Eccles is saved

So it has happened. The previous pope (let's call him Fred the Humble) has finally died, and you have gone through the process involved in choosing a successor.

It was arduous: you were locked in a room with over 100 lunatics (and a few sane people), and told that you could not eat, drink, or go to the lavatory until a victim had been selected. After disposing of the silly candidates, such as Pah-Oh-Lin, the financial wizard who wanted China to run the Vatican, and Raggle-Taggle, the dancer who sang "Imagine" to the conclave before bursting into tears, the choice fell on you.

"Tell me what Eccles says I should do."

What should you do now, apart from prayer? (And don't pray that it was all a bad dream, as it wasn't!) Well, you must start slowly. Start by pretending that St Fred the Humble is already canonized and is looking down on the Church benevolently - which he never did when he was alive. You can do this by saying things like "He has gone back to his Father's House" without mentioning that this is precisely what the Prodigal Son did. This is called the Heretic of Continuity (memo: check spelling).

So far you have support from the most unlikely sources: traditionalists such as Cardinal Sally of Africa, and popesplainers such as little Jane Austen of Oxford. But will they continue to support you?

The man from "Where Pachamama Is" is also backing you so far.

Things you must not do, at least not in the first month:

1. Declare Pope Fred the Humble an anti-pope, and have his corpse taken away in a van (as he did with his predecessor);

2. Sack all the basket cases more controversial appointments, such as Kisso and Ferrero Rocher;

3. Rush into print with lots of new Apostolic Exhortations contradicting everything that was said in the last 12 years.

Long-standing readers of this blog will appreciate this meeting with Bishop Campbell.

No, a little diplomacy is needed. Pope Fred contradicted all his predecessors without admitting that he was doing this, so you can do the same:

1. Say how much you admire Amorous Letitia, but stress the importance of married life and the evils of divorce.

2. Praise Traditionalists Crushed, but point out that in fact it does not mean that there can be any restrictions on the Traditional Latin Mass. Which brings us onto the next piece of advice.

3. Do nothing about the Bishop of Charlatan in the USA who gets his pastoral ideas from the Gestapo Handbook. You are confident that the outcry over his wackier edicts, e.g.

no suits and ties for men;
no silence before Mass - talking to your neighbours is compulsory;
guitar and tambourine only - no organ; 
no male altar-servers, just girls in mini-skirts; 
women can wear mitres but not mantillas;

will soon convince him to look for a job more suited to his talents, such as prison warder. Either that or he'll back down and claim that it was a "draft".

An alternative to mantillas.

4. Praise Fiddled Supplies, but interpret it carefully to mean that blessing same-sex couples is a no-no. This may upset Fr Martin James LGBTSJ, but he's already sulking at the prospect of no further photo-opportunities with a pope.

5. It would be going too far to praise Pachamama and Rupnik, but make it known that Pope Fred's views are to be respected. Meanwhile, quietly burn all the idols and lock the sex maniac in a dark dungeon with rats.

Don't worry. You probably have plenty of time in which to Make Catholicism Holy Again. I'll be back later with more advice, Holy Father, so watch this space!

---

Apologies for writing an entirely serious post this time. I am humbled by the fact that the AI program Grok is better at humour than I am. I asked it to write a prayer for humility in the style of P.G. Wodehouse, and it managed this (click to enlarge it):

How can I possibly compete?

Yes, it's another in that interminable series "How to be a good pope", intended as useful advice for those readers who will be ending up in the hot seat (Alitalia seat 1A, usually; sometimes, the Popemobile).

The story so far. You, Pope Fred I, are sitting at breakfast eating your ecumenical Quaker oats, when in comes the great Gonzo Aemilius, your personal secretary (typing speed only 3 words per minute, unfortunately) with some bad news.

"Holy Father, they've arrested one of your cardinals. Guess who?"

A tricky question: you think of Cardinals Betya, Maradona, Cocainepalm, ... which one is it? To your surprise it is Cardinal Tao of Hong Kong, an old friend whom you have been trying to avoid for the last 9 years.

