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.

The Nightmare Song

With further apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan. But there's always room for one more pastiche, isn't there?

When you're sitting in church, and you're trying to search for a meaningful theme in the service,
You may find that it seems you've been having bad dreams, and they're certainly not for the nervous.

Warning - Damian Lundy ahead.

For it's Walk in the the Light, with its words very trite, that they've got as the hymn for procession:
At its music banal you are starting to snarl - finding it hard to control your aggression! Then things get even gorier - Kyrie and Gloria, sung to a setting by Inwood -
Which destroys all the sense. What could make you less tense? Well, you feel that perhaps a large gin would!

An antidote to Inwood.

The priest's got no biretta, he thought it was better to dress in a cape and deer-stalker,
While the deacon's emphatic, he'll wear no dalmatic; he's dressed like a long-distance walker.

Father Holmes prepares for Mass.

The Epistles of Paul, we don't have them at all, though he wrote of some truths sempiternal.
What we get in their place makes you green in the face - it's a page of Dan Brown's book (Infernal!)
Well, you hope that the preacher will be a good teacher, but instead they've wheeled in Tina Beattie,
Who's at war with the Pope, and there isn't much hope that they're going to sign a peace treaty.

Lest we forget...

She has often been banned, and you do understand that her words must be treated with caution:
All traditions are wrong, let us sing a new song: women priests, same-sex marriage, abortion!
Then it's on to the creed, and it makes your heart bleed, when you see all of the bits they've omitted:
For the priest isn't sure he believes any more, so it's best not to get too committed!

An uncontroversial edition of the creed.

Well it's time for some prayer. Yet again you despair - for we pray for Hans Küng, not Pope Francis.
A collection they'll take, but first - not a mistake - we'll be getting liturgical dances!
A guitar twangs away, to our increased dismay, with some rubbish the player has brought in.
Six girls leap to their feet, do the Liverpool beat, which is mainly suggestive cavorting.

A liturgical can-can.

They come round with the plate, you're obliged to donate, though you really had thought of refusin'...
For the case they support is to buy vintage port for a transgendered bishop called Susan.
Well the rest of the Mass is just equally crass, like the bit where you cuddle your neighbour,
When you know very well she would see you in Hell, for two pins, with the aid of a sabre!

The kiss of peace.

When it's time to receive, you just cannot believe that the priest simply said "Come and get it!"
So you stay in your pew, feeling more and more blue, for you certainly think "Just forget it!"
Now it's Shine, Jesus, Shine! - oh, that hymn's really fine - as the song that we sing when it's finished:
Shine on me, shine on me, dum-de-dum, dum-de-dee... At the end you feel strangely diminished.

The worst is yet to come...

So you head for the door - Father'll be there for sure, with a greeting (he's likely to gabble it);
BUT right down the aisle, there's a huge unsold pile of a scurrilous rag called the TABLET!

From this sight you retreat, running into the street, for it's evil in print, you reflect as you sprint, heading into the town, to the pub where you drown... all your sorrows in beer, for the Tablet brings fear, of a hideous curse, yes, an evil, far worse, than you previously met, and you're really upset, by the demons within, which may lead you to sin, and destruction which can't be amended...

Read my new column in the Tablet!

But the service is past, and it's freedom at last, and next week you begin again, with a new priest (called Finigan?) so thank goodness this nightmare song's ended!

Near-death experiences

In view of a near-death experience claimed by Dr Eben Alexander, which is the basis of his new book Proof of Heaven, we asked some of the regular characters appearing on this blog to describe their own near-death experiences.

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Bosco, worshipper at the Calvary Chapel, and saved person.

Hello, could I speak to Jesus, please?

Eccles, you poor sick monkey, I had a rotten experience when I tried to save a convent of nuns, and I was badly beaten up by them. As I lay in hospital, near to death, I found that I was standing outside the Gates of Heaven, explaining to St Peter that all Catholics were idolaters, and should be sent to the Lake of Fire. "I am saved, even more than you are," I told him. "I've come for my throne and my golden crown."

