A Lattin Mass

Anti Moly and me we is still stayin wiv Damain Thopmson, who is a really luvvly man. But on Satturday mornin I woke up in my bed in Castle Thopmson to find a pink horse's head in it, which I is fiarly sure wasn't dere de night before.

I summoned Will Heaven de butler, who shimmered in wiv a tray contianing a glass of milk for me and a hair-restorrer and gin cocktail for Anti Moly, what sleeps in de next room. "I sees dat Sir has been contacted by de Gay Maffia," explaned Mr Heaven. "Dey is very poppular in de Cathlic churhc nowaddays, especailly in de Plymouth diocese. No duobt dey is invitin you to go to de Church of de Assumption and St Gregory in Soho for a gay Mass. Dis may be an offer you can't refuse. Play your cards rihgt and Vincent Nichols will give you de kiss of peace."

Damain, howevver, had uvver plans, and on Sunday we trailed into de London Horrortree. I had planned to wear a togga, as dey say dat when in Rome you gotta do what de Romans do, but Damain said it wasnt usaully done. He hisself wasnt wearing a togga, just his superman costume. In de week he is mild-mannered Damain Thopmson, but at weekends he is like a blood-crazed ferret.

Anti Moly disgraced herself almost immediately. "Why has dat woeful priest got his back to us?" she screeched. "Aint dat typical traddy Cathlic rudeness?" Damain explaned in hushed tones dat traddy preists doesnt like to look at de congreggatoin, especailly when Anti Moly is among dem, as it makes dem feel ill.

De preist was wearing a beretta, which he took off to make annuoncements, e.g. "Will you keep dat old bat quiet please, Dr Thopmson?"

After a while, I got fed up, cos I didn't understand wot was goin on, so when de preist puased for breath, I stood up and sang "I am de Lord of de Dance, said He," which is a famuous hynm about Jessus dancin wot we sings in de Calumny Chappel. Anti Moly had been drinkin Damain's hair-restorrer since 8 a.m. and she jioned in de Dance wiv me.

But apparently in de Lattin litturgy, dis is not what dey does, so I got one or two funny looks from de traddies. Sometimes deys sings de Gregorrian chant, "Ego Dominus saltationis sum, dixit," but dat's all.

After de Mass we went back to Castle Thopmson, where Muvver Odone, de cook, was doin us raviolli for lunch. She alternates between passta and piza, she aint got much imaginatoin. After all dat dancin, Anti Moly said she was so hungry she could eat a horse, and so I left her chewin her way frew de pink one I was givven.

De Satturday colunm

I'VE WRITTEN ANOTHER BOOK

Birds do it, bees do it, even Russell Brand does it

Russell Brand is a smug git, isn't he? But he talks sense about drugs. In fashionable Notting Hill circles, they say that no dinner party is complete without some E, cocaine or cannabis (just don't try lighting up a cigar). I am sure that the working men of Barnsley are no different, relaxing sociably with a fix of heroin after they complete an all-night shift at the local tripe factory. (Most of my readers are from London, and will not have heard of Barnsley, but it is a northern town. Lancashire, I think. Tripe is a delicacy much enjoyed by people who use Twitter.)

I talked to Paul Bearer, my local undertaker, and he confirmed my impressions. "Of the under-21s who are brought in dead to our establishment, over 90% had been taking drugs." Again, we may be making a hasty generalization here, but I think this figure is typical of the population as a whole.

In my new book I'm in a fix, I discuss Brand's other addictions, including the much-publicised Sachs addiction.

Obviously Sachs in moderation cannot harm you, and often, when I am feeling depressed, I relieve my spirits by telephoning the man who brought us "Manuel"; when he answers, I wittily reply "I speak Eenglish. I leaarn it from a boook,"  "No, eet ees no a rat, eet is a filigree Siberian hamster," or "I know nar-theeng!" in a cod-Spanish accent. Then I burst out laughing and put the receiver down. The last time I did this I heard Mr Sachs saying "Oh, it's just that crazy man from the Telegraph again," so I knew he was as amused by the joke as I was.

But of course Brand, in collaboration with that other supposedly cutting-edge wit, Jonathan Ross, found that he could not control his Sachs-drive. Please buy my book, and I'll tell you more.
 

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There's no one like Dame Teksako Itchipowda

I've just discovered a promising young composer called Franz Schubert, who will probably be new to most readers. Here's his photo.

