Ingrates of the Caribbean

There was a time when British pluck
Brought Africans the great good luck
Of voyaging across the sea,
Without the payment of a fee,
Towards a life most Christian
Of honest labour in the sun.

And yet, for all the merchants' gold
And sacrifices oft re-told
By tactful statues tall and proud
And fine foundations well endowed -
Too often the prevailing mood
Is one of black ingratitude.

One labours long, with lash and chain,
The boy to guide, the beast restrain,
The piccaninny help display
Due meekness; yet by some strange way
Of whim obscure and lust obscene,
They up and overthrow the Queen.

How can they bear becoming less
Than what's bestowed in Britishness?
What black whim would reject the grace
Of monarchy and master race,
In wilful treachery befogged
As dark and foreign double-wogged?

Britney Flagger

Nice Weather For It

Leaders of three major housing and homelessness charities may soon be invited to consider their positions, having had the temerity to suggest to the sometime minister for morals in public life, Kwasi Kwarteng, that the Government might do more to alleviate the effects of the climate emergency on the poor. The chief executives of Shelter, Crisis and Homeless Link signed a letter to Kwarteng and the jabbering homunculus for slogans, mansions and pork-barrelling, Michael Gove, pointing out that flash floods and extreme heat are even less convenient for rough sleepers than for those upon whom the Conservatives have bestowed the sacred liberty of choosing between hypothermia and eviction. A spokesbeing responded with the usual rah-rah, demonstrating to the Government's satisfaction that people who remain homeless in the present enlightened climate do so from pure unpatriotic lack of moral fibre. It is to be hoped that the letter will be shared with the whole Cabinet, and indeed the whole Conservative Party, to reaffirm Global Britain's world-beating success in ensuring that the worst effects of the climate catastrophe are directed at the expendable.

Bad Theology

Text for today: Judges 1 xxviii-2 v

In the course of invading Canaan, the Israelites fail on several fronts to destroy the natives outright. Several cities and their dependent villages are incompletely wiped out, and the Amorites even force the tribe of Dan to retreat into the hills. Irritated at His chosen people's inefficiency in carrying out His genocidal decrees, God sends an angel to remind the master race of its obligations. The master race responds in loud and lachrymose fashion, makes sacrifices and calls the site Weeping.

God has commanded the Israelites to make no treaties with the Canaanites and to break down their altars. However, in His wisdom God has not bestirred Himself to give His chosen people the strength to obey His commands, and His angel accordingly conveys the Deity's annoyance that His will has not been done.

Presumably the source of God's displeasure is the Israelites' condescending to enslave rather than murder the populations of various cities and their surrounding villages. Doubtless it was the memory of this atrocious disobedience that caused the Saviour, who must have felt the injury as keenly as His consubstantial Father, to require a grovel or two from the Canaanites before deigning to exert His famously limitless compassion.

Economical Veracity

Readers of a certain age will recall the Peter Wright affair, wherein Margaret Thatcher's government suffered a Streisand effect avant la lettre by attempting to prevent publication of a retired MI5 officer's memoir. Wright claimed that the intelligence services' battle against the treacherous, history-rewriting commies had included burgling and bugging friendly embassies, and attempting to force the Labour prime minister Harold Wilson out of office. Since those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear, Thatcher's heirs and acolytes have duly replayed the old bag's tragic crusade for freedom as postmodern self-referential farce. After more than thirty years, the Cabinet Office is breaking the thirty-year rule and trying to suppress any account of Thatcher's attempt to suppress Wright's account. Fortunately, as the taxpayer has been good enough to foot the legal bills against anyone unpatriotic enough to demand that Her Majesty's Government obey its own laws, no funds from Party donors appear thus far to have been wasted in the effort.

