Westminster Abbey becomes a mosque

As reported by the Anglican writers Cranmer and Ruth Gledhill, Westminster Abbey has been moving steadily Mecca-wards, with prayers describing Mohammed as a "prophet" - without the usual adjective "false" - and "the chosen one" - about which Christ might have had something to say. However, all is now explained with the news that Westminster Abbey is to be converted into a mosque. From now on the Dean should be referred to as Imam John Halal, er, Hall, although he will now have the option of choosing a more Islamic name, such as Abu Hamza, George Galloway, or simply Jihad John II.

Westminster Mosque, before some necessary alterations.

It is expected that Imam John will call the faithful to prayer every morning by shouting some suitable message from one of the towers of the mosque. Suggestions here include yelling the great religious hymn "If I were a fuzzy wuzzy bear, I'd thank you Lord for my fuzzy wuzzy hair" at bemused passers-by, or possibly a simple message of invitation such as "There are tea and halal biscuits being served in the Giles Fraser Chapel." Since Westminster Abbey will be a "Liberal Muslim" mosque, we do not expect to see any signs of radical Islam, although the Teenagers' Radicalization Group will continue to meet on Wednesday evenings. Indeed, Canon Jane Sinclair will continue as a "Lady Imam", although naturally she will need to wear a burkha.

Will Vincent Nichols follow suit at Westminster Cathedral, which already resembles a mosque?

It is thought that the explanation for the change from Anglican (well, originally Catholic) Abbey to Islamic mosque may be linked to the promise from Labour leader Ed Miliband that "Islamophobia" will be made a crime if he wins the forthcoming general election. Christians, of course, enjoy no such protection.

Fighting against Islamophobia!

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This week's brain-teaser: a homosexual couple goes to a Muslim baker's demanding a "same-sex wedding" cake. When the Muslim proprietor refuses, they sue him. Is he guilty of homophobia, or are they guilty of Islamophobia?

Exit Ruth Gledhill

So Fleet Street's last religious affairs correspondent, Ruth Gledhill of the Times, has been made redundant. Said one commentator, "Her stuff was behind a paywall, so I never read it; and what I did see, I usually disagreed with, but she was a GOOD THING."

Did nobody tell Sister Ruth that we don't have a "dress-down Friday"?

One or two part-time religious correspondents remain. At the Telegraph there is John Bingham, who does "social and religious affairs", whatever that might be - it's not as silly a title as "strategic events coordinator", which was how Tom Chivers used to earn his daily crust - and of course there is also the notorious Damian Thompson, who writes about religion and custard.

Damian Thompson chats to an old friend.

Then newspapers such as the Guardian can always pump something into Sir Simon Jenkins in order to get a foaming-at-the-mouth rant, blaming religion for everything from HS2 to the World Cup fiasco.

Of course, religion is increasingly irrelevant to modern life. When the Catholic Church decided to canonize Popes John-Paul II and John XXIII, nobody turned up, and the Pope was left talking to an empty St Peter's Square. When the Anglicans decided to ordain women as bishops, nobody really cared one way or the other: the dead bodies on the floor of the synod were just an accident caused by someone's finger slipping while he was cutting sandwiches.

Even Michelle Obama's moment of honesty went unnoticed.

There do remain "niche" newspapers for the religious maniac: the Church Times, which is running a feature on How To Cut Sandwiches At A Synod Without Killing Ten Passers-By; also, numerous Catholic papers such as the Tablet, which publishes articles such as Which Pope Do We Hate The Most? Then there's the Catholic Times with its comedy column Loony Lofty and his Hilarious Heresies Re-interpretations of Scripture.

Of course, Ruth Gledhill was a national institution. Being the daughter of vicar, the niece of a Pope, the great-aunt of a Chief Rabbi, and the uncle of an Imam, she has religion in her blood. We shall not see her like again.

Bloggers in spat over top Church job

Well-known bloggers Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were quarrelling today over which of them had first broken the news that the top Church job would go to Simon Peter, the former fish tycoon and graduate of the prestigious Galilee Fishing College.

Matthew - his blog is read by millions.

"I was there first," claimed Matthew angrily. "As most people know, two names have to be submitted to Jesus, for Him to make the final decision. These names were Simon Peter and Judas Iscariot, and it was felt that Judas was not the person to bring the Church into the First Century, although he might be very influential in the Twenty-first. Mark and Luke, bloggers and journalists for the Synoptic Newspapers, got the story from my Twitter feed. And poor old John hasn't even reported the story yet - I think he can't believe he didn't get the top job himself!"

Being Archbishop of Galilee brings with it various privileges - for example, Peter is guaranteed canonization, and the keys to Heaven - but brings with it the dangers of martyrdom, especially if (as seems probable) the see is moved to Rome.

"So the big key opens the Gates of Heaven, and the small one opens the Saints' washroom?"

Mark, of the Synoptic Times, and Luke, of the Synoptic Telegraph, were angrily maintaining today that they were the ones with the scoop. "Matthew even got the facts wrong about President Herod's re-election," they sneered. "He was tipping the other candidate, Romani."

Over at the Galilee Tablet, Catherine Philistia was angrily complaining that Christ needed to move into the First Century and appoint a woman to head His Church. "I've got a friend called Tina Beelzebub who would be perfect at the job," she insisted. "We know who's really backing Christ - it's an old Man living far away with His head in the clouds!"

John - with a scoop of his own.

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.