Pope idol: the Holy Father's first Vatican Christmas

Stone me. What a life. I know, Lord, that I should be grateful for your infinite mercies, but may I just say that — inasmuch as I did ever indulge the mortal vanity of imagining myself spending Christmas as the actual honest-to-goodness Pope — this is pretty freaking far from what I had in mind.

The place is a shambles. Everyone’s saying how great I am in the outside world, but in here I’m stuck trying to cheer up all these glum prelates wandering about looking at their satin slippers. It’s hard to know which ones are glum for which reason. Are these the ones I peed off by threatening to reform the Vatican bank to prevent it being this, like, gigantic money-laundering operation? Are they the ones I peed off by promising to return the Church to its roots as a church of the poor and dispossessed? Or are they the ones I peed off by failing to tweet from my @pontifex account in Latin? God alone — in his infinite wisdom — knows.

And I know what they say about the Christmas post, but it seems to be working just fine here. Every day great sackloads come rolling in. And everyone wants something. I’m starting to get a sense of what it must be like for Father Christmas. And being — sigh — humble, I did say that I’d help open it. And being — sigh — the listening Pope, I did make a rod for my own back by sending out all those customer satisfaction surveys. You know: ‘How’s My Poping? Phone 0800...’, that sort of thing.

I asked the old flock to tell me what they thought about various points of doctrine, see, and some people may have taken me a weeny bit too literally — egged on by the media who don’t seem to see the difference between asking people what they think and opening it all up to a public vote. So I’m now, apparently, the Simon Cowell — no, worse, the Dermot O’Leary — of Catholic dogma. Did none of these people look up ‘dogma’ in the dictionary? Because they’re going to be very disappointed when they find out that I don’t make the rules.

On and on they go. More incense. Less incense. More Latin. Less Latin. Women to be ordained. Vatican II to be repealed. Free condoms. Abortion on demand. Remarriage in church for all divorcees. Homosexuals to be burned at the stake. Homosexuals to be given their own monasteries. There’s even a weird little collection, all in the same loopy handwriting, calling for the canonisation of someone called Justin Bieber. Looked him up on Wikipedia. Quite apart from his not being dead, I can say that his chances are pretty slender.

Not to mention that people seem to think I have this 300-page dossier on a secret gay cabal within the Vatican locked in a safe in the papal apartments and that I’m just waiting to drop the hammer (as if!). Nor that everyone seems very jumpy about the idea that by insisting on doing a little due diligence on the Vatican bank I’m going to upset the Mafia and that a horse’s head-shaped Christmas card (my sister, always the practical joker!) is going to be the least of my troubles this Winterval.

On the plus side, I seem to be popular. We’re selling out St Peter’s Square (figure of speech: very much not selling), attendances are up. I reckon we’re poaching a few from the Anglicans and there hasn’t been a whisper from Cardinal Keith O’Brien, who is, between you and me, enjoying what is going to be a very long period of personal prayer and reflection indeed. Everyone’s talking about the Francis Effect. I might even be tempted into the sin of pride, were it not for the fact that I’m becoming all too aware that popularity is, as they say, a double-edged sword. I’m starting to think old Ratzi may have got it right: just glare at them until they feel like a goose has walked over their grave and the worldly will leave you to get on with things.

Rupert Murdoch has tweeted something supportive, for instance, and apparently Italian Vanity Fair has named me Man of the Year, with a special message of endorsement from Elton John. Sheesh. Is this supposed to be helpful? Is this, like, their idea of throwing me a bone? I mean, given the people I’m trying to keep on side here... And Man of the Year from a glossy magazine? Hel-LO! I’m the damn Pope. All I need is a Christmas card from Conrad Black and my mantelpiece will be complete. Oh. Oh yup. There it is. Anyway, I know it slightly hums of paganism, but I trust in His mercy and St Nicholas is, after all, one of ours. Besides, I’ve done it ever since I was a child. So sue me: I sent a letter to Father Christmas. But even that didn’t go quite as I’d intended. I was wandering around the Vatican in search of a nice bit of writing paper and some privacy, and came upon this lovely little room just off the Sistine Chapel. Cosy as you like. So I settled down in a comfy chair by the fireplace and scribbled down my gift list. Just a few thoughts, you know: peace on earth, San Lorenzo thrashing Huracán in the derby, fewer phone calls from Tony Blair, a new pair of — correction — a good humble cobbler to repair my old pair of shoes, etc etc.

Job done. I confess I may have gone on a bit, with this letter. Not asking for things for myself, you understand, apart from the shoes and the footie. More, like, asking for a larger proportion of my flock to look at the whole child-in-a-manger, being-kind-and-loving-to-people, taking-the-outcast-of-the-earth-to-his-bosom, giving-everything-for-the-forgiveness-of-our-sins to just, you know, for crying out loud GET IT. But perhaps it’s not Santa I need to be talking to about that.

Still, so it goes. The fire wasn’t on, but I happened to have a lighter about me (don’t judge: you’d sneak the odd crafty fag or two if you were Pope, mark me), so I did the honours with the edge of the paper, dropped it in the hearth and it caught very nicely.