"Fine, fine," you say, but you realise that some official reaction is required on your part. An official Vatican statement. Nothing too strong, as it might upset the deal you made which allows China to appoint its own priests from the ranks of the People's Secret Police. So no abusive words like "rigid" or "traditionalist", which in any case you save for members of your own flock.

"I know, let's have a synod," you propose. That solves most things. Will the Catholic Church declare itself "concerned" by these developments. Or will it get really tough and make a statement with words such as "anxious", "worried", "miffed", "upset" or even - almost a declaration of war - "ill at ease" or "fretful"?

We have designed the logo already!

No, there isn't time for a synod, and anyway, it would require a synod on synods to set it up. You get the press office to make the weakest statement possible. "We have heard that Cardinal Tao has been incarcerated in a rat-filled dungeon, awaiting torture by the Chinese Inquisition (proprietor, Xi-who-must-be-obeyed). If he is not released within the next 40 years, we shall be - if not actually disgruntled, far from being gruntled.*"

* Stolen from P.G. Wodehouse.

Your anger has no bounds. You cancel your lunchtime Chinese takeaway order of numbers 23 and 94 (sweet and sour bat, with Fauci noodles), and open a tin of Max Beans instead. That's telling them!

Sometimes a humble meal is the only answer.

Continued from Chapter 19.

1. It came to pass that Bo-sis tired of preaching the good news about masks and vixens, and turned his attention to prophesying the end of the world.

2. For the children of Br-tain were obediently getting their first jabs, their second jabs, and even their very important Booster Jabs.

3. Although, owing to a fault in the the supplies, some received Wooster Jabs instead, and cried out, saying, "What Ho! It is time to go and steal a cow-creamer!"

Entrance by invitation only.

4. However, Bo-sis was more worried that the world was about to be consumed by fire, and so he summoned a mighty synod called COP in the far wilderness known as Glasgow.

5. Thus from distant lands there came all the great and good, or at least all the rich, such as Bill Gates of Hell, Greta Thunderbird, Prince Charles (the mighty ruler who talked to the trees), and Joseph of Bidenia, who came with a train of four score and five camels, all bearing sanitary products.

6. And for forty days and forty nights (or at least it seemed like it) the synod raged on, as the guests explained how the the world could be saved if only all the people not present were to stop eating, drinking, taking shelter, and heating themselves, but would pay more taxes.

"Zzzz!" Boris payeth attention to the wise words ("Blah blah blah") of Greta.

7. Meanwhile, the COP synod had received a blessing from the Lord, and nobody present needed to wear masks, to take the vixen, or to be socially distant. Except the servants.

8. Then the rain descended, and the winds blew, as is normal in Glasgow for three hundred and three score days of the year. And the guests at the COP synod said, "Verily, this is due to climate change.

9. For, as the psalmist saith, Fire, hail, snow, ice, stormy winds which fulfill his word: all these are signs of climate change."

"Zzzz!" Another gripping moment at the synod.

10. So, after feasting and drinking, Bo-sis returned home, and planned what more he could do to serve the children of Bri-tain.

11. "Now we must ban fossil fuels," said he. "No longer will people be allowed to burn the Ammonites, the Belemnites, or the Trilobites."

12. For these were neighbouring tribes that the children of Bri-tain were wont to burn to heat their homes.

13. "From now on we have Net Zero," he explained. "In the day time, the sun will heat your homes, and at night ye shall use heat pumps. And probably die."

"Each time thou burnest an ammonite part of Manchester disappeareth under water. So there's a plus side to everything."

14. Thus the children of Bri-tain learned that the plague was not the most serious thing that threatened them.

Continued in Chapter 21.

So, RIP Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Associate Justice of the US Supreme Court, the one who ate broken bottles, killed rats with her teeth, wore barbed wire next to the skin, and was strongly suspected of turning into a werewolf at the time of the full moon (as P.G. Wodehouse would have put it). Who can possibly replace you?

