A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dawkins

Will nobody say a good word for The God Delusion?

Scroogeard's career was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He had given up biology, a subject at which he was considered to be very capable, in favour of theology, about which he knew almost nothing; as a result, he was reduced to sitting by the fireside all day long, foaming at the mouth, and shouting "Bah! Humbug!" whenever there was any mention of Christianity on the television.

As he sat there watching the BBC's Christmas Special, A Tribute to Jimmy Savile, and reflecting how, by telling the Daily Mailthat bringing children up as Catholics was worse than raping them, it would give him some more column-inches and pay for Lalla's next trip to Gallifrey, the room darkened and a ghostly figure appeared before him.

The Ghost of Christmas Past.

"Hey," said the ghost. "Let's not be formal here. Just call me Tony."

"B-b-b-but you're a Catholic," gasped Scroogeard in terror. "You follow the beliefs of that vile Catholic church. Keep away from me!"

"Let's just say that I've got my own beliefs, and I'm encouraging the Catholic church to follow," said the ghost. It showed Scroogeard a vision of a world run by Blairite Catholics, in which abortion could thrive, and in which religion was gradually sidelined.

The vision faded, and another horrible figure appeared.

The Ghost of Christmas Present.

"Another worshipper of sky fairies!" shuddered Scroogeard. "An Anglican! That's nearly as bad!"

"Don't worry," said the ghost calmly. "The Anglican church does what I say now. If I want women bishops, it will appoint them. But I have an even better scheme, which I'm sure you'll like. Since men and women don't get married very often these days, we're going to insist that men marry men, and women marry women! And, as it says in the Bible, the lion will lie down with the lamb and have its babies, because after all, it has rights like anyone else. If this doesn't get the Catholics screaming, I don't know what will!"

The second vision faded, and Scroogeard, now considerably perked up, awaited to see what horrors lay in the future.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.

"But you're not a Christian at all," cried Scroogeard gleefully to the third ghost. "If you come to power, we shall see the triumph of atheism after all! Harriet Harman will rule with an iron rod, we shall become daily ever more equal and diverse, and the Catholic Church and the Church of England will disappear! Oh joy! Oh rapture!"

"Well, not entirely," said the ghost. "We will simply appoint Giles Fraser as Archbishop of Canterbury, and Tina Beattie as Archbishop of Westminster. That way, the churches will be able to move away from God, and be more in step with the great secular adventure."

Scroogeard, overjoyed, rushed into the street, generously showering gifts on all the poor people he met. To Bob Cratchit, whose family had no fuel, he gave a copy of The Blind Watchmaker, which Bob gratefully put on the fire.

But what of poor Tiny Tim, who lay sick in a corner of the room? Why, Scroogeard had a wonderful gift for him too, a copy of The God Delusion.

Yes, it was the biggest turkey they'd ever seen!

The Book of St Richard, Chapter 16

Continued from Chapter 15

1. Thus it came to pass that the second miracle of St Richard was achieved, namely, that a wretched man named O-bam-a was raised unto a second term of office.

2. And Richard was exceeding joyful, and his head began to swell with pride, for he now knew that he possessed powers beyond those of ordinary men.

And lo! The head of Dawkins swelleth with pride and joy.

3. But Richard said in his heart "Alas, I am still not worshipped as I should be, indeed, the man in the street mocketh me and saith 'It seemeth that Dickie is a great buffoon.' Thus I must go on the attack."

4. And it came to pass that the church of England, that which is called the children of Rowan, spake with one voice, saying, "We are not willing to ordain women as bishops."

5. And Richard saw his opportunity, and he went unto a high place, and logged onto Twitter, and spake, saying "The vile RCs will smirk, and they don’t even CONTEMPLATE women bishops."

St Sebastian the vile, a Catholic martyr.

6. But some spake unto Richard, saying "Surely, not all Catholics are vile?"

7. And Richard saw that he had gone too far. So he went to an even higher place, and spake again, saying, "Of course not all Catholics are vile. Their church is."

8. And the people nodded their heads and said, "Ah yes. Richard is not accustomed to making precise statements, or indeed, to thinking logically."

9. "Indeed, it has been said that the organ that produceth his speech is not located in his head, nay, rather, in his lower back."

Lo! The words of Dawkins come from inside his selfish jeans.

10. So all went quiet again, and Richard retired to his room, where the nurses gave him a cup of tea and a sedative, saying "There, there, dear," which is to say "What a silly old man this is."

11. But then a month passed, and a man came to Dawkins from the Daily Mail, saying unto him, "It is nearly Christmas. Say something silly that we may put in our newspaper."

12. For the Daily Mail is a barren organ, which specialiseth in photographs of actresses with "baby bumps" and celebrities in short skirts, especially them that suffer from a "wardrobe malfunction."

A wardrobe malfunction, but not worthy of the Daily Mail.

13. So Richard went up to a yet higher place, and repeated the words that he had uttered in his books: Being raised Catholic is worse than child abuse.

14. Thereupon, some people said, "Alas, the old fool hath escaped from custody again!"

15. But there were others that hearkened unto his words, saying. "This is a man of great wisdom; it is true that his words do emanate from an unusual part of his body, but what can this be but another miracle?"

16. And they that dwell in Scotland Yard, whose every word is "Hello, hello, hello. What's all this then?" took note of the words of Richard, and spake, as follows:

Carry on with the service, Father, but don't say anything Catholic.

17. "Behold, this Jimmy Savile scandal isn't so important after all. It matters not that every third employee of the BBC is a pervert or a rapist. There are bigger fish to fry."

