Bad Theology

Text for today: II Chronicles 36 xi-xxi

King Zedekiah incurs God's displeasure by refusing to grovel before either the prophet Jeremiah or King Nebuchadnezzar, and by letting his officers and people fall into filthy foreign habits. Unable to prevent them polluting His house, mocking His messengers and scoffing at His prophets, God employs the king of the Chaldeans to destroy Jerusalem and kill or carry off to Babylon all of His chosen people.

Beyond Zedekiah's sins of independence and tolerance, neither easily forgivable by the Father, we are told that he hardened his heart; which naturally incurs God's wrath as it usurps His divine prerogative. Although God has considerable experience in hardening hearts, it appears that for all His omnipotence He has considerable difficulty in softening them; even His Son, for all His protestations of love and forgiveness, could never long refrain from hurling threats of fire and brimstone.

Enraged by His impotence before His adopted children, God employs the king of the Chaldeans to punish them. Besides humbling the master race, the Chaldeans are allowed to loot the baubles in the house of God and rob the priests of their worldly treasures, exactly as King Zedekiah and his followers had done. The self-evident moral difference is that the Chaldeans do so in order to fulfil the prophecies of Jeremiah, while Zedekiah and his people do so because of the unauthorised hardening of their hearts.

Pizza in the Sky

Since the beastly Euro-wogs look set to persist in their mean-spirited refusal to do as Britain tells them, the Cummings administration has been forced to go global in its search for a satellite navigation system of the requisite Britishness. Plans, if that is the word I want, were announced by Tumbledown Tessie two years ago in case the need should arise for a more insular alternative to the Euro-wogs' Galileo project, which is named after one of Winston Churchill's numerous inferiors; and so far ministers have managed to find a British operator so efficient that it went bankrupt in March. The company has promised with no fingers crossed to relocate production to Britain from its present haven in Florida should the Government make it worthwhile; and in the unlikely event that this doesn't work out, the aforesaid ministers will doubtless have contingency plans involving companies which have no experience of manufacturing satellite navigation systems but whose expenses the great British taxpayer would consider it a privilege to cover and who are frightfully keen.

Dying by Numbers

British patriots and respecters of our island heritage will be thanking the national goodness for our lack of institutional racism, given that black men on the island of England and Wales are three times more likely than white men to die from the coronavirus, or four times more likely if young children and men aged sixty-five and older aren't counted. White males are also safer than those from the Raj; and there are smaller but significant differences between the chances of white and non-white women. Even more reassuringly, there are also divergences in the death rates for religious groups: after suspected terrorists the greatest losses are among Jewish men, doubtless thanks to the entire absence of antisemitism in the governing party. People whose daily activities are seriously limited by a disability are also twice as likely to die; though fortunately, according to Britain's leading liberal newspaper, only as an afterthought.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Her Majeſty's most loyal and undiſputed Government, that Delight of the Virtuous, that Rewarder of Patriotiſm, that Liberator of the Seas, Champion of Commerce, Breeder of Heroes and ſporting Chaſtiſer of the ravening migrant Horde, hath merited the Favour of Heaven and the Gratitude of a redeemed Population by reſtoring to our worſhipful Realm her eternal Privilege of Freedom. Although a few Details remain to be conſidered, ſuch as the Dates and Conditions of the Implementation and ſuchlike Scrivener's Fodder, our noble Prime Miniſter hath ſtated upon the Honour of his luminous unblotted Eſcutcheon that the Nation's full Birth-right will almoſt certainly be reſtored during ſome future Period in accordance with the Demands of Piety, the Computations of Expedience and the irreſiſtible Compulſions of political Inſpiration and perſonal Convenience. Our taking of the Blows of Fate upon the Chin of National Unity hath borne Fruit, in that many of the more expendable Juveniles have returned to their Labours, for I hear tell that Chimneys are being ſwept again in certain Boroughs, although my Lord Splyce-Chyldebryde continues to complain that he ſtill cannot find a living Whore beneath the Age of ſixteen Years and muſt continue to ſlake his Appetites upon chilled Meat at the Prince's Aſylum for Foundlings. There is Speculation alſo that the abſurd and inconvenient Rules of Diſtance may ſoon be relaxed, to the ineffable Improvement of all ſocial Intercourſe and the Greening of our luſty Britiſh Phlegm.

