The Pilgrim's Ogress 10: Disciples of Satan

Continued from Part 9.

The story so far: Eccles and his Aunt Moly are on a pilgrimage. After their spiritually nourishing encounter with Tina Beattie, they decide to test one of the pope's latest claims. Father James Martin SJ takes up the story.

A parish secretary deals with an unwelcome enquiry.

I am very honoured to have been invited to continue the tale of Eccles's wanderings. I know Eccles is a great fan of my books, especially How God can learn from us, which explains why God created mankind, and Invent your own heresy, in which I tell you how I developed the complex doctrines of Martinism, and how you too can have a heresy named after yourself. But I digress.

How God can learn from us.

Hearing of Pope Francis's words that parish secretaries were like disciples of Satan, Brother Eccles decided that the time had to come to take up the cudgels against such creatures. Now I don't run a parish myself, being a member of the America House Jesuit Community in Manhattan, where my brother Jesuits and I live a simple life of comradeship (and we hardly ever dress up as deaconesses, that's right out). So I advised Eccles to visit a typical English parish and see how Pope Francis SJ (!) had spoken nothing but the plain truth.

In our Jesuit community, Friday night is custard night!

Now Eccles's Auntie Moly did not come with him on this occasion, Apparently, she'd just been appointed to Pope Francis's commission to study the issue of women deacons, along with other famous Catholics such as Nancy Pelosi, Tony Flannery, Catherine Pepinster, Hans Küng, and Cardinal Marx. Packing six suitcases with bottles of gin, hair restorer, Zap-a-bug^TM insect killer spray, and other favourite tipples, she took a flight to Rome, leaving Eccles to confront the Disciple of Satan on his own.

Eccles knocked on the door of St Tharg's parish office and went in.

The Parish Secretary.

"GO AWAY!" screamed the Parish Secretary, who at that moment was crouched over the unconscious body of a Franciscan friar, preparing to drink his blood. "THE PILGRIMAGE TO LORD'S IS CANCELLED AS WE GOT THE WRONG SHRINE WE HAVE NO MORE RAFFLE TICKETS TO SELL THE REFUGEES DON'T WANT ANY MORE DONATIONS OF OLD SOCKS NO I DON'T KNOW WHO MURDERED THE ORGANIST TICKETS FOR THE CLOWN MASS AREN'T ON SALE YET FATHER ERIC HAS BEEN ARRESTED FOR SETTING FIRE TO THE BISHOP AND DON'T TAKE AWAY THE BROKEN PIANO UNTIL WE'VE USED IT FOR OUR PAUL INWOOD CONCERT."

There was nothing Eccles could do. He tried attacking the parish secretary with all the weapons at his disposal - mercy, sarcasm, and a ripe selection of Pope-Francis-approved insults - but in the end he retired defeated. He'll never make the grade as a Jesuit.

In this case, even Mercy was not enough to overpower the Disciple of Satan.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 9: The Ghost of Digby Stuart

Continued from Part 8.

The story so far: Eccles and his Aunt Moly are on a pilgrimage. Expelled from Portugal for harassing the Prime Minister while he was making an in-depth study of fish markets, they have arrived in Roehampton, near London. M.R. James takes up the story.

What secrets lie behind these doors?

It was, as far as I can ascertain, in August of the year 2014 that a post-chaise drew up one evening before the door of Digby Stuart College, the site of a former Sacred Heart community and school for girls in the handsome borough of Wandsworth. The two passengers in the chaise were a young man in a red biretta, together with a much older lady clutching refreshment in the form of a bottle of gin.

They produced their cards - their names were Eccles and Auntie Moly - and were admitted by a maid, and shown to their rooms; for they had determined on passing the night on the premises in order to investigate a series of mysterious happenings. At around three o'clock of the morning, the young man was woken by a loud scream of "Woeful!" from the room of his aunt, so he hauled himself out of bed, and rushed to her assistance.

He found the old lady gibbering incomprehensibly, her faced twisted into a loathsome caricature: this was exactly as he was accustomed to seeing her, so he was not particularly alarmed. "Eccles!" she cried. "I have seen the ghosts of two nuns. They were writhing restlessly and moaning 'Beware Tina.' They would not leave until I threw my false teeth at them. What can it mean?"

