Saint of the Week

St Damian the Obscure.

A member of the order of St Custard, St Damian is another medieval saint about whom many astounding legends have grown up.

Damian is believed to have come from humble stock, his ancestors having been ferret-farmers near Reading. Damian himself was a learned man, and was sent to Oxenford to study for a degree in HHT (History, Hairdressing and Theology), the most prestigious degree offered at that time.

Father Sidney James, Damian's tutor in theology and hairdressing.

In those days Damian was something of a lady's man, breaking the hearts of many virtuous maidens who came his way. However, he resolved to devote himself to God, and in particular the maintenance of traditional Catholic values.

Cristina Odone - after meeting Damian she devoted her life to good works.

At that time the Council of Trent was meeting, and Damian - a traditionalist who adhered to the Sarum Rite - was anxious to fight its modernist tendencies with all the powers at his disposal. Indeed, his polemics brought him to the attention of Cardinal Murphy, who attempted unsuccessfully to procure his excommunication.

Cardinal Murphy admits defeat.

In his later years, Damian took a less active part in church politics, although he maintained a pious and virtuous life; his contemporaries noted that he was a master of the German art of Schadenfreude, and that his enemies were invariably cast down. For example, the miraculous downfall of Christopher the Hun is generally attributed to the intervention of St Damian.

Conclusive proof that Christopher the Hun was not driving his chariot.

Damian's final years were spent in madness. Each week he sent out a deranged letter to his disciples, written in green ink, in which he discussed random topics such as cummerbunds, hairdressers and custard, but nobody could bear to read them. He eventually succumbed to a surfeit of cupcakes.

Prayer to St Damian:O blessed St Damian, who saved the Church in its hour of peril, intercede for us, that we may be blessed with a good head of hair, that we may avoid unseemly fatness, and that we may avoid all forms of addiction. Help us to write, as thou didst write, even when we have nothing to say. Amen.

Damian Thompson exercises the right of reply

Damian Thompson, posing with a group of his most loyal readers.

I have always regarded Eccles as one of the most valued commentators on my Telegraph blog: his comments, made from the perspective of a truly saved person, have invariably been incisive and witty, and it was a great loss to all of us when he left the "Holy Smoke" community and decided to concentrate on his own blog.

Eccles - a man with very good hair.

Of course I do have one or two other brilliant commentators, with whom I engage regularly on my blog. For example, there is Eccles's Auntie Moly or "molybdenite," who may be a senile gin-soaked old thug, but who is nonetheless always ready to insult people in a way that I can only dream of emulating. Another person whose comments I appreciate is "Sister Muriel," from the church of St Daryl the Apostate down in the southwest, who tells me he is "a priest in good standing, sweetie."

But I digress. Eccles and I have shared many good times together, and I am very grateful to him for giving some publicity to the new hair salon that I have just opened. Here clients can get a truly Catholic haircut while listening to the sound of Gladys Mills playing Bach's Well-tempered Clavier.

My new hair salon

One question that I don't have the space to answer today is: "How on earth did a brilliant journalist like Cristina Odone, The John Humphrys of the Telegraph blogs as she calls herself, ever condescend to join my team?" Eccles describes her as "Damian's cook," and it is true that I rely on her for my morning cupcakes, but she is also a brilliant interrogator, one who does not hesitate to shout abuse at Chris Patten when we hear his voice on the Today Programme.

Eccles does not seem to have fully explained my relations with the "Magic Circle" of bishops which constitutes the main Vaticosceptic opposition to Pope Benedict XVI in this country. He seems to believe that I am in some ways less than totally enthusiastic about Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor. Well, this is not the case - I regard Cormac as a mentor, and as one of my closest friends.

The Cormac Singers performing Happy Birthday in my honour.

Indeed, at present I am rather worried because the Pope has sent Cormac off to Bangladesh as his special envoy - an arduous trip for an 80-year-old man, which will involve his sleeping in a snake-infested mangrove swamp and living on a diet of frogs and insects. If he survives this, the Holy Father is next proposing to send Cormac as special envoy to the South Pole in his unique Mission to the Penguins.

It's all right, Cardinal, I don't eat meat on Fridays.

