Assisted Dying on the Orient Express

"That was a strange case, Hastings, mon ami," said my friend Hercule Poirot. "I was taking the ad Orientem Express to the mysterious east (Margate), to consult my friend Fr Tim Finigan on a curious question of hermeneutics, when we were held up by two or three snowflakes on the line - apparently, they were the wrong kind of snow. Still, there we were, marooned in some uncharted wastes near Faversham, with no hope of rescue for several days."

Somewhere near Faversham.

The chef de train summoned Poirot to one of the compartments, where there lay the dead body of a fattish man in his early sixties. One could tell at a glance that he was dead: there were stab wounds and bullet holes in various parts of his body, a rope round his neck, an empty bottle of pills by his side, and the marks of a blunt instrument on the back of his head. "His name is Charlie Falconer, and he was some sort of gangster," commented the train guard. "Could it be suicide, M. Poirot?"

Charlie Falconer in happier times, singing the Nightmare song from Iolanthe.

Poirot examined the body carefully. "I think not, mon vieux. Someone evidently helped him on his way. The worse case of assisted suicide that I have ever seen. We must find an explanation for his death."

An eager, fresh-faced man joined them. "Hi! I'm Tony!" he said. "I used to be something big in politics, but now I go round the world making money. Also I've been bringing peace to the Middle East. Charlie was an old friend of mine, and I gave him a job once."

"I have heard of you, Monsieur," acknowledged Poirot. "You are a pious Catholic who supports abortion and same-sex marriage. Can you think of any reason why M. Falconer could have opted for assisted suicide?"

Tony gives Pope John-Paul II some tips on becoming a saint.

"Well, he had a sore throat, and he didn't like train journeys, and England did badly in the World Cup, and he was worried about his pet hamster, Miliband, and he scratched his car against the gatepost last week, and they'd run out of gin, and he thought it might rain later, and..."

"I understand. All perfectly good reasons for a doctor to recommend assisted suicide. Now, let us see if there are any likely suspects." At that moment, a strange character entered the compartment.

John Birt. Formerly of the BBC.

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE! AS-SIST SU-I-CIDE! AS-SIST SU-I-CIDE!" screamed Lord Birt, for it was indeed he. This was a man who had been Director-General of the BBC, an organization that had employed megastars such as Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris. During his rule, it was said that more people had switched off their televisions and said "I can't go on!" than ever before.

"There are indeed marks of extermination on Charlie Falconer's body," said Poirot, "but they may have been inflicted after death." He was then joined by a bumbling figure dressed as an Anglican archbishop.

"And if my sermons don't finish them off, a good swipe with the crozier will do it."

"Hello, everyone, I'm George," said the man, who was wearing a strikingly silly mitre and carrying a large blunt instrument. "I am man of deep Christian principles. Can I be of assistance to you as you seek to end your life in a truly Christian way?"

"No! No!" said Poirot. "I wish to live to be 130. Indeed, if Agatha Christie doesn't sort out the chronology of her stories, I may be forced to."

At that moment the compartment began to fill up with other well-intentioned supporters of assisted death: apparently, the House of Lords had organized a day trip to Margate for all its most irritating members.

Ian Blair as seen in "Hello (Hello, Hello)!" magazine, deals with the old and Sikh.

"You've all been very helpful," said Poirot. "Of great assistance, in fact..."

The Nightmare Song

With further apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan. But there's always room for one more pastiche, isn't there?

When you're sitting in church, and you're trying to search for a meaningful theme in the service,
You may find that it seems you've been having bad dreams, and they're certainly not for the nervous.

Warning - Damian Lundy ahead.

For it's Walk in the the Light, with its words very trite, that they've got as the hymn for procession:
At its music banal you are starting to snarl - finding it hard to control your aggression! Then things get even gorier - Kyrie and Gloria, sung to a setting by Inwood -
Which destroys all the sense. What could make you less tense? Well, you feel that perhaps a large gin would!

An antidote to Inwood.

The priest's got no biretta, he thought it was better to dress in a cape and deer-stalker,
While the deacon's emphatic, he'll wear no dalmatic; he's dressed like a long-distance walker.

Father Holmes prepares for Mass.

