The Cardinal's posterous

Report cards from the Spanish Inquisition.

So, you think the Spanish Inquisition went about the recruitment of their own torturers in a lazy and unprofessional manner? Well I have been given unique access to certain newly discovered historical documents. Now read on.

Name: Brother Francis.
Appearance: Slight. Short. Kind face.
Attitude: Seemingly committed, but perhaps a little too nervous.
General comments: Initially hoped kind face and nervousness might hide an ironic streak of sadism. Fumbled the hot poker at the first attempt, and managed to burn Brother Simeon’s toe. Proceeded to wince when approaching the prisoner with the hot poker, then dropped the poker again. This time managed to burn Brother Ricardo’s toe. Finally ran from the cell crying, like a girl. Definitely a no no.
Marks: 5/10

Name: Brother Gabriel.
Appearance: Blocky. Looming physical presence. Vicious scar over left eye (nice).
Attitude: Cold, silent, hinting at a callous, unforgiving ruthlessness.
General comments: Started well. Sat and stared unflinchingly at the prisoner for twenty minutes. Prisoner started gibbering and sweating. We could tell prisoner was only moments away from admitting to heresy. Then Bother Gabriel advanced on him, seized him by the neck, went nose to nose with the prisoner and said “You will tell me everything.”
Unfortunately he said “You will tell me everything” in a squeaky voice.
Marks: Initially 10/10, then 4/10 after the speaking bit.

Name: Brother Joseph
Appearance: Wild eyed, wiry, fidgety, edgy.
Attitude: Zealous, eager, enthusiastic. 
General comments: Too zealous, too eager, and too enthusiastic. Skipped recommended procedure. When it was pointed out to him that ripping out the prisoner’s tongue straight away meant prisoner could not confess, he proceeded to rant and rave, threw things, screamed, spat a bit, and rolled on the floor. Definitely not a team player. Suggest alternative career as self flagellator or possible martyr/disturbed visionary.
Marks: 7/10

Name: Brother Pedro
Appearance: Good sickly pallor suggestive of one shying away from his common man because he is too filled with self loathing and misdirected self disgust.
Attitude: Tentative.
General comments: Disappointingly his misdirected self disgust is just self disgust. Also, way too tentative. While racking the prisoner he was heard to ask “Is it hurting now?” and “What about now?” Needed too much prompting, and seemed unsure about the instruments of torture. Lowest point reached when he attempted to torture the prisoner with a cheese grater. Prisoner admitted he would have put his head in his hands if he hadn’t been shackled. Also, licked his lips repeatedly, but not in sadistic lascivious way, so loses extra marks for that.
Marks: 2/10

Name: Brother Christopher.
Appearance: Ordinary, unassuming looking.
Attitude: Focused, enthusiastic, and above all, very professional.
General comments: Racked prisoner, slowly, methodically. Paused for a moment, apologised to prisoner for hurting him. Prisoner gasped: “That’s okay.” Then Brother Christopher threw back his head, laughed, and racked him even more. Good technique. Obviously a natural. Got prisoner to admit to being Jewish, Muslim, and to licking kittens for kicks every second Wednesday. Prisoner was impressed also. Said he would be happy to be tortured in the same manner at a later date, which, fortunately for him, he was again the next morning.
This one’s a keeper.
Marks: 10/10

I Got Mail.

I don't often receive emails. Usually when I do they offer me inappropriate pharmaceutical aids. However, just recently I received this lovely, heartwarming correspondence from a random stranger.

From: Therese
Date: Tue, Apr 24, 2012 at 11:46 AM
To: The Cardinal
Subject: Hiding information
 
In the interest of transparency, I’d like to know your real name please. You accuse the Cardinal of hiding information, but you won’t reveal your real name. Unless I’m otherwise mistaken, I haven’t seen it anywhere.
 
Therese

From: The Cardinal
Date: Wed, Apr 25, 2012 at 10:43 AM
To: Therese
Subject: Re: Hiding information

Dear Therese,

Thank you so much for your email. I don't get very many emails, and as a consequence I am prone to the occasional pang of loneliness. I deal with these by having a little pray or watching an episode of Neighbours. I think Neighbours is only brilliant, although, I must confess I do miss the heady days of Joe Mangel and Bouncer the dog.

As for accusing the Cardinal of hiding information, can you clarify for me which Cardinal it is? There are so many of them. Also, can you clarify for me what information he is supposed to have hidden? It's not Cardinal Albertini is it? I once accused him of hiding the fact that he was a close personal friend of former Italian goalkeeper, and World Cup winner, Dino Zoff. He denied everything of course, but I once saw them walking through St Peter's Square together eating ice cream.

Once again, thank you for your email.

My blessings.

From: Therese   
Date: Wed, Apr 25, 2012 at 10:59 AM
To: The Cardinal
Subject: Re: Re: Hiding information

If you cannot or won't say who you are then you are to be seriously questioned about why you write the way you do and what your purpose is.
 

From: The Cardinal
Date: Wed, Apr 25, 2012 at 12:52 PM
To: Therese
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Hiding information
           
Dear Therese,

Thank you so much for your prompt reply. Unfortunately I find myself confused by the ambiguity of your sentence. This is because it is missing three commas, possibly four if you're looking to give it that extra bit of punch. It also contains a split infinitive. The overall effect is of a sentence which contains lack of muscularity and coherence. I am sure this was an unavoidable mistake due to the fact that you were probably rushing out the door or something. Sometimes life just gets in the way.