The legendary Dame Teksako Itchipowda performed his last three piano sonatas at the Southbank Centre on Monday ("piano" is a technical term used by some musicians to refer to one of those big instruments with a lid that lifts up. My friend Stephen Hough also plays one, but frankly he's not very good at Schubert). Dame Teksako is a neighbour of mine, and I often follow her into the supermarket, playing excerpts from Schubert sonatas to her on my piano-accordion, while she hunts for her essential supplies of baked beans and toilet rolls. She pretends not to recognise me, of course, but I expect she is secretly flattered to be adored by a Telegraph journalist.

There's an unfinished chapter about Schubert in my latest book, The Fish (a reference to his famous trout quintet, which he also arranged for a double bass: that's also some sort of fish, I believe). It's a little-known fact that it was Schubert's addiction to haddock that killed him.

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What might have been

I realised yesterday that we are approaching the first anniversary of the death of a prominent member of Al-Qaeda. Osama Bin Laden and I were at school together; he was one of the most gifted intellectuals I’ve ever met. Alas, he was unable to discipline his brilliant mind, while also lacking the social skills to mingle with ordinary people. He could orate, dazzlingly, on the Koran, the novels of Barbara Cartland, or the Thomas the Tank Engine canon. Moreover, he loved founding unusual sectarian groups, such as the “Tory Islamic Nudists" and the "Jihadists for Geoffrey Howe," which today have only a handful of members.

Osama was a much-misunderstood individual. I tried to convert him to Catholicism, but he confessed that he could never accept the idea of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary; also, he did not think that women should be allowed into church with the men. How history might have been different if we could only have agreed on these minor theological details.

I don't have much about Osama in my latest book, The Fez, but I do discuss in detail the question why so many people are addicted to silly hats.

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Doctor Who?

For many years, Alastair Campbell has been referred to as a "spin-doctor," but does he really deserve this title? I have been unable to find any evidence that he obtained a Ph.D. from a reputable university, or even from the London School of Egomaniacs. My editor asks me to point out that you wouldn't get Conservatives deceiving people in this way.

Indeed, leading intellectuals such as Richard Chartres tell me that they are very worried about this proliferation of undeserved "Doctor" titles. Here's another example.

Did you spot that sinister-looking chap with the glasses in the picture above? He calls himself "Doc," and is a senior executive for the Disney Corporation. I spoke to his P.A., a Mr Dopey, who refused to provide any proof of his boss's qualifications. Do you think that "Doc" is lining himself up as a possible candidate for Rowan Williams's job? I hope that someone will warn Her Majesty.

In my new book "Jim'll fix it" I write a hard-hitting chapter about how people can be addicted to qualifications - whether it be a B.Sc., an M.A., or a Ph.D. My conclusion: they're killing themselves by degrees. I thank you.

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 is comin to Enggland

We was rellaxin in Anti Moly's huose in Stickybeak Street one evenin. I was queitly readin Damain Thopmson's blogg and wonderin whevver UKIP was saved, and Anti Moly was watchin her favuorite programm on de telly, which is Benny Hill cos he does de Yakety-Sax music at de end where he gets chased by lotsa girls. She fuond it much more soothin dan de prevviuos programm, which was an interveiw wiv Cradinal Pell abuot de menttal probblems dat old ladies suffer - when she saw him she screemed "Woeful!" and frew her flase teeth at de telly.

We gotta knock on de door and a strangley familair cosstume lawman was standin there.

"G'day, g'day, g'day!" he said, dis bein wot Austrialan police is trained to say. "Molly Badnite alias Judy Headache, we has been gettin dozens of compliants about you bein a  public niusance. Why doesnt you go away for a while, so dat we aint forced to arrest you?"

So my dere Anti decided dat we wuold vissit Enggland, which is where Anti's ancesstors came from until dey was sent off to Bottany Bay. We made a list of all de poeple we wuold try and visit, dat Moly has said she reely admires, such as Damain Thopmson, St Cuttley, Richard Dakwins, Tina Beattie, de Duchess Camila, Tom Chivvers, and so on. We got a good range of celebritties dere, includdin de devuot and saintly like Cuttley and Thopmson, de loonies like Beattie and Dakwins, and de braney types like Chivvers and Camila.

