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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Not the Theme Tune to Casino Royale

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

idea for a novelty music video in aid of the bjhanc* foundation

Note: We need to get the old British golf commentator Peter Alliss to do a guest spot in this video.

The song is a parody of Living Next Door To Alice. This is how it goes:

"It was strangely optimistic of me
To send off a job application to the BBC
But I'd always dreamed of working next door
To Alliss."

Peter Alliss then interjects: "Alliss? Alliss? Who the f--- is Alliss?"

"Now they've replied formally
And they weren't exactly too nice to me
And I've gotta get used to not living next door to Alliss"

Peter Alliss again interrupts the song in his quintessentially plummy tones to enquire: "Alliss? Alliss? Who the f--- is Alliss?"

"I don't what I'm doing
Or where I'm gonna go
There's got to be a reason
But I just don't wanna know
Now I've got to get used to not living next door to Alliss."

Peter Alliss: "What on earth is he talking about?"

"I've always wanted to be
A left wing conformist at the BBC
Covering up for Jihadis
And the gangster bank HSBC
Like Alliss..."

Peter Alliss says: "Heyyy!"

"Now I realise it's not my destiny
To frame Cliff Richard with the help of corrupt Rupert Murdock subverted freemasonic police
So I'd better get used to not living next door to Alliss..."

Peter Alliss says: "Too right, you'd better."

"I don't know what I'm doing
Or where I'm going to go
I guess there is a reason
But I just don't want to know
Now I've gotta get used to not living next door to Alliss
Yes I've gotta get used to not promoting the atheistic suicide of our culture
Next door to Alliss..."

Peter Alliss says: "What charity is this in aid of again?  Sorry. Alliss? Alliss? Who the f--- is Alliss"

* The BJHANC is the Buy James Healy A New Car foundation.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


(Our weekly chess puzzle)

Bobby Fisher versus Ronald De La Rochefoucauld
London 1977
Fisher playing the White pieces has a lot of action going on. His rooks are locking horns with their opponents and his queen is well forward and similarly engaged. The Black king is exposed but he's a piece in front. Can you see how White decisively turned the tables in this apocalyptic end game?
Answer: Fisher was well aware of persistent rumours that De La Rochefoucauld was involved with freemasonry. At an opportune moment he lean forward and asked his opponent: "Been worshiping Jahbulon lately?" De La Rochefoucauld turned pale, rose from the table and stormed out of the room, thereby forfeiting the game. Jahbulon is of course the name under which freemasons worship satan. Fisher went on to win the world championship but the International Chess Federation has since outlawed the Jahbulon manoeuvre in open chess competitions.

Sunday, March 08, 2015


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.

Friday, March 06, 2015

the powers that be

The noble Heelers wanders up a corridor at Kilcullen Parish Centre.
A rather good looking woman is talking at the far end to the inimitable Uncle Scutch.
You will be spared gentle readers my usual maunderings about her looks because I have since been informed she's happily married.
Walking up the corridor I do not recognise her.
She exclaims as I draw abreast: "It's the famous James Healy!"
This is the sort of greeting that I heartily approve of and I therefore choose to linger.
For his part Uncle Scutch immediately decides to argue the point the woman's just made about my fame.
"Do you know James?" quoths he dubiously.
"Everybody knows him," answereth she.
"How do you know him?" challenges the Uncle more dubious than ever.
"Oh you know," murmureth she somewhat evasively.
Reticent with the words, eh.
Clearly the situation demands further professional elucidation from someone with a Certificate in Journalism from the College of Commerce Rathmines.
"Who are you?" I enquire bluntly.
"I'm Rosario Power," sez she.
Realisation dawns.
"You're not Paddy Power's daughter are you?" I blurted.
"I am," sez she.
This was all a bit rude even by my usual standards of rudeness.
The late Paddy Power was an influential government Minister and parliamentarian in the Republic of Ireland for many decades. I shouldn't have said his name to her the way I did. It's just public figures often seem like public property and anyway I tend to communicate in blurts.
I hadn't stopped blurting yet either.
"Your sister Loretto," I babbled, "I met her once about thirty years ago and when I told her that she had been named after an order of nuns, she proceeded to give me the slagging of my life. She was merciless. I'm turning red thinking about it now. I thought I was quick with the words. I never stood a chance. And your brother Sean, the guy in parliament. I once wrote some unfair rubbish about him and Fianna Fail on my website. Sorry about that. And there someone else in your family I've met. Oh. There's your other brother with the beard who the one was in the Green Party, the one that exposed the developers giving brown envelopes to Councillors. I phoned him once to say well done about..."
You gotta understand bold readers I didn't realise she was married at this stage.
I'll rue the day when it's not worth my while blathering desperately at strange rather good looking women I meet in corridors just on the off chance.
(The above line is best appreciated if you imagine me saying it in the voice of Mr Burns from The Simpsons television cartoon.)
Uncle Scutch decided to throw me a life jacket.
"The meeting's about to start," yawneth he, "we'd better go in."

time and tide

Flicking through the channels on the sexevision.
I alighted on a politics programme presented by the broadcaster Vincent Brown.
Someone among his guests was show boating about the Catholic Church.
It was: "Catholic Church this... Catholic Church that... and Catholic Church the other..."
Vincent Brown stopped the twaddle.
Vincent Brown said: "Most sex abuse cases arose outside the church. And no one is doing anything about them."
I stopped dead.
In the past it seems Vincent Brown has been very much misunderstood.
Mainly by me.
Yes, I have spoken harshly about Vincent Brown in the past.
I will not do so again.