The Epistles of Paul, we don't have them at all, though he wrote of some truths sempiternal.
What we get in their place makes you green in the face - it's a page of Dan Brown's book (Infernal!)
Well, you hope that the preacher will be a good teacher, but instead they've wheeled in Tina Beattie,
Who's at war with the Pope, and there isn't much hope that they're going to sign a peace treaty.

Lest we forget...

She has often been banned, and you do understand that her words must be treated with caution:
All traditions are wrong, let us sing a new song: women priests, same-sex marriage, abortion!
Then it's on to the creed, and it makes your heart bleed, when you see all of the bits they've omitted:
For the priest isn't sure he believes any more, so it's best not to get too committed!

An uncontroversial edition of the creed.

Well it's time for some prayer. Yet again you despair - for we pray for Hans Küng, not Pope Francis.
A collection they'll take, but first - not a mistake - we'll be getting liturgical dances!
A guitar twangs away, to our increased dismay, with some rubbish the player has brought in.
Six girls leap to their feet, do the Liverpool beat, which is mainly suggestive cavorting.

A liturgical can-can.

They come round with the plate, you're obliged to donate, though you really had thought of refusin'...
For the case they support is to buy vintage port for a transgendered bishop called Susan.
Well the rest of the Mass is just equally crass, like the bit where you cuddle your neighbour,
When you know very well she would see you in Hell, for two pins, with the aid of a sabre!

The kiss of peace.

When it's time to receive, you just cannot believe that the priest simply said "Come and get it!"
So you stay in your pew, feeling more and more blue, for you certainly think "Just forget it!"
Now it's Shine, Jesus, Shine! - oh, that hymn's really fine - as the song that we sing when it's finished:
Shine on me, shine on me, dum-de-dum, dum-de-dee... At the end you feel strangely diminished.

The worst is yet to come...

So you head for the door - Father'll be there for sure, with a greeting (he's likely to gabble it);
BUT right down the aisle, there's a huge unsold pile of a scurrilous rag called the TABLET!

From this sight you retreat, running into the street, for it's evil in print, you reflect as you sprint, heading into the town, to the pub where you drown... all your sorrows in beer, for the Tablet brings fear, of a hideous curse, yes, an evil, far worse, than you previously met, and you're really upset, by the demons within, which may lead you to sin, and destruction which can't be amended...

Read my new column in the Tablet!

But the service is past, and it's freedom at last, and next week you begin again, with a new priest (called Finigan?) so thank goodness this nightmare song's ended!

Deuteronomy

After a hard week attacking rebel Catholics, bad hymns and Dan Brown, what could be nicer than to curl up on the sofa with the book of Deuteronomy? This is part 5 in the Eccles Bible project, where we lead an atheist called Richard to salvation. We are looking at the last book of the Torah/Pentateuch: the word Deuteronomy actually means Second Law, which suggests that someone has miscounted. But never mind.

Deuterium. Not to be confused with Deuteronomy.

Right, let's dive in. We've got 34 action-packed chapters ahead of us. We start off, however, with three chapters of general smiting, and for some reason things go particularly hard for tall people. For example, Moses and his team kill Og of Bashan, the man with a true king-sized bed, 9 cubits by 4 cubits, which is made of iron.

Og of Bashan's iron bed (or perhaps a smaller version of it).

Moses then preaches a few sermons to the Israelites. They are unlike the modern sermon from a church leader, which goes something like this:

"As I was wandering in the desert this morning looking for any men from Heshbon that we might have forgotten to smite, I saw a vulture perching on a rock. 'Squawk, squawk!' he said to me, and I burst into tears, for it reminded me that we are not allowed to eat vultures. In the words of the poet: In for a penny, in for a pound – It’s Love that makes the world go round! Nowadays, we are faced by many real challenges, such as climate change, the need for more wind turbines in the desert, the demand for gluten-free manna and ethically-sourced quails, and of course an end to smiting people on the grounds of race, colour, religion, sexual orientation, or favourite football team. But God loves us all. There will be coffee on Mount Sion after the service."

Do not smite this man just because of his footballing beliefs.

No, Moses gets straight to the point and reminds people of the ten commandments; also he explains that they are going to attack all the followers of false gods, and smite them. This is not exactly what you might call "muscular Christianity": they weren't Christians at that stage, and anyway muscular Christians don't really smite people.

