Vincent Nichols cancels Triduum

Catholics in the diocese of Westminster have been surprised to learn from Cardinal Nichols that this year the Triduum is completely cancelled, and they will move immediately from Thursday afternoon (after Cardinal Nichols has completed the ceremonial washing of the feet of women, Muslims, dogs and cats) to the traditional Sunday evening worship of rabbits and eggs, as performed by the Church since the first century.

However, three new activities are to replace the triduum, as follows:

1. All praise to Little Amal!

Another opportunity to worship Little Amal, the symbol of migration (or was it climate change? I forget). And if you don't, then she will send her mother, Big Amal, to beat you up!

2. The religion of football.

Football (soccer) is already one of the main obsessions of the UK, and it is time that the Catholic Church forgot about all that passiontide stuff and celebrated a religion said to have been founded by the disciples. It is no coincidence that there were exactly 11 of them left after Judas Iscariot was, er, transferred.

3. This would be an ecumenical matter.

It is no coincidence that March is Black Transgender Sikh History Awareness Month, and we must always be open to alternative forms of worship, provided that they are not in Latin!

Definitely no TLM!

On reaching the age of 75, Cardinal Nichols tendered his resignation to the Pope, as he was obliged to. However, the Pope is not obliged to accept the resignations of yes-men: trouble-makers are another matter, of course, and they are instantly cast into the outer darkness without a home, a job, or a pension. We have all seen DO NOT FEED THE BURKE signs on the walls of the Vatican. However, Vin is safe for the time being (and so are we, if they are really thinking of John Arnold as a successor).

"Ugh! Heresy! Take it away!"

Almost thou persuadest me to be an Easter Worshipper

As recorded in Acts 11, Saul and Barnabas came to Antioch, and hung around for a year, teaching. And, as Luke records, the disciples were called Easter Worshippers first in Antioch.

Luke omits the details, but it is clear that these Easter Worshippers were devoted to a sacred rabbit, and lived mostly on chocolate eggs. At other times of the year they were known as "Xmas Worshippers", indulging in strange rituals involving shopping, mince pies, and fat men in red coats and white beards sitting in "grottos".

Saul and Barnabas hit on the name "Easter Worshippers".

But Easter Worshippers has been the traditional name, ever since the first century. As Agrippa said to Paul, "Almost thou persuadest me to be an Easter Worshipper". Even St Peter got in on the act, with his "Yet if any man suffer as an Easter Worshipper, let him not be ashamed; but let him glorify God on this behalf."

How Leeds City Council celebrated Easter. (H/T C.H.)

The name occurs in many hymns, such as the militant "Onward, Easter Worshipper soldiers," the rather soppy "They'll know we are Easter Worshippers by our love", and the stirring "Easter Worshippers awake, salute the Happy Morn!"

Then again, it has also become a first name (what old fashioned people call an "Easter Worshipper name" as opposed to a "surname"). Hans Easter-Worshipper Andersen, Dr Easter-Worshippeer Barnard, Easter-Worshipper Dior, ...

A male model shows off a shirt by Easter-Worshipper Dior.

So, can we PLEASE stop hearing people whining just because Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, and the rest of George Soros's sockpuppets referred to the Christians massacred by Islamists in Sri Lanka as "Easter Worshippers"? That is what they called themselves, and that is what we should call them.

Assisted Dying on the Orient Express

"That was a strange case, Hastings, mon ami," said my friend Hercule Poirot. "I was taking the ad Orientem Express to the mysterious east (Margate), to consult my friend Fr Tim Finigan on a curious question of hermeneutics, when we were held up by two or three snowflakes on the line - apparently, they were the wrong kind of snow. Still, there we were, marooned in some uncharted wastes near Faversham, with no hope of rescue for several days."

Somewhere near Faversham.

The chef de train summoned Poirot to one of the compartments, where there lay the dead body of a fattish man in his early sixties. One could tell at a glance that he was dead: there were stab wounds and bullet holes in various parts of his body, a rope round his neck, an empty bottle of pills by his side, and the marks of a blunt instrument on the back of his head. "His name is Charlie Falconer, and he was some sort of gangster," commented the train guard. "Could it be suicide, M. Poirot?"

Charlie Falconer in happier times, singing the Nightmare song from Iolanthe.

Poirot examined the body carefully. "I think not, mon vieux. Someone evidently helped him on his way. The worse case of assisted suicide that I have ever seen. We must find an explanation for his death."

An eager, fresh-faced man joined them. "Hi! I'm Tony!" he said. "I used to be something big in politics, but now I go round the world making money. Also I've been bringing peace to the Middle East. Charlie was an old friend of mine, and I gave him a job once."

"I have heard of you, Monsieur," acknowledged Poirot. "You are a pious Catholic who supports abortion and same-sex marriage. Can you think of any reason why M. Falconer could have opted for assisted suicide?"

Tony gives Pope John-Paul II some tips on becoming a saint.

"Well, he had a sore throat, and he didn't like train journeys, and England did badly in the World Cup, and he was worried about his pet hamster, Miliband, and he scratched his car against the gatepost last week, and they'd run out of gin, and he thought it might rain later, and..."

"I understand. All perfectly good reasons for a doctor to recommend assisted suicide. Now, let us see if there are any likely suspects." At that moment, a strange character entered the compartment.

John Birt. Formerly of the BBC.

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE! AS-SIST SU-I-CIDE! AS-SIST SU-I-CIDE!" screamed Lord Birt, for it was indeed he. This was a man who had been Director-General of the BBC, an organization that had employed megastars such as Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris. During his rule, it was said that more people had switched off their televisions and said "I can't go on!" than ever before.

"There are indeed marks of extermination on Charlie Falconer's body," said Poirot, "but they may have been inflicted after death." He was then joined by a bumbling figure dressed as an Anglican archbishop.

"And if my sermons don't finish them off, a good swipe with the crozier will do it."

"Hello, everyone, I'm George," said the man, who was wearing a strikingly silly mitre and carrying a large blunt instrument. "I am man of deep Christian principles. Can I be of assistance to you as you seek to end your life in a truly Christian way?"

"No! No!" said Poirot. "I wish to live to be 130. Indeed, if Agatha Christie doesn't sort out the chronology of her stories, I may be forced to."

At that moment the compartment began to fill up with other well-intentioned supporters of assisted death: apparently, the House of Lords had organized a day trip to Margate for all its most irritating members.

Ian Blair as seen in "Hello (Hello, Hello)!" magazine, deals with the old and Sikh.

"You've all been very helpful," said Poirot. "Of great assistance, in fact..."