The Pope's diary

Paolo Gabriele being driven off to prison.

Wednesday. Having lost Paolo Gabriele, my butler and general factotum, I have been advised that I should not appoint a successor, as it gives ammunition to people who think the Pope should do his own dusting. Why, even that silly man Richard Coles who broadcasts on the BBC was making wisecracks about scratched thuribles!

There is a problem, though. I was going to go out to bless a new Lady Chapel that's been opened in Rome, but I had to stay in all day waiting for the plumber. For when I tried using the washing machine this morning, I found that a lot of water went through the floor, ruining the manuscript of my latest encyclical. Vatileaks, they call it.

Hello? Is that A.A.A.A.A.A.Alpha.Omega Plumbing Services?

Thursday. The washing-machine is working now, but something went wrong when I tried to wash my white cossack with a red chasuble. Now I've got a pink cassock. I hope this doesn't send out the wrong signals.

Bless me, I've managed to ruin another cassock. After cleaning the papal apartments, I had to empty the vacuum cleaner, and got dust all over my clothes. It's not easy when an 85-year-old man has to do his own cleaning. Thus, I had nothing presentable to wear except an old sheet when the Dalai Lama came for an audience. Still, as a result, I was praised for showing a new sympathetic attitude towards Buddhism.

The Dalai Lama achieves oneness with his domestic appliances.

Friday. Was hoping to make further progress with my book on the life of Jesus Christ, but, looking in my diary, I found that Archbishop Arthur Roche was coming to dinner, an occasion for him to tell me about his exciting new plans for closing churches in Rome. So I spent most of the day cooking a 12-course banquet (after queuing in Tesconi's to buy the ingredients).

One boar's head and an apple for its mouth; or would Arthur prefer chip butties and black pudding? What are cinnabons?

Saturday. I really want to get my latest encyclical finished - I'm supposed to be signing copies of it in Waterstoni's next week. But a Pope's work is never done. Apparently, the Sistine Chapel ceiling needs a lick of paint - Paolo Gabriele wanted to do the ceiling with a magnolia emulsion, but I don't think that's appropriate. Memo: Must try and get to Mass tomorrow.

Better leave it as it is. I'll never get up the ladder anyway.

What ho, Gabriele!

My butler, Paolo Gabriele

"BENEDICT!" screamed my Aunt Agatha. "What's all this I hear about money-laundering?"

I had just been giving an audience to a group of Catholic journalists from the Telegraph, and now had a bit of a headache. "Benny, old bean," said their leader, a man called Damian with funny hair, "don't you think that one of the great spiritual challenges of our day is addiction?"

Personally, I don't think that addressing the Pope as "Benny, old bean," is right - we don't read of Jesus addressing St Peter as "Pete, old bean," do we? - but then Damian is spiritual leader in his own right, so I said nothing. However, after a two-hour lecture on the dangers of compulsively downloading pictures of cupcakes from the Internet - I may have dozed off a little, and got some of the details wrong - I was glad to see Damian, Cristina, Tim and little Will leave. At least it wasn't Tony and Cherie Blair again, telling me how to rewrite 2,000 years of Catholic dogma.

Tony Blair giving me his blessing

So that is why I was lying in a darkened room, nursing my headache, when the door burst open, and my Aunt Agatha stormed in with her comment about money-laundering.

Now, being Pope isn't as easy as it may seem, you know. It's not all burning up the town in a Popemobile or sticking a "Kick me" sign on "lofty" Cormac when he comes round to unblock the drains - although these things do give some job satisfaction. You also have to be seen in church occasionally, give spiritual guidance to your flock worldwide, and deal with daily obscene phone calls from Sr Margaret Farley (frankly, she talks more like a sea-captain than a nun).

Lifelike blow-up Farley dolls on sale now, as a reappraisal of sexual theology

So I replied to my Aunt Agatha in no uncertain tones: "Really, Aunt, it's not my job to worry about the finances. We have accountants to do that."

"You really are a wastrel, Benedict," snapped my aunt. "It's time you got a proper job. Now, call your man Gabriele: he's the only one who knows what's going on round here."

"Splendid idea, Aunt Agatha," I replied. "Perhaps he can make me one of his pick-me-ups."

I rang the bell, and Gabriele shimmered in. Unfortunately, there was no pick-me-up to be seen: in fact he was carrying a pair of large suitcases.

"So, Gabriele," said my aunt. "Do you know what's going on in the Vatican?"

"Indeed, my lady," replied Gabriele. "It's all explained in these confidential documents. I was just taking them to my friend Gianluigi Nuzzi the journalist, for safe keeping."

A secret Vatican document

"Good man, Gabriele, I knew I could trust you!" I said.

Will Aunt Agatha intervene? Or will the details of the Vatican's annual spending on pizza, chips and beer be released to the press? Will Sr Farley turn up and make an improper suggestion? If we find out, we'll let you know.

Celebrity endorsements

A new papal encyclical "Liber Fixus"

The Pope reading "The Fix"

Liber Fixus beati Damiani mirabilis est, et omnes fideles emptores sint (II euro apud Vaticani Emporium, cum "Vita Sanctae Cristinae Odonis"). Addictio problematicalis est, et Damianus infallibilis est, cum scribit calico-libae et cannabum*.

Paolo Gabriele

Nunc Paolo Gabriele, meus servus, in vinculis est, quia de multis addictionis passus est.

Oh hang it, they've just arrested Cardinal Google too, the one who does all my Latin translations. Still we're near the end, and my message is simple. Buy Thompson's book, to understand the real evils of the XXIst century. Blessings upon you all.

*of cupcakes and cannabis

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John Prescott writes

I used to be addicted to pies

I consider it a great honour and privethedge to be allowed to contribute a small testimonacle about Damian Thompson's book, "The Fix." In the days when I was the second most powerful man in Britain (responsible for so many portfailures at the same time that I never got round to dealing with any of them), I saw many examples of addition in the Cabernet. That creepy nancy-boy Mandelson, for example, addicted to lying, cheating and drinking blood - in the end we sent him to Brussels, the only place where this was considered normal. Then there was Brown, addicted to violence and brutality - we tried making him Prime Minister, but this didn't cure him.

You're nicked, sunshine!

As you may know, I am hoping to become an elected police chief. In this, I have the full support of the criminal fratality, who say that they have always thought of me as a "Pig," and are confident that I will do nothing to upset their traditional way of life. However, I shall certainly make it a priory to deal with addition, and maybe even subtraction as well!

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Lord Justice Leveson writes

I just can't stop asking questions

Some of you may have heard of the Leveson Enquiry, which I have been running since 1997. It started off as an enquiry into the death of Princess Diana, and I am pleased to say that Mohamed Fayed was finally able to leave the court without a stain on his straitjacket. It then turned into an investigation of Tony Blair's addiction to declaring war on unlikely countries at the drop of a hat (thanks to him, we are still technically at war with Finland, New Zealand and the Vatican, but we expect to surrender any day now). Now new evidence has emerged, and we are investigating phone-tapping, e-mail hacking, and all the other standard methods by which journalists get stories - apart from simply making them up, of course.

Rebekah Brooks - addicted to evil

I hope that Damian Thompson's excellent book will help poor Rebekah Brooks come to terms with her many addictions, which go far beyond mere cupcakes.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking of joining forces with Damian Thompson, and launching a far-reaching enquiry into all aspects of addiction. I had promised my wife to give up enquiries, but another year or two can't hurt, can it?