the eternal mysteries

The open road with Lil and a car called Esmerelda.
I am singing a song by legendary 1960's musician Donovan Leitch.
My voice is tuneful and cheerful, lacking that plaintive note some of you have come to know and love, which kicks in when I'm singing Kate Nash songs.
Today's song goes:
"Oh the intergalactic laxative,
Will get you from here to there,
Relieve you, and believe me,
Without a worry or care.
If shi--ing is your problem,
When you're out there in the stars,
Oh the intergalactic laxative, the intergalactic laxative,
The intergalactic laxative,
Will get you from here to Mars."
There was a moment's respectful silence when I'd finished this fine paean to modern technology. Presently the lady known as Lil spoke.
"How do they do it?" she wondered.
"Who?" sez I.
"Astronauts," sez she.
"Do what?" sez I.
"Go to the toilet," sez she.
I answer her with another burst from the immortal Donovan. Clearly gentle travellers of the internet, we might reasonably conclude that my youth has been somewhat misspent since I can apparently recall at will the entire lyrics to songs like this.
Dammit all.
I bet even Donovan couldn't sing these next verses off the cuff.
With strange high passion I sing:
"They don't partake like you and I
Of beefy burgher mush.
Their food is specially prepared,
To dissolve into slush.
Aborbed by multi fibres
In their super diaper suit.
Otherwise the slush would trickle
Down inside the boot.
...Oh the intergalactic laxative will get you from here to there.
Relieve you and believe me, without a worry or care.
If shi--ing is your problem when you're out there in the stars,
The intergalactic laxative will get you from here to Mars...
You may well ask,
Now what becomes
Of liquids they consume?
A pipe is led
From penis head,
To a unit in the room.
The water is recirculated
Filtered for reuse
In case some anti gravity
Pee gets on the loose."
There is a another silence. I wait expectantly. And wait. And wait.
What am I waiting for?
Applause maybe.
It does not arrive.
You know bold readers, I still say this song represents Donovan Leitch's finest hour.
But apparently not mine.

iranian for beginners

President Ahmad Ahmadinejad: "We will wipe Israel off the map."

Translation: I am a psychotic murdering scum and the United Nations is utterly useless except for protecting the rights of psychotic murdering scum like me.

President Ahmad Ahmadinejad: "No one will dare to attack us."

Translation: "I have a secret memorandum of understanding with Putin's Russia that he will not permit anyone to attack us."

President Ahmad Ahmadinejad: "Even the United States would not dare to attack us. We would welcome an attack by the United States. We would destroy them totally."

Translation: "I have suit case nuclear weapons that I obtained years ago from elements within Russia. They are positioned in several western cities. I intend to use them eventually regardless of what you do. But even a monster likes to pretend he has an excuse for the mass murders he commits."

darkness on the edge of town

Doctor Barn lowered his newspaper.
"What is Putin at?" he wondered. "Flying his bombers up to the edge of British airspace... Is he just trying to give the Brits a fright?"
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "Mr Putin isn't concerned about the Brits. It's directed at his own people. He's getting them ready."

light entertainment the pursuit of truth a dollop of treason drivel

Flicking through the channels.
I come to a music station where an American singer called Rhianna is singing her memorable homage to the joys of motoring.
"Not this one again," mutters the Mammy from her armchair stage left.
"What do you mean?" sez I.
"I've seen this about a million times," quoth she.
"How many?" sez I.
"Well, once," quoth she.
I flick again.
Now we're on EWTN the Catholic channel, the most untelevisual television station in the history of television.
A station whose motto should be: "Programming so bad it must be God's will."
I mean it's an incarnate miracle that this thing survives at all.
We watch as a homely looking nun called Mother Angelica dispenses insane advice to phone callers on various spiritual questions.
Her manner is strangely compelling.
God's fool perhaps.
He doesn't always choose us pseudo intellectuals.
But I can't last long at EWTN.
Flick.
And lo.
It's our old friends the peace loving muslims of Al Jazeera.
Jihad TV.
My handsome preraphaelite jaw drops.
For tonight no less a personage than Sir David Frost is presenting a programme on Al Jazeera.
His pleasant plummy tones fill the room.
Now bold travellers of the internet some of you won't know Sir David Frost, but he's been a sort of cultural icon in pseudo intellectual English language broadcasting for about forty years.
Let me put it this way.
He doth bestride the narrow television like a collossus while we petty mortals peep about under his huge legs to find ourselves dishonorable graves.
No really.
But tonight.
Tonight.
Well, apparently he's fallen in with a bad crowd.
"He's making them seem very credible," I mutter grimly as the great man holds forth. "Lord Haw Haw couldn't have done it better. Bloody hell. I can't believe this. David Frost on Al Jazeera. So this is how it ends up for the great radical wit of the 1960's. Frosty the Snow Muslim."
"If it's upsetting you," sez the Mammy, "change the channel."
I have time to growl: "Seriously though he's doing a wonderful job," before switching to Sex And The City.
At least you know where you stand with Sex And The City.
Drivel.
But not the sort of drivel that will allow a nascent fascist ideology emanating from North Africa, Arabia and the more abysmally backward pockets of Asia to reduce humanity to a new dark ages.

the darkness who knows

dead relatives in a photograph
watch me from the wall
shellshocked at my decision
i sit and write alone
i might have loved you once
but i will never love you now

night is at the window
the years are at my door
and what was wrought in darkness
shines brightly all the more
and what will never be
has its own brief allure

a spirit restless brooding
in a body growing old
sifts the drifting embers
through the ashes of my soul
they say love lights the universe
but the universe is cold

seasonal blissings

Autumn flooding through Ireland in waves. Gentle sunshine on the garden of my father. The leaves red and falling. Paddy Pup my sheepdog snuffling in the hedge. A grey squirrel scuttling along the telephone wires. Crows preening and proling on the roof of the old Chateau de Healy. Wood pigeons cooing. Peter and Katie racing each other up the avenue on their way home from school. Dick the shepherd blowing his horn. Greasy Jane keeling the pot. The ghost of William Shakespeare saying: "Ere Heelers, you can't write that. That's one of mine."