Securing the Future

Aside from sacking people and war on wogs, there are few values more British than putting children in prison. The new Police, Crime, Sentencing, Courts and Throw Away the Key Rah Rah Bill does not neglect to make due provision for Serco and all those other jolly chaps in the human warehousing industry, with a provision to increase the minimum term of incarceration that can be imposed on juveniles. Presumably Her Majesty's Government is reserving the return of the birch and the rope for the general election manifesto; but until then, the chief executive of the Youth Justice Board has been good enough to point out that longer sentences tend to result in more re-offending, thereby enhancing due provision for Serco and all those other jolly chaps in the human warehousing industry.

Jobs Not Wogs

Treacherous fifth-columnists for the evil Nazi-Soviet empire of Brusso-Strasbourg have been so bold as to suggest that the pressures on Global Britain's economy might be relieved by letting the beastly migrants back in. Thanks to the foresight and planning talents of Her Majesty's Government, to say nothing of the hostile environment, the Windrush Hint and other subtle indications, numerous occupations are suffering from an excess of opportunity for the white working class. Nevertheless, the woke snowflakes at the CBI seem to think that all those idle nurses lounging at the food bank might have something better to do with their copious free time than hop into an articulated lorry and make sure that Wimbledon doesn't run out of strawberries. The president of the CBI even claimed that hiring from abroad and investing in the master race need not be mutually exclusive, and no British patriot needs reminding of the miscegenated moral calamities which can result from all that relativistic hanky-panky. If the lessons of history have taught us anything, it is that Hitler was a migrant.

Spiritual Fires

The discovery of further collateral damage in Christ's victorious culture war against the Canadian savages appears to have sparked an incendiary reaction. Several churches belonging to God's own child abuse cabal have received the kind of treatment more traditionally considered fitting for witches and heretics: an outcome which might well be pleasing to a Deity who has never seen anything wrong with meting out punishment over a generation or more. Rather than resignation at the transience of material things, those who "sought comfort and solace" in this particular house built on sand have responded with disbelief and anger; so rather than repenting their error they will doubtless find no shortage of further grit within themselves.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Mark 13 xxxii-xxxvii

Jesus concludes a disquisition on the approaching genocide of the disobedient by proclaiming that nobody except the Father knows when this glorious event will occur. He compares God to a man who goes on a journey, leaving his servants in charge of the house and commanding the door-keeper to stay awake.

The analogy is typically disingenuous. No doubt the amenities in first-century Palestine were such that few travellers could reliably predict the precise day and hour of their return; by contrast, the omniscient God has presumably known the day and hour of His ultimate victory since the beginning of time, but deliberately withholds the knowledge even from the Saviour. Like many tyrants, particularly those who consider lack of worldly foresight an advantage in their sycophants, the Father displays a well-merited mistrust both of His Son and of His servants.

For His own part, Jesus could not forbear from stating that the day must come during the lifetime of His earthly contemporaries; but His pronouncement here makes clear that this was pure speculation on His part, doubtless born of His compassionate and ever-present zeal to see the world burn. Possibly such speculation was part of the reason for the Father's secretiveness, since it indicated that the eternally vindictive and boastful Son could not entirely be trusted to keep the family secrets to Himself.

Crude Evasion

Even as Cressida Dick's boys in blue prepare for a merry weekend arresting Extinction Rebellion protesters in the city of Boris Johnson's child-choking mayoralty, the realm's position on the climate emergency continues to attain new depths of Britishness. Although the Government has announced an alliterative "climate compatibility checkpoint" thingy for prospective profiteers in the North Sea, developments which have already been licensed will not be subject to it and will therefore languish under no particular obligation to show even the most token effort in complying with the Government's non-commitments on the climate. It is fortunate that such non-commitments, comprising for the most part treaties made with foreigners, are by their nature eminently breakable according to common sense, legitimate concerns and doubtless the Freedom of the Seas.

