of the cult, prophesying with arch irony that a bad man will appear and be vanquished by the Saviour's breath and the appearance of His coming, rather than by the coming itself.The writer notes that, while the bad man is Satan's minion, those delusions of the unrighteous which will provoke his arrival are sent by God.

The opening and closing of the epistle contain several clues to its ironic intentions, of which perhaps the least subtle is the repeated emphasis on the writer's authenticity at the end. At the beginning, rather than warning against doubt or even against sexual immorality, the writer flatters his audience for its faith and steadfastness: even the customary riveting discussions of church protocol are omitted in favour of complimenting the Thessalonians on their fanaticism and commiserating about unenlightened neighbours. The writer subtly calls attention to these non-Pauline touches with the statement that he boasts to other churches about the Thessalonians: the only subject worthy of boasting by the real Paul was the deeds of Paul himself. A fitting climax to the critique of self-deception and unwarranted pride comes in the explicit statement that the delusions of the sinful are the work of God: a reference to those occasions when God hardens the hearts of human beings in order that He may punish them without sullying His moral perfection.

The second epistle to the Thessalonians is a small satirical masterpiece, mixing bombshells of blatant absurdity and stabs of subtle irony to undermine and dissect the follies of its targets. Its presence in the canon is a tribute to the solemnity of faith and the humourlessness of editorial committees.

Spiritual Riches

According to some radical proposals soon to be put before the general synod of the Established Church, bishops should move out of their palaces, should declare their outside earnings and financial interests, and should receive salaries no greater than those of parish priests. "At the moment, with bishops earning more money, it suggests they do more work than parish priests ... Many senior people in the Church of England hold their copy of Machiavelli close while leaving their Bible on the bookshelf," complained the proponent, whose acquaintance with the Bible is doubtless as extensive and subtle as his reading of Il Principe.

In preaching ideals of equality and fairness, it is surely a little self-defeating to invoke the Iron Age fundamentalist who thought the morals of the Bronze Age too lax and liberal and who looked forward to seeing most of the world's population thrown into eternal fire; especially since one thing the Saviour did not advocate is equal reward for equal work. Nor did His good news include any provisions for the distribution of real estate, be it ever so equitable. Though it is arguably permissible for a priest to condescend so far as to have himself ministered to from the substance of wealthy women, Jesus explicitly ordered His messengers to wander as homeless mendicants without so much as a change of clothing to their name, preaching the gospel and doing conjuring tricks while rejoicing in the approaching destruction and torment of anyone who didn't listen. The comforts and conveniences of such a way of life are all the answer anyone should need to the question of why an Established Church is necessary.

Mongol Invasion

In the past five weeks Beijing has been hit by three major sandstorms, which have caused deterioration in the city's air quality beyond even Boris Johnson's law-busting achievements in London. Although they have just about mastered the standard British precaution in such circumstances, viz. blaming foreigners, the Heathen Chinee still have some way to go before they can hope to evade a dose of good-natured finger-wagging from the National Haystack at his rah-and-blah-let's-save-the-planet thingy this November. The sandstorms originate in Mongolia, but rather than denouncing and deporting everyone who looks a bit Yuan Dynasty, the Beijing city authorities have resorted to planting trees. It seems that the notoriously callow civilisation of the Heathen Chinee has thus far failed to hit upon the kind of moderate, sensible and non-ideological response which has been standard practice for Her Majesty's Government since legitimate and understandable concerns immemorial.

A Force For Good

Just because Her Majesty's Government is making efficiency savings in the pittance it doles out to the world's poor, that doesn't mean the British taxpayers have been relieved of their duties as regards the welfare of the lesser breeds. The Government has shaken the magic money tree for £750 million to fund a fossil fuel hub in Mozambique, presumably because the National Haystack wants to wrest the afflicted land from the beastly Portuguese in order to control the trade winds to the silk roads of Bhutan; while the Minister for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets doubtless believes that Mozambique is a brand of aftershave. Nevertheless as witness the humourless reaction of various tree-huggers and mung-bean-munchers and their vexatious lefty lawyers, the policy is consistent with generally relaxed attitude of Her Majesty's Government towards the Paris climate agreement, black lives and suchlike minor matters.

