Rating 4 out of 5 (Highly platitudinous)

The waiting is finally over. They're here at last, the body parts everyone's been waiting for. Gosh, I'm so excited. I've venerated them three times before, but now they're here in England and I can venerate all over them as much as I like. I don't just venerate over any old corpse you know, I'm much more discerning than that, a connoisseur of cadavers. These are the holy dead bits of the one and only Sant Terrez of Lizyew, on the British leg of her sell out worldwide tour. She's the diva of holy carcasses, the Madonna of ghouls. In a very real sense she's the Michael Jackson of superstar dead bits. Nobody, but nobody, does being deceased as good as her.

There was a time when every decent church had at least some dead bits of holy people lying around in cupboards. It's what made a town thrive. The blacksmith, the butcher, the teacher, the surgeon, these were all dispensable, but without some holy dead bits, a town was doomed. The Catholic Church really knew how to pull in the passing pilgrim trade. Nowadays, you're bloody lucky if you get some saintly putrefaction in a casket, but not with Sant Terrez of Lizyew. People up and down the country will get to see her sacred remains. Even the inmates of Wormwood Scrubs, renowned for their lack of female companionship, will get to venerate over her as as a group.

What the atheists and the sceptics and the cynics don't seem to understand is that these are magic bones. Her invisible magic bit, who lives on in heaven, has been doing magic for everyone who comes to see her. Give her a really good, long, hard veneration and she'll do some magic for you too.

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