Trucked Over

Treacherous malcontents and citizens of nowhere are once more casting malignant shadows of doubt upon our strong and sunlit uplands. Although the cleansing of Britain from the scourge of migrant workers has opened near-Siberian vistas of opportunity for patriotic employment practices, certain backsliding elements in the food retail industry are rumbling with discontent over the lack of workers. Warehouses, food processing centres and hauliers are all suffering shortages, even now that the beastly foreigners have been kicked out or crawled off to die in Brusso-Strasbourg. The newly liberated wealth creators and entrepreneurs of Global Britain have reacted much as one would expect, by squealing to the Department of Lorry-Parks that somebody ought to do something about it. Decisive action will no doubt be forthcoming; and given the tantalising choice between letting the beastly Euro-wogs back onto our roads, or dispensing with yet more Health and Safety bureaucracy to allow unqualified drivers to operate HGVs, it is to be hoped that Her Majesty's Government will plump for the more patriotic option.

Concerning Journalistic Understanding

Britain's leading liberal newspaper appears to have suffered something of a primal scene over the personality of John Locke, the seventeenth-century philosopher credited with the paternity of liberalism. An interview has emerged in which Locke is described in unflattering terms, accused of laziness while a student at Oxford and of an inclination to "reel off, with great ceremony, some very common claims, and recite, pompously, some very trivial maxims" - a sin which must certainly come as a traumatic disillusionment at the Guardian. The shock can only be exacerbated by the fact that the source of the claims is both anonymous and uncorroborated, which in modern practice means that only the lack of a Blairite faction to the Enlightenment keeps it from absolute infallibility.

Halfwit League Onward

With the sunlit uplands lighting us ever closer to renewed and perpetual victory in the Second World War, nothing could be more natural to Her Majesty's Government than the wish to open a second front. Therefore, a rogue nuclear power run by treaty-breaking gangsters finds itself once more poking the Russian bear with a sharp stick, apparently in the hope of bringing the Crimean War within measurable distance of its beginning. Unusually, the Ministry for Wog-Bombing chose to play down the claim that warning shots were fired at HMS Defender while she was defending the Freedom of the Black Sea, instead leaving it to the Ukrainian foreign minister to demand the cavalry charge, which the lightweight brigade is doubtless preparing with all expectable thoroughness and concern for the welfare of servicepersons.

Nicely Turned Out

O what can be this terrible palaver
That echoes through the lawful British night,
Distracting the Imperial cadaver
From gloating in its sepulchre so white?

Perhaps another statue's come a-cropper
Through treason of unpatriotic crooks?
Or has another suspect mugged a copper
By giving him those bad, black British looks?

Is it the mighty Tiber madly foaming,
All blue and red with noble blood and prole?
Or is it just a dusty pseudo-Roman,
Revolving in the blackness of his hole?

Sibyl Anglorum

Those Who Help Themselves

Doubtless with all due humility, cathedral authorities at York Minster are congratulating themselves on their achievements during God's little prank with the plague. With the help of funding from the Government, from the Church of England's moneybags and even from the York Minister Fund, they have toddled through the pandemic in true Tory fashion, by sacking fifty-five people and closing one of the country's oldest schools. Such is their faith in divine protection that they are now waving the begging bowl to pay for the restoration of a fifteenth-century stained-glass puff piece about Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, an Anglo-Saxon saint who pre-empted Boris Johnson in defecting from his native cult of Christianity to the Roman faction.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Carnassials ccxlix-cclxiii

Fortunately, however, it was by no means around this time that the Father of Teeth went striding among sun-scorched rocks and dawdling along desolate crags, and watching the horizon sink its black and crooked fangs into the gaudy sky. His appreciation was interrupted by a series of minor earthquakes, which made fine grit hiss like halitosis and caused small stones to rattle like loosened molars. Following the vibrations to their source, the Father of Teeth came upon a titanic figure fettered to the rocks, with a poisonous snake above. As the Father of Teeth approached, the snake dropped venom on the titanic figure's brow, which caused him to convulse and the rocks to shudder with his agony.

