The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Saturday, February 24, 2007


The ghost of Samuel Johnson appeared at my side in the cafe. He favoured me with a look that was not unfriendly nor yet excessively warm. It was as though he wanted to recognise my greatness without deferring to it. Then he nodded towards the couple beneath the umbrella standing on the Strand in the rain.
"He who is tired of London is tired of life," he murmured.
"He who can afford London has a stack of cash," I replied.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

television detective serials and the end of childhood innocence

in calm contentment we could review
shootouts bank robberies all the rest
secure in the knowledge that the hero would come through
that rationo legalism is the best

then one day in the late 1970s
kojak was shooting at some thugs
i was relaxed in all my certainties
until kojak went over like a sack of spuds

and here's the rub he did survive
to keep the streets of new york free of human vermin
my sensibilities died that night
i could never put my faith in pop culture again

Monday, February 19, 2007

family night

Evening at the chateau.
Heelers and the Mammy in the front room contemplating a television set.
Enter Doctor Barn stage left.
"I hear you haven't been feeling well," sez the Herr Doktor all businesslike to the Mammy.
"Who told you that?" sez the Mammy sharpish.
In his armchair browsing before the sexevision, the mighty Heelers stirs slightly.
A cold and clammy hand has fastened around his heart.
Doctor Barn's reply to the Mammy's question is feeble in the extreme. I mean feeble-issimus.
"Er, no one told me," sayeth the good doctor.
Ireland's greatest living poet concentrates hard on his Southpark.
He doesn't approve of Southpark but he likes to watch it occasionally to keep himself informed on what it is exactly he doesn't approve of.
It also helps in the present circumstances to have something to concentrate on when a nearby conversation that is apt to take a dangerous turn, is gathering momentum.
The Mammy's voice takes on the tone of a grand inquisitor.
A fairly bad tempered grand inquisitor.
"Did that ------ tell you?"
I don't look up.
I rarely look up when I hear that word.
Doctor Barn's reply again lacks credibility.
"Er, no," sez he.
The Mammy fixes me with a rather baneful stare.
I know this even though I haven't looked up.
"------," sez she.
And there our story ends.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

the master at work

apologia pro egotismus mea
(He's not a bit sorry. - Ed note.)