Suspension of Disbelief

Mere experts have once again conspired with reality to throw a trendy-lefty spanner into the National Johnson's great public works programme. A feasibility study of the plan, if plan is the word I want, to chuck a garden bridge over that Irish Sea thingy, or else drill a bit of a hole, has concluded that both projects are within the realm of physical possibility. This makes them a substantial improvement on, for example the Conservative Party doctrine that medical personnel can subsist on applause, or the religious dictum that there must simultaneously be and not be a border between the United Kingdom of Global Britain and Northern Ireland and the lands of the lesser breeds. However, the hidebound ideological straitjacket of metropolitan élitist engineering has caused the authors of the report to politicise their findings and throw in all sorts of irrelevances, such as treasonous Fenian railway gauges and some silly old nucular waste. In the world of Global Britain, such trifling obstacles would of course be subsumed in the pluck and gumption of our entrepreneurial phlegm, or else blamed on lazy workers and foreign saboteurs; and as for radioactive waste, that's why God and the press gave the Conservatives the north of England.

Unworthy Partners

Disgraceful that our sewage-perfumed seas
Should be polluted with these filthy wogs;
Our wars have made so many refugees
That decency dictates we blame the Frogs.

Our allies once, if worthless and abject,
With treacherous ingratitude they let
Our gallant sailors watch invaders wrecked:
Cannot the French defend us from this threat?

We honest Britons like to keep things short.
There isn't really much we need to say,
Except: Trafalgar! Crécy! Agincourt!
Whose bloody channel is it, anyway?

D Porter-Maule

Improving Stories for Tiny Tories

The Unobtrusive Difference

Once upon a time there was an unobtrusive Difference, which lay between a Not Inconsiderable Wad of Taxpayers' Money and the Profit from a Corporate Sinecure. The purpose of the Difference was to keep the two apart, for they were deadly opposites. The Profit from a Corporate Sinecure caused no bother at all, while the Not Inconsiderable Wad of Taxpayers' Money was constantly making life difficult for the Honourable Member whose soul was embodied in this merry little monetary ménage. The Not Inconsiderable Wad of Taxpayers' Money expected the Honourable Member's exclusive service over a period of several years, with no guarantee of continued employment, to say nothing of a miserly expense account and considerable interruption to the Honourable Member's career in managing his inheritances. By contrast, the Profit from a Corporate Sinecure came in quietly and consistently as the just and deserved reward for a few hours' work each month and a few well-placed words of moral support whenever the Government ordered more state employees to go on the game. Had it not been for the Difference lying between the two, the situation might have become quite noisy and inconvenient; but the Difference was always ready, after its quiet and unpretentious fashion, to ensure that the Honourable Member never adulterated the clear waters of personal gain with the filthy murk of the public sector. As a reward for its long and faithful service, the Honourable Member finally abolished the Difference by helping to vote the public sector into well-deserved oblivion.

The Golden Johnson Awards

Aside from who won the war, one of the almost several facts known to every British patriot is that foreigners don't know what is good for them. If the wogs had been any good at governing themselves, there would have been no need for the likes of Robert Clive and Cecil Rhodes to whip them into shape and offer to secure their assets. To this very day the problem persists even among the highest quality foreign stock, some of whom have spent the last six months refusing to come over here and invade our science. While swarming hordes of mediocrities outwit the Minister for Wog Control, the Borderly Forcibles and the Royal Navy on a daily basis, the winners of prestigious if amusingly-named awards are actively snubbing the opportunity to be fast-tracked into the scientific service of a society which believes that non-private medicine can subsist on applause, and that the quality of almost anything may best be judged by what flag is waggled over it. Given the ingratitude of this cosmopolitan élite of mere experts, perhaps it is time for the mainland to take back control from the vexatious Swedes and the perfidious French, and to institute a national rah-rah for excellence in such genuinely patriotic skills as tax avoidance, asylum seeker processing and sewage fishing.

