Who would call the pope a heretic?

With apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

"But, Holmes, why should anyone shout 'Pope, you are a heretic!' at Pope Francis?" I asked the great detective.

"A very good question, Watson" replied my friend, strumming a few bars of "Mary, did you know?" on his Becciu fiddle ("it prefers used notes").

"Πάπα, είσαι αιρετικός."

I refer, of course, to the scandalous events of December xxxx, when Pope Francis made a journey to Greece. Initially the Athenians were very disappointed, complaining "The Thessalonians and Corinthians got St Paul, but all we get is Pope Francis." Still, his minders assured the Greeks that soon Francis would be a saint, and probably regarded even more highly than Paul, since he spent so much time correcting him.

"It could, of course, be that old chestnut about Filioque" I suggested. "But surely nobody really gets excited about this nowadays? We're all expecting Francis to rewrite the creed soon, anyway, to include something about Mohammed, Luther, Henry VIII, and the Spirit of Vatican II."

"No, Watson," replied my friend. "But have you thought that the very hairy man could be a Catholic in disguise? Alexander Tschugguel, maybe? Or Father Z? Perhaps Dr Joseph Shaw? Even Cardinal Burke?"

I stared at the photograph of the generously-bearded man, but could not recognise anyone I knew. I also had other doubts.

Pope Francis will write an epistle to the Lesbians, on the advice of Fr James Martin SJ.

"But why would a Catholic want to call the pope a heretic?" I demanded. "Francis leads a very 'orthodox' life, as far as I know. His Amoris Laetitia is admired worldwide as a totally new approach to morality; his collection of Pachamama idols has enriched Catholic worship immeasurably; his changes to the Lord's Prayer have made it much more friendly."

"It is strange, indeed," agreed Holmes. "Indeed his Traditionis Custodes has brought joy to so many people - or at least to the ones who really matter. One might say that he is the most popular pope since the Borgialios, er, Borgias."

"Could the bearded man be Austen Ivereigh?" I suggested. "Trying to get some more material for his nineteenth book about Pope Francis? Since everyone in the Catholic Church - even the bishops - has now decided to ignore everything Francis says, the little scribbler must be running out of exciting material."

Holmes looked at me with amazement. "Watson, my friend!" he exclaimed. "Sometimes you surprise me!"

Not to be continued.

Have you tried Eccles's Blogg? Aw, go on! Go on!

A special article in the Daily Telegraph from Damian Thompson.

Eccles has taught me all I know about custard.

Here’s some advice for Kieran Conry, Richard Dawkins, Iain Dale, and Stephen Fry. If you didn’t catch up with Eccles's blogg this week, don’t bother now. You’ll spoil your weekend. On the other hand, everyone else is in for a treat. Forget those tedious Telegraph blogs and read something with genuine spiritual nourishment. As Arthur Conan Doyle would say: Go on. Go on. Go on, go on, GO ON!!!!

Mary Riddell - a poor imitation of Eccles's Anti Moly.

Eccles is at the forefront of modern blogging - and opinion forming. He adopted Cardinal Ouellet as a papal candidate, and soon afterwards Cardinal Belgrano was elected Pope. He criticised Arthur Roche, and this led directly to his promotion to archbishop, with responsibility for closing churches in Rome. He praised Paul Inwood's innovative approach to "Vogon" music, and the old man was sent packing by Bishop Egan.

Star Wars, bagpipes, unicycles - back in fashion since Eccles posted this on Twitter.

Eccles has an ear for music that Van Gogh (and our own bloggers Stephen Hough and James MacMillan) could only envy. Who else would dare to help Christina Rossetti rewrite In the bleak midwinter?

It was quite a nice day,
Not too hot or cold,
They had lovely weather
In the days of old.

Tom Chivers - I gave him a job thinking that he'd write about jelly.

Of course, there are some Telegraph bloggers who are not overshadowed by Eccles. Young Michael "Mi" Wright, is our Tech blogger, who tweets as @brokenteacuplad, and so far Eccles has not yet turned his hand to technology. Also, we've got Gerald Warner, Ed West, Peter Mullen and David Lindsay. Oh, did we lose them? Well, never mind.

Moly (now retired) was a troll that I employed to drive up the hits on my blog.

Eccles is also relatively silent on environmental issues, whereas we have our great double act of Geoffrey Fat and James Upthepole, to tell us (a) the world will burst into flames next week unless we ban all motor cars (b) we're heading for a new Ice Age.

