We Love Clubland

We love Clubland a lot, here at the Compound. Look, a snapshot. I approached the NatLib's Porter, a Portugese Rhodesian, and foolishly said, "When on interview with the Royal Green Jackets years ago I was told, 'No more Rhodesians, it'll change the complexion of our unit.'" You see, after the Zimbabwe fiasco, RLI officers headed overseas and joined the RGJ and associates, which must have made the UK's light infantry strangely combat experienced. Regardless, thus spake Major MD in his office at the Winchester barracks and thank you very much.

You'll note, dear friends, that the same Major asked me some years before,  in Canterbury, "Can you, son of a Vicar, keep up with the boys in the Mess?" What a good question as we walked around the Green Court, and I assured him I could, falsely. Be that as it may, are we all not Rhodesians now? As in fighting the Leftist Leviathan against our replacement?"

Back to last April. I offered all of this to the Porter at the NatLib and he looked at me, with Porter wisdom: "That was a long time ago, sir." You see, he'd fought in the Bush War. Stout fellow, and off I went, somewhat shamefaced, into the dark of the Embankment. 

"Do you know," uttered a very close friend, "That he didn't want to talk about it?" I looked at her, "Yes. It is what it is. What next, shall we go to Lee Ho Phuk's, the French House or both? Your call."

We ended up in the magic that is the French House. Let the reader, all two of you, understand. Enough rambling. Holy Saturday to you all.

Space is Deep,

LSP

What A Good Day

 

Just a quick drive down I35W to the hideous metrosprawl that is Fort Worth and our suburban cathedral, St. Vincent's. St. Vincent's is in a place called Bedford, which isn't far from Hurst or Arlington, and we call it the "Mid Cities." 

Once, many years ago, I made an oath, "I shall never live in a plastic sided suburb." God had other thoughts but He's been kind; the Compound's hardly suburban and its sides are made of wood instead of plastic. Regardless, I ventured forth into the Metrosprawl for our Chrism Mass.

Glad I did. What a great crew of fellow clergy who uphold the Faith and do their best to live it. Fun people, too. Still, the event was in the midst of the appalling 'sprawl, so it took a bit of time to dig out from that and back to the civilization of the Compound.

In related news, our diocese tells us we aren't supposed to make "political posts" on social media. Such wisdom and what can I say, Zu Befehl? You'll notice, dear friends, that one of the beauties of the Fourth Reich, the Space Reich, is that you're invisible. Black uniforms, you see.

Ad Astra,

LSP

Imagine

 

Imagine, if you can, that you were in a Club whose members didn't give, and give generously, to the Staff Christmas fund. They don't get tips, you see. So what would you do to those miscreant malfeasants who scrooged out on loyal retainers? I leave you with the sheer, total genius of Yoko.

Out Demons, Out, what?

LSP

The Peoples Coin

 

Have you been following DOGE$, the Peoples' Coin, fashioned after a lovable Shiba Inu dog? Sure you have, some of you may even have wisely invested in the adorable dog coin. Good for you if so, DOGE$ is testing .45 as we speak. 

Let's see our playful pup run to $1, $10 and beyond. In the meanwhile, think yourselves lucky if you bought  in at .03. Our playful friend's currently resting at around .43; run, pup, run! Well, if it all works out I'll rent a room at the Club and we can celebrate. All invited, obviously.

Cheers,

LSP

Clubbing

 

I texted an old pal who lives somewhere near Derby, which is a kind of town in the UK, "Let's go clubbing, in London." There was a pause in the text stream as Derby considered this enticing option and then, "I think I'm too old for that kind of thing." 

Huh. Resisting the urge to type with my thumbs "don't be pathetic" I replied, "No, not that kind of club, obviously, a club. Let's RV at the NatLib." He thought about it and the idea fell into that ether where unwanted emails, broken furniture and election promises go to die. But not so fast, the concept's still on the table.

Plan being, fly to London in Q1 24, catch a fast mover to Paddington, a cab or tube to Whitehall, set up in rooms and then stroll 'round the corner to Gladstone's place. Walk through those storied doors, wave a sunny hello to Luiz, guarding the gate, and then walk up Europe's largest freestanding marble stairwell to the Smoking Room.

Be annoyed for an instant because you can't smoke in the dam Smoking Room anymore, and walk over to the bar humming Ship of Fools. Safely at the bar, order an excellent Negroni, they really are just that, and admire the palatial space of this remarkable club. 

Jules Verne always springs to mind. Imagine, back in the 1880s this was the largest clubhouse in the world, complete with electricity and an elevator. No kidding, all very Nautilus, and you can sense that as you walk through rooms within which the fate of the British Empire, and of the world, was in play. The place was a powerhouse.

Today it's a social club, a beautiful oasis of calm right there overlooking the Embankment. And here's the thing, you're all welcome to join me for an LSP social some time after Easter. DM to RSVP.

Clubland Forever,

LSP

Which Side Are You On?

 

The modern Left hates working people and's replaced that awkward class with trannies. But what am I saying, our beloved rulers have off-shored coal (climate change) and all the rest, while importing millions of cheap votes and, heigh ho, cheap wages. So very leftist rainbow. Welcome to the no-sex trans utopia.

Whatever, just behold, all ye serfs, tolerance and diversity Pritzker profit. And you know what, I'm on the side of working people and the Faith which serves them. No kidding, that's partly why I voted 45 last time over, not that we have elections anymore. So.

See you at the Club. Double-breasted blazers forever.

#standards,

LSP