Fragrant Popery

Away with you, your Holiness the Pope, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God. I had enough of you in January. And sod you too Mr Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople. This is the sacred week of the supreme & divine Matriarch.

Yes, another bloody birthday. But we're in the home straight now, we've reaches the apex of the season and it's all downhill from here on in. So, the programme of events : 'twas m'mum's actual birthday on the Saturday, the official pressie opening on the Monday & the traditional ceremonial outing on the Wednesday. We set off from the royal residence at should-be-still-in-bed O'clock, passing through the forests of Lothlorien & Moria, stopping for a bite to eat at the Minas Tirith Roadchef, and arriving at our destination, The Vale of Arundel, just in time for tea with the Earl. We had a mooch round his little castle, admired his phallic weaponry & mannequin-filled dungeon. Then boredom & cheekiness set in, so we smeared his Fabergé icon with greasy words, tweaked at the nipples of his ancestors' paintings and played ping pong on Queen Victoria's musty & deliberately stained bed.

Once we were released on bail by the head dwarf it was time for a dollop of mind enhancing cuwchah. Thusly we headed towards the snaking queue of luvies, darlings & luvvy-darlings, following their unearthly, posh gabble all the way to the Chichester & Fangorn Festival Theatre. Pointing & sniggering ensued, as Lord Des Lynham & ageing floozy downed their overpriced fizzy grog in a fit of ordinariness. And then Pope Poirot took the stage & frightened everyone with his last confession & his huge, dangling, arsonistical tendencies.

Booze. Bog. Burger. Bed. Bye.


Currently listening: Get Used To It by The Brand New Heavies