The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

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Monday, November 17, 2014

splashings

in the pool of evening
quick silver
ripples widening
forever
cold water thing
risen to exult
in some unthinking imagining
ordinary is wonder enough
what do fishes dream

the local yokel

Winter in Kilcullen. When a young yokel's heart turns to love. I am strolling down Main Street bidding a hearty oooh arrh to everyone I meet who isn't a member of a Dublin criminal gang. 
So far I haven't said hello to anyone, Oooh arrhh. But love! Love is in the air. The sun is bouncing on the cobbles. Quickly I close my fly. That's better. Ooh arrh ooh arrh. Crossing the road I come upon that splendid vista of ornate ironwork we call the Kilcullen bollards. The bollards cluster magnificently on the bridge above the river, like nothing so much as a gathering of drunken youths waiting for their next drug deal. Law enforcement authorities seem to have a lot of trouble telling the difference and often waste vital police time interrogating bollards who have never broken the law in their life and still have to wear a silly Kildare County Council mandated reflective strip to prove their bona fides. Oooh arrh. It's not fair. These bollards, unlike the youths, are reformed bollards. A few years ago Kildare County Council took them in hand and forced them to wear ye aforementioned bright luminous warning tape around their upper bodies. Since then the Kilcullen bollards haven't attacked anyone. Kildare County Council swooped because of real concerns of a repetition of the horrific 1903 bollard massacre in Termonfeckin when wild bollards turned on passers by and bit them savagely on the oooh arrhs in a completely unprovoked attack. Ooh Arrh. Back to the present. I walk onto the bridge over the Liffey. And lo! A glint of bronze catches my eye from the pavement. I lean over and peer closely. What are those things clustered among the bollards? Why they appear to be bent coppers. A group of bent coppers. Possibly some innocent non drug dealing children were playing catchpenny here and bent the coppers against the bollards. I study my find. There's a 2p, and then a 1p and last but by no means least, a half p. They look like the coins introduced around 1970 during the decimalisation period when the Department of Finance of the Republic Of Ireland was briefly run by bollards. I scoop the bent coppers into my hand and fling them into the river. With the recent "resignation" of the Minister for Justice Alan Shatter and the nearly as recent "resignation" of Garda Chief Martin Callanan, there is no place for bent coppers on the streets of Kilcullen. Or anywhere else for that matter. Ooh arrh ooh arhhhh oi be roight shure o dat. Having cleared the street of detritus, I return to my contemplation of bollards. Of course there are still towns in Ireland where bollards are allowed to wear what they like. Naas for instance. Bollards in Naas regularly don shorts and a bow tie when they want to assault the citizenry. But Naas bollards are a law unto themselves. Thus far Kildare County Council has thought it best to leave them unmolested. No executive order has been issued ordering Naas bollards to wear reflective strips. The same goes for Newbridge where leering unmarked bollards are an ever present threat to sanity and goodwill. Such Newbridge bollards as wear anything tend to favour denim jackets. Ooh arrh. This is why the good citizens of Naas and Newbridge live in constant fear from prowling bollards with no dress sense. You can be walking through Naas and suddenly a shabbily dressed bollard will leap out at you and demand your wallet. It's scary I tells ya. Oooh arhh. Ooh arrhhh. And did I mention oooh arrrhhhh. Thankfully Kildare County Council's conscientious efforts in Kilcullen mean we haven't had a bollard attack in yonks. Break in's, murders, suicides, tons of those. But bollard attacks, none. The good burghers of Kildare County Council have seen to that. Remember them at election time. Vote Burgher And Chips one, two three. Ooooohh arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhh.




Thursday, November 06, 2014

the rah man cometh

Coffee with the old communist.
I mentioned that the British television station Channel Four had just broadcast a documentary programme under the title: Who Won In Northern Ireland.
"Nobody won," proclaimed the old communist.
"That's what Tony Blair said," I told him. "And John Major. And Gerry Adams. They all seemed like such nice people too. But all utterly wrong."
"So who do you think won in Northern Ireland?" wondered the old communist like a man looking for a walk on part in the Heelers Diaries.
"The IRA won," I answered.
"You're just saying that because you think Sinn Fein is their political wing and will win the next election," put in he.
"No," I said. "I'm saying it because the IRA were always as much a crime gang as a marxian terror army. I know you won't mind me using those words because you're not a member of the IRA. Anyway. Today I'm not insisting that the IRA and Sinn Fein are the same thing. That's not my point. My point is that the peace process allowed the IRA to bring all its operatives out of jail and to focus nationwide and internationally full time on their racketeering activities without the former distraction of what they euphemistically called freedom fighting. Their power has increased exponentially as a result. They are now present in every town and village in Ireland. They and their allied mafias rule us. On the streets and from the shadows. They don't need to have their proxies win an election. They rule us already. Already. The IRA won in Northern Ireland and they've won here too."

