To London for much too brief a visit: a marriage, lunch with Commodore Tim Hoare, and a look-see for a house. Yes, I am returning to live in London, but under one condition. It’s called Corbyn, and if he comes in, I’ll stay away. It’s rather cowardly, I know, but I did live in London during the closed shops of the early 1970s. I experienced the joys of the three-day week, the uncollected rubbish, the hospitals without electricity, and the unions exercising power over the government until a certain Margaret Thatcher put a stop to it.
I find it hard to understand how people can root for Labour when the party is now openly a communist one. But its friends at the BBC and other channels, and in other parts of the media, pretend otherwise. Back in the 1970s, patriotic Brits such as David Stirling were thinking of mounting a coup to save the nation from going Stalinist. Maggie took care of that, but where’s our Maggie now? Mother Theresa won’t cut it. The irony, of course, is that the usual suspects were pro-Soviet back then, and are very anti-Russian now. Go figure, as gents are not supposed to say. They’re also not supposed to say ‘Fuggedaboutit’ but they should forget about any investment in the UK as long as Labour is about to nationalise everything except for the poor little Greek boy, who will be staying away. I think it goes beyond recklessness on the part of the media not to point this out. By the time they do, it will be too late. Marxist Britain will not be a pretty picture. At least Venezuela has a better climate, as does Nicaragua. And Cuba.
Another irony is that if Corbyn does get in, Brexit will work to perfection: everyone who can leave Britain will do so. I suggest Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Toulouse, Budapest, Krakow, Warsaw, the Ticino area of Switzerland, Lake Como, Athens, the Peloponnese and any Greek island, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Texas, Montana and Wyoming. Even Florida will do. Then let Welby, Corbyn and McDonnell extort those left behind, like the hysterically screaming ninnies that are always in the news hogging the headlines. When penury hits Britain, as it has Venezuela, what will those smug and envious arseholes in the media have to say? ‘How did this come about?’ they’ll scream, and from the vantage point of my chalet or yacht I shall answer them: ‘With your help, arseholes!’
The young are the biggest fools of all, needless to say. They are unable to see through their fogged-up brain and their hand-held contraptions that Labour is taking their future down the Swanee while they’re busy jeering at Tories and the great Jacob Rees-Mogg. So I say: screw ’em. If they’re too stupid to see what is being prepared for them, then let them eat cake while they can. They are not alone. In America, a hazy, totally uncorroborated 36-year-old assault allegation by a woman who had been well rehearsed yet was unable to marshal any evidence, even from friends who were present, is now a stain on the name of Judge Kavanaugh. He will never recover from it thanks to the disgusting Senator Schumer from Noo Yawk and the New Yorker magazine, now the leading smear publication in America, along with the New York Times, CNBC and CNN.
So I have a question for you, dear readers: how would the writers of that sleazy magazine the New Yorker like it if I were to hit them with an uncorroborated accusation, but one which I believe to be true: my word against theirs and I’m sticking to it, just as they stuck, without any further proof whatsoever, to their stories about the judge. I wonder how they would take to being on the receiving end for a change?
The one who needs a change is the poor little Greek boy, and I got one when I assisted in my friend Simon Reader’s wedding last week in London. He married the beautiful Monica, from San Clemente, and the celebrations were long and liquid. The ceremony took place in the Old Marylebone Town Hall, because Simon and his family did not wish to be lectured to by some lefty Anglican vicar about the evils of capitalism or of having been raised in South Africa. (Nice going, Church of England. Soon you will fill your churches by giving free food to the starving poor from the Corbyn experiment.) For one brief moment I thought I spotted Jacob Zuma, the ex-president of South Africa, trying to charge fellow tourists to take a picture with him — there were no takers — but I was wrong. It was a Robert Mugabe lookalike. After a brief but very touching ceremony, we were bussed down to the Four Seasons where we partied until dawn. Regular readers know the love I have for South Africans, but rarely have I met so many tall, good-looking men and women as nice as the ones I spent last Saturday night with. And I even got engaged to Stephanie, who is in her twenties and from Cape Town. Brexiteers should all move down there.