Damian Thompson

Nigel Lawson once wrote that 'the National Health Service is the closest thing the English have to a religion'. It's a justly celebrated line because it rings so true – though the second half of the sentence, even more uncomfortably true, is invariably left out: '... with those who practise in it regarding themselves as a priesthood'. This summer, adherents of our national quasi-religion are marking the 70th anniversary of its foundation by St Aneurin Bevan. The ceremonies – less preposterous but just as intense as Danny Boyle's tribute to the NHS in Britain's Olympic opening ceremony – have the unqualified blessing of our actual religions.

There was never going to be a happy ending to the story of Alfie Evans, the 23-month-old boy treated at Alder Hey hospital, Liverpool, for an undiagnosed neurological condition that destroyed his brain. But somehow the British establishment has contrived to make a tragic situation worse – to the point where large swathes of European and American public opinion are convinced that this terminally ill child and his parents have been the victims of a grotesque injustice. Whether that is the case will remain a matter of opinion: the medical and ethical questions raised by Alfie's plight are not easily resolved. Alder Hey's specialists were quite certain that there was no hope of saving him.

Last week The Spectator published a fascinating and mischievous piece by Ysenda Maxtone Graham entitled 'A tale of two Sarahs: the cuddly bishop vs the terrifying cardinal'. The first Sarah is Sarah Mullally, who is just about to take office as the first woman Bishop of London; she's a former nurse – indeed, the former Chief Nursing Officer and therefore Dame Sarah Mullally in her own right. But Hattie Jacques she ain't: she's friendly and 'inclusive' – i.e. fluent in churchspeak waffle after only two years as a suffragan bishop. The second is Cardinal Robert Sarah (pronounced Sar-AH), African-born Prefect of the Congregation for Divine Worship.

Fake news is dangerous because it uses 'distorted data' to manipulate the public, Pope Francis warned us in January. Well, he should know. Yesterday it emerged that his press office doctored a photograph of a letter from Benedict XVI in which the Pope Emeritus apparently praised some new books containing Francis's collected writings. Benedict wrote that the books reveal 'the interior continuity between the two pontificates, with all the differences in style and temperament'. But he added that he hadn't read them. The blogger Sandro Magister, an indefatigable critic of Francis, noticed the Vatican's sleight of hand and the Associated Press followed up the story.

Five years ago, the name of the Pope was announced from the balcony of St Peter's and I was given less than an hour by the Daily Telegraph to write an article about a man I knew virtually nothing about. Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio, the Jesuit archbishop of Buenos Aires, had been fairly low down on the list of candidates acceptable to liberals – i.e. someone not in the mould of Benedict XVI. Sure enough, the new Pope Francis appeared wearing a plain white mozzetta or shoulder-cape; the BBC reported that he'd refused to put on the ermine-trimmed red velvet number sported by his predecessors, declaring that 'the carnival is over'. Actually, the carnival was just beginning: we were treated to one gesture after another of high-profile humility.

Twitter brings out a mean streak in some people that can take the breath away. And I should know. I was re-reading my old tweets the other day and thinking: good God, if this was my actual conversation at a dinner party I’d have to get my coat - remember the bloke in The Fast Show? - right after the soup. In the new Holy Smoke podcast, I’m joined by Harry Mount, Lara Prendergast and Freddy Gray to discuss the warping of our personalities by social media. Also, the complete failure of religious leaders to address the moral dilemmas it throws at us every day: bishops, being hopeless at Twitter and Facebook themselves, ignore them, preferring to lecture us on the finer points of government welfare and immigration policies. It’s a no-holds-barred conversation.

Our guest on today's Holy Smoke podcast is A.N. Wilson, author of a hugely admired biography of Queen Victoria and – as you'll hear – the most mischievous intellectual in the land. Cristina Odone and I started out by asking about Victoria's vigorous (and possibly whisky-fuelled) persecution of Anglo-Catholics in the Church of England: the Queen lobbied hard for the legislation that sent several of them to jail for popish "ritualism". But that was the just the beginning of Wilson's hilarious whistlestop tour of the passions and prejudices of Queen Victoria.