The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

are we human or are we hairdressers

Rowena Baines on the phone.
"The kids were trying to figure out what we were talking about yesterday. So being a modern parent I took them through the whole thing. Explained to them that Eilis Philips had produced a play, and that you had reviewed it in a magazine, and that Eilis hadn't liked your review, and had written a letter to the magazine accusing you of unfairness to one of her actors, and that now you are too embarassed to go into her hairdressing salon and are cutting your hair yourself which is why it looks so terrible. I told them everything. And my youngest said: 'No, I bet James went in and apologized to Eilis and Eilis said: Okay I forgive you but you have to let me cut your hair any way I want.' "
When Rowena had rung off, I pondered briefly the vicissitudes of existence.
An interesting theory from the kid.
Well bold travellers of the internet, it would explain a lot.

Monday, July 27, 2015

the 2015 lockout

Strolling on the avenue.
Rowena Baines hoves into view with her two kids, bright as buttons.
"James," she cries, "your hair! It's an American cut isn't it. A real marine cut. So you went back to Eilis Phillips! Did you apologize?"
Then she looks more closely.
The kids gawp a bit too.
"Eilis didn't do that," she muses, "there are gaps everywhere?"
"I did it myself," I pronounce grandly.
She stares.
"James," she intones grimly, "go back to Eilis Phillips."
So saying she gathers up her little ones and hurries away.

from the heelers prize fights

Eric Bolling versus Dana Perino
(Fox News, The Five programme, Re recent monumental clash between co presenters. Heelers referees.)

I like both these broadcasters.
Dana Perino because she used to be spokesperson for the Bushwhacker.
Eric Bolling because he goes to church.
They're both civil, intellectually qualitative, eminently watchable presenters.
But not spectacularly so.
They got stuck into each other a few weeks ago on their Fox News television chat show.
And that was spectacular.
I suppose I think it was spectacular because the honest and forthright exchange of views is comparatively rare in modern disourse.
As is honest emotion.
You get a lot of show boating, feigned outrage, and repeated party pieces.
Rare enough you see a clash between two honorable people who actually believe what they are saying.
The subject of their disagreement was Donald Trump and his spectacular poll numbers in the race for the Republican Party Presidential nomination.
Eric Bolling expressed the view that regardless of whether one supported Mr Trump, his presence in the race was of significant benefit to the other candidates (and to the public, and to the process) as he was moving the political conversation from formally rehearsed press releases and sound bites to a more spontaneous examination of key issues.
Dana Perino became progressively shriller as she denounced Donald Trump and anyone who might feel positively towards him.
Her denunciations became positively fascinating as she accused Eric Bolling himself of promoting a favourable view of Trump in order to get a stint on one of Trump's television programmes.
This was a train crash.
Eric Bolling knew he had been impugned and he knew he had to express outrage about what Dana Perino had said.
I think he also knew that in the Fox News television universe, Dana Perino is considered the bigger draw and anything he might say, might lose him his job.
He huffed and puffed a little.
Dana Perino shrieked some more.
"I have been with this programme since it began," Eric Bolling fumed.
"So have I," veritably shrieked Dana Perino.
I'm not joking.
She was really shrieking.
And it was over.
Here is the news.
Eric Bolling was correct in everything he said.
Dana Perino was wrong.
More than wrong.
While impugning Eric Bolling's motivation, she was in my view possibly quite crassly motivated herself.
Donald Trump has indeed injected the quality of the genuine into the Republican Presidential nomination process.
The back room boys who manage the Republican party, the fixers, the Karl Roves, et al (particlarly Al, I hate him) are now terrified that Trump may actually win the nomination.
That's what the spat on Fox News was really about.
Dana Perino while jeering Eric Bolling for supposed partisanship, was actually going in to bat for the boys in the back room.
Dana Perino was going in to bat for managerial Republicanism, the same stream of fixers and manipulators who consider the Republican Party their property and who sabotaged Rick Santorum's bid for the nomination four years ago by delaying the announcement that he had won the very first primary selection convention in Iowa.
The back room boys delayed the announcement of the result for six weeks, duplicitously claiming that it looked like Mitt Romney (remember him?) had won thereby allowing the public to believe Mitt Romney (remember him?) had some momentum thus saving Mitt Romney (remember him?)'s then stuttering campaign and denying Rick Santorium the vital momentum and plaudits which were his due.
His due because the electors in Iowa, it transpired, had actually endorsed Rick Santorium.
The back room boys saved Romney that night. They saved him right up until the moment Barack Obama polished his chronometer in the national election.
Wouldn't it be nice if the guy who actually lost to the Democrat was really the fellow we picked to stand for us?
I say it again.
Eric Bolling was honorable, insightful and courageous in his comments about Donald Trump. He represented integrity in the face of Dana Perino's shrill innuendos.
He spoke the truth.
And it's probably going to cost him his career.


