What Was It Like?

 

What was what like? London, of course. Much the same as it's ever been for the last few decades, with a few changes. Liverpool Street Station was greatly built up, I used to live there and it took a moment to recognize familiar landmarks. Downtown central's much the same as ever but with increasing hordes of tourists.

On the good side of the ledger, the Clubs are holding strong. Nice, bastions of civilization from a better age. Likewise, Green/Gay agitprop doesn't seem to be half of what it was a few years ago. Good, enough of the wretched rainbow flags already. 

Seriously, a couple of years ago you'd be assaulted by Green/Gay propaganda posters as you walked through the interminably awful corridors of Heathrow's Terminal Horrible Three. These have gone, thank God, maybe this useless, despicable, deceitful fad's nearing its well-deserved sell-by date, please.

Devil Witch

They/Them notwithstanding, there's a new fad in town, Re-Wilding. Yep, let your towns, cityscapes, roads, bridges, woods, fields, factories, houses and on revert back to nature. A bit like Detroit if you pause and think for a moment. Net result? Incredibly shabby verges and medians, and that unkept look which says virtue-signaling saves the local council money at the expense of your city looking like an abandoned slum.

No kidding, re-wilding, it's a thing; hey, gotta cut costs to afford all those immigrant votes. Whatever, here's two short anecdotes, both true.

The National Liberal Club: At the bar, reading the Spectator, and a crew swings in next to me. "Excuse me, sir." Quite all right, common ground. A little later it's revealed that my newfound neighbor's people built some great Sikh edifice in Birmingham. "Ah, Sikhs," I offered, "Sword arm of the Hindu faith." My new friend looked me in the eye and said, "If only," and we became friends. Not surprising, when you think on it, because we both went to the same school, all hail the Dragon, Oxford. At the end of old school conviv he asked me, "As a priest, what do you think of Islam?" I told him, in no uncertain terms, and he agreed. We'll meet again.

The Lamb & Flag: Covent Garden and here we are at this ancient pub, pints flowing freely, when lo and behold, a guy in red trousers, two breaster blazer, cigar in mouth and tinted glasses on eyes offers bystanders "delicious chocolates." Sure thing, thanks, fella. Next step? "Look here, guys, I know these people." Off you go then, and I did, "I like your crucifix," he had one around his neck, real gold thank you very much, "What's inscribed on the reverse?" He looked at me and I looked at him. "Deus Vult," he replied, the legend of the Crusade. Turns out my Turkish Mayfair pal, according to him, was one of the few families of his class to not  kow-tow to Islam. I told him to go to the Brompton Oratory, hope he does.

Point being, the Lawless London Caliphate isn't lost, at least not yet. There's plenty of diversity which opposes it, from Sikh to Turk, Hindu to Christian, so don't lose hope. That said, indigenous natives might want to start having babies again. Word to the wise.

Kizmet,

LSP

Well That Was Fun - Part One

 

It's been a busy couple of weeks and it started like this. You climb onto a plane at DFW, marvel at the lack of people on the flight, and fly to London. Get out at London Heathrow's curiously cramped Terminal 3 and head downtown via train, then set up in Whitehall. Great result, you've made it.

Go exploring for the next couple of days and meet up with old friends on Pall Mall and Soho, notably the famous Coach and Horses on Greek Street. It's a tradition and a good one, if noisy, and you can end the evening with strong covefe at Bar Italia, another tradition. Next evolution?

Go full-on patriot and join Unite The Kingdom, a massive march protesting open borders great replacement immigration, censorship and the iniquity of the UK's Rainbow Caliphate orthodoxy. Seriously, it was a big march, maybe a million strong, which the smug, mendacious, passive aggressive BBC deceitfully undercounted by around 900,000 people.

Well, we navved into the midst of it after an informal lunch in the courtyard of the In & Out (Naval & Military Club) and were struck by the good humor, patriotism and sense of the crowd, many of whom were shocked by Charlie Kirk's assassination and, curiously, were eager to share their faith. Quite a thing, and well worthy of a separate post. More on this later.

Marching for freedom against the wickedness of Globalist Puppet Two-Tier Kier done, we fell back to Trafalgar Square where the boys were starting to get a bit rowdy, and from there to the Harp for a pint and from there to clubland, which meant negronis in the Waterloo Room of the East India, nice. From there?

A delicious dinner at Cafe Zedel, which is an art deco bistro restaurant off Piccadilly Circus. I think it used to be the restaurant of a hotel my Mother stayed in during her purgatorial time at General Synod. Whatever, it's been fixed up and offers good French style food at a very reasonable price. Check it out, but be warned, it can be very full and very noisy; the latter compounded by live jazz 1930s style from a side stage. Hey, living the dream.

Saying goodbye to friends at Piccadilly Circus, we headed down Shaftsbury Avenue in the rain to Soho and the French House. I love the French House, it has magic, and the magic wasn't absent that night. We fell in with a couple of young Gurkha officers (logistics) who'd been at the club that afternoon. 

One was an ADC and I told him, "ADCs always frightened me," which they did, and he told me he wasn't especially frightening, which he didn't seem to be. "But perhaps you can be," I offered by way of social compromise. And so the evening spun on, but not uncontrollably so, and we found ourselves, safe and sound, back at the civilized, relaxing, congenial, attentive, polite, Reform Club. Result.

The next day was all about Mass at the Brompton Oratory, beautiful, lunch at the East India Club which, I tell you, punches high when it comes to salmon and roast beef, not kidding, and from there an easy night. All good, and the next step? Edinburgh and the Royal Scots.

That, dear readers, all five of you, is the next stop on this exciting and adventurous excursion into Kier Starmer's Great Britain, aka Rainbow Caliphate. Stay tuned.

Your Pal,

LSP

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