In happier times, saints would pass through Digby Stuart College.

Enquiries from the servants elicited the information that these two ghosts were frequently seen to haunt the college; they were said to be the spectres of Mother Mabel Digby and Mother Janet Stuart, who had founded the college in the nineteenth century. Perturbed by the wicked teachings to be found there, they were unable to rest in their graves.

"Who is this Tina?" asked Eccles. The maid replied that she was a professor at the college whose work centred on religion, society and human flourishing. More specifically, she was fascinated by sex - or at least the subjects of gender, sexuality and reproductive ethics, areas in which she had produced writings that drove most Christians up the wall.

Some pious Catholic girls being driven up the wall.

After further enquiries, it was determined that Professor Tina Beattie lived in a houseboat on the tidal Thames, where she watched birds - focusing particularly on their gender, sexuality and reproductive ethics - and even wrote a webbed log about them.

Many of her most notorious publications had been inspired by the ornithological world; for example, God's mother, Eve's Avocet and Ornithology After Postmodernity: Diving into the Void.

Eve's Avocet.

"You are doing important work here," commented the young man on his arrival at the houseboat. "Watching the birds and the changing tides, occasionally plunging bravely into the river for a swim."

"You think so?" replied the professor. "Do we not agree that there is a need for a new historically and materially rooted theology of the unity of nature and grace? I told the Pope that and he put the phone down on me."

"This is too deep for me," admitted Eccles. "However, you can perform a great service for the souls of Mother Digby and Mother Stuart, simply by staying on your boat, and mumbling to yourself about nature. I would say 'Forget Catholicism,' except that it seems from your writings that you have already forgotten it."

"I shall consider your words carefully," replied his hostess. "Out of the mouths of grebes and ducklings." Eccles blenched in horror as she dived into the Thames, emerging a few minutes later with a fish in her mouth.

Tina Bee-Eater.

To be continued.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 8: Getting tough with ISIS

Continued from Part 7.

The story so far: Eccles and his Aunt Moly are on a pilgrimage, and have now arrived in Portugal. Prime Minister David Cameron takes up the story.

I may not care about ISIS but I'm very worried about iced fish.

As Prime Minister, I find that a period of rest and relaxation is a very important part of my job, and so Samantha and I headed for Cascais in Portugal, in order to recharge our batteries by making an in-depth study of fish markets. We were just giggling at an overgrown Scottish Salmond that had run aground and been caught out, when in walked a young man in a red biretta accompanied by an old lady clutching a gin bottle.

"Enjoying your holiday?" asked the rather vacant-looking man, whose name, it later transpired, was Eccles.

"This is a time for difficult, and I may say, unpopular decisions," I replied sternly. "I have a positive vision of what is needed for a fair and just dinner tonight; however, I still have to convince Samantha that our future depends on going for the efficiency and flexibility of a meal based on haddock, rather than the more popular short-term alternative of cod."

"Oh really. Heard the news, by the way?" asked Eccles. "ISIS is committing genocide in the Middle East, Christians are being massacred, and President Obama has responded by getting his golf handicap down to 22."

George Galloway - hitting Israel where it hurts by banning their tourists from Bradford.

"Woeful!" screeched the old lady who, I later discovered, was Eccles's aunt.

"Yes, I thought things had gone quiet," I rejoined. "We seem to have lost someone called Baroness Whowasshe over the Gaza issue - I was never quite sure how she got into my government in the first place - and she was a Muslim woman, so I am going to have to use Google to find another. Also, Boris wants my job again."

"So you don't propose to do anything to help the Christians in Mosul, or the Yazidis on Mount Sinjar?"

"Oh no, I don't think that would be very popular with our focus groups," I explained. "There are no votes in helping Christians - they refuse to subscribe to my core policy of seizing the middle ground between Good and Evil. And although it might be nice on the grounds of equality and diversity to save a few Yazidi refugees with their 'Peacock Angel' temples, this is not going to help me win the 2015 election, is it? I might alienate the Muslim terrorist vote."

No votes in peacock angels.

"Have you no shame? No conscience?" asked Eccles, his originally-placid countenance suddenly as twisted as Vince Cable gets when I tell him his sums are all wrong.

