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?

Yet more bloggs

St Gordon of Kirkcaldy
By Mary Drilled

Mary Drilled's photo marks the 100th anniversary of the death of Bram Stoker

Gordon Brown now spends his days in retirement in a darkened room in Kirkcaldy, his only reward being an MP's pittance of £65,000, together with necessary expenses (most recently, an invoice from Jock McBogey's Glazing Repairs, for a window damaged by a flying laser-printer, £300+VAT). But until 2010 he was the most powerful man in the free world, the saviour of civilization as we know it. The verdict of history on Gordon Brown will surely be: We Owe So Much.

 Of course Ed Miliband is wonderful too, so handsome, so masterful. He can't make his eyes revolve in opposite directions at the same time, as Ed Balls can, but let's face it, is that really a necessary qualification to be PM? But it is Gordon whose photo I have on my bedside table, the Pride of Scotland.

Surely this man is a god?

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Viagra, sex, and pianist envy
By James Hordes

As a famous but iconoclastic pianist  - I'll get a better picture later, but I never really understood the instructions in those photo booths - I went to a concert recently. It featured a new sensational Chinese pianist, Miss To Tee. I can't remember much about what she was playing (it was one of those seriously uncool dudes, Beethoven, maybe) but I did notice that she certainly wasn't "flat". As I munched my way through a packet of Viagra tablets, and swelled to a climax with the melody, I said to myself, "Yes! This is what classical music is all about!"

Damian Thompson can keep his Bach (that Baroque wig he wears when he thinks nobody is watching doesn't suit him anyway). Give me To Tee tickling the ivories any day. Or the new CD set  from Cora Bimbo, in the deluxe edition with extra photos. YES!!!

Playing Fauré's Dolly Bird Suite

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Is Monbiot trying to kill me?
By James Goldenpile

I was eating my cold toast for breakfast today (no warming required), when I was struck by a terrible thought: is George Monbiot trying to kill me? Call me paranoid if you like, but I remember that the last time I appeared on Any Questions? with him, he was carrying an umbrella, and I am fairly sure that it was he who jabbed me in the leg half-way through the programme. I was explaining once more how Michael Mann had produced his hockey-stick graph by massaging his data, adding in his friends' telephone numbers and converting them to Fahrenheit. But the warmists are up to their dirty tricks as usual.

There's definitely a Libtard conspiracy to suppress the truth. Indeed, the man on the Sainsbury's fish counter looks suspiciously like Al Gore, and is obviously ready to slip me a poisoned haddock if I let my vigilance slip. But Monbiot is at the centre of it. He's a master of disguise too - the old lady who nearly barged me off the pavement yesterday didn't look anything like him, so that proves it.

Phew, it's cold today, isn't it? I told you there was an ice-age coming.

There's something sinister about him, don't you think?

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Concluded here.

Some uvver Tellegraph bloggs

Holy Water Shortages
By Geoffrey Anel

As the world's oldest environmental correspondent, and the sole survivor of the 1913 conference which found that the sinking of the Titanic was due to atmospheric carbon dioxide, I was invited to a prestigious Climate Change congress in Rome this week. There I discovered that Pope Benedict XVI is so concerned about water shortages that he will be banning the use of Holy Water in Catholic churches so as to minimize the Holy Spirit's "Hydrogen footprint".

For many years the Catholic Church has been known for its indifference to green issues. Indeed, the carbon dioxide produced by this Easter's Paschal candles has caused sea levels to rise by no less than six feet, and (so I am told) the town of Adelaide has completely disappeared underwater. Will Benedict XVI go down in history as the Green Pope? We can but pray to Gaia that it will be so.

For our children's sake, stop this waste now!

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It doesn't matter what notes you play
By Stephen Oh-Hug

Occasionally, when you are performing a concerto at the Carnegie Hall, or possibly the Royal Albert Hall, your attention will wander for a moment and you will think, "Am I supposed to be playing Rachmaninov or Tchaikovsky right now?"

Well, you'll be pleased to know that it doesn't really matter. The great pianist Alfred Brendel said that under such circumstances he would wing it for a while, perhaps simply playing an embellished version of Pop goes the weasel until the orchestra gave him a clue what he was supposed to be doing. Then he would come back to the score as if nothing had happened. Provided that he kept a straight face, none of the audience would ever notice.