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 all fund managers, investment comptrollers, and banking executives to divest immediately from 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.

Sunday, July 26, 2015


The confederate flag has been restored to the roof of the Dukes Of Hazzard car on display at Newbridge Silverware.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

pardon me but your pseudo atheistic quasi liberal conformist hijacking of public discourse is in my soup

Evening at the Tearman Cafe on Main Street Kilcullen.
I am examining a cluster of honey jars located on the counter beside the till.
Some months ago a Muslim.guy with a honey producing company wandered into the place and prevailed on the cafe management to give him prime position for his wares at this spot.
Persuasive guy.
Persuaded the various lady managers who are no wilting violets I assure you, to give pole position on the counter to his honey pots, and then refused to shake hands with those same women managers because they were women.
I kid you not.
They'd kick me in the bawls if I tried it.
Mahdi Honeys is the brand name.
Named after the Muslim Messiah of blood I do believe.
He is to return.
In blood.
So here we are.
Mild mannered poet about to pay for his fry at the till contemplating the return of the Mahdi.
The nice manageress is on duty.
As many of you know, this cafe is run by an organisation styled the Camphill Community on principles established a hundred years ago by a Kraut called Rudolf Steiner.
The milder critiques of Rudolf Steiner suggest that his teachings, styled Theosophy, are a form of devil worship.
I find members of the Camphill Community delightfully coy when I ask them about this.
"Lucifer is an energy," an elder of the community told me once in a conversation which plays in my memory like the sensation scene from Children Of The Stones.
Happy day children, indeed.
The nice manageress is on duty.
For thirty years the Camphill Community, no matter how many nice people work here, has always ensured that there is at least one collossal bitch working in managment at the cafe alongside the nice people.
Today the bitch is not here.
So I am.
Why do they do this?
Just to keep us guessing?
Maybe it's a spiritual exercise as well as a guessing game.
Find the bitch.
It'll improve you.
A sort of theosophistic Where's Waldo.
I don't know.
It must be part of Rudolf Steiner's theosophy.
By the way, I don't really think it's devil worship.
I think Rudolf Steiner was just trying to p--- me off.
Although right this moment it doesn't matter because the nice manageress is on duty.
And I say to her at the till: "Do you sell many of these honeys?"
She says: "Quite a few, but I haven't seen the guy in a while."
I then say: "I heard he self detonated in Syria."
There is a moment of stunned silence which extends.
A tumble weed blows through the cafe.
Venerable denizens look up with shocked faces from various tables.
For a moment I feel an unworthy urge to protest my warm hearted bona fides towards the peace loving religion of Islam.
I mean to apologise for my joke.
Then I don't bother.
There are too many people apologising for things they shouldn't be apologising for.
I never apologise.
Because the right sort of people don't want an apology and the wrong sort of people will misuse one.
Okay, that's Oscar Wilde.
I've always wanted to use the line.
And you know, I do apologise.
But only when I think I've done something wrong.
One of my foibles.
So not to Eilis Philips.
And not to the peaceloving religion of Islam.
Back at the Tearman cafe the awkward silence is still awkwarding.
I pay the manageress for my fry as nonchalently as I can muster. Linger a bit more over the honey jars. Just to spell it out that I'm not fleeing. Then I flee.
But isn't this an everyday dilemma now.
Ordinary humorisms, inadvertent remarks, genuine opinions, anything not flannelised pap, can land any and all of us in hot water.
Social ostracism may result.
Or a business bankrupting fine if a Same Sex promoting Judge Liberal decides your bakery has to put penises on the wedding cakes you make.
Or death if the Mussies or Skangland (Ireland's various drug dealing people trafficking gangster combos) come after you.
Ho hum.
Listen to this.
A few weeks ago the car from a 1980's TV series called The Dukes Of Hazzard went on display in the Newbridge Silverware Museum Of Style Icons which is located near where I live.
The TV series is pure Americana, congenial, ordinary enough, with personable actors, and wryly formulaic recurrent plot lines featuring good ole boys, car chases and a corrupt also quite likeable deep South sheriff,
The good ole boys' old Uncle was good too. The two lead actors were handsome fellows and clearly thrilled to be in a television series. There was an ingenue girly girl in short shorts who could really ingenue like few other ingenues have ingenued before.
She was an ingenuing genius.
It's not as easy to be an ingenue as she made it look. Lindsay Lohan found that out trying to play the same part with sleazoid unsubtlty in the charmless remake a few years ago.