However, Anti gave me a warnin about Enggland, as we walked down de street to de shops: "Dem Pommie bastards is all racists, Eccles. Dey aint multicultured and tollerant like we is." Kickin a passin abboriginal wot had strayed onto de pavement, she continnued: "Look at dere spellin, for instance. Dey is racist cos dey tells off Americans for spellin baddly." Pussonally, I aint never had a probblem wiv spellin, so I didnt reely understand wot she was gettin at.

Dat's a pitcher of my Anti Moly in a bad mood, some poeple says dat she ressembles Dr Jonhson slightly. Sometimes I feels like Boswell takin down de immotral words of Jonhson, cos my Anti never reely stops producin purls of wissdom, like de epiggrams above. I admits dat dey is a bit repettitive, like when she says "ROFL" half a dozen times. I don't fink Jonhson said "ROFL" except on specail occasoins. Also dere is a limmit to how many times you can prettend dat "Such is life" is a new and strikin obversation on de humman conditoin. De way of a boigrapher aint so easy.

Our freind Damain Thopmson have got a new book out soon, which Bosco and me helped him write when he visitted us in Lost Angels. Anti Moly finks we mihgt go and see him sing coppies of it, but she promissed she wont take a few locks of his hair as souvennirs, like she did wiv poor old Cuttley.

In Enggland dey got a delickacy called an Eccles cake. I hopes it is better dan de Austrialan delickacy known as de Moly cake, which is pretty repullsive, frankly. Eatin dem widgety grubbs is an acquirred taste.

Dat's enuff bloggs

Hands off Pippa!
By Cristina Noode

Leave Her Royal Hotness alone! She's just a 28-year-old girl doing what all teenagers do at her age - going to wild parties in Paris, getting drunk, and shooting the odd gendarme! Only confirmed anti-monarchists could possibly see anything wrong with that! Which amongst us has not been a little wild in their younger days?

In my days editing the Catholic Herald it was normal to see Damian "six gun" Thompson striding in after a hard night's drinking and poker with "Wild Bill" Oddie. One day he explained that they had just shot a policeman, having mistaken him for "Doc" Chartres, and they were terrified that the lawman might have been a Catholic.  We glamorous young girls all wanted to be Damian's "moll" and shoot up the Magic Circle bishops with him, but he rejected all our advances. Later, we all became boringly respectable housewives of course.

So leave Pippa alone! She may be a wild teenager now, but one day she may be a respected Catholic blogger for the Telegraph!

Excusez-moi, officer, je suis en retard pour la Messe à Notre Dame.

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Cameron the Eurosceptic
By Daniel Nannah

The time has come for UKIP supporters to lay down their arms and admit that David Cameron's Conservatives are the only party likely to take us out of the EU within the next five years.

Already Dave is making rebellious rumblings against EU tyranny. Indeed this week he decided to go head-to-head with the Prime Minister of mighty Varicella. By threatening to oppose an EU Directive on subsidies for hamster-farmers, Dave has shown that he is not afraid to hit the Varicellan hamster-fur industry where it hurts.

Our Eurosceptic policies are being noticed. Whenever I stand up in the European parliament and suggest that we expel all foreigners from the EU, I am listened to avidly. Indeed, most of the foreigners take my advice and leave the chamber immediately. Last week, however, my speech met with unexpected results, for a man came into the chamber, carrying a bag of tools. Somehow I must have received a blow on the head, for when I woke up I was sitting on a pile of rotten cabbage in the Brussels Municipal Dump, but - and this is the important thing - I was still giving my controversial speech on Van Rompuy - why does he smell like a dead weasel? 

Dave is in town, and he's in a mean mood. So Brussels, beware!

David Cameron, getting to grips with Johnny Foreigner.

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Parishioners! Arentchasickofem?
By Peter Numell

In my days as a Parish Priest in the Yorkshire village of Ebor-Gum, the one thing I dreaded was my parishioners. Nowadays, as Anglican Chaplain to the Guild of Usurers, Money-lenders and Blackmailers, I mix with a different class of person, and they are not usually interested in religious matters. But even in my days as Honorary Canon to the White Slave Industry life was peaceful compared with the horrors that awaited me in Yorkshire.

In Ebor-Gum I had proposed some simple changes in our form of Sunday worship - I just wanted it to start each week with a ceremonial burning of homosexuals on the village green - and the parishioners treated me as if I had wanted to do something outrageous, such as introducing the happy-clappy doggerel of Graham Kendrick. Well, I withdrew my plans in the face of their implacable opposition, and reduced the burnings to an occasional event in my own back garden.