Passport Blues

People who are very nearly British are being compelled to become foreign thanks to the indiscriminate racial policy of the Dublin separatists. While Her Majesty's Government has always striven to keep Britishness a privilege that must be earned with patriotic zeal, or else purchased with appropriately targeted consideration, the attitude of the traitor Republic towards those seeking entry is promiscuously lax. Such easy virtue is anathema to the strait-sphinctered Protestants of the Democratic Unionist Party, one of whose elders has been told he has to apply for British citizenship despite having spent his life in Northern Ireland. With the regrettable dearth of political subtlety so typical of the colonial mindset, Britannia's offended suitor complained that present Imperial policy "goes against the grain" of the Good Friday agreement, which the Conservative and Unionist Party blithely abrogated simply ages ago in the interests of conserving party unity. It is remarkable that the privilege of citizenship should be taken so much for granted by someone with so crude and rudimentary a grasp of the British language.

You Just Can't Get the Gays These Days

Mere days have elapsed since Her Majesty's Government suffered the sting of ingratitude from all those contributors to the Sewell report whose racial prejudices were so patriotically corrected in the final draft; yet still there seems a certain lack of trust among the kind of people the Bullingdon Club likes to snigger at. The Ministry for Women, Wogs and Tokenism has had to disband its LGBT advisory panel after even the self-confessed gay evangelical Christians realised they were being duped. The panel was established by Tumbledown Tessie, doubtless to her own regret when the members started agitating for the abolition of "conversion therapy" (brainwashing, in Standard English), a process likely held in high regard among pious Conservatives and their Democratic Unionist chums as a civilised alternative to castration and burning. Her Majesty's Government has made noises about making the practice illegal, but the echt-Trumpster ethos of the Stratton-Symonds administration and its silly blond front-muppet is probably more suited to Christians of the gay-baiting variety than to those of a less Biblical cast of instinct.

Venial Venality

To the usual incalculable credit of British justice and Her Majesty's Government, the present leading lout of the Bullingdon Club has appointed someone called Nigel to arrange a smooth acquittal for the previous leading lout of the Bullingdon Club, with errors laid blamelessly bare and lessons painlessly learned. The nation's former Head Boy, who seems to have toddled into business with much the same results as when he simpered into Downing Street, is to face some rather civil questions about his lobbying of Little Rishi and the ever-hapless Matt Hancock for the price of a garden shed or two. Doubtless his hobnobbing with the head-chopping House of Saud, followed by the usual highly detectable augmentations of human rights in the world's second greatest monarchy, will count as a mitigating circumstance against whatever unfortunate irregularities may have been allowed to occur thanks to the awesome purity of his noble intentions.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: I Pulp xciii-cxii

It was almost certainly not around this time, however, that a serious young man approached the Father of Teeth and prevailed upon his attention. He waited three days in the pouring rain with hardly a muscle moving except when the chill caused his molars to chatter. Meanwhile the Father of Teeth sat ensconced in hideous meditation with his seventh most serene rictus glistening like compromised tar.