Apart from that, Eccles's blog seems to be 100% accurate. As he claims, he is still staying with his aunt as my guest at Castle Thompson, and he really is one of my closest friends: I certainly would not be able to write my weekly Telegraph column without his invaluable ideas.

Thanks to Eccles, I am not unknown in Latin-speaking circles!

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A scene from the Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch reads out an evil incantation.

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Relax to the soothing sounds of Gladys Mills playing Bach's monumental The bad-tempered ferret, while Damiano (Il Barbiere di Notting Hill) gives you a haircut that nobody will dare to mock.

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Advice on keeping your weight down is also available, while, for the ladies, Signora Cristina will soon be opening a special department dealing with beauty problems.

How Damian Thompson saved the Catholic church

We are pleased to welcome a celebrity guest blogger, the Archbishop of Corby, the Most Reverend Paul Priest, who will explain (more briefly than usual) why the Catholic Church in England and Wales owes so much to his friend Damian Thompson.

The Archbishop of Corby (H/T Maria Narwhal).

God, that man Damian is just so WONDERFUL. Remember when we were looking for a successor to Cormac as Archbishop of Westminster? Damian PERSONALLY spied on all the Magic Circle bishops and dug up all the dirt on them. For weeks he wrote hard-hitting articles pointing out that Arthur Roche was too fat, and Peter Smith smoked too many cigarettes. And in the end, the Nuncio got the message, and Vincent Nichols got the job. BLOODY MARVELLOUS, Damian!

The Pope's visit to Britain would never have happened if it were not for Damian. The organizer, Mgr Andrew Summersgill, had forgotten to make any room bookings, and the Papal Mass for the beatification of Cardinal Newman would have taken place in a bus shelter in Lincolnshire. But Damian came to the rescue, and in the end they used Cofton Park. AWESOME!

Cramped conditions for a papal mass to be attended by 55,000 people.

In fact Pope Benedict himself was going through a crisis of belief, and had to be rescued by Damian. To put it in layman's terms, the ontological neo-Kantian paradigm of Sacerdos Paulus semper obscurissimus est was giving him grief. I wrote to him myself: "Benedict, dude," I said, "just remember my encyclical Carpe vacuum, natura abhorret diem, and reflect on how Aquinas would have reacted." But, it took WONDERFUL Damian to tell the Pope the words he really wanted to hear, "Holy Father, I think your hair is fantastic." If it had not been for that, you can be sure that Benedict XVI would have resigned and we would now have Hans Küng as Pope. MAGNIFICENT, Damian! We LOVE you, dude!

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Other News

Richard Dawkins, with Charlie the chicken

An early photograph of the religious leader Richard Dawkins has just been published, which will be of great interest to Dawkists everywhere. It shows the brilliant man conducting research into the behaviour of chickens, a subject on which he was said to be a world authority. However, many modern scholars believe that the picture is a forgery, and they have even asserted that Dawkins was a purely mythical figure, whose life story was invented by his disciples. They point out that the writings attributed to Dawkins, being incoherent and inconsistent, are probably little more than clumsy forgeries put out by the Dawkist cult.

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The first women bishops in the Church of England.

Meanwhile, the Church of England has finally taken a decisive step in gender equality, by ordaining its first female bishops. The four saintly women in our photo, Mothers Avaritia, Ira, Invidia and Superbia, are expected to bring a new style of worship with them, based less on God and more on getting their names in the papers. With this aim in mind, it is rumoured that they are already in contact with Giles Fraser, the producer of Thought for the Day.

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The Cristina Odone horror mask

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De weddin of Tom Chivvers

Tom Chivvers in his weddin graments

Anti Moly and me is still stayin at Castle Thopmson in Notting Hell, but we doesn't see much of our host Damain Thopmson, as he is lockin himself away in his studdy to work on his new book, de definitive boigraphy of Glayds Mills, de concert painist.

Damain is very fond of paino music, especailly de classics. De great Stehpen Huogh was round here recently playin a meldey of his favuoite concert pieces, such as "Where did you get dat hat?" (arranged by Rachnaminov) and "We wish you a merry Christmas," wiv de immortal lines about "We all likes figgy puddings," which was condenmed by Paul Inwood as bein thoelogically too complex for de modern Cathlic chruch.