Wednesday, March 04, 2015


(with Mystic Muggins)

Aries (The Goat): The moon is in your Uranus. But it could be worse. Think of the other orifices it might be in. Try not to worry so much about the future. A man with the letter 'Y' in his name will ask you to marry him. What they hey. Say yes.

Libra (The Something Or Other): The mucous is in your nostrils. Try cutting down on dairy and exercising more.

Sagittarius (The Chicken Curry): Yummm. Chicken Curry.

Capricorn (The Goat): Your propensity for climbing every mountain should not lead you to think you're that Von Trapp woman. You're not.

Cancer (The Crab): Saturn rising in Betelgeuse will leave you feeling listless. Learn to think about the good things in life: Sunsets, the mountains, oceans, trees, the first Die Hard movie, Mad Max 2, etc etc.

Zogsplox (The Brief Case): A series of events at work may conspire to give your day a lift. A man with 'Y' in his name will ask you to marry him but you should refer him to one of your friends born under the sign of Aries.

Gemini (The Twins): Yummm. Twins.

The Rest Of You: Just wing it.

oooh ahhh up the haircuts


I am loathe to praise the Sunday Independent Newspaper but it performed a public service at the weekend in publishing an article by Mairia Cahill about the terrorist murder gang styled the Irish Republican Army or IRA.
Mairia Cahill speaks with authority about the IRA.
In fact she is one of those rare people in the present era that the satanic hoodlums of the IRA are actually afraid of.
Her article makes clear that the IRA is functioning now as a fully fledged international criminal mafia.
She notes that the IRA has been laundering money in the Republic of Ireland through front businesses including a chain of barber shops.
Her words are a significant contribution in raising public awareness of the ongoing economic and political hijacking of Ireland by the narco traficante terrorists of the IRA.

(Copy to the Irish National Lottery commission whose computer terminals seem to be crashing an awful lot these days in shall we say mysterious circumstances prior to draws.)

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

au revoir mes judges martins nolans

Ireland's most infamous Judge Liberal, a character styling himself Judge Martin Nolan, hit a bit of a home run in the Republic's court system this week.
Batting against the Rule Of Law, Judge Martin Nolan sentenced a forger to nought years in prison.
That is to say he let him go.
Officially Judge Martin Nolan went through the motions of imposing a sentence of four years but Judge Martin Nolan suspended the implementation of that sentence... for four years.
So nought years in jail for the forger.
Bear in mind that this is the same Judge Martin Nolan who sentenced a fruit importer to six years in jail, with no years suspended, for the purely notional crime of mislabelling garlic as apples.
You gotta hand it to mafia IRA judges.
They know no shame.
Seriously though, he's doing a brilliant job.

(Copy to Judge Paul Carney.)

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

to a wild rabbit

(prince of the fields)

words are mine
no words take from his eyes
the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands
nor the silver scented sight of evening glories

manhood mine
a prince of the fields is he
even in the terror of flight
a strange high ecstasy
spirits to delight

age is mine
he will not grow old
nor fear the passing of his world
the lure of yellow gold
the bitterness of friends becoming foes

knight hospitalier

Debating with a supposedly dying man on the wards of Naas hospital about the existence of God.
Ah, I have a talent.
Count your blessings if you're ever in hospital bold readers.
Whatever you're going through, say to yourself: "It could be worse. I could be getting a visit from James."
So here we are.
Brinsksley sits up in bed and proclaims a litany of stuff along the lines of the Bible containing geographical errors, historical inaccuracies, unrealistic depictions of the Romans, photoshopped battle scenes, blah, blah, blah.
I earnestly endeavour to refute each point.
It's intense enough and honest enough the way we argue.
The nurses and other patients are shooting me warning looks but Brinksley doesn't seem to mind.
On we go.
"There is no heaven and there's no hell," says Brinksley, "Graham Norton put it best when he said that where we are now, is hell. There's no need for any other."
This was too much for me.
"You're quoting the great theologian Graham Norton," I cried. "I mean what a rip off.Graham has pulled off the most monstrous con on the English for years. He has them convinced he's a homosexual so of course the Brits give him a prime time television show. That's how careers are handed out at the BBC. But the joke is on them. The Brits don't understand the Cork accent. What they don't realise is that in County Cork, everyone talks like that. Graham Norton is in fact the most macho man in County Cork. He's the Arnold Schwarzeneggar of Cork."
Brinksley waited for me to finish.
Then he said: "I think your lord is a ****."
I lowered my head into my hands.
"I've shocked you, haven't I?" said Brinksley.
I groaned.
"No, no, no," I said. "It's just that I've called him the same thing and by your standards I probably didn't have much excuse."