Luckily, I never go shopping for fish without my personal bodyguard - there are sharks everywhere - and Eccles was hastily escorted away. I have a deep conviction that my policies - based on the old legal maxim of caput in arena*, will soon be widely accepted, even amongst the small Christian community, but it is an uphill struggle to convince them!

*head-in-the-sand

Continued in Part 9.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 7: The Trouble with Butlers

Continued from Part 6

The story so far: Eccles and his Aunt Moly are on a pilgrimage. Now P.G. Wodehouse takes up the story.

"Oh dash it all, Aunt Moly," I said, "Do I really have to go and visit Uncle Thomas at Brentwood Castle? We're supposed to be on a pilgrimage. I've been looking forward to seeing the shrine of St Damian Thompson at Reading, and visiting my old chum Des Pond of Slough."

"Eccles, you woeful idiot," replied my aged relative, "Lord McMahon needs our help urgently. His whole life is in disarray, and he believes that his prize pig, the Empress of Brentwood, is dying."

"Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as the jolly old Bard puts it," I conceded. I summoned my manservant, Bosco, who shimmered in with some life-restoring Mystic Zuhlsdorf coffee.

"Excuse me for a moment, sir," said Bosco. "May I take the liberty of informing you that your new tartan biretta really does not suit you?"

"It really does not suit you, sir."

I am used to criticism from Bosco: usually it takes the form of remarks such as "May I remind you, sir, that you are not saved as I am, because Jesus has not chosen to visit you?" These I can safely ignore, as Bosco gets some strange ideas from his attendance at the Calvary Chapel; but when it comes to criticisms of my taste in headgear, then I feel I must put my foot down. Explaining coldly to Bosco that my biretta had been greatly admired by Ms Katharine Jefferts Schori, who writes the fashion column for the Episcopalian Times, I sent him off to buy some railway tickets for Brentwood.

What the well-dressed cleric is wearing.

We arrived at Brentwood Castle, where the door was opened by my uncle, Lord McMahon himself. "Uncle Thomas," I said. "Opening your own door, now?"

"Eccles, how nice to see you!" sighed my exhausted uncle. "It's my new butler, Liturgist. He's taken over the running of Brentwood Castle, and gives all the orders now."

"Ah, like the unjust steward chap in the Bible, what?" I had once won a prize for scripture knowledge at my prep school, and the parable of the cove in question (Luke 16, I fancy) was well known to me. "He fiddled a few things with his chief's debtors, and at the end the boss was very pleased with him. I'd have been furious."

The unjust butler.

"Yes, that's Liturgist. Everything has been changed in the running of the Castle. He's told the servants to disobey all my instructions. Here he is now."

Liturgist came in with a tray containing refreshments for Uncle Thomas, Aunt Moly, and myself. Instead of the usual whisky-and-soda, gin and wine that we had been expecting, we were served with strawberry milkshakes.

I looked in vain for my manservant Bosco to save the situation. Since the butler Liturgist had just broken into an impromptu dance, the Vati-can-can, Uncle Thomas hastily agreed to escort us to the pigsties, to see the Empress of Brentwood.

The Empress of Brentwood.

Knowing that Uncle Thomas regularly won prizes for his porcines, I had been expecting to see a healthy obese animal, but all we found was a scrawny-looking pig. The creature was clearly malnourished: instead of a well-balanced diet containing all that was necessary for nourishment, the poor beast was chewing on some old copies of the Tablet and minutes of ACTA meetings. It was looking decidedly the worse for wear.

A most unhealthy diet.

At that moment, Bosco, my "saved gentleman's personal saved gentleman", arrived, bearing a delicious dish of cupcakes, rhubarb crumble and custard, as recommended in Thompson's The care of the pig.

"Where did you get that food?" asked my Uncle Thomas. "Whenever I try to feed the Empress, my butler Liturgist gives contrary orders."

"I think we shall not be troubled by Mr Liturgist again," replied Bosco soothingly. "I have induced him to leave your employment, indicating to him that his unique talents would be more appreciated by Lord Paul Inwood, the son of the Duke of Cacophony.

"Bosco, I take my hat off to you!" I exclaimed.

"I would be most grateful if you did so, sir," replied my faithful employee. "As I said, it really does not suit you, sir."