Stephen Huogh

Anyway, Damain looked up from writin his definitive account of Glayds Mills's weight probblems, to tell us, "By de way, my colleageu Tom Chivvers is gettin married on Satturday." Anti Moly has got a bit of a crush on Tom Chivvers, because he is pollite, charmin and non-Cathlic, and she put down her gin bottle and fainted dellicately.

Damain went onto explain dat de lucky bride was called Pat, but, because Tom is in de forefront of libberal thinkin, and likes to shock de traditoinalists, he wasnt sure whevver it was a man or a woman.

When my dere Anti recovered, she decided dat she would emullate de story of young Lockenvar, wot is a Scots chap who interrupted a wedding to carry off de bride on his horse.

Young Lockenvar on a horse

Since Tom is an athiest, he wasnt gonna get married in a chruch, althuogh dere is chruches in Soho and de Plymuoth diocese dat will do same-sex marriages (we saw a card in a tellephone box, "Kinky Cathlic weddins, all tastes catered for. Ask for Farver Muriel"). Instead, he had hired de Allbert Hall, as dere was gonna be quite a lot of poeple attendin. He was gettin Stephen Hawkin to conduct de weddin, a proniment atheist wot knows all about big bangs; he has also been competin in de Parrylympics.

Anti aint gotta horse, so I suggested dat, bein Austrialan, she could ride to de Allbert Hall on a crocodile, or maybe have a cart pulled by a team of wombats. But in de end she managed to borrow a donkey, and rode off on her heroic missoin.

Old Molyvar on a donkey (note de bridal bouqeut)

Well, I went dere by more traditoinal means, gettin Dan Hannan, Damain's chuaffeur, to drive me to de Allbert Hall. He refussed to obey de "Keep Left" signs dat David Cameron has been puttin up everywhere, so we was nearly late.

As you can see from de pitcher bellow, de weddin was well attended. Is dat Edwina Curry in de photto bellow?

Tom Chivvers Weddin. De geusts is very happy.

Well I has been keepin you on tenterhocks, but now I can reveel de identtity of de blushin bride, Pat. Well, Tom he is wot dey calls a geek or a nerd, and it turns out dat PAT is a laptop computter (PAT is Personal Applied Technology). Dis explanes a certian cryptic remark dat Damain's butler, Will Heaven, made, when he told Muvver Odone de cook, "I saw Tom wiv PAT on his lap again." Tom got de idea from a flim of Walt Sidney, and I fink dis is what de Chivvers fambly will look like in 15 years from now.

Tom Chivvers fambly, 2027

When Anti Moly learnt dat her successfull rivall was a computter, she said "Dat's reely woful," and decided to cancel de elopment. So Tom's weddin went ahead as planned. I aint often sentimenttal on dis blogg, which is normally written to provide spiritaul nuorishment, but I do fink de happy couple is made for each uvver. Readin his blogg, I has sometimes even wondered whevver TOM is de name of a computter, as well. Thinking Opinion Machine, maybe.

A day in the life of Damain Thopmson

A blood-crazed ferret

I shudder into wakefulness as my alarm clock rings (today it plays my friend James MacMillan's cantata "The Lord smote Glasgow Rangers"). Giving my teddy-bear, Benedict, a quick hug, I leap out of bed and get dressed. Breakfast is a simple affair of cupcakes and coffee.

Telegraph cupcakes. Can you spot Cristina Odone, Tim Stanley and Ed West?

Of course on Sundays I omit breakfast and go straight to the Oratory to look for liberal and modernist tendencies in the Latin Mass, but on weekdays I go to Telegraph Towers where I hold the highly important job of Editor of Telegraph Blogs. This means that all the bloggers kow-tow to me, bring me cupcakes, and laugh at my jokes. The only person I have to fear is the Telegraph's Editor, Tony Gallagher, who is a West Ham United fan, and regularly says things like "I don't like your face, Thompson, you little squirt. Beat it!" But now I've stopped blogging on religious topics, he doesn't kick me so often.

