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*WE'RE OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD, THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF....* Goodbye John Paul. It’s not news, I know. The Pope is dead. Some people may be wondering what happened to the rest of the Beatles, in which case you’ve not been paying attention. Yes, George. We’re talking to you. Now let me just say this. My mother is Irish. I grew up in Ireland. I was clouted around the head by the Christian Brothers. That makes me genetically, Catholic and well able to take a jaundiced view of the new Pope. The Pope, or Benedict as we now call him, is the head of an extremely well known organisation based in the Vatican. They have the Jesus franchise sewn up. Think of the Pope as the Ronald MacDonald of the world religions. You may burn if you do, like me, but I never could resist a barbecue. The thing is I’m a little confused. And it’s been a long time since the church has confused me because, well, I’ve been ignoring it for the past twenty years. However, with the last Pope dying, it’s been hard to escape all the fuss. And, I may have mentioned it before, but my mother wanted me to be the new Pope so I had to get my shit together. Think about it. I’m relatively young. I’m an ex-altar boy. I’m an absolute fucking saint, and my name is already Paul. They wouldn’t have to even change the stationery. So, just in case I got the call I had a little bag packed and got rid of all my pictures of naked ladies. Sorry, did I say got rid? I meant hid. I hid them under the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Nobody would ever think of looking under there; or of even moving it to vac under… Sigh… Anyway; I was saying I’m a little confused. Being the new Pope seemed like quite a good move. I could make it obligatory for all Catholics to purchase my music. I could tell them this was a certain way of getting to heaven. It may sound a bit far fetched but have you never heard of indulgences? Sure, the church sold them during the Middle Ages. It was one of the best marketing scams ever. You could actually pay the church a sum of money and it would guarantee you a place in heaven. Of course, only the rich could afford this. The rest of us would have to queue the fuck up in purgatory. The thing is though, when the rich person passed away, there was no way they could complain or get the money back. This of course is the same principle by which many organisations operate today. You get put through to one department after being on hold for ages, just to be told you need to ring a different number, and then no bastard picks the phone up.
	I digress. Let me continue with my main concern; me, Pope Paul III. The more I thought about it the more I was convinced my name was being spoken of in high places. The world needed a Pope who wasn't older than the God he represents. It needed a Pope who wasn’t worried about how it looked if he kicks President Bush in the nuts the next time he turns up looking smug. We needed a Pope who looked good in a dress. Well, okay, I wasn’t sure about this last point. I was prepared to pay the price though. So I shaved my legs to avoid looking like a wrestler hiding in a beer tent.
I wasn’t worried about anything other than the fact of how the hell…oops, I mean how in heaven’s name, was I going to pay my bills? I have a mortgage for example. Following in the footsteps of the humble carpenter I presumed I’d not be rich; but I was wrong. I wasn’t just wrong, I was shocked; and quietly pleased that as Pope I wouldn’t be a pauper after all. In fact, I’d be rich. I’d stay quietly pleased until I was on the balcony with the funny hat on and the big stick and all the Catholics were humming my tunes to themselves; they’d be singing them as hymns by the time I’d finished. Actually what is the name of the stick the Pope carries around? You know the big long one that’s curved at the top; sort of like a big hook; like a shepherd’s…crook. Oh damn! That would definitely have to go when my congregation found out I was asking them to give money to the church and I was sitting on a fortune. I wouldn’t want them getting any ideas over my new found wealth once I was elected. It turns out, according to The Independent, and you can check this yourself: the Vatican has a property portfolio that made a profit of 25.7bn lira; and that was in 1998. At this point I started to get worried. Surely this would be like my claiming to be a virgin and then saying, if you don’t believe me, ask the kids? It was ludicrous that I could claim to be walking in the footsteps of Christ and yet, cream a profit off my property portfolio. Didn’t Jesus, if you believe that sort of thing, throw the moneylenders out of the temple? It was so hypocritical. I realised I didn’t have the bare assed cheek to stand up on that balcony while there was so much poverty in the world. Knowing I had so much money how could I ask the poor to drop a few coins in the collection basket? A picture came to mind as I thought about. It was of Jesus in the desert. You know the story about when Jesus went into the desert for forty days and forty nights. The bad guy himself came along and offered him Kingdoms upon the Earth. Now there was a tidy portfolio if ever there was one. Jesus turned it down. His Kingdom was the Kingdom of Heaven . Now it looks as if, somewhere along the way, somebody decided to take the portfolio upon the earth; properties and accumulations and the clutter and mire of the material world. To continue reading click HERE for page two