The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Monday, September 24, 2018

existential grace

In the half light strolling along the riverbank.
The day is going down.
A young deer standing in the water looks up at me.
She is within a hundred feet of the town centre.
I've never seen one here before.
What a sudden and unexpected and beautiful gift.
She splashes off downstream into the dusk.

Saturday, September 22, 2018

decline and fall of the heelers empire

Phone call from Mrs Baines.
"James I've good news for you."
"What's happened?"
"Remember that exercise bike you gave me?"
"I remember it well."
"I've given it to Count Tarlenheim."
"Whaaat! Have you forgotten the purpose of the excercise? Do you not remember Cousin Marie saying exercise bikes can supposedly reduce Parkinsons symptoms? Ones that get used, that is."
"The Count has Parkinsons and he says he'll use it."
"But it was for you."
"It hurt my hip."
"Oh for the love of Pete."
"Anyway the Count wanted to pay me for it and I didn't want to take money off him so I said James Healy gave it to me and James doesn't have a fridge at the moment. And we decided we'd go halves on buying you a fridge. Is that okay?"
"Did you ever pause to think I mightn't want members of the upper classes or indeed anybody else to know I don't have a fridge?"
"Sure you write everything on that thing of yours."
"It has no readers."
"Is it okay that we're buying a you a fridge or isn't it?"
"Tell you what. You and the Count go pay my bill at the Tearman Cafe and we'll call it quits."
"How much do you owe the Tearman?"
"About the price of a fridge," I grinned down the phone line.

Thursday, September 20, 2018


The magpie jumped down from the fence and landed in a puddle.
Right in front of me she began to splash water over herself.
Magpies are normally quite shy.
The creature conveyed in that moment a celebration of life but also a gift of trust directed towards me.
What was the old one liner?
The kingdom of heaven is your midst.
That evening up at the Hill Wood the crows swirled in their myriads prior to picking a branch to roost on during the hours of darkness.
Their nightly praise of God, their thanksgiving as it were, is given in this gavotte upon the wind currents.
Wheeling and turning, rising and falling, roiling above and below each other, never seeming to collide.
Maybe they do glance off each other but because of the way they are so finely made, it isn't a problem nor is it visible to the human eye.
Their flight seems as riotously chaotic as it is graciously balletic.
Gradually more and more of them peel away into the trees, disappearing as they settle amid the foliage.
Soon there are only a few still flying.
Then these disappear.
There is still much chattering from the branches where they nest.
Creatures rejoice in the creation.

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

the story of my argument with the bbc

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: BBC Resourcing Team <>
Sent: Wed, 19 Sep 2018 00:51:11 +0100 (IST)
Subject: BBC Careers Hub Your account and details have now been deleted / Hwb Gyrfaoedd BBC Mae eich cyfrif a manylion nawr wedi ei ddileu

Dear James,
You may recall, we recently wrote to you about your profile on the BBC Careers Hub as you hadn't logged into it for over 2 years. Your account will now be deleted and you will need to register again if you want to apply for future opportunities with the BBC.
BBC Resourcing and Talent

From Heelers to the Beeb.
Five minutes ago.

Dear Commie atheist left wing abortionist, Islamist, satanist, Skangs.
I hope I'm not leaving any of you out.
I mean I don't mean to go casting no aspoyshuns.
Why don't you go collude with freemasonic police officers to frame Cliff Richard for child abuse again live on national television,again, and then refuse to identify which of you set up the scam, again, and then refuse to report the fact that the police were refusing to investigate themselves as requested by parliament for their part in the scam, again, and then claim falsely that you've done nothing wrong. Again.
James Healy
PS: If you insist on writing to me I shall write an open letter to the people of England urging them to democratise you,  ie to compel you to trade on merit without the assistance of a billion dollar Stalinist public subvention styled the licence fee.
PPS: You skangs.
PPPS: The piece of Welsh in your subject line gave a refreshing poetic comprehensibility to your elsewhere obfuscatory communication. Mae eich cyfrif to you too.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

the crunch question

Question: Why did members of the Irish police force wear masks over their faces while evicting supposed activists from a house in Dublin last week?