Continued in Part 8.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 6: the ACTA of the Apostle

Continued from Part 5

The story so far: Pope Francis has asked Eccles to infiltrate the rebel organization ACTA and find out its secrets. St Luke takes up the tale.

It's BEHIND you, Luke!

1. I offer to you, Theophilus, the story of the Apostle Eccles, a godly man who was known for writing a blog containing much spiritual nourishment.

2. Now Eccles was sent by Pontifex to see the people of ACTA. These were men who followed strange teachers such as Hans Küng, he whose statue lies in the desert even unto this day.

My name is Ozymandias, Küng of Küngs. Look on my works ye mighty, and despair!

3. Some years before this, a man named Arthur was bishop in the land of Yorkshire, where the men live on chip butties and strange batter puddings.

4. Now Arthur had translated the Mass into English. For the previous translation had been done in a hurry by one who had been found wanting in Latin, and it bore little resemblance to the words handed down by our forefathers.

5. And his friends gave aid unto Arthur, lest he use phrases such as "Eee, by gum" and "Where there's muck, there's brass" in his translation.

"My granny could've hit that wi' a stick of rhubarb" - a Yorkshire phrase, not used in the Mass.

6. So when he had done his work, Arthur was himself translated - to Rome.

7. But the men of ACTA, having seen Arthur's translation, were full of wrath, saying, "Lo! It bears the mark of authority, not to mention arthurity, and we want none of it."

8. Indeed, one of them said: Because of the insistence on using English words as close as possible to their Latin equivalents, substantial parts of the new rite in English are ungainly, long-winded and obscure.

9. I ask thee, Theophilus, to note their use of words insistence, possible, equivalent, substantial and obscure, which are good short Anglo-Saxon words, such as the men of ACTA would prefer.

10. Meanwhile, Eccles was now accepted by ACTA as one of their number, having stolen a cardinal's biretta as a gesture against the tyranny of the Vatican.

11. Thus they taught unto Eccles the secret handshake, and showed him a dreadful vow to be made by full members of ACTA, which no man durst speak except inside a pentagram.

The secret vow of ACTA.

11. Then the men of ACTA told Eccles of their further plans, and he was sore afraid.

12. For they said, "There is another traddy work that we reject, and it is called the Bible. For it speaketh of God, and sin, and judgement, and redemption, which are ideas totally against the Spirit of Vatican II."

13. "We call on the Pope to suppress this book entirely. We suggest that he appoint a committee to provide a new translation, deleting all the embarrassing bits, leaving just a few jolly stories about donkeys and sheep, that will offend no man."

Jonah - too obsessed with evil to be retained in the New ACTA Bible.

14. "And for our committee we propose the names of Leonardo Boff, Hans Küng, Tina Beattie, and Ann Lardeur."

15. "Plus of course Stephen Fry: for Stephen Fry is omnipresent, just as God used to be until the 1960s."

16. So, having learned of their plans, Eccles left the people of ACTA, and returned to his aunt Moly, who declared that it was "woeful".

To be continued by another author.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 5: The Spy who Saved Me

Continued from Part 4.

Ian Fleming takes up the tale.

"Get 007 over here at once," said F to his secretary, Cardinal Munnipenni. "He's the only person who can deal with this crisis. Tell him to leave his aunt behind - I will brief him on his own."

A few days later, Eccles arrived in Rome, having been flown in from a secret mission somewhere in South London. Ignoring flirtatious glances from Munnipenni (they still had a few such problems in the Curia) he went straight into F's office. "The name's Eccles, Brother Eccles," he exclaimed.

Pope Francis (sitting) briefs Eccles.

"Bless you, 007," said F. "I'm afraid we're out of dry Martini - he died last year."

"So I heard," replied "Eccles. I was shaken but not stirred by what he had to say."

"Now, we're sending you back to England on a special mission. According to the Protect Me blog, there have been a number of disturbing incidents in your country. A sinister organization called ACTA is determined to destabilize the Catholic Church, and we'll need you to go undercover and infiltrate it."

Tipped to be the next "Bond girl".

"What will it involve, sir?" asked Eccles. "Any good-looking girls that I can collaborate with?"

