I had played a significant part in turning around that newspaper. I had won awards and the rest. Indeed, for the purposes of literary neatness, I’d like to think I’d worked miracles.
Didn’t get a sainthood, is the point I’m making. Pope John Paul, nice chap and all that, but it’s a stretch to call him a miracle worker and the expedience with which his old pals greased him up the religious hierarchy stinks like a thurible of funky pollocks.
A slap on the back and eternal gratitude would suffice. A sainthood? Too soon.
Indeed the lie is confirmed about being a "special one"
"Pope Francis also approved the sainthood of Pope John XXIII (1958-1963), though no second miracle has been attributed to his intervention." – BBC
So it's just mates rates now?
Who next? Ryan Giggs for that goal against Arsenal? Hi-de-Hi's Peggy Ollerenshaw for taking on the forces of Miss Cathcart. Ilford Joe for not sniggering at that cripple?
Fast-tracking, it's called. Sainthood by text vote.
Here are some saints who earned their prefix from the pontiff.
Saint Cecilia – lived for three days after three attempts to behead her failed.
Saint Agatha – chained, whipped, stretched, had her breast cut off and then burnt.
Saint Simon the Zealot – hung upside down and sawed in half lengthways.
Saint Mercurius – hung from two poles, stabbed with nails, burned, beheaded.
Saint Dymphna – refused to marry her own father so he cut her head off.
Saint Michael – invented the Fuller Longer range.
A buggy and a smile don't quite cut it in the big leagues, JP.
