The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Friday, November 09, 2007


Coffee with Baldy Mongan the tame trade unionist.
"Heelers," he said earnestly. "There's still a way out of this. If you'd just eat a bit of humble pie you might not get fired. You realise you're about to lose your pension entitlement?"
I watched as the evening sunlight worked miracles in the puddles of Main Street.
"Is that all my good Lord Sir Baldy?" I cried warmly. "Why then the only difference between you and me, is that I shall lose my pension entitlement today and you shall lose your pension entitlement tomorrow..."
My voice darkened.
"...Because these idiots aren't going to have any money to pay pensions. They've paid a hundred million quid for a newspaper that's not worth fifty pence. They've driven out the only members of staff who had a clue. And they've dealt with a situation where competitors were setting up free sheet newspapers in the region, by establishing a free sheet of their own, instead of sitting back and waiting, and letting those competitors cope with their own atrocious start up costs, instead of doing that, these cosmically gormless clowns rushed to incur similar start up costs, effectively throwing away our advantage as an established title, and absolutely failing to affect the competitors at all, succeeding indeed only in levelling the playing field for them, destroying the sales of our 150 year old established title as the public inevitably decided: hey if a version of this rubbish is now available free at weekends, why the hell would we keep paying for a copy every week like we've done for the last century and a half."

Thursday, November 08, 2007


The Duke of Norfolk took Thomas Moore by the arm and led him to one side.
"This is madness," he said. "The anger of the prince is death."
Sir Thomas watched a moment the last light dusking through the leaves.
"Why then my Lord," he cried warmly, "the only difference between you and me is that I shall die today and you shall die tomorrow."

Tuesday, November 06, 2007


... and her amazing snot green painting

Monday, November 05, 2007


Former Pakistan Supreme Court Justice Chaudhry attempted in recent weeks to put a question mark over the political future of the country's President.
On the eve of Presidential elections Chaudhry accepted a frivolous law suit from President Musharaff's opponents alleging that President Musharaff was not eligible to stand.
This was a blatent attempt by Islamic extremists to deny the people of Pakistan the President of their choice.
Chaudhry deliberately colluded in the attempt.
Chaudhry announced that he would postpone making a decision on President Musharaff's eligibility for the position of President until after the election had taken place.
This announcement was a manipulative attempt to place a question mark over President Musharaff's candidacy on the eve of voting.
Chaudhry who has never been elected to anything by popular vote, has waited weeks to annouce his decision on President Musharaff's eligibility for the position of President.
The delay was deliberate as he gauged to what extent he could saboutage President Musharaff's clear election victory.
Chowdry did all of this because Chowdry is a Muslim fundamentalist.
Chaudhry and other Islamicists in the Pakistan court system have been attempting to usurp power for their cause through the courts.
Chaudhry deserved to be dismissed.
He has certainly been treated more humanely than his friends in the Taliban or Al Quaeda treat any who challenge their power.

Former Pakistan Prime Minister Nahwaz Shariff is now living in exile. Since the state of emergency was declared in Pakistan he has been interviewed continously on CNN, Sky News, and sundry other quisling television channels.
Nahwaz Shariff is the man who would be king but doesn't have the votes.
Nahwaz Shariff is Al Quaeda in a suit.
Nahwaz Shariff's administration in Pakistan was instrumental in promoting the Taliban's rule of terror in neighbouring Afghanistan.
Nahwaz Shariff is not an acceptable participant in the civilised political life of Pakistan or anywhere else.

Former cricketer, former playboy, now Islamist politician Imram Khan has also been much interviewed by the aforementioned quisling news channels.
Imram Khan is a Nahwaz Shariff wannabe.
Imram Khan is the past in Pakistan.
The people of Pakistan deserve better.
He has nothing to offer and nothing to say.
Expect to hear lots more of him on CNN, Sky, the BBC et al.