"Probably not this time, Eccles," said his boss. "Most of the members seem to be over 70 years old. Now, to join ACTA you will need to sign its mission statement, all about how you are inspired by the Second Vatican Council, but - and this is the important thing - there is a mysterious supplementary paragraph to sign up to, as well. This is top secret, and we don't know what it contains. We want you to get hold of a copy of it - it could be dynamite!"

"How do I make contact with ACTA?" asked 007.

"We have sent three other agents already, but they've all disappeared mysteriously. Probably they were spotted as being our people, because they didn't know the passwords or the funny handshakes; or maybe they rolled up the wrong trouser-leg. You'll need to be careful, Eccles."

"Anything else you can tell me, sir?"

"Yes, there have been one or two other mysterious incidents, recently. We don't know if they are related. For example, a priest who was supposed to interpret Catholic teaching in sign language turned out to be producing total gibberish."

Warning: total gibberish.

"Ah yes, I heard about him, poor fellow. Was there anything else?"

"It's a long shot, but at Saatchi and Saatchi in London they have put a blasphemous representation of Mary and Joseph on display. We don't know whether there's a link to ACTA."

Not Joseph and Mary.

"I'll get back to England straight away," promised 007.

"Before you go, drop in on C. He'll issue you with some equipment for your mission."

"C" with Zuhlsdorf^TM "Mors Vobiscum" liturgical beretta.

007 said his goodbyes to F, and went to see the man they called "C" or "Cormac".

"Now, Eccles, listen carefully," said C. "You'll be going in disguised as a priest. What I am giving you looks like a mobile confessional, but it is programmed to recognise voice patterns. Once someone says the words 'Miser Peccator', the confessional is flooded with an evil gas, sending the sinner to sleep."

The booby-trapped Portofess.

Thanking C for his gift, although wondering how he would ever persuade ACTA members to admit that they might have sinned, Eccles made his way back to England and rejoined his aunt.

To be continued by another writer.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 4 - the guilt of Titus' Grandma

Continued from Part 3

Eccles's Anti Moly takes up the tale.

After my stupid nephew escaped from the Tablet headquarters in Hammersmith, he wanted to go to Blogfen, a woeful traddy parish somewhere near Sidcup. Eccles had heard that there was a meeting there in honour of Titus' Grandma, to which Catholic bloggers were invited. My nephew somehow thought that he would be welcome.

This is Titus, but we never met his Grandma.

It was quite difficult to get to Blogfen, because our donkey, Micky, carrying the emergency gin supplies, wasn't allowed on buses or trains. Also, Eccles wanted to go incognito, as he had heard that a lunatic from Croydon was out for his blood; so he dressed up as a clown and pretended to be his brother Bosco. We missed the religious events, but arrived in time for the party.

Our donkey, also in disguise.

The event was very strange. There was an old man called "Lofty" present, who said he had come along in order to shut down as many blogs as possible. He also had an interesting theory, based on turning over several pages of St Luke's Gospel at once, that Jesus was only on the Earth for one week - Born on a Monday, Baptised on Tuesday, Retreated on Wednesday, Did His ministry on Thursday, Crucified on Friday, Rose on Saturday, Ascended on Sunday. Lofty spent most of the party exchanging scowls with someone they called the "LMS Chairman", and in the end the two of them went outside for a punch-up and never came back.

Eccles asked me to republish this photo of Basil Foltus as a young man.

Eccles says he will always look at Tina Beattie in a new light, as a result of the Blogfen party. As a leading Catholic thinker, she had come to the meeting, and Eccles, who is a little infatuated with her, asked her to dance. It was woeful seeing "luvvly Tina" and my idiot nephew Eccles tango-ing to a Gregorian chant, but this was supposed to be an occasion for getting to know new people.

Hans Küng was there too, and I thought he and I might dance, so I went up to him to ask. Silly me, it was his statue! Apparently Fr Finigan, the host of the party, had been given a copy of the original statue, and had not yet found a good home for it. Well, after a bottle or two of gin, it was an easy mistake for me to make.

Woeful - this man refused to dance with me.

Several more traddy bloggers were also present, many from the Brighton area. I remember talking to a man called Bones; he had come with his friend Blakey from Brighton, who kept saying "I 'ate you, Gardner", although we never discovered who this Gardner man was.

Bones (with an unusual cross) and Blakey.

