Bearding the Muslim in his lair

The suggestion by Richard Chartres, Anglican bishop of London, that growing beards can help vicars reach out to Muslims has been eagerly taken up by clerics everywhere. Male and female, vicars have stopped shaving, or, where necessary, rushed off to joke shops to buy Muslim-friendly false beards.

Richard Chartres is not shaved, only Eccles is shaved.

Curiously, this ties in with the experience of St Wilgefortis, a medieval noblewoman who managed to avoid an unwanted marriage by growing a beard. History does not record whether she later managed to reach out to Muslims.

Lovely Wilgefortis.

For us, it is not clear what happens when a vicar "reaches out" to a Muslim. Does the Muslim think "Hmm, Christians are just like us. Time to stop reading the Koran and study Giles Fraser's hard-hitting How to be a Christian without believing very much"? Yes, that must be it. Ayatollah El-Vees at the Guitar Mosque will see congregations dropping as Father Trendy packs the Muslims into his 10 a.m. "Clowns and hoverboards" Mass.

The Rev. Kate Bottley, the "dancing vicar", gets evangelising.

Well, we are all for convertng the Muslims, as it's pretty clear that they've got things wrong from beginning to end. Now is surely the time for Pope Francis to grow a beard - our extensive researches (clicking on Wikipedia) have revealed that the last bearded pope was Innocent XII, who died in 1700, and even his beard wasn't enough to reach out to many Muslims.

Pope Innocent XII. Not exactly a Rowan Williams, or even a Brian Blessed.

Over to you, Holy Father!

The Two Doctors

Yes, it's the 50th anniversary of the first Dr Who episode, and we have an exciting new adventure starring the Two Doctors, Dr Tim Stanley and Dr Damian Thompson. Those alien time-lords from the planet Telegallifrey are back!

Dr Tim, with some of his most notorious enemies.

In this special story they encounter a whole range of famous villains. For Dr Tim - the one with the truly extra-terrestrial hairstyle - the one big threat comes from the Obamamen, loathsome, unscrupulous and totally amoral creatures whose only aim is total power.

See! I really am a Doctor!

For Dr Dame, the senior doctor, there is a whole range of enemies to confront, such as the repulsive Johanns of Hari, the terrifying Hitchens, and the fiendish Cormacmen, who threaten to turn the pope into robotic creatures like themselves.

"WE WILL CHANGE YOU. YOU WILL BE LIKE US..."

Of course the Master is back, too, vainly claiming to be a time-lord like the Doctor, but thwarted because he does not have a "proper" doctorate in sociology from the London School of Custard.

The Rev. Magister (or Master).

As always, Dr Dame's assistant Cristina will be at his side, ready to scream "Doctor! Doctor!", or simply to say in confused tones: "I don't know what's going on - but I'll blog about it anyway." We also see another would-be assistant, Paul, a part-time archbishop from Corby, but he turns out to be on the side of the angels, and does not survive long.

The angels practice some liturgical dance steps.

It would be wrong of us to give away the entire plot of the story: anyway, since it was written by Steven Moffat, it doesn't make a great deal of sense, being just a conflation of manic scenes with no logical connection between them. But we can reveal that the doctors zap some of the nasties with their sonic screwdrivers (while assembling a set of IKEA bookshelves with the aid of their sonic laser cannons), and they also rewrite Time itself on three occasions.

Hide behind the sofa - it's a Yeti!

The story finally ends with the Doctors defeating the Yeti, robotic creatures who serve a disembodied entity knows as the Great Stupidity.

Just another Minute

Now that Nicholas Parsons has been given some much-needed counselling, we resume our panel game "Just a Minute" with Moly Badnite, Damian Thompson, Ken Livingstone and Richard Dawkins. Recall that panelists must speak for one minute without (a) being rude about anyone, (b) rolling on the floor laughing, or (c) talking about their boring family.

NP: Right, Richard Dawkins, you have one minute on the subject of "World War II."

