Simple, Simone Says

With remarkable diplomatic tact, the head of EDF Energy has waited entire weeks after the year's fifth fatal heatwave to recommence touting the virtues of fossil fuels. As always, the solution to the climate catastrophe is to enable those primarily responsible for it to keep doing more of the same. It also stands to reason that locally sourced oil and gas are greener than the imported varieties, because the most harmful aspect of fossil fuels is famously transportation as opposed to extraction and consumption. Still, it would be unfair to label the head of EDF Energy as simply a salesman for oil and gas: he is also a shill for the blanched radioactive pachyderm at Hinkley Point C, which EDF Energy has been charitably described as building for nearly a decade and which is expected to remain in that euphemistic state for half a decade more at double the original cost. Alas, "it will take decades to wean off from that dependency," not because of anything EDF Energy and its cartel-mates might be doing or not doing, but simply because that is the way of the world.

Detectable Advantages

London's railway stations have been privileged to host the latest glorious manifestation of technological Britishness, namely the automation of witness unreliability. Six months and three hundred thousand in taxpaers' money were spent on a trial of surveillance equipment which scans faces for comparison against a police blacklist. The equipment recognised one single face, and did so incorrectly; hence the trial has been extended another four months and allowed to metastasize onto the Underground. Fortunately, Britain's leading liberal newspaper reports as a fact that the aim of the exercise is to help catch offenders and people breaching court orders; so the throwing of taxpayers' money at profit-making snooper companies must indubitably, as always, be purely secondary and entirely incidental.

Not Altogether Why We Fought

Patriots will no doubt rejoice to discover that, although British awareness of the Holocaust did not necessarily begin with Mr Churchill's personal liberation of Auschwitz, British values regarding the victims were about as robust as ever. Public sympathy for European Jews was duly balanced with legitimate and understandable concerns about shirking and black-marketeering; and when immigration restrictions were slightly eased after Kristallnacht hinted at what was to come, the mercies of the British state were confined to selected children. Roma, non-heterosexuals and other genuine Untermenschen were doubtless as common-sensically forgotten at the time as the sufferings and sacrifices of the Communist hordes are patriotically elided today.

Lourdes, Art Thou Not Worthy to Receive Me

While visiting France amid the Church of Rome's customary trappings of poverty and humility, the Pope has once more called for a healing of the church's "deep wounds, infidelities and painful errors." Apparently we are to hope that the recovery process will be aided by the absence among these afflictions of crimes and sins. His Holiness is due to meet a handful of those whom various soldiers of Christ treated as spoils of war; although at least one survivors' group has already complained that the delegates have been "carefully selected" by the church, presumably in order to avoid tainting divine justice with the merely human variety and its inconvenient lust for compensation. It may not be entirely irrelevant that the Pope's words were delivered at Lourdes, which is reputed, no doubt reliably, as a place of healing; and that his prescription was to "humbly place ourselves under the Lord’s purifying gaze" - that same Lord who gazed down from His heavenly throne upon each and every abuse, and decreed that each and every one of them should go ahead as He had planned since the beginning of time.

Doubtful Thomas

Having spent so much time and effort protecting their realm from the perils of science and history, the Trumpster and his head-tribble will be relieved that an embarrassing document penned by a Founding Father is about to be auctioned off. The document is a letter from Thomas Jefferson, a slave-owner who compromised his admirably anti-woke domestic arrangements by dabbling in philosophy and by mixing his Christianity with rationalism instead of nationalism. It seems that his correspondence further tarnishes his reputation by advocating peace abroad and fiscal responsibility at home, in defiance of all that made America great aforetimes. Though privately owned, Jefferson's letter has also subverted American values by having itself displayed at a place of education; it is now to be sold for an estimated hundred and forty-two and a half thousand portraits of its writer, and patriots will presumably be hoping for its rapid disappearance into some collector's trophy hoard.