St Peter is shocked by Bosco's blog.

"Ah, Bosco," said St Peter. "I've been reading your blog, and we've got a totally different fate for you..."

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Damian Thompson, formerly a religious journalist.

Damian is the one alone at the front, whom nobody else will talk to.

The first thing that struck me about St Peter, when I saw him, was that he was putting on weight. In fact, the whole tone of Heaven was very disappointing, and I was totally unimpressed with the angels, who were definitely smirking at me. The music was not Gladys Mills plays Beethoven, as I had been led to expect, nor even something by my friend James MacMillan, but a dirge that sounded like an eternal repetition of "Alleluia Ch-ch."

Angels - what dreadful hair styles they have.

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Moly, aunt of Eccles and Bosco.

A recent photo of Moly.

Well I don't believe in God or Heaven, but I did have a very strange dream last night when I finally dropped off. I was in Paradise, wearing my new Moly Number 5 cigarette- and gin-scented perfume. But I was surrounded by possums, all jumping up and down, and there wasn't a bottle of gin to be had anywhere. "It's endless torment for you," said a loud voice to me, probably one of those bullying traddy Catholics. Woeful.

Vicious possums. They're out to get me. I know it.

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Father Arthur, of the Church of St Daryl the Apostate.

I'm a priest in good standing, you know.

Well, I wasn't going to stand any calumny from the man waiting for me at the Gates of Heaven, so I got my attack in first. "May I remind you, 'Saint' Peter, that as recorded in the 26th chapter of the book of St Matthew, and elsewhere, you denied Christ on no less than three occasions? Does that give you the right to comment on the behaviour of other people? I am a priest in good standing, with no time for your traditionalist ways. Haven't you people heard of Vatican II? Now clear off, and let me do your job properly for you."

The Last Judgement. But Fr Arthur will willingly give you a preliminary verdict.

New readers start here

Who is Eccles? Who is Bosco? What is this blog all about?

Once upon a time there was a Telegraph blogger called Damian Thompson, who wrote mainly on religious subjects from the perspective of a traditional Catholic. His blog was referred to as "Holy Smoke," and attracted a variety of commentators. Damian discussed vital issues of interest to Catholics, such as, who would be the next Archbishop of Westminster, was Bishop Arthur Roche eating too many cinnabons, and was Mgr Andrew Summersgill capable of organizing a papal drinks party in a brewery?

Damian Thompson in Westminster Cathedral, angry at having been "cut" by the Pope.

Thompson's blog also attracted a number of anti-Catholic trolls. First, there were the atheists, those who thought that Richard Dawkins was some sort of theological giant, and whose rhetoric mainly consisted of references to sky-fairies, bronze-age goat-herds and child abuse. Oh, they found child abuse fascinating.

Second, there were Christians of a distinctly non-Catholic flavour. Chief among them was one who posted with a clown avatar as "stbosco," a man greatly influenced by the ideas of Jack Chick. Whatever the subject of discussion - and Damian was gradually moving away from Catholic topics onto general politics and gossip - Bosco (as we shall call him) would post twenty-line diatribes copied and pasted from virulently anti-Catholic sites, or sometimes written by himself in his own illiterate style. Bosco has his own blog, which no decent person would ever wish to read, but, if you are feeling indecent, you can probably find it quickly by Googling "bosco blog bite me."

One of the few images on Bosco's blog that does not have an obscene or disgusting caption.

Most of Bosco's blog is to do with accusations against Catholics of homosexual practices, child abuse and idolatory. It is also highly scatological. You really don't need to read it.

Anyway, early in 2011, a new poster (or possibly an old one, rebranded) turned up on Damian's blog, calling himself "Eccles," in honour of the famous Goon Show character, and claiming to be the younger, even less intelligent, brother of Bosco. Like Bosco, Eccles believed he was automatically "saved," which meant that like Bosco he could tell lies, insult people, and be generally rude, safe in the knowledge that his golden crown was already waiting for him, together with a seat at God's right hand. The Eccles comments were ridiculous parodies of Bosco's.