Well, it would have to be a lawyer, and other good boxes to tick are (1) being female or possibly gender-fluid, (2) being black or at least not white, (3) being a socialist, anarchist, or at least a liberal, (4) having no perceptible religion that might influence how you live your life, although atheism would of course be optimal.

So who do they get to replace Aunt Ruth? Amy Coney Barrett! She ticks Box 1, but not the others.

The most evil family in the world?

Problem 1. She is a Catholic.

Solution 1: No problem really. After all, Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi are Catholics! It's just a label, which may attract some voters. You don't have to make a religion of it! Just turn up at church once a year for a photo-opportunity with a bishop. Otherwise, you can campaign on LGBT issues and push abortion to limits that even King Herod would have been embarrassed about.

Problem 2. Oh, but she does make a religion of it. She's strongly pro-life.

Solution 2. Awkward.

Problem 3. Still, you can't be pro-life unless you follow the "seamless garment" philosophy. You won't catch her adopting kids, especially not black kids; I don't imagine she does anything charitable. Not like Joe Biden who gave 3 dollars to charity last year, even if it was tax-deductible. And I'll bet she would abort a Downs kid without thinking - what a hypocrite, eh?

Solution 3. Actually, she's adopted two black Haitians and has a Downs kid.

Problem 4. Gotcha! Cultural imperialism. I'll bet she chains the black kids up at night and sends them into the fields to pick cotton during the day time. And a Downs kid! What a sadist! She just likes to see him suffer.

Slavery. Or sadism. Or racism. Or something.

Solution 4. No, they seem to be a happy well-balanced family. No drug addicts, no mysterious money from Ukraine.

Problem 5. Well, she's obviously a white supremacist then. Don't worry, we'll find something against her. Probably she touched someone inappropriately 30 years ago.

Solution 5. Like Biden did last week, you mean?

No, no, no! Biden is a Democrat. He can do no wrong! Amy is a Republican, and so EVIL EVIL EVIL.

With apologies to P.G. Wodehouse.

Regular readers of these chronicles will know that six years ago, my Uncle Cormac, tired of seeing me lounging around all day, said "Bergie! It's time you got a proper job, so we're arranging for you to become Pope. You'll enjoy it - the Cardinals Club is just like the Drones Club."

Unfortunately being Pope isn't just a matter of saying prayers and looking humble, although that's part of it, and I kept getting into scrapes. For example, my Aunt Dahlia, who used to run a lady's magazine called Milady's Boudoir, asked me to dash off a piece on "How to be a great lover". Since I am Pope, I gave it a Latin title, Amoris Laetitia, and cobbled together a few tips from the works of D.H. Lawrence, Casanova, and Bingo Little's wife Rosie M. Banks, the writer of romantic novels.

However, the critics panned it. Indeed old "Beau Brummell" Burke of the Cardinals Club got together with some mates to send me some thorny questions about the article. Luckily the letter was taken away by "Sniffer" Cocco, who said something about dropping a line, although I hadn't really thought of him as a great letter-writer.

James takes charge.

Recently my luck changed, and James entered my employment, as manservant, valet, spiritual adviser, and physical trainer. The story starts with another of my failed literary ventures, which was originally intended as a jolly children's story about a water-rat, a mole, a badger and a toad, until I realised that this had already been done. So I threw half the pages away and renamed the rest Laudato Si'.

Some time after the publication of Laudato Si', I got a call from "Baldy" Baldisseri of the Cardinals Club explaining that he was organizing a synod, and perhaps I would like to attend. "We're all dressing as Amazonians, but you can come as you are, Bergie, if you don't have a costume. Bring a bottle!"

At that time, James and I were having a slight disagreement. James had been trying to add a touch of colour to my usual white suit - "A rainbow cummerbund would suit you very well, sir, and show that you are hoping to build bridges." However, on this occasion I asserted my authority, and James retired in high dudgeon, telling me that "He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day. Demosthenes."

