The Cardinal's posterous

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.

Bits from the Bible, part 9: Derek, the 13th Disciple, and the truth about the Last Supper.

Not many people know this, but Jesus actually had thirteen disciples. Due to space constraints, the story of Derek was left out of the Bible.

Some scholars argue that his story was really left out because Derek was an unsympathetic character. I will leave it up to you to decide as I present to you the fully restored “Last Supper” Bible excerpt.

The Passover

Now on the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Where will you have us prepare for you to eat the Passover?” He said, “Go into the city to a certain man and say to him, ‘The Teacher says, My time is at hand. I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.’”

And the disciples were happy. That is until Derek the 13th disciple did say, “But Lord, surely we will need more information than that. A ‘certain man?’ It’s all a bit vague.”

And Jesus did look upon Derek then. Although He did stand a few feet away from him, as Derek did smell a bit, and Jesus did say, “Go forth, find this man, for he has a room prepared.”

And Derek did say, “When I go forth, will it be like the time you asked me to go forth to ask a man for a donkey and a chicken, and my going forth involved walking ten miles to the next town to find there was no man with a donkey or a chicken?”

At this there was much coughing and shuffling from the disciples, and Jesus did say, “Well…”

“It was lucky I found you ten days afterwards,” Derek did say. And at that there was even more shuffling and coughing led by Peter, and the Lord’s elbow did hit Peter in the chest.

After a time Jesus directed two of his disciples to the house, but only after Derek had advised them on the best route.

The Last Supper

When it was evening, Jesus reclined at a table with the thirteen. And as they were eating, he said, “Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” And they were very sorrowful and began to say to him one after another, “Is it I, Lord?”

And Derek did say “Judas. I bet it’s Judas.” On hearing this Jesus did lean forward and put His face into His hands, while Judas did look around wildly and say “Me? What? No! Never!”

“He has shifty eyes,” Derek did say, “it’s always the ones with the shifty eyes.” And he went back to eating grapes in a loud manner, cramming them into his mouth like a child, all the while speaking as he ate.

Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take this all of you and eat it; this is my body.” And Derek did shout, “Whaaaat!?” and grapes were spat forth from his mouth and he did proclaim, “No way! I’m not eating that!”

And Peter did speak to him in a firm manner, and Derek was appeased for a moment and went back to eating grapes. Although this time he did add some cheese, thereby filling his mouth with a thick cheesy grapey paste, and some of the disciples had to look away for fear that looking upon him might make them unwell. All the while, John, who was sitting beside him, did make gestures to people pleading with them to change seats with him. But the other disciples seemed not to see John.

And then Jesus took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood-” And Derek did shriek again, and this time spittle, cheese and grapes flew from his lips and alighted upon Matthew and Luke. “Oh no,” he did shout, “no, no, no, no way. I’m not drinking that.”

Jesus did then throw his napkin on the table and sigh, for he had a “whole thing planned” and there was to be cake for later.

And Peter did explain to Derek, VERY slowly about the nature of symbols, and Derek was suspicious. But he did relent and went back to breaking bread and drinking wine, for his mother had thought him never to pass up a free meal. Although he did sniff things before tasting them which annoyed some of the disciples.

Later Derek was sent forth to ask a man with a limp for some figs. And eventually, after much questioning from him as to the nature and value of his errand, he did as he was bade. And as he went forth Jesus told his disciples not to mention the cake when he got back. And they all agreed, including Judas who had his fingers crossed under the table.

Footprints in the sand (the original version)

One night I had a dream -- 

I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord, and

Across the sky flashed scenes from my life.

For each scene I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand;

One belonged to me, and the other to the Lord.

When the last scene of my life flashed before us,

I looked back at the footprints in the sand.

I noticed that many times along the path of my life,

There was only one set of footprints.

I also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in my life

This really bothered me, and I questioned the Lord about it.

"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you,

You would walk with me all the way;

But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life,

There is only one set of footprints.

I don't understand why in times when I

needed you the most, you should leave me.