Yesterday's War

Although the age of dinosaurs spawned many exotic breeds of reptile, there is little indication in the fossil record that capitalists and Conservatives were among them. Doubtless this explains why the dinosaurs were so dilatory in getting themselves wiped out: after a hundred and thirty million years of unrivalled planetary dominance, a foreign migrant filled the atmosphere with dust and catastrophically disrupted global food chains. The primates have taken a considerably shorter time to evolve not only the technological means to manage the same job for themselves but, even more importantly, the psychological resources to bask in the rose-coloured light of their own misdirecting intelligence. Although the National Johnson's silly little bout of finger-wagging at non-white polluters has put it virtually beyond doubt that no asteroid will be required to finish us, space agencies in some of the non-British parts of the globe are expending vast amounts of time, expertise and resources to counter an extinction event that was completed more than sixty million years ago.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Cavities ccvii-ccxviii

It was long before then, however, that the Father of Teeth came upon a giant in the wilderness. The giant lay semi-conscious on his back with an outcrop of rocks for a pillow. His massive proportions were pleasing and his features youthful; but in his side was a red and purple wound the size of a corridor, as if he had been fatally stabbed by some fellow giant.

From a distance the giant seemed plagued with a swarm of insects clustered about the injury; but as the Father of Teeth drew closer he saw that the giant was in fact surrounded by hordes of tiny persons, who tended his wound with brooms and shovels, and had even constructed a sort of scaffolding against the giant's side, from which dozens more tiny persons dangled precariously in harnesses, chanting as they scraped and stabbed.

As the Father of Teeth approached, a gaggle of tiny persons rushed towards him, squeaking and gesticulating; nor were they stilled when the Father of Teeth bared his blackened choppers in a hideous grin of greeting. The tiny persons clustered and crowded about the Father of Teeth as he approached the giant, so that he was forced to deter the more importunate with miasmatic incentives of halitosis.

The giant's wound pulsed and quivered with agony. Tiny persons scraped at the tender edges with their brooms; tiny persons dug away clots of gore which were carefully packed away and carted off; and some of the bolder specimens swung themselves onto the giant's body and performed tiny vigorous dances while jabbering at the sky.

As the Father of Teeth watched, the wound widened further. Sudden agony convulsed the giant; the scaffolding collapsed and tiny persons were thrown and scattered, crushed and smashed, and otherwise greatly inconvenienced. Immediately the dust had cleared, the survivors set about rebuilding the scaffold and recovering their brooms, while an efficiently organised group laid out the broken bodies of the dead, and kicked each corpse hard to ensure there were no shirkers.

A group of tiny persons, who had been precipitated from their place atop the giant's chest and had narrowly missed hitting the Father of Teeth directly in the lower incisors, led him with polite obeisances around the giant's wall-like legs and towering feet to the other side of his body. With gestures and gibbers they petitioned the Father of Teeth to chew the giant a second wound, which would serve as a balance for the first and thus prevent further upset.

However, when the Father of Teeth made bold to intimate, with appropriate grimaces, that perhaps they ought first to find out what the giant thought of the matter, the tiny persons chased him from that place with rough brooms and hard words, and then trudged sullenly back to resume their indispensable ministrations.

Still Not Quite Hostile Enough

Vexatious do-gooders and metropolitan élites are again harassing the straight-talking embodiments of the people's will at the Ministry for Wog Control. The idea that offering asylum to refugees creates a "pull factor" which causes Britain to fill up with job-stealing queue-jumpers on welfare who can't even speak English proper has been peddled by numerous ministers, including at least one whose first language apparently includes the verb incentivise. Unfortunately, the Ministry for Wog Control has been indiscreet enough to commission research on the matter, and the resulting evidence is so conclusive that the Government refuses to release it. The Ministry's chivalrous disinclination to rub in the conclusiveness of its case has been seized upon by charities and other traitors, who speak with oily sarcasm of the new Hostile Borders Bill and its "unintended (sic) negative consequences" for the swarming hordes.

Safe for Democracy

Sinister and subversive forces of anti-Americanism have suffered a salutary defeat at the clean and fragrant hands of private enterprise. An eighteenth-century printing of the Constitution has been sold for over forty-three million dollars, thereby becoming the most fiscally meritorious piece of paper ever to be auctioned. The buyer, whose secret identity protects him from the vindictive revenge of those who would destroy the American way of life, thus vanquished a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy of crowdfunders who proposed to put the document on public display "in the hands of," of all things, "the people."

