The Parish Priest flagged the advent of the Diocesan Adviser about four weeks beforehand.

Meticulously unzipping his customary packet of McVities Lights at the morning break, he announced that Father Ferdia would be along to run the rule over our efforts at proselytising. "It'll be the usual affair," he gushed. "Father Ferdia is not widely known as a stickler. He will, however, be expecting the following."

Inward groans all around as we silently examined our consciences to see where and when we had sinned by commission, but mostly omission.

The next few weeks heard a voluble increase in chant and cant as we piped the parables into the unsuspecting children who, in their usual guileless way, never even questioned our seeming deathbed conversion to zealotry.

Montages and murals were hastily cobbled together, with more Zaccheuses up more sycamores that any classroom wall should be decently asked to bear.

"It's all a cod, isn't it?" one elderly colleague asked. "Three-quarters of my lot never see inside of the church from one Christmas to the next, and I'm flogging meself to hammer in the Glorious Mysteries."

At length, the great day dawns. Father Ferdia, noted singer, songwriter, Psalmist and Peugeot coupe driver, arrives looking for his cuppa. We are all looking younger than ever, he avers.

Father Ferdia perennially adopts a mode of questioning that can be categorised as "the inverted idioticism". It goes something like this. Preamble to question: "Now, lads, your teacher has told you all about the Apostles, hasn't he?" Reply: A wavering "Yes Father." Now, here it comes. "Take St Peter now. He was a real rich fella, with bags of money and a big house, wasn't he?" Utterly confused bleatings of "Yes, Father" sends teacher's systolic pressure into the red zonefor the first of about a dozen times.

"Now, lads, who can tell me about the Angelus?" If anyone can, they are not admitting it. "Who can tell me how it begins?" Little Richard draws himself up to venture an answer.

"Yes, good man yerself, how does the Angelus begin?"

Little Richard intones, in a dodgy falsetto, "Dong!"

As the good Father ebbed away down the corridor, I mentally collected the spiritual equivalent of the P45 and stepped back into my classroom.

Little Richard was lovingly pressing a picture of Matt Le Tissier into his Premier League sticker book. Now that's what he would call a real Saint.