"Who are you?" the titanic figure demanded of the Father of Teeth.
"I felt a grinding in the ground, and followed it," said the Father of Teeth. "The earth does not usually tremble at my passing, however unconscionable my feet."
"You have not been sent to deliver me from my punishment?" asked the titanic figure.
"I have not," said the Father of Teeth. "What was your crime?"
"Letting a few monkeys play with fire," said the titanic figure. The snake dripped its venom, and agony convulsed him and the rocks shuddered again.

"For stealing from the gods," continued the titanic figure, "I was bound even as you now see me, and every day an eagle would come and devour my liver, which would forever regenerate itself to be eaten anew on the morrow." Indeed, just beneath the lowest of his seventeen sets of ribs the titanic figure bore a ragged scar: clearly the result of many and repeated woundings.

"But the eagle has been absent for some time, which led me to hope that the gods might realise at last that I acted for the best, from a spirit of compassion and the furtherance of progress, and hence that they might be disposed to reconcile."
"I fear you can hardly have kept up with current events," said the Father of Teeth; "those gods who bound you have been extinct for millennia, and the birds for several decades, and the coming of winter is so feared by your pet monkeys that the use of fire is subject to an impressive array of priestly prohibitions." And the snake dripped its venom again.

Eton Up the Countryside

Hard economic times affect even the most deserving, and the alma mater of such Tory luminaries as Johnson, Eden, Douglas-Home and Blair has been faced with a cruel dilemma between profit and trout-fishing. Having manfully stepped up to the plate and resolved to sell off a chunk of East Sussex for homes that are affordable to the right sort of people, the nation's principal prefect factory is being criticised over the likely impact on the local environment. Pollution is all very well as long as it's keeping the urban piccaninnies down, but it really ought to know whose back yard to leave alone.

It Came From Outta Knoxville

Something is going on that the mind of a Republican congressman from Tennessee cannot handle; and for some, apparently, that is news. Tim Burchett, whose legislative record includes bills against possessing, producing or distributing Salvia divinorum and in favour of eating roadkill without prior notification of a county game warden, has expressed concern about unidentified aerial phenomena. The objects formerly known as UFOs appear to be the best available pretext for the Pentagon's annual budget increase, given that the beastly Russians, the Heathen Chinee and the mad mullahs have all been so disobliging as not to start any wars this year and even such existential threats as Cuba, Venezuela and Nicaragua have lately reined in the fiendish tentacles of their aggression. Interviewed by the Washington Post without apparent benefit of hallucinogens, the former director of the Advanced Aerospace Threat Identification Program agreed that the phenomena posed a serious threat, being self-evidently the highly detectable and sinister product of a technology fifty years ahead of the Pentagon and a millennium or so ahead of the congressman from Tennessee.

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week to Give Up Monkey Glands

Greatly to the shock of the scientific world and parts of the United States, an unprecedented study has discovered that human beings are organisms. Scientists from the UK and thirteen countries still living collaborated to test the hypothesis that members of particular species tend to age and die at a consistent rate. Their conclusion was that longevity is driven by biological factors rather than by positive thinking or the profits of anti-ageing quacks; although it remains as yet unclear whether their samples included persons who have been cryogenically preserved or who have entered into malignant symbiosis with hydrophobic head-tribbles.

Blooming Treachery

Some rather conciliatory remarks by Ireland's deputy prime minister have brought forth a squeal of indignation from Her Most Britannic Majesty's Minister for Orangemen. Leo Varadkar, an English-speaking Euro-wog whose country remained treasonously neutral when Britain stood alone on the shoulders of the lesser breeds, told his party conference that a united Ireland might be worth aspiring to and should be done as tactfully as possible. Brandon Lewis, whose government likes to compare its biggest trading partners to the Nazis and whose party is famous for its rhetorical restraint at conferences, proclaimed Varadkar's comments unhelpful and ill-advised. While patriots in Ulster erupted into the usual moral indignation, Lewis ordered both the colony and the enemy to provide a bit of hush while Her Majesty's Government works out how best to go back on its treaty obligations towards either or both.

