My night of horror with Damian Thompson

By Milo Yourehopeoulos.

I'll never forgive my parents for naming me after a chocolate drink.

I owe a lot to Damian Thompson. Without him I would just be a talentless nobody who wears silly glasses and stands alone in the corner at parties. As it is, I am an internationally-renowned blogger with a keen following amongst the illiterate Tuttifrutti tribe of the Amazon jungle.

But there is a sinister side to Damian, as I discovered the night he invited me to stay at his castle in Notting Hill. Things began badly when he insisted on plying me with cupcakes and custard, no doubt in a vain hope that this would cause me lose control. He doesn't drink alcohol, and I didn't find that his home-made non-alcoholic hemlock wine "Château Blood-crazed Ferret" was much of a substitute.

Damian spends many weekends at the National Custard Museum.

"I've got a DVD called The Life of Brian," said Damian. "It's the in-depth story of Haversack Brian, the 103-year-old composer who wrote three symphonies before breakfast every morning. My friend Stephen Hough has arranged his longest symphony, the eight-hour Vandal Symphony, for playing on the piano with one finger."

We put on the DVD, but it turned out to be a religious film about some prophet called Brian, so Damian angrily ripped it from the DVD player and threw it at Cormac the cat. Resisting my host's increasingly aggressive demands that we should stay up all night singing Bach cantatas together, I retired to the spare bedroom.

"Dear Mr Cleese, I wish to complain..."

There were approximately 500 copies of Damian's magnum opus, "The Fix" in the spare room, so I picked one up and soon found myself sleeping peacefully. However, at around 3 a.m. I was woken by a knock on the door.

"Moli, I mean Milo," said Damian in a whisper. "Would you like to come and listen to my collection of Gladys Mills CDs?" I knew that my host had been a fan of Mrs Mills from an early age, and that he sometimes sobbed himself to sleep listening to her masterpieces. But at 3 a.m. this was really too much.

A young Jorge Bergoglio receives a cake from Gladys Mills, watched by Damian Thompson.

"Go away, Damian," I groaned. "I want to sleep!"

"Just one CD, Milo," pleaded Dr Thompson, and then, when it was clear that I wasn't going to take part in his disgusting rituals, "all right, you'll see. I'll ruin you. You'll never work again! You'll become a second Austen Ivereigh!"

So as you see, that perpetually-smiling face conceals the heart of a fiend.

I'm sorry to have to put all this on record, but people have started to forget who I am, and it's important for gay Catholics with no talent to stay in the news. Ask Fr James Martin.

Eccles befriends two bloggers

I done two good deeds today. De fust one was when I got a call from my freind Sister Fortis, wot lives in Blogfen wiv 23 cats and a few hungry mantillas.

De cat Bergoglio.

Sister Fortis is takin part in de forty hours of adoratoin at Blogfen, where you aint allowed to eat or drink, although you is allowed to write bloggs. She asked me if I could look after her cats while she was adorin.

Sister Fortis, sans mantillas, but wiv some of de cats.

De cats is all named after famuos Cathlics. She got Monsinger Newton, wot used to be an Anteater, but converted to bein a Cat. Dere is also Nichols, a very naughty cat wot never does what he is told. Among de lady cats dere is Pepinster, wot hisses a lot, and scratches de uvver cats - dey gives her tablets to keep her calm. One of de most interestin cats is Zuhlsdorf, wot is known for "kitty kill" - he brings in dead voles and sparrows, also de milkman and a passin liberal priest.

Kitty kill.

Well, I is gonna have a hard time lookin after de cats, but luckily my Anti Moly (who has gone back to Austriala) left some gin behind, and dey seems to be much quieter after I mixed it wiv dere CATFOD meat.

Update: de neighbors is complainin about yowlin noises all de night keepin em awake. I fink it is de cat Inwood, wot aint got any idea of mellody and just wont shut up.

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De uvver good deed I has been doin in to cheer up my freidn Damain Thopmson, wot has been gettin a bit depressed lately. He has put a washin machine in de music room of Thopmson Towers, so dat he can play Bach while watchin his undies goin round and round (we knows he is a holly man, as he says he sees mystic visions - dis must be wot dey calls a Deus ex machina).

To cheer up my friend Damain I went on de web and ordered a bespoke set of boxer shorts dat he can wear when he goes to Mass.

Put dese is de machine, and you will see visions of holly men.

