The Secret Life of Pope Francis

With humble apologies to James Thurber.

Greta Thunberg stood up on the podium. "I present to you Pope Francis, three times winner of the Nobel Peace Prize for his work on the Environment, twice winner of the Economics Prize for Vatican accounting, as well as the Nobel Theology Prize, the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the Nobel prize for Chemistry," she said.

"I now have pleasure in presenting him with the Greta Thunberg Medal for Saving the Planet. His pioneering work Laudato Si', which told us that plastic straws are melting the glaciers, cooking our food is killing the polar bears, and that our use of electric lights is causing the penguins to leave Greenland, contains all that we need to save the world."

Francis stood up and thanked Miss Thurnberg. "I am deeply humbled, as well as humble," he said. "As I have always preached, there is no problem with rioting, looting, and burning down shops, provided that you always plant a tree afterwards..."

Cardinal Parolin nudged the Holy Father, who came out of his daydream. "Shall we give up this year of Laudato Si' celebrations, your saintliness?" he asked. "It was hard enough spinning it out to one week, but a whole year of it will bore the chasubles off people. Especially with everything else that's going on."

Francis started. "Oh no!" he said. "Not until I have done my world tour to reduce CO₂ emissions..."

Air Ace "Red Baron" Bergoglio took his plane into a dive over Southampton. "Take that, British pigs!" he said. "Historically, the Isle of Wight has always been Argentinian!"

The war had continued for nearly forty years, but, thanks to the indomitable Bergoglio's Flying Circus, the British were now on the defensive. Malta had been conquered, and the evil dictator Matthew Festing sent to Boese Lager, a camp for dissidents. Now the war was in its final phase, and the Red Baron was ready to go in for the kill. PACHA-PACHA-MAMA-MAMA went his guns...

"We're coming into land, Holy Father," said glamorous air hostess Tina Beattie, giving the Pope a sudden nudge. "Could you return to your seat and fasten your seat belt please? The passengers are complaining that they've heard enough new doctrine for one day."

Pope Francis's reverie came to an end, and he returned to his seat, pushing past some journalists who were blocking his way.

"We now come to the main fight of the evening," came the announcement over the tannoy. "In the red corner, Jorge Bergoglio, the Terror of Buenos Aires, who worked his way up from being a humble nightclub bouncer. In the blue corner, Dr Wuhan Flu, known as the Chinese Pestilence, who has left a long trail of wounded. I want a clean fight, now, no gouging, spitting, kicking..."

The referee checked the contestants for concealed weapons, removed two small idols of Pachamama from Bergoglio's gloves, and started the fight. The Terror of Buenos Aires rushed out from his corner and - PACH! - he floored the poor Chinaman with a single blow..."

"Oh Heck," said Archbishop Gänswein. "You didn't have to slap that poor Chinese girl so hard. Now we're going to have to find an excuse..."

The secret life of Anti Moly

Dis aint my usual blogg, a nice man called James Thurber has sent me a story.

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Anti Moly was walkin frew de streets of Pottymouth wiv her nehpew Eccles. As dey passed a gruop of old ladies chattin, Eccles heard one of dem say "Dat's old Moly walkin' past. Did you ever hear tell of her grandfarver, de biggest roggue in Pottymouth wot was never hung?"...

It was 1890, and "Ned" Haddock, self-educated sheep-shearer, brain surgeon, miner and rocket scientist was retiring from the position of King, Supreme Warlord and Honorary God of Easter Island. "Don't leave us, great Lord!" said his Prime Minister. "All we will have is a few statues to remember you by..."

Anti Moly shook off dis reverrie and sang a few sad bars of "Waltzing Mattilda" to herself. A window openned above her, dere was a cry of "I'll skin dat bloody cat!" and a bukcet of dirty water was tiped over her...

It was the Last Night of Molybdenite's six-month season at the Pottymouth Promenade Concerts. Little Moly, only 6 years old, had played virtuoso piano music by Beethoven, Liszt, and Rachmaninov - striking the keys with her feet in order to make it even more challenging. She had also conducted three new didgeridoo concertos of her own composition, and then sung tragic Australian ballads for a further six hours, until there wasn't a dry eye in the house. The audience went crazy, waving flags and cheering...

As Moly's day dreem ended, she carried on wiv her walk, and approached an affleunt-looking busnessman walking wiv his wife. He dived into a nearby shop enntrance, draggin his wife after him, and mutterin "It's that dreddful woman wot used to be a cleener in our facktory. I hope she aint seen us."...

The first ever female chief executive of the Pottymouth Molybdenite Corporation was presenting the accounts to the share-holders' meeting. "Thanks to a new process I discovered for extracting molybdenite ore, six new processes for transforming it into valuable raw materials, and fifteen new electronic devices that I invented which only function thanks to our products, I am happy to say that this year our profits were slightly in excess of the Gross Domestic Product of Germany." There was a rapturous ovation, as she pulled back a curtain to show them the company's assets...

Moly and Eccles came back home, where a baby possum was jumpin up and down on de roof. "You orta do somefink about dat, Anti," said her loyyal nehpew...

"Crocodile" Moly, the legendary big game huntress, was facing her most difficult challenge yet. Ahead of her lay a river containing six crocodiles, behind her a pack of dingos, to her left a herd of ravenous wallabies, and to her right an army of traddy Catholic sockpuppets. Armed only with a pea-shooter and a water-pistol, would she ever escape alive?