But in general the Telegraph blogs cannot compete with Eccles. His best line of the week? Out go Humanae Vitae and the other fuddy-duddy documents! In comes your own Episcopal Encyclical Fac Rem Tuam (or, since Latin is obviously not "cool", you may just say Do your own thing).

A fan of Eccles wonders why his Oyster card has stopped working.

Which isn't to say that Eccles is always being rude about people. His Eccles Bible Project has now reached the book of 1 Chronicles, and throws new light on the subject of Jizreel, Jishma, Jidbash, and their sister Hazlelponi. Scholars have said that it includes the definitive study of Hazlelponi.

If only Eccles would agree to write for the Telegraph blogs! But he already writes, under various pseudonyms, for the Tablet, Beano, Luton Budgie-Fanciers Gazette, Babes in Custard, and other scholarly publications, so he simply hasn't got the time!

The budgie-fanciers of Luton do not know how lucky they are!

Sherlock Holmes and the poisoned professor

"What do you make of this, Holmes?" I asked, looking up from my laptop, on which I was reading some comments on Twitter. "Richard Dawkins is complaining about something again."

"Watson, this case presents interesting features."

Holmes rose from his chair, from which he had firing bullets into the wall, producing a passable outline of the head of Bishop Kieran Conry (or it may have been Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall) - the revolver shots were annoying, but less painful on the ears than when he played selections from Paul Inwood on his violin. "Let me see now," he said. "Wednesday was insult-Muslims day, and Thursday, being the Assumption, would have been the occasion of a dig at the Virgin Mary. On Friday he just whinges about life in general - recently it was the difficulty of finding a matching pair of socks."

I read out the tweet in question: My daily breakfast includes (unsalted) cashew nuts. My current batch tastes of chlorine. Any (knowledgeable, non-facetious) ideas why?

A feast fit for a leading atheist!

"There is Devilish work afoot here," replied Holmes. "A scientific question that even Richard Dawkins cannot answer! But, if I am not mistaken, here is our client now!"

Mrs Hudson opened the door of our rooms in Tom Baker Street, admitting an aged man, who was accompanied by a younger woman and a strange metal dog bearing the legend "K9". Holmes greeted them warmly.

"I perceive from your right sleeve that you are a retired zoologist, now employed as a world-leading amateur theologian and scourge of the godly," said my friend. "Also, the scuff marks on your shoes indicate that you came here in a large red bus bearing the legend 'Look, I tell you, there probably isn't a God. Now get lost.'"

Our client, looking distinctly unwell.

"Never mind that rubbish, Holmes, you charlatan," replied Dawkins with his well-known charm and bonhomie, cutting short my cry of "Amazing, Holmes!"

The facts of the case turned out to be as Dawkins had already related in his Twitter comment, and my friend had further questions to pose. "Do you have enemies, Professor Dawkins? Are there any people you may have offended in some way?"

"Not really," said Dawkins in a puzzled tone. "Well, the Catholic Church of course. And the Anglicans. The Baptists. The Muslims. Sikhs. Hindus. Hardly anyone, really."

We accompanied our client and his companions back to the scene of the crime, the breakfast room in Castle Dawkins, Oxford. Holmes scrutinised the room carefully, then, with a cry of "Aha!" he pulled a white cap from under the table.

A clue!

"If I am not mistaken," said my friend, "this is a zucchetto. No, Watson, don't try and eat it, it's not a zucchini. This is a skull cap worn by someone very senior in the Catholic Church. I have written a monograph classifying 200 different types of skull cap. Perhaps you have read it, Professor Dawkins?"

Dawkins explained to us that he never read works by other people, to avoid the risk of being contaminated by their opinions, and Holmes gave us a profile of his prime suspect.

"I suspect someone senior in the Catholic Church, probably a pope. He would need to have some knowledge of chemistry - perhaps he found the subject too difficult, and gave it up to become a pope instead. Now, to judge by the monogram inside the cap, his name begins with F. Have you seen a Pope Fred in the neighbourhood recently?"

Pope Fred (R) prepares breakfast for Richard Dawkins (L).

Alas, the case was destined to remain unsolved. Somewhere my friend had made a vital error, for we were totally unable to track down anyone answering to the name of "Pope Fred". It was one of Holmes's rare failures.

"Watson," said my friend. "If it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, kindly whisper 'Dawkins' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

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.