Former Prime Minister of Pakistan Benazir Bhutto does have something to say.
Mrs Bhutto has a significant level of support in Pakistan.
Mrs Bhutto is genuinely loved by millions of that country's citizens.
When she holds a parade a million people will turn up.
But when she holds a parade the Taliban and Al Quaeda slaughter her followers in the streets like cattle.
Mrs Bhutto is not a warrior.
She cannot lead Pakistan in the war that country faces from Taliban and Al Quaeda Islamic extremists who intend to either murder their way to power or steal power through the courts.
Mrs Bhutto has something to say but twee statements about democracy will not cut the mustard now.
Mrs Bhutto has a tough call to make.
Mrs Bhutto should have nothing to do with Nahwaz Shariff or the oleaginous Imram Khan.
If she can see her way to doing it, she should still ally herself with President Musharaff.
The alternative is Islamic extremist rule, permanent impoverishment and civil war in Pakistan.

Former mass murderer, now goat herd, Osama Bin Laden placed a Fatwa on President Musharaff in September.
The goat herd's Fatwa instructs his followers to kill President Musharaff.

My analysis is this.
Our enemy's enemy is our friend.

Pervez Musharaff is the legitimate President, and last best hope for Pakistan.
He deserves support in his attempts to rescue his country from the malign forces seeking to enslave it.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

classical roman poetry and the end of childhood innocence

It was the dulcet Autumn of 1982.
RP Bennett our Latin teacher gazed around the room serenely.
"Get out the little green Ovids," he instructed.
A brisk wind was blowing up from the river Liffey stirring fallen leaves among the forlorn prefabs that housed the Fifth Year boys of Oldbridge College.
RP's injunction about little green Ovids referred to our books of Latin poetry written millennia ago by one P Ovideus Naso, which had been presented to us by the wonders of modern technology in lurid snot green covers.
We produced and then opened them as instructed.
There was a certain weariness observable in the ritual.
Fifth Class at Oldbridge College did not contain many Ovid fans.
RP regarded us owlishly.
"You'll like it this week," he mused. "There's a lot of sex in it."
In many ways we were simple children and his remark sent a buzz of polite expectation through our ranks.
RP continued.
"This poem is about the last man and woman left on earth after a flood has wiped out the rest of the human race. The last man and woman have come to the mystic Oracle at Themis to ask how they should repopulate the globe."
He paused.
"They were a bit innocent you see."
No other teacher could have made this remark and maintained order.
RP could do it because we were afraid at any given moment that if the mood took him he might kill us.
Let me put it this way.
His wit wasn't the only thing deadly about him.
Egg shaped he may have been but he could kill a man at fifty paces with a blow from a little green Ovid.
With straight faced whimsy our egg shaped professor began to translate from the book.
The tale unfolded.
The last man and woman were now kneeling before the stone Oracle, which was apparently a talking statue, and were asking it how they could reconstitute the human race.
RP had translated up to this with scant inflections in tone. For the next three lines he raised his voice to a dramatic crescendo.
"The Oracle spoke:
Go into a dark place.
Take off your clothes..."
The sense of expectation in our classroom became palpable.
RP flicked a page.
"It gets good here," he murmured conversationally.
The serried ranks of titillated children strained with earnest concentration.
RP's dull Dublin drawl seemed to have become quite sensuously suggestive.
"Then the Oracle spoke again:
When you stand in the darkness together,
Do not hasten to your task..."
He looked up briefly and his voice suddenly switched to a light dismissive cadence.
"...This is what you must do.
Take boulders from the earth and throw them over your shoulders.
In this way you will create a new race of man."
RP closed the book. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them.
"Well I don't know about you," he said absently, "but personally I prefer the more conventional method for propagating the species. I can't stop you of course. Only, when you leave this school and enter adult life, I do advise you to be careful where you go throwing old stones around."
Goulie Walsh, a mop headed youth in the back row, excited by all the sex talk was swept with a certain seditious confidence and stuck up his hand.
"Sir," he demanded all businesslike, "what's the conventional method?"
RP Bennett let out a glorious snort of bemusement.
"Arrah," he harrumphed, "ask your mother."