One big happy family of bloggers

Like most journalists, I spend most of the morning reading the papers, insulting people on Twitter, and swapping silly jokes. But Friday is my big day, as I have to write a Saturday column for the Telegraph's distinguished readership of London lawyers and retired colonels. So I look for pictures of fat people with silly hair or strange clothes, and weave a hilarious (or as my brainy friend Tom Chivers says "an hilarious") narrative about them.

Arthur Roche, always good for a laugh

The lost sheep?

My Telegraph column also provides the material for a very witty blog. It attracts comments from the intellectual elite, who post under names like GI Joe, Mahatmacoatmabag, An Aussie Carrot, Chap With Wings, Molybdenite, Cutley in Florence, Ernest Chaussette, and The Great Stalin. Most of these names are real, but I suspect that one or two may be made up!

Well, the day draws on, and in the evening there are many options open to me. Sometimes I stand outside Victoria station selling copies of my new book The Fix to commuters. "Big issue!" I shout, as I think that addiction is indeed a big issue for all of us. Many commuters agree, and some are so impressed that they give me 50p, saying "Get yourself some tea, young man," without even taking a copy of my book.

Did I mention that I have written a book?

This is the book of which the great Clive James, writing in the prestigious Wallamaloo Possum-Breeder's Gazette said "Some wonderful books have been written on the subject of addiction. If you want something totally different, try this book instead." Praise indeed, I'm sure you'll agree!

Another thing I may do in the evening is go home to Notting Hill, and play one of my 50,000 CDs. I am a very cultured chap, and I have 94 recordings of James MacMillan's Orchestral Variations on Donald, where's yer troosers? Often I lie in my bath, playing games with my plastic duck, Donata, and singing along to James's immortal music.

Before I know it, it's 9 p.m. and time for bed. A quick anonymous phone call to one of my enemies (e.g. Austin Ivereigh or Johann Hari), with a burst of demonic laughter, and we've reached the end of a perfect day. Off to bed with my teddy-bear!

Good night, Damian!

De relicks of Anti Moly

I aint blogged about my Anti Moly recently, but reggular readers will know dat she was put in a care home after she bit de postman in de leg (a misunderstandin cuased by drinkin too much hair restorrer). It's OK we now has a new postman, and so dey said dat it was time to release Anti Moly.

A team of postmen preparing to deliver a letter to Anti Moly

Anti Moly's time in de care home was a little trubbled, but we aint gonna mentoin that.

Anti Moly's care home after anuvver misunderstandin

De team at Castle Thopmson was very pleased to welcome Anti Moly back, and Will Heaven de Butler invited her to try a new cocktail he had invented, consistin of gin, Delingpol anti-freeze, fresh ferret-blood, and a slice of lemon.

Damain himself is also back home, but dey keeps him in a dark room, only lettin him out once a week to write bloggs about addictoin. We hears loud groans from his room, "Cristina, dey all hates me, you is my only friend," as Muvver Odone de cook brings him his pizza.

"Well, you may be right, Damain," replies Muvver Odone, who aint one to tell lies.

Now we aint yet got to de subject of de blogg, but de story is dat Anti Moly frew her false teef out of de window at a passing Cathlic preist. He had come to interview Damain for De Tabloid, a well-known Cathlic comic full of silly hearsays pretendin to be Cathlic doctrin.

Alas, I aint got a photo of Anti Moly's false teef, but here is an artist's impressoin.

Anti Moly's false teef (artist's impressoin)

We was horrified to see dat de preist, when he recovered consciuosness, cried out "Dis is a gift from de Lord," and took the teef away wiv him. Apparently dem Cathlics like veneratin relics, and de sacred teef of Anti Moly is even now bein taken round de country, so dat poeple can pray to dem.

Apparently, de teef is so used to sayin "Woeful," "Sockpoppet," and "Such is life eh" dat dey can now say dese spiritaul phrases even when dey aint in de mouf of my belloved Anti. Dis may be described as a miracule, and maybe my Anti will be saved after all.