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Poem And Parody



The Lake Isle of Inishfree
By WB Yeats

I will arise and go now
And go to Inishfree
And a small cabin build there
Of clay and wattles made
Nine bean rows will I have there
A hive for the honey bee
And live alone in the bee loud glade
And I shall have some peace there
For peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning
To where the cricket sings
There midnight's all a glimmer
And noon a purple glow
And evening full of the linnet's wings
I will arise and go now
For always night and day
I hear lake water lapping
With low sounds by the shore
Whether standing in the roadway
Or on the pavement grey
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

***************

the lake isle of inish freebie
by James Healy

i will arise and go now
and go to Inis Everything Costs A Stack Of Cash
and a small drug gang build there
of skanks and skummers made
nine audi a4's will i have there
a safe house for growing hash
and live alone in the murder loud glade

and i will have some Triads there
and the IRA and the Russian Mafia, and Al Qaeda, and Nigerian gangstahs too
for mobsters come dropping low
dropping from the veils of morning
to where judge liberal gives them all get out of jail free cards
there midnight's all a glimmer
and noon a purple glow
and evening full of the audi a4 gang revving up their engines

i will arise and go now
for always night and day
i see drug scum using teenage militias
to sell their poisons to children in our schools
whether standing in the roadway
or on the pavement grey
they really have taken us for fools

the local yokel

Oooh arhhhh. What a lovely day. What a lovely for running into a police station and shouting: "Arrest the cops. They're all corrupt."
There's many a true word spoken in jest. Oooh arrhh.
I was thinking this late the other night when Garda Evil Knievel reined in his motorcycle at the top of the hill outside my house.
Garda Evil looked around him with an insouciant air as he steadied the restless motorcycle.
"Easy girl, easy," he muttered, staring down at the sleeping metropolis of Kilcullen. The motorcycle whinnied softly in the darkness.
"There are six thousand souls in the naked city," snarled Garda Evil to himself. "And everyone of them has done 40 in a 30 mile an hour zone at some stage in their miserable criminal lives. They think they're so smart. But I'll get them. So help me I will."
I could hear this edifying meditation on law and order through the open window.
While he spoke the motorcyle quietly champed the grass from the forest's ferny floor.
Garda Evil gazed about him balefully as if looking to pick a fight with a tree stump.
It is strangely reassuring to know that the full rigour of what passes for law enforcement in the Republic of Ireland, is being implemented by half witted thugs in uniform such as Garda Evil, and his friends Garda Psycho and Garda Droogs, at the behest of Judge Liberal, to ensure that the criminal classes, ie anyone who has failed to pay a parking fine or a dog licence, will do hard time in some hell hole prison while drug scum rackateers and people traffickers remain at large with the collusion of the police to lay waste what is left of our culture, our society and our lives.
Ooh arrh indeed.
Garda Evil revved up his motorcycle like nothing so much as a lagar lout showing off to his trollope.
(The lagar louts of Kilcullen love trollopes. Particularly The Pallisers. - Heelers note.)
Through the throbbing Four Stroke engine, the town of Kilcullen slumbered on.
Fitfully it must be said, but still definitely slumbering within the strict meaning of the Act.
"Sleep on ye b-st-rds," shrieked Garda Evil. "You won't escape me. I own you. There's no justice. There's just me. I am the law."
The engine of his motorcycle roared to a crescendo.
"Iceholes!" screamed Garda Evil, performing a wheelie and accelerating away down Main Street.
His voice as he said "Iceholes," sounded like a mixture of the action movie actor Arnold Schwarzeneggar and the objectionable television cartoon character Cartman.
It had a certain resonance, shall we say.
A sort of je ne sais quoi.
Behind the fast receding figure, a blissful silence rolled softly back into Main Street.
"Thank God for the police," I intoned drily, before adding even more drily: "Pray that he's out there somewhere."
I sounded very like Cornelius Chase in the film Fletch in the scene where Fletch was about to be murdered by a villain, and suddenly a corrupt police officer arrives whom Fletch knows full well is corrupt, and Fletch realises things have gone from bad to worse, and Fletch says in a voice very dry and very like mine: "Oh thank God, it's the police."
Ooh arrh again bold readers.
See you next Wednesday.