The Lord replied, "Well, there was that one time

when we were walking along Venice Beach and and I just went for a chilli dog.

And there was the time I stopped to tie my shoelaces and you just kept on walking

and talking about how hard life is, and I thought 'Me, me, me, it's always about me.' 

Then there was the time you spent the whole day looking up at the sky and pointing at stuff and shouting and crying. Dude, what's that about? 

Look! A hot dog stand. I'm getting a chilli dog. How about you? Just don't get all weepy and ask me to carry you again. That's just embarrasing."

Lives of the Saints, part 2: The truth about Saint Patrick

The following post originally appeared in www.thejournal.ie on St Patrick's Day.

There are many conflicting tales about the life of Saint Patrick. So to mark this special day I thought it best to clear up any uncertainty once and for all by presenting excerpts from The Book of Patrick. It is the definitive biography written by Patrick’s companion and faithful manservant Bran. The Patrick contained herein may be old, partially blind, and prone to mild bouts of confusion, but I am sure you will agree his ardour for his vocation remains undimmed.

September 23rd, 490AD

 We stop by a stream for lunch. Patrick chats to a rock which he has mistaken for me. I say nothing.

As we pack our things to go, I notice a snake in the grass. I steer Patrick away from it.

“Did you hear that?” he says “It sounded like a sn-”

“Look!” I shout, “A pagan!”

“Where? Where?” Patrick asks.

“Oh, it’s gone. We must have startled it.”

As we make our way along the road Patrick says “Not many people know this, but I’m actually Welsh. Write that down.”

October 5th, 490AD

We meet St Kevin on a country road. He shows us his new crozier.

“It’s got a notch for every pagan chieftain I’ve converted,” he says with a smug grin. Patrick smiles, but I know he is secretly seething.

“So, banishing the snakes from Ireland, Patrick. Is it true that was just a metaphor?”

Patrick bristles: “Well, actually-” I try to push him along the road. “We really need to be going,” I tell Kevin.

“I’ve been using my toes to illustrate the beatitudes,” Kevin says “Simple idea. Really sticks in people’s minds. They get it like that,” he snaps his fingers. “Are you still using that tricky shamrock thing for the three persons in the one God concept?”

I push Patrick away before he can say anything. As we walk away Kevin shouts after us “Hey, Patrick. I think I just saw a snake.”
We can hear his laughter on the wind. Patrick is so angry he falls into a ditch.

October 21st, 490AD

 A wet windy day. Patrick tells me more of his past as we make our way along the road. “Not many people know this, Bran, but I’m actually Scottish. Are you writing this down?”

“Aye,” I reply.

October 30th, 490AD

 We meet with a local pagan chieftain. We ask him if he is sure he wants to convert to Christianity. He points at the village folk. “If the crops fail, this lot get to sacrifice me to the sun. Where do I sign?”

We hear word that St Kevin has arm wrestled a druid and won. Patrick tries to be casual about the news, but later I notice him grumbling to himself while eating some cress.

November 7th, 490AD

 Patrick tells me about his childhood growing up in a French village before his capture by marauders. “I was made to herd sheep on the side of a mountain.”

“Someone in my village was exiled for that.”

“I said herd, not hurt. Pay attention.”

November 8th, 490AD

 Patrick tells me about his time as a slave minding pigs on the side of a mountain and pining for the fields of England.

November 27th, 490AD

 Patrick explains the three persons in the one God idea to a group of pagans. The questions are coming thick and fast. “What are the sleeping arrangements?” “Are there any arguments over cleaning duties?” “What happens when one of them needs to go and, you know..?”

It is a long day.

December 1st, 490AD

 Patrick spends the morning detailing strict guidelines regarding the celebration of his posthumous feast day. He says something about a day of abstinence and prayer devoid of food and alcohol. I think he also mentions something about no public celebration of any kind.

That evening he suggests I have the guidelines carved in stone for future generations. I tell him I think it sounds like a great idea, and that I will seek out a stonemason as soon as possible. I am too embarrassed to tell him I have lost the vellum on which I wrote the guidelines down.