Answer: Because the police think these activists are in fact a skang gang run by the IRA and its political proxies Sinn Fein, and they had no intention of allowing an IRA Sinn Fein skang gang to film or otherwise identify police officers going about their duty with a view to targetting them and their families later on as per common IRA Sinn Fein skang gang practice in the Ireland of today. It is also somewhat pleasing to think that perhaps some of the police were giving a two fingered salute to the IRA Sinn Fein skang gang in question at the supposed protest, in that the knitted masks the cops wore are more often worn by IRA Sinn Fein skang gangs at supposed protests and during bank robberies and while dealing drugs, and when terrorising the community, and elsewhere.

Copy to Liadh Ni Riada who has just been announced as the IRA Sinn Fein skang gang's nominee for President of Ireland.

Saturday, September 15, 2018


Looking around the chateau I became enamoured of the idea of throwing out some of the books which have accumlated there over the decades.
"This is not Bohemian creativity," I muttered with a shock of realisation, "this is just clutter."
Still it seemed a bit wrong to throw out books.
They are books after all.
A tad reluctantly I reached towards a shelf and plucked out a tome.
Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married, by Marian Keyes, published 1996, in a plain blue binding, nothing on the cover but the title and the author's name.
Easy decision.
In the bin without further investigation or thought.
That was easy.
And No Bird Sang, by Mary McCarthy, this edition 1998, the cover featuring a photo of a rather fetching young woman sprawled amid flowers with her eyes closed and her reddening lips parted in an attempt to convey sensuality.
I turned it over to read the blurb on the back cover.
It said:
"Eleanor Ross a successful career woman, decides to take a much needed rest from her overburdened work schedule. She chooses the quiet fishing village of Coill as her rural retreat. But no previous experience has prepared Eleanor for what she is about to encounter in this new world. A world of gossip, rumour, innuendo. Eleanor uncovers a strange tale of love, betrayal, revenge and murder. Ultimately she learns a harsh personal truth."
Presumably that lip gloss sticks to flowers, I thought, gingerly opening the cover to see what the newspaper critics of the day might have thought.
Their comments were on the inside fly leaf.
A now bankrupt newspaper styling itself The Examiner had remarked: "(Her previous book) Remember Me reveals the inherent hypocrisy of the Irish family but also its great capacity for love and support amid hardship."
The good old bankrupt Examiner.
Pretentious and presumptuous in equal measure eh.
So these great fraudulent arbiters of bankrupt truth had pronounced the Irish family wanting.
You can't beat Ireland's ever more bankrupt newspapers.
Pretentious and presumptuous and gone.
The book too.
Gone, gone, gone.
I plucked a tome.
This one felt a little warm to the touch.
Wild Concerto by Anne Mather, 1970's vintage, with a cover showing a dark gypsy like male clutching at a big haired woman, who had gone a bit heavy on the make up and had forgotten to secure her dress properly as evidenced by it having slipped well down on one shoulder.
Here's larks, thinks I, a genuine bodice ripper.
I peeped inside the cover.
A brief extract greeted me.
" 'Lani,' Jake said thickly, releasing her mouth to take a laboured breath and then with a supreme effort he put his hand on the bole of the tree and pushed himself away from her..."
Releasing her mouth.
Ha, ha, ha.
What the heck had he been doing with it?
And now he's grabbing a tree by the boles.
This is like something I might write myself.
I read on.
" 'I did not mean this to happen,' he said at last and Lani lifted her shoulders as if his words had confirmed her expectations. 'I wanted to see you but that is all. I did not intend to touch you. But you looked so indignant and comforting. You seemed such an innocent thing to do.' "
You seemed  such an innocent thing to do.
What an intriguing choice of words by Anne Mather. Or misprint as the case may be.
But hush.
It goes on.
" 'Innocent!' he repeated the word savagely. 'I must have been out of my mind.' "
I closed the book meditatively.
I was finding it difficult to let this one go.
Time to check the back cover.
The blurb informed:
"Fate forced Lani Saint John to an impossible choice when her adolescent dreams became a wrenching reality. For Jake Pendragon the brilliant concert pianist she had loved from afar for years, reentered her life with his undeniable devastating attraction. But desire was both a delight and a torment for the beautiful rival he was rumoured to be involved with, was none other than Lani's own mother. A searing story of love and heartbreak, revenge and searing passion."
Well folks.
I don't care what any of you say.
Anne Mather stays in the chateau.
With just one little tweak.
I took out my pen and changed the last sentence on the back cover to read:
"A searing story of love and heartbreak, revenge and searing passion, and pure bollocksology."
Back into the book case it went.
Our first reprieve. 
Now my hands alighted on Francoise Sagan's Aimez Vous Brahms.
This one I'd read.
I found it had a whiff of something I didn't like.
Evil perhaps.
But every word of it was art.
I weighed it in the balance.
Thoroughly obnoxious but effortlessly brilliant.
Reluctantly I replaced it.
I had learned a great lesson.
No matter how much I disapproved of her, I could never throw out Francoise Sagan.