Eccles cultivated a style of illiterate writing similar to Bosco's, but worse, which was stolen from the Molesworth books ("Down with Skool!" etc.) which allowed a talented writer to indulge in sub-Joycean wordplay.

Bosco furiously denied that Eccles was his brother. Well he would, wouldn't he? The moderators on Damian's blog soon got into the habit of deleting roughly 50% of Bosco's posts and Eccles's too.

A typical Telegraph "muddlerator."

So Eccles decided to write his own blog, and just link to it. The links were often "muddlerated" away, but the blog survived as an account of the life of Eccles and Bosco. The first story to appear on this blog was a charming little fable about Bosco attending a Bible class. It concluded:

In our last lesson, Bosco got very cross wiv de Cathlic preist, Fr X. Pell de Mons, cos in his room he had a children's book wiv a pitcher of a pengiun on de cover. Bosco fought it was a nunn and went bersek. Here is Polly de Nunn, she aint so dangrous, is she?

Polly de Nunn.

As time went on, other trolls from Damian's blog found themselves appearing in Eccles's blog. Chief of those was "Anti Moly," loosely based on an atheist commentator from Adelaide with a reputation for obsessiveness, insults, bad temper, and bullying. She turned up as the great-aunt of Eccles and Bosco, who was definitely "unsaved," was addicted to drinking gin (or hair-restorer, if necessary), and liked to stay up all night screaming at the Internet.

Another comic character who appeared for a while was Fr Arthur, a very liberal "priest in good standing," who was very fond of accusing his brothers in Christ of all manner of sins. When people went to Confession with him, they found that they did not need to say what they'd done wrong, as he would tell them (and told them that they should not expect forgiveness). Oh, there was also a comic character called Damian Thompson, who lived in a palatial mansion in Notting Hill, with a variety of domestic servants who coincidentally shared the names of Telegraph bloggers.

Bosco himself eventually disappeared from Damian's blog early in 2012 having been finally banned. Eccles himself began to change the direction of his blog somewhat, especially when he realised that Damian Thompson was no longer writing about religion (apart from settling scores, e.g., by claiming that Archbishop Tartaglia had a weight problem).

Richard Dawkins, looking more credible than usual.

The everyday stories of life with Bosco and Moly gradually began to give way to vicious and unfunny satirical attacks, now written in reasonably literate English. For example, there are the "Eccles Bad Hynm Award," where our hero interviews the writers of such masterpieces as "Shine, Jesus, Shine," a "Book of St Richard," where the life of the blessed Richard Dawkins is related, and a variety of brutally cruel pastiches of contemporary religious attitudes.

Eccles himself continues to be a "saved pusson," and you may regard some of the more literate writings as being by his assistants, Ecclesiastes, Ecclesiam and E. Cake, if you don't think he wrote it all himself.

Eccles's secretary, Ecclesiastes.

Who Eccles is not: He's not Damian Thompson. He's not a priest, he's not a professional journalist, he's not anyone at all well known.

Who Eccles is: Well he claims to be a saved pusson. If you have read this far, then you is slightly saved too.

Totally irrelevant picture to finish off.

Wallsingham

Well, we cuoldn't stay in Great Snoring for too long, as we wanted to go to Wallsingham to see my big bruvver Bosco. But both Anti Moly and Dan Hannan, our chuaffeur, received kind invitations from de good poeple of Great Snoring, so we stayed an extra day.

Anti Moly was invited to stay awhile, drink lotsa gin, and take some well-earned rest, as dey said that a Great Snoring Woman would be a tuorist attractoin. Anti Moly was very pleased to be de centre of attentoin, so we put her to sleep, and sold lotsa tickets.

We heard later dat de poeple of Little Snoring had all taken dere washing indoors, finking dat thunder was on de way.

A sleepy village

Also, someone had heard dat Dan Hannan is a part-time polliticain, and dey invited him to make a speech to de Snoring Conservatives Associatoin. "But I ain't used to speakin in front of crowds," he said. "When I wants to make a speech in Brussels, dey all shows great consideratoin and leaves de room."

