The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Saturday, April 14, 2007

shadow of a heelers

The mighty Heelers chatting to his mother and Councillor Richard Daly who is a prospective candidate for the Irish parliament in the forthcoming general election.
They are at the opening night of Shadow Of A Gunman in Kilcullen theatre.
An imposing looking lady of mature years and piercing grey eyes approaches.
"Are you James Healy?" she says directing her attention to the finest mind of a generation.
"Yes," quoth I, expecting compliments to start flying any moment.
"I have a bone to pick with you," sez she grimly enough.
"Oh," sez I wearily, "another bloody bone."
"You are the man," continueth she. "You are the man who writes for the paper."
"No," interrupteth me. "That's my brother Trevor."
"Oh, I'm sorry Mr Healy. I'm so sorry. I thought it was you."
"That's alright. We all make mistakes."
She turned and fled.
There was a moment's silence.
Councillor Daly broke it.
"You know what?" sez he, "You're the one who should be in politics."

Friday, April 13, 2007

black humour

My feminist cousin Pauline and her friend Abbie the heiress were posited in the back row of the grand Salon Des Beaux Parvenus, a theatre which overlooks the sea near Dublin.
Around them the finery and flummery of Irish artistic life was disporting.
The auditorium was packed.
For this was the Dunlaoghaire International Festival of Art and Poetry. (Accept no immitations.)
Pauline and Abbie were enjoying the great panoplay of recitals, homages, kow tows and hem touching.
"James would hate this," grinned Abbie. "I asked him to come. Do you know what he said? He said he'd rather go beneath the earth wretching blood, than listen to another soul dead conformist in a three piece suit proclaiming the vitality of art."
"He's just about the only poet in Ireland who isn't here," observed Pauline. "What else did he say?"
"Nothing really," replied Abbie. "Except he asked me to give him a hundred thousand dollars for some vampire film he thinks he's making."
The two laughed agreeably.
They find me most amusing.
Particularly when I ask them for money.
A thought struck Pauline.
"Imagine if we had put some explosives under the stage," quoth she. "If we blew up this place we could kill every single poet in Ireland. All except one. Then James really would be Ireland's greatest living poet."
"There's no point," shot back her friend. "He's a film maker now."

Thursday, April 12, 2007


children on a beach
outshine the sun
the years in silence
wait for them

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

my nephew and the count de tailforth

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

more from those iranian torture tapes

President Ahmadinejad and the Ayatollah Beheshti are in a darkened room watching the kidnapped British soldiers from behind a two way mirror.

President Ahmadinejad: Why won't they break? Why do they keep smiling?

Ayatollah Beheshti: It is their famous indomitable British spirit, the stiff upper lip.

President Ahmadinejad: If they thank us again for kidnapping them I'm going to scream.

Ayatollah Beheshti: They are cunning as the desert snake these infidels.

President Ahmadinejad: Look, look. They're laughing again. What the hell is so funny?

Ayatollah Beheshti: Let's see how they handle our next torture.

(A member of the Islamic guard enters the prisoners detention room. He is carrying a tray laden with scones and cups of tea.)

Prisoner Captain: Oh thank you. Thank you for the tea. Thank you for capturing us. We invaded your territory. Iran is such a beautiful country.

Ahmadinejad: (from off) Curse them.

Beheshti: Steady. Wait till they see there's no sugar.

Prisoner Lieutenant: No sugar. That's alright. I don't really like sugar anyway. And we really shouldn't have gone into your waters. Outrageous behaviour. I'm going to tell everyone back home what wonderful people the Iranians are. I hate my own country. Truly I do. You guys are just the cat's pyjamas. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Ahmadinejad: (losing it briefly) I'll cut off his balls. Let's see if he thinks I'm wonderful then.

Beheshti: Shh. They'll hear you. There's another torture coming.

(A member of the Islamic guard enters the prisoners detention room carrying chess sets)

Prisoner Captain: (flashing a cheesy grin) Hoorah. Chess. Let's all play. Thank you Iran. Thank you Ayatollahs. I love chess. And I haven't had a game in six months.