(Are you sure it was Lindsay Lohan? - Ed note)
(They're all Lindsay Lohan - Heelers note)
(It's Jessica Simpson you wick - Jessica Simpson note)
The Dukes Of Hazzard car was itself one of the main stars of the show.
According to legend, the one on display at Newbridge Silverware was actually built by John Schneider one of the good ole boy main characters. Every episode while evading the sheriff the boys would jump their car over a gap in the road, or a gap in a bridge, or heaven knows, a gap in the space time continuum. Yes. At least once every episode.
My pal Yankee Joe tells me that the car was a Dodge Charger and that the show's makers bought up every Dodge Charger they could find in the Southern United States during the 1980's because the stunt men kept destroying them in the jumps.
Surviving Dodge Chargers are said to be something of a rarity and therefore worth a stack of cash.
And bear in mind, this one was supposedly built by the actor John Schneider himself.
I'm telling ya this is a car that has to be seen.
I suppose if they got Mad Max's V8 Interceptor (the one he used in Road Warrior before the Mad Max films turned into conformist pop trendy fembo dross) that might be a bigger draw.
But for anyone who grew up in the 1980's, or anyone who ran into the Dukes series in reruns years later, the Dukes Of Hazzard car is gold.
Okay, I accept that the Dukes Of Hazzard may not have been inspirationally brilliant but it has had this extraordinary durability, It's been an international phenomenon. The most surprising cross section of musicians and actors took part in it. The most surprising cross section of citizens remember the show with enthusiasm. Why? I think just because the people who did it, loved what they were doing and it comes across.
And half the world has seen the show.
The actors hamming it up in this quite local style of entertainment which could not have been expected to be culturally durable, became famous for the next four decades across the planet.
People still flock to see the car.
Now that's Americana.
Until the car came to my neighbourhood.
I really wanted to see that car.
Get this.
There's a confederate flag on the roof of it and on the number plate.
Within a few days of the car going on display, the Leinster Leader newspaper (damn them they yet live) was reporting (innacurately I think) that complaints had led to the cancellation of the display.
Actually what happened was the Museum had supposedly received a grand total of two anonymous complaints relating to the confederate flag on the roof of the car and had covered up the flag.
The car remained on display. Only the confederate flag on the roof was covered with a Stars And Stripes.
The complaints asserted that the confederate flag is a racist symbol.
I don't agree.
America fought her civil war to abolish slavery but she never treated the South as a defeated nation and the flag was not demeaned.
Until now.
A recent murder spree by a young man in a deep South church has led to the banning of the confederate flag from the State House government buildings in South Carolina and further moves to remove Civil War memorials to Southern generals and soldiers.
And now it's led to Irish Paddy Whack half lahs in managment at Newbridge Silverware without a scintilla of moral insight or courage covering up the flag on the roof of the Dukes Of Hazzard car.
I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
Thousands of people had gone along to see the car.
Two, supposedly two, had complained.
And the museum has covered up the flag with a regular Stars And Stripes American flag.
Ah yes.
I'll have to ask for a judges ruling on this one.
Seven years ago the Newbridge Silverware Museum Of Style Icons had a cosmically tacky permanent exhibit entitled The Sunday Independent Nude Photo Shoot.
It was a sad little tits and bum evocation of dyed in the wool skangers being paid by a bankrupt newspaper group to titillate the peasantry.
Worse you couldn't even really see anything even if you peered really closely.
Nor did squinting help.
I drew the line at using a magnifying glass.
At the time I wrote a few signed comments in the museum's Visitor's Book, to wit:
"You're really letting yourselves down with that Sunday Independent Nude Photo Shoot... Really sad... Uninspired.... Children visit this museum... If you really believe there's nothing wrong with your sad salacious grotty little photos why do you have them in an alcove?.. Objectification of women who are not that good looking to begin with... Made me want to shout Put Em On, Put Em On..."
I ask you gentle readers of the internet. Who could not be moved by such eloquence?
The owner of Newbridge Silverware, that's who.
The aforementioned owner, a Mr Something Doyle, annotated my comments in the Visitor's Book with the following:
"Adam and Eve were naked. Get a life."
Ah yes.
The argomento ad Adam and Evo and get a lifeo.
Aristotle would be impressed.