Shqip the Detail

As all British patriots are aware, the only genuine facts about the Nazis are that they were defeated by Mr Churchill with help from some American chums, and that their crimes against the Jews led to the Righteous State of Israel and were therefore a Good if slightly overdone Thing. Unlike mighty Global Britain, the Nazis also had sufficient pride to conquer foreign countries before setting up concentration camps in them, rather than going about the racism business like a complete Dominic Raab. According to a report in the Murdoch Times, the Deputy Johnson and Minister for Profitable Incarceration is attempting to mend fences with our enemies in Europe by inquiring whether any of them will assume the honour of serving as prison camps for unwanted wogs, or for those deemed unworthy of Britishness on any other reasonably practicable grounds. Among the privileged lesser breeds are the Albanians, presumably because the National Johnson's classical education led him to believe that their country was full of white people. Despite this erroneous etymological œncomium, a response that can only be called ungracious has emerged from several people with funny foreign names, including one whose name was so foreign and funny that the Murdoch Times was too busy sniggering to assign the correct gender to its owner. The Albanian foreign minister more than repaid the compliment, referring to the Murdoch Times, with almost excessively hostile irony, as a "respected paper."

At the Going Down of the F-35

In keeping with the spirit of the times, the aircraft carrier HMS Her Madge Gawblesser has wound up a tour of the Empire by losing £100 million worth of taxpayers' toys in the Mediterranean. The ship is returning to Blighty after vigorously debating the Eastern Question with the Fighting Sons of Blair, and the aircraft crashed into the sea during a "routine operation." Although an investigation is in progress, the Johnson administration's Ministry for Wog-Bombing came over most uncommonly coy about commenting; so it remains as yet unclear whether the action was anything so noble as a kamikaze run against potential stealers of British jobs.

Lloegr Fydd Fel Lloegr Fu

Fellow statesmen, on to glory;
Be a winner, be a Tory!
Act up bully, suck up whorey;
Make your life a stunt.

Lobby for the corporations,
Plump yourself in our great nation's
Gravy trains and social stations;
Keep a solid front.

Play the fool and cut up silly:
Pinch a bottom, slap a filly,
Fill your wallet, wave your willy -
Then you'll be a Conservative.

(Traditional)

Unparliamentary Language

Now that Britain's liability for a £400 million debt to the Iranian ministry of defence has been settled in an international court of arbitration, acknowledged by ministers and debated in both the House of Expenses Claimants and the House of Donors, Her Majesty's Government has ordered Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe's MP not to refer to the matter in Parliament. With its usual British concern for fair play and the rule of law, the Government has decided that the case is still sub judice, and no less a Muslim-baiter than Lord Goldsmith of Marbella is exploring options for limited and specific bilking of the debt. Famously, the National Johnson's initial reaction to Zaghari-Ratcliffe's detention was to concur with the mad mullahs that the dusky half-breed filly was guilty as charged; and one would have to be a very mad mullah indeed to imagine that Her Majesty's Government would bother to honour a legal obligation just because a hostage or two might be at stake.

Nothing Wasted

A soldier brave,
in trench and grave
whining with barbs and flies,
saw huge and white
and glistening bright
a Maggot against the skies.

"Maggot," said he,
"what memory
is left of what you eat?
What will," asked he,
"remain of me
when you have had your meat?"

It blotted out
the mud about,
where thousands met their ends.
It wriggled in,
its bristly grin
reeking of fallen friends.

It stretched up tall;
its slimy pall
took on a Portland tint.
A well-fed few
their poppies threw,
and stood their tedious stint.

With rippling gulp
of sated pulp,
the Maggot belched a laugh:
"I don't leave much
Except for such
As makes a cenotaph."

Nosher Blighty

Improving Stories for Tiny Tories

The Creeping Error

Once upon a time there was an Error, which crept into some Accounts. As soon as the Error arrived, it was seized, searched, questioned about its financial and racial status, and finally brought quivering before the Honourable Member to whom the Accounts belonged.