Seven of the Prisoners: (Together) Hoorah for the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Ahmadinejad: (clenching his fists) They are iron men.

Beheshti: Give them time. They haven't noticed there's no rooks yet. You can't play chess without the rooks.

Prisoner Captain: Thank heavens there's no rooks. Never liked rooks. Can never remember when it's okay to castle them.

Ahamdinejad: Gnuuuurghhh!

Beheshti: Easy, easy. They've stood up to the sugarless tea torture. They're defied the chess sets without rooks. But let's see how they deal with... the cuddly toys.

Ahmadinejad: Yes, yes, yes. The cuddly toys. Send in the cuddly toys.

(The Ayatollah Khomeini joins Ahmadinejad and Beheshti.)

Khomeini: Sorry lads. We can't risk it.

Ahmadinejad: I thought you were dead.

Khomeini: That's no bar to high office in this screwball country. Boom, boom. But anyhoo. No cuddly toys.

Ahmadinejad: Why not?

Khomeini: We can't risk infuriating the Americans. Oh the Brits are tough enough. But they'll always go the legal route. They'll always beat a path to the United Nations or some other talking shop where our allies will tie them up in debate forever. It's the Americans we have to worry about. If the Yanks get mad they're liable to do something about it. In a second they'd flatten our lovely palaces and start holding free elections here. Then the whole rotten con job would be over. I've always found it most edifying to shout "Jihad" and "Death To The West," when there was no question of the American army arriving on our doorsteps. Now they're a little close for comfort. Think of what we've been accomplishing. Our attempts to sabotage freedom in Iraq and Afghanistan. Our sponsorship of proxy terror in Lebanon and Palestine. Our stewardship of every toe rag terrorist on the planet. Our development of weapons of mass destruction and our mission to bring conflagration to the world. Ah yes. We have committed mass murder in Iraq and Afghanistan, while hiding behind the insurgency of farm animals. We have done this because we can't afford free countries on our borders. Our moves to destroy Iraqi and Afghan freedom came about solely because if they're free then our own people might want to move out of the Middle Ages and be free too. Now if we expose the British prisoners to cuddly toys, the Yanks may get involved. Then our whole miserable mendacious murder machine would come crashing down around us in a second. And we'd have to start working for a living. No we can't have that. Better not risk the cuddly toys. The Prisoner Captain and his Lieutenant would accept them alright. The girl would probably even write us a thank you letter. But the Americans might just kick our lily asses.

Ahamdinejad: Alright then. (Viciously) Send in the Armani Suits.

(A member of the Islamic guard enters the prisoners detention room carrying suits.)

Ahmadinejad: (rubbing his hands together) Nyah, ha, ha, g-force.

Beheshti: Shh. They'll hear you.

(The Iranian leadership collectively goggles through the mirror as their captors don and then express fulsome and effusive gratitude for the suits.)

Prisoner Captain: Feel the material. This is just incredible. Thank you Iran, thank you, thank you.

Prisoner Lieutenant: In a way I'm sort of glad we invaded your waters. We've made so many new friends here. I hate my own country.

Seven Of The Prisoners: (in unison) We hate our own country.

Ahamdinejad: (staring mesmerised at the scene) You know what really scares me?

Beheshti: What?

Ahmadinejad: That Captain. Every time he shakes my hand, I get the distinct impression he fancies me.

Beheshti: Well you're an attractive fellow.

Ahmadinejad: Ha, ha, ha.

Beheshti: Ha, ha, ha.

Khomeini: Ha, ha, ha.

Voice From Off Stage: (singing) For mash get smashed.

(Heelers note: At least seven of the prisoners did not smile for the Iranians. Or thank them. Or kow tow as the others did. These seven have not attended press conferences back home with the smilers. I am afraid the British Ministry of Defence in backing the smilers may be marginalising the genuine heros. I believe the seven silent ones represent the greatness of Britain which has not spoken yet.)