Then again, I thought it would be helpful if we were to show our ecumenical side by storming the local mosque, decapitating the Imam, and putting his head on a pole with a label "LOSER". You wouldn't believe the fuss my plan caused. Now I display Father Abdallah's head in a glass case in my sitting-room, where it is much admired by visitors, but we Christians should not be forced to hide our lights under bushels in this way.

Shall we go down to the pub, vicar?

Yet more bloggs

St Gordon of Kirkcaldy
By Mary Drilled

Mary Drilled's photo marks the 100th anniversary of the death of Bram Stoker

Gordon Brown now spends his days in retirement in a darkened room in Kirkcaldy, his only reward being an MP's pittance of £65,000, together with necessary expenses (most recently, an invoice from Jock McBogey's Glazing Repairs, for a window damaged by a flying laser-printer, £300+VAT). But until 2010 he was the most powerful man in the free world, the saviour of civilization as we know it. The verdict of history on Gordon Brown will surely be: We Owe So Much.

 Of course Ed Miliband is wonderful too, so handsome, so masterful. He can't make his eyes revolve in opposite directions at the same time, as Ed Balls can, but let's face it, is that really a necessary qualification to be PM? But it is Gordon whose photo I have on my bedside table, the Pride of Scotland.

Surely this man is a god?

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Viagra, sex, and pianist envy
By James Hordes

As a famous but iconoclastic pianist  - I'll get a better picture later, but I never really understood the instructions in those photo booths - I went to a concert recently. It featured a new sensational Chinese pianist, Miss To Tee. I can't remember much about what she was playing (it was one of those seriously uncool dudes, Beethoven, maybe) but I did notice that she certainly wasn't "flat". As I munched my way through a packet of Viagra tablets, and swelled to a climax with the melody, I said to myself, "Yes! This is what classical music is all about!"

Damian Thompson can keep his Bach (that Baroque wig he wears when he thinks nobody is watching doesn't suit him anyway). Give me To Tee tickling the ivories any day. Or the new CD set  from Cora Bimbo, in the deluxe edition with extra photos. YES!!!

Playing Fauré's Dolly Bird Suite

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Is Monbiot trying to kill me?
By James Goldenpile

I was eating my cold toast for breakfast today (no warming required), when I was struck by a terrible thought: is George Monbiot trying to kill me? Call me paranoid if you like, but I remember that the last time I appeared on Any Questions? with him, he was carrying an umbrella, and I am fairly sure that it was he who jabbed me in the leg half-way through the programme. I was explaining once more how Michael Mann had produced his hockey-stick graph by massaging his data, adding in his friends' telephone numbers and converting them to Fahrenheit. But the warmists are up to their dirty tricks as usual.

There's definitely a Libtard conspiracy to suppress the truth. Indeed, the man on the Sainsbury's fish counter looks suspiciously like Al Gore, and is obviously ready to slip me a poisoned haddock if I let my vigilance slip. But Monbiot is at the centre of it. He's a master of disguise too - the old lady who nearly barged me off the pavement yesterday didn't look anything like him, so that proves it.

Phew, it's cold today, isn't it? I told you there was an ice-age coming.

There's something sinister about him, don't you think?

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Concluded here.

Some uvver Tellegraph bloggs

Holy Water Shortages
By Geoffrey Anel

As the world's oldest environmental correspondent, and the sole survivor of the 1913 conference which found that the sinking of the Titanic was due to atmospheric carbon dioxide, I was invited to a prestigious Climate Change congress in Rome this week. There I discovered that Pope Benedict XVI is so concerned about water shortages that he will be banning the use of Holy Water in Catholic churches so as to minimize the Holy Spirit's "Hydrogen footprint".

For many years the Catholic Church has been known for its indifference to green issues. Indeed, the carbon dioxide produced by this Easter's Paschal candles has caused sea levels to rise by no less than six feet, and (so I am told) the town of Adelaide has completely disappeared underwater. Will Benedict XVI go down in history as the Green Pope? We can but pray to Gaia that it will be so.

For our children's sake, stop this waste now!

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It doesn't matter what notes you play
By Stephen Oh-Hug

Occasionally, when you are performing a concerto at the Carnegie Hall, or possibly the Royal Albert Hall, your attention will wander for a moment and you will think, "Am I supposed to be playing Rachmaninov or Tchaikovsky right now?"