Alfred Brendel in conversation with André Previn

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Why we owe so much to Chris Huhne
By Tom Vichers

As a fully-paid-up pro-Gay Liberal Atheist, I see it as my duty to wind up the Telegraph's largely conservative readership. So today I am focussing on the achievements of Chris Huhne, one of my real heroes. Who can doubt that if he had been prime minister, he would have legalised cannabis, heroin and opium, which, after all, are no more harmful to the teeth than coffee with sugar? Then again, there are some parts of the British countryside that do not yet have their own wind turbines - why oh why should the Yorkshire Dales be deprived in this way? It can only be attributed to the fact that Chris Huhne was forced out of office by the forces of reaction (Inspector Norman Plod).

Unfortunately our picture editor could not find a photo of the great man, but here is a photo of his ex-wife going for a spin.

I was only doing 30 m.p.h., officer.

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Continued here.

Boris steps in

Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, has blocked a bus campaign aimed at helping regular philanderers find a cure. 

NOT UNFAITHFUL! EX-UNFAITHFUL, POST-UNFAITHFUL AND PROUD. 

GET OVER IT!



Said Mr Johnson, "Cripes! It's clearly not on to suggest that serial adulterers can control themselves! London is a vibrant city tolerant of all forms of sexual activity - expecting Johnny Casanova to put his trousers on is bloody offensive, what?"

Meanwhile, the mayor continues to perform his essential mayoral duties, which mainly consist of getting himself re-elected. Provided that Ken Livingstone and his views continue to be publicised widely, Boris Johnson seems certain to succeed.

Amongst his official appointments today, Boris will be joining Archbishop Peter Smith to open a new convent, the Liberal Sisters of St Oona. Here we see the Mother Superior modelling her new Vatican II-approved habit.

"Jolly good show, what!" commented Mr Johnson. "That's what I like to see. Not stupid bus campaigns about morality."

De Voyage of St Eccles, Chapter 3

1. And an Angle spake unto Eccles, saying, "Dis sagga of thine is taking a long time to finish off. Thou willst miss the deadline for de new editoin of de Bibble."

2. "What is I to do?" asked Eccles. "De love life of mine Ant is too complex to be resolved so easily."

3. "Perhaps thou couldst rewrite it for de new editoin of de Korran?" said de Angle. "It could be de story of Anti Mullah, wot goes to Mecka to find de Imam El-Pell. If thou dressest thine Anti in a Burker, den she will not frighten de children so much."

Moly-ben-Dite as she ain't often seen

4. "Nay," saith Eccles. "For I doesnt fink de Musslims is saved. Anyway, strong drink is condemned by Isslam, and my Anti cannot do wivvout it. We will continue as we has started." And it was so.

 5. So she that is called Moly-ben-Dite saith unto de blessed Eccles, "Let us attend the service dat mine beloved Goerge doth conduct for de Easter Viggil. Perchance, Eccles, we couldst disgiuse ourselves as alter servers, dat we may carry de candels into de Cathedral? Den, at de crittical moment, I may hit mine belloved over de head wiv de Pascal Candel, and screem 'Libbertine! Don Jaun! Cassanover! Nick Cleg!'" And she nameth some of de gratest lovers in history.

6. And it was so. De blessed Eccles and his somewhat less blessed Anti didst robe demselves in de white graments of holliness.

7. And dere came a grate processoin into de Cathedral of Sidney. Dere was de famuous Monsinger Rolf Harris, de Dame Edna Average (wot aint reely a woman, so it's OK), even de famous Spin Blower, Farver Shane Worn. All was dressed in de white graments of holliness.

Farver Shane givvin de blessin

8. And in de processoin was concealed Eccles and Moly.

9. And Cradinal Pell spake unto de mulltitudes, sayin, "G'day, cobbers, here we got de Pascal Candel, cos it's Easter. Cor, chase my pet wombat up a coolibar tree, it's dat crazy woman from Pottymouth..."

10. And Lo, Moly hurled de Pascal Candel at de Cradinal, dat it might come to pass wot was written in de book of Relevatoin Chapter 2, Verse 5, I come to thee, and will move thy candlestick out of its place, except thou do penance.

A dangerous waepon in de wrong hands

11. And de costume holly man fled at de sihgt of de wrathful old lady, sayin, "Canst thou direct me to de nearest billybong?"

12. For in the days of his youth, so men say, he had fled de pursuin hag by jumpin into de billybong, where no man durst follow.