In fact Damain weren't at all amused, and so I tried out Plan B - invitin round to tea de well-known Stephen Fry wot suffers from uncontrollable bonhomie. Dis means dat he becomes very borin and makes pathetic jokes about Cathlic priests and child abuse. Damain aint reely very fond of Mr Fry, especially when de bonhomie is out of control, and so de party was not a success.

The five moods of J. Stephen Fry.

The Portsmouth liturgy survey

Paul Inwood explains the thinking behind his work.

We in the People's Republic of Portsmouth are very angry about the new translation of the liturgy, which goes right against the dumbing-down tradition we have followed all our lives. Indeed, the new version attempts to get closer to that heretical Latin missal which has blighted the Church for so many years.

A humble pie chart. The ICEL told me to eat it.

For the full document, you will need to go to this source, but here are some of the more striking results.

Q1. What do you think of the new translation of the Mass?

(a) Even better than the Sermon on the Mount (2%);
(b) OK (88%);
(c) They should have got Paul Inwood to do it (10%).

As you can see, 98% of the people who responded are totally dissatisfied.

Personally, I think some of the words are too difficult.

Q2. How much training were you given in its use?

(a) None at all - I'm quite capable of reading the new words off a piece of paper (30%);
(b) Some practice before the service (67%);
(c) A three-week intensive "boot camp" where I was fully indoctrinated. (3%).

As you can see, 97% of worshippers feel that they were not adequately prepared.

A boot camp; here, worshippers are learning the correct posture for prayer.

Q3. Traditional Catholic worship dates from the 1960s. Which of the following composers do you think best represents the 1960s?

(a) Bach (2%);
(b) Beethoven (2%);
(c) Paul Inwood (96%).

As you can see, a staggering 96% of people replying believe that Paul Inwood is the greatest composer who ever lived.

Bach - 98% of people think he has a silly hairstyle.

In addition, we asked people completing the survey to write down as many abusive epithets for the new translation as they could. Comments included:

* Blasphemous;
* Foul-mouthed language - too vile even for the BBC;
* Roche? Isn't that the French for "rock?" I suspect that the Pope's behind all this;
* My granny came out in spots the week after using it; that can't be a coincidence;
* Encourages paedophilia;
* Totally ignores the theological advances made by Richard Dawkins;
* I had to shoot my parrot when it started saying "consubstantial";
* Worse than anything Hitler ever did;
* Look, I'm a professional builder and any roof I make is fit for a King to enter under;
* Treats God like some sort of divine being rather than our best mate;
* I would have used "will" rather than "shall" at this point; clearly Arthur Roche is an illiterate savage;
* Has severely affected the sales of my music. Oops!

Arthur Roche - taking us back to Roman times.

Sorry, ICEL, you got it wrong. We in Portsmouth will continue to sing Paul Inwood's immortal anthem "Ying-tong ying-tong, ying-tong ying-tong, ying-tong iddle I po" and don't you try and stop us!

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If you disliked this article, you will certainly not want to read these:

An audience with Paul Inwood    and    Bad hymns 9 (Alleluia Ch-Ch).

The Pope's first tweet

Announcer: Over now to the Vatican, where our reporter Ecclesiam is ready to give us an eye-witness account of the Pope's debut on Twitter.

Doing my first Tweet 4U all, ROFL.

Thank you. Well the papal procession is just entering the 14th century Chapel of Friar Stephen the garrulous. I can see Cardinal Pepperoni, Custodian of the Papal Tablet - there was some fuss there, because the Holy Father didn't really think that it was Catholic enough - and next to him Archbishop Cento E. Quaranta, the Secretary of the Congregation for Microblogging.

A pre-Vatican II computer.

It was originally thought that the Holy Father would be using the Vatican's medieval mainframe computer, XIMENES (the "Inquisitorial Engine," as it was known), but finally modern technology was chosen for this historic moment.

Well, all the characters involved in this ceremony have now entered the chapel, a total of 140, apparently. The Pope, dressed in mitre, fanon, and other papal robes, is saying a short prayer, blessing the computer and the internet as a whole.

It's not clear what the Pope will do next. Perhaps he will catch up on the blogs that he relies on to know what is happening in the world - Damian Thompson, Eccles, Father Z, and so on, first? I know that he is keen to see the photo of a fried egg that Father Z ate for breakfast this morning.

A breakfast fit for a pope. Will Benedict be uploading this photo?