I am sending you three commas to put in your sentence and help you clarify the matter. Here they are ,,, . Also, here is an extra one , . See if you can guess where it might go. It can be our little game.

As for why I write the way I do, I owe that to a fine Christian Brothers education. As for my purpose? Only the Creator Himself knows the ultimate answer to that question.

Once again, my blessings.

P.S: Can I have my commas back when you're finished with them?

From: Therese
Date: Thu, Apr 26, 2012 at 9:20 AM
To: The Cardinal
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hiding information

There is a name for people who look for missing commas. If you google it, you'll find it.

If you are sincere in saying that you were sexually abused by a Christian Brother, then I'm sorry about that. All the more reason to come out. 

From: The Cardinal
Date: Thu, Apr 26, 2012 at 9:26 PM
To: Therese
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hiding information

Dear Therese,

I took your advice and I googled "the name for people who look for missing commas." Unfortunately I didn't get anything, but I did find a lovely video of a kitten playing a ukelele. As soon as I can find the link again I will email it to you.

As for your statement about my alleged abuse, all I can tell you is I have signed a confidentiality agreement, so I can't say anything. Oho! :-)

No, but seriously, I was once at an open air mass during which a gentleman patted me gently on the bottom. He apologised straight away and said "I thought you were my wife." Does that count? I am glad though that you are sorry for the abuse which never actually happened to me. And to prove that I too am an empathetic individual, I'd like to say I'm sorry about that time you and Brad Pitt arranged to go on a date and he went and stood you up.

Also, I couldn't help but notice that there are two commas in your email. Neither of which are any of the ones I sent you. If you're not using mine can you send them back to me? Preferably in purple, 16 pitch, and Verdana. We'll say no more about it then.

Also, do you have a beard? I'm only asking because Father Lawlor has fifty euro riding on your answer. 

From: The Cardinal
Date: Wed, May 2, 2012 at 9:39 AM
To: Therese
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hiding information
           
Oh Therese.

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/breaking/2012/0502/breaking8.html
           

What we did during Easter.

Good Friday
2.30p.m.
Most of the town is outside the church for Fr O’ Rourke’s annual live action Passion play. Fr O’ Rourke is all business with his clipboard and his pen, as he marshals three Roman centurions.

“Just waiting for Jesus to arrive,” he grins at everybody. The crowd cheers.

2.40p.m.
A rather tubby ginger gentleman with a leather jacket and a frighteningly large perm, taps Fr O’ Rourke on the shoulder. Fr O’ Rourke looks inordinately pleased to see him.

“That’s Blobby,” Fr Lawlor tells me.

“Who?” I ask.

“Blobby Bobby Burke,” replies Fr Lawlor.

It turns out that “Blobby” is a local “character.” It appears that being a “character” involves him sitting outside Quinns pub on a regular basis and shouting abuse at random strangers. It also appears that he is to be Jesus. The regular Jesus, local actor Vinnie “the Chin” McDermott has allegedly gone to Hollywood to seek fame and fortune.

2.45p.m.
Consternation as Fr O’ Rourke and his make up department (Annie McCann from the local salon) realise that Jesus’ robe is going to be a little too tight.

“Nobody told me this was a bring your own bed sheet deal,” says a flushed Bobby.

There is a mini conference, and Bobby is placated. His Cross is hoisted upon his shoulder.

“Do I get paid before or after I get crucified?” asks Bobby.

“After,” says Fr O’ Rourke.

“Come on so,” says Bobby as he starts to leg it up the high street with his crucifix.

3.05pm.
Fr O’ Rourke urges the crowd to act the part with some being advised to cry for Jesus, while others are asked to hurl abuse. The crowd respond with gusto, and we hear “Oh Jesus, poor Jesus” and “Crucify the King of the Jews” and “Where’s that fiver you owe me?”

3.10p.m.
Fr O’Rourke has somehow double booked two Simon of Cyrenes. There is a tussle between over which of them will help Jesus carry the Cross. It is finally settled when Bobby assures them that “If ye don’t stop the messin’ I’ll lay ye out with a box!”

3.20p.m.
We arrive at “Golgotha” (a hill just across the road from Molloys cash and carry).

Unfortunately the local monks have also had the same idea, and their Passion play pageant arrives at the same time. They have a pious, slim looking Jesus, and a mime. Fr O’ Rourke is furious. A discussion between both parties ensues. Fr O’ Rourke is particularly annoyed about the use of the mime as an intermediary.

3.30p.m.
Discussions break down.

3.35p.m.
Bobby bolts for the top of the hill as Fr O’ Rourke urges him on. The monk’s Jesus sprints up the hill like a gazelle.

3.36p.m.
Somehow, slim Jesus’ legs make contact with Bobby’s. Slim Jesus rolls down the hill.

3.40p.m.
The Roman Centurions, and Fr O’ Rourke, attempt to get Bobby up on the Cross. Bobby’s weight makes this rather difficult.

3.45p.m.
Finally. The Cross is up. Bobby roars in victory. The crowd cheers.

3.46p.m.
In all the excitement Fr O’ Rourke’s hand catches Bobby’s robe.

Bobby’s robe comes off.

Somebody screams. The crowd starts to panic.

3.47p.m.
In his efforts to maintain some modesty, Bobby leans forward. Unfortunately his weight takes the Cross with him. It snaps.

Screams of terror and general disgust as Bobby slides down the hill face down on the Cross.