horrorscopes

(with Mystic Muggins) 
Capricorn (Dec 22 to Jan 20): There will be rain so stay out of it. Earthquakes will erase the eastern seaboard of wherever you live. So move west. Now would be a good time to release a pop record. (If you're holding one captive. Not all Capricorns are.)
Aquarius (Jan 21 to Feb 18): The moon is in Uranus. This may make walking difficult. See a proctologist and don't hold back. A new work opportunity in nuclear physics may shortly present itself. Go cautiously. Particularly if you've no degree in nuclear physics. A dark haired man called John seems to offer the prospect of romance. Shun him.
Pisces (Feb 19 to March 20): Mars is in your oesophigus. Is that how you spell oesophigus? I must consult the runes. No wonder you're uncomfortable with a planet in your anus. Take a holiday in Japan. Don't speak to any strange geishas but do drink as much tea as you like. Sell your farm.
Aries (March 21 to April 20): Jupiter is in your tonsils. Sell your house. You have noticed a certain instability in your home life recently. This is because your house is built over an old Indian burial ground. Move. A person called Vladimir Putin may come into your life shortly. (Particularly if you're Ukrainian.)
Taurus (April 21 to May 21): Saturn is in your epliglottis. That's gotta hurt. You may feel phased by certain episodes of Star Trek. Try watching Friends instead. And sell your car. A good period for romance. Someone called Snodgrass will enter your life shortly. He's a keeper. (With West Bromwich Albion third team.)
Gemini (May 22 to June 21): Mercury is rising in your thermometer. Remember you are not responsible for the weather or for the fate of humanity. (Not unless you're really, really influential.) Stop worrying so much. Sell your shares on the stock exchange. Buy a cat instead. A person called Chopin offers the prospect of romance. He has a very small pianist. Play it by ear.
Cancer (June 22 to July 22): Pluto is in your anus. Sorry. I mean Uranus. It's only a small planet so don't worry over much. In fact some astrologers maintain Pluto isn't a planet at all. Just a wee adenoid. Still adenoids in your anus are no picnic. Proctologist time again.
Leo (Aug 24 to Sept 23): Ursa Major is in your garden. Mow the lawn. Or better yet, pay me to mow the lawn. Fifteen Euro an hour. Can't do better than that Guv. (It may take a hundred hours to complete the job as I'm a perfectionist.)
Virgo (Aug 24 to Sept 22): Polaris is rising in your nostrils. Learn Spanish. Sell all your major assets. New Zealand will shortly be swept away in a flood. You sense a need for adventure at the moment. Move to New Zealand. Take swimming lessons first.
Libra (Sept 23 to Oct 23): Betelgeuse is occluded by Venus with Neptune rising in Alpha Centauri. All of them are in Uranus. But stop worrying about these things. Broaden your horizons. Take your head out of Uranus. Perhaps a little move to China is on the cards.
Scorpio (Oct 24 to Nov 22): This week will be difficult for all Scorpios as the moon rising in your anus means you'll all get Bubonic Plague. Try to look on the bright side and if we meet, don't touch me and keep walking. Paradoxically this is a good time for romance for Scorpios. Someone with a "d" at the beginning of the name of their profession will enter your life. Either a doctor, a diplodochus, or a dipsomaniac. The stars aren't clear. If it's a diplodochus you have my permission to date him.
Sagitarius (Nov 23 to Dec 23): Stop reading horoscopes. Take responsibility for your life. Give up drugs. Read the Bible. Go to Mass. Bring your dog for a walk. God made the universe for you and it would be incomplete without you. There is hope for all of us! Rejoice, rejoice.

the local yokel

Oooh arrhhhh. These be fine Summery eveings for the middle of Autumn right enough. I'm not complaining mind. But where will it all end? Dere's dem dat says the climate is changing. But most of dose are tree huggers who stayed hugging the same tree for too long. And anyway, a change is as good as a rest, as the President of the World Bank said to the Chairman of Amnesty International. Oooh arrh, ooh arrh, oooooh arrrh.

Thankfully the police have just released figures saying that the crime rate has fallen sharply in the last month. Of course in the full twenty years before the last month, the crime rate had been soaring
continually, year on year, month on month, week on week, day on ephin day.
Obviously the hoodlums, druggies, rapists and murderers of Kilcullen had been overworked inflicting mayhem on the entire country. Under Ireland's strict labour laws, these gangland psychos are entitled to holidays too. Hence the sudden drop in crime. Also some of the cops whose job it is to write down the crimes (not solve them mind) were on holiday for the past month as well.
This led to a double dip in the crime figures.
So crime is falling and everybody wins, as the actress said to the bishop.
Oooh Arrhh, what a great relief for those of us being robbed, murdered, assaulted and raped constantly in the streets of Kilcullen and every other town in Ireland, to know that the crime figures are falling. And how reassuring it is to see local coppers quaffing coffees in local cafes while local hoodlums continue to operate unopposed almost everywhere else. If the gangs ever decide to strike in a cafe they're certainly all going to get caught. Or at least treated to a round of free coffees. Oooh arrrhh indeed.