I had never heard of his pal Demosthenes: probably he's one of those New York Jesuits that James knows intimately. Still, I had won that round.

Bergie and James discuss Demosthenes.

Anyway, I went along to Baldy's synod, and was slightly surprised to see everyone bowing to an ugly-looking wooden statue. James was there serving drinks, and I asked him what the statue was. "I could not say, sir," he replied. "Mr Ivereigh is telling people that it is Our Lady of the Amazon, but he also maintains that it represents Miss Madeline Bassett. Her disciples believe that the stars are God's daisy chain, that rabbits are gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen, and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born."

"Is that really orthodox Catholic doctrine, James? I'm a bit rusty on it."

"I fear not, sir, although it is one of the aims of the synod to get these teachings accepted as infallible by the Church."

"Hey, I know all about this. When I took over from Uncle Ben, he told me, 'You are allowed to make infallible statements, Bergie, but you're such a numbskull that I really wouldn't advise it.'"

"Quite so, sir."

The cabaret.

I thoroughly enjoyed the party, but the next day, when James shimmered in with the papers, I could see that I was in a dreadful fix, and it would need all James's ingenuity to help me extricate myself. The headlines read:

BERGOGLIO WORSHIPS IDOL OF MADELINE BASSETT. (Catholic Herald).

SYNOD IS PROCEEDING VERY WELL. (Tablet)

OHHH, MY BRAIN HURTS. (Austen Ivereigh for Crux.)

To be continued (?)

This summer, the Reverend Francis Heppenstall, Anglican Vicar of Twing, has decided to try something new in order to attract congregations to his church. Instead of touristy gimmicks, he is planning to conduct a new type of service in which Christianity will play a major part.

Out go the crazy golf courses. In comes God!

The Church of England's main role, since the Reformation, has been to make it easier for people to divorce their wives and, if necessary, to behead them, but it has always tried to focus on FUN as well (after all, Henry VIII was a keen crazy golf player, as well as a sex maniac). That future saint, John Henry Newman, in his Anglican days, published various tracts on "Let's take religion seriously," but in the end he gave up his Anglican mission and became a Catholic instead.

Out go the helter skelters. Is nothing sacred?

Said Mr Bertram Wooster, a parishioner of Father Heppenstall, "The jolly old Anglican in the pew wants more than just funfairs and circuses; so we have asked old Heppers to liven up things with his forty-five minute sermon on Brotherly Love. That's the sort of thing to give the troops!"

It will be interesting to see whether this new "God" experiment will succeed in attracting the crowds back to Anglicanism. Many have already joined Cardinal Newman in the Catholic Church, where clown Masses, puppet Masses, and LGBT Masses are providing the spiritual nourishment they require. Heppenstall does have the surprising backing of Giles Fraser, the celebrity "loose canon," who is also considering the introduction of hymns and prayers as an alternative to coconut shies and "pin the tail on the donkey." It seems possible, therefore, that this innovation may catch on: we'll keep you informed.

An end to lunar gimmicks in our ancient cathedrals?

"I say, Jeeves," I asked my faithful valet one morning, "what do you make of this Moggmania that everyone's talking about?"

"A perfectly normal reaction, sir," replied the f.v. "Mr Rees-Mogg has announced that he is an orthodox Catholic, and so he is pro-life and believes in traditional marriage. This seems to have struck a chord with many people."

Thugg versus Mogg.

"But dash it, I say, Jeeves, aren't there any clerics to do that sort of thing? Why should it be left to old Moggers?"

I should explain at this point that Moggers and I go back a long way. We were both inmates at Aubrey Upjohn's prep school at Bramley-on-Sea. I once won a prize for Scripture Knowledge, but only because Moggers was ill on the day of the test. Of course, he won the prize easily in all the other years.

