Afternoon quaffing a coffee in the Whitewater Centre in Newbridge.
An impulse. On my mobile phone I dialled up Melanie Gibson in the Daily Mail.
I knew her once Horatio.
She worked in the Lootheramawn.
She had honey blonde hair and a most striking form.
Anyhoo.
Now I wanted to see was she interested in the story of the century.
She agreed to listen to what I had to say.
And what a tale I told her then.
It was a tale about a lone poet discovering a plot within a huge supra national organisation; a plot to subvert democracy and devolve total power to itself; a plot to give exponential power to faceless manipulators unaccountable and unrestrained; a plot to stifle free expression on the internet so that by controling what is said this organisation might ultimately control what is thought.
It was a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying... nothing.
No dammit.
That's Macbeth.
But close enough.
As I recounted my high adventure over the phone, I began to hear snuffling sounds.
Here's larks, thinks I, Melanie must have a cold.
I continued talking.
The snuffling sounds grew louder.
Presently it became clear that despite her best efforts Miss Gibson was laughing.
A lilting girlish giggle asserted itself and would accept no refusals.
"I'm sorry," she said weakly as the giggles became guffaws.
For some moments coherent communication was impossible.
Eventually there was silence.
"Okay Melanie," I said with what grace I could muster. "You know the story and if you think it's worth following up you can call me."
Back at the chateau I found an email from Mallers.
"Heelers, will you just stop. Stop. It's me. It's me for crying out loud. All our traffic is routed through that site. For God's sake stop.
Malcolmson"
Ah gentle friends of the internet.
Whom the God's wish to destroy they first make mad.
My noble guests at The Heelers Diaries, from today we must come to an agreement.
If you meet me in the street, or at the theatre, or during some dramatic storming of the barricades, why let us greet each other pleasantly like old confreres, raise our top hats, and hurry on.
Let us never again mention the UN under any circumstances.
Not even in jest.
PS: I wonder will Kofi accept my apology...
After she had gone, the ghost of Walt Whitman appeared at my table.