Saturday, November 01, 2014

J'accuse

A children's home called Haut La Garenne on the island of Jersey is under investigation.
Allegations have emerged of serial sexual abuse, ritual violations, rapes and murders, taking place at the home.
The large number of allegations along with several other items of evidentiary information which have come into the public domain, point to many decades of violation, abuse, rape and murder of children at Haut La Garenne.
My analysis is that Haut La Garenne was used by a satanic cult for the ritual abuse of children.
My analysis is that this cult involves many levels of society on the island of Jersey, including political and law enforcement figures as well as prominent members of the business community.
I am disquieted by the manner in which the investigation is being handled.
I am disquieted that all members of staff who have at any time worked at Haut La Garenne have not been arrested, detained and interrogated.
I am disquieted that the senior officer investigating the case has been removed from the investigation.
I am disquieted at the manner in which the new senior officer investigating the case has dismissed many of the more serious allegations.
I do not believe the current investigators are seeking the truth.
I call on all men and women of good will to boycott the island of Jersey.
I call on all men and women of good will to boycott the products, people, industries, and holday resorts of the island of Jersey.
I call on David Cameron Prime Minister of Great Britain to take personal responsibility for the investigation.
I call on Queen Elizabeth the Second to intervene directly in this case, so that the murdered, raped, violated and ritually sacrificed children of Haut La Garenne will at last receive some form of justice.
There is no excuse for acquiescing in the child murders, rapes, ritual satanic sacrifices and sundry other tortures and violations, which have taken place at Haut La Garenne on the island of Jersey before the eyes of the world.
End this.
Bring the murderers to account.
Do it England.

the rocky murdocks picture show

The screen is dark.
A disembodied male voice sings as the opening credits appear in the blackness.
The voice is plaintive, poignant and oddly beautiful.

***

The Voice: (singing)
"I remember the chill
The day Newsweek stood still
Claiming US troops flushed Korans down the jax
And Piers Morgan was there
In silver underwear
Cheerleading the Jihadi attacks.
Then something went wrong
For Rupert Murdock and his son
They got caught in a phone tapping jam
And at a deadly pace
It came from outer space
And this is how the message ran.
Science Fiction
Ooh, oooh, oooh
Double feature.
George Bush is a liar
Tony Blair's his creature
See Jihadis fighting
Not terrorists but insurgents
And lots of talk about quagmires
It's all so urgent
Woh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
Woh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Surrender show
I remember the sorrow
When the New York Times had to borrow
Five hundred million from a Sanchez named Slim
And the Washington Post
Soon gave up the ghost
And told us that Al Qaeda would win
Then something went weirder
For Piers Morgan at the Mirror
He published fake torture photos just to pay his bills
But I really stepped back
When Lukwesa Burak
Got a haircut that spits poison and kills
In a
Science Fiction
Wooh oooh oooh
Double feature
Rupert Murdock
Oooh oooh oooh
We'll build a creature
See lawyers fighting
At the Leveson Enquiry
And Adam Bolton wondering
Why the hell don't they fire me
Woh oh oh oh oh oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture Show
Woh oh oh oh oh oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
At the late night
Woo ooh ooh
Sky News feature
Picture show
Woh oh oh oh
I wanna go oh oh oh
To the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
By RKO
Oh oh oh oh oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show

***

(Camera cuts to the interior of a Starbucks cafe in South London. It is the Starbucks where Jannat Jalil from Sky News has her morning espresso. James Healy is at a table eyeing Jannat. She, being a fan of the Heelers Diaries, knows well he is stalking her. He approaches her table tentatively.)

James: Jannat.
Jannat: Yes James.
James: (awkwardly) I really admired the elegant way,
                               You read the evening news,
                               On Sky the other day.
Jannat: Yes James.
James: Jannat.
Jannat: Yes James.

(Music starts. Other diners sing the part of the Chorus.)

James: The road was long but I ran it.
Chorus: Jannat!
James: The river was broad but I swam it
Chorus: Jannat!
James: I've one thing to say
           And that's dammit Jannat, I love you.
           Here's the ring and now you'll never look back
           True I may have a pot belly and a saggy butt
           But my love for you is deeper than for Lukwesa Burak
           She spoilt her chances with that haircut, tut tut
Jannat: This ring is flashier than Kay Burleigh's mind games.
Chorus: Oh James
Jannat: It fills my heart with passion and sultry flames
Chorus: Oh James
Jannat: And I've one thing to say, and that's James, I'm insane for you too.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James and Jannat: (together) I love you.

***

(Camera cuts to a country road on a dark night. James and Jannat are driving through the rain. The car runs out of petrol. The two sit for a moment in silence.)