Perhaps the Pope will go onto Facebook first, and update his status: "Infallible" is all very well, but more details would be welcome. No, he's removed his mitre, and, seating himself in the swivel chair once used by St Augustine, he's logging on to Twitter.

In the background we can hear the choir performing Bach's Cantata Domine Defende Nos Contra Fenestram Caeruleam Mortis (Lord, Defend us from the Blue Screen of Death).

For death is come up through our Windows (Jeremiah 9:21).

Well, Pope Benedict is shielding his hands as he types in the papal password. He had trouble when he went to the Vatican cashpoint to withdraw some beer money last week, and noticed Hans Küng standing behind him in the queue. The Holy Father was very worried that Professor Küng had seen him type in his PIN... It could be embarrassing now if the Pope's arch-rival were to hack into his account and start making "infallible" statements.

Advisers have been on hand so that the Pope does not inadvertently choose an easily-guessed password. BENEDICT, VATICAN and IAMTHEBOSS would have been a little too obvious.

White smoke indicates that HABEMUS PIPIENDUM.

Yes, the moment has come. Pope Benedict has spoken to the world, a message of greeting and blessing. Already 1 million people are retweeting it, Richard Dawkins is composing some smartass reply, and second-rate comedians like Eccles are trying to think of jokes to make.

And the Pope is now dismissing us with the traditional words Ite, Pipiendum est!

Damian Thompson exercises the right of reply

Damian Thompson, posing with a group of his most loyal readers.

I have always regarded Eccles as one of the most valued commentators on my Telegraph blog: his comments, made from the perspective of a truly saved person, have invariably been incisive and witty, and it was a great loss to all of us when he left the "Holy Smoke" community and decided to concentrate on his own blog.

Eccles - a man with very good hair.

Of course I do have one or two other brilliant commentators, with whom I engage regularly on my blog. For example, there is Eccles's Auntie Moly or "molybdenite," who may be a senile gin-soaked old thug, but who is nonetheless always ready to insult people in a way that I can only dream of emulating. Another person whose comments I appreciate is "Sister Muriel," from the church of St Daryl the Apostate down in the southwest, who tells me he is "a priest in good standing, sweetie."

But I digress. Eccles and I have shared many good times together, and I am very grateful to him for giving some publicity to the new hair salon that I have just opened. Here clients can get a truly Catholic haircut while listening to the sound of Gladys Mills playing Bach's Well-tempered Clavier.

My new hair salon

One question that I don't have the space to answer today is: "How on earth did a brilliant journalist like Cristina Odone, The John Humphrys of the Telegraph blogs as she calls herself, ever condescend to join my team?" Eccles describes her as "Damian's cook," and it is true that I rely on her for my morning cupcakes, but she is also a brilliant interrogator, one who does not hesitate to shout abuse at Chris Patten when we hear his voice on the Today Programme.

Eccles does not seem to have fully explained my relations with the "Magic Circle" of bishops which constitutes the main Vaticosceptic opposition to Pope Benedict XVI in this country. He seems to believe that I am in some ways less than totally enthusiastic about Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor. Well, this is not the case - I regard Cormac as a mentor, and as one of my closest friends.

The Cormac Singers performing Happy Birthday in my honour.

Indeed, at present I am rather worried because the Pope has sent Cormac off to Bangladesh as his special envoy - an arduous trip for an 80-year-old man, which will involve his sleeping in a snake-infested mangrove swamp and living on a diet of frogs and insects. If he survives this, the Holy Father is next proposing to send Cormac as special envoy to the South Pole in his unique Mission to the Penguins.

It's all right, Cardinal, I don't eat meat on Fridays.

Apart from that, Eccles's blog seems to be 100% accurate. As he claims, he is still staying with his aunt as my guest at Castle Thompson, and he really is one of my closest friends: I certainly would not be able to write my weekly Telegraph column without his invaluable ideas.

Thanks to Eccles, I am not unknown in Latin-speaking circles!

A few advertisements

MMMWHAHAHA! It's the Richard Dawkins horror mask!

You've seen Damian Thompson, you've seen Cristina Odone. But now, scarier than either, is the perfect accessory for Hallowe'en.

Cause real terror in your neighbourhood this Hallowe'en as you jump out at your neighbours and scream the dreadful words "GOD PROBABLY DOES NOT EXIST!!!" Watch them run for cover, as they think you are about to plug one of Dawkins's dreadful books!