5p.m.
Fr Lawlor and I collect Fr O’ Rourke from the police station. We drive home in silence. A silence only broken when Fr Lawlor asks about Bobby’s friction burns.

Holy Saturday
A typical Holy Saturday. Nobody knows what to do, as we are caught in that strange void between the tension of the sufferings of Good Friday and the divine joy of Easter Sunday.

We opt to watch Ben Hur. Fr O’ Neill cries when Ben Hur’s mammy and sister are cured of leprosy. But not as much as he cried during Sleepless in Seattle at Christmas.

Fr Lawlor spends the day working on his Jesus on the Cross diorama. After the appropriate length of contemplation he places Jesus in a paper mache tomb, complete with digital countdown.

Fr O’ Rourke stays in his room.

Easter Sunday
10a.m.
Fr O’ Rourke emerges from his room. Everything is forgotten because of the day that’s in it.

“He is risen!” laughs Fr Byrne.  Fr O’ Rourke smiles weakly.

12p.m.
Best. Mass. Ever.

3p.m.
After dinner, and Easter Eggs, Fr Lawlor shows us his completed Jesus rises from the dead diorama. We all gather around the paper mache tomb, as the clock runs down to zero.

The atmosphere is electric.

“Here comes Jesus!” shouts Fr Lawlor.

3.01p.m.
No sign of Jesus.

3.02p.m.
Fr Lawlor checks his foot pump. “Hold on a second,” he says.

Some of the priests start shuffling impatiently.

3.05p.m.
“He is risen!” shouts Fr Lawlor as he stamps again on the foot pump.

Still no sign of Jesus.

3.06p.m.
Fr Lawlor discovers infant baby Jesus, from his Christmas diorama, in the hose of the foot pump.

“The irony,” he chuckles.

3.10p.m.
Jesus is most definitely risen. Unfortunately he has shot out of the roof of the tomb and hit Fr O’ Rourke in the forehead. Fr Lawlor is blaming the air pressure. Fr O’ Rourke is blaming Fr Lawlor. Fr O’ Neill is crying again because he doesn’t like the sight of blood.

A slightly concussed Fr O’ Rourke spends the rest of the day in his room.

8p.m.
We finish the day watching Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ”, all of us knowing we share the same unspoken wish that it was in 3D.

Bits from the Bible, part 10: Judas offers to betray Jesus.

At Easter time we always make the effort to understand the psychology of Judas Iscariot. Why did he do what he did? Couldn't he have asked for more money, and maybe even a small plot of land? We shall never know the answers to such questions, but at least we can explore the relevant sections of the Bible, scratch our heads, and shrug in an incomprehending manner.

Then one of the Twelve, whose name was Judas Iscariot went to the chief priests and said “What will you give me if I deliver him over to you?” And they offered him thirty pieces of silver.

“And what sign will you give us that this is the man whom you are betraying?” asked Caiaphas the chief priest.

“I will kiss him while he is at prayer in Gethsemane,” answered Judas.

“Why would you kiss him?” asked another priest.

“For ironic effect,” answered Judas. And there arose some muttering among the priests at this, as the kissing thing seemed to them to be superfluous.

“Why not just point at him?” asked Caiaphas.

“I have just explained,” said Judas.

“I don’t know,” said Caiaphas. “Pointing seems good enough to me.” And he did start to point at things to illustrate his point.

“Look, a pillar,” said Caiaphas pointing at a pillar. “And a chair. There is a chair. My finger is pointing at it. And there is a rock. And a window. And a candle…”

And in this way he continued, looking at his finger and then using it to point at things. And the other priests nodded at his wisdom, and they too followed his lead and pointed at things.

And Judas left, after he had again received his promise of thirty pieces of silver, and Caiaphas had pointed at the door and asked him to leave through it.

"A Few Aul Prayers" episode 125 - transcript from a work of radio genius.

    In my previous post I mentioned Father Benny McGinty's seminal radio programme A Few Aul Prayers. It is a source of great sadness that many of these programmes have been lost. No doubt melted down and incinerated by the more secular and so called “progressive” elements in our national broadcaster. However, it is also a source of great happiness that many transcripts exist of these programmes. I would like to thank Mr Dinny O’ Reilly for his sterling work in sitting down on many a Saturday night and transcribing word for word what Father Benny said and did, but I can’t because he’s dead. 
     I would now like to present a transcript  from a programme originally broadcast on September 5th 1936. In it, Father Benny shows why he was such a revolutionary broadcaster and radio innovator.

                    TRANSCIPT 125 - Saturday, September 5th, 1936, just before tea.

