The song goes like this:

Hello Dalida!
Hello

What are you doing?
I’m dancing
Dancing the fox-trot, the polka?
No, no, i’m dancing the lambeth walk

What?

The lambeth walk!

Which makes a lot more sense than the escapades of a bunch of ponced up in purple, middle-aged, ersatz hippy pseuds.

I would be marginally more convinced of the good intentions of the the illustrious enpurpled participants if, after exerting themselves (well most of them – Ralph Spence had to be carried in a rickshaw) on behalf of the world’s starving, they had not settled down at a marquee at Lambeth Place to gorge themselves on cold lemon and thyme scented breast of chicken with fresh asparagus and porcini mushroom relish, summer bean and coriander, tomato, basil and mozzarella served with hot minted new potatoes. To follow: dark chocolate and raspberry tart with raspberry ripple ice cream, topped off with coffee and white chocolate raspberries. To drink: Pino Grigio or Shiraz, or cranberry and elderflower fruit punch.

It’s hard being a bishop, especially when you are trying to convince the government of a secular society to spend more of their taxpayers’ money on the poor. Burp.