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.