Foreign Bodies

Several varieties of beastly Euro-wog have all given resident British nationals until the end of this month to apply for whatever residential rights Her Majesty's Government has not casually thrown away on their behalf. The Ministry for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets has produced an advertising campaign to give warning of the ghastly foreign plot, but since the campaign features images such as "four elderly people walking on a chilly beach in Sweden" and is, moreover, produced by the Ministry for Wogs, Beads and Trinkets, there remains some question as to how far the message will penetrate. It seems that not even the master race is sufficiently dynamic and entrepreneurial to keep Her Majesty's subjects from being treated as mere immigrants - such is the diabolical cunning of the beastly French, the beastly Latvians, the beastly Luxembourgers and the beastly Maltese.

Fallen Idols

The sculptor Antony Gormley, whose woke-appeasing solution to the Cecil Rhodes statue wars met with a predictable snowflake silence from the cheerleaders of Empire, has been speculating on the likely longevity of some other graven images. Sixteen years ago, somewhere in the north, Gormley put up a hundred cast-iron statues modelled on himself; originally intended to stand for sixteen months, the installation became a permanent tourist attraction despite Gormley's lack of patriotic credentials as either a racist or a thief. Having rescued ten statues whose supports had been subverted by the ever-treacherous Irish Sea, Gormley admitted that they would all "turn slowly into Giacomettis," losing their substance and becoming ever more Euro-wog during the thousand-year régime of Global Britain; and doubtless it serves him right.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Leviticus 19 xxviii

Amid various urgent moral exhortations concerning beards, necromancers, the fruit of trees in a strange land, and the priestly profits to be made from the rape of female slaves, God orders that His chosen people should not tattoo themselves, and should not commemorate the dead by cutting themselves.

God's dislike of self-harmers is doubtless rooted in His loathing for the prophets of Baal, who offered their own blood and pain to call their inattentive deity to action (I Kings 18 xxviii) before being murdered at the orders of the the prophet Elijah. The fact that Elijah lived some centuries after the laws of Moses were written would of course mean nothing from the Father's eternal perspective; the appearance of Moses and Elijah at the Saviour's transfiguration demonstrates the simultaneous existence of all three prophets, and the essential continuity of their violent and primitive doctrines.

God's prohibition against tattoos is a reaction against the over-civilised ways the Hebrews have learned during their captivity. In Egypt, as in many ancient and prehistoric societies, tattooing was used for medical purposes; God's jealousy reserves the treatment of the sick to Himself and His servants, just as He reserves the right to afflict His people with crippling illnesses for no better reason than to show off His own power.

Domestic Dispute

Will they never learn? Is there no end to these partisan outrages on the fringe of the struggle for Britain's lily-white soul? Yet another statue, whose subject's past indiscretions were clearly a price worth paying for the foundation of a Museum of the Home in Shoreditch, has fallen victim to the lynch-mob attitude of the woke and the wogs. Robert Geffrye, a seventeenth-century trader in tobacco and part-owner of a slave ship, propitiated God the Englishman by dedicating part of his legacy to fourteen almshouses for widows. Later the buildings were sold off, in accordance with Anglican principles concerning the use of widows' houses, and eventually became the Geffrye Museum. Not content with censorship of the name, the lesser breeds now demand that Geffrye's statue be taken down; and had their backbones not been Britished by a stiff letter from the culture war minister, the museum's trustees might have caved in just like the craven French on Haiti.

National Virtue

Some righteous persons who have taken pats on the head from the school bully are campaigning for the master's hand to be clothed in a more anodyne glove. A Bangladesh-born mental health campaigner, having received a bauble from a government whose insouciant callousness and open racism are exceeded only by those of the present administration, does not now feel that the imperial aspect of her OBE resonates with her sense of integrity. She and her fellow enthusiasts for an Order of British Excellence appear to think that an exchange of the outdated for the merely vacuous would constitute some sort of improvement. It could certainly be argued that accepting trinkets and testimonials from a vicious government, while quibbling about the letter of the rah-rah, requires a thoroughly British sense of integrity.

