Pope Francis I, who hails from Buenos Aires and who, some thirty years ago, cozied-up to the Junta that ran Argentina until Margaret Thatcher thrashed them in the South Atlantic, now claims to have had a Revelation from God to the effect that The Malvinas belong to Argentina and should be so returned.
David Cameron, the British Prime Minister, who has no time for the descendants of Juan and Eva Peron, or indeed any of their neo-Nazi Vatican sympathizers, has politely reminded the Pontiff that 98.8 per cent of the Falkland Islanders recently voted to remain within the United Kingdom. This may not amount to a Divine Revelation, but it serves its purpose in the Vale of Tears reflective of the real world.
My response to the Pope’s Revelation runs more along the lines of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte who famously responded to Papal threats with the dismissive question: ‘How many divisions has the Pope?” Surely God has advised Pope Francis to the effect that Britain still has plenty of divisions and numerous aircraft carrier weaponry once again to see off any attack by a banana republic well-advanced on the economic Road to Hell.
The mere threat of Ghurka infantry attacks motivated Argentian occupiers of Port Stanley to throw down their arms in order to protect their cojones the last time that Latin adventurism was confronted by Anglo-Saxon resistance. Somehow, God did not intervene on behalf of His beloved Malvinas, as he did not intervene in favor of Catholic Spain in Philip’s disastrous Armada attack on England in 1588.
God no doubt will remind his Representative on Earth that Francis Drake quietly awaits the next maladventure from Spain and its Latin descendants:
“Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?).
Rovin’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,
An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe,
‘Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,
An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.
Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten art tha sleepin’ there below?),
Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,
An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’.
They shall find him ware an’ wakin’ as they found him long ago.”
Henry Newbolt, ‘Drake’s Drum.