In spite of my best life affirming efforts, the ever so dowdy, and infinitely depressing, and cosmically tasteless, Sunday Independent Nude Photo Shoot remained on the walls at Newbridge Silverware during the intervening years.
My impassioned appeals to the finer sensibilities and indeed conscience of Mr Doyle and his management pals in Zektor Seiben Gah at Newbridge Silverware, availed nought.
They finally got rid of the sleaze only recently. (It must have stopped working for them. Little masturbation joke there. Not a good joke if I have to explain it. Ho hum.)
Yet they covered up the confederate flag on the Dukes Of Hazzard car within hours of receiving the first anonymous letter from the first anonymous pseud who spoke anonymously for no one.
Oh lawsy me.
Exhibit B.
I mean I want you to consider another recent story.
Professor Tim Hunt, a winner of the Nobel Prize for his scientific research, was speaking at a conference in Korea.
He came out with some classic old buffer remarks, viz:
"Women in the laboratory... always falling in love with me... and then they cry if I give out to them.,,"
Another academic published Professor Hunt's remarks and endeavoured to whip up a public outcry about them.
The public outcry did indeed ensue.
Suggestible amoral pseuds clamoured to excoriate him over the internet.
There were consequences in his professional life too with his university employers ending their contract with him.
All this for a bit of vintage old buffer waffle.
And so to Donald Trump.
Trump's decision to stand for the Presidency seemed to me classic billionaire hubris.
I thought: Well he's going to lose about a billion quid to find out that not everybody likes him.
Somebody suggested to me that maybe he was standing simply to promote brand recognition for his multiplicity of business ventures. This made sense.
Then a few weeks ago Trump spoke out about immigration.
He referred to the many immigrants to America who commit murder, rape and other crimes against the person.
Immediately the pseudo establishment sought to interpret his remarks as bigoted, and anti Mexican. A massive media campaign tried to label him racist.
I was now thinking: Don't apologise Trump; Just once let someone stand up to them for once.
And Trump hit back at his critics twice as hard.
And he didn't apologise.
And his poll figures went up.
He became the front runner for the Republican nomination to stand for the Presidency of the United States.
And every time critics challenged him, he challenged them right back.
Sometimes vituperatively.
Sometimes roguishly.
But always with refreshing candour, forthrightness and vitality.
It struck me suddently: Trump is starting to think he can win this.
Then former Presidential candidate John McCain referred to Trumps' supporters as crazies.
And Trump was challenged at a conference by an interviewer who repeated McCain's comment and pointed out that McCain was a war hero.
Trump hit back with trademark combativeness and a certain independence of thought: "He's not a war hero... What? He's a war hero because he was captured... I prefer my heroes not to get captured..."
Now Americans are very respectful to their men in uniform so this comment really endangered Trump.
But lo!
In spite of the firestorm of criticism from other Republican Presidential candidates, all trailing him in the polls, in spite of similar criticism from Democrats and their allies in the pseud media, in spite of some thoughtful and insightful criticism from commentators with a modicum of integrity such as Charles Krauthammer and Greta Van Susteren, in spite of all this, Trump's poll numbers went up again.
He's now on 24 percent among Republicans to take their party's nomination.
He was at 8 percent before he spoke out about criminals infiltrating our countries through immigration.
He was at 13 percent when the media tried to label him racist.
He's hitting a quarter of the Republican vote simply because he refused to tiptoe around John McCain.
Can you believe it?
What's the reason?
Maybe a lot of us were simply hoping that for once genuine opinion, vigorous discussion and, yay that old shibboleth which I love, free speech, would not be silenced by the faux principals of our faux elites.
Last night I switched on the bankrupt left wing broadcaster CNN.
A presenter on CNN was saying (he really was): "Trump is surely about to pull out of the race. He's leading in the polls but after what he said about John McCain it can't be long now."
I nearly fell out of my standing.
"Good Lord," I exclaimed, "if CNN are predicting he's about to pull out, he may just be on the verge of winning the Presidency."
You'll be happy to know folks that back in the Tearman Cafe Kilcullen the Muslim bee keeper has shown up once more.
So he did not self detonate in Syria.
Somewhere the ghost of Rudolf Steiner is smiling.
The nice manageress (and by nice I mean capable, professional, compassionate, caring, a good cook, an enlightened supervisor of those who work under her tutelage, and a damn fine human being) has reduced her hours of work.
The bitch is taking up the slack.
Ah well.
We can't have everything.

