Magnum PI

 

You'll be surprised to know this, unconcerned punters, that one of the many benefits of staying in the Sceptered Isle, aka Disunited Kingdom, is that you get to watch all these reruns of classic US crime/adventure shows. Seriously, it's all on regular TV, huh.

So there we were on New Row, just off Covent Garden, with the TV on, I was shaving, personal admin being important, when Mrs LSP cries out, "Come in here, you have to see this, it's Magnum PI!" Well she wasn't wrong. What. Utter. Genius.

So who's best, Magnum himself, who is undeniably awesome, Higgins, who is remarkably awesome or the scriptwriter himself? Maybe all of these. But hey, you don't need to go to London to watch the amazing Magnum PI, you can dial it in from here, in the US, for a small but worth it fee. While you're at it, watch Slow Horses.

Best,

LSP

PS. My wager's on Higgins, for what it's worth.

Some Kind of Pathetic Joke?

 

No, this is apparently serious, Sarah Mullally's going to be the next Archwitch Archbishop of Canterbury. She's been operating as the bishop figure of London for several years and is, of course, pro-abortion, pro-homosexual marriage and a perfect example of what George Owers describes as "Rainbow Flag Erastianism" (RFE). Here he is, writing for The Critic:

If I were to try to imagine a candidate for the new Archbishop of Canterbury who is the furthest away from this, the worst and least suitable replacement for Welby possible, I would probably pick someone along the following lines. They’d be a former state bureaucrat who made an entire career out of the sort of bland HR department-inspired managerialism that is destroying the church, probably a senior civil servant in (say) the NHS. They’d be on record as having every tick-box lazy progressive political and theological opinion imaginable. They would, of course, have lived and worked in London for most of their life and be a thoroughgoing metropolitan. They would have no record of any serious theological or scholarly work, but be thoroughly intellectually mediocre.

Whoops, I just described the person announced this morning as the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Sarah Mullally. The Church of England making an appalling decision is too common to be surprising, but even I was a bit taken aback at the sheer perversity of this choice. She is the pure distilled essence of the hectoring lanyard class, a bureaucrat, a proceduralist and a progressive down to her fingertips. Her entire professional career was spent in the NHS, latterly as Chief Nursing Officer and “Director of Patient Experience”; she is on the record as being “pro-choice”, pro-gay marriage, on board with the usual check-box list of LGBTQIA+ orthodoxy; she has lived in London for most of her life. She will occupy an Archiepiscopal throne once occupied by theologians of the calibre of Anselm, Cranmer, Michael Ramsey and Rowan Williams: her sole contributions to the intellectual life of the church are a couple of those paper-thin (in every sense) “Advent/Lent reflection” books, the authorship of which appear to be compulsory now among senior bishops, and the readership of which is close to non-existent. 

 

Dam, nailed it, read the whole thing, it's not long, and we can add that Mullally's not even a priest much less a bishop. This would leave St. Augustine's throne vacant and yet another venerable institution, more than that, part of the visible Body of Christ on earth, is effectively gutted, and become a hollowed out apostate sham. To put it another way, a mawkish conflation of cucumber sandwiches on the lawn establishment nicety emmeshed in the godless anti-Christ orthodoxy which is the spirit of our age.

Of course some of you might argue that this has been the case since Reginald Pole's death in 1558, and the argument has force, papal ice block blessings notwithstanding. That in mind, the Cure D'Ars prophesied that Christianity in its fullness and ancient splendour will be restored in the UK. Whether the venerable if dismally suicidal Church of England will be part of any such revival remains to be seen.

In the meanwhile, we soldier on,

LSP

Hail The Old Hippie

 

Yep, that'd be Roy, bless him. Is he even alive? Whatev, here's a one man rock and roll band.

There was a time, dear readers, that Roy was my favorite live act. Some time ago, mind you.

Cheers,

LSP

Don't Fear The Reaper

 

Sometimes it's better in song, don't you think?

Keen-eyed readers of this humble mind blog will know we've been saying it for years.

DFTR,

LSP

Well That Was Fun - Part Four

 

So there we were, in the beating heart of the Rainbow Caliphate which is the UK, but not so fast. This is Pall Mall and the Reform Club and I tell you, there wasn't an emissary of the tyrannous New World Order in sight in the Coffee Room, at least a breakfast. So there is that.

Seriously though, I value London's clubland because it stands like an island of civilization in a sea of something else, a holdout of Great Britain, perhaps. It's fun too and congenial, which doesn't go amiss. Still, movement is a sign of life says the Philosopher, so off we went to the next and final set up, an Airbnb just off Covent Garden, in New Row.

"Cabbie, that'll be New Row, please," and off we sped. It's not far, walking distance, but bags were involved and a cab made sense, and it's fun too, like a tour. Then all of a sudden there we were, in New Row, with its Tesco Express, coffee shops, pubs and restaurants, about two minutes from Covent Garden and two minutes from Charing Cross Road.

Memories for me, for sure, and what a pleasant apartment, you can gaze down on Sheeky's from its overwatch. You know, I always used to love the curio bookseller shops between St. Martin's Lane and Charing Cross Road, and I love them today. They're still kinda there.

Whatev, Friday morning came all too soon and off we went to Paddington, Heathrow and a hideously cramped flight. Next time? Fly into Edinburgh and do the trip in reverse, with more time at the awesome RSC. All this, of course, if the UK remains a flyable destination.