After being released from Upjohn's asylum, Moggers and I toddled off to Eton together, and the old bean is now one of my best friends. We meet regularly at the Drones Club to throw buns at "cloudy" Welby and the other heretics.

Professor O'Regan (Divinity) compliments Moggers on his scriptural knowledge.

Still, I didn't expect him to end up as a great spiritual leader, like that boy Dolly Lama, or the Argentine exchange student "Chop Suey" Bergles.

"I'm afraid, sir, that clerics no longer promote Catholic values," explained Jeeves. "Cardinal Nichols, for example..."

"Never mind my Uncle Vincent," I snapped at Jeeves. "He's very much the black sheep of the family. We don't mention him in polite company."

"Very good, sir. By the way, I really would not advise those 'gay Muslim' socks. We do not wish to be mistaken for the Prime Minister of Canada, do we, sir?"

A male model shows off his 'gay Muslim' socks.

"Good Lord, Jeeves, I thought they were rather natty! But I dare say you're right. I don't want strange people following me in the street. Take the socks and give them to Uncle Vincent."

"Thank you, sir. By the way, there is a telegram for you."

I read the missal.

BERTIE YOU OLD NEO-PELAGIAN STOP I NEED TO BORROW JEEVES STOP GOT MYSELF INTO A FIX WITH THE CHILEANS STOP EVEN BEANS FAGGIOLI CAN'T SPIN THIS ONE STOP SEND JEEVES TO ROME AT ONCE STOP BE A GOOD EGG STOP BERGLES

"I haven't heard from 'Chop Suey' Bergles for years, Jeeves. What has become of him, I wonder?"

"I understand that he has become Pope, sir," replied my manservant. "There is some dispute about whether he received a certain letter."

"Now remember, Bergles, the letter is in your case."

"Oh, what a tangled something-or-other we weave, when first we tumty-tumty something, eh, Jeeves?"

"Indeed, sir. If you will permit me, I shall suggest to Pope Francis that he employ the tactics of Mr Rees-Mogg."

"Take up Catholicism, you mean?"

"Precisely, sir."

It's time for another instalment of the Eccles Bible project, in which we explain the books of the Bible to atheists, Jesuits, and others who haven't really grasped the point. Good to see you again, Richard Dawkins, Stephen Fry, Fr Thomas Rees, Fr James Martin, Tim Kaine, Donald Trump and of course dear Hillary.

Our star pupil has a thirst after righteousness.

Well, there's not much of a "plot" to the book of Proverbs: it consists of various wise sayings. Indeed, wisdom is the main theme. Rather than making a pointless analysis, I'll just give five quotations from Proverbs, interspersed with wise remarks from other sources. See if you can identify them.

Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

If my good friend says a curse word against my mother, he can expect a punch in the nose.

Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.

It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.

A ray of sunshine.

Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging.

How often do you ask for the help of the Holy Spirit, the breath, the "ruah" of God? Call on her in time of need. Count on her help.

The wicked flee where no man pursues; but the righteous are as bold as a lion.

I think on the whole mumps are better than measles.

As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.

Virtue is better than no bread. Whom the gods love, butter no parsnips.

Buttered parsnips. Possibly a source of spiritual nourishment.

Right. The five non-Biblical quotes are from a computer, Pope Francis, James Martin S.J., Nigel Molesworth, and P.G. Wodehouse, in some order. They are not as full of wisdom as the authentic quotations from Proverbs, are they?

DONALD! Put that woman down! Who do you think you are, Bill Clinton? Go and sit on the naughty step!

Anyway, the next book we'll study is Ecclesiastes, commonly known as Eccles and thus universally admired.

I have been asked by Mary O'Regan to say a few words about my childhood, and to answer the questions:

What kind of child were you?
Are you a very different adult?

Possibly a very different Eccles, but still saved.

Regular readers who come here for spiritual nourishment will not be disappointed by the theme of this post - it tells how a distinctly naughty and unsaved child can nevertheless become a truly virtuous and saved adult. When Mary O'Regan gets fed up with Padre Pio, she can write about me instead.