Passport Blues

The benefits of taking back control will soon be felt good and hard among the expendables of Gateshead, where the apparently indigenous though rather froggily-named company in charge of manufacturing passports and banknotes is halting production of the former. In the interests of patriotism, Her Majesty's Government has handed the contract for churning out the Recrudescent Imperium's passports to the beastly Euro-wogs, which means possible redundancy for a couple of hundred plucky little Brits. Fortunately they are only northerners, so nobody will mind very much; and the shareholders will reap the profits from forging the realm's new £50 notes, although it remains as yet unclear whether the featured celebrity portrait will be that of Dominic Cummings or Edward Colston.

Eugenic Redistribution

Three of the people, if people is the word I want, who have done most to reduce Britain's standing in the world are joined in virtuous harmony against the Cummings administration for adding the finishing touches to their work. The Government's international aid budget is to be placed at the disposal of the Foreign and Colonial Office, apparently on the grounds that too much money is being spent on wogs and not enough on whites: "We give as much aid to Zambia as we do to Ukraine, though the latter is vital for European security," frothed Cummings' personal assistant, evidently with thoughts of reviving the Eastern Question: "We give ten times as much aid to Tanzania as we do to the six countries of the western Balkans, who are acutely vulnerable to Russian meddling." Since the national religious orthodoxy has declared British meddling an oxymoron, the formalised use of overseas aid as a rubric for boosting the commercial concerns of Conservative Party donors is open to criticism, in the opinion of the Reverend Blair and the Brown interregnum and the glistening pink Head Boy, because it will lose us the esteem of the lesser breeds even as we bask in the chlorine-perfumed favour of the Trumpster and his hydrophobic head-tribble.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

I fear that our noble Prime Miniſter continues moſt imprudent in the chooſing of his Adviſers, and thereby ſuffers his greateſt Strokes of Stateſmanſhip to remain ſubject to moſt ruinous Interference. To-day's Decree of Permiſsion for the Opening of ineſsential Shoppes is one ſuch regrettable Caſe, though in the effortleſs Sublimity of its Intention and the effulgent Limpidity of its Phraſing, there ſurely are the Marks of our great Leader's buſy Hand, as robuſt and ſubtly coloured as the Daubs of alcoholick Regurgitation upon the Petticoats of his Whore. And beſides the long anticipated Acknowledgement that the Peſtilence must yield to Market Forces, moſt welcome is the Poſsibility that the Rule of diſtancing may ſoon be relaxed, as this will enable the Servants who perform my more gluteal houſehold Services to reſume the regular Uſage of the ſhorter handled Paddles. Mr Wyde-Wyndpype who is by way of becoming quite the Natural Philoſopher, hath told me, that longer Inſtruments muſt produce a more ſalutary Effect thanks to the Gain in Leverage, but my Eton Sculls are too cumberſome even for the burlieſt Houſe-ſervants, and I fear the Gardeners might lack the neceſsary Delicacy of Touch. Surely the Abſtractions of mere ſcientifick Theory muſt ever pale and tremble when up againſt the ſolid Practicality of a Pair of manly Buttocks.

None the leſs, putting behind us for one Moment the healthy Purſuits of refined and educated Britiſh Manhood, the Awe-inſspiring Nobility of to-day's Decree is horribly marred by the ungodly Impiouſneſs of its Language and the hideous Blaſphemy of its Implications. For what is this vile and perverſe Conception of an ineſsential Shoppe ſave a crude and ſcarcely veiled Attack upon the Liberty of the Market-place, which teacheth onlie the Flexibilty of the Work-force alone? To proclaim the Doctrine of an ineſsential Shoppe is to propagate the monſtrous Poſsibility that an Eſtabliſhment may ſomehow poſseſs a leſser Importance in the Sight of God than the Perſonnel who ſerve therein, and from this Argument, as we know, proceedeth our whole Trouble with anarchiſtick Peaſants and uppity Negroes. I have written ſome Dozens of Times to-day to inform the Prime Miniſter upon this Point, in Connection with my ſeverall Offers to ſerve as Home Secretary.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: II Bicuspid cxxvii-clxiii