END

Meanwhile - In England

 

Wow, so someone had the brazen, literal, no-holds-barred, total temerity to mock the Beloved Ruler of the Sceptered Isle? I'm aghast and shocked. Report yourself, BEACH EXTREMIST, immediately.  You'll note, sand terrorist, that there's a cop van in front of your provocative, subversive, FASCIST SLOGAN. Yeah, take note. As you do, note this: Hate Speech isn't Free Speech.

Nooses and Pitchforks down the Mall,

LSP

Fish

 

The sun began to rise over a somnolent rural enclave in North Central Texas, half-light giving way to autumnal sun, the glare's off summer but it's comfortably warm, in the 80s, beautiful. So what to do? Drink that strong covfefe and reflect on the situation while next door's rooster kicks up a racket and birds hit the feeders. "I know," you announce to the team, "Let's go fishing." Which is exactly what happened.

After the morning evolution we arrived at Lake Whitney with a couple of light rods and a box of worms. Would there be fish, would they bite? Kind of, a few half-hearted bites from baby perch and then boom, something bit hard and fast and out came a... baby perch. Fierce little fella.

To be honest, slow going, the fish were taking a sabbatical but, on the last throwaway cast something took the line and surged. What was this leviathan of the deep, a large bluegill or something else? It was something else, a catfish and a fighter. 

Out he came and would've stayed ashore if I'd brought a cooler, but no, he went back to fight again another day. And that was that, what a lot of fun. It's good to get out by the water and try your luck against the piscine adversary. Let's see more of this.

Fish On,

LSP

Turn It Off

 

Perhaps you've cancelled your sub to this degenerate rainbow "streaming service." If not, why not. While you're at it, cancel your BBC sub too, if you live in the Sceptered Isle. It's Privileged Smug-Marxist rubbish, not unlike Netflix, when you think about it. Slime, turn it off.

Cheers,

LSP

Pete Onna Warpath!

 

Did you hear our Secretary for War address an unsmiling conventicle of Generals, and Admirals? He told them, no more DEI, no more "dudes in dresses," no more wokery nonsense, just common sense. Check it out:

He's not in favor of the jelly roll either, is this a problem? Senior officers were notoriously silent. What, too fat to fight?

.@PeteHegseth going after the fat generals 😂 pic.twitter.com/vlRhY4iKNZ

— drefanzor memes (@drefanzor) September 30, 2025

Perhaps you think War Hegseth's wrong, I don't. Whatev, your call.

Cheers,

LSP 

Well That Was Fun - Part Three

 

Get off the train from Ludlow to Euston and wonder at the redeveloped ugliness of the station. Aesthetic reverie over, walk those wheely suitcases through the madding crowd towards the taxi rank, "Look, my dear, Northerners, keep your wallet safe." We weren't pickpocketed in Euston, remarkably, and found a cab, there were lots, "Reform Club, cabbie." He was happy to oblige and there we were on Pall Mall in good order and all of that. Nice.

Climb up those storied stairs and check in to chambers with the club's polite, friendly, attentive, helpful front desk. Room 320 and off you go. Basic, yes, but civilized, and know this - the Reform has two floors of rooms, they call them chambers, each of which features a pantry, complete with fridge, ironing board, tea, coffee, and all of that. Helpful and pleasant. Word to the wise, you can leave your wine, cheese et al in the fridge for a week while you go adventuring and guess what? It's there when you return. I told you, civilized.

Later that evening I struck out for Chinatown and takeaway, striding with purpose down Waterloo Place, just off Pall Mall. A voice rang out in the night, "Fr. LSP!" Sure enough, it was an old friend, RW, "Lovely to see you! Just heading to Chinatown for food, staying at Reform." He announced that he'd just come from Chinatown and was heading to the Travelers Club (next to Reform).  And so we passed, like ships in the night, and I brought back a score of Chinese food to our room, tasty.

Wantons, spring rolls, chicken and all of that later I figured it was time to explore the club after hours. So off you go into the midst of the thing, and what a thing it is. Regardless, I ended up in the Atrium and, as I crossed the deserted marble tiled floor there was a sound, a faint sound of a woman singing, coming from the Atrium's upper level. 

The words were indistinct and the song ceased after maybe less than 30 seconds. Eerie, and I knew no one was upstairs because I'd scouted it out earlier, on my descent to the ground floor. Struck by this, I went to the porters and asked them if they'd heard anything similar. No, they hadn't, but perhaps they hadn't served for long at the club. More on this later.

Ghosts aside, we rallied for breakfast in the Coffee Room (dining room) the next day. I had a "full English breakfast,"  which involved Black Pudding and sausage, yum. Mrs. LSP went with the Eggs Benedict option and all was delicious. Then we fell back to the garden for coffee and cigarettes to recoup before Mass at the Brompton Oratory.  And what a garden.

gotta get back to the garden

There you are, in the heart of London,  in the midst of the Rainbow Caliphate itself, in an oasis of peace, calm and order. Beautiful. Next and final stop? An Airbnb just off Covent Garden and a flight home to the great state of Texas.

Cheers,

LSP

Michaelmas

 

It's the Feast of St. Michael and all Angels today, so here's a prayer:

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

 

Those who feel they can go against angelic power with impunity might want to think again.

Defende nos,

LSP

Just For Kix

 
 

Just by way of light amusement.

Hey, gotta love some Space Rock, right?

Arduus Ad Solem,

LSP