Still One of Our Boys

Astoundingly enough, it appears that membership of the Farage Falange and employment by the British armed services are not entirely incompatible with the sort of behaviour more readily associated with those beastly Muslims. A crown court jury convicted the patriot in question on ten terrorism-related counts, including possession of explosive substances and terrorism instruction manuals. In addition, the patriot openly broadcast racist propaganda and proclaimed that people from ethnic minorities should be killed off. This of course represented a morally deplorable failure to get behind a Government which believes that people from ethnic minorities should either be deported or else be granted every opportunity to perish of natural causes. Nevertheless, it remains as yet unclear whether the patriot will be treated with the same degree of British fair play as a groomed schoolgirl and citizen of nowhere of the non-Aryan persuasion.

Well Taught

British ideals of freedom and fair play appear as rampant as ever in our former colony of Uganda, where ID cards are being utilised in a manner almost worthy of the master race. On the mainland, the last Labour government to win the approval of Rupert Murdoch spent several years attempting to introduce an insanely elaborate biometric ID card scheme for the benefit of private companies; and the present administration has plans to throw out something or other to deter the lesser breeds from dirtying our democracy. In Uganda, where almost everyone is ethnically minor, it seems the emphasis has been more on the equally patriotic goal of depriving people of access to banking, social benefits and healthcare. Errors on the ID cards are nearly as widespread as one would expect from a firm chaired by a ministerial chum, and the registry of births and deaths has forgotten about eighty-seven per cent of births during the past year. Some of the money saved by refusing assistance to elderly people is contributed by none other than Her Majesty's Government, which will doubtless take pride in protecting the British taxpayer from financing anything that smacks of foreign efficiency.

Plumping Up the Cushion

Now that the British taxpayer has spent a dozen or so years repaying their gambling debts, British banks are poised to take a major step towards leaving us to deal with the climate emergency. The Bank of England will be submitting a questionnaire thingy to nineteen banks and insurance companies, asking about the likely effects on their operations in the event of three different climate scenarios. Individual businesses will not be named, let alone shamed, and the Bank of England's sole reaction to the results will be to spend the next eleven months anonymising them for publication. Surprisingly, one of the three scenarios is based on the premise that governments will emulate the foresight and prudence of wealth creators and do nothing at all, resulting in a number of dampened assets. However, no protective action will be expected, let alone enforced, as long as the British taxpayer is there to be soaked.

Goals and Balls

Now that the Sewell report has established the realm's utter innocence of institutional racism, it is of course only right and fair that British sportspeople desist from bringing the master race into disrepute by implying that more must be done. At least one Conservative MP has condemned the gesture of taking the knee as unnecessarily divisive because it alienates racists, and has compared the England team to one that gave the Nazi salute at a Berlin match in the nineteen-thirties. Liberal patriots will doubtless find much to nod sagely over in the National Haystack's more measured tone, ordering "the whole country" to aid the England football team in its thrashing of the beastly wogs, while emphasising that empty actions are more effective than meaningful gestures.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: I Bicuspid xxxvii-lxiii

On the contrary, when the Father of Teeth departed that district he left a memento behind, in the form of a seventeen-storey molar which erupted from the city's central square, upsetting three war memorials and discombobulating sundry traffic. It was varnished and glazed to a rich locust-carapace brown, and in the hollow of its crown were enough nutritious scrapings to stave off the famine for a month.

By means of hooks and grapples, and with the aid of numerous convenient cavities in the enamel of the miraculous molar, the boldest among the citizenry ascended to the heights and harvested the bounty for distribution. In payment for this entrepreneurial compassion, the climbers were granted the additional privilege of scraping at the varnish and glaze, and from these brown and brittle pickings they fashioned the brittle bracelets of their office, and also the brown blades with which they improved the genitals of their initiates. With the aid of the miraculous molar the city withstood the famine; the grateful citizens offered thanks to the Father of Teeth, and the climbers undertook to convey their gratitude when the time was right, in return for whatever humble considerations might be deemed appropriate to tide over the messengers in the meantime.