"Migratory and misbegotten miscreant," fulminated the Honourable Member, "how dare you drag your unauthorised carcass into so noble a residence, so pristine an estate, so Caucasian a sepulchre as the ledgers of a hard-working parliamentarian?"
"I beg you to excuse my erroneous presence," the Error replied, "and I ask for the most severe public correction which can be administered by your entire private regiment of dominatrices."
"We are always prepared to temper justice with mercy," said the Honourable Member hastily; "if you work hard and play by the rules, you may possibly delay retribution."

So the Error crept back to its place in the Accounts, and gained the Honourable Member a small fortune from three corporate sinecures, twenty-seven speaking engagements and four hundred and ninety-three free lunches of which, thanks to the Error's tactful efforts, the Accounts remained blissfully ignorant. The Error grew and prospered, and was only ejected when the Accounts grew so implausibly mutated that they were opened up by an Interfering Bureaucrat and subjected to compulsory surgery. The Honourable Member sacked his accountant, denounced the Error as a filthy foreign influence of which he had been entirely unaware, and subsequently made it a confidential offer of a place in the Electoral Register.

To the End They Remain

As England will always be there
Like war, plastic memory stays,
Pervading the land, sea and air
With glory that never decays.

A world-saving poppy may not
Be best to remember the dupes:
Reminders inclining to rot
Might too much resemble the troops.

Victor Standfast

Building Back Stabber

Presumably in accordance with the wisdom of David Irving or Edward Luttwak on the necessary timing for one's detachment from a doomed leadership, the jabbering homunculus Michael Gove has determined that the London skyline shall not, after all, be blessed with a thousand-foot-high glazed-glans phallus. The Department for Sweet Nothings, Homelessness and Social Division rejected plans for the folly, which had previously been thrown out by Sadiq Khan on the grounds that they were shoddy and useless and which would probably have been approved by Robert Jenrick, until recently the Minister for Richard Desmond, on approximately the same grounds. Since Khan's decision was a rather sensible one to be seen agreeing with, the jabbering homunculus was cautious enough to utilise the fiscally and romantically Tory-surnamed Christopher Pincher as the shield and codpiece for his rampantly recrudescent manhood.

Private Functions

Her Majesty's Government considers unacceptable the amount of sewage that is discharged by water companies into British rivers. Doubtless this explains why the party that put Owen Paterson in charge of the environment has just reached a compromise between permitting continued dumping and not permitting continued dumping: namely to permit continued dumping. A flunkey deplored the vile calumny that the Government was somehow legalising the dumping of sewage, but forgot to mention why the assertion is inaccurate: the dumping of sewage has been legal all along, and Her Majesty's Government has every intention of keeping it that way. Nevertheless, in a token gesture of appeasement to the Huntin', Shootin' and Fishin' constituencies who might not care for the prospect of truite à la merde on next season's menu, moisture provision profiteers will be compelled to reduce the flow of effluent as rapidly as suits their fiscal convenience.

Privateers of the Caribbean

Although it is incumbent on Members of Parliament to be visible to their constituents, Her Majesty's Government finds nothing wrong with their influencing national policy at the behest of whoever can outbid the taxpayer. If constituents do not find their representatives sufficiently detectable via the human optical endowment, they have a chance every five years or thereabouts to register their discontent. Nevertheless there is a limit, and the National Johnson has conspicuously declined to support Sir Geoffrey Cox, the former attorney general who supplements his parliamentary chickenfeed by giving legal advice to tropical tax dodgers. Despite this evident devotion to natural justice, Cox served as attorney general in the Tumbledown Tessie administration, which notoriously permitted the National Johnson to exercise his talents upon only a single one of the great offices of State. Unfortunately for Cox, he has been denounced by no less a moral authority than the Rothermere Daily Stürmer, which could mobilise the foaming-indignation vote and make his previous invisibility doubly inexpedient.

