What ho, James!

With apologies to P.G. Wodehouse.

Regular readers of these chronicles will know that six years ago, my Uncle Cormac, tired of seeing me lounging around all day, said "Bergie! It's time you got a proper job, so we're arranging for you to become Pope. You'll enjoy it - the Cardinals Club is just like the Drones Club."

Unfortunately being Pope isn't just a matter of saying prayers and looking humble, although that's part of it, and I kept getting into scrapes. For example, my Aunt Dahlia, who used to run a lady's magazine called Milady's Boudoir, asked me to dash off a piece on "How to be a great lover". Since I am Pope, I gave it a Latin title, Amoris Laetitia, and cobbled together a few tips from the works of D.H. Lawrence, Casanova, and Bingo Little's wife Rosie M. Banks, the writer of romantic novels.

However, the critics panned it. Indeed old "Beau Brummell" Burke of the Cardinals Club got together with some mates to send me some thorny questions about the article. Luckily the letter was taken away by "Sniffer" Cocco, who said something about dropping a line, although I hadn't really thought of him as a great letter-writer.

James takes charge.

Recently my luck changed, and James entered my employment, as manservant, valet, spiritual adviser, and physical trainer. The story starts with another of my failed literary ventures, which was originally intended as a jolly children's story about a water-rat, a mole, a badger and a toad, until I realised that this had already been done. So I threw half the pages away and renamed the rest Laudato Si'.

Some time after the publication of Laudato Si', I got a call from "Baldy" Baldisseri of the Cardinals Club explaining that he was organizing a synod, and perhaps I would like to attend. "We're all dressing as Amazonians, but you can come as you are, Bergie, if you don't have a costume. Bring a bottle!"

At that time, James and I were having a slight disagreement. James had been trying to add a touch of colour to my usual white suit - "A rainbow cummerbund would suit you very well, sir, and show that you are hoping to build bridges." However, on this occasion I asserted my authority, and James retired in high dudgeon, telling me that "He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day. Demosthenes."

I had never heard of his pal Demosthenes: probably he's one of those New York Jesuits that James knows intimately. Still, I had won that round.

Bergie and James discuss Demosthenes.

Anyway, I went along to Baldy's synod, and was slightly surprised to see everyone bowing to an ugly-looking wooden statue. James was there serving drinks, and I asked him what the statue was. "I could not say, sir," he replied. "Mr Ivereigh is telling people that it is Our Lady of the Amazon, but he also maintains that it represents Miss Madeline Bassett. Her disciples believe that the stars are God's daisy chain, that rabbits are gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen, and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born."

"Is that really orthodox Catholic doctrine, James? I'm a bit rusty on it."

"I fear not, sir, although it is one of the aims of the synod to get these teachings accepted as infallible by the Church."

"Hey, I know all about this. When I took over from Uncle Ben, he told me, 'You are allowed to make infallible statements, Bergie, but you're such a numbskull that I really wouldn't advise it.'"

"Quite so, sir."

The cabaret.

I thoroughly enjoyed the party, but the next day, when James shimmered in with the papers, I could see that I was in a dreadful fix, and it would need all James's ingenuity to help me extricate myself. The headlines read:

BERGOGLIO WORSHIPS IDOL OF MADELINE BASSETT. (Catholic Herald).

SYNOD IS PROCEEDING VERY WELL. (Tablet)

OHHH, MY BRAIN HURTS. (Austen Ivereigh for Crux.)

To be continued (?)

The Code of the Moggs

"I say, Jeeves," I asked my faithful valet one morning, "what do you make of this Moggmania that everyone's talking about?"

"A perfectly normal reaction, sir," replied the f.v. "Mr Rees-Mogg has announced that he is an orthodox Catholic, and so he is pro-life and believes in traditional marriage. This seems to have struck a chord with many people."

Thugg versus Mogg.

"But dash it, I say, Jeeves, aren't there any clerics to do that sort of thing? Why should it be left to old Moggers?"

I should explain at this point that Moggers and I go back a long way. We were both inmates at Aubrey Upjohn's prep school at Bramley-on-Sea. I once won a prize for Scripture Knowledge, but only because Moggers was ill on the day of the test. Of course, he won the prize easily in all the other years.

After being released from Upjohn's asylum, Moggers and I toddled off to Eton together, and the old bean is now one of my best friends. We meet regularly at the Drones Club to throw buns at "cloudy" Welby and the other heretics.

Professor O'Regan (Divinity) compliments Moggers on his scriptural knowledge.

Still, I didn't expect him to end up as a great spiritual leader, like that boy Dolly Lama, or the Argentine exchange student "Chop Suey" Bergles.

