The Martyrdom of St Jeremy

Once in Islington there was a holy man called Jeremy. And as a young man, Jeremy wished he could run a whelk stall, or organise parties in breweries. But the local brewers and shellfish wholesalers doubted his abilities, and would not allow him access to their facilities. And so poor Jeremy gave all his belongings to the poor except  his shell suit, and ate a frugal diet of parsnips and home-made jam. And he spent much time talking to the friends of terrorists. Because Jeremy believed that he could bring everyone to live in peace.

But the time arose when there was a great dispute over who should be Pope. And the supporters of Jeremy said that he should be Pope because nobody was as wise, holy and miraculous as Jeremy. And the people had a great synod where everyone should choose who should be Pope. And Jeremy won the arguments. But nobody believed he should be Pope, except a few disciples. And Alexander de Pfeffel became Pope Boris I, and failed to live up to his vow of chastity, although he helped everyone else to achieve poverty.  Jeremy told everyone he was sorry they had not been able to understand his arguments, and eat the fruit of his magic money tree, but although he took responsibility, none of it was his fault. And so Jeremy retreated to the desert allotment. While some of Jeremy's followers said that everyone else was too stupid to understand St Jeremy's teaching.

But his disciples marvelled at Jeremy's holiness. "Surely he is like St Francis of Assisi, or even Chairman Mao" they said. "Behold his miraculous ability to sit on the floor in trains that have vacant seats." While others said "who else has won so many peace prizes that nobody has ever heard of?"

And his disciples schemed to see who should succeed Jeremy - whether it should be Dianne the Abbot, or Rebecca of the Long Bailey. And everyone knew that the only one who would be any use would be Jess of Birmingham. But they feared she might have a mind of her own. And if the next Pope were to be a woman, they wanted one they could keep under control.

 But Jeremy did not worry. He sat under his fig tree, and made chutney, and wondered at his own righteousness, all the rest of his life.

And there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. But not in the more comfortable parts of Islington.

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