WHAT a week. It all started so sweetly with the PM’s nuptials and the reception in the Rose Garden. Then it quickly became a dystopian nightmare when I was detained by the “Friends of Carrie” and subjected to three days of rather rough and unusual inquiry. Had I been the subject of the leak, revealing intimate details of her wedding plans?
Fortunately, I was able to extricate myself from their clammy clutches by hinting about the existence of a rather intimate picture of Viscount Tempest-Vane-Rogering and a tethered goat at one of Carrie’s Wicca Dee party nights.
Three other advisers accused of the indiscretion weren’t so lucky. Unable to provide satisfactory explanations they were all assumed to have been guilty and haven’t been heard from since.
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Algy at the Joint Chiefs reports that that they were taken downstairs to the Downing Street dungeon and fed, one by one, to the ravenous old vampire, Lady Thatcher. The military boffins are developing Mrs T’s undead powers and those of other old, half-deceased Tories to use as a conventional weapon resource as we seek new ways of renewable warfare.
First though, a few words about the wedding and reception. Father Stanislaus conducted the nuptials after he had “had a word” with Fr Humphrys.
I fear we may have a problem with Fr Stanislaus which will have to be dealt with sooner rather than later. No one can be sure when he entered Carrie’s orbit. Alarmingly, a secret cache of photographs held by MI6 and dating back to 1917 show a chap bearing a startling resemblance to him, complete with long beard and staring eyes, along with various members of Russia’s tragic royal family.
Some dreary old ecclesiastical types have been complaining about why the PM – a double divorcee – was granted leave by Rome to have a Catholic wedding.
Why are people so naïve? I mean; how do you think the Catholic aristocracy of Europe have shagged, burnt and tortured their way across the continent for many centuries and been rewarded for it by Rome? It’s all about the Mesapotamia Concordat concluded in 1379 which dictates that 10% of any land, treasures or concubines – a kind of “sin tax” – be made over to the Vatican in return for a papal indulgence.
Rome justifies this by saying it uses the goods to fund schools in Malawi, the African nation of choice for western politicians who want fast-tracked to an official gong. In the PM’s case, all it took was an impudent, and rather tidy Titian from the Queen’s private collection and a seventh century carved bowl from the Tang Dynasty which the Vatican curators have been eyeing for quite some time.
As ever with the PM and Monsignor Rees-Mogg who acts as his Catholic instructor, there is a longer-term strategy surrounding his new-found allegiance to Rome.
After a few large Margaritas Boris always becomes rather indiscreet. “Um, let’s just say that, um, I’ve had a chat with His um Royal Pontiffness. He says he’ll be issuing one of his ah, papal inshibbalibles (hic … easy for, hic, you to say, old boy) making it a mortal sin for Scottish Catholics to vote for independence. I’ve, um, promised to um, see what I can do about the Act of Settlement.”
At this he tried to tap his nose extravagantly and promptly fell into the chocolate fountain.
Elsewhere, Dopey Williamson almost threw a strop when he didn’t win the pass-the-parcel and musical chairs he’d been allowed to organise.
“It’s not fair,” he complained to Carrie, who’d promised to let Tim Martin win in return for all the free beer.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the garden, Scary Patel was organising a game of Russian Roulette involving live bullets with assorted junior advisers whom she’d long suspected of leaking to the Guardian.
Inevitably, Greasy Dave Cameron made an appearance accompanied by an Albanian businessman who got rather gloriously drunk on the peach schnapps and announced to everyone that he had a million PPE gowns currently being held up by health and safety problems at Dover.
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“He’s willing to give a half a million donation if we could waive it through,” said Dave. The pair were last seen huddled in deep conversation with sleepy Hancock.
As the festivities eased into dusk the wedding singers were introduced by an exultant Carrie, who couldn’t contain her delight. Seems the band is called Cannibal Corpse, a rather sullen-looking combo from New York who interrupted their tour of the Carpathian states especially to be here. They played a set that included songs such as Shredded Humans, The Undead Will Feast and Evisceration Plague.
“I rather like them,” said Fr Stanislaus as he appeared from nowhere beside me. “I zink we could all ov us learn from zem.”
I don’t remember much after that.
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