FATHER BENNY: So now time for your letters. Over to my trusty second in command, Sacristan Billy Redmond. Billy?
BILLY: Yes?
FATHER BENNY: The letters.
BILLY: Do I have to-
FATHER BENNY: Read them out. Yes.
<Sounds of paper being shuffled.>
BILLY: Hold on. I have them here. Hold on.
<Sound of a table being tapped.>
FATHER BENNY: Good man, Billy.
BILLY: Nearly there.
<More rapid  tapping.>
FATHER BENNY: Hundreds of letters we have.
BILLY: (chuckles)
FATHER BENNY: (low) Could you hurry it up there a bit, Billy?
BILLY: Yes. Yes. Em…found one! Here it is.
FATHER BENNY: Read away so.
BILLY: Right, Breda from Kiltimagh writes in, and she wants to know “Am I better using coarse flour as suggested by some cooks when...mixing....when...” oh.
<Sound of letter being turned over.>
BILLY: No. That's not right. That's...
FATHER BENNY: (sighing) For the cookery show.
BILLY: ...um...
FATHER BENNY: Never mind there, Billy. Sure don’t we have one right here.
BILLY: We do?
FATHER BENNY: We do. After a brief mention last week, loads of you wrote in-
BILLY: That’s right!
FATHER BENNY: That’s right, Billy. After my mentioning Noah and the Ark, literally hundr-
BILLY: Dozens!
FATHER BENNY: -a hundred dozens...dozen hundreds…em, put pen to paper, and asked some very pertinent questions. For example, I have a letter here from Brian in Tullamore.
<Sound of paper being waved.>
BILLY: But that's not a letter abou-
<Sound of something being hit. Billy gasping. Something hits the floor.>
FATHER BENNY: Brian from Tramore.
BILLY: (wheezing) Tullamore.
FATHER BENNY: Eh, that’s right. That's what I said. Brian from Tullamore asks, “How did Noah get all those animals on the Ark? Surely such a feat goes against all the laws of physics?” (chuckles) Oh Brendan, Brendan, Brendan.
BILLY: Brian.
FATHER BENNY: Bren-Brian. Oh, Brian. There is too much store put in the judgement of the human brain and eye. Consider how deceptive they can be. One may meet a man one week and be left with the memory that he is a giant. And then meet him the following week and discover he is even smaller in stature, and it was by dint of his huge personality  that one was led to believe that he was some manner of colossus.
BILLY: Are you talking about Father McCarthy?
FATHER BENNY: What?
BILLY: The “midget priest.”
<Pause.>
FATHER BENNY: ...what...what you need to understand Brendan...
BILLY: Brian.
FATHER BENNY: Brian - From Tullamore - is that...(pause, whispers) I thought Father O’ Shea was the “midget priest.”
BILLY: No, Father McCarthy is the “midget priest.” Father O' Shea is the “other midget priest.”
FATHER BENNY: Right. Well then, em, Bre-Brian, what we are going to do today is give you a demonstration of how easy it would have been for Noah to get all the animals onto the Ark. We will be doing so through the method of comparison. Take it away there, Billy.
<Sound of a door opening. A chicken starts clucking.>
BILLY: First up, we have a chicken.
FATHER BENNY: Come on in, Mr Chicken.
BILLY: Mrs.
FATHER BENNY: As you at home can no doubt see with your minds eye, there is still plenty of room in our studio. Remember, Noah had two chickens on the Ark, and the Ark was even bigger than our studio. What we’re doing here is an exercise in comparison. Our studio is allegedly small, yet there is ample room for a chicken to amble around in. And from this we can extrapolate a very simple thesis. So, loads of room on the Ark then.
BILLY: Loads.
FATHER BENNY: What do we have next, Billy?
BILLY: Well, where would we be without man’s best friend?
<Sound of a dog running in and barking. The chicken clucks in panic.>
FATHER BENNY: Well hello Mr Dog.
<The dog barks. The chicken flaps it wings.>
FATHER BENNY: (chuckling) Get down off there now Mrs Chicken. That’s my gramophone player. Come on now.
<The dog barks.>
BILLY: No, no, good boy. Leave her alone.
<Chicken making strained clucking sounds.>
FATHER BENNY: What’s she doing? Is she...?
BILLY: (brightly) She's laying an egg.
FATHER BENNY: (darkly) That’s not an egg.
<Beat.>
BILLY: Oh.
FATHER BENNY: So now, Billy. Who's next? (low) Hand me that cloth over there.
BILLY: Well, next up, we have one of man’s favourite modes of transport.
<Sounds of wiping.>
FATHER BENSY: (muttering) That's my Panus Angelicus ruined.
BILLY: And I don’t mean a bicycle.
FATHER BENNY: What?
BILLY: It’s not a bicycle. There were no bicycles on the Ark.
FATHER BENNY: Wh…?
BILLY: As far as we know.
FATHER BENNY: Just get on with it, Billy.
<Door opens. A horse trots in and neighs. Even more violent dog barking. Agitated clucking from the chicken.>
BILLY: A horse. So now we can-
<Sound of something crashing to the ground. Horse neighing.>
BILLY: -see, that there really was no problem – no – hold on, girl, hold on – no problem getting all the animals onto the Ark. Why we’ve loads of room in here.
FATHER BENNY: That's right. So now Brian in…
BILLY: (strained) Tullamore. Woah.
FATHER BENNY: ...as you can imagine it was quite an easy fea- what’s she...?
BILLY: Whoa, girl. Whoa.
FATHER BENNY: Mind my-
<Sound of something crashing to the floor and shattering.>
FATHER BENNY: -my Child of Prague!
<Sound of horse rearing, the dog barks, the chicken clucks and flaps around.>
FATHER BENNY: Mind the dog. Mind the dog!
<Horse neighs in terror, the dog yelps in pain. Frantic barking.>
BILLY: I can’t hold her.
FATHER BENNY: No, no. Not over here. There’s no roo-
<The horse neighs shrilly.>
FATHER BENNY: Nggghhhhh. Gerrer awp me.
BILLY: Back girl. Back. Get off.
FATHER BENNY: Sheesh shishing on my faish. I gan bree. Gedder awwwwp!
BILLY: No, girl, no!
FATHER BENNY: DERSH NAW RUUUUM!!!
<Horse’s high pitched neighing, the dog yelping, chicken shrieking, a crashing sound followed by static and vague burbling from a Belgian radio station.>

                Transcript 125 ends.