Jannat: What kind of man doesn't fill his car with petrol before a long journey?
James: I never put more than ten Euro's worth in the tank.
Jannat: Why?
James: Well I wanted to punish the government for imposing punitive taxation rates on petrol. And I wanted to punish the garages for failing to organise an effective lobby to stop the government imposing this tax. And I wanted to punish the oil conglomerates for trying to corner the market in oil through forward buying, thereby driving the price of a barrel of oil to 100 dollars when it should be less than ten, and perpetually gambling that the price of oil will rise and then forcing it to do so through their astonomical borrowings from collapsed idiot banks. And I wanted to punish the Arabs and the OPEC organisation for operating an illegal oil cartel against the rest of humanity. All of these corrupt vested interest groups have traded on the notion that we will never respond to their price gouging. They have waxed fat on the idea that oil is not a price sensitive commodity. We have allowed them to believe that we will buy their oil no matter what they charge. This is a very negative delusion to encourage in governments, garages or Arabs. It is apt to confuse them.
Jannat: So you punished them by stranding us.
James: Er yes.
Jannat: Oh James.
James: Oh Jannat.
Jannat: I think I might be Muslim.
James: What's that?
Jannat: Nothing. Let's go search for help.

***

(Camera cuts to the two now walking along the roadside in the rain. They are making their way towards a castle in the distance which has a light shining in a single window. The music kicks in.)

Jannat: (singing)
In the velvet darkness
Of the blackest night
No matter where
There's a guiding light

James & Jannat: (singing together)
There's a light
Over at the Murdock place
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
Burning in the fireplace
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
In the darkness
Of every night

(Camera cuts to the window of the castle. Sky News Overseas foreign affairs correspondent Tim Marshall is sitting at the window watching the rain. Tim Marshall has in the past year been sent to report from Libya, Egypt, Syria, in fact from every trouble spot in the world where there is even the remotest chance he might get killed. An uncharitable observer might conclude that someone at Sky is trying to kill him.)

Tim Marshall: (singing)
The darkness must glow
Down the river of my dreaming
Until Kay Burleigh goes
The sun cannot come streaming
Into my life
Into my ligh-igh-igh- ife

(Camera returns to James and Jannat)

James & Jannat:
There's a light
Over at the Murdock place
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
It's burning in the fireplace
There's ligh-igh-igh-ight
In the darkness
Of every night

***

(Camera cuts to James and Jannat knocking on the door of Castle Murdock. The door opens to reveal Kevin Murdock (son of Rupert) dressed as the character Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Behind him we can see Rebekkah Wade, formerly Managing Director at News International, dressed as a sexy maid.)

James: Our car broke down.
Riff Raff: You've come on a very important night. The master is having one of his affairs.
James: You mean now he's cheating on Wendy Deng?
Jannat: Shhh.
Riff Raff: I think perhaps you'd better come inside.

***

(Scene: Castle interior. A group of garishly dressed guests have congregated. James and Jannat stare as without warning Riff Raff bursts into a most infectious musical number. The other party guests join in at just the right places.)

Riff Raff:
I remember
Doing the Truth Warp
Drinking
Those moments when
People gave us direct debit access to their personal bank accounts
To pay for Sky Channel
Let's do the News International again.
Let's bribe the police force again.
It's just a jump to the left
And a step to the righ-igh-igh-ight
You put your hands on your hips
And bring your knees in tigh-igh-ight
But it's tapping people's phones
That really knocks you insa-a-a-a-ane
Let's do the Truth Warp again
Let's do the News Corp again
It's just a jump to the left.
And a step to the righ-igh-igh-ight
You bribe the Chief of Police
And bring your knees in tigh-igh-ight
But it's owning the law
That really knocks us insa-a-a-a-ane
Let's do the News Corp again
Lets bribe the police force again

(Riff Raff and the partygoers collapse in an exhausted heap. James and Jannat don't quite know what to do. Although James has appreciated the verve of the performance and is clapping vigorously.)

Jannat: Let's get out of here.
James: Nonsense. It's just getting good. Let's stay and see what happens next.
Jannat: This is not the Athy Chamber of Commerce James.
James: (With infinitely smug middle class political correctness) They're probably just Muslims with ways different from our own.
Jannat: I'm cold. I'm frightened. And I'm just plain scared. Oh. And I think I'm a Muslim too.
James: (Still infinitely smug and middle class and not really taking anything in.) Don't worry darling. We all are. Now stop being frightened. I'm here. Nothing can possibly go wrong. If we're lucky, in a moment maybe these simple country folk will perform some more shameless parodies from the Rocky Horror Picture Show for our amusement.

***

(As James and Jannat are talking the other party goers and Riff Raff have slowly revived and risen to their feet. Suddenly, a door bursts open behind Jannat's shoulder. Rupert Murdock struts in. Jannat faints. James looks enthused. Rupert launches into his trademark song.)