No Sackcloth, No Ashes

About a hundred and twenty French clerics gathered at the weekend for a show of penitence, begging forgiveness of their invisible friend for the advantage taken by their institution of His divine plan for a couple of hundred thousand children. Their act of contrition consisted in kneeling before a photograph, which falls rather short of the penalties imposed by the Church during the good old days; possibly one or two of the participants feared that public humiliation and corporal punishment would stir too many lower instincts and arouse too much priestly ... fervour. In any case the Father, having known from the beginning of time that the abuses would occur, and having lifted about as many fingers as He usually does, did not noticeably respond.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: Dentures ccvi-ccxlvii

As a result, nevertheless, the Father of Teeth was brought before the hanging judge. The courtroom was decked out in solemn pink and the hanging judge swung back and forth by his left ankle, his face upside-down and matching the draperies puce for puce. His jowls dangled about his ears, and his wig flapped amid the lawyers' wind with inexpressible dignity. Every so often, whenever the swinging slowed, the court usher would rise and give him a push.

"I am the hanging judge," proclaimed the hanging judge unnecessarily.
"Indeed," said the Father of Teeth. "Doubtless it helps your perspective, besides adding gravity to your demeanour."

In unison the lawyers hissed their disapproval at this indiscreet exposure, and the clerk of the court rose with great solemnity and struck the lines from the record with an elaborately carved wooden mallet.

"Might I inquire," said the Father of Teeth when the noise had sufficiently abated, and had itself been transcribed into the record, "as to the reason for my presence at this court?"
"It is not for the condemned to question due process," said the hanging judge, while the lawyers nodded so vigorously that the tendons in their necks could be heard cracking like lubricant under massage. "You are guilty of being blatantly present in this court," continued the hanging judge, "unto this very moment, hour and epoch. The fact of my addressing you would be all the proof required, even were the courtroom not pervaded to its uttermost crevice by the miasmatic toxicity of your halitosis."
"I didn't ask to be lugged here," said the Father of Teeth, with a nerve-wracking grin at the slightly chewed officers who had arrested him on suspicion.
"A considerable aggravation of your crime," said the hanging judge; "if you had requested trial and correction with due and penitential sincerity, your sentence might have been spared some of the more gratuitous flourishes."
"If my absence is all you require," said the Father of Teeth, "just turn me loose, and I shall be pleased to put this country behind me at the earliest opportunity."

At this the hanging judge laughed so hard that his upside-down face went from puce to royal purple. The rest of the court hastened to corroborate his hilarity, so that the clerk was unable to record each separate expression of amusement and was forced to summarise with a mirth-palsied hand.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," said the hanging judge, once the last gurgles had subsided. "Set free without punishment, perchance to repeat your crime? Where's the justice in that? Where the rehabilitation? Where the deterrence?"
"Where the fun," concurred the Father of Teeth. This was stricken from the record even more zealously than his previous impudence; thus the pronouncement of sentence was drowned in the noise and the impact of the mallet imparted a small eccentricity to the oscillations of the hanging judge.

"You're certain," said the Father of Teeth with dangerous pleasantness, "that I can't tempt you with my immediate disappearance, to return only when this realm and its laws have been eternally consigned to the dustbin of history, the oubliette of memory and the rectum of oblivion?"
"Our realm and its laws are based upon the eternal values of - "
"I'll take that as a no, then," said the Father of Teeth; and chewing his way through the dock in a shower of splinters, he leapt at the hanging judge and severed the rope with a snip of his incisors. The hanging judge descended in a purple pile, suffering considerable discomfort and suffocating the clerk of the court beneath his jowls. By the time order was restored, the Father of Teeth was nowhere to be found, and the record had been so thoroughly stricken that the matter was passed off without difficulty as an isolated incident involving a defective rope.