When radio mattered. Father Benny McGinty's "A Few Aul Prayers."

    Many of you over the age of eighty will remember Father Benny McGinty’s famous radio programme A Few Aul Prayers, which was broadcast on Ireland’s national radio station from 1925 until 1939.
    Father Benny’s programme was a “national institution”, and more than any other priest on the radio at that time*, he did much to strengthen Catholicism in a nation struggling to find its identity.
    Indeed, I have many fond memories of my family and I huddling around the wireless together and listening in. Father Benny’s programme was known throughout the land as a great source of spiritual comfort. Going out on Saturday nights, it became known as a “warm up” for the “main event” of Sunday mass.
    Father Benny would play religious recordings. Hymns and poems, would be interspersed with little "off the cuff" homilies. Our favourite segment was Wise Observations in which Father Benny shared his wise observations. To this day I still remember many of these, including my own personal favourite: “There’s no I in Jesus.”
    I remember my father nodding on hearing this, and earnestly saying “That’s because it’s spelt J E S U S.”
    Father Benny might also ask: “If Jesus had a hobby, what would it be?”
    Right on cue my father would roar “It’s a trick question. Jesus wouldn’t have time for a hobby!” and as if by magic Father Benny would repeat the same thing.
    Because the Catholic priest was the main authority figure in Irish society, it was not uncommon for us to take a direct lead from everything a priest said or did. This of course increased a thousand fold regarding Father Benny. He himself would bark out orders “Pray. Kneel. Stand up. Touch your toes” and being good Catholics we would oblige.
    Now, one Saturday, Father Benny was in an uncommonly vociferous humour. He was banging his hand on the table in his studio with even greater force than usual. In the midst of a sermon on obedience itself he said “Now I want you all to…augh, aughlog, aga, ugh…….eeeeegh…..”
    For a moment we were all confused, but a stern look from my father made things crystal clear. Following Father Benny’s lead we all automatically uttered “augh, aughlog, aga, ugh…….eeeeegh…..” ” with as much vigour as we could muster.    
    Father Benny, never one to be bested, was uttering the very same syllables over and over with violent force. We attempted to equal his volume, with such exertion, that I thought my father might actually pull a muscle. There then followed a great careening and crashing from the wireless set, so we obliged Father Benny by colliding into the furniture.
    After about three minutes of this there was a sound like sack of potatoes hitting the ground. We all followed suit and collapsed on the floor. From this position we all began matching the wheezing breaths of Father Benny for both pitch and frequency. Very soon the wheezing started to tail off, and I found myself becoming rather dizzy.
    I came around to be woken by a great hammering on our front door. I was vaguely aware that something else was on the radio. My father was now sitting up scratching his head, while my mother was knitting and nodding along to the weather forecast.
    My Uncle Paddy burst through the door to tell us the dreadful news that Father Benny had died. There was a shocked silence that seemed to go on forever**.
    Later that week a memorial mass was held in our parish church to coincide with Father Benny’s burial in Dublin. Our parish priest Father Redmond recited many of Father Benny’s aphorisms in his honour, including “There’s no I in Jesus.”
    I can still hear the respectful muttering among the congregation “That’s because it’s spelt J E S U S” as people nodded and smiled to each other.

*There was no other priest working in radio at the time.
**It actually went on for 45 minutes, which was the regulation time allotted for receiving news of such dreadful import.

Lives of the Saints, part 3 - more about the life of Saint Patrick.

To fully understand the story of Saint Patrick, one must turn to the most reliable source of all. I speak of course of The Book of Patrick, that legendary tome written by Patrick’s faithful manservant, Bran. The following is an excerpt dealing with some of Patrick's many heroic attempts to convert the pagans to the one true faith.

May 5th, 491a.d.

    We are in a forest. Patrick and I have bumped into a group of travelling pagan mercenaries, and we are taking the opportunity to convert them to Christianity. Patrick has already told them the basic tenets. There is a respectful silence, broken only by the sound of a bee buzzing. All told it is a very pleasant summery day. That said I can tell that Patrick is feeling the pressure. He is already coming up to the tricky section of his sermon. He licks his lips, and he has a light sheen of sweat on his brow. He tries to smile.
    “Now then, we come to the really important part.”
    Patrick takes a sprig of shamrock out of his cloak. He holds it aloft and clears his throat.
    “There are three persons in the one God.”
    There is silence as this sinks in. Patrick looks nervous. I smile by way of encouragement. The bee buzzes. A bird sings. Someone idly scratches their hair. This is always the awkward bit. Patrick clears his throat again.
    “There is God the Fa-”
    “How many legs has he got?”
    The man scratching his hair has his hand raised. Patrick looks in his direction.
    “I’m glad you asked me that question,” Patrick answers. (Patrick isn’t glad the man has asked him that question.)
    “Six obviously,” says another man.
    “Six how?” asks somebody else.
    “Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? Three persons. That’s six legs. Like a spider.”
    “Spiders have eight legs!” says somebody else.
    An argument breaks out over how many legs spiders have. Somebody hits somebody else with a rock. This is followed by more hitting, and a general melee.
    Patrick drops his shamrock and sighs.