Your Gravy Train is Buffering

The nation's greatest infoslop emporium appears to have developed a certain Britishness about its completion schedule. Initiated as part of Team Starmer's dash for data and boosted as oven-ready for 2027, the project thus far amounts to the promises of some people who value themselves at a modest twenty-six thousand million sterling, and an empty scaffolding yard. A further three hundred and fourteen infoslop emporia are waiting in line, and it is estimated that their energy consumption will amount to a hundred and sixty per cent of the peak demand for the entire country; so the National Grid will need some time to adjust its priorities and get the little people accustomed to the blackouts and the bills. Doubtless the discombobulation of the beastly Russians and the Heathen Chinee will make it all worth while at some point.

Coming Soon

Patriotic Deflation

In an instance of knife crime which even critics of Sadiq Khan may be inclined to tolerate if not to condone, a soul-mate of the Dover and Portsmouth Blackshirts has done his bit for Britain by stabbing a dinghy. The hero, whose nom de voyou is rather less imaginative than that of the Reverend Tommyrot Yaxleyson, penetrated a boatful of life-jackets while creating some educational video content, and then scurried away with his chums when a rescue worker appeared. The footage doesn't show what happened to the rescue worker, and Britain's leading liberal newspaper evidently did not think the question worth pursuing. No doubt this was natural enough, since a government spokesbeing was available to provide a quote and proved far too busy assuaging the legitimate and understandable concerns of the Blackshirts to concern itself about the endangerment at sea of mere rescuers.

Parental Warmth

If more enthusiastic action is not taken to mitigate the climate catastrophe (spoiler: it won't be), the children of today's European breeders will be able to thank their parents' optimism for an extra five years of exposure to wildfire-friendly weather, as compared with the generation that found out about the climate catastrophe and decided to help it along. Fortunately, wildfires are not the sole likely effect; so those who don't burn will have the options of drowning, destitution, starvation, thirst, the violence of those more entrepreneurial than themselves, and a doubtless impressive array of formerly tropical diseases, in accordance with that freedom of choice for which their progenitors have consistently voted. It is of course a natural and normal aspect of family values for each generation to revenge itself upon the one that will supplant it, as the Victorians did in 1914 and the veterans did in 1939; but few generations can have exacted such total retribution as the boomers.

His Glorious Body

While the effects of Donskoy's digits and Sasha's samples are yet to be noticeably felt in Tsar Vladimir's holy war, some other sacred relics appear to have brought about a salutary transformation in Bristol. By long-standing tradition, spirit outranks flesh in Western Christianity to very nearly the same extent as riches in Heaven outweigh worldly lucre; hence there are taboos against moving dead flesh once it has been properly mumbled over, except in exceptional circumstances such as when His Most Christian Majesty King Charles II had Oliver Cromwell's bones dug up so he could play with them for a bit. At Bristol the remains of the well-known local entrepreneur, wealth creator and graven image Edward Colston currently repose in a disused church which, mirabile dictu, may soon be repurposed as a place of truth-telling; so perhaps those idolatrous Orthodox infidels have a point after all.

Strange Historical Blind Spot

Various beneficiaries of Imperial largesse in the Caribbean have drawn up an action plan with prongs to stab yet deeper at the ghastly, gaping wound of post-colonial ingratitude. With their characteristic bias towards the negative, claimants for reparations over the transatlantic work ethic have pointed out that Jamaica became independent with illiteracy levels approaching those which the tech-bros and their minions would now like to impose upon the remainder of the species; while tendentiously whitewashing from history the three centuries during which the most well-meaning empire on earth confined the burdens of education to the grown-ups. With similarly flawed moral insight, Britain's refusal of reparations to former colonies is contrasted with the payments extended to the Jewish community after the Holocaust, and even with the compensation paid to slave-owners when the institution was so gloriously and boastably abolished; as if the recipients in both of those cases had hardly been white Europeans at all.