A Good Clean War

Patriots will rejoice, if they know what is good for them, that on the ever-decreasing list of functioning British institutions the hostile environment continues high. An inquest has found that an asylum seeker was pursued by half-trained, baton-swinging hirelings onto a carwash roof, from which he fell and sustained fatal injuries. The swarming horde in question, who had fled the kind of persecution Her Majesty's Government doesn't much care about, had somehow conceived the mistaken idea that he was about to be arrested and deported, despite the Home Office's long record of calm, rational and wholly non-racist reasonability on the subject. In response to the inquest jury's vexatious verdict, a spokesbeing for the Ministry of Wog Control oozed the usual expressions of regret and claims of lessons learned; by which it presumably meant that asylum seekers are henceforth to be chased to death by the Royal Navy, in the English Raw Sewage Disposal Channel where victory will turn out less messy.

Ethoxydiglycalamity

The ability of Britons to disguise their natural ugliness has been noticeably on the wane for several years, but until now the trend has for the most part been confined to the merely ethical. Now, thanks to the deception and cunning of the Heathen Chinee, there are threats to the very essence of our national superficiality. Rapid growth of the Chinese beauty industry has been cited as a reason for increased difficulty and expense in executing that precious alchemy by which members of the master race can exchange their dead-fish and gammon tints for something more woke. Clearly, the present disruption to the global supply chain can have consequences far beyond such trivial matters as food and fuel.

Targeted Censorship

Facebook, which allowed climate denialists, Brexiteers and Trumpsterites to squeal, accuse, incite and lie for years on end, has plucked up the courage to come down hard on an uppity black man. While planning to lift the Trumpster's ban more or less in time for the 2024 presidential campaign, Nick Clegg's surrogate Bullingdon Club removed a post by a Nobel peace laureate for inciting and supporting violence. The prime minister of Ethiopia had threatened to "bury" his government's opponents in Ethiopia's latest civil war; and Facebook evidently decided to take the time-honoured approach of the International Criminal Court, which prosecutes African gangsters while insouciantly winking at the peccadilloes of the English-speaking peoples.

Perilously Slanted

As every serious follower of nucular geopolitics is aware, there is no such thing as an enemy deterrent. Despite the recent formation of the Triple Alliance against the beastly French, the Heathen Chinee appear intent on challenging the United States, possibly over the issue of plucky little Formosa. Doubtless concern for democracy, and by no means the wish for a larger annual increase in the Pentagon budget, explains why the only power in history to use nuclear weapons against human beings is squealing like a pot-bellied pig in napalm because the arsenal of a lesser breed may, within the present still rather young decade, slope towards a size one-tenth of its own.

Decent Muslims, and the Other Sort

Although civilian casualties save British jobs, the extent to which they are a Good Thing depends very much on context. A major battle in the Yemen civil war has killed more than a hundred civilians over the past few weeks, but it appears that at least some of these were victims of Iran-backed violence, rather than potential economic migrants attempting to undermine Her Majesty's Government's plucky little efficiency savings in the aid budget. Nobody who cares about maintaining Albion's moral supremacy should fail to distinguish Whitehall's favourite fundamentalist head-choppers from the terroristic pawns of those mad mullahs who imprison British half-breeds on the evidence of Boris Johnson just because his government happens to owe them money.

Just Gas

There is no moral justification for making comparisons with Nazi atrocities, and the Archbishop of Canterbury has oozed an abject apology for presuming not only to invoke the Holocaust, but to invoke it against the very same entrepreneurial pluck and gumption that did so much to help the genocide along. In his original statement, the Archbishop went so far as to imply that the demise of civilisation through capitalism might produce a larger body count than the six million honorary proto-Zionists and the largely unmentioned other ranks who were murdered by the Nazis; and there, you know, lies the top of a slippery slope indeed. It would be an act of uttermost bad taste, for example, to compare the ranting racist demagoguery of Mr Churchill's great contemporary with the blathering racist inanity of Mr Churchill's postmodern sub-journalistic caricature. It would be sinful beyond sin to compare the Windrush policy of Justin Welby's sister in Christ, Theresa Mary May, to a hostile environment in which lesser breeds faced deportation on racial grounds. And to compare deliberate and industrialised mass murder with the moderate and sensible extinction of much of the human race, besides other and possibly more appealing species, in return for a timely profit, would be an infraction of the most ineluctable inexcusability.