in the attic garret of pauline fagan an artist

here there are riches none can hold
desert armies may fight and die
the seas are churning like my soul
cities tumble to the sky
and the world is mad for gold
here there are riches none can hold

the world is calling from afar
away away your life is spent
kilcullen whispers to my ear
you have no need of wonderment
nor fear the failing of the years
seek the hidden riches here

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

not with a bang but a whimper

An Open Letter To Ireland's Prime Minister Enda Kenny

Prime Minister.
A public enquiry into the circumstances wherewith Ireland became liable for the debts of Anglo Irish Bank is currently underway.
You will be aware of my analysis that Anglo Irish Bank was an IRA mafia proxy bank systematically burglarised on behalf of the IRA by its Chief Executive an IRA proxy called Sean Fitzpatrick and Sean Fitzpatrick's IRA proxy assistant David Drumm (currently on the run in America having been facilitated with United States residency and a big house through the IRA's gangland rat lines in Boston) an institutional burglarisation achieved via repeated billion dollar thieveries disguised as loans to yet another IRA proxy called Sean Quinn who masqueraded as a businessman and became the bagman for the purposes of this, the biggest bank job in history.
Not Irish history Prime Minister.
World history.
Anglo Irish Bank's losses when it collapsed in 2008 exceeded those of any other bank on earth including the largest American loss making bank Citibank.
Prime Minister your Deparment of Public Prosecutions has just forbidden the Banking Enquiry from interviewing Sean Fitzpatrick who was the lynch pin of this IRA smash and grab on the nation.
In other words your Department of Public Prosecutions has instructed the Banking Enquiry not to interview the man whose criminal behaviour on behalf of the IRA put Ireland in the Third World overnight.
Your Department of Public Prosecutions has prevented the Banking Enquiry from forcing Sean Fitzpatrick to answer questions about his impoverishment of the nation on the grounds that Sean Fitzpatrick's appearance before the Banking Enquiry, an Enquiry precipitated by himself, might in the future create some sort of arcane prejudice among jurors at some unspecified and as yet unscheduled legal trial which may or may not ever take place. (The chances are it won't.)
Clever aren't they.
Prime Minister consider what I've said.
That is all.
James Healy

