How do saved persons vote?

In the UK, we are in the grip of election fever, and many of my readers are struggling to decide which party or parties to vote for. When you see the policies now considered acceptable by almost all parties: abortion, euthanasia, assisted suicide, same-sex marriage, sending children up chimneys, recapturing Calais, exporting all British ducks to Mars, taxing custard, making it compulsory to recycle all used socks, independence for Scunthorpe, free orange juice for Damian Thompson, locking up all bald people, exiling Stephen Fry to Fiji, ... you realise that nobody has any policies that a saved person could support. Except perhaps the one about Stephen Fry.

This is how a saint votes. Note the expression of distaste.

The main question at present seems to be "Do I listen to Bishop Kenney, who says that UKIP is unsaved, or do I listen to Bishop Egan, who reckons that practically every politician is unsaved?" At a more basic level, is the European Union the New Jerusalem prophesied in the Book of Revelation, or is it the new Babylon, to be consumed by fire? I don't know: perhaps it's somewhere in between the two.

"Roger Helmer says he can beat up the two of us single-handed."

We come now to the question of Romanians: are they saved? For some reason, these have been singled out by some as the worst Europeans to have as your neighbours. Here, however, I have some personal experience.

Our new next-door neighbour.

Recently, a Romanian nobleman, the Earl of Dracula, moved in next door to us. He's basically a very quiet person, and apparently works nights. Indeed, I never see him in the day time, although occasionally he drops round in the evening and asks to borrow a cup of blood

Apparently, our neighbour supports the Romanian Independence Party.

Basically, he's a model neighbour and I don't see what all the fuss is about. I've got other problems: my Brother Bosco, who has a habit of saying "Bite Me!" whenever he loses an argument (which is most of the time), seems to have gone missing. I do hope he hasn't been annoying the Earl of Dracula.

Finally, to answer the question raised in this post: go to the polling-booth, write "unsaved" against the name of every candidate standing, and write "only I is saved" at the bottom of the ballot-paper.

No other course of action is possible. Indeed, if you look carefully at the photo of Padre Pio, you can see that he did precisely that.

De Napoloen of Notting Hell

Dat rarver clever tittle is a tribbute to our dear freind Damain Thopmson, who is puttin us up in his humble aboad now dat we has arrived in London.

Dis is a pitcher of Castle Thopmson, which is a large huose in Notting Hell, where Damain lives wiv just a few servants to look after him.

Our flight from Austriala was a bit probblematical. Half way, de pilate said dat dere was a horrible noise commin from de engines of de Beoing 747, and so he told us, "Don't panic folks, we is gonna make an emurgency landin in Dubbai. But if you knows any good prayers, den let's be havvin dem if you wants to be saved." Well of course, I is saved alreddy, but I did sing a few Calumny Chappel songs, like "Come, Thou holy Parachute." But when we landed it turned out dat Anti Moly had fallen asleep in de tiolet, and it was her snorrin dat was causin de niose and vibbratoin.

We got to Heathroar eventaully, and made our way to Notting Hell, which is a posh part of London. We was admitted into Castle Thopmson by de butler, who is called Will Heaven, it seems dat his parents was very infleunced by de poster above.

Anti Moly was a bit jet-logged wiv gin, so Heaven showed us to our rooms. I has got de Paddy Pio suite, and my dear anti has de Nanny Ogg suite, I aint heard of dat saint before, but she does seem to resemble my dere Anti a little. Dem Cathlics like kissin saints, but I fink even Damain would draw de line at dat one.

Talking of Damain, we heard some loud crashes at aruond 4 a.m. and a male-vice chior singin "Four and twenty vergers came down from Inverness." I later fuond out dat it's called a Rugby song, I spose dat Damain goes to Mass in Rugby sometimes, it's a place in de Midlands dat we may visit.

Now, Damain was very pleased to see me,  but he said he had got a blogg to write just now. Anti Moly was still in de Nanny Ogg room snorrin away her jet-logg, but Damain who is a true professoinal managed to keep typin away, even wiv de cielin vibratin above his head.

Eventaully Anti came down lookin for booze. Damain had to go to de bathroom, and when he came back he said "What's happened to my bottle of Geoffrey Lean Patent Hair-Restorrer?" Apparently, Anti Moly had drunk it, finkin it was gin. So now Damain dont seem to be very pleased wiv us, but perhaps he will soon be charmed by our kind and gentle natures.