I started writing rubbish at an early age: when I was six I had a piece published in the school magazine (yes, they were desperate for copy). It was a satirical story, supposedly written by the Cheshire cat, giving his own account of the meeting with Alice. As with all Eccles satire, it was probably very rude and naughty - I don't have a copy of it now - and you may think of Alice as an early victim of Eccles, someone like Catherine Pepinster, say.

A mere sockpuss.

One thing I remember about my early schooldays is that every Friday we had fish pie. It was disgusting. As P.G. Wodehouse would say, it was not made from happy and contented fish, but possibly from salmon and sturgeon that had just lost a crucial referendum. Although the food on the other days wasn't wonderful, it was the sufferings caused by fish pie that made me the soulful person I am today.

A young Eccles. Note the handsome ears, and the embryonic biretta.

I was also a rather naughty child with little respect for religion. As a teenager I got very interested in chemistry (like the present Pope, as it happens), and made some nitrogen iodide crystals. My friends and I felt that the school chapel could benefit from these, so just before a service we placed some on the floor near the lectern. In due course a senior boy went up to read the lesson, and trod on the crystals, which went CRACK and emitted violet fumes. I don't suppose that the Pope also did that sort of thing, but I can console myself that I was exploring alternative forms of worship, and so was probably acting in line with the Spirit of Vatican II.

Like incense, only it's purple and explodes.

So, I haven't really changed much from childhood to adulthood, except that now I am much more saved, so of course I don't leave nitrogen iodide in churches except on special occasions.

I am asked to recommend three more bloggers for the "when I were a lad" treatment. All the good one have probably been signed up by now, so I am choosing three bad bloggers instead: Cardinal Dolan, Tina Beattie, and Bishop Campbell of Lancaster. If anyone is in touch with these luminaries - I'm not - could they please mention that Eccles has called them to greatness? Thanks.

Continued from Part 6

The story so far: Eccles and his Aunt Moly are on a pilgrimage. Now P.G. Wodehouse takes up the story.

"Oh dash it all, Aunt Moly," I said, "Do I really have to go and visit Uncle Thomas at Brentwood Castle? We're supposed to be on a pilgrimage. I've been looking forward to seeing the shrine of St Damian Thompson at Reading, and visiting my old chum Des Pond of Slough."

"Eccles, you woeful idiot," replied my aged relative, "Lord McMahon needs our help urgently. His whole life is in disarray, and he believes that his prize pig, the Empress of Brentwood, is dying."

"Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as the jolly old Bard puts it," I conceded. I summoned my manservant, Bosco, who shimmered in with some life-restoring Mystic Zuhlsdorf coffee.

"Excuse me for a moment, sir," said Bosco. "May I take the liberty of informing you that your new tartan biretta really does not suit you?"

"It really does not suit you, sir."

I am used to criticism from Bosco: usually it takes the form of remarks such as "May I remind you, sir, that you are not saved as I am, because Jesus has not chosen to visit you?" These I can safely ignore, as Bosco gets some strange ideas from his attendance at the Calvary Chapel; but when it comes to criticisms of my taste in headgear, then I feel I must put my foot down. Explaining coldly to Bosco that my biretta had been greatly admired by Ms Katharine Jefferts Schori, who writes the fashion column for the Episcopalian Times, I sent him off to buy some railway tickets for Brentwood.

What the well-dressed cleric is wearing.

We arrived at Brentwood Castle, where the door was opened by my uncle, Lord McMahon himself. "Uncle Thomas," I said. "Opening your own door, now?"

"Eccles, how nice to see you!" sighed my exhausted uncle. "It's my new butler, Liturgist. He's taken over the running of Brentwood Castle, and gives all the orders now."

"Ah, like the unjust steward chap in the Bible, what?" I had once won a prize for scripture knowledge at my prep school, and the parable of the cove in question (Luke 16, I fancy) was well known to me. "He fiddled a few things with his chief's debtors, and at the end the boss was very pleased with him. I'd have been furious."

