The trouble with aunts, by P.G. Wodehouse
"What a lovely day it is today, Jeeves!" I exclaimed, as my man shimmered into the room bearing a glass of the old Calvados Chapel brandy. "I am feeling particularly saved today, don't you know?"
"I fear that your Aunt Moly is at the door, sir" responded my man Jeeves. "That is why I am taking the liberty of fortifying you for an encounter with her."
"ECCLES!" screamed the aged relative, slamming the door behind her, grabbing my brandy glass, and hurling it through the window. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY WRITING THIS VILE AND SLANDEROUS BLOG OF YOURS WHICH I NEVER READ?"
Recently, to oblige my older brother Bosco, I had written a little blog explaining how the only way to salvation lies in being a personal friend of Jesus, and how Catholics in particular are doomed to the Lake of Fire. I inadvertently mentioned that the chaps in the Drones club are also tipping my dear Aunt Moly for a prime spot in the aforementioned L.o.F., and this is what seems to have riled her.
"But the disciple John says..."
"TELL THE DISCIPLE JOHN FROM ME THAT HE'S A FOOL AND A WOEFUL SOCKPUPPET," replied my aunt, laying me out unconscious with a solidly-bound Calvary Chapel Bible. When I came to my senses, my Aunt had left, and Jeeves was struggling to revive me.
The importance of being harassed, by Oscar Wilde
"So, Mr Pell, it is time you declared your intentions towards my sweet daughter Judith, known in Australian Society as the Rose of Pottymouth. Judy, dear, there is no need to choke the life out of Mr Pell; pray allow him to answer."
"Well, Lady Haddock, I scarcely know your daughter. We have exchanged but a few words since we met."
"There is no need for you to have an exchange of words, Mr Pell. There is only one thing more pointless than talking to Judy, and that is listening to Judy. Investing in a pair of earplugs is your surest route to marital bliss."
"Mr Pell. Since I made Judith's father the happiest man in Pottymouth, he has confined himself to producing endless drafts of his magnum opus, his own suicide note. As yet, it is unfinished, despite my every attempt to bring it to a conclusion. Now, you will find that, like her mother, my daughter has enough conversation for two. Should you stay up until 5 a.m. one night, and think of retiring to bed, you will find that she is still chattering away, mingling her insults with her anecdotes in a tapestry of tedium which has brought her so many admirers."
"Mother, every time we meet he jumps into a billabong to get away from me. That's twice he's done it. Such is life, eh? Woeful."
"I fell in, Lady Haddock."
"Mr Pell, to fall into a billabong once may be regarded as a misfortune. To fall in twice looks like carelessness."
"But, Lady Haddock, I was hoping to train as a priest, with a view to becoming a bishop and eventually a cardinal."
"A PRIEST, Mr Pell? You would throw away the love of a gentle sweet maiden in order to follow the cult of a sky fairy? Are you no better than a Bronze Age goat herd, sir? I scarcely think that you are a fit person to wed my precious daughter Judith."
The case of the secular journalist, by Arthur Conan Doyle
"This case presents interesting features, Eccles!" said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as he perused the Telegraph website. "I have been consulted about the problem of a Catholic journalist, formerly known for his wittily acidic commentary on religious matters. This latter-day Swift has now given up all pretence at serious debate, and is dumbing down and writing banalities to please the masses."
"Could he be looking for a job on the Daily Mail?" I wondered. "All he needs to do is to start writing about celebrities and their baby bumps, and they will take him like a shot. That's what happened to Simon Heffer."
Holmes nodded gloomily to me, and injected himself with a 7% solution of Mother Odone's Elixir (guaranteed to help you escape from reality). Then he picked up his trusty Stradivarius didgeridoo, and boomed out a few bars of Elton John's haunting song "Candle in the wind."
"It's my own arrangement," said my friend, unnecessarily, as our neighbours started hammering desperately on the wall.
At that moment the door opened, and a wizened old lady entered, clutching a gin bottle and tunelessly singing "Roll me over in the clover, Roll me over, Lay me down, and do it again." She then cackled evilly and said "We've won! We've managed to kill Damian Thompson's interest in religion! Now the masses are forced to read Ruth Gledhill."
"These are deep waters, Eccles," said Sherlock Holmes. "This poor sad creature is not just the simple witch that she seems to be; rather, she is a professional blog-troll from Australia, although formerly employed as a cleaner in a molybdenite-processing factory. Look at her shoes, and you will see what I mean. Did I ever mention that I have written a small monograph classifying 2048 types of mineral dust?"
"Amazing, Holmes. Can this be the solution to the Thompson mystery which has baffled readers all round the world?" I asked.
"In part, Eccles," replied my friend. "But I would draw your attention to the curious incident of Vincent Nichols, when the Catholic church was under attack."
"But Vincent Nichols did nothing!" I said.
"That was the curious incident," explained Sherlock Holmes.