Damain is havvin a party soon, and I is lookin forward to meetin all his freinds like Joanne Hairy and Giles Frazor. Anti Moly is lookin forward to meetin Damain's stock of drink.

We goes to a weddin

Well, as promised, Bosco got me some ointmeant for my stimgata. I was surprised dat he didnt go to de farmersea, but to de hardwear store. "You has got an acid skin, Eccles," he said, "and so if you rubs dis Cuastic Sodda into it, you will be heeled in no time." In fact, I doesnt seem to be gettin much better, but probabbly dis is just a sing of de Lord's favuor like dat Paddy Pio chap had.

De docttor have put Bosco onto a course of injectoins of silver sollution in de blood streem, dis is less paneful dan havvin bullets fired into you, and maybe his lycanthroppy is nearly under control.

Now we attended a weddin todday, and de cosstume holly man said "Is dere any just cuase or impeddiment why dis fat guy and dis uggly dame cant be joined in holly matrimoney and share de tribbulatoins of life togevver poor fools?" (I aint stuppid I knows dat he means kids.) At dat moment Bosco let out a "YOWWW!" and bit de cosstume hollyman.

Dey let de service continue once de bride had explaned dat Bosco werent nuffinn to do wiv her. Here is de preist after Bosco bit him, I dunno whevver he is still in good standin.

Farver Arfur came ruond to see us again, bringin de finnal proofs dat he is in fact a preist. "Look," he said, "I gotta mugg and a tea-shirt. Dese come dirrectly from de Vattican City Supermakret, where de Pop buys his red shoes. You cant get dese souvennirs unless you is reely a preist, dey has a Monsingor on de checkout till to make sure. In fact it is a morttal sin to buy dem if you aint a preist, and you gets ticked off by one of de Cradinals, dey got one wiv got specail responssibility for paperclips, souvennirs and keepin de dranes unblocked. He's called Coremack somefink."

"By de way," he continued, "I has been tappin your telephonn so dat I can repeet back all de fings you has ever said. At 11 a.m. todday one of you made a telephonn call and you said 'Ullo, is dat de supermarrket could you delliver six extra bottles of gin for Anti Moly today, also we needs some Calumny Chappel dove cakes.' I is tellin you dis in order to annoy you and embarass you, as dat is what we preists sees as our saccred duty."

Well, it is a bit embarassin, frankly, as Bosco says dese cakes is reely divvine, he adores em. Dey is simply heavennly.

Bosco is finkin of goin to Farver Arfur's churhc tomorrow, to tell all de punters dat dey is servants of Baaal. Dey is destinned for de Lake of Fire, cos Jessus hasnt saved dem pussonally like Bosco and me we is saved. Dis is what de prophet Zecharriah calls "Comforttable words."

I got stimgata

I aint feelin too well at pressent. I has got nasty wuonds on my skin and dey hurts. My dere bruvver Bosco (who got his own probblems as I will rellate) says dat dey is stimgata, like Paddy Pio got, an dis means I is saved.

Bosco was very kind to me, yesterdday he gave me a luvly prodduct called Nittric Acid Handwash, which he told me I cuold rub on uvver parts of de boddy as well. Dis is to keep me clene and hygeinic.

Anyways, todday I got de stimgata. So I knows I is saved like dat Irrish chap Paddy Pio.

But poor Bosco has still got probblems to do wiv howlin at de Moon (I knew dat sayin "BITE ME" wuold lead to trubble). Here is a new photto of him.

Dis is some dame wot turned up to see Bosco. She had read Bosco's luvvly blogg and wanted more advisse on being saved. For some reasson she didnt stay verry long. Probabbly she decidded dat de path to salivation is too dificult.

I said to Bosco dat he was turnin into a cosstume howly man (dat's a joke), but he just told me to shut up. I fink Bosco is jeallous at de sparklin wit dat his little bruvver is cappable of.

Bosco and me went to de docttor togevver, and de cosstume healie man (annuver joke, you sure is doin well todday, Eccles) said dat I needed some ointtment for burns. So Bosco is kindly gonna get somefink for me from de farmersee. De docttor said dat dere is a surggical treetment possible for Bosco's probblem, but it involves bein shot wiv a silvver bullet, and dat suonds paneful.

I will blogg more about my Anti Moly soon, but she was up all last nihgt screemin at de internnet, dis hobby of hers is very exhuastin for all of us. I took an exclussive pitcher of her computter, de site of so much happy roflin.