how to rob a bank

1. You put IRA proxy Sean Fitzpatrick in charge of the bank.

2. You get another IRA proxy Sean Quinn to apply for billion dollar loans from the bank.

3. You get IRA proxy Sean Fitzpatrick to rob his own bank disguising the robbery as billion dollar loans to IRA proxy Sean Quinn.

4. IRA proxy Sean Quinn and his odious IRA family then launder the loans out of Ireland using the Russian mafia and other rackateering crime gangs.

5. You get Ireland's Finance Minister Brian Lenihan (since conveniently deceased) and his successors to loot the treasury of the Republic of Ireland in order to cover up the IRA's burglarisation of its own bank.

6. Er that's it.

poem and parody

Fire And Ice
by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire
Some say in ice
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire

But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice


blithe spirits
by James Healy

some say ireland will end at the hands of fine gaelers
some say at the hands of sinn fein
from what i know of atheistic abortionist kleptocratic moral failures
i hold with those who favour fine gaelers

although in the main
there is no real moral difference between fine gael and the IRA's parliamentary proxies sinn fein
whose infiltration of the trade union movement and the judiciary
has now been crowned with their institutionalised burglarisation of anglo irish bank and its subsidiaries
rendering those same bank robbing people trafficking drug dealing IRA proxies sinn fein
unto fine gael
about the same
in the grand old



Sunday, July 19, 2015

storms in teacups

Wandered into the pharmacy.
"That was an interesting letter," comments my cousin John from behind the counter above the hubbub of a noisy and demonstrative clientele.
He is clearly referring to Eilis Philips' letter to the editor of the Bridge magazine excoriating my critique of a recent drama group production.
All South Kildare is in uproar over it.
Her letter I mean.
Not my critique.
And by uproar I mean that the peasants seems to be applauding her efforts.
"The thing is I don't need any new enemies," I groan to my cousin like a heffalump in pain.
"Ah Eilis won't fall out with you," says John.
"John you know Eilis Philips," I persist.
"Okay, she won't fall out with you forever," sez he with a meaningful stress on the last word.
My handsome preraphaelite features turn a bit gothic.
"I'd boycott her damn hairdressing salon," I tell him bitterly. "That would teach her. Only I still owe her for the last few haircuts. It's not really boycotting, is it? If I still owe her money and I just don't pay my bills?"
"No," sez John, "it's stealing."

Saturday, July 18, 2015

confession of a reformed egomaniac

Tuesday 22nd June 2015: To Naas for the launch of Adeline Poufong's sculpture exhibition. The artist comes from a family of proverbially alluring women. There are three sisters who are known as great beauties in County Kildare and beyond, one a sculptor, one a model and one a student I think. I have no acquaintance with them but since I tend to keep an eye on new art exhibitions, and of course we owe it to ourselves to live a little, here I am. I can see what must be the Poufong sisters swirling around in the crowd. It has to be them. The rest of the women from my town look like refugees from a Breughel painting. Yes, it's them. But I have no idea which is which. There is a tall striking girl wearing a dramatic black dress which serves only to accentuate her rather intimidating good looks. I turn to the guy beside me.
"Well that's the model," I tell him conspiratorially, "Phwoarr. But I'm trying to pick out the sculptor."
The guy favours me with a cool look and replies: "She is the sculptor. But she does do some modelling as well. And I am her father."
Ah. I have a talent.
I have just recovered my elan after the previous exchange and begun plucking up the courage to approach the sculptor of the hour herself intending to bestow some of my trademark plawmaws (Irish colloquialism for simpering compliments) when Bloody Trapman materialises with a camera and notebook and swoops in. Trapman! Gumph in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. Well you know what I mean. Is there no limit to his power. Who will rid me of this turbulent parvenu! A line must be drawn. He must be stopped. No really. The mayor will have my ass. Trapman. Blah blah Trapman, the mayor, blah, blah, etc etc.