On the fourth day his eyes opened, transfixing the serious young man like a pair of bloodshot toothpicks. "What do you want?" asked the Father of Teeth.
"I seek knowledge," pronounced the serious young man.
"I am not a library," said the Father of Teeth.
"I seek to become your apprentice," proclaimed the serious young man.
"I am not a tradesperson," said the Father of Teeth.
"I seek to learn and improve," propounded the serious young man.
"I am not a schoolmaster," said the Father of Teeth, "nor yet a mistress, if you should happen to bend that way."
"This catechism is for novices," said the serious young man; "ultimately, of course I seek wisdom and insight."
"You wouldn't know what to do with them," said the Father of Teeth.
"Your mask of pedagogic flippancy is most instructive," said the serious young man; "surely wisdom and insight are ends in themselves."
"Ultimately, there is no such thing as an end in itself," said the Father of Teeth; "everything that is mortal and attainable leads on to something else, usually unexpected and frequently undesirable. As for what is immortal and unattainable, that would be the Creator of the universe Himself, and you only have to look at the universe to see what the consequences are."
"Then," said the serious young man with determination, "I seek wisdom and insight and whatever lies beyond."
"Very good," said the Father of Teeth; "now when you have worked out what wisdom you require and what you wish to see into, you may possibly find yourself able to discover on your own account whatever is lying beyond."

By this point the serious young man had become seriously annoyed; but just as his breath caught and his fists tightened and his glandular endowments began pumping with adrenal ferocity, the Father of Teeth wagged an admonishing digit, whose warning was no less salutary for the stalagmitic boles about its joints and the serrated deviations of its manicure. "Before you do anything hasty," said the Father of Teeth, "remember that one step on the path to the delusion of wisdom is knowing how to exercise the delusion of choice. For example, there are now at least two potential universes which are contingent upon a point not far removed from the present moment: a universe in which you are badly chewed up, and a universe in which you depart the scene intact. Regrettably, such are the limitations of the present universe, that only one of these potentials can possibly come to fruition."

This insight so intrigued the serious young man that he became frozen to the spot with contemplative indecision. After a month or two it became necessary to prop him up with sticks, and later it was thought wise to seal him into a transparent case and apply the techniques of preliminary mummification. For the Father of Teeth had omitted to mention a third contingent universe, in which the serious young man was unable to decide between the other two and thereby became an improving public spectacle, the admission fees to which were insightfully collected and wisely administered by the Father of Teeth.

A Sacred Mystery

Despite its promulgation of a belief system that values doctrine over curiosity and faith over fact; despite its adherence to a blood-cult with a long and squalid record of misogyny, antisemitism, witch-hunting, slave-holding, child abuse and blatant fraud; despite its adoring devotion to the fanatically vindictive Son of a genocidally violent god; despite two millennia of demonstrable affinity with tyrants and empires from the Emperor Constantine to the Trumpster and his hierophantic head-tribble, it appears that a certain Christian crowd-funding website has enabled the raising of donations for right-wing terrorists of the kind who perpetrated the Epiphany on the Capitol in January. What can be the connection?

Our Great Loss

It would be naïve as well as churlish to deny that Britain has suffered a significant loss today, which we can only hope will occasion a suitable period of national self-reflection: Much to the grief of all decent and right-thinking people, Greta Thunberg has declined to attend the Glasgow climate summit in November. With exemplary diplomatic tact, she gave as her reason the unevenness of Covid-19 vaccine distribution, which will prevent poorer countries from participating on equitable terms. A suitably unsophisticated observer, such as (to take a purely random example) some loutish Regency throwback now weighing up his chances of becoming the next consort to Her Widowed Madge Gawblesser, might almost believe that the risk of a Bozza's Britain Saves the World rah-and-blah had never crossed Thunberg's mind.

