The Pope Problem

One morning, I was woken early by a hammering on my back door. I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs, to find Alun waving a letter which looked to have come from the realms of officialdom.

 

“It’s the pope, Jed,” he said. “He’s visiting our island.”

 

“Are you sure?” I said, it seemed unlikely.

 

“Yes, Jed. It’s here in this letter. The pope’s doing a tour of oft-overlooked, marginal, isolated communities, and has added Happy Island to his itinerary.

 

“But Happy Island isn’t catholic,” I said. In fact, Alun and myself, the only residents, both worship Croccy, a Peruvian crocodile god we met in an earlier adventure.

 

“That doesn’t matter Jed, inclusivity is the theme. He’s willing to visit anyone, even us.”

 

The following morning, I was woken early by an official-sounding knock on my back door. I quickly dressed and made my way downstairs, to find Alun up against the back wall being frisked by a group of strange men in suits.

 

“What’s going on?” I asked

 

“We’re the pope’s entourage,” one of the men said. “We’re running a security check ahead of his visit.”

“That’s only Alun,” I said, “He’s one of the residents, not a terrorist.”

 

“We know that, it’s standard procedure. We’ll have to search you too.”

 

I let the pope’s minders search me for weapons, after which things relaxed.

 

“So what happens now?” I asked the man I’d spoken to initially, who seemed the friendliest of the pope’s officials, if not the most important.

 

“We’ll do a brief tour of the island, so the pope knows where he’s going and who he’s talking to, then the great man will arrive.”

 

“I could give you a tour if you like.”

 

“That would be grand, thanks,” said the man. “I have a terrible habit of getting lost.”

 

“And what do you do?”

 

“I write his witty spontaneous comments. It’s an important role, the pope needs to sound interested, wise and funny, and of course he can’t just come out with it. He’s only human.”

 

“So what spontaneous witty comments have you written for him?”

 

“None yet. I find it really difficult writing witty stuff. My last job was a lot easier.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“Scriptwriter for Miranda. I didn’t have to think of anything clever or funny, I’d just have Miranda fall over for no particular reason, or let off a fart, and the audience would squeal with laughter. I tried to incorporate the style into my script for the Himself when I started in this job, but it wasn’t well received.”

 

I remembered reading an article about that particular papal visit in one of the mainland newspaper: ‘Farty pope falls on his arse’.

 

The grand tour reached the corner of the yard where I keep my geep.

 

“What are those animals?”

 

“These are the geep.”

 

“Geep?”

 

“They’re a sheep / goat hybrid. Actually, the real name for them is sheep/goat hybrid, but we call them geep – it’s easier.”

 

“Oh, I should definitely write something about the geep. A hybrid, a rare species. He’ll want to say something profound yet witty about the wonder and diversity of god’s creation.”

 

I left the scriptwriter searching desperately for his muse. The other officials too were busy, scouting the island for security threats.

 

The next morning, I was woken early by an angel coming to me and foretelling of the coming of the pope (okay, I set my alarm for once). I was dressed and waiting with Alun for the morning boat when it appeared and the pope descended.

 

“Good morning your holiness, welcome to Happy Island. I am Alun and this is Jed.”

 

“Bless you my son,” the pope said. “And bless this land.” He gave a friendly wave to the soil below his feet, clearly he wasn’t one of the ground-kissing popes.

 

“Let us take you on a tour of the island,” Alun said.

 

The grand tour reached the corner of the yard where I keep my geep.

 

What are those animals?” the pope asked.”

 

“They’re geep,” I said.

 

The pope farted. Only quick action from myself and Alun prevented the pope from falling over.

 

“Sorry about that,” the pope said. “My scriptwriter’s terrible. I wanted the chap who does Mrs Brown, but Justin Welby got there first. Bloody Church of England, they’ve got the UK sitcom scene in their pocket.

 

I tried to change the subject.

 

“You realise we’re not Catholic,” I said.

 

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’m not here to convert people, merely to learn more about their way of life, to do what I can to help communities. So which religion are you?”

 

“We worship a Peruvian crocodile god, Croccy.”

 

“I’m not aware of that particular faith.”

 

“I’m not surprised, there are only three of his followers left alive. He’d like to meet you though.”

 

“Who would, your religious leader?”

 

“No, Croccy.”

 

“Your god. Would like to meet me?”

 

“Yes. He’s never met a pope.”

 

 “I’ve never met a god. Mine is a bit reclusive these days.”

 

“I thought the pope had a direct line to god.”

 

“He does, unfortunately god never picks up. I keep getting the answerphone. And the emails I send just ping back, he’s disconnected his account.”

 

“Well, you should meet our god, he’s completely relaxed about people seeing him.

 

We took the pope to the Happy Island lagoon where Croccy spends much of his free time splashing around in a carefree manner.

 

“Croccy, this is the pope. He’d like to say hello.”

 

We left the Peruvian crocodile and the Argentinian pope alone to discuss, well, whatever popes and crocodile gods discuss when they’re alone together.

 

I was expecting the pope to return shortly, but the day passed and there was no sign of him. The evening became night and there was still no sign of the pope. After waiting for a reasonable time I decided to head to bed.

 

xxx

 

The next morning, I was woken early by a hammering on my back door. I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs, to find Alun in an excitable state.

 

“It’s the pope Jed, he’s not Catholic,” Alun said.

 

“Are you sure?” I said. It was the most unlikely thing I’d heard since Alun claimed he’d seen the bears were using the toilet facilities just outside Happy Wood.

 

“Yes Jed, he says he’s been converted and now worships Croccy. Here, he’ll tell you himself.”

 

I followed Alun outside, where I saw the pope, or the former pope as he now was, sitting on a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

 

“Good morning,” I said. “I didn’t know you rode Harley.”

 

“I didn’t. I always wanted to, but it didn’t fit with the whole papal image thing. Talking to Croccy made me realise that I should do what I wanted for a change.

 

“It’s a nice bike.”

 

“It is. I used to get so frustrated with that bloody pope mobile, it’s slower than a milkfloat. Croccy said that if I quit the papacy and lent him a bit of Vatican gold he’d sort me out a decent ride.

 

“You ‘lent’ Croccy the Vatican gold.”

 

“Croccy’s got some great investment ideas. He was telling me last night. A water-based themepark teeming with alligators.

 

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” I said.

 

“A bit of danger always adds to the fun,” the pope said. “Like riding a Harley, much more dangerous than a pope mobile and a thousand times the pleasure.”

 

“So what will you do now you’re no longer pope?”

 

“I’m 80 years old. I shouldn’t be working at my age, let alone acting as god’s representative on earth. Croccy convinced me to take it easy, chill out, see a bit of the world. And most importantly, burn some lead.”

 

So saying, the pope cranked up his bike and sped off into the distance.