Friday, September 14, 2018

waiting for the hurricane

Amara Walker: "This is CNN. The biggest hurricane ever is approaching the east coast. Experts say that when measured by the histrionics of our reporters this storm is absolutely unprecedented in size, scale, and dramatic effect. It could be Category Four by the time it makes landfall. At the moment it's Category Three. So we're giving our imaginary notion of Wind Speeds in kilometres per hour instead of miles per hour to make things seem a bit more exciting. The thing is actually blowing at about 60 miles an hour but don't tell anyone I told you. Ooops. It's dropped to CategoryTwo. But there's lotsa rain. More rain than at any time in history. Better make that centimetres per hour for the wind. Oh. Now it's a lousy Category One. Switching to milimetres. The wind speed is a dramatic 5000 milimetres per hour. So in real terms it should be renamed Hurricane A Bit Windy. This just coming in. Wolf Blitzer has been hit by lightning and we're going to mark him down as 3000 deaths right away rather than waiting six months to mendaciously hoist the death toll as we did in Puerto Rico last year. Wolf is worth 3000 ordinary people I think you'll all agree. CNN weather forecasters are blaming Donald Trump for calling down lightning on Wolf. We have live footage of massive inundations. Look at all that water when we point the camera out to sea or along the shoreline without making clear that we're actually standing on the shoreline. On the spot reporter Miguel De Cervantes, what's it like out there."

Miguel: "Ees raining Amara, the storm has dropped to Category A Half, and I love you."

Amara: "Join the queue."

Miguel: "Aw shucks."

Amara: "Reporter Ita Pizzola is on the spot in North Charleston."

Ita: "The rain is flooding the bits of land near the sea and the river. It's like any house beside a major waterway could get wet. It's absolute unprecedented carnage Amara."

Amara: "Those poor houses."

Ita: "Also the Australian guy who usually co presents with you has been picked up by Wind Shear and dumped in the Azores."

Amara: (Brightening suddenly) "Well it's an ill  wind that blows nobody any good."

the heelers enquiry into the wrongful diagnosis of 200 people with cervical cancer in ireland which informed them they didn't have the disease when in fact they did

The only question that needs to be asked and answered is the question as to the identity of the individual or individuals who signed off on each test slide reading, falsely informing each of the  200 women that they did not have cancer.
Identifying the laboratory alone which carried out the tests, merely facilitates the usual evasions standard to Irish medical scandals and their resultant enquiries, ie: "Oh we outsourced the test to another laboratory which has since gone out of business," or "We don't do business with that laboratory anymore," or "This is a systems failure."
The individual who signed off on each wrongly diagnosed test slide must be identified whether in America or Ireland.
This must be done in order to establish whether the individual gave an incorrect reading of the slide because slides can easily be misinterpreted, or because he is incompetent, or because he is a murderer.
This should be a criminal enquiry.
That is all.