"I'm afraid, sir, that clerics no longer promote Catholic values," explained Jeeves. "Cardinal Nichols, for example..."

"Never mind my Uncle Vincent," I snapped at Jeeves. "He's very much the black sheep of the family. We don't mention him in polite company."

"Very good, sir. By the way, I really would not advise those 'gay Muslim' socks. We do not wish to be mistaken for the Prime Minister of Canada, do we, sir?"

A male model shows off his 'gay Muslim' socks.

"Good Lord, Jeeves, I thought they were rather natty! But I dare say you're right. I don't want strange people following me in the street. Take the socks and give them to Uncle Vincent."

"Thank you, sir. By the way, there is a telegram for you."

I read the missal.

BERTIE YOU OLD NEO-PELAGIAN STOP I NEED TO BORROW JEEVES STOP GOT MYSELF INTO A FIX WITH THE CHILEANS STOP EVEN BEANS FAGGIOLI CAN'T SPIN THIS ONE STOP SEND JEEVES TO ROME AT ONCE STOP BE A GOOD EGG STOP BERGLES

"I haven't heard from 'Chop Suey' Bergles for years, Jeeves. What has become of him, I wonder?"

"I understand that he has become Pope, sir," replied my manservant. "There is some dispute about whether he received a certain letter."

"Now remember, Bergles, the letter is in your case."

"Oh, what a tangled something-or-other we weave, when first we tumty-tumty something, eh, Jeeves?"

"Indeed, sir. If you will permit me, I shall suggest to Pope Francis that he employ the tactics of Mr Rees-Mogg."

"Take up Catholicism, you mean?"

"Precisely, sir."

I stand by Fr James Martin SJ!

Today's big question is the following: if someone is demonically possessed, should we stop them from speaking in church? Fr James Martin SJ has received another ban, this time from Our Lady of Lourdes Church, in the Diocese of Metuchen, NJ, and it all seems dreadfully unfair. Luckily the talk will still go ahead, probably at the sewage farm in French Town, NJ, the most appropriate venue they could find.

Standing by our most famous alt-Jesuit.

Contrast that cruelty with today's Gospel, where Our Lord met a man possessed by an unclean spirit. Actually, the man's teaching was less controversial than Fr Jim's stuff: for example, he said, "I know who You are: the Holy One of God!" Not something you'd expect Fr Jim to say. Of course, St Mark may have missed out some details: perhaps the possessed man was also telling anyone who would listen that the Holy Spirit was female, or that Jesus should go and chat to a Canaanite woman to find out what His real mission was. You can't mention every detail.

The point is that Jesus didn't try to shut him up, or move him to another venue, he simply used dialogue, and built bridges with the man. "Be quiet! Come out of him!" was the formula. The demon left the man, and went into a herd of Jesuits grazing nearby, who rushed down the hill and - I'm sorry, I seem to have turned over two pages at once.

Be quiet! Come out of him!

So, being known for our mercy, we stand by Fr Jim. Probably with a megaphone, so that we can shout COME OUT OF HIM! whenever the great man starts to speak.

We should note that Fr Jim blames his downfall on a far-right website named "Tradition, Family and Property." You have to watch out for these far-right fascists, in their black shirts (or shorts), shouting "What do we want? Tradition! Family! Property!" when what they should have asked for was "Modernism! LGBT relations! Ruin!" Yes, again Martin hits the nail on the head.

Fr Spode of the Black Shorts tells off Fr James Martin.

We are also told that "another far-right online site that traffics in hate and is similarly obsessed with homosexuality" is Church Militant. Obsessed with homosexuality, unlike Fr James Martin SJ, you notice. The picture below, of its leading light, Michael Voris, shows the depths of shame and degradation to which Church Militant has sunk.

In a shameless act of right-wing hatred, Voris eats an Eccles cake.

Remember that Fr James Martin SJ is an adviser to Pope Francis, and so, by association, is mostly infallible. Of course he is.

The Book of St Richard, Chapter 22

Continued from Chapter 21.

1. And Richard decided to explain the meaning of Easter to his disciples.

Possibly the true origin of the expression "Happy Easter".

2. "For," he said, "is Easter not a celebration of the ancient fertility goddess Ishtar? Standeth it not to reason that they are one and the same, as the names are so similar, eshpecially for one that hath drunk of shtrong wine?

3. Thus Easter is a fertility rite, and this explaineth the eggs, and the bunnies. Hence Christianity is all a myth."

4. And Richard was cruelly mocked, even by the Archdruid Eileen, who listed many other fertility goddesses with similar names, such as Asda and Exeter, together with Esther, she that is called Rantzen.