Take that, Dawkins minor!

Well, regrettably this is one of the more bloodthirsty bits of the Bible, but in those times it was quite common for people to fight wars against their neighbours. Thank goodness that's all stopped, eh?

Well, I'm fast-forwarding through the next few chapters, which are mostly repeats of earlier teaching (although the text Ye are the children of the Lord your God: ye shall not cut yourselves, nor make any baldness between your eyes for the dead, from Chapter 14, verse 1, would repay further study, especially by anyone who feels temped to make some baldness between their eyes.

They're heading for a land flowing with milk and honey.

By the time we get to the end of the book, Moses is now very old; he hands over the reins to Joshua, gives some blessings, takes a look at the promised land, and dies.

If you have been paying attention, Richard, you will notice that the Bible so far mixes legends (with some underlying historical basis), solid history, and the Mosaic law. Next time, we'll look at Joshua's career.

Mosaic law - lots of pieces that fit together.

In secular seculorum

My Anti Moly, wot is an atheist, and not very saved, was sittin in an armchair last week, drinkin a "possum's spleen" cocktail - gin, tomato juice, custard, and a dead spider - when she said to me, "Eccles! De Natoinal Secular Society is gonna hold a Secular Europe Rally, and we is gonna go along. Dey has put an advert in de paper sayin, 'Because of equality and diversity regulatoins, we is now obliged to recruit some intelligent people as well,' so let's go along and see what it's like."

As you can see, fanatical loonies are still welcomed.

"But Anti," I explaned, "I is a saved pusson, and we doesn't do secularism in de Calumny Chappel." But she insisted.

Our host, Damain Thopmson, said he couldn't come, because he was goin to a meeting of de Pinkshorts - dat's a para-military group he has jioned, wot sits around all day eating cupcakes and waitin for de return of Gladys Mills, de once and future Queen. (When she turns up, dey will shout "Heil Gladys!") So Anti and me went on our own.

We was very pleased to see lots of celebrities marchin down de street saying "What does we want? Nuffink! When does we want it? Now!" For example, I saw Richard Dakwins carryin a banner, sayin, "Church of Dakwins. Please leave your brains outside" (dat's a joke I stole from de opera Oilanthe).

"I'm sure that Declan was only joking when he called me the Satanic Anti-Christ."

Also de famuous Cathlic Professor Tiny Betty was dere, de one wot has been so creully banned from a 20-mile radius of Clifton Catheddral. I used to fink dat Cathlics cuoldnt be secularists, but luvvly Tiny tells me dat on matter such as divorce and gay marriage she is much closer to de secularists dan to de Pop. "Is you gonna swim back over de Tiber?" I asked her. "Swim, Eccles? I finks I can walk on it!" she replied.

"Between the two of us we should be able to keep Professor Beattie out."

Well, de highlight of de secularist rally was a speech from Terry Sanderson, pointin to de acheivements of secularism in history. I can quote it in full. "Er, um, well, yes, we've all done very well." I like a speech like dat wot gives me plenty to fink about. I weren't so sure when he came to talk about what a grate fing it is to abort babies if dey is gonna be ugly like my bruvver Bosco, to have sex wiv poeple of de same sex, and to get put to death when you ain't feelin' too well. My Anti Moly ran away at dat point sayin "I aint ready to die yet, it was just a bad spider I ate."

I fink Terry must also be quite keen on slavery too: apparently dere was a chap called Wilbur Force who stopped it, and I fink he was gonna point out dat it's just anuvver example of how relligoin prevents us all from havvin fun.

Wilbur Force - a typically interfering Christian.

I gotta chance to talk to dis Terry pusson afterwards, and I fink his probblem is dat he got very bored by relligoin in school, and so decided dat de experts had got it wrong. He told me dat he also got bored by mathemmatics, so next week he is organizing an Innumerate Europe Rally, wiv de following powerful sloggan:

Don't accept that 2 + 2 = 4.

2 + 2 = 5 is your right.

Well, we all had a good time bein secular. But when I left, and I said "God bless you, Mr Sanderson, you is a slightly saved pusson," he bit me in de leg. I fink I might have rabbis now - being ecumenical aint as easy as it seems.