The seasons proceeded according to the Creator's implacable plan; the city was scalded by the sun, battered by the wind and spattered by the rain, and one day the crown of the miraculous molar was discovered to be barren of nutritious material, and in places even scraped down to an unhealthy calcium white. Anxious for their fragile blades and bracelets, which required frequent replacement, the climbers built a shelter around the miraculous molar, and a temple around the shelter, and a courtyard around the temple, and a wall around the courtyard, and a legend around the wall, which stipulated that the Father of Teeth himself had put all these amenities in place, and would himself chew out, most mercilessly and unhygienically, anyone who dared disturb so much as the dust on a single sacred stone. And so the miraculous molar remained unseen and untouched by any but the most privileged among the climbers, while the bulk of the citizenry grovelled from afar.

Again the seasons proceeded according to the Creator's implacable plan; the city was battered by the wind, spattered by the rain, and scalded by the sun. Famine came again, and people died off in a most unspiritual manner, despite the efforts of the climbers, who fashioned new blades and refashioned the genitals of the elect with more-than-carnivorous piety. Many of those who survived made preparations to depart the city, disrespectfully flicking dust from the courtyard wall as they passed by. The climbers denounced them fiercely for these perverse and wilful actions, which could have no other result than to perpetuate the famine unnecessarily; they called down the vengeance of the Father of Teeth, which miraculously materialised in the shape of some heavily-armed and prudently well-fed keepers of law and order. Though their admonishments were salutary in their sacrificial sharpness, the dust had been flicked from the wall and the famine went on much as before.

Once more the seasons proceeded according to the Creator's implacable plan; the city was spattered by the rain, scalded by the sun and battered by the wind, and soon very little remained except for a worn white stump, which throbbed and nagged dully until the Father of Teeth returned to that region, uprooted it with some pliers and a grunt, and hid it about his person and went muttering on his way.

Shadows With Claws

An extract

THE VALKYRIE
Bedroom; west wall.
Directly in the line of sight of anyone sitting up in the bed.

An apparent effort at a mythological variation, painted in the same glistening hyperreal style as the "Street Encounter." In the right-hand half of the picture a man is slumped against a pillar. His back is to the viewer and only his left side is visible. Darkness and mist obscure the background; the floor is smooth and polished, gleaming with a grey light; the ceiling, like the top of the pillar, is outside the composition. The man is evidently injured and possibly unconscious: his head hangs limply to the left while his arm is held stiffly across his body, apparently pressed against an abdominal wound. There are no overt signs that he has been involved in a battle, or even that he is a warrior; but the bulky angularity of his shoulder suggests a military greatcoat, and the gunmetal surface of the pillar is grazed and pitted as if by repeated violence extending far back in time. Some critics have also seen in the darkened area of the floor around the man a spreading pool of blood, rather than the indeterminate shadow which appears to the more conventional view.

Facing the man from the left side of the picture, at an equal distance from the centre, is an armoured female figure. She is crouching on her feet and hands, leaning slightly forward in an attitude suggesting mild curiosity. Her limbs are bare except for greaves on her lower legs and a bracelet above her right elbow; bracelet and greaves have the same blue-black colour and battered, ancient texture as the pillar. The rest of her armour consists of a similarly battered thigh-length mail shirt, belted at the waist; from the belt hang sundry items of equipment including a knife, a claw-hammer, a leather water-pouch, and what on casual inspection looks like a pistol; careful inspection shows that the weapon is a small electric drill. In contrast to the state of her armour, all the tools are well cared for and polished to a steely shine. She wears no helmet; her greenish grey hair falls in seaweed clots over her shoulders and forehead. Her arms and face are pallid, with a tinge of blue; possibly some unearthly effect of the light, possibly not.

Her head is thrust forward and held slightly to one side: an attitude that might almost be called quizzical were it not for the expression on her face. That expression has been much debated, but no-one has detected irony there, let alone humour. The face itself is unobjectionable, if a little angular; there is nothing unnatural in the shape and proportion of the features, and the means by which the artist achieves his effect have caused almost as much argument as the meaning of that effect. The posture of the head, the dead-straight gash of the mouth, the depth and flatness of the eyes, all contribute to its peculiar quality.

