St Daryl's church news

Fr Arthur writes:

I want to thank you all for your contributions to St Daryl's mission to Aspatria, which, we are told, is one of the poorest countries in the world. Thanks to your generosity, we have been able to send them a brand new state-of-the-art wheelie bin, so that they may benefit from the rubbish-disposal facilities that we all take for granted in the developed world. The bin (nicknamed "Arthur" by the grateful Aspatrians) is featured on this year's St Daryl's Christmas card.

St Daryl's Christmas card. Well done, we're making a difference!

In return, the Aspatrians, who are very pious Catholics, have sent us a sack of delicious sheeps' eyes as a goodwill present. Help yourselves after the Mass!

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We regret that Mr and Mrs Delingpole, formerly regular communicants at St Daryl's, have been excommunicated, and will not be allowed in church again. In my absence last Saturday I delegated the hearing of Confessions to Mrs Thacker, my cleaning lady (and perhaps our future bishop - who knows?) and she discovered that the Delingpole family had admitted to finding a UKIP leaflet "quite interesting, really." Naturally, we notified the police, social services and the drugs squad, but we felt we should set an example too, and so I have provisionally excommunicated the entire Delingpole family, including their late grandmother Doris, whose gravestone has been removed from the cemetery as a precautionary measure.

The Delingpole family home, after a visit from social services.

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Highlights of Fr Arthur's sermon:

Today is the Feast of Christ the King. Now what do we think of when we hear the word "King?" A 2-metre statue? No, I said "King," not "Küng," Eamon. Let me help you, we think of someone important, perhaps

Aye, every inch a king!

No, Tina, you still haven't quite got the idea. We are more likely to be thinking of someone who sits on a throne. Perhaps someone like this:

"I do think Boris might have let me sit on his throne. And he's late again."

So when we come into church we should show respect to Christ the King. Cries of "Yo! God!" are helpful (indeed, that's the chorus of a hymn we'll be singing later), but you could also give a little friendly wave in the general direction of the sanctuary. We aren't supposed to genuflect since the days of Vatican II!

Now I want us all to join in this traditional ethnic hymn to Christ the King:

Everybody dance cos we gotta King!
Everybody dance cos we gotta King!
Clap your hands cos we gotta King!
Clap your hands cos we gotta King!

Clap your hand cos we gotta King!

Twist and shout cos we gotta King!
Twist and shout cos we gotta King!
Roll on the floor cos we gotta King!
Roll on the floor cos we gotta King!

Roll on the floor cos we gotta King!

Right, now if you'd like to pick yourselves up off the floor, we'll recite the Creed - or at least the bits we take seriously.

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).

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.

Anti reads a book

Now dat Bosco has escapped from de Cathlic dugneon, he hates dem unsaved pests more dan evver. Howevver at present he is spendin most of his time goin ruond de huose kissin de stattues and sayin fings like "I has missed you darlin St Peter", so dat it is Anti Moly wot gets in de lyme lihgt todday.

First, I took a photto of de touchin scene where Bosco returned to his luvvin Anti and bowed down before her. He reely worhsips his Anti Moly.



My Anti Moly is a grate admirrer of de Pop's red shoes what he wears, and she says of him, "Dis yuong man he has some traddy ideas about murder (against), theft (against) and baring flase witness (against), but he sure is a leader of fashion." So she have buoght herself lots of red shoes, dey used to call her de Immedla Macros of Pottymouth, when she was in Austriala, cos she got so many of dem. She was grately admired by Cradinal Pel, she says, but Cradinals aint sposed to chase girls, even uggly ones, so dat nuffink came of it. Dat makes her reely sad sometimes.



Anuvver fing dat is excittin her is dat her grate herro, de piuos polite charmin (etc.) St Cuttley have written a book, called "Thopmson Takes Charge", and we fink he is gonna come here to sing coppies in de shopps. Dis Cuttley he is a little old-fahsioned, and de book aint produced wiv modern technogoly, but she is enjoyin it very much and reeds out passages to us at brekfast.



Perhapps I will reed de book myself later, and find out what it is all about. I fink it's set in a shcool wiv some nuaghty boys called Dellingpol and Hanann, dese names seem strangley familliar.

We is goin out tonihgt as a fambly to see a classic play about de ruogh life of a molydbenite minor in de Austrialan outback, strugglin to bring in de preciuos ore.

On de poster it says my Anti Moly is directin it. Dis means dat she screems "Sockpoppet" at de actors when she finds out dey aint reely de poeple dey is dressed up as, she never got de hang of dramma.

Also, if you looks carefully, you can see de word "idiot" on de poster, dat's a special refference to my dere bruvver Bosco, who comes in half way thruogh to say "You aint saved," it's good dat a play has a spiritaul message like dat.

Anti wins a prize

As you all know, my Grate-Anti Moly is a grate admirrer of de fammous blogger Cuttley, who she describes as "saintly, piuos, holly and wise, and not like dat clique of traddy Cathlics." Indeed, when Bosco knocked de head off a stateu of St Peter a month ago, she had anuvver head made, so dat she had an iddle of Cuttley to worhsip. Here it is again.



Anyway, de Tellegrahp held a compettition "Complete de folowwin in not more than 12 extra words: 'My favuorite Tellegrahp blogger is X X becuase ...' and win a stateu of him or her."

Dat's a real chalenge. Does you go for de meek and humble Delingpol what is always warnin us about crabon emmisions? Perhaps de intelect of Broiny Gorddon is what excites you? Or de beuaty of Mary Riddle? Dere is our old freind Damain Thopmson who has done more dan anyone else allive to warn us about de evil Joanne Hairy. Or perhaps you likes Stephen Huogh what plays de pianner in pubs? Or dere's Nomran Tebit and Daneil Hannann, what knows about currant afairs, what a pity dey never went into politicks. Pussonally, I likes wise old Goeffrey Lean who has been an envroinmental coresspondent for 80 years and knows about de dangers of horseless carraiges.

"I's gonna win dis," said Anti Moly. Dis is what she entered.

"My favuorite Tellegrahp blogger is Tom Chivvers becuase he is kind, freindly, cheerfull, cheeky, handsome, sensible, and not a Cathlic."

Anti won, and here is de stattue dat dey has just delivvered. It goes well wiv de stattue of Cuttley.



Of course Tom Chivvers aint saved, but we has high hopes of gettin him to come along to de Calumny Chappel some time, dressed as a clown.

I has just got time to show you a fambly snapp. Dis is my Anti Moly gate crashin de royal weddin of Willaim and Katte, disgiused as a nun (she is de old one wot looks cross). Some time I is gonna have to find out how dis happened. Anti Moly says she was dere incoggnito as a seccret agent to prottect de happy cuople, but it's more likely dat she was simply runnin away from de pollice and took a wrong turning.