December 18th, 490AD

 We are sitting on a hill planning our day. “It’s been years since I’ve rid Ireland of all its snakes. I should really do something new,” says Patrick. “Maybe rabbits. Rabbits are a nuisance.”

That night I catch him shouting at a snake, “Begone vile floppy eared fiend!” I say nothing.

December 19th, 490AD

 “Did you see that rabbit last night? I certainly showed him,” Patrick winks at me, twirls his crozier, and falls into a bush.

December 31st, 490AD

 News reaches us that Kevin has lost three toes due to frostbite. Patrick receives the news with good grace and a pious air, but later I catch him dancing in a field with his crozier while shouting gleefully at a rabbit.

Bits from the Bible, part 8: Jesus eats some pancakes.

To mark this very special pre-Lenten day I present a special Bits from the Bible concerning the true origin of Pancake Tuesday.

And it came to pass after Jesus was baptized that he did decide to go into the wilderness. And so he turned to his mother Mary and said "I will go into the wilderness, and there I will fast for-" "You will what?" Mary did say. "I will fast. And having done so for forty days and forty nights-" "Hold on, hold on, back up there, Jimbo. Forty days and forty nights? What is this? This is madness. You can't go out there on an empty stomach."

And so she did sit Jesus down at the kitchen table, and she did make pancakes. And much flour and eggs she did use, for she was the mother of Jesus, and nothing was too much for him.

And after Jesus had eaten his fill she did try to make him take something small, like a loaf of bread and some grapes. But Jesus did point out to her that this would be cheating. And so she threw her arms in the air and did howl, as was the tradition in those days: “A mother tries for her son, and what does she get in return?”

And after much kvetching she did reluctantly let him go from that place. But not before she had given Him unwanted advice “You see a guy with horns you come straight back to your mother, you understand?”, and she asked him to return not a minute later than forty days and forty nights, for his Uncle Ezra’s birthday was on the 8th and “everyone would be there.”

 And Jesus being full of the Holy Ghost (and pancakes) was led by the spirit into the wilderness.

Help the aged.

Last Tuesday myself and the “All singing, all dancing priests troupe" visited the local retirement home. Many of the residents were particularly taken with the re-enactment of the Jets versus the Sharks sequence from West Side Story. Father O’ Shea played Maria, while Father Cronin was exempt due to the amount of finger clicking required, and the fact that his arthritis was playing up.

This was followed by Father Clarke and his magic act. The applause when he turned bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ was rapturous, proving once again that some tricks never grow old. He then produced a set of false teeth from behind the ear of one of the male residents, causing great merriment. Further amusement was caused by an 80 year old gentlemen in the front row who shouted “Doze deet er mime.” After some complex negotiation over the teeth we all sat back and watched Father Kelly juggle various orthopaedic aids.

During Father O’ Rourke’s mime act Father Deegan came over and asked if he could perform Let’s go Crazy by the artist formerly known as Prince. Once again I had to refuse him ever so gently. He assured me he had been practising all week, and then proceeded to do the splits. On seeing this an old lady nearby shrieked, and a distracted Father O’ Rourke forgot he was miming knocking on a locked door, and fell through it and off the stage.

At the interval, the ever pedantic Father Lawlor took me aside and said “The artist formerly known as Prince is currently known as Prince, he used to be known as” and he made a strange squiggling motion in the air. I thanked him for his comments and assured him I would have a word in Father Deegan’s ear. For some reason Father O’ Rourke looked unimpressed with this exchange.

Father Brennan then did his comedy act. His “Ever notice how when you go to give someone communion wafer and they forget whether to say Amen first or stick out their tongue?” piece was as funny as ever. Lots of priests chuckled and shook their heads “…it’s so true, it’s so true…” but some of the residents seemed strangely unmoved by Father Brennan’s hilarious everyman shtick.  Meanwhile, Father O’ Rourke was having a heated discussion with Father Lawlor in a corner.