Royaume-Uni: nul points

Parliamentarians with the necessary spare time and cultural depth are poised to inquire into the nation's performances at the Eurovision song contest, which apparently have been letting the side down since the millennium. After a suitable and no doubt scrupulously proportionate expenditure of the taxpayer's time and money, judgement will eventually be passed on whose fault it all is. Should anyone in the realm be concerned about the state and future of British lierature, film, theatre, opera or broadcasting, they will doubtless be reassured that the House of Expenses Claimants' Committee for Tech-bros, Cultchah, Meedjah and Rah-rah has nothing more important to worry about than results in a campy international game show.

Hitting the Right Targets

New evidence of grown-upness in Team Starmer's foreign policy has emerged with the release of figures showing that the latest British decencies in the international aid budget primarily affected the poorest countries. If one wishes an effective use of welfare that isn't going to tech-bro squillionaires or water provision profiteers, it is clearly far better to enable the transfer of expendable populations from poverty into desperation and from desperation into starvation. More deaths will mean fewer refugees; and since efficient and economical military procurement is against the national religion, it will be so much the better if the surviving refugees are sufficiently emaciated for Britain's plucky little servicepersons to deal with in a fair fight.

Oh, the Injustice of it All

Whether through their own innate depravity or the subtlety and cunning of the Heathen Chinee, the beastly Euro-wogs are once more threatening to act as if the United Kingdom of Westminster, the Provinces and the Celts were no longer in charge of the European Union. Trade legislation intended to protect European markets against the yellow peril may also incidentally affect the mainland: a possibility that comes dangerously close to implying not only that Britain is a third country but also that its economy is no better than China's. So gross and blatant is the Strasbrussels dictatorship's diplomatic gaffe that Britain may yet flounce out of the talks about modifying the terms on which it flounced out of Europe. That will show them.

Oh, the Unfairness of it All

Questions (or, in Standard English, squeals of righteous indignation) are likely to emerge from Strasbrussels allies and the United Kingdom over the possibility of a unique alliance between Canada and the sovereignty-stealing Euro-wogs. Doubtless owing to the notorious French taint in their breeding stock, the Canadians may yet accept their servitude in preference to liberation by the empire of the head-tribble. Conversely, Britain's famous instinct for fair play will be roused to new heights of self-pity by the underhanded Euro-wog trick of inducing an English-speaking people to risk expulsion from the Commonwealth of Nations, despite their never having flounced out of the EU and despite their being as yet relatively unlikely to allow the shaping of their national policy by the Farage Falange.

Strange Tastes, Alien Values

State propagandists among the Heathen Chinee have very cunningly and insidiously insinuated real-world events into a TV thriller, without scrupling to put their own particular slant on the story. A series co-produced by the security ministry has had the effrontery to portray plucky little Formosa as an adversary, while gratuitously disregarding the famously objective image of the Heathen Chinee habitually promulgated by agents of public enlightenment in the West. Clearly the national mythography of that benighted culture has much catching-up to do before it can rival the historical honesty and moral sophistication of James Bond or cowboys and Indigenous.

Our Powers of Nuance Elude Them

It's all very laudable for the lesser breeds to adopt civilised values, but problems can still arise from forcing fine British wine into shoddy foreign bottles. Despite our shared Nordic heritage, Sweden's attempt at a hostile environment seems to have been taken to an undesirable extreme, causing large numbers of British residents to be treated with the kind of contempt which the mainland's Ministry for Wog Disposal habitually reserves for actual wogs. Evidently the declaration of independence from the Strasbrussels dictatorship failed to make sufficiently clear the vital distinction between British expats and foreign migrants.

Burning to Serve

One of the major contributors to the Grenfell disaster has accepted the very British penance of a new job in the public housing sector at a salary of a hundred and fifty thousand a year. As director of housing at the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, Laura Johnson pushed for cheap renovations and delayed the installation of fire safety measures; the fact that she presumably did so in order to save her employers money was doubtless the main, if not the sole, necessary qualification for her new role. It remains as yet unclear whether the nation's free and fearless Press have any plans to hound her to the grave like a Cambridge academic; happily, such zealous pursuit of justice may prove unnecessary, given that the survivors and the bereaved are still busy luxuriating in all those thoughts and prayers.

