Cardinal Nichols profiles Damian Thompson

This morning Damian Thompson - brought up in Reading and a life-long fan of the Catholic Church - was expected to have dressed in the scarlet silk of a Telegraph deputy editor for the first time. However, it was not to be.

I explain to Damian where he went wrong.

Some commentators even thought that Damian might one day achieve the "eminence" of a Benedict Brogan XVI or James-Pole II ("Darling Pole" to his admirers) but certain dubious incidents in his Telegraph Blogs Diocese may have delayed his elevation.

For example, the notorious "Gay" blogs, held by Fr Graeme Archer, shocked traditional Catholics. Moreover, many readers were appalled by the sentiments expressed by Professor Tina Odone, who was allowed to give so-called "Catholic" lectures in the diocese.

Sorry, Damian, no scarlet clothes for you!

Damian-haters are wrong when they suggest that he's a man of weak or wavering faith. On the contrary, it's partly his determination to get lots of hits on his blog that drives him to drivel on constantly about Noele Gordon or Soreen malt-bread, or to write four anti-UKIP posts in a week.

Chocolate: the Pope's answer to Damian's obsession with cupcakes and custard.

As one middle-aged Catholic troll told me wistfully yesterday, "Other newspapers have writers who generate a buzz because their writing is so dynamic. Thompson is just so bland."

The simple vestments of a blogs editor.

Still, with a change of leadership at the Telegraph, with traditionalist Pope Gallagher surrendering the ancient chair of Barclay to Pope MacGregor, liberal attitudes are on the ascendant, even if the circulation doesn't seem to be. Thompson has changed his style, and there is hope yet that he may become a prince of the Telegraph.

David Cameron, a life-long friend of Damian Thompson.

But put it this way: Bill Deedes he ain't.

Was that OK, Eccles? I'm a bit busy today - been invited to a booze-up in Rome! Yours ever, Vin (rouge!).

Guest blogger, Snowball the pig

Snowball the pig, star of Animal Farm.

Today we are pleased to be able to print an abridged version of the Telegraph blog by Snowball the pig, winner of the prestigious Orwell prize for his role in Animal Farm and his pioneering slogan about marriage: One man bad, two men better!

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What cheek! Vincent Nichols invoked the spectre of an Orwellian, totalitarian state in his Christmas Day sermon, when he referred to the Government's attempts to bring in same-sex marriage. Christmas is a time for preaching a message of love and sex, for getting drunk and watching The Wizard of Oz on the television, and for wearing red hats with white trimmings. It is NOT a time for talking about morals, for trying to explain good and evil, or for mentioning controversial figures like Christ.

If Vincent Nichols had merely done what most priests do on Christmas Day: talked in vague terms about Father Christmas, and elves, and perhaps told us what Christmas presents he'd received, then nobody would have taken any notice. But he deliberately outraged non-Christians by taking a moral stand.

My partner, Napoleon, agrees with me.

What makes it more outrageous is that the Pope is an ex-Nazi - yes, he is, he is, he was a personal friend of Hitler, I tell you. That alone should stop him from condemning totalitarianism, fascism, dictators, or anything else. Bog off back to your bunker, Ratzinger, what makes you think you have any authority? Did you get an Orwell prize like me, or Polly Toynbee, or even Johann Hari?

The Pope, in the uniform of the Hitler youth, does a Nazi salute.

Well, that's put the Catholic church in its place - as the paramilitary wing of the National Socialists - so let me drone on a bit about Clause 28, that infamous piece of legislation which said that every day schools had to conduct a compulsory Two Minutes Hate for homosexuals. My own school didn't do this - in fact, they didn't mention homosexuality at all, except in geometry lessons, where some of the diagrams taught me how to find a loving life with another man.

Clause 28 banned diagrams like this, which taught me about sex.

Gosh, we had enough trouble reducing the age of consent to 16. You may say that boys of 16 aren't ready for sex, but of course the person they have sex with is often a fat man 20 years older, and he's not only ready, he's dying for it! Anyway, we won that battle, and now we're ready for the final battle - the complete take-over of marriage.

The Archbishop's relentless campaign - which lasted all of ten minutes - makes me more determined that the change must come. As I'm typing this I can hear the howling winds, still, loudly outside my window; the waves crash onto the shore, and the rocks on the beach are slowly worn down. Which is very odd, as I'm in a padded cell in London. I think I need more medication. Nurse!

Beasts of England, Beasts of Ireland...