Well, in de end he gave an impassioned speech about "De unpleasant pussonal habits of Herman Van Rompuy" to de faithful "Mangel-Wurzel Mafia," as dey is known.

Finally, we got to Wallsingham, and it didn't take long to find Bosco, as he had set up a shrine by de side of de road, and was sellin souvenirs of Wallsingham.

Bosco's sacred souvenirs from Wallsingham

Bosco explaned dat dese are not iddles, even dough dere was a steady stream of piglrims buyin dem and kissin dem.

A rival shrine, after Bosco visited it

Apart from settin up a Calumny Chappel shrine, and givvin public letchers on "Why Mary hadn't a clue who Jessus was" - a point of thoelogy dat is new to many poeple - Bosco has been doin his part in bein ecumennical by trashin uvver poeple's shrines and iddle shops.

Dan Hannan in Wallsingham iddle shop

Bosco has asked me to point out dat pussons wot kiss dis polliceman aint saved.

On de road to Wallsingham

As I has alreddy explaned, my big bruvver Bosco has gone to Wallsingham, de scared shrine in Norfolk, in de hope of savin a few suols. Anti Moly and me has been in London, stayin wiv Damain Thopmson. It is very hot and so Damain has got some of de Indian Ollympic team to act as punka-wallas.

A punka-walla helpin Damain Thopmson to keep his cool

Originally he had been employin some of his usual staff - Will Heaven de butler, Dan Hannan de chuaffeur, and Goeffrey Lean de gardener - but dey wasn't very good at punk, and dese Indians is much fitter.

Damain himself has been watchin a lot of de Ollympics. He likes de beach valleyball, as he says de girls is all very thin and has good hairstyles, which is very important (read his blogg and you will see dat he hates people wot is fat or has bad hair, like Archbishop Tarteater and Bradley Wiggon).

Not likely to be criticised in a Damain Thopmson blogg

Anti Moly is findin life very woeful. She was hopin dat her old admirer, Cradinal Pell, would come to London for de Ollympics, but he decided to stay in Sidney to judge de Aussie Bishops' Tinnie-chuggin Competitoin (whatever dat is). And althuogh de Aussie government has promised to return de bones of her grandad Ned Kelly to her, dey still has not arrived.

So when I proposed a trip to Wallsingham to help bruvver Bosco wiv his evangellising of de unsaved Cathlics (he said "bring a chain saw," but didnt explane why), she jumped at de chance. Indeed, she even proposed dat we take along Tilde Swindon de famuous actress, wot is very good at evangellising, as you can see from my photto.

You'll come to Wallsingham, Tilde, wiv me?

But de luvvly Tilde wasnt avialable. Damain Thopmson said he didnt want to come wiv us, but he offered us de services of Hannan, de chuaffeur, de one wiv a part-time job in Brussels. De Brussels chaps is on summer hollidays from April until November, so he is quite free at de moment.

So Anti Moly, Hannan and me set off for Wallsingham, but Hannan was led astray by de Satan-Nav, and we landed up in a village nearby.

Why does dis remind me of Damain Thopmson's bloggs?

Well, we is stayin de night in Great Snoring, and Anti Moly is sleepin very sweetly if rather loudly, as a result of de gin dat she bruoght in her hippo flask.

A hippo flask. Contains enough gin for a whole evening's drinking

Tomorrow we is to be reunited wiv dere bruvver Bosco.

Anti Moly replies

WOEFUL!

I want to make it clear to all of you that I never under any circumstances read Eccles's vicious and cruel blog, which takes trivial incidents from my life and exaggerates them out of all proportion.

For example, in his entry of 8th July 2011, when he first recorded my arrival, he referred to me incorrectly as "Grate-Ant Molly," and claimed that I had been detained at the police station for vagrancy (which my illiterate nephew spells "vaguerancy"). In fact, I had merely gone there to report that someone - probably a fanatical Catholic - had put 25 baby possums in my hotel room; they were running round the room, bouncing up and down on my bed, and they knocked over six bottles from my meagre supply of medicinal gin.