The unjust butler.

"Yes, that's Liturgist. Everything has been changed in the running of the Castle. He's told the servants to disobey all my instructions. Here he is now."

Liturgist came in with a tray containing refreshments for Uncle Thomas, Aunt Moly, and myself. Instead of the usual whisky-and-soda, gin and wine that we had been expecting, we were served with strawberry milkshakes.

I looked in vain for my manservant Bosco to save the situation. Since the butler Liturgist had just broken into an impromptu dance, the Vati-can-can, Uncle Thomas hastily agreed to escort us to the pigsties, to see the Empress of Brentwood.

The Empress of Brentwood.

Knowing that Uncle Thomas regularly won prizes for his porcines, I had been expecting to see a healthy obese animal, but all we found was a scrawny-looking pig. The creature was clearly malnourished: instead of a well-balanced diet containing all that was necessary for nourishment, the poor beast was chewing on some old copies of the Tablet and minutes of ACTA meetings. It was looking decidedly the worse for wear.

A most unhealthy diet.

At that moment, Bosco, my "saved gentleman's personal saved gentleman", arrived, bearing a delicious dish of cupcakes, rhubarb crumble and custard, as recommended in Thompson's The care of the pig.

"Where did you get that food?" asked my Uncle Thomas. "Whenever I try to feed the Empress, my butler Liturgist gives contrary orders."

"I think we shall not be troubled by Mr Liturgist again," replied Bosco soothingly. "I have induced him to leave your employment, indicating to him that his unique talents would be more appreciated by Lord Paul Inwood, the son of the Duke of Cacophony.

"Bosco, I take my hat off to you!" I exclaimed.

"I would be most grateful if you did so, sir," replied my faithful employee. "As I said, it really does not suit you, sir."

Continued in Part 8.

Today we start a new series of posts, highlighting some of the more absurd things that people will believe in once they stop believing in God. And where better to start than with the cult of Fry?

Yes, at the time of writing six million people in the world are zombies.

Worship of Fry is a strange phenomenon. Probably it starts with an appreciation of his skills (20 years ago) as a comedian. Remember Jeeves and Wooster? Actually, that was Fry's first miracle: the scripts were such a travesty of the original stories, and the performances were so hammed-up, that he made P.G. Wodehouse turn in his grave.

The miracle of the unquiet grave.

It also gave Fry a reputation for intelligence, as if he himself (with a second-class degree) were as brainy as Jeeves. In the words of Oliver Goldsmith:

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew.

Later, Stephen was to benefit from the "Robert Robinson" effect: by hosting a quiz show, you are regarded as a clever person who knows everything, rather than just someone who can read the answer to a question off a cue card.

Oh yes, I also know about Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, ...

Thus, once it was established that Fry's IQ was approximately 350, it was only natural for him to write a few novels. They tend to be scatological and otherwise unsuitable for decent people, but they do have the odd joke in them too.

What puts the great god Fry beyond criticism in the fact that he is bipolar. This means that he allowed to be vicious and nasty to people he doesn't get on with - broadly speaking, anyone cleverer than he is - and can play the "Ooh look, I'm bipolar like Elgar, Edgar Allan Poe, Florence Nightingale and van Gogh" card if they respond. With the implication that he is somehow as talented as these people were.

One of Stephen Fry's best-known paintings.

Actually, most bipolar people manage to go through life without throwing public tantrums all the time.

So why is Fry considered to be a divine Being? Well, partly because he is omnipresent. Turn on the TV, and there he is telling jokes about child abuse on QI. On the radio he is telling everyone all about Verdi and Wagner - and possibly comparing their bottoms, but I didn't stay around long enough to find out. Perhaps you escape to the theatre and see him playing Malvolio - don't boo, or he'll storm off stage. So you go to the pub, and there he is, telling David Cameron all about how Russia needs more "Gay Pride" marches.

