I met Bishop Brophy at the weekend for a chat about the state of the nation.

Some of you may know him as the jovial, rotund bishop who once treated a group of Youth Defence activists to a rendition of “Baby Love” outside the Dail one morning in 1983.

Others among you may remember him for the unfortunate gutter liberal press headline “Barmy Bishop Barney Brophy” when he came out and made the statement that Canon Law supersedes all other laws (including the rules of Scrabble). What ensued was the denigration of a well meaning, if slightly misunderstood man. I for one was appalled.

Meeting him on Saturday I noticed he was as jolly and defiant as ever. He clasped my hand warmly, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he took out his edition of the Little Book of Canon Law and waved it in front of me. Then we set off in his Mini. At first our conversation was light-hearted and peppered with hilarious anecdotes about our time as young priests. But very soon Bishop Brophy’s face darkened.

“It has been a terrible week for the Catholic Church,” he said. “Which week?” I said. “This week,” he said. “They’re all terrible weeks,” I said. We broke a red light, and as a woman crossing the road pushing a pram shouted after us, Bishop Brophy waved his Little Book of Canon Law after her.

“First there was that news about the availability of the morning after pill,” he said. I shook my head and tutted. He realised he was going the wrong way and made an illegal U-turn. An irate lollipop lady spotted this. But quick as a flash Bishop Brophy took his hands off the steering wheel, and pointed to his little book while mouthing the words “Canon law.”

“It’s not like the old days when people respected and feared the Church,” he said. “Now it’s morning after pill this, and sexual degeneracy that.” I tutted again, and realised things must be bad when I noticed I had already used up my tutting quota for the day.

“Then there were those people who laughed at the Pope’s statement objecting to people using non-Christian names for their children.” “How dare they,” I said. “Indeed,” he replied. “How can one acquire the character of the Son of God when one is called Milli Vanilli?” I thought about pointing out the slight inaccuracy in his statement, but realised there was such a grand general truth to what he was saying that it was worth letting go.

We parked on double yellow lines outside the local restaurant. Bishop Brophy waved his book at an approaching traffic warden. Once sitting down over a modest course of venison, Bishop Brophy was off on his beautifully appointed metaphorical high horse again.

“Then there’s the fall off in vocations. The empty churches. The sudden disappearance of nuns. And there are only four Christian brothers left in the whole country!” “Five,” I corrected him. “Brother Terence still counts.” “Even on a ventilator?” he asked. “Yes. The thorny issue of consciousness aside, once his heart is beating he still counts.” Bishop Brophy allowed himself a small smile and made a note in his diary.

The rest of the meal passed in much the same way as we bemoaned the passing of respectable God fearing Catholic Ireland. Later we stood outside the restaurant watching a young Guard approach. (The manager had called the police when Bishop Brophy had waved the Little Book of Canon Law in his face and told him he didn’t need to pay). “It’s a new Ireland,” he sighed. “Unfortunately it would seem that way,” I said. “Oh well,” he said “Watch me make this young fellow doff his cap.” And as he held up his book I confess I allowed myself to feel a warm nostalgic glow.