Rupert:
Not another wordo
I'm Rupert Murdo
And he's... (indicating Riff Raff)
My faithful maitre delice
He's a little brought down
Because when you knocked
He thought you were the
Chief of Police
Don't get strung out
By the way I look
Don't judge a company by its corrupt corporate management
I may look 86 years old
By the light of day
But at night I look positively indigent
I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly Ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah

James: (rapping and breaking any number of copyrights held by Jim Sharman and Richard O'Brien)
I'm glad we caught you at home
May we use your phone
We're both in a bit of a hurry
We'll just say where we are
And then get back to the car
We don't want to be any worry

Rupert: (singing)
So you got caught with a breakdown
In the middle of my shakedown
Heelers
Don't you panic
Even if Jannat dumps you
I'll find a more exotic broad to hump you
I'll get you a satanic Hispanic
Cos I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly Ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah
Sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah

(Rupert pauses to drink a cup of water. A man emerges from the chorus and throws a pie at him. The pie is neatly deflected by Wendy Deng who quickly hustles the would be assailant away while whaling the living tripe out of him with a metal dish.)

Rupert: (rapping)
Why don't you stay for the night
You could both have a bite
I won't tolerate any... dissension
I've been building a corrupt corporate media monopoly
You know with fake oversight from a board of directors who are all related to me
And they're good to relieve my... tension
Because
I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah
Whuh
Sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah
Oh
Don't get strung out
Because I bought the police
Don't judge a corrupt police buying company
By its corrupt corporate management
I may seem to buy a lot of cops
By the light of day
But at night
I get positively extravagant
Because I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah

(Rupert changes tack suddenly and incomprehensibly)

Rupert: (singing)
The transducer will seduce ya.
You're a sensual attapensual
When we tapped your phones
Did you hear a bell ring???
You better wise up
Lord Leveson
You better shape those thighs up
And close those eyes up
I've got a gun
And I'm launching a Sunday Sun

Charles Grey: Until she cried out...

Jannat: Allah U Akbar.

(The music stops. Everyone turns and stares. Some of the more ghoulish extras cower a bit. Jannat somewhat guiltily puts her hands over her lips and looks apologetic. By the way, I challenge anyone to discern what those lines about a sensual attapensual were in the original Rocky Horror Show movie. Not since Peter Sarstead sang about lowly bontags in Where Do You Go To My Lovely, has there been such an incomprehensible vaguely obscene lyric. Or how about the bit, again in the original Rocky Horror, when Rupert sang: "How do ya do, I'm... Field Mabs Meim... faithful handyman." What the heck is Field Mabs Meim? The enigmas endure.)

***

(The awkward moment following Rupert's song and Jannat's exclamation is brought to a halt by Riff Raff drawing a ray gun and vapourising Rupert. Rebekkah Wade is upset by this turn of events.)

Rebekkah: Why did you do that? I thought you liked him. He liked you.

Riff Raff: (With infantile fury) He never liked me. And it was time for him to go. Heelers has clearly run out of steam. He's just lifting lines from the Rocky Horror Show. There aren't even any jokes.

(Riff Raff and Rebekkah turn slowly and threateningly towards James and Jannat)

Riff Raff: (With preternatural menace) You two had better leave us. My beautiful Rebekkah get ready. We return to Tasmania immediately. Prepare the transit beam.

(James and Jannat, having seen the Rocky Horror Show, know it's time to flee the building.)

***
Scene: Castle exterior. James and Jannat fall in the mud and continue scrambling towards the gate. Behind them a spectacular Truth Warp bathes the News International HQ in mystic police investigations. Presently the entire building vanishes. Gone. On a voodoo wind. Back to Tasmania. For a moment on the cold night air it is almost as if you can hear the voice of former Sun editor Kelvin MacKenzie hissing: "A hundred and seventy police officers investigating us. That's more than investigated Lockerbie. Cor blimey. Worra waste. Cor Bliiiiiimmmmmaaaiiiieeeee." James and Jannat are left alone in the dirt. A voiceover kicks in. It is Charles Grey whom we met very briefly and inexplicably during the last song, now reprising his career best performance as the Criminologist in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Charles Grey: (intoning)
And crawling
On the planet face
Some insects
Called the human race
Not members of the Board of News International
And not entitled to any dignity or respect or grace
Or indeed help from the police in the event that Rupert Murdock's staff, agents or companies assail, assault, violate, transgress, phone tap, kill, rape, burglarise, conduct posthumous show trials (like they did with Jimmy Saville to distract public attention from the Leveson Enquiry), or otherwise mitigate our rights in any way before the law
Even though
Cor blimey
We don't even let the police hack the phones of Jihadis
And Murdock's crew were doing it as a matter of course
To all of us
Cor blimey
Because
Basically
We're all lost
Lost in time
And lost in space
And meaning

***

The screen goes dark. The plaintive male voice from the opening credits returns to sing over the closing credits. The lyrics of the closing refrain are even more poignant than before. If that's possible.