But the person I remember best, because he talked for three hours without interruption, was someone they called "The Archbishop of Corby". I jotted down a few gems of his conversation, such as, "Make sure you understand the question you're asking, Ma'am, but it seems you prefer a black and white answer to a labyrinth of conditional logic gates you won't even acknowledge, as it's a question of objective disordering circumstances and Noachide/natural moral law, exposing your ignorance of intention/motive and circumstantial factors." This was in response to "Would you like another cup of tea, your Grace?" from a lady in a mantilla.

Sitting on the naughty chair.

Ah well, I slipped under the table shortly after that, and don't remember much more. Such is life, eh? What's more, they played Gregorian chant all afternoon, and not the music I wanted to dance to. Woeful.

This is the sort of music I prefer.

To be continued by another author.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 3 - Poirot investigates

Continued from Part 2

The story so far: Eccles is trapped in the Tablet fortress in Hammersmith, having been locked in a cell by the fearsome Professor Tina Beattie, who is driving him insane with excerpts from her infamous stage show (banned in Clifton and San Diego). Meanwhile, his Aunt Moly is waiting for him in a nearby pub. Agatha Christie continues the story.

When I've found Eccles, I must discover who stole my moustaches.

Poirot scrutinised the old lady who had demanded his help. Meticulous as always, he straightened the six gin bottles on the table in front of her, and bade her speak. "So, Madame, you say that your nephew has disappeared? Tell me the exact circumstances."

"He left me here, and went out..."

"Eh bien, did he say where he was going?"

"He mentioned tablets. And some rubbish about unsaved persons. Woeful."

To emphasise her point, Auntie Moly picked up an empty gin bottle and threw it through the open window in the general direction of a passing archbishop, who had been furtively heading towards the Tablet offices across the road. The bottle struck the prelate a glancing blow on the head. Exclaiming to himself "My God, there really is a curse on the Tablet!", he came into the pub to recover from the shock.

From now on it's tea only, Moly!

"Alors, Hastings, the solution to the mystery lies in that prison across the road!"

"You mean..."

"Yes, Eccles may be locked in one of their little grey cells."

The two men left the pub, and knocked on the door of the Tablet offices. In his career Poirot had confronted many villains in their lairs, and he was reminded briefly of the notorious Hans Kong, who frightened young women to death with a hideous statue of himself. Then he thought of the fateful day that he had finally caught up with Annibale Bugsbunni, the alleged freemason who had been exploding liturgical time bombs.

Worshippers from the cult of Bugsbunni.

"Sacré Pepinster! They do not answer, Hastings. Let us search the premises."

Eccles was still a captive, and he was looking for a ventilation shaft, having read somewhere that this was the standard means of escaping from imprisonment. However, there was none, and the sulphurous fumes wafting round the building were causing him to choke.

Elsewhere, Poirot and Hasting came across a group of Tablet staff, attempting to calm Elena Curti, who was screaming as if in great pain.

Elena Curti reacts to some shocking news.

"Good grief! Is she all right, Poirot?" asked Hastings, seeing the star journalist writhing in agony.

"I think so, mon ami," replied his friend. "She is possessed by the Spirit of Vatican II, but she has just learned of Pope Francis's condemnation of the hermeneutic of rupture. It is causing a terrible reaction."

Leaving the Tablet staff to do their best for the poor lady, Poirot and Hastings moved on to the cell where Eccles was imprisoned, and released our hero.

"That wasn't much of an adventure, Poirot," complained Hastings. "I was expecting the Tablet staff to provide you with some clues to Eccles's whereabouts."

"That is right, Hastings," said Poirot, as the three of them left the building, "but in the end they all turned out to be totally clueless."

"Boom! Boom!" says Basil Loftus.

To be continued by another author.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 2 - Dr E and the Tableks

Continued from Part 1.

The story so far: the pilgrim Eccles and his Auntie Moly, the ogress, have reached Hammersmith. Today's guest author, the late Terry Nation, takes over the story.

Catherine Pepinster and Elena Curti discuss the next issue of the Tablek.