One of his pet hates is religion. You see, he cannot believe in any Being superior to himself, and it annoys him. Instead of people going to the church of Fry to intone the mantra "Bottoms, bottoms, bottoms" on a Sunday, they go to a real church and say "Kyrie Eleison" - or - if fans of Australian singers - "Kylie Eleison," at least according to the Tablet. Also, even Pope Francis isn't going to go on any "Gay Pride" marches. Well, I think not.

A present for Pope Francis (not worn).

Yes, Fry's comments on religion make even Richard Dawkins look polite and erudite: for example, this brilliant poem, evidently a product of his Edgar Allan Poe mood:

Mary had a little lamb 
It's fleece was white as snow 
All you religious ****s 
Just **** off and go. 
No more discussion with ***heads. Sorry.

(Since this blog is largely suitable for children, unlike the Twitter feed of Stephen Fry, I have had to do some editing here.) Oh, note the brilliant spelling "It's". All right, that's a cheap shot. A man who boasts of five degrees, even if most of them are honorary, can probably spell "Its".

Baa! And you can **** off too, Mr Fry.

No, I'm sorry, I have tried to bow down and worship Stephen Fry, but it just isn't possible. Definitely a false god.

Not the best way to start your letter.

At this time many people will be writing to their Members of Parliament about the issue of same-sex marriage. We offer a few tips, designed to help you write the most effective and persuasive letter.

There are many ways to start the letter: "Dear Sir" or "Dear Madam" is the traditional way, but it may lay you open to a charge of transphobia. "Dear Humanoid" is safe enough, and may be used if you are uncertain of the exact species of your M.P.

Dear Humanoid.

Alternatively, you may wish to use the M.P.'s name, but be careful: Sir Archibald FitzHaggis of that Ilk should be addressed as "Dear Archie" or "Dear Spotty" if you know him well enough, but NOT "Dear Ilk." Starting your letter "Harriet, you old cow," "Dave, you slimy creep," or "Gordon, you lazy toad" is unlikely to endear yourself to the M.P. in question.

Next, you may wish to explain how religion influences your views on same-sex marriage. For example, if you are a Christian of some sort, then you probably want to uphold Christ's own views on marriage (unless you are Giles Fraser).

How many mistakes can you spot in this picture (not counting Giles Fraser)?

Mentioning that you are a Catholic may be counterproductive if your M.P. has been reading the inane ramblings of Richard Dawkins. It may be safer to say you are an Anglican, and hope that the M.P. will feel sorry for you. Claiming to be a Muslim may be very effective, especially if you offer to go round to the M.P.'s house with some friends to explain yourself further. If you happen to be a Scientologist, Jehovah's Witness, Mormon or Druid, then forget it: your M.P. won't even read the rest of the letter.

So that's agreed, then. We'll say we're Methodists.

Some other persuasive arguments you may use:

Blackmail. Say you know all about Eulalie (this is the P.G. Wodehouse ploy). There are many macho-looking M.P.s in mining constituences who design lingerie in their spare time. If you're called "The Thug of Gritville" you may not want your feminine side to be known. (Of course, being a thug is an equal-opportunity role, and there are many female M.P.s who rejoice in nicknames such as "The Battleaxe of Milton Pangle." Use your initiative here.)

Our "Peggy" range is selling well too.

Money. Most M.P.s love money, and will do anything for a little extra cash. The simple words "I have long respected you, and felt that your life would be enriched by the gift of a duck house" will go straight to the heart of your M.P.

Essential equipment for an M.P.

Embarrassment. It may seem excessive, but you could threaten to throw yourself under the M.P.'s car, or simply to turn up on the M.P.'s doorstep with a particularly ugly "love child." There is a problem here, in that most M.P.s, having no sense of shame, are not easily embarrassed.

Well, I hope that has been useful. Probably, it will also be helpful to send a copy of the photo below to your M.P., just to convince him completely.

If he sings "Where's your mother gone?" again, I'm going to be sick.