Everyone got up on stage for a final sing song. Not one to be defeated, Father Deegan grabbed the microphone from Father Brennan and shouted “Tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1939!” The response from the audience was hugely enthusiastic, except for one distressed elderly gentleman who started sobbing: “It’s 1939? But where’s my family? Who are you people?” 

During Father Brennan’s Motown version of The Bells of the Angelus, Father O’ Rourke grabbed my arm. “Father Lawlor stole some of my act” he hissed. Father Lawlor looked incensed “That’s not true!” he shouted back.

“He did this” said Father O’ Rourke doing the odd squiggly motion in the air Father Lawlor had done earlier. “That’s the symbol for the artist formerly known as Prince” countered Father Lawlor. “It is not” shouted Father O’ Rourke “that’s me miming opening a tin of beans.” “How about this then?” said Father Lawlor, and he mimed a rude gesture that very definitely was not a mime for the artist formerly known as Prince, or indeed a mime for the opening of a tin of beans.

Father O’ Rourke then pushed Father Lawlor who crashed into Father Deegan. Father Deegan shrieked “JESUS!” which was less to do with the fact that he was singing a hymn, and more to do with the fact that he was doing the splits at that very same moment. It was at this point that an adrenalin fuelled Father Brennan made the grave error of shouting to the crowd “Who here wants the Last Rites?” and the stage was promptly rushed by an already delirious crowd of pensioners.

Subsequent events are a bit of a blur. Back home a tearful Father Deegan said “It was like Altamont in ‘69. But with wheelchairs.” I nodded sagely (my default setting) and gave thanks to God that nobody had been really badly hurt. “If you say so” said a disgruntled Father O’ Rourke, and he looked at Father Lawlor and mimed the sign that wasn’t the artist formerly known as Prince, or the opening of a tin of beans.

Last Christmas.

This piece originally appeared on www.thejournal.ie It was my attempt to show all you nice lay people how I spent Christmas 2010.

11.00: A beautiful Christmas morning. After breakfast everyone piles into the mini bus for mass. Doddery old Father Cronin, smiling, and confused as ever, hobbles onto the bus with a clump of shamrock pinned to his lapel. “Happy Saint Patrick’s day, Margaret” he says to me.

11.01: I send Father Cronin back into the house.

11.05: Young Father Deegan starts talking about the previous Christmas when he used the Heimlich manoeuvre to stop Father Ryan choking on a Brussels sprout. (Father Ryan still has the withered sprout to remind him of “the fleeting nature of existence.”) A nervy Father Deegan gives a typically over-excited account. Lots of eye rolling from the other priests.

11.15: Father Cronin gets back on the bus wearing a furry Saint Patrick’s day hat.

11.16: I send Father Cronin back into the house.

11.17: Father Deegan asks if anyone wants him to demonstrate the Heimlich manoeuvre. More eye rolling. Father O’ Shea looks as if he is about to raise his hand, but a stern look from me stops him in his tracks.

11.30: Father Cronin gets back on the bus clutching a St Brigid’s cross. “Happy Easter, Margaret” he says to me.

11.55: Arrive into the car-park  just in time for mass. I ignore Father Maher’s suggestion that I “Go into a skid.”

12.00: Mass. Two words. “Only” and “brilliant.”

12.50: Greet parishioners outside the church. A small child points his gun at me. In an effort to “fit in” I feign being shot and hold my hand over my chest and pretend to fall to the ground. A shriek from Mrs McCarthy: “He’s having a heart attack!” Father Deegan bursts through the crowd shouting “I know CPR!”

12.55: It takes two priests, three parishioners, and Mrs McCarthy beating him with her umbrella to get Father Deegan off me.

13.20: Drive mini bus back to the house. Awkward silence broken only by Father Cronin saying “This is the best bank holiday ever.”

13.50: Presents time. The usual. Bibles, golf clubs, socks, and Father Maher gets a Darth Vader voice changer helmet.

13.55: Father Maher, with his Darth Vader helmet on, asks if he can borrow my black cape. I give him a strict look, but then realise he can’t see me through the helmet.