May 6th, 491a.d.
    “It’s getting harder, Bran.”
    Patrick and I are walking along a road.
    “It used to be that you could convert somebody like that,” he clicks his fingers. “Now they want it handed up to them on a plate, skipping the Holy Trinity and going straight to the ‘where do we go to when we die bit’. Then they change their minds and go back to worshipping the sun, or randomly chosen inanimate objects. I just don’t know.”   
    Later that day we arrive in a large village full of very attentive and enthusiastic people. Patrick has already explained the Holy Trinity and things are going brilliantly.
    “Remember,” Patrick says “you can always pray to God and ask him for things.”
    “Well that’s a lot easier than tying someone to a rock and gutting them I suppose,” says a man.
    “Does it work?” asks a second man.
    “Praying? Yes,” smiles Patrick.
    “Does it work better than tying someone to a rock and gutting them?” asks the second man.
    “Well, I’m sure…”
    “We’d need statistics to make a comparative study before we’d decide on anything,” says the first man.
    There are murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
    “I don’t have any comparative statistics,” says Patrick looking slightly lost.
    “Maybe if we just tried it for a weekend,” says the first man.
    “You want to try Christianity for a weekend?” asks Patrick.
    “Well, we tried worshipping a pebble for a weekend once, on the advice of Conal here.”
    “Why’s everybody looking at me?” asks Conal.
    “Well, it’s a pebble. It doesn’t do anything does it?” says the first man taking a pebble out of his pocket with a smiley face daubed on it.
    There are resentful grumblings from the crowd. Patrick is trying to speak, but no one is listening.
    “In fact come to think of it, it didn’t do anything at all,” says the first man.
    The crowd grumbles even more angrily.
    “It made the sun shine,” squeaks Conal taking a step back.
    “Oh yeah, like for two minutes,” says another man.
    The crowd are irate now. I lean in to Patrick: “Maybe we should go.”
    Patrick sighs and nods.
    As we leave, the crowd are dragging Conal towards a large boulder.
    “I thought we were trying Christianity?” shouts Conal.
    “We’ll do that tomorrow,” says the first man.
    Everybody cheers. Patrick beams and winks at me.
    “But only on a part-time basis,” says the first man.
    Patrick’s smile disappears.

May 7th, 491a.d.
Morning
    Patrick and I meet a big hairy chieftain in his crannog.
    “We used to worship snakes,” says the chieftain. “But all the snakes are gone.”
    Patrick licks his lips nervously and looks at me. I turn away and pretend to inspect a clay pot.
    “Well isn’t that terrible?” says Patrick in a high pitched voice.
    “It’s like somebody got all the snakes and just drove them all away,” says the chieftain stroking his red beard and flexing his muscles. “And I bet it was one of those Christians too.”
    Patrick gulps. I start examining a turf sod.
    “If I ever find the person who got rid of all our snakes,” says the chieftain as he mimes strangling somebody. Then he mimes kicking them. Then he takes his axe and mimes chopping them into little pieces. Then he mimes taking the little pieces and burning them.
    “Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asks.
    Patrick whips out a small stone from his cloak. “Have you ever considered worshipping pebbles?”

Afternoon
    Outside the crannog I show the pagan chieftain and his clan how to daub the pebble with some woad. Patrick is standing nearby looking impatient.
    “See? Now he has a smiley face and he’s happy.”
    Everyone is impressed.
    “Now if you turn his mouth down, like so, he’s angry. Grrrr.”
    For added effect I take the pebble and I shake it. Children hide behind their mothers. The pagan chieftain raises his arms and whimpers.
    “But will it make the sun shine and make the crops grow?” he asks.
    “Absolutely,” I say.
    Out of the corner of my eye I can see Patrick waving at me to go.
    I hand the pagan chieftain the pebble. “Don’t drop him now. He’ll get very angry.”
    The pagan chieftain cradles the pebble in the palm of his hands. We take our leave. For a while we walk along the road in silence. Then when I try to speak, Patrick raises his hand.
    “Don’t say anything,” says Patrick. “It’s better if you don’t say anything.”

Brother Bartholomew: an appreciation.