Dr E and his assistant Mol had reached the Tablek fortress in Hammersmith, with its friendly sign outside: Tablek Headquarters - trespassers will be exterminated. "This may be dangerous," said the Doctor, and he suggested to Mol that she take refuge in the local pub, the Aged ACTAvist. Having introduced her to a large gin, Dr E returned to the fortress, used his sonic screwdriver to open the doors, and entered into a maze of narrow corridors. Was this where he would find the Tablek army, which was intent on domination of the Catholic Church, and even prepared to ally with the hated Küngs and Flanneries in order to achieve supreme power?

A pious Catholic is incensed by encountering a Tablek.

Dr E ducked into an alcove as two Tableks glided past in conversation: "POPE FRAN-CIS IS OUR SER-VANT. HE WILL CHANGE CATH-O-LIC TEACH-ING. WE DO NOT NEED TO EX-TER-MIN-ATE HIM YET." Was this true, or had the Tableks been fooled as a result of receiving a mass of confusing signals? The Tableks continued: "WHO ARE WE TO JUDGE? WE DO NOT JUDGE. WE EX-TER-MIN-ATE."

Through a window, the Doctor caught sight of a sinister figure in a mobile life-support chair. Could this really be that evil twisted genius who, some said, was the brain behind the Tableks?

Duffros, riding in his life-support chair.

Yes, it was indeed the dreaded Duffros, a man of undoubted brilliance but one of Dr E's deadliest enemies. The Doctor's courage was almost ready to give way, and he thought briefly of returning to the safety of his Traddis (a converted police-box in which traditional worship was held). But the decision was taken out of his hands. An important-looking Tablek had spotted him, and was approaching rapidly, with the harsh cry of "EVES-AD-VO-CATE! EVES-AD-VO-CATE!"

Dr E encounters Tina Beattie.

To be continued by another author.

The Pilgrim's Ogress 1 - Eccles writes

It has been observed that this blog is a little too serious sometimes, as it endeavours to give its readers spiritual nourishment and theological teaching, as well as guidance on hymns and up-to-date religious gossip news. So, inspired by another great blog, we are starting a very exciting serial, which will appear here from time to time. Each instalment will be written by a different person. Today, it is Eccles. Next time it may be his brother Bosco, or Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor, or A.C. Grayling. Wait and see!

A.C. Grayling and a young Richard Dawkins discuss why atheists need honey.

Dis is de story of Eccles, wot is a saved pusson, but who never misses an opportunitty to get more saved. One day he decided to go on a pilgrimage, not sure exactly where he was gonna go, cos he was very anxious to get away from de City of Destructoin (Notting Hill). He had been livvin in de basement of a huge mansoin, owned by best-sellin writer Damain Thopmson, along wiv his Anti Moly, wot is an unsaved pusson who goes "ROFL" at funerals. She is de ogress of de title, and is gonna be goin wiv him unless he can shake her off.

Eccles, the pilgrim.

Anyway, Eccles had had enough of living on custard and cupcakes, so he packed himself a proper pack, wiv spare clothes, Eccles cakes, and books for spiritaul nuorishment such as the Bibble, Shakespier, Lady, don't fall backwards! by Darcy Sarto, and a copy of Damain Thopmson's The Fox, which was thrust on him as a leaving present. Just as he was startin on his way, his Anti Moly, wot had been peacefully sleepin under the table after a long night screemin at the Internet, woke up and asked him where he was goin.

"I is goin on a pilgrimage, Anti," said Eccles, "and I will probably visit many sacred sites, like Walsingham, and Santiago de Compostela, and Fatima, and maybe even de holy city of Croydon."

Vanity Fair, 10 miles.

"All right, I'm comin wiv you," said his Anti. "We can take my donkey, wot is called Micky Ross, to carry our gin bottles wiv us."

"But you ain't a saved pusson, Anti," complained Eccles. "In fact you is banned from most of de churches inside de M25 for goin ROFL rather than AMEN. I been studyin this book by a man named Bunion, and he says dat de way of a pilgrim is hard, and it aint just goin into pubs and drinkin oneself into a stupor. He says you may even meet de foul fiend Apolly on de road (I fink she writes for de Gaurdian)."

"It's time for me to write another foul and fiendish article!"

But even this frightening prospect did not deter the old lady. Thus, Eccles and his Great-Ant Moli began their pilgrimage, heading westward towards the sinful fleshpots of Hammersmith.

What nameless horrors will our pilgrim encounter in Hammersmith?

Continued in Part 2.