Father Conor is walking by the Shannon when he sees one of his congregation fishing...

He stops for a chat, and mentions that he's never fished before. 'It's a doddle,' says the angler. 'Take a rod and give it a go.'

'Well, I suppose the blessed Saint Peter himself was a fisherman. Perhaps I'll try my hand,' says the priest.

Father Conor sits down and casts his line. After a few minutes he gets a bite and reels in a fat ten-pounder. He's pleased as punch as his parishioner slaps him on the back and says, 'That's a great big fucker, Father!'

'Language!' replies Father Conor. 'I am a priest.'

'No, Father, this fish is called a fucker,' explains the angler, thinking on his feet.

Laughing at the misunderstanding, the proud priest takes his catch home and finds the bishop waiting in his front room.

'That's a splendid looking fish, Father,' exclaims the bishop.

'Aye,' replies the priest, 'it's a great fucker.'

'Please, Father! Such language,' says the bishop. 

'No, no, Your Grace,' replies the priest, 'fucker is the name of the fish.'

It being Friday, the reassured bishop suggests they repair to his residence for a fine fish supper. Once there the bishop goes to the kitchen to clean and gut the fish. They are then joined by the mother superior of the local convent. Being no great cook himself, the bishop says, 'Reverend Mother, would you mind poaching this fucker for us?'

'Bishop, you cannot say that in the house of God,' gasps the horrified nun.

'You misunderstand, Reverend Mother,' explains the bishop, 'this fish is called a fucker.'

Calm again, the Mother Superior sets to cooking the fish. Shortly they are joined by the Pope, who is making a surprise visit (as he does). Delighted, the bishop invited him to supper.

They sit down at the table and the Pope says grace. Then the mother superior brings in the fish on the finest silver platter. Eagerly the three of them await the opinion of God's Mouthpiece on Earth. 

'That is a fine fish,' remarks the impressed pontiff.

'That it is, Your Holiness. I caught the fucker,' says the beaming priest.

'I cleaned the fucker,' adds the bishop.

'And I cooked the fucker,' chips in the mother superior.

The Pope sirs back and stares at them for a moment. Then he plants his feet on the table, lets out a mighty fart and says, 'Know what? You cunts are all right.'