Well, you'll be pleased to know that it doesn't really matter. The great pianist Alfred Brendel said that under such circumstances he would wing it for a while, perhaps simply playing an embellished version of Pop goes the weasel until the orchestra gave him a clue what he was supposed to be doing. Then he would come back to the score as if nothing had happened. Provided that he kept a straight face, none of the audience would ever notice.

Alfred Brendel in conversation with André Previn

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Why we owe so much to Chris Huhne
By Tom Vichers

As a fully-paid-up pro-Gay Liberal Atheist, I see it as my duty to wind up the Telegraph's largely conservative readership. So today I am focussing on the achievements of Chris Huhne, one of my real heroes. Who can doubt that if he had been prime minister, he would have legalised cannabis, heroin and opium, which, after all, are no more harmful to the teeth than coffee with sugar? Then again, there are some parts of the British countryside that do not yet have their own wind turbines - why oh why should the Yorkshire Dales be deprived in this way? It can only be attributed to the fact that Chris Huhne was forced out of office by the forces of reaction (Inspector Norman Plod).

Unfortunately our picture editor could not find a photo of the great man, but here is a photo of his ex-wife going for a spin.

I was only doing 30 m.p.h., officer.

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Continued here.

Boris steps in

Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, has blocked a bus campaign aimed at helping regular philanderers find a cure. 

NOT UNFAITHFUL! EX-UNFAITHFUL, POST-UNFAITHFUL AND PROUD. 

GET OVER IT!



Said Mr Johnson, "Cripes! It's clearly not on to suggest that serial adulterers can control themselves! London is a vibrant city tolerant of all forms of sexual activity - expecting Johnny Casanova to put his trousers on is bloody offensive, what?"

Meanwhile, the mayor continues to perform his essential mayoral duties, which mainly consist of getting himself re-elected. Provided that Ken Livingstone and his views continue to be publicised widely, Boris Johnson seems certain to succeed.

Amongst his official appointments today, Boris will be joining Archbishop Peter Smith to open a new convent, the Liberal Sisters of St Oona. Here we see the Mother Superior modelling her new Vatican II-approved habit.

"Jolly good show, what!" commented Mr Johnson. "That's what I like to see. Not stupid bus campaigns about morality."

De Voyage of St Eccles, Chapter 3

1. And an Angle spake unto Eccles, saying, "Dis sagga of thine is taking a long time to finish off. Thou willst miss the deadline for de new editoin of de Bibble."

2. "What is I to do?" asked Eccles. "De love life of mine Ant is too complex to be resolved so easily."

3. "Perhaps thou couldst rewrite it for de new editoin of de Korran?" said de Angle. "It could be de story of Anti Mullah, wot goes to Mecka to find de Imam El-Pell. If thou dressest thine Anti in a Burker, den she will not frighten de children so much."

Moly-ben-Dite as she ain't often seen

4. "Nay," saith Eccles. "For I doesnt fink de Musslims is saved. Anyway, strong drink is condemned by Isslam, and my Anti cannot do wivvout it. We will continue as we has started." And it was so.

 5. So she that is called Moly-ben-Dite saith unto de blessed Eccles, "Let us attend the service dat mine beloved Goerge doth conduct for de Easter Viggil. Perchance, Eccles, we couldst disgiuse ourselves as alter servers, dat we may carry de candels into de Cathedral? Den, at de crittical moment, I may hit mine belloved over de head wiv de Pascal Candel, and screem 'Libbertine! Don Jaun! Cassanover! Nick Cleg!'" And she nameth some of de gratest lovers in history.

6. And it was so. De blessed Eccles and his somewhat less blessed Anti didst robe demselves in de white graments of holliness.

7. And dere came a grate processoin into de Cathedral of Sidney. Dere was de famuous Monsinger Rolf Harris, de Dame Edna Average (wot aint reely a woman, so it's OK), even de famous Spin Blower, Farver Shane Worn. All was dressed in de white graments of holliness.

Farver Shane givvin de blessin

8. And in de processoin was concealed Eccles and Moly.

9. And Cradinal Pell spake unto de mulltitudes, sayin, "G'day, cobbers, here we got de Pascal Candel, cos it's Easter. Cor, chase my pet wombat up a coolibar tree, it's dat crazy woman from Pottymouth..."