Today I received the sad news that Brother Bartholomew has passed away at the ripe old age of 95. As an ex student of his I feel his loss keenly. He was a giant of a man, both physically (6 foot 5 inches in his stocking feet) and spiritually. As one of the five remaining Christian Brothers left in Ireland, his passing is a poignant and important footnote in our history.
    For my own part I remember him with great fondness. Unfortunately there are those who will seek to re-interpret his career for their own unseemly motives. They will point and judge, and talk solely about the inexplicable and unpredictable bouts of rage, the damaged classroom furniture, and that slight misunderstanding around the events of May 1985.
    In regard to the latter incident, may I say that describing an intense pre-exam cramming session as a “three day siege” was at best somewhat wide of the mark, and at worst morally reprehensible. The partisan and hysterical coverage in the Irish Times was particularly despicable. Granted, the "negotiations", as some have termed them, were long and fraught. But where the education of children is concerned, I think any reasonable person can forgive a little over exuberance on the part of the teacher in question. And that is precisely what Judge Allen did in his lengthy and considered judgement.
    Many have spoken of the incidents of Brother Bartholomew’s so called volatile behaviour. I say these were merely the superficial outward manifestations of a deeply felt ideology. They were transitory and unorthodox, and are best remembered in a quirky light against the broader backdrop of one man’s life dedicated to the improvement of others. Let us forgo the knee-jerk judgements so beloved of liberal elements and remember him in the light of our shared humanity. Indeed, who among us can say we haven’t accidentally dropped a more annoying “open-minded” colleague out of a third floor window.
    When last we met he was as forceful as ever, despite being well into his sixties. I can still see his stern blue eyed gaze, his beak like nose, and his traditional black garb lightly streaked with chalk dust. I remember the sudden inexplicable urge to recount my twelve times tables, and the involuntary raising of my arm to protect my face.
    “Have no fear,” he said to me. “My duster throwing days are well behind me.”
    He then leaned in and whispered in my ear “Although I’m still not beyond a good sharp dig in the ribs.”
    We chuckled, and to illustrate his point he made a feinting motion as if to karate chop me in the midriff. I pretended to dodge the blow. We chuckled some more. Oh yes indeed, how we laughed.
    Then he kneed me in the groin.
    He was a traditionalist, both in technique and temperament. Some of the more namby pamby elements of contemporary society might term his techniques as “outmoded” and “excessively brutal”, but I prefer to think of him as an educational innovator. I firmly believe his misunderstood, and oh so subtly aggressive pedagogy has gone underappreciated for far too long.
    Tighter more constricting à la mode definitions would probably see him unfairly labelled as a low level psychopath. I prefer to think that these stricter definitions are the product of a secularised industrial pharmacological complex intent on spreading its malign influence by whatever means necessary. They ignore the whole man, and seek to delete from history any positive mentions of his encouraging influence on generations of children. I know this to be the case, because there are never any positive mentions of his encouraging influence on generations of children. Again the words “three day siege” spring to mind, and it merely re-affirms for me how far some people will go to blacken a good man’s name by re-writing history for their own nefarious ends.
    Whatever you do today take a moment’s contemplation to appreciate what we’ve all lost. We are all a little poorer for his passing. He leaves behind a rich personal history, an important educational legacy, four remaining Christian Brothers, and an under 12s football team now looking for a new coach. We shall never see his like again. And more’s the pity.
    May he rest in peace.

A Trip to Lourdes.

The following piece originally appeared on www.thejournal.ie. I think it gives a very important insight into the nature of modern day pilgrimage.

This week we went on the annual parish pilgrimage to Lourdes. As usual a jolly  group of thirty or so stalwarts headed away for a week of prayer and thanks.

Monday

Big excitement as we get on the plane. As per tradition we are flying via low budget carrier, Easyair. Easyair is the perfect airline for Catholic pilgrims, mainly because through a combination of bad manners and horrendous customer service, they manage to make you feel guilty about taking the flight in the first place.

Travelling Easyair means we have to hoist Mrs Mulligan and her wheelchair on to the plane ourselves. Chief among the helpers is Mrs Mulligan’s son Danny. A quiet, reserved middle aged gentleman who has devoted his life to his mammy, the church, and the local bridge club.  In a moment of weakness, a sweating, and visibly strained Fr Lawlor wonders if the cross Jesus shouldered to Calvary weighed as “much as a 24 stone woman.”

A withering glance from me silences him.

On board the plane Danny asks Mrs Mulligan if she’s okay. “I’m grand so I am,” she says, “I’m not one for complaining.” She then proceeds to complain about the cold, her seat cushion, and the fact that Fr Lawlor is “looking at her funny.” Meanwhile, Danny sits beside her, nodding politely and only interrupting with the occasional “Yes, Mammy. No, Mammy.”

As the plane takes off Fr Ryan bursts into his traditional rendition of “The Wind Beneath my Wings” with Blessed Virgin Mary subtext foregrounded by him waving a statuette of Our Lady.

Tuesday

Am woken at 6am by an excited Fr Lawlor banging on my door. “I don’t want to jump the gun,” he says “but I think there might have been a miracle already.” I try to quell my rising excitement, and I ask him, in as restrained a manner as possible, what has happened.

Then he tells me his Athlete’s Foot has disappeared.

He babbles on: “…have had it for months…tried creams, everything…surely the intervention of Our Lady…”

I nod politely and smile for the rest of his account. It’s when he offers to show me his foot that I make my excuses and retreat back into my room. Outside my door I can hear his muffled voice. “Maybe later so.”

At breakfast Mrs Mulligan complains about the lack of rashers, and shouts at Danny because she is all out of mint Toffos. Danny doesn’t look at her, and just goes to their room where he retrieves the emergency supply of mint Toffos.

Our plan to walk to the grotto is scuppered by torrential rain. So we stay inside and watch  Dick Nugent’s old VHS copy of “Dana goes to Knock.”

Wednesday

Down to the grotto. Mrs Mulligan sucking and slurping on mint Toffos while looking at the statue of Our Lady suddenly shrieks “I seen her move!” A sudden rush of about a dozen pilgrims results in a man in crutches being knocked over. “Hold on,” says Mrs Mulligan “I have me readin’ glasses on. They do quare things to me eyes.” She then asks Danny to go back to the hotel to get her proper glasses.

Meanwhile, hardcore Lourdes pilgrim “Pious” Brendan O’ Shea is telling everybody how he was cured of paralysis in Lourdes in 1982. “Pious” has the unnerving effect of being a  lay person who manages to make most clergy men feel inferior. “Within five minutes I was doing the Birdie dance,” is his favourite summation of the whole experience, followed by him actually doing the Birdie dance.

Danny arrives back with Mrs Mulligan’s glasses. “Where’s me sunglasses?” she asks him. Danny visbly sags, but dutifully heads back to the hotel.