Too Much Leg

Among the advantages of living on the global side of the Irish border is apparently the right of schools to impose Victorian dress codes on female pupils. Alas, such decencies will soon be a thing of the past, as the Northern Ireland education minister has slackened so far as to legislate for girls to have the right of transsexualising the garments on their lower extremities. The minister is a member of the Diehard Ulster Protestant party, so the backsliding has no doubt been a painful one; and his Calvary will only grow harsher with posterity's inevitable linkage of his name to flared jeans in deportment class and fluorescent rock-and-roll hotpants during prayers.

From Sorrow to Joy

O rah for the tumbled twin towers
That fell twenty-five years this day,
And brought us emergency powers
To steer things our own godly way.

O rah for the forces of terror,
Who started the terrorist war
That made decent folk see the error
In granting due process of law.

O rah for the many demises,
A bounty not all statesmen win:
Near three thousand lottery prizes
For Business and War to cash in.

O rah for all freedomised masses
Who frolic on Middle East sands,
And all petro-profit that passes
Now freely into the right hands.

O rah for that spur to the nation
From which we have all done so well:
Three cheers for our civilisation!
Rah rah for the towers that fell!

Missy Cumplish

A Helping Hand

Having expended nearly half a decade's worth of thoughts and prayers upon Tsar Vladimir's crusade, and elicited the Deity's usual resounding response, the Russian Orthodox Church has decided that more practical measures are called for. Accordingly, it has dug up the remains of a fourteenth-century warlord revered for defeating the local equivalent of the Yellow Peril, and has conveyed a portion of his anatomy to the fighting front. Some bits and pieces of Alexander Nevsky, whose earlier defeat of the Teutonic Knights rescued Holy Russia from revering biological specimens from the wrong sort of people, were apparently also deployed a few months ago, doubtless to equally salutary effect.

Please Target Your Lynchings Appropriately

Patriotic Christian values continue to make themselves felt thanks to the unofficial militia of the Farage Falange, who now stand ready to defend our shores from the depredations of both the Royal National Lifeboat Institution and junior international sport. While cadres across Dorset harass lifeboat volunteers for the crime of rescuing people without first racially profiling them, the Portsmouth Blackshirts have tried for a bit of Paki-bashing by besieging a hotel under the impression that an under-21 cricket team was a swarming horde of asylum seekers. Fortunately a subcaudillo from the political wing recognised their legitimate and understandable concerns while blaming society at large ("the climate we live in") and noting, among other mitigating circumstances, that buses can be hard to tell apart when they happen to be full of wogs.

Regrettable But Necessary

In history's tomb are not laid
Old England's traditions of trade;
And thus when we force
The wog from our shores,
There's yet some exchange to be made.

Our decency never shall fade;
We've no lust to harm or degrade.
Our resolve never limps,
And so kicking the gimps
Is merely the price to be paid.

Nunter Bargie

Weak Solution

No moderate or sensible grown-up would deny that one of the major stakeholders in any process of accountability is the entity being held to account. Without the scamster there would be no scam, and the very concept of regulation itself would thus be cast into doubt. It is therefore only moderate and sensible of His Majesty's Government to begin the process of regulating moisture provision profiteers by consulting the moisture provision profiteers themselves. Responding to accusations of a stitch-up from the usual malcontents, a spokesbeing clarified that the consultation was only about the practicalities, such as when it would be convenient for bonus claimants to grace a meeting with their presence and what sort of lead-in time would be required for an action plan to receive the necessary admixture of executive effluvium and semantic sewage. Clearly, the idea that moisture provision profiteers should have meetings or action plans imposed upon them by the very people to whom they are accountable would mean taking regulation to impermissible extremes of impracticability.