Then again, in the entry of 9th July...

[50 pages deleted here. Sorry, Anti Moly!]

Anyway, having corrected all the errors in Eccles's nasty blog, let me take the opportunity to dispel the most recent rumours, namely, that I deliberately tried to kill my nephew by cooking a poisonous meal for him.

Delicious bush tucker

In Pottymouth, the beautiful Australian city where I normally live (although at present I am an exile in London), we don't have any pathetic pommy squeamishness about food. Spiders, snakes, old socks, hairbrushes... all these constitute "bush tucker," and are delicious when fried in gin. On Sunday I decided to do some cooking, as everyone else in the household had gone to church, and I made a delicious Pottymouth Goulash à la Cardinal Pell - named after an old admirer of mine. Perhaps I added too much anti-freeze - such is life, eh - for when Eccles came back to partake of this culinary delight, he was very ill. However, I ate some myself, so that proves it was harmless.

Eccles has also written some misleading comments about my false teeth.

My new set of false teeth

It is true that I lost my previous set of false teeth, and it is even true that a Catholic priest found them and venerated them as a relic. However, I did not throw the teeth at him - they slipped from my hand when I was gesturing to him to get lost. I'm just putting the record straight here, although those fanatical traddy Catholics are determined to lie about the events.

While I am here, perhaps I can also set the record straight about the events of June 2010, when judy8 (note, no capital letter!) was not banned from Damian Thompson's blog, whatever people say. Far from it: indeed, Damian invited me to write my own Telegraph blog, because he was so impressed by my incisive debating style. It's true that judy8 vanished and I came back under the names of AlfredHaddock (no space) and molybdenite (lower case); however, these were not sockpuppets but...

[Another 50 pages deleted here. Sorry again, Anti Moly!]

Well, that's the short explanation, anyway. I can give more details if anyone wants them.

Let me close with a few comments about England. It really is a woeful place, with a high concentration of pommies, Catholics, males, females, young people, old people and middle-aged people - these are all sections of society that I dislike strongly. The worst freaks of all are to be found on the Telegraph blogs pages, although I make an exception for courteous, saintly, polite and charming Charles Cutley Utley, the celebrity blogger, novelist and lawyer. He has not been seen lately, and it seems that he is greatly changed by his sufferings; however, he has sent me a recent photograph, which I would like to share with you.

"Slightly grumpy" Charles Utley

Well, stands the church clock at ten to three, and are there spiders still for tea? I think so. Such is life, eh.

moly

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).

De Napoloen of Notting Hell

Dat rarver clever tittle is a tribbute to our dear freind Damain Thopmson, who is puttin us up in his humble aboad now dat we has arrived in London.



Dis is a pitcher of Castle Thopmson, which is a large huose in Notting Hell, where Damain lives wiv just a few servants to look after him.

Our flight from Austriala was a bit probblematical. Half way, de pilate said dat dere was a horrible noise commin from de engines of de Beoing 747, and so he told us, "Don't panic folks, we is gonna make an emurgency landin in Dubbai. But if you knows any good prayers, den let's be havvin dem if you wants to be saved." Well of course, I is saved alreddy, but I did sing a few Calumny Chappel songs, like "Come, Thou holy Parachute." But when we landed it turned out dat Anti Moly had fallen asleep in de tiolet, and it was her snorrin dat was causin de niose and vibbratoin.



We got to Heathroar eventaully, and made our way to Notting Hell, which is a posh part of London. We was admitted into Castle Thopmson by de butler, who is called Will Heaven, it seems dat his parents was very infleunced by de poster above.

Anti Moly was a bit jet-logged wiv gin, so Heaven showed us to our rooms. I has got de Paddy Pio suite, and my dear anti has de Nanny Ogg suite, I aint heard of dat saint before, but she does seem to resemble my dere Anti a little. Dem Cathlics like kissin saints, but I fink even Damain would draw de line at dat one. 