RD: The role of the Catholic church in World War II was truly shameful. It was Pope Pius XII who gave Hitler the idea of persecuting the Jews, you know. Pius instructed young Joseph Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI, to found the Hitler Youth - he liked parading in funny costumes, still does. Having heard that, how can anyone pretend that God exists? ROFL.  BZZZ.

NP: A challenge from Ken Livingstone there. Yes, Richard lost control and started ROFLing.  Is there a doctor in the house? Ken, 45 seconds left on the subject of World War II.

KL: Hitler didn't like the Jews because they were all too rich to vote for him, and I have the same problem. My father warned me, you know. "Ken," he said, "Muslims good, Jews bad. IRA good, Tories bad. When in doubt make friends with the ones with the bombs. Got that?" BZZZ.

NP: Well Damian Thompson was the first to spot the gratuitous reference to a boring family-member. Damian, 32 seconds on "World War II."

DT: For all his faults, Josef Goebbels did obtain a Ph.D. from Heidelberg University in 1921, and he was a successful journalist in his younger days, sometimes known as Das Blut-verrückten Frettchen. He wrote a best-selling book Gegenwissen, which he followed up with Der Fix. You wouldn't see a thicko like Richard Chartres... BZZZ.

NP: A challenge from Ken Livingstone there. Yes, Richard lost control and started ROFLing. Is there a doctor in the house? Ken, 45 seconds left on the subject of World War II.

MB: Er... Well... Um... Can I mention the woefully shameful way I was treated by Hermann Goering? I still remember those balmy nights in Berlin, when we danced romantically together by the light of the moon.  My father said we made a lovely couple. I've got a photo here.

MB (continues): In those days many of my "rels" were Catholic. BZZZ Shut up, will you? Not fanatical rude obsessed sock-puppet Catholics like James MacMillan. BZZZ BZZZ. SHUT UP! Devout saintly non-believing Catholics, the best kind. ROFFAM. BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ.

NP: What's ROFFAM? Oh yes, "rolls on floor foaming at mouth." Well, Moly got through to the final buzzer, but her nephew Eccles has just come on with a wheel-barrow to take her home. So it's goodbye from me. I'll be back when Hell freezes over, but not much sooner.

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.

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?

De Voyage of St Eccles

1. Dere was a young man whose name was Eccles (wot meaneth "Church" or "Chappel") and he was saved. He also liked savin uvver poeple, and dey came from far and wide to read his luvvly blogg.

2. And dis Eccles was de bruvver of St Bosco, wot hath got his own book of de Bibble, so I aint sayin much about him, except dat his way of savin poeple was to get actors to dress up as preists and do nasty fings so dat he cuold put dere pitchers on his blogg.

3. Now Eccles goeth on a juorney to a far cuontry called Austriala, wot is full of boomerangs, and didgeridoos, and uvver savvage creechers. Dis was in order to look after an old lady called Judy, she dat dey calleth Moly-ben-Dite, wot was his Grate-Ant.

4. Some sayeth dat dis Judy, or Moly, hath also a grandson in Brisbane, wot was imprisoned for showin his nether regions to de Queen Eli-Zabeth when she visiteth from de North. But Moly doth deny dat it was any rellatoin, even dough dey hath very simmilar manners.

5. "Anti Moly," sayeth Eccles. "Where thou goest I is gonna go too, cos dey will lock you up if I doesnt." And dey took provisoins for de juorney, dat dey hungereth not, niether doth dey die of thirst, wot is somefink dat truobleth Moly terribly.

6. And they came upon a town called Pottymouth, which being translated meaneth "The mouth of de Rivver Potty." And dey settled in Anti Moly's luvvly home in Stickybeak Street.

7. Now Anti Moly was grately truobled by insonmia, and sleepeth not. And she crieth out in de nihgt: "Woeful! Yeah, verily, it is woeful!"

8. For she imagineth dat dere is rabits under her bed and possums jumpin up and down on de roof. But some sayeth dat it is de strong drink what is a mocker.