On a whim, the Father of Teeth nevertheless approached one of the small, dusty boxes and plugged in the antiquated communicator. Reception was bad and the signal crackled and crunched like molars being chewed by other molars, but the Father of Teeth banged with his fist on the box's lid, adding further dents and sending clouds of dust fleeing in search of a cleaner neighbourhood. The interference faded and a sleepy voice said, "Yes?"
"You are, as I understand, the bulbous and blue-rinsed chairbeing of the Campaign Against Virtual Experience," said the Father of Teeth.
"I am," said the voice from the box. "I have been so for twenty years, and shall remain so for as long as body and breath endure."
"And yet here you are," said the Father of Teeth, "holding converse in your sleep - it is night where you are, I believe?"
"Of course it is night," said the voice from the box, with asperity. "Do you imagine I can spare time during the day for this sort of thing?"
"Holding converse in your sleep," continued the Father of Teeth, "with a phantom voice that knows your future and offers you strange bargains. What behaviour is that for a person of your station?"
"The Campaign Against Virtual Environments has never campaigned against dreams," said the voice from the box. "Dreams are a natural phenomenon, and the Campaign is concerned only with abolishing video games, recreational drugs, immoral literature and all other unnatural and artificial methods by which reality is distorted and the nation's vitality sapped."
"You have achieved great things, no doubt," said the Father of Teeth.
"Indeed we have," said the voice from the box. "We have compulsorised censorship in seven counties, we have twice beaten off the masturbation epidemic, and we have put back the development of artificial intelligence by a decade or more. Reality is safe in our hands, and it is only by action in reality that our lives attain meaning."
"And that, of course," said the Father of Teeth, "you would never feel inclined to trade - not even for a better meaning?"
"Give up the meaning of my life?" said the voice from the box. "Betray my principles and abandon the truth? The very question is an insult."
"I spoke of bargains," said the Father of Teeth. "Your reality is about to change considerably: you are scheduled for demotion, public disgrace, a painful and humiliating illness, and the traumatically abrupt discovery that your youngest daughter is a masturbator, a games designer and a writer of questionable literature involving polyamorous transgender orcs. Would you care to reconsider?"
"What do you mean, public disgrace?" demanded the voice from the box. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Past sins will be edited in," said the Father of Teeth. "But there is no need for you to suffer any of it. Suppose you could enter a different reality, with a happier future - a reality otherwise identical to the one you inhabit now, or better if you like; I'm sure we could see our way to some other small yet meaningful improvements. Clear an artery here, deflate a haemorrhoid there..."
"Absolutely not," said the voice from the box.
"You wouldn't even need to feel guilt about your choice," said the Father of Teeth; "you wouldn't remember this conversation any more than you remember being conceived."
"Leave my family out of this," said the voice from the box. "And regardless of your blandishments and threats, I will never give up the truth, no matter how painful, for a mere pleasant delusion."
"It's your choice, more or less," said the Father of Teeth; and unplugging the communicator he flicked the fate-switches as scheduled and left the bulbous and blue-rinsed chairbeing of the Campaign Against Virtual Environments secure in her virtuous reality and blithely unaware of the twenty-six million, twenty-one thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight preceding occasions on which she had eventually accepted his offer.

Garden Gnomes

Say what you like about the pandemic, but it cannot be denied that a brief surgical glimmer has been thrown across one or two of the more obtrusive national idiocies; while others have had to be shelved altogether, or at least reduced to a scale more in keeping with our increasingly tiny and buffoonish role in the world. Hence the noisy Ruritanian rah-rah that is the trooping of the colour, which marks the day when all subjects of the Queen - master race, sepoys and and piccaninnies alike - are invited to join in reverent worship of fair play, family values and good clean fun, has been replaced with a sad little parade on one of Her Madge Gawblesser's lawns. The participants were soldiers of the Welsh Guards, who were recently staffing virus testing centres but have evidently been assigned to more heroic duties.

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

I have it on reliable Report, that a virtuous and noble Gentleman of Dorſet hath been forced into Hiding becauſe of ſundry Threats and Animadverſions by ſome rude baſe Fellowes who recogniſe no Rule of Diſcipline nor Duty to God or to the Queen. Even as the Blacke Death of olden Times ſo depleted the Peaſantry, that many were ſeduced by malicious Agitators into unnatural Revolt againſt their Betters, ſo it appears that the preſent Peſtilence may yet have the graveſt Conſequences for the Stability of our great Nation, whoſe Conſiſtency of entrepreneurial Virtue and manly Vigour deſpite a thouſand Years of inſidious Sappage by migratory Hordes can be ſcientifically explained onlie by the Miracle of Divine Favour. Though not aſpiring to the high Morals and exalted ſocial Status of a Trafficker in Sugar and Negroes, the aforementioned harraſsed Gentleman is famed for his Dedication to the Improvement of the Britiſh Race and his unſwerving Commitment to the Battle againſt Sodomy, the which he hath faithfully purſued over many Years by dreſsing up ſmall Boys in ſoldierly Coſtume and teaching them handy Tricks.