5. This last was a woman with a large cult of followers, who enjoyed the sight of obscenely-shaped vegetables. She inspired a series of Odd Odes by a prophet known as Cyril Fletcher.

Cyril Fletcher, or possibly an oddly-shaped vegetable.

6. Here perhaps may lie the true origin of many Easter traditions; for example the phrase "That's Life!" is symbolic of the Resurrection, and the Odd Odes survive in the liturgies of Paul Inwood.

7. But then there came others claiming to be the original of Easter, indeed so many that Richard could not deal with them.

8. Some men spoke of the worship of Wooster, a prophet who was aided by a supernatural being known as Jeeves. They sought and found the sacred cow-creamer, which was guarded by a giant in black shorts named Spode. That is, the giant was named Spode, not the shorts.

9. Others spoke of the festival of Euston, by which men attempt the impossible journey that ends in the holy city of Glasgow.

An earthly paradise.

10. As they pass through the sacred lands of Milton Keynes, Wigan and Preston, the faithful encounter terrifying hazards, such as leaves on the line and the wrong kind of coffee on the drinks trolley.

11. In brief, Richard's attempts to find an alternative explanation for Easter fell on stony ground.

12. Instead, he chose the day of Easter as an opportunity to ask of the world a burning question: Who is the most over-rated person in history?

13. "Perchance they will reply 'Jesus', or 'Mohammed', or even 'Buddha'," he said to himself.

14. However, it was not to be. With one voice, the world replied: YOU.

16. For they had concluded that Richard was indeed history.

If the cap fits, wear it.

Continued in Chapter 23.

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The book of St Richard started here.

Fr X's blog

Fr X's blog - what does the priest really say?

Posted by Fr John Xylophone

I have been sent a pamphlet called The Great Sermon Handicap, apparently the memoirs of a British theologian called Bertram Wooster. In it I was horrified to detect a number of grave liturgical errors, signs of modernism, and other heresies. As usual, my highlighting in the extracts printed below is in bold and my comments are in red.

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"There are about a dozen hamlets within a radius of six miles, and each hamlet has a church and each church has a parson [the correct term is "priest"] and each parson preaches a sermon [only one?] every Sunday. [No mention of holy days of obligation?] Tomorrow week – Sunday the twenty-third – we're running off the great Sermon Handicap. [They are in a state of mortal sin, discussing a priest's spiritual nourishment of his flock in these terms.] Steggles is making the book. Each parson is to be clocked by a reliable steward of the course, [are they unaware that "clocking" was forbidden by Pope Tempus III in 930?] and the one that preaches the longest sermon wins."

A priest dares to ahow himself in public without proper vestments.

"Why, it’s a sitter for old Heppenstall," I said. [Show respect! The correct term is "Father Heppenstall," or perhaps "Fr H" if he has his own blog.] "He’s got the event sewed up in a parcel. There isn’t a parson [!!] in the land who could give him eight minutes. Your pal Steggles must be an ass, giving him a handicap like that. Why, in the days when I was with him, old Heppenstall [see above] never used to preach under half an hour, and there was one sermon of his on Brotherly Love [I trust that he preached in Latin. However, this is a very dubious subject for a homily] which lasted forty-five minutes if it lasted a second. Has he lost his vim [Latin for "power." We'll let this pass] lately, or what is it?"

The Sermon on the Mount. Vim habet Jesus.

"Why," said Claude, "the first Sunday we were here, we all went to Twingchurch, [a parish unknown to me. Doubtless heretical] and old Heppenstall preached a sermon that was well under twenty minutes. [As agreed at the Synod of Basingstoke (the 1362 rite), all sermons should last exactly ten minutes.] This is what happened. Steggles didn’t notice it, and the Rev. [an insulting term for one of the Church's ordained priests] didn’t notice it himself, but Eustace and I both spotted that he had dropped a chunk of at least half a dozen pages out of his sermon-case as he was walking up to the pulpit. [As mere laymen, they were right not to interrupt the service by drawing attention to the missing pages.]

He sort of flickered [flickered? Such activities are generally regarded as liturgical abuses] when he got to the gap in the manuscript, but carried on all right, and Steggles went away with the impression that twenty minutes or a bit under was his usual form. The next Sunday we heard Tucker and Starkie, [priests unknown to me, so probably dangerous liberals] and they both went well over the thirty-five minutes, so Steggles arranged the handicapping as you see on the card." [At this point I gave up the book in disgust, and drafted a letter to the Pope demanding that this work of blasphemy be banned by the Vatican.]

Another blow against secularism.

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