Anti Moly is drownin her sorrows in de usual way, and stayin up late to insult poeple on Damain's latest blogg (which, surprisingly, is about addictoin again). We has ordered some new false teef from de Pottymouth Crocodile Centre, where she got de last ones, and dey will soon arrive in de post, if any postman is brave enuogh to delliver em.

Relliquarry containin Anti Moly's false teef, decorated wiv St George and de Dragon

Pentecost readings

Burning copies of "The Fix"

As the hype over The Fix reaches a climax, and the team of relay runners escorting it round the UK says with one voice "We've had enough of that flaming book," the CBCEW has agreed to adopt new readings for this Pentecost Sunday, from the book of St Damian.

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Vincent Nichols confesses to an addiction

As St Luke records in The Fix of the Apostles, when the time for Pentecost was fulfilled, the disciples were all in one place together. And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house. Then there appeared tongues as of fire, which came to rest on them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in different tongues.

Now we see here several examples of addiction, and I have observed many such incidents in my researches for this book. Some people are addicted to strong winds; for example St Peter is recorded as once having taken his boat out onto the Sea of Galilee in a storm, evidently to feed his addiction to wind, which the other Apostles vainly tried to cover up. If he had not had this problem, he would probably have stayed indoors, become a journalist, and maybe written a blog. Some say that Prince Charles, who recently moonlighted as a weatherman on television, is also addicted to extreme meteorological phenomena.

Tongues of fire are another addiction I have seen on my travels. Sometimes this is merely a variation on cigarette-smoking, where the addict lights the wrong end of the cigarette in his confusion (my friend Cristina Odone often makes this mistake). Another way of setting one's tongue on fire is by fire-eating, which nobody would do unless they were seriously disturbed.

Unholy smoke from Cristina Odone

Could it have been the case that St Peter was addicted to fire-eating, as well as heavy winds? St Luke is strangely silent on the question.

Then again we come to another addiction mentioned in this passage, the speaking in different tongues. In modern society people with this problem can find useful employment as interpreters and translators, but sometimes we find charismatic sects whose members simply sound off with random garbage like "Molybdenite Holy Smoke ROFL Damian Fix Judy Bogan Pottymouth LOL," as a way of obtaining relief. No doubt St Peter was a sufferer from this condition as well.

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A  fairy cake cupcake, as seen at Our Lady of the Assumption & St. Gregory, Soho

As St Paul, notorious for plugging his own Epistles, once pointed out, the fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, a good haircut, a clean shirt, and a real Ph.D. degree, whereas the works of the flesh are obvious: trolling on blogs, addiction to cupcakes, drinking my supplies of gin and hair-restorer, reading the Guardian and the Huffington post, and trying to ordain women as priests.

Alas, on my own blog, where many of the contributors are intelligent traditional Catholics with good haircuts and clean shirts, I have seen several more sordid people, with various addictions. Often they come from primitive places such as Australia and South America, pretending to have a scientific background, but really just invading my blog in order to feed their sordid compulsions (which are too disgusting to name in a sacred document such as this one).

In spite of the weaknesses of St Peter that I mentioned earlier, the reason that Christ gave him the keys of Heaven must surely be that he didn't eat cupcakes, only drank hair-restorer on special occasions, and would never have turned up smelling of llama.

Electoin night party

Our host Damain Thopmson held an electoin night party to which he invited all his best freinds like Joanne Hairy and Vanilla Redgrave, wot he writes about in his luvvly blogg. Of course, de staff at Castle Thopmson excelled demselves in makin de preparatoins.

Luckily, Will Heaven de butler fuond dat Damain had been hoardin hair-restorrer in his garrage in case of a shortage, so my Anti Moly's grate thirst was taken care of (in fact, as she has reportted on Damain's blogg for all her many admirin readers, she was stung by a bee in a most embarassin place, and was feelin a little woeful). Here is my Anti, unable to sit down, but revivin herself wiv a glass of Damain's hair-restorrer.
 

Muvver Odone de cook had prepared some exottic Itallian delickacies wot you cant git in Enggland, such as macaronni and pizza. Old Lean de gardener had got Damain's grounds nice and tidy; in fact he aint very good wiv growin plants: since he installed crabon doixide filters in the greenhuoses in order to save de plannet, all de plants is wiltin away. And I aint sure dat de plannet is saved, niether. We also had Hannan de chuaffeur on dutty to ferry de guests home when dey had drunk too much - dis man's gotta part time job in Brussels as well, but he says it is badly paid and he has to take on extra jobs to make ends meet.