13.56: I sidle away, leaving Father Maher talking to the wall.

14.30: I serve up dinner. An anxious Father Deegan inspects the Brussels sprouts.

14.31: Father Maher says grace before meals. With his Darth Vader helmet on.

14.45: Everyone eats dinner and thinks about how brilliant baby Jesus is. Every two minutes I say “Isn’t baby Jesus only brilliant?” just to keep everyone on their toes.

14.50: As per tradition, an inebriated Father Keogh talks about how things haven’t been the same since they cancelled the Top of the Pops Christmas special. Father Cronin asks when he’s getting his Kit Kat Easter egg.

15.30: Everyone sits down to watch telly. A lot of anxiety when we realise that both the original Willie Wonka and the Tim Burton version are on at the same time.

Heated discussion ensues. Father Cronin sleeps through it. Father Maher is walking around the room saying “I find your lack of faith disturbing” and laughing. Father Deegan’s eyes dart from priest to priest. Father Lawlor and Father Bergin go “toe to toe” over the relative merits of each version. Father Keogh is sitting in a corner crying about John Peel. I attempt to calm things down. Suddenly Father Cronin sits bolt upright, face red, eyes bulging, clutching his throat. Father Deegan leaps across the room, sending Father Maher flying into a book case in the process. Father Deegan grabs Father Cronin around the midriff and pushes. The potentially fatal object flies across the room.

15.45: The ambulance arrives. Father Cronin has a cracked rib. Father Maher possible concussion. I get a sheepish Father Deegan to fish Father Cronin’s false teeth out from what remains of our television screen.

15.50: As the paramedics lift the stretcher, Father Cronin grabs my arm. “Abby gwissmiss, Mawgwet” he says and smiles. “Indeed” I sigh as I pat him on the shoulder “Happy Christmas.”

Bits from the Bible, part 8: The Birth of Jesus.

The final instalment from my special Christmas edition of the Bits from the Bible series, as it appeared in the marvellous www.thejournal.ie

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. And all went to be registered, each to his own town, for it was the way of things. Many went to have their names written in ledgers and to have their foreheads stamped with “property of the Roman Empire” with “to be fed to the lions” in small print stamped beneath this.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. Although he went unsteadily as he had been drinking heavily since Mary had told him “the good news.”

And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. They did stay in a stable, for there was no room for them in the inn. And besides, Joseph had upset the landlord by “asking him outside.” And Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, while Joseph drank and said to the donkey “You are my bestest friend. No, really, you are.”

And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

And an excited young shepherd called Simon interrupted saying: “Is it more sheep? Are we getting more sheep?” 
“No” the angel did reply “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.”
“It’s not sheep then?” a shepherd called Timothy did say. 

And the angel replied “No it’s not sheep. It’s better than sheep.”

“What could be better than sheep?” Simon did ask “Sheep are brilliant. Everybody knows that.” And all the other shepherds did agree, and there arose a great muttering among them as they discussed their favourite sheep and the angel did cry out “It’s not sheep, okay? It’s not sheep.”

And silence fell among the shepherds. And they did feel ashamed. And the angel did say unto them “It is Christ the Lord. The Lamb of God!” “It is sheep then!” Simon cried. And a great hubbub arose among the shepherds and they shouted for joy, and the angel shook his head and gave them directions “Baby. Swaddling clothes. That way.”

And they went with haste and found Mary, and the baby lying in a manger, and Joseph lying under the donkey. And Simon did ask “Where is the sheep? The angel said there would be a sheep here.” And Timothy did say “Lamb. He said lamb. There is a difference you know.”

And the other shepherds did laugh at Simon. And from that day forth did call him “Simple.” And that is where the phrase “Simple Simon” comes from. Although it is not be confused with “Simplistic Simon” a common phrase referring to a young fisherman in Galilee who was prone to making basic category errors on the subject of cheese pickling.

And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen. And although they were a bit disappointed with the non sheepy nature of their visit, all were agreed that the baby was cute and looked nothing like his father.