Won't somebody think of the children?

Catholic group Opus Dei has called for the film version of The Da Vinci Code novel to be given an adult rating. The organisation says children should be protected from what it calls "insidious" lies. Spokesman Marc Carroggio said: "Any adult can distinguish reality from fiction. But you cannot expect a child to make proper judgements."

Well quite. We all look forward to hearing Marc's plans to decommission all Catholic Sunday Schools, choir practices and the wide range of activities traditionally used to ensnare defenceless minds incapable of proper judgement. It's only fair after all to allow somebody to become a fully formed adult before using the twin attack of guilt and self-hatred to recruit them. But as the Jesuits said, it really works best on the child.

Mr Carroggio added: "Merely adding a disclaimer that says 'fiction' is not enough." "Although the story is absurd and at times somewhat humorous, it produces a hateful image of the institution and it is well known that hateful images like this produce feelings of hatred in those who lack a critical sense."

Carrogio's right about one thing, the story is absurd. Absurdly written that is. To be honest I don't really care what the church thinks about it, it's a little disingenuous for them to bleat on about one book full of stories being more true than the next.

Of course there's a place for light reading in the world, relaxing entertainment that doesn't ask so much of you at the end of a hard day. But really. Not since a class of schoolkids, inspired by the heady works of Jack Higgins and Sven Hassell one English lesson produced a series of essays bold in conceit and daring in grammer has so much bad prose been aired.

It took about 4 seconds with google to find these excerpts - click on them for more if you're bewitched by the poetic writing.

The man was now taking dead aim at Saunière's head.
Saunière closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of fear and regret.
The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curator's eyes flew open.
The man glanced down at his weapon, looking almost amused. He reached for a second clip, but then seemed to reconsider, smirking calmly at Saunière's gut. "My work here is done."
The curator looked down and saw the bullet hole in his white linen shirt. It was framed by a small circle of blood a few inches below his breastbone. My stomach. Almost cruelly, the bullet had missed his heart.

Or this...

Robert Langdon awoke slowly.

A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.

Where the hell am I?

The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram:

HOTEL RITZ PARIS.

Slowly, the fog began to lift.

So the next time some over-excited fool starts bleating about how "rilly, rilly amazing the books are" be my guest and laugh in their faces until you vomit a pelvis. In the words of my good friend Marc Carroggio: "you cannot expect a child to make proper judgements...images like this produce feelings of hatred in those who lack a critical sense."