10. And Lo, Moly hurled de Pascal Candel at de Cradinal, dat it might come to pass wot was written in de book of Relevatoin Chapter 2, Verse 5, I come to thee, and will move thy candlestick out of its place, except thou do penance.

A dangerous waepon in de wrong hands

11. And de costume holly man fled at de sihgt of de wrathful old lady, sayin, "Canst thou direct me to de nearest billybong?"

12. For in the days of his youth, so men say, he had fled de pursuin hag by jumpin into de billybong, where no man durst follow.

13. And Eccles said unto his Anti, "Let us deppart from hence and return to Pottymouth. Dem Cathlics aint to be trusted, anyways." So they departed.

14. Here endeth de book of de voyage of St Eccles.

Götterdamian

I has been asked for more details about de opera Götterdamian, Twilight of de Bloggs, and here is a synopsus dat I fuond.

Damian, king of the blood-crazed ferrets, builds a mighty blog called Telhallah, where heroes such as the legendary Otsota, Mundabor and Bencarta can gather to discuss the eternal verities; they attempt to decide who will be the next Archbishop of Westminster, whether Mario Conti is a real person or just a pasta dish, and why the Daily Telegraph is not published in Latin. As they sit round the fireside, quaffing mead, a pleasant and holy smoke arises from their discussions.

However, the blog is cursed, and the mighty fortress of Telhallah is soon invaded by monsters. First there comes Bosco the Clown, who interrupts every discussion, but he is ignored by almost everyone. Then an army of evil trolls arrives, led by the dragon Judyhaddock and her sidekick the gnome Pholas. All night long they attack the forces of Good.

Damian, horrified by this onslaught, changes tactics completely and attempts to appease the invaders. We learn that  Damian's staff, the symbol of his power, has been shattered... the veteran sage Gerald the Warner is banished to the frozen north, and even the Comedy Friar, George the Pitcher, vanishes. New philosophers, such as Peter of Mullen, take their place in the kingdom, but all are driven mad by the ravings of the Witch of Odone.

Finally, a further horde of trolls, with names such as "Father" Arthur, Daryl and Phil, invades Telhallah, pretending to represent the forces of Good. However, these trolls also ally themselves with the dragon Judyhaddock, who is now reincarnated as Molly the Bandit.

In vain the remaining philosophers attempt to hold the blog together, but Damian himself changes sides, and becomes a standard-bearer for the forces of darkness. The eternal verities are banned from Telhallah, and all that remains is a trivial discussion of celebrities, such as Johann the Hairy and Galloway the Cat-man. The blog disappears in a mighty flamewar, and the whine-maidens sing a final ROFL as eternal darkness falls.

De Voyage of St Eccles, Chapter 2

1. So it came to pass dat Eccles and Anti Moly-ben-Dite went to de Pottymouth trane station, for to catch de Indian Pacific trane to Sidney.

2. And de statoinmaster at Pottymouth hardened his heart and said, "Lo! Dis dame is a well-known trubble-maker and she aint gonna go on any of our tranes unless you puts her in a wooden crate."

3. And Moly she was very wrathful, but she knew dat dere was no real chioce, if she wanted to see her beloved, he dat is called Pell.

4. So Eccles he made a crate out of de finest gopher wood. Lo, it was 4 cubits long, and nearly 2 cubits wide and 2 cubits deep. And in it he placed his beloved ant, together wiv a supply of de finest liqours and a wondrous engine called an iTroll, wot is able to send forth insullts to bloggs on de Internnet.

5. And de Pottymouth stationmaster hardened his heart and said, "Peradventure we shuold also handcuff and gag de old biddy? For she will scream 'woful!' in de nihgt, when de honest man sleepeth."

6. But Eccles he pointed out dat de regullatoins for transportin livestock on de trane said dat dey must not be creul to de animules. So it came to pass dat he buoght himself a Saver ticket (for he was Saved) and he placed his beloved anti in de gaurd's van.

7. And Anti Moly spake forth wiv her iTroll, sayin, "WOFL, WOFL, WOFL. I has got an Easter message for all traddy fanatical Cathlics. Easter is a time for buying chockolate eggs and smashin dem over de heads of sockpoppets. It aint got no uvver purpoise."

8. But de Internett connectoin faileth, and her vioce cryeth out in de wilderness, "WOFL" and no man heareth de Easter message of Anti Moly.

9. Thus dey came to Sidney, a city of great baeuty and cullture, where dey hath an opera house and signeth all de famuous operas, such as "De Barber of Pottymouth," by Micki Rossini, and "Gotterdamian," abuot de Twillight of de Bloggs.