13. And Eccles said unto his Anti, "Let us deppart from hence and return to Pottymouth. Dem Cathlics aint to be trusted, anyways." So they departed.

14. Here endeth de book of de voyage of St Eccles.

Götterdamian

I has been asked for more details about de opera Götterdamian, Twilight of de Bloggs, and here is a synopsus dat I fuond.

Damian, king of the blood-crazed ferrets, builds a mighty blog called Telhallah, where heroes such as the legendary Otsota, Mundabor and Bencarta can gather to discuss the eternal verities; they attempt to decide who will be the next Archbishop of Westminster, whether Mario Conti is a real person or just a pasta dish, and why the Daily Telegraph is not published in Latin. As they sit round the fireside, quaffing mead, a pleasant and holy smoke arises from their discussions.

However, the blog is cursed, and the mighty fortress of Telhallah is soon invaded by monsters. First there comes Bosco the Clown, who interrupts every discussion, but he is ignored by almost everyone. Then an army of evil trolls arrives, led by the dragon Judyhaddock and her sidekick the gnome Pholas. All night long they attack the forces of Good.

Damian, horrified by this onslaught, changes tactics completely and attempts to appease the invaders. We learn that  Damian's staff, the symbol of his power, has been shattered... the veteran sage Gerald the Warner is banished to the frozen north, and even the Comedy Friar, George the Pitcher, vanishes. New philosophers, such as Peter of Mullen, take their place in the kingdom, but all are driven mad by the ravings of the Witch of Odone.

Finally, a further horde of trolls, with names such as "Father" Arthur, Daryl and Phil, invades Telhallah, pretending to represent the forces of Good. However, these trolls also ally themselves with the dragon Judyhaddock, who is now reincarnated as Molly the Bandit.

In vain the remaining philosophers attempt to hold the blog together, but Damian himself changes sides, and becomes a standard-bearer for the forces of darkness. The eternal verities are banned from Telhallah, and all that remains is a trivial discussion of celebrities, such as Johann the Hairy and Galloway the Cat-man. The blog disappears in a mighty flamewar, and the whine-maidens sing a final ROFL as eternal darkness falls.

De Voyage of St Eccles, Chapter 2

1. So it came to pass dat Eccles and Anti Moly-ben-Dite went to de Pottymouth trane station, for to catch de Indian Pacific trane to Sidney.

2. And de statoinmaster at Pottymouth hardened his heart and said, "Lo! Dis dame is a well-known trubble-maker and she aint gonna go on any of our tranes unless you puts her in a wooden crate."

3. And Moly she was very wrathful, but she knew dat dere was no real chioce, if she wanted to see her beloved, he dat is called Pell.

4. So Eccles he made a crate out of de finest gopher wood. Lo, it was 4 cubits long, and nearly 2 cubits wide and 2 cubits deep. And in it he placed his beloved ant, together wiv a supply of de finest liqours and a wondrous engine called an iTroll, wot is able to send forth insullts to bloggs on de Internnet.

5. And de Pottymouth stationmaster hardened his heart and said, "Peradventure we shuold also handcuff and gag de old biddy? For she will scream 'woful!' in de nihgt, when de honest man sleepeth."

6. But Eccles he pointed out dat de regullatoins for transportin livestock on de trane said dat dey must not be creul to de animules. So it came to pass dat he buoght himself a Saver ticket (for he was Saved) and he placed his beloved anti in de gaurd's van.

7. And Anti Moly spake forth wiv her iTroll, sayin, "WOFL, WOFL, WOFL. I has got an Easter message for all traddy fanatical Cathlics. Easter is a time for buying chockolate eggs and smashin dem over de heads of sockpoppets. It aint got no uvver purpoise."

8. But de Internett connectoin faileth, and her vioce cryeth out in de wilderness, "WOFL" and no man heareth de Easter message of Anti Moly.

9. Thus dey came to Sidney, a city of great baeuty and cullture, where dey hath an opera house and signeth all de famuous operas, such as "De Barber of Pottymouth," by Micki Rossini, and "Gotterdamian," abuot de Twillight of de Bloggs.

10. So dey released Anti Moly from her wooden box, and she walked in de streets wiv Eccles, her saved nehpew, wot is loved by de Lord and gets Vallentine cards from Him (althuogh some saith dat it was a practical joke played by his creul bruvver Bosco).