Talking of Damain, we heard some loud crashes at aruond 4 a.m. and a male-vice chior singin "Four and twenty vergers came down from Inverness." I later fuond out dat it's called a Rugby song, I spose dat Damain goes to Mass in Rugby sometimes, it's a place in de Midlands dat we may visit.

Now, Damain was very pleased to see me,  but he said he had got a blogg to write just now. Anti Moly was still in de Nanny Ogg room snorrin away her jet-logg, but Damain who is a true professoinal managed to keep typin away, even wiv de cielin vibratin above his head.

Eventaully Anti came down lookin for booze. Damain had to go to de bathroom, and when he came back he said "What's happened to my bottle of Geoffrey Lean Patent Hair-Restorrer?" Apparently, Anti Moly had drunk it, finkin it was gin. So now Damain dont seem to be very pleased wiv us, but perhaps he will soon be charmed by our kind and gentle natures.



Damain is havvin a party soon, and I is lookin forward to meetin all his freinds like Joanne Hairy and Giles Frazor. Anti Moly is lookin forward to meetin Damain's stock of drink.

Rehearsin a play

Well we is all gettin very excitted about the Calumny Chappel Nattivity Play. But my big bruvver Bosco, who is cast as de back half of Mary's donkkey, is in a grate panick.
"Woss my lines?" he asked me. "I is a grate artiste, and I is saved, so I gotta give my message to de world." We explanes dat de rear ends of donkkeys aint normaly grate conversatoinalists, but Bosco has read de Bibble, and has heard about Balham's Ass in de Book of Nubmers, wot used to shout "Sockpoppet!" at him.



So Bosco feels dat as a grate acter he has got de right to express himself. "You aint saved, Mary you stuppid dame," he wants to say in a donkkey voice. "You is a grate sinner. Hee-haw! Hee-haw!" We is still workin on dis role. We doesnt want Mary to fall off de donkkey when Bosco starts brayin at her.

Meanwhile, we has fuond a missin fraggment of de Gopsel of St Luke, where he brings in a comick charactter for lihgt releif. Strangley, we fuond dis text on de printer in Anti Moly's bedroom.



1. And dere was abiddin in Nazzareth an old lady called Haddach wot said she was de Anti of de Verger Mary.
2. And lo! Haddach spent de nihgt in a vigill, wherein she screamed and shouted insullts at de passers-by.
3. Yeah, and she spake sayin "Traddy Sockpoppets! Verilly de sittuatoin is woeful! Such is life!"

Dere is uvver bits in de Bibble wot mentoins Haddach, for exammple when Jessus turns de water into wine at Canna, she is dere complanin dat He didnt make gin.



Dis could be Anti Moly's chance for starrdom. Now dat we has insertted dis fraggment into de Calumny Chappel Bibble (which is loose-leaff, so dat we can allso remove bits we doesnt like), we is ready to includ her in de Nattivity Play.

Farver Arfur (also known as Napolleon) is de third herro of dis blogg, even thuogh he is a Cathlic and not saved. He has assked to take part in our holly cosstume dramma, and we fink de part of King Horrid is taylor-made for him. When de wise men comes in and says "Ullo! We is wise men! We has got a B.A. in camel-ridin," he tells dem dat dey is evill rotten sinners for prettendin to be wiser than him.



Arfur is lookin forward to his big sceene, where King Horrid gets to massaccre de innocennts, especailly as he explanes dat dey wasnt innocennt at all, but was guilty of committin lotsa sins listed in de Catacoms of de Churhc, such as bein Traddie Babbies and committin de sin of Subbtraction.



Dis is one of dem evil babbies, dat Farver Horrid is gonna be massacring, and I am sure he desserves it.

Dey has found a part for me too, I is gonna be an angle of de Lord. Not de one wot says "Ullo, Mary, does you want to guess why I has bruoght you a pile of babby clothes?" but annuver one wot sings about Gloria in Exchelseas, dats Lattin, cos dem angles wos foriegners and cuoldnt speak propper English like us. It's all very excittin bein a grate acter.