10. So dey released Anti Moly from her wooden box, and she walked in de streets wiv Eccles, her saved nehpew, wot is loved by de Lord and gets Vallentine cards from Him (althuogh some saith dat it was a practical joke played by his creul bruvver Bosco).

11. And dey meets a Momron, who saith "G'day, yuong man. We has a projject to bapptise all de dead poeple wot can't say no. But we also bapptises people wot is old and decreppit, so maybe de old skellington lady wot walks wiv you wuold like to be bapptised?"

12. "Whom hath thou bapptised recently?" asks Eccles.

13. "We has done Gahndi, Buhdda, Mahommed, Atilla de Hun and Pop Pious X. Dey is now all good Momrons," saith de Momron, "but dey doesnt ware de magic undies like we does, of cuorse."

Dat's a pitcher of Gahndi, wot is now a Momron

14. And he spake the name of de magic undies; that is, de Abracada Bra, de Wonderbra and so on.

15.  But Anti Moly saith that she hath no wish to be bapptised, and they moved on in deir quest for de Cradinal known as Pell.

16. So dey came in due course to de Cathlic Cathedral of Sidney, wot is called St Mary's.

17. And dey saw dat de Easter Viggil Mass was gonna be cellebrated by Cradinal Goerge Pell, who got de job of carryin de Easter Candel into de Cathedral. Probabbly he gonna kiss it, as dat's wot Cathlics doth.

18. "We gonna attend dat!" shreiketh Anti Moly in glee, and she began to make her plans.

Here endeth de seckond chapter of de story of Eccles's voyage to Sidney.

---

Concluded here.

Is you a relligiuos maniac?

I is postponnin de rest of de story of my Anti Moly's visit to Sidney, cos I likes to keep poeple in suspense. So todday's blogg is abuot de doctor wot was illegedly sacked by a hopsital, cos he e-maled a prayer to his collaegues. We Chritsians wot is saved doesnt like to be accused of relligiuos mania, so here for de beneffit of Brittish readers is a list of DOs and DONTs, explanin what you is allowed to do nowadays.

DONT say "Bless you" if someone sneezes in de hopsital. Dis is a prayer, and you is gonna be in truoble. If you is a nurse in a hopsital, DO just ignore de patient, as you wuold normally. And if dey has a fit and drops dead, DONT say "Oh my God" as dat is also a prayer, and you will be marked down as a fanattical fundamentallist. DO just go away and have a cup of tea. You may also be able to sue de hopsital for copmensatoin, as you has had de harrowin experience of seein a dead boddy.

Dat's a Pop sneezin. I dont known whevver anyone said "Bless you" to him, or is dat bein cheeky?

If you is a famuous athiest bein interveiwed on de radio, and you cant remember de tittle of Darwin's book about de origin of speeches, den DONT say "Oh God, um..." as dat is braodcastin a prayer, and you will look even sillier dan usaul.

If you is mentoinin Christ, DONT say "Christ de King" or "Christ de Redeemer", but DO say fings like "Christ on a bike" or "Jesus wept!"

I aint never reely understood dat, as de Bibble mentoins ridin on donkeys but not bycicles. My bruvver Bosco explaned to me dat in Matthew 15:21 Jesus "departed into the coasts of Tyre and Saddle," and he reckons dat means He went on a bike.

However, if you is a Musslim, DO say "Allah is de God, buster, and Mohamed is reely grate, has you got a probblem wiv dat?" cos you aint gonna be told off for it. Still, it's probabbly best not to discuss whevver Mahommed ever rode a bycicle, unless you wants a Fattwar against you.

Dat's a different Mahommed, wot flaots like a buterfly and stings like a bee. I fink he used to hit poeple as well.

DONT ever wear a cruciffix (I blogged about dis alreddy) as dat is a cymbal of relligious bigottry, but DO wear a burker, if you is female, as dat is a cymbal of wommen's libberatoin, and tollerance of uvver cultures. It sure is difficult livin in modern Britian.

De reely bad news is dat we in de Calumny Chappel aint supposed to go up to people in de street and say "Is you saved, bruvver?" and den hit dem over de head wiv de Bibble until dey gives in. In de words of my Anti Moly (who is well-known for emptying de washin-up bowl over carol signers), it wuold be "Wofl."