Wednesday 23rd June: All Kilcullen is agog over a letter to the Bridge Magazine from the Chairman of the Drama Group one Eilis Philips (two Eilis Philipses would have been ridiculous even for this town) critiquing my critique of a recent drama group production. Yes folks, in this here town, the performers bite back. The letter calls me "ungenerous, unfair, " and some other word that doesn't sound a bit like the me you all know and love, probably "ungentlemanly" if she maintained the words beginning with a "u" theme.
(Uncouth? Ungainly? Unctious? Ukelele? - Ed note)
(Shu'up - Heelers note)
Incidentally those words are my middle names.
The letter began with the classic announcement: " Chairman of the local Drama Group and Producer of the recent play..."
So, not as a human being with opinions no higher and no lower than anyone else's.
Thank heavens she didn't add "...and as proprietor of the local hair dressing salon...."
That would have been hard to answer since I still owe her twenty quid for my last haircut.
The June edition of the Bridge has been snapped up off the shelves with no copies remaining in the pharmacy or the Tearman cafe. This is unprecedented in the entire history of the magazine. (Or at least since a month ago.) The proles are probably cutting out the letter and hanging it up in their kitchens even as we speak.

Thursday 24th June: Word coming through of a spat at the Vatican. Pope Francis was greeting a row of dignitaries and he reached one distinguished fellow in black suit and asked him his name. The guy said: "Yo Yo Ma." And Francis went for him. The two tussled and rolled on the ground before aides separated them. One aide pleaded with the Pope: "Why are you doing this Your Holiness?" And Francis answered: "He insulted my mother. He muttered: Your Mama. He really did." And the aide said: "But that's his name Your Holiness. He's Yo Yo Ma, the famous Chinese musician." Things quietened down. Pope Francis was walking away with the aide when he looked back and caught Yo Yo Ma's eye and this time Yo Yo Ma clearly mouthed: "Your Mama." And the Pope went berserk, breaking free from his retinue, running back to Yo Yo Ma, and they started fighting again. It's funny how these things happen.

Friday 25th June: Driving to Naas I was somewhat intrigued to discover the main road into the town had been blocked off by ghost workers. Yes ghost workers. Kildare County Council is an equal opportunities employer, meaning now apparently that they're hiring the dead. I mean they had blocked the road but there were none of them there. Road blocked but no one (no one visible or mortal at least) doing any work. Can you credit this. They just blocked the road, put in a five mile diversion, and then with the road blocked, and the diversion in place, they had all headed off for the weekend. I wondered briefly who might be responsible for such a situation. Kildare County Council? The National Roads Authority? A private contractor? Satan? Or some malign admixture of the four. I'm told the devil hasn't worked in local government for years. I'm telling you he's the focquing County Manager.

Saturday 26th June: My spies tell me that a new Trapman book is in the shops. I read his last one with relish. To be honest I read it with relish because I was hoping it would be his last one. Something about Saint Patrick and some girl and something else. At the time I thought it was a bit like the Da Vinci Code which it predated by a few years. Ah memories. Truly, happiness is being curled up at the chateau with a good Trapman sincerely and naively believing he'll never write another. His latest is said to be a collection of short stories. I will review it next month. My forecast for the review? Well just go to the Rocky Three film and fast forward to the bit where Clubber Lang is asked for his predictions for the fight against Rocky, and Clubber Lang snarls one word: "Pain." Expect letters of support for Trapman from Eilis Philips and other worthy burghers to start appearing in local publications shortly.