11. And dey meets a Momron, who saith "G'day, yuong man. We has a projject to bapptise all de dead poeple wot can't say no. But we also bapptises people wot is old and decreppit, so maybe de old skellington lady wot walks wiv you wuold like to be bapptised?"

12. "Whom hath thou bapptised recently?" asks Eccles.

13. "We has done Gahndi, Buhdda, Mahommed, Atilla de Hun and Pop Pious X. Dey is now all good Momrons," saith de Momron, "but dey doesnt ware de magic undies like we does, of cuorse."

Dat's a pitcher of Gahndi, wot is now a Momron

14. And he spake the name of de magic undies; that is, de Abracada Bra, de Wonderbra and so on.

15.  But Anti Moly saith that she hath no wish to be bapptised, and they moved on in deir quest for de Cradinal known as Pell.

16. So dey came in due course to de Cathlic Cathedral of Sidney, wot is called St Mary's.

17. And dey saw dat de Easter Viggil Mass was gonna be cellebrated by Cradinal Goerge Pell, who got de job of carryin de Easter Candel into de Cathedral. Probabbly he gonna kiss it, as dat's wot Cathlics doth.

18. "We gonna attend dat!" shreiketh Anti Moly in glee, and she began to make her plans.

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

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Concluded here.

Is you a relligiuos maniac?

I is postponnin de rest of de story of my Anti Moly's visit to Sidney, cos I likes to keep poeple in suspense. So todday's blogg is abuot de doctor wot was illegedly sacked by a hopsital, cos he e-maled a prayer to his collaegues. We Chritsians wot is saved doesnt like to be accused of relligiuos mania, so here for de beneffit of Brittish readers is a list of DOs and DONTs, explanin what you is allowed to do nowadays.

DONT say "Bless you" if someone sneezes in de hopsital. Dis is a prayer, and you is gonna be in truoble. If you is a nurse in a hopsital, DO just ignore de patient, as you wuold normally. And if dey has a fit and drops dead, DONT say "Oh my God" as dat is also a prayer, and you will be marked down as a fanattical fundamentallist. DO just go away and have a cup of tea. You may also be able to sue de hopsital for copmensatoin, as you has had de harrowin experience of seein a dead boddy.

Dat's a Pop sneezin. I dont known whevver anyone said "Bless you" to him, or is dat bein cheeky?

If you is a famuous athiest bein interveiwed on de radio, and you cant remember de tittle of Darwin's book about de origin of speeches, den DONT say "Oh God, um..." as dat is braodcastin a prayer, and you will look even sillier dan usaul.

If you is mentoinin Christ, DONT say "Christ de King" or "Christ de Redeemer", but DO say fings like "Christ on a bike" or "Jesus wept!"

I aint never reely understood dat, as de Bibble mentoins ridin on donkeys but not bycicles. My bruvver Bosco explaned to me dat in Matthew 15:21 Jesus "departed into the coasts of Tyre and Saddle," and he reckons dat means He went on a bike.

However, if you is a Musslim, DO say "Allah is de God, buster, and Mohamed is reely grate, has you got a probblem wiv dat?" cos you aint gonna be told off for it. Still, it's probabbly best not to discuss whevver Mahommed ever rode a bycicle, unless you wants a Fattwar against you.

Dat's a different Mahommed, wot flaots like a buterfly and stings like a bee. I fink he used to hit poeple as well.

DONT ever wear a cruciffix (I blogged about dis alreddy) as dat is a cymbal of relligious bigottry, but DO wear a burker, if you is female, as dat is a cymbal of wommen's libberatoin, and tollerance of uvver cultures. It sure is difficult livin in modern Britian.

De reely bad news is dat we in de Calumny Chappel aint supposed to go up to people in de street and say "Is you saved, bruvver?" and den hit dem over de head wiv de Bibble until dey gives in. In de words of my Anti Moly (who is well-known for emptying de washin-up bowl over carol signers), it wuold be "Wofl."

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.

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.

Banning the cross

I has cut dis artticle out of de Dialy Tellegraph. Singed Eccles (saved).

---

The Government reaffirmed today its intention of banning the cross from all aspects of public life, since it is a religious symbol causing terrible offence to atheists (also known as humanists, secularists, rationalists, etc. when they're running scared of the A word). The damaging effects of this CR*SS are so powerful that, as surveys have shown, approximately 80% of atheists are deeply disturbed individuals with only a tenuous grasp of reality.

