Eccles befriends two bloggers

I done two good deeds today. De fust one was when I got a call from my freind Sister Fortis, wot lives in Blogfen wiv 23 cats and a few hungry mantillas.

De cat Bergoglio.

Sister Fortis is takin part in de forty hours of adoratoin at Blogfen, where you aint allowed to eat or drink, although you is allowed to write bloggs. She asked me if I could look after her cats while she was adorin.

Sister Fortis, sans mantillas, but wiv some of de cats.

De cats is all named after famuos Cathlics. She got Monsinger Newton, wot used to be an Anteater, but converted to bein a Cat. Dere is also Nichols, a very naughty cat wot never does what he is told. Among de lady cats dere is Pepinster, wot hisses a lot, and scratches de uvver cats - dey gives her tablets to keep her calm. One of de most interestin cats is Zuhlsdorf, wot is known for "kitty kill" - he brings in dead voles and sparrows, also de milkman and a passin liberal priest.

Kitty kill.

Well, I is gonna have a hard time lookin after de cats, but luckily my Anti Moly (who has gone back to Austriala) left some gin behind, and dey seems to be much quieter after I mixed it wiv dere CATFOD meat.

Update: de neighbors is complainin about yowlin noises all de night keepin em awake. I fink it is de cat Inwood, wot aint got any idea of mellody and just wont shut up.

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De uvver good deed I has been doin in to cheer up my freidn Damain Thopmson, wot has been gettin a bit depressed lately. He has put a washin machine in de music room of Thopmson Towers, so dat he can play Bach while watchin his undies goin round and round (we knows he is a holly man, as he says he sees mystic visions - dis must be wot dey calls a Deus ex machina).

To cheer up my friend Damain I went on de web and ordered a bespoke set of boxer shorts dat he can wear when he goes to Mass.

Put dese is de machine, and you will see visions of holly men.

In fact Damain weren't at all amused, and so I tried out Plan B - invitin round to tea de well-known Stephen Fry wot suffers from uncontrollable bonhomie. Dis means dat he becomes very borin and makes pathetic jokes about Cathlic priests and child abuse. Damain aint reely very fond of Mr Fry, especially when de bonhomie is out of control, and so de party was not a success.

The five moods of J. Stephen Fry.

Our experts explain marriage

Iain Dull, the world's silliest blogger.

The Government has said that it is a priority to extend equal marriage to West Ham supporters such as myself, all of whom are currently either born out of wedlock or biologically engineered from "normal" human beings. Do you know that I was the first openly West Ham supporting person to stand for parliament in North Norfolk? Of course, being generally regarded as an obnoxious bore, I didn't stand a chance, but it was still a significant blow for equal marriage. Anyway, I am now going to spame-mail every single MP with my views - they are bound to listen to a failed politician.

By the way, I don't normally mention such personal things, but I have also been gay from birth (unlike most kids, who don't worry about such things before they are teenagers). Here is an early heart-throb of mine - how I fantasised about pulling him from his flower-pot and ravishing him!

Bill (or Ben) - a sex symbol for precocious toddlers.

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Chris Grayling, Justice Secretary.

What we need is a change in social attitudes to allow more smacking. I was smacked as a child and it never did me any permanent harm, except in making me a supporter of David Cameron. And I smack my kids. And I'm going to smack anyone who refuses to support the Gay Marriage Bill. Why do you think we employ people called "Whips"?

What we need is a change in social attitudes. Out goes "right and wrong," and in comes "smack smack."

My old headmaster - made me the man I am today.

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Polly Toynbee, atheist, journalist and clown.

All religious opposition to gay marriage is based on bigotry. I'll say it again: bigots, bigots, bigots. Christ was a bigot. The Pope's a bigot. Everyone's a bigot.

Look, the book of Genesis said that it was wrong to eat apples, and we don't find that a problem these days. So why should we take any notice of Christ's views on marriage? Bigot, bigot, bigot.

If Christians really took the Bible seriously, they would refuse to use washing-machines as sex objects, wouldn't they? But according to a Guardian poll, 85% of Catholics own a washing-machine (and why not? I own six in my various houses). Bigots, bigots, bigots.

A washing-machine, probably after a night of passion with a bigoted Catholic.

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.