9. And one of de nieghbours in Stickybeak Street waxeth angry, and he sayeth unto Eccles, "We cannot abide dis Ant of yours, for she waketh us in de nihgt wiv her cries."

10. Dis maketh Moly sore wrathful too, which aint hard to do, and she grabbeth de shirt off dis nieghbours back. Den she looketh at de labbel, and sayeth, "Dat proveth it, you is a member of de Traddy Cathlic Clique wot is tormentin me."

11. And Moly she venteth her spleen by writin messages on de blogg of a man called Damain, wot was formerly a grate sage, known as de blood-crazed ferret.

12. Latterly, dis Damain aint very good at profuond spiritaul matters, as his only engagement wiv relligoin was to discuss de quallificatoins of de learned Doctor Charters, and de foolish prattle of de not quite so learned Nick Banes.

13. But Moly she continueth her vendetta against de Church, and she imagineth dat dere is sockpoppets writin, so dat she can attack dem even when dey aint dere. For it is written in de book of Joell, "Your old ladies will see visoins and dreem dreems, at least if dey dont sober up and get some propper spectacules."

14. But the time cometh when Moly sayeth unto Eccles, "Arise up, Eccles, you nubmskull. For I is called to go to Sidney to see a Holly Man, he that is called Pell. For when I was yuong, he adored me, yeah he sayeth unto me, as it is written in de Song of Sollomon:

15. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them."

16. "Dat aint rihgt, Anti," sayeth Eccles, "cos thy teeth is in de glass of water by de side of de bed."

[Pitcher of Anti Moly's teeth removed cos it mihgt offend sensitive poeple.]

17. "Never mind dat," snappeth Anti Moly. "We is off to rejoin my beloved."

18. "Shall I saddle de ass, Anti Moly?" asketh Eccles.

19. "Nay, Eccles, thou moron," sayeth his Ant. "We is gonna take de Indian Pacific trane."

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

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Continued here.

Who will succeed Rowan?

We is very interrested in knowin who will succede Rowan Willaims as chief cosstume hollyman of de Angliccan church, so I has asked a geust blogger to give us de front runners.

John Sentamu, Archbishop of York.

From now on I'm not going to wear socks until Mugabe is deposed.

Although at first sight, St Emu is in pole position to take over at Canterbury, his insistence on traditional Christian values will probably count against him. There are worrying rumours that he will attempt to reinstate Bible-reading in churches, and not just the politically-correct bits.

Richard London, Bishop of Chartres.

When the St Paul's protesters shout at 6 a.m., they are, in a very real sense, giving us a wake-up call.

A popular choice among the liberal wing of the Anglican church, Chartres is said to have the Queen's ear (although it could be someone else's in that pickle jar). However, Chartres suffers from the fact that his intellectual credentials will always be in doubt, since he does not have a "proper" doctorate like Damian Thompson.

Jeffrey John, Bishop Dean of St Alban's.

I'm only in this job for the fancy dresses.

Strongly supported by those who want to see a "gay" Archbishop. Tipped to be the first homosexual to be "married" in a Church of England service. It would be most unkind to say that the main reason that he was not promoted is that he is a power-crazed pervert.

Katharine Jefferts Schori, Presiding Bishop of the American Episcopalian Church.

Men!! Arentchasickofem??

Women bishops are on the way, and what better way to bring them in than to start with the Battleaxe-in-chief of the American Episcopalians? Bishop Schori is believed to be female, but when our reporter asked her to "get 'em off and prove it," she was strangely unwilling to comply.

Kieran Conry, Bishop of Arundel and Brighton.

Pope Benedict XVI really hasn't got a clue, has he?

Although technically a Catholic, Kieran Conry has shown such a scepticism about traditional Catholic beliefs and practices that his attitudes are indistinguishable from those of many Anglicans, apart from being even wackier.

Eccles, currently caring for his aunt.

Ullo, has you been saved like me?

A surprise candidate, Eccles is a celebrity blogger who could save the Anglican church. If chosen, he will get rid of the "costume holy man" role of the Archbishop, and insist on cement doves in Canterbury Cathedral.