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."

False Gods 1: Stephen Fry

Today we start a new series of posts, highlighting some of the more absurd things that people will believe in once they stop believing in God. And where better to start than with the cult of Fry?

Yes, at the time of writing six million people in the world are zombies.

Worship of Fry is a strange phenomenon. Probably it starts with an appreciation of his skills (20 years ago) as a comedian. Remember Jeeves and Wooster? Actually, that was Fry's first miracle: the scripts were such a travesty of the original stories, and the performances were so hammed-up, that he made P.G. Wodehouse turn in his grave.

The miracle of the unquiet grave.

It also gave Fry a reputation for intelligence, as if he himself (with a second-class degree) were as brainy as Jeeves. In the words of Oliver Goldsmith:

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew.

Later, Stephen was to benefit from the "Robert Robinson" effect: by hosting a quiz show, you are regarded as a clever person who knows everything, rather than just someone who can read the answer to a question off a cue card.

Oh yes, I also know about Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, ...

Thus, once it was established that Fry's IQ was approximately 350, it was only natural for him to write a few novels. They tend to be scatological and otherwise unsuitable for decent people, but they do have the odd joke in them too.

What puts the great god Fry beyond criticism in the fact that he is bipolar. This means that he allowed to be vicious and nasty to people he doesn't get on with - broadly speaking, anyone cleverer than he is - and can play the "Ooh look, I'm bipolar like Elgar, Edgar Allan Poe, Florence Nightingale and van Gogh" card if they respond. With the implication that he is somehow as talented as these people were.

One of Stephen Fry's best-known paintings.

Actually, most bipolar people manage to go through life without throwing public tantrums all the time.

So why is Fry considered to be a divine Being? Well, partly because he is omnipresent. Turn on the TV, and there he is telling jokes about child abuse on QI. On the radio he is telling everyone all about Verdi and Wagner - and possibly comparing their bottoms, but I didn't stay around long enough to find out. Perhaps you escape to the theatre and see him playing Malvolio - don't boo, or he'll storm off stage. So you go to the pub, and there he is, telling David Cameron all about how Russia needs more "Gay Pride" marches.

One of his pet hates is religion. You see, he cannot believe in any Being superior to himself, and it annoys him. Instead of people going to the church of Fry to intone the mantra "Bottoms, bottoms, bottoms" on a Sunday, they go to a real church and say "Kyrie Eleison" - or - if fans of Australian singers - "Kylie Eleison," at least according to the Tablet. Also, even Pope Francis isn't going to go on any "Gay Pride" marches. Well, I think not.

A present for Pope Francis (not worn).

Yes, Fry's comments on religion make even Richard Dawkins look polite and erudite: for example, this brilliant poem, evidently a product of his Edgar Allan Poe mood:

Mary had a little lamb 
It's fleece was white as snow 
All you religious ****s 
Just **** off and go. 
No more discussion with ***heads. Sorry.

(Since this blog is largely suitable for children, unlike the Twitter feed of Stephen Fry, I have had to do some editing here.) Oh, note the brilliant spelling "It's". All right, that's a cheap shot. A man who boasts of five degrees, even if most of them are honorary, can probably spell "Its".

Baa! And you can **** off too, Mr Fry.

No, I'm sorry, I have tried to bow down and worship Stephen Fry, but it just isn't possible. Definitely a false god.

Gohst writers

As I has alreddy mentoined, we is lookin for someone to gohst-write my Anti Moly's memiors. We has now had offers from de gohsts of three poeple wot knew her when she was a little girl. Each one has sent me a specinem of dere work, but I dont fink any of dem is quite what we wanted.

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."

"But..."

"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.