The Voice: (singing)
There was once something rare
About Lukwesa Burak's hair
It made me want to grab her and kiss
I dreamed that we might
Run away in the night
But now I think I'll give it a miss
And Lisa Holland drove round
Old Tripoli town
With Saif Gadaffi sitting on her knee
And Rebekkah Wade
Was a sexy maid
She was
At least she worked for me
In a
Science Fiction
Double Feature
Rupert Murdock
We'll build a creature
See Alistair Campbell fighting
With Adam Bolton
Who's turning puce
And now quite molten
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
I really was there
For Adam Bolton's live melt down on air
When Alistair Campbell straightened his tie
And young Wendy Deng
Had developed a yen
For a billionaire 86 year old man
Then something went wrong
For Osama Bin Laden
He was caught in a special forces commando raid
And at a deadly pace
He got shot in the face
And this is what his last message said
Science fiction
Oooh oooh ooh
The Leveson Enquiry
Corrupt policeman
Massive bribery
See Freemasons fighting
James and Jannat
And the Murdock Family stars in
Forbidden planet
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
I wanna go
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
To the late night
Sky News feature
Surrender show
By RKO
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
To the late night
Double feature
Sky News movie
Picture show

Thursday, October 30, 2014

everybody suddenly burst out sieg heiling

(lines written after the commencement of yet another pogrom by pseudo liberal atheists in the media, judiciary and political sphere of the republic of ireland against the ancient beautiful and true catholic church)

it was the first day back
for the new parliament
even the prime minister was smiling
the corridor was packed
with the inane the insane and the beguiling
and all seemed right with the world
a sort of silence fell
a strange silence mid the pomp
and splendour
of parasites and parvenues
as though the abortionist throng
felt some shame
for the destruction they had wrought
and soon would wring
upon ireland
the debauching of the citizenry
the cretinisation of children
the impoverishment of generations
the persecution of the ancient faith
sundry other infamies
yes it might have been shame
but these had no shame