BANNED from all supermarkets will be the dreadful hot cr*ss bun, a cake known to inspire terror wherever it is seen. A certain Polly T. of London and Tuscany commented, "Eeek! It's one of those religious things! To me it signifies nothing but brain-washing and child abuse. Disgraceful!"

BANNED is the humble plus sign, which resembles a cr*ss. A certain Richard D. of Oxford and Colney Hatch commented, "I never use plus signs. No need - my arguments simply don't add up to anything. BAN THEM! Aaaarggghhhhh!!!"

The Red Cr*ss was tonight said to be reconsidering its position.

Religious leaders have also waded into the debate. A certain Rowan W. of Canterbury and Lambeth made a typically hard-hitting comment. "You know, in a very real sense, I think that we Christians should be only too pleased to discard the more controversial parts of our faith, such as belief in the crucifixion and resurrection. After all, they only jeopardise our chances of a truly meaningful dialogue with other faiths. The time has come to stand up and be counted, and to say in no uncertain terms, 'We wouldn't dream of offending anyone, my dear friends.'"

It seems that from now on, only outlaws and pirates will continue to use the hated symbol of the cr*ss. Said a prominent activist, "Long" John S. of Bristol and Treasure Island, "Aha! Jim Lad! Shiver me timbers!" However, Mr S. will not get everything his own way: this evening a Ban The Cross spokesman commented "He should drop this campaign of his: he really hasn't got a leg to stand on."

Anti Moly's Memiors

"Has you got any organs, Anti?" I asked my dere Grate-Ant Moly a few days ago.
"Well, we has got an old barrel organ in de attic," she said. "As you know, I was a virtouso performer of de Yakety Sax tune at Methoddist funerals, in my yuonger days. Also I used to take Bosco out into de street to make music, when he was a wee lad."

Dat's Anti Moly and my dere bruvver Bosco givvin a recittal in de street.

"Nope, I don't fink dat's what I meant, Anti," I explaned. "You see dere is a loony in Manchesster wot finks dat Jessus had both male and female organs. Dem's what dey calls hermenuetics. De Pop knows all about it."

Anti Moly told me I was an idoit (dem's creul words, Anti), and went on to reveel dat de time has come to write her memiors, becuase she has lived a very interrestin life, and it is only rihgt dat de humman race shuold be able to read all abuot it. At pressent all she does is reveal little snippets of her autoboigraphy on uvver poeple's blogg, which of cuorse is much more interrestin dan discussin de actaul topic of de blogg.

"But you is very busy, Anti, pickin fights wiv Cathlics 24/7," I said. "Why doesnt you get someone to gohst-write de book?"
"Dat's a good idea, Eccles," said Anti Moly. "I can tell dem de story about how I trekked in de Himalayers lookin for de Dolly Llama, and got mistaken for de Abonimable Snowman. Also de true facts about my romances wiv Hermann Gorring and Cradinal Pell. Den dey can write it up propperly."

Anti is still very cross becuase George Pell refusses to admit dat he ever knew her, but she is tryin to console herself wiv anuvver admirrer, wot comes ruond to drink cammomile tea wiv her (dat's a code word we is now using for cream de menth, cos we doesnt want people to fink she drinks a lot).

We has tried askin St Cuttley, de cellebrated novelist, author of de best-cellar "Thopmson takes charge," to gohst-write Anti's memiors, but he has very pollitely declinned, cos de stresses of copin wiv his fambly is keepin him too busy.

I mentoined to Anti Moly dat dere is a tallented writer wot keeps donkeys on de Costa Blanca (Spane), and wot is very used to writin under false names, but she went into a fit of historics and I had to give her some more cammomile tea - if you knows what I mean (dere is a sutble clue below).

So we is still finkin abuot a gohst-writer. Dere's a cosstume holly man called Peter Mullen wot has retired now, and mihgt be availlable. Or else dere is Damain Thopmson, wot dont seem to be doin very much dese days.

I spose I might try writin up Anti Moly's memiors myself, but I is reely quite busy wiv dis blogg, wot gives spiritaul nuorishment to many poeple who wants to be saved.

I is concluddin today wiv a jolly pitcher of a dove, as authenticatted by Anti Moly de grate orthinologist. I fink it is saying "Ho Ho, you aint saved!"