De guests of honour was of course Borris and Ken, who is grate pals of Damain's. Here we see Ken wiv an uniddentified freind, weepin his eyes out cos I told him dat he aint saved.

De church was well-represented, and Vincent Nicholas and Rowan Willaims came along for a snifter. Vincent Nicholas was full of fun - here you see him sneekily doin de rabit ears trick where you puts your hands behind someone's head so dat dey looks like dey got rabit ears, and so aint saved. Unfortunately he aint very good at it yet.

I said to de costume holly man, don't try doin dat trick to de Pop, buster, or you aint never gonna git dat red hat. Remember de sad storry of Barrack Obamma, who was rude to de Queen and is now personna non gratta (dat's traddy langwidge for "in de dog huose").

Actaully de Queen was at Damain's party too, and she was anggry cos she had just read dat Obamma liked eatin dogs. Dis might explane why after his last visit Winston de corgi was nowhere to be fuond - so perhaps Obamma had been literally in de dog huose. Dis is what we calls a diplomattic incident.

Well dis blogg is gettin a bit long, but it was an all-night party and a lot happened. Dere was one more geust I should mentoin, a charmin preist called Farver Pau, wot is a libberal Cathlic. He said "You looks like a handsome young lad, has you ever been to Exxeter?" I fink dat my spiritaul juorney is gonna take me to some interrestin places.

A Lattin Mass

Anti Moly and me we is still stayin wiv Damain Thopmson, who is a really luvvly man. But on Satturday mornin I woke up in my bed in Castle Thopmson to find a pink horse's head in it, which I is fiarly sure wasn't dere de night before.

I summoned Will Heaven de butler, who shimmered in wiv a tray contianing a glass of milk for me and a hair-restorrer and gin cocktail for Anti Moly, what sleeps in de next room. "I sees dat Sir has been contacted by de Gay Maffia," explaned Mr Heaven. "Dey is very poppular in de Cathlic churhc nowaddays, especailly in de Plymouth diocese. No duobt dey is invitin you to go to de Church of de Assumption and St Gregory in Soho for a gay Mass. Dis may be an offer you can't refuse. Play your cards rihgt and Vincent Nichols will give you de kiss of peace."

Damain, howevver, had uvver plans, and on Sunday we trailed into de London Horrortree. I had planned to wear a togga, as dey say dat when in Rome you gotta do what de Romans do, but Damain said it wasnt usaully done. He hisself wasnt wearing a togga, just his superman costume. In de week he is mild-mannered Damain Thopmson, but at weekends he is like a blood-crazed ferret.

Anti Moly disgraced herself almost immediately. "Why has dat woeful priest got his back to us?" she screeched. "Aint dat typical traddy Cathlic rudeness?" Damain explaned in hushed tones dat traddy preists doesnt like to look at de congreggatoin, especailly when Anti Moly is among dem, as it makes dem feel ill.

De preist was wearing a beretta, which he took off to make annuoncements, e.g. "Will you keep dat old bat quiet please, Mr Thopmson?"

After a while, I got fed up, cos I didn't understand wot was goin on, so when de preist puased for breath, I stood up and sang "I am de Lord of de Dance, said He," which is a famuous hynm about Jessus dancin wot we sings in de Calumny Chappel. Anti Moly had been drinkin Damain's hair-restorrer since 8 a.m. and she jioned in de Dance wiv me.

But apparently in de Lattin litturgy, dis is not what dey does, so I got one or two funny looks from de traddies. Sometimes deys sings de Gregorrian chant, "Ego Dominus saltationis sum, dixit," but dat's all.

After de Mass we went back to Castle Thopmson, where Muvver Odone, de cook, was doin us raviolli for lunch. She alternates between passta and piza, she aint got much imaginatoin. After all dat dancin, Anti Moly said she was so hungry she could eat a horse, and so I left her chewin her way frew de pink one I was givven.