Meanwhile, Fr Lawlor is asking people if they’d like to see his foot.

Thursday

More rain. Everybody stays in to watch “Dana and Val Doonican do the Camino de Santiago.” It is very eductaional. We learn that suffering is the path to salvation, and Val Doonican can’t put up a tent.

To bed later that night, with the sound of Mrs Mulligan’s voice echoing through the hotel as she shouts for Danny to go and fetch her gout medicine.

Friday

A terrible day. Accounts differ slightly as to the true nature of events. However, most people agree that what they saw will stay with them for the rest of their lives. “You think you’ve seen it all,” says Fr Daly shaking his head, “But then you see a 24 stone woman rolling  down a hill.”

It seems that “Pious” Brendan will not be walking for a very long time. “All 24 stone of her,” mutters Fr Daly, and then he breaks down and cries again.

Debate rages as to whether Danny fell, or whether the wheelchair was somehow tipped over in a deliberate act of malice. No matter, the result is still the same. Mrs Mulligan is now in hospital, and an oddly serene Danny has been retained for questioning.

Meanwhile, on the plane home, I am informed by a despondent Fr Lawlor that his Athlete’s Foot has returned.

Truly the Lord giveth, then he taketh away when you least expect it.

The Queen and I.

This originally appeared on www.thejournal.ie 

When her Majesty the Queen of England visited Ireland recently, I was invited to the state dinner in her honour. Naturally I recorded the event for posterity in my diary.

8.15pm

 Am sitting at a table with the President, the Queen, Prince Philip, David Cameron, Seamus Heaney and Enda Kenny. I haven’t been at a dinner this interesting since the Bishops and I got together to draft a vague non-committal response to some scandal or other.

8.28pm

Lots of oohing and aahing when the Queen speaks Irish. Very impressed. I notice she has flash cards strewn on the table, including one bearing the words “Cá bfhuil an leithreas” and “Is maith liom cáca milis.”

8.40pm

Everyone clinks glasses. “I like the clinky glass,” her Majesty says. Mary McAleese smiles warmly. The Queen downs her wine in one gulp and deposits the empty glass in her handbag. Everyone looks at each other, but nobody says anything.

8.50pm
Dinner starts. Lots of understandably awkward and stilted conversation, but I eventually manage to distract Enda Kenny with the bread basket, and I turn to talk to Seamus Heaney instead.

9pm

Seamus Heaney is very eager to talk about his poetry and says “Isn’t it great when hope and history rhyme?” Haven’t got the heart to tell him that hope and history don’t actually rhyme. Don’t want to hurt his feelings.

9.15pm

Enda Kenny tugs on my sleeve. I have to turn away from a fascinating conversation about Eminem and how cat rhymes with hat. Enda Kenny starts to talk. I just nod and look at a spot on the wall over his shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Queen taking his glass.

9.16pm

A perturbed Mary McAleese looks like she wants to say something to the Queen. The Queen notices. She points at Brian Cowen “Cé hé sin?” she asks. While Mary McAleese is looking at Brian Cowen the Queen pockets another glass.

9.30pm

Seamus Heaney is talking to David Cameron. “Isn’t it great at moments like this when hope and history rhyme?” David Cameron nearly spits out his potato, “Hope and history don’t rhyme!” he says. Seamus Heaney looks confused.

9.43pm

In an audacious break with protocol Albert Reynolds approaches the table. He hands the Queen his business card and says something about a year’s supply of dog food for the corgis.

9.50pm

Enda Kenny is telling me about his collection of Airfix kits. Am grateful when a pale and shocked looking Seamus Heaney starts tugging on my sleeve. “Apparently hope and history don’t rhyme,” he says.

10pm

Enda Kenny is telling what he thinks is a “fascinating” anecdote about Olli Rehn and a misunderstanding over who owned what pencil at some meeting. Prince Philip turns to the Queen: “Who’s the ginger fellow? I don’t trust gingers. Especially boring ones.”

Fortunately Enda Kenny doesn’t seem to have heard.

Meanwhile, David Cameron is writing something on a napkin for Seamus Heaney. “See? History. Hope. Doesn’t rhyme. History and mystery on the other hand…”

10.05pm

A large belch is heard from somewhere in the banqueting hall. Some people think it was Brian Cowen, but others are leaning towards the more likely possibility that it was Cecelia Ahern. The Queen takes full advantage of the distraction and pockets David Cameron’s wine glass.

10.15pm

A waiter comes around to refill wine glasses. Except there are no wine glasses left. Nor is there a salt and pepper cellar, and some of the knives and forks are gone. The Queen asks: “What’s the Irish for just give me the bottle?”

10.20pm

Enda Kenny asks David Cameron for the loan of a fiver, and says something about negotiating the interest rate later. Everybody laughs. Enda Kenny looks hurt.

10.22pm

Seamus Heaney is looking at the napkin and muttering, “hope, history,” and scratching his head.

10.23pm

Seamus Heaney starts crying. No one knows what to do. The Queen pats him on the shoulder and says “There, there,” and pockets his soup spoon.

10.40pm

Dinner finished. Everybody gets up to dance. The Queen jives around a now bulging handbag. A broken Seamus Heaney is swaying in a daze and mumbling nursery rhymes. Enda Kenny is intent on showing everybody how to do the Robot, but nobody seems to want to know.

Everyone agrees that, apart from Enda Kenny’s dancing, that it is the best State dinner ever.