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Our Precious Market Forces Tromped

While Global Britain ushers in its new Golden Age by closing libraries, demanding greater respect for statues, and ordering universities to give racism a chance, certain lower realms are hastening their inevitable economic demise by distributing merchandise free of charge. Research by the International Institute of Social History has been compiled into a book called Amsterdam and the History of Slavery, which is being most un-entrepreneurially given away to the denizens of that city. Though one hates to judge before all the facts are known, it looks suspiciously like an attempt to educate people without charging them any fees, and thus a rather dangerous and irresponsible gamble. Of course, if a nation's prosperity is shown to be linked with racism and slavery, all plucky English patriots will demand more slavery and more racism; but it remains as yet unclear whether the city of Spinoza is culturally advanced enough to perform a similar feat of logic.

Happy Tanking

The British soldier can stand up to anything except the British War Office.
George Bernard Shaw

Connoisseurs of military Britishness, who remember with pride the non-aircraft carrier and the submarine that could just about detect Scotland by touch, will rejoice at the Ministry for Wog-Bombing's new armoured vehicle. The Ajax cannot reverse over objects more than twenty centimetres high: an incentive to advance at all costs which might be a bit more rah-rah were the Ajax capable of moving and shooting at the same time. Thanks to the Ministry's patriotic insistence on an ill-fitting but doubtless chum-profiting type of cannon, the Ajax crews have been spared the trouble of defending themselves while driving. This is doubly fortunate as the suspension is so British that crews can't operate for more than an hour and a half at a time, and are at risk of tinnitus and swollen joints if they try to rattle along at more than twenty miles an hour. Since the Ministry for Wog-Bombing is as deeply concerned as ever about the health of its donkey-following felidae, it appears that no delays to deployment will be countenanced: the enemies of state and people will just have to follow the example of the coronavirus and bow to our Britannic timetable. Appropriately enough, the Ajax is named after two mythological heroes, one of whom was a sex offender who slaughtered some cattle and himself over a second-hand suit of armour, and neither of whom maintained very good relations with the goddess of wisdom.

Sacred Havens Violated

With typically beastly Euro-wog beastliness, the beastly Euro-wogs are ganging up on wealth creators and compelling them to confess the means by which they mark their own fiscal homework. This latest conspiracy of Nazi-Soviet oppression to ooze from the ghastly bureaucratic dungeons of Brusso-Strasbourg will force multinational companies to make public the tax they pay in Euro-wog member states and dodge in a few minor low-pay zones. Although Singapore and other paragons of fiscal Britishness will not be affected, the new rules are still too strong for the Conservatives, who have refused to enforce their own law on the matter until everyone else's laws have been watered down to match. A spokesbeing for Little Rishi worried about the prospects of going it alone, for all the world as if Britain were still a globally relevant power: mutations in the market matrix would "distort decisions on where companies decide to locate." Given the Conservatives' apparent decision in favour of deciding to turn whatever is left of the UK into a nuclear-armed Belize-off-Belgium, it would certainly be indiscreet of the beastly Euro-wogs to push the issue too far.

Narrow-Minded Natives

Among the more depressing perils of Manifest Destiny has always been the persistent ingratitude of the beneficiaries towards the master race. Ireland has spent a millennium refusing to deserve us, and even today there are still a few recalcitrant holdouts in Iraq who wilfully resist their natural urge to erect statues in honour of Saint Tony the Liberator, let alone cast flowers at the original. A similar affliction besets Libya, which Britain's Head Boy and his little orange fags helped wog-bomb into collapse a decade ago. Rather than take to heart the National Haystack's statesmanlike aphorism about getting Sirte shipshape, a presidential candidate has been giving forth some sour grapes about the lack of handouts since Lord Puce of Greensill concluded his famous victory. The effects of such irresponsible nationalistic populism upon a population of immature voters might well call down further party management stunts, especially once Britain's nuclear arsenal has been expanded to its destined proportions.