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. Francis insisted on going back to his hotel to pay his bill in person; he spurned the majestic papal apartments in favour of a communal residence for priests next to St Peter’s; it was announced that he would drive around the Vatican in an ancient second-hand Renault.

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