Whatever the von Trapp family would have you believe, no one likes a singing nun. Convents everywhere languish unvisited by record company scouts. Monks, on the other hand, are surprisingly hot pop property, given that their idea of a hard night on the tiles is a vigil Mass without hassocks. In the 1990s, a collection called Chant was recorded by Spanish Benedictine monks, and it has to date sold in excess of 16 million copies.

Now it would seem that the world is ready for more plainsong. The monks of the Abbey of the Holy Cross in Austria have been signed up by a canny record company executive who, if he is not called Simon Cowl, ought to be. Their album, which should be entitled Hey, Hey, We’re the Monks, of course, will be out by summer and stardom will surely follow. For, in troubled times, the charts need monks. As the markets gyrate and snow falls at Easter, what need have we for pop stars whose songs are as chaotic as their hair-styles? Life is complicated enough. The public will listen with soothed gratitude to Gregorian chants, uncluttered with such fripperies as a second line of melody, and coming to us little changed from their 6th-century origins.

But let us hope the opportunity to reach out to a wider audience does not come at a cost. Fame has tainted many lives; can monks be immune? Will partying supplant prayer and 4am come to mean bedtime, not Matins? Will tonsures be out and couture in? Let us hope not. Hedonism holds sway over quite enough of us. Far more original are pop idols who prefer poverty, chastity and obedience to sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.