Peaceful Patriotism Properly Policed

Following the blackshirt protests at Dover, Labour party figures have been making the usual moderate and sensible noises. The Minister for Corporate Lobbyists conceded that peaceful protest is an "essential part of British life," but implied that those who dress up and disrupt the locals might be in danger of verging on the foreign. The relevant parliamentary expenses claimant, while also acknowledging the disruption, was careful to say that the blackshirts might well have been Not Racist But with legitimate and understandable concerns; and he also wondered why the police had not Done More, given the opportunities for arrests over the obstruction of public highways and the brazen flaunting of quasi-burqa face-gear in a designated protest area. In fact there were no arrests at all during the incident; presumably because the police had reasonable doubts as to how many of the protesters were supporters of Palestine Action.

They Just Aren't Like Us

With their accustomed insidious cunning, the Heathen Chinee have responded to the increased risk of oil shortages by artificially reducing their dependence on oil. Rejecting the efficient, liberal-democratic expedient of wiping the mad mullahs off the map and renaming the Strait of Hormuz, the threateners of plucky little Formosa have undermined the oil market by reducing their imports, thereby stabilising global prices for their own subtle and fiendish ends. They have also set themselves up as the world's largest exporter of wind turbines, solar panels and electric vehicles, in defiance of Western interests, market forces and all other manifestations of common decency. There is surely little vestige of British and civilised values in a régime that sneaks away from gratuitous economic damage by actively attempting to avoid any circumstances which make it more likely to occur.

Flat Earthers

Unelected cartocrats at the United Nations are seeking to subvert the very layout of the globe, as depicted since the sixteenth century via the Mercator projection. Although only a Belgian, Mercator was sufficiently objective to place Great Britain at the centre of the world and inflate the country's physical size to approximate its moral status. No such refinement of scruple afflicts the beastly Togolese, who are leading an African insurrection in favour of woke materialistic maps reflecting, of all things, mere crude physical facts. For the moment the agitation is confined to matters of scale, so there is as yet no suggestion that the Greenwich meanland should be dislodged from its central position; but one can never tell where things will end once the proper perspective has been abandoned.

Cleopatra's Proboscis

Rare and exotic indeed is the migrant swarm which can gladden the stout heart of your true British patriot; particularly when the migrants in question compound the sin of foreignness with the subversiveness of fecundity. Nevertheless, one such prodigy has appeared in the shape of Aedes aegypti, a tropical mosquito whose London population now includes several happy couples. The species is a vector for various diseases whose resurgence will undoubtedly bring back happy memories of the good old days when all that was needed to conquer the world was pluck, a dose of quinine and a pith hat. More fortunately still, the territories once conquered and civilised by those staunch Britannic innovations may soon be made uninhabitable by the very same climate calamity which has wafted the inspiring invertebrates to our shores; so we shall be spared the trouble and expense of civilising them all over again.

Dirt Cheap

Given the Trumpster's profound and personal love of slinging mud, it's hardly surprising that the régime has responded with less than spectacular alacrity to the Deity's messy little prank in Nepal. An initial contribution amounting to about one-thirtieth the cost of botching some pool repairs has been grudgingly increased, but that has not prevented mere experts carping that the response might have been more effective had USAID not been efficientised into nonexistence last year. One pointed out the inadvisability of allowing India and China to lead relief efforts on their own borders, while another proclaimed that the US monarchy had committed a public-relations gaffe in specifying the pittance it was providing; so at least everyone seems to be on the same page as regards the basic human values involved.

Weak British Trees in Strong Foreign Breeze

Those staunch English patriots who rhapsodise about their countryside while taking a laissez-faire attitude towards the climate catastrophe may have some interesting times in store. Native species of trees are increasingly at risk from an increasingly hostile environment; and it is far from clear whether giving the corporate squillionaires yet more of their own way would do much to restore the situation. Of course the corporal punishment fetishists can always find a substitute for birch, and the old oak's Englishness would arguably be enhanced were it to become an exotic and overpriced species which could only put down roots in the most artificial and pampered of circumstances; but one wonders if the patriots really will find it altogether jolly when their green and pleasant land is finally overrun with bamboo, baobab and banana. In the face of such a change, even the time-hallowed solution of blaming the woke and the wogs might not prove a sufficient comsolation.