Walk into a Catholic cathedral, and see the bishop hastily turn to the exorcism rite! Watch priests go into hiding, fearful that you may try and arrest them!

Warning: we recommend that you do not inflict Dawkins on children under the age of 45, elderly people with weak hearts, or the Pope.

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New Tablet Computer on sale

The perfect device for those who hate Catholicism but wish to make telephone calls and surf the web! It comes with a built-in Pepinster^TM chip that protects your children from all orthodox religious websites.

In each model there is installed a copy of the Tablet Bible, "Professor" Tina Beattie's monumental tome, The Mass - an occasion for dirty thoughts.

Of course you can also watch videos on your Tablet, and here is one we particularly recommend.

A scene from the Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch reads out an evil incantation.

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Men! Do second-rate journalists mock your hair? Come to Damiano's, the renowned hairdresser's and beauty parlour.

Damiano is waiting to give you a truly Catholic hairstyle.

Relax to the soothing sounds of Gladys Mills playing Bach's monumental The bad-tempered ferret, while Damiano (Il Barbiere di Notting Hill) gives you a haircut that nobody will dare to mock.

For the middle-aged client with too much hair, the "Boris" is now out of fashion, and Damiano recommends:

The "Michael" Fabrication, a Damiano speciality.

While, for the older balding man looking for love, the "Andrew Neil" look is no longer recommended, and Damiano now suggests:

The "Silvio," as sprayed on by Damiano himself.

Advice on keeping your weight down is also available, while, for the ladies, Signora Cristina will soon be opening a special department dealing with beauty problems.

Yet more bloggs

St Gordon of Kirkcaldy
By Mary Drilled

Mary Drilled's photo marks the 100th anniversary of the death of Bram Stoker

Gordon Brown now spends his days in retirement in a darkened room in Kirkcaldy, his only reward being an MP's pittance of £65,000, together with necessary expenses (most recently, an invoice from Jock McBogey's Glazing Repairs, for a window damaged by a flying laser-printer, £300+VAT). But until 2010 he was the most powerful man in the free world, the saviour of civilization as we know it. The verdict of history on Gordon Brown will surely be: We Owe So Much.

 Of course Ed Miliband is wonderful too, so handsome, so masterful. He can't make his eyes revolve in opposite directions at the same time, as Ed Balls can, but let's face it, is that really a necessary qualification to be PM? But it is Gordon whose photo I have on my bedside table, the Pride of Scotland.

Surely this man is a god?

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Viagra, sex, and pianist envy
By James Hordes

As a famous but iconoclastic pianist  - I'll get a better picture later, but I never really understood the instructions in those photo booths - I went to a concert recently. It featured a new sensational Chinese pianist, Miss To Tee. I can't remember much about what she was playing (it was one of those seriously uncool dudes, Beethoven, maybe) but I did notice that she certainly wasn't "flat". As I munched my way through a packet of Viagra tablets, and swelled to a climax with the melody, I said to myself, "Yes! This is what classical music is all about!"

Damian Thompson can keep his Bach (that Baroque wig he wears when he thinks nobody is watching doesn't suit him anyway). Give me To Tee tickling the ivories any day. Or the new CD set  from Cora Bimbo, in the deluxe edition with extra photos. YES!!!

Playing Fauré's Dolly Bird Suite

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Is Monbiot trying to kill me?
By James Goldenpile

I was eating my cold toast for breakfast today (no warming required), when I was struck by a terrible thought: is George Monbiot trying to kill me? Call me paranoid if you like, but I remember that the last time I appeared on Any Questions? with him, he was carrying an umbrella, and I am fairly sure that it was he who jabbed me in the leg half-way through the programme. I was explaining once more how Michael Mann had produced his hockey-stick graph by massaging his data, adding in his friends' telephone numbers and converting them to Fahrenheit. But the warmists are up to their dirty tricks as usual.

There's definitely a Libtard conspiracy to suppress the truth. Indeed, the man on the Sainsbury's fish counter looks suspiciously like Al Gore, and is obviously ready to slip me a poisoned haddock if I let my vigilance slip. But Monbiot is at the centre of it. He's a master of disguise too - the old lady who nearly barged me off the pavement yesterday didn't look anything like him, so that proves it.

Phew, it's cold today, isn't it? I told you there was an ice-age coming.

There's something sinister about him, don't you think?

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Concluded here.