Nobody expects the Congregation for Divine Worship!

The scene: the bishop's palace in Knoxville, Tennessee. Bishop Richard Stika is admiring himself in the mirror.

The door bursts open, and Cardinal Robert Sarah, Archbishop Arthur Roche, and Fr Corrado Maggioni enter.

Sarah: NOBODY EXPECTS THE CONGREGATION FOR DIVINE WORSHIP AND THE DISCIPLINE OF THE SACRAMENTS! Our main weapon is Silence.

Roche: And Cinnabons.

Sarah: All right, Silence and Cinnabons. Two main weapons. Corrado, read out the charges.

The Guinea Inquisition.

Maggioni: Bishop Richard Stika, alias Sticky Ricky, you are charged with defying the CDW by insisting that people receive Communion in the hand, and stating that you will ban anyone who insists on receiving on the tongue.

Roche: Even though we have already stated that everyone has the right to receive on the tongue. Bites into a cinnabon.

Maggioni: You also published the following ludicrous instructions:

Before leaving your pew you will put on full protective gear, such as a suit of armour, a diver's suit, or a cyberman costume. You will walk at exactly 3.10686 m.p.h., maintaining a distance of 6 feet 7.402 inches, no more, no less, from your neighbour. Once at the distribution point, you will remove all your clothes, and shower for twenty minutes in an alcohol-based shower.

Maintain social distancing!

Standing on the floor at the point marked X (or kneeling if you really insist), you will extend your arms and hands toward the priest or deacon, with the palm of your non-writing hand facing up and completely flat, supported by your writing hand. Those who are ambidextrous should use their feet.

After receiving, you will jump into the bath of boiling custard provided, and then, screaming in agony, put on your protective clothes and return to your seat.

How do you plead?

The door bursts open, and Cardinal Luis Ladaria Ferrer, Archbishop Giacomo Morandi, and Archbishop Charles Scicluna of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith burst in.

Ladaria: NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!

Ladaria is on the case!

Roche: Hey, we were here first!

Ladaria: But we want to nail him for heresy. "Mass is not the worship of Jesus. We adore Jesus, but we worship the Father," for example.

Stika: You've all got it in for me. I blame Church Militant. They've been telling everyone what I said. Sobs.

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.

Four out of ten old ladies drink hair-restorer

A geust blogg from Damain Thopmson
 

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Up to 40% of old ladies drink hair-restorer, according to recent research undertaken by the University of Adelaide. My own informal observations bear this out, as Patient M, a ridiculously old lady who is also currently my guest in Castle Thompson - as is her great-nephew, a charming man called Eccles - has turned out to be a consumer of many unusual products.

My butler, Will Heaven, reports that Anti Moly, as Eccles calls her, began by drinking my supplies of gin and whisky, but, when he started to lock these up, she turned to other substances.

Did I mention that I have written a book on addiction, called The Fix? Do buy a copy. I am hoping that Eccles will agree to serialize excerpts on his lovely blog. Anyway, in my book I treat all sorts of addictions and obsessions: for example, there is a biologist in South America who is addicted to stories of clerical child abuse, having a whole laboratory wall decorated with stories from the Puffington Post and the New Yawn Times. Another strange addiction I write about is cinnabons, a sticky cake much loved by Yorkshire bishops.

Returning to Patient M, once she had run out of conventional alcoholic drinks, she drank a bottle of my Geoffrey Lean hair-restorer; then she went to the garage and drank my supply of Delinpol anti-freeze (much to the annoyance of Hannan my chauffeur). Finally, getting desperate, she drank a bottle of her own Possumgon, a product she uses to protect the roof of her Australian home from enthusiastic marsupials.

Her drinking is irregular, but when she decides to have a "binge" or "meltdown," she is often seen on the internet, posting insults on blogs (including my own). For some reasons she particularly hates Catholics, especially serious ones.

Patient M seems to be immune to poison, according to her nephew Eccles. The old photograph below shows M and her friend informing a visitor that they had added some arsenic to his drink, "To give it some bite."

Well, it's difficult to know what to do in such cases, but if enough people buy my book The Fix, I will be able to do some more in-depth research (Tenerife looks like a promising place to start).