Premature Emulation

Although the new government in Burma, or Myanmar as the natives foppishly call it, has conducted itself with admirable Home Office pluck in dealing with protesters, it has also shown itself prone to some unfortunate displays of British bad manners. The ambassador to Empire 2.0 has spent a night in his car after the new brooms locked him out of his own embassy, prompting the dead-eyed yob from the Ministry for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets to deliver a curt dressing-down from the master race. It would certainly be unfortunate if the law-breaking bullies in Burma-or-Whatever were permitted the same degree of sovereignty as the bullying law-breakers in Westminster.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Much conſtructive and patriotick Diſputation at the Bloater and Blueſtocking Coffee-houſe yeſter Eve, as the Independent League of Maſqueleſs Defiants for National Salvation conſidered its official Reſponſe to the lateſt Rumours, that documentary Proofs ſhall ſhortly be required at all Publick-houſes and other Eſtabliſhments, to certify that the Woo Han Peſtilence hath been granted that noted Hoſpitality, which Her Majeſty's loyal Subjects are wont to accord the Blacks, the Iriſh and the Dogges. My Lord Swygge-Whytewyne waxed moſt indignant at the Idea, that a true Engliſhman ſhould be required to ſhow any Papers in his native Realm, nay even the glorious Blue Paſsport of Her moſt gracious Britannick Majeſty. There were ſeverall Diſsenters from this View, notably Maſter Splytte-Mydwyffe the Saw-bones and unfrocked naval Carpenter, who ſtated that the Paſsport of the Peſtilence would be a mere temporary Meaſure, like the Income-tax and the Suppreſsion of unneceſsarie and ſubverſive Wages. For my owne Part I am inalterably reſolved, that I ſhall not, for the Sake of mere Signalling of my Virtue, compromiſe the Homeleſsneſs of my Politicks, and that I ſhall await the conſidered Deciſion of our noble Prime Miniſter before freely expreſsing the moderate and ſenſible Extent of my robuſt and dutifull Acquieſcence.

Wheeler Dealer

Mere experts have accused Her Majesty's Government of using all sorts of rather sophisticated dodges to understate the environmental impact of its road-building plans by a factor of up to a hundred; and this despite the fact that the Department for Motoring is run by the blithering wideboy Grant Shapps and his colleagues Michael Green and Sebastian Fox. Vexatious do-gooders are seeking a judicial review of the Government's "largest ever investment in English strategic roads" rah rah, which includes the strategic assault against the treacherously pre-English archaeological heritage at Stonehenge. The lefty lawyers claim that the Government has omitted forty-five out of fifty schemes from its calculations, failed to take account of emissions from the construction process, and limited its forecasts to a point when some schemes will still be incomplete; all of which sounds a bit over-elaborate for Shapps and Company, who most likely preferred the straightforward no-nonsensism of having all the numbers totted up and then deleting a couple of digits off the end. There is also no cumulative figure for the damage, probably because Shapps thinks a cumulative is a sort of cloud. The Department for Motoring argues that it has a forthcoming plan thingy which will resolve absolutely everything; which is certainly at least as believable as anything else Shapps and Company have ever said.

Kick Out to Help Out

Those wogs who litter the nation's streets, rather than occupying homes that might be put to better use, now have yet further cause to thank the heirs of Mr Churchill that Britain is not institutionally racist. The Ministry for Wog Control has passed a new vagrancy law which makes homelessness grounds for deportation, thereby discriminating against cultural menaces such as domestic violence victims, whose lachrymose presence upon the sunny uplands might well cause offence among patriotic Britons with legitimate and understandable concerns. An internal impact assessment, apparently sniggered through by the Ministry some months ago, proclaims discrimination in all forms "not automatically unlawful," as befits a society with a clean institutional conscience. It also notes that many among the homeless also have the temerity to be disabled, and that such doubly irresponsible persons may well experience a degree of disadvantage closer to their just deserts if deported to countries with even more rigorous support services than our own.

Bad Theology

Text for today: II Samuel 24

God is annoyed with Israel and incites King David to carry out a census. Having spent nine months and three weeks counting his people, David repents; whereupon God offers him the choice of plague, famine or three months fleeing before his enemies as punishment. Begging not to be given over to human mercy, David gives his people over to the still more dubious mercy of God, who afflicts Israel with a pestilence that kills seventy thousand men. God orders His hired killer to spare Jerusalem, whereupon David asks Him to spare the people and punish him. God then orders David to erect an altar on the threshing floor of Araunah the Jebusite; David obeys and offers up sacrifices, and the plague is averted.