everybody suddenly burst out sieg heiling
they sieg heiled
and sieg heiled
and sieg heiled
oh how they sieg heiled
and hugged one another
and sieg heiled again
as though sieg heiling could somehow
change what they were
the destroyers of ireland
body and soul
they'd legalised abortion
propagated condom culture
institutionalised fornication
and criminalised the catholic church
in the eyes of our nation
through the perpetual recycling
of old child abuse cases
by bankrupt state subsidised newspaper and television groups
and through the concealment of the vast preponderance
of actual child sex abuse cases
still going on
which involve no catholics
and through the cover up
of the activities of devil worshippers
in dublin and elsewhere
particularly the satanic murder by Lorcan Bale
of a little boy called John Horgan
in the attic of the Bale family home
in 1973
a case covered up by the Irish Times the Irish Independent and RTE
for forty years
as a death in accidental circumstances
while Canadian newspapers were able to report quite explicitly
that the satanist Lorcan Bale had ritually slaughtered and crucified
a little boy called John Horgan
in the attic of the Bale family home
in 1973
like i say
there was nothing accidental about it
no accident either
in the Irish media failing to mention it
for forty years
i assure you
for cathal goan head of RTE and the Irish Language Channel
T na Satanists
was a former work colleague of Lorcan Bale's Daddy Snodgrass Bale in the civil service
i kid you not
and Lorcan Bale's Daddy had prominent links to the Irish language movement
as well as having infiltrated prayer groups in Dublin
and having written copious letters to the press
on pro life issues
all as a cover for the Bale family's satanism
i ask you
what the cops didn't even trouble to ask him
about his son's satanic altar in the Bale family garden
or his son's predilection for murder
or his son's disappearance to meetings of a coven
or his sons torture and slaughter of animals
as he readied himself to torture and slaughter a little boy
for weeks on end
such lack of concern
from the police
is hard to explain
dontchya think
free pass for the Bales
i wonder why
or how about members of the Irish Judiciary
for thirty years
repeatedly adjourning the inquest
into Lorcan Bale's slaughter of little John Horgan
in order to keep details from becoming public
or how about Irish cops failing to investigate or publicise in any way what was done
to John Horgan
or newspapers to report it
and how about Irish parliamentarians and the courts service
facilitating Lorcan Bale with a new identity
and turning him loose on the English
and facilitating the Bale family coven with a new identity
and turning them loose on the rest of us
my sources say some of them are in the aran islands
where the irish language is still spoken
and a predilection for serving satan by  killing children
is less of a stigma
than it might be anywhere else
outside of the muslim world
ho hum
so satanists killed a little boy in dublin in 1973
and to date they've gotten clean away with it
1973 was a bit of a beano year for them
of course
as has been each year since
irish cops remain determined to do nothing
about Lorcan Bale and his family
sacrificing children to satan
what was the secret of the Bale family's influence
over the politicians, the cops, the judges and the press
IRA members perhaps
it would explain a lot
or just a satanic paedophile ring at the upper echelons
of what passes for high society
in ireland
and i tell you
irish cops remain determined to do nothing
either way
just as they remain determined to do nothing
about the Dalkey devil worship ring
which included police officers
and taxi drivers
all readily identifiable
as they wander round dublin today
and which serially raped and twice impregnated
eleven year old cynthia owen
and murdered both her babies
back in 1973
that big year for satanists in ireland
remember
not so big for their victims
and so it goes on
as yet another satan worshipping coven
has turned up at Naas Hospital
Naas hospital more correctly understood
as a charnel house
than a hospital
for Nurse Mulholland liked to kill patients on the wards
having terrorised them first
with the assistance of the security staff
maybe
who knows
and other as yet unknown devil worshippers
in the Naas hospital coven
and all the cops charged Mulholland with
all they charged her with
i tells ee
for her two known barbaric slaughterous murders
of innocent human beings
whom she sacrificed on the wards
to satan
was assault causing bodily harm
hoo baby
i suppose death is a kind of assault and does cause harm
i mean it is fairly harmful isn't it
all concealed
move along quickly now
all concealed
no jihad here
never mind satanism
all concealed
by all the sieg heilers
oh everybody sieg heiled
as they invented new crimes
to stampede the people from the catholic church
the only power in the land
that might have saved their souls
or given them a vocabulary to know what was happening
everybody sieg heiled
as the pseudo elites of atheistic judiciary faux academia and allied media
fashioned an interpretation
of the symphysiotomy medical procedure
which had formerly been considered a safer alternative
in irish hospitals
for pregnant women
to caesarian sections
but was now being attributed
falsely maliciously and malignly
by the sieg heilers
to the catholic church's concerns
about contraceptive culture
it was a safer bloody alternative
to Nurse Mulholland
i can tell you
oh everybody sieg heiled
and then sued the catholic church
money for jam they thought
where's the harm in profiting
from the vilification of heroes
from the destruction of all that is good
in propheting as prime minister enda kenny might say
from the murder of reputations
everybody sieg heiled
then sued the church again
on yet more specious grounds
for not looking after
indigent women well enough
in magdalen laundries
when nobody else in ireland
was looking after
indigent women
at all
oh everybody sieg heiled
they really had a ball
as Finance Minister Ruairi Quinn
seized catholic church run schools
and handed them over to
his nice sieg heiling marxian atheistic friends
while seizing 20 billion dollars
of public funds
to bail out his brother Lochlainn Quinn's
collapsed gangster bank AIB
and shaking down ageing priests and nuns
in old folks homes
to pay limitless sums of money
to anyone claiming to have been sexually abused
and their lawyers of course
of course
of course
everybody sieg heiled
and Justice Minister Alan Shatter
sieg heiled most of all
as he furthered the pogrom
against the church
with a kristalnacht of his own
introducing legislation
against the catholic ritual of confession
legislation that neither hitler nor stalin
ever dared
stoop to
too low for hitler and stalin
not to low for Alan Shatter
and at the same time
this same Alan Shatter
this corrupt venal Alan Shatter
soon forced to resign for his cover ups of police corruption
yeah that's the Alan Shatter I mean
the one who drew a severance fee
higher than the annual salary of the president of russia
for getting fired from a job he was too corrupt to do
in the first place
the one and only Alan Shatter ya might say
just before he was fired
attempted to restrict free speech
on the internet
because
because
because

because of me

in all modesty

everybody sieg heiled
their sieg heiling rose above the roof tops
of my beautiful ireland
into the purple night
and above the ocean opalescent blue
and above the verdurous green mountains
drenched with dewy balm
their sieg heiling rose like a new anthem
distracting themselves and the irish people
from imminent damnation
oh everybody sieg heiled
it was all such fun
everybody sieg heiled
their sieg heiling will never be done

Monday, July 28, 2014

croagh patrick for beginners

Toiling down Croagh Patrick like the last of the Mohicans.
(You wot guv? - Ed note)
We pause at Break Heart ridge.
Rain and wind and all the rest.
With that rare courtesy of a true pilgrim, Bill hocks up a gully and spits into the air.
The flegm (Phlegm surely - Ed note) hovers briefly in a sort of stasis in front of my eyes, before the wind decides to hurl it away in the opposite direction.
"Thanks Bill," sez me bitterly. "Thanks for checking the wind direction before you did that. Thanks for not taking a chance it would simply blow back right into my face."
"Sorry," said Bill affably.
And on we trudged.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

descent of men

Bill and I descending Croagh Patrick in a downpour having failed to reach the summit by, oh, mere inches, I'd estimate.
A wiry country man with a hewn scowl, materialises out of the mist and passes us on the trail, going down at a rate of knots.
"Did you make it to the top?" I call in his wake.
"Yes," sez he looking back.
"What's it like up there?"
My question seems to open a sort of floodgate of emotion for him.
"Waste of time," quoth he bitterly before positively snarling: "The so called famous view was invisible. With all this bloody mist, I couldn't see six inches in front of my face. A complete waste of time."