18. "For these evils are less than the greatest evil of all, which is to teach a child that Jesus died for his sins, that he should love God, and that he should love his neighbour."

19. "Nay, the truth is that he should love Dawkins with all his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his mind; then he should love himself. On these two commandments hang all the lore and the profits that Dawkins maketh."

20. And Richard laughed all the way to the bank, saying "Ho, ho, ho!" For it was nearly Christmas.

Continued in Chapter 17.

Gohst writers

As I has alreddy mentoined, we is lookin for someone to gohst-write my Anti Moly's memiors. We has now had offers from de gohsts of three poeple wot knew her when she was a little girl. Each one has sent me a specinem of dere work, but I dont fink any of dem is quite what we wanted.



The trouble with aunts, by P.G. Wodehouse

"What a lovely day it is today, Jeeves!" I exclaimed, as my man shimmered into the room bearing a glass of the old Calvados Chapel brandy. "I am feeling particularly saved today, don't you know?"

"I fear that your Aunt Moly is at the door, sir" responded my man Jeeves. "That is why I am taking the liberty of fortifying you for an encounter with her."

"ECCLES!" screamed the aged relative, slamming the door behind her, grabbing my brandy glass, and hurling it through the window. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY WRITING THIS VILE AND SLANDEROUS BLOG OF YOURS WHICH I NEVER READ?"

Recently, to oblige my older brother Bosco, I had written a little blog explaining how the only way to salvation lies in being a personal friend of Jesus, and how Catholics in particular are doomed to the Lake of Fire. I inadvertently mentioned that the chaps in the Drones club are also tipping my dear Aunt Moly for a prime spot in the aforementioned L.o.F., and this is what seems to have riled her.

"But the disciple John says..."

"TELL THE DISCIPLE JOHN FROM ME THAT HE'S A FOOL AND A WOEFUL SOCKPUPPET," replied my aunt, laying me out unconscious with a solidly-bound Calvary Chapel Bible. When I came to my senses, my Aunt had left, and Jeeves was struggling to revive me.



The importance of being harassed, by Oscar Wilde

"So, Mr Pell, it is time you declared your intentions towards my sweet daughter Judith, known in Australian Society as the Rose of Pottymouth. Judy, dear, there is no need to choke the life out of Mr Pell; pray allow him to answer."

"Well, Lady Haddock, I scarcely know your daughter. We have exchanged but a few words since we met."

"There is no need for you to have an exchange of words, Mr Pell. There is only one thing more pointless than talking to Judy, and that is listening to Judy. Investing in a pair of earplugs is your surest route to marital bliss."

"But..."

"Mr Pell. Since I made Judith's father the happiest man in Pottymouth, he has confined himself to producing endless drafts of his magnum opus, his own suicide note. As yet, it is unfinished, despite my every attempt to bring it to a conclusion. Now, you will find that, like her mother, my daughter has enough conversation for two. Should you stay up until 5 a.m. one night, and think of retiring to bed, you will find that she is still chattering away, mingling her insults with her anecdotes in a tapestry of tedium which has brought her so many admirers."

"Mother, every time we meet he jumps into a billabong to get away from me. That's twice he's done it. Such is life, eh? Woeful."

"I fell in, Lady Haddock."

"Mr Pell, to fall into a billabong once may be regarded as a misfortune. To fall in twice looks like carelessness."

"But, Lady Haddock, I was hoping to train as a priest, with a view to becoming a bishop and eventually a cardinal."

"A PRIEST, Mr Pell? You would throw away the love of a gentle sweet maiden in order to follow the cult of a sky fairy? Are you no better than a Bronze Age goat herd, sir? I scarcely think that you are a fit person to wed my precious daughter Judith."



The case of the secular journalist, by Arthur Conan Doyle

"This case presents interesting features, Eccles!" said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as he perused the Telegraph website. "I have been consulted about the problem of a Catholic journalist, formerly known for his wittily acidic commentary on religious matters. This latter-day Swift has now given up all pretence at serious debate, and is dumbing down and writing banalities to please the masses."

"Could he be looking for a job on the Daily Mail?" I wondered. "All he needs to do is to start writing about celebrities and their baby bumps, and they will take him like a shot. That's what happened to Simon Heffer."

Holmes nodded gloomily to me, and injected himself with a 7% solution of Mother Odone's Elixir (guaranteed to help you escape from reality). Then he picked up his trusty Stradivarius didgeridoo, and boomed out a few bars of Elton John's haunting song "Candle in the wind."

"It's my own arrangement," said my friend, unnecessarily, as our neighbours started hammering desperately on the wall.

At that moment the door opened, and a wizened old lady entered, clutching a gin bottle and tunelessly singing "Roll me over in the clover, Roll me over, Lay me down, and do it again." She then cackled evilly and said "We've won! We've managed to kill Damian Thompson's interest in religion! Now the masses are forced to read Ruth Gledhill."

"These are deep waters, Eccles," said Sherlock Holmes. "This poor sad creature is not just the simple witch that she seems to be; rather, she is a professional blog-troll from Australia, although formerly employed as a cleaner in a molybdenite-processing factory. Look at her shoes, and you will see what I mean. Did I ever mention that I have written a small monograph classifying 2048 types of mineral dust?"

"Amazing, Holmes. Can this be the solution to the Thompson mystery which has baffled readers all round the world?" I asked.

"In part, Eccles," replied my friend. "But I would draw your attention to the curious incident of Vincent Nichols, when the Catholic church was under attack."

"But Vincent Nichols did nothing!" I said.

"That was the curious incident," explained Sherlock Holmes.