Once again we find the Heavenly Father enjoying His hobby of cardiac adjustment, the better to punish His creatures for the nature to which He has predestined them. According to I Chronicles 21 it is Satan who incites David; but it would of course be blasphemous to assume that Satan has the power to act against the will of God, and the consequences are identical. Possibly David's sin was to complete the census without screwing half a shekel of silver from rich and poor alike, in accordance with God's law (Exodus 30 xi-xvi); although, since the whole incident originates with God's arbitrary urge to inflict collective punishment, it is at least arguable that any omissions David made were also the Father's work.

Once God's wrath is appeased and the massacre brought to a halt at Jerusalem's very gates, David is shrewd enough to beg the tyrant to do exactly as He has just done, and to request that His wrath, now conveniently neutered, should fall upon the king's own house. It is at this juncture, after a mere seventy thousand deaths, that it occurs to David to wonder (entirely in vain) what his people may have done to provoke their Father's latest tantrum. While hardly a profound level of compassion, this is more sympathetic than the attitude of David's descendant Jesus, who was born during another inconvenient census and who never evinced the smallest degree of concern for the victims of His Father's eagerly anticipated genocide.

When Irish Spies Are Filing

Even as the beneficiaries of the slave trade manifest their continuing ingratitude at the gift of Home Office-revocable Britishness, a further treacherous element has come to light. Since the referendum on independence from the Euro-wog yoke, more than four hundred thousand people have applied to become less than British, thanks to a legal loophole which continues to permit hate crimes against the white working class. Among the most notorious culprits was the late John le Carré, creator of the quintessential English spy according to Britain's leading liberal newspaper. A shabby Airstrip One beetle-man with no emotions beyond institutional identification and no interests outside psychological manipulation, George Smiley is a very different character to James Bond, also the quintessential English spy according to Britain's leading liberal newspaper. As Britain enters once more upon her global heritage, Bond and Smiley alike will doubtless retain their cultural relevance: the quintessential English spy in ten years' time will need the diplomatic subtlety of the former and the vigorous physique of the latter while hunting down those Irish traitors and terrorists who continue to put it about that the Good Friday agreement might somehow apply to the master race.

Fellow Travellers

The Labour Party's long and difficult journey back to moderate and sensible levels of racism has suffered a bit of a hiccup, thanks to a shadow minister's inadequate command of the British language. The party spokesbeing for women, wogs and tokenism posted pictures on social media of herself distributing campaign leaflets which pledged to follow the Government's agenda of "dealing with Traveller incursions." She has since issued the usual apology for hurt feelings, along with the echt-Johnsonian excuse that she was unaware of the "problematic definition" of the word incursions. It remains as yet unclear what innocent construction she and the perpetrators of the offending material might have put upon the word: "job-stealing benefit fraud," perhaps, or "drug-dealing parasitism," or maybe just plain old "dirty thieving tendencies," in accordance with the legitimate and understandable concerns of hard-working patriotic families.

Bozza's Boffins Bung

Despite the black ingratitude of mere experts whose names were quoted in the Sewell report even though they recited a lot of statistics and things rather than joining in the racial rah-rah, Her Majesty's Government has belatedly pledged a bit of Maundy money to prevent further collapse of scientific research in the UK. The Johnson administration had condescended to remain in Horizon Europe, the biggest collaborative research programme in the world, even though it may weill involve collaboration with beastly Nazi-Soviet wogs in a programme of research; but there was some doubt as to whether the Government would contribute to the cost rather than cutting all those ivory-tower research funds to pay for the glamour of the membership card. One of the Government's favourite efficientising measures is to pledge the same money several times over; but apparently it has been borne in upon the Johnson cranium that the beastly Euro-wogs have not yet attained this advanced level of economic planning. Of course, given the Government's libertarian instincts in matters of mere veracity it would be unscientific to celebrate too soon; but university leaders have prudently confined themselves to grovelling effusions of gratitude for the promised crumbs.