The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Thursday, November 22, 2007

the poetic manifesto

half heard melodies at dawn
dreams or the traces of dreaming
a woman's name said soft like breathing
memories of faces gone
footsteps in the hall on winter nights
sadness in the heart where love has been
softness on the fields after a storm
shadows bright with remembering

we will go through cowardice to bravery
into the timeless eye of mind
across the ungovernable sea
to where all poems have their end
and their beginnings naturally
come with me

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

beneath the seal of the scimitar

The moon dancing above the rooftops had noosed the sultan's turret in a pool of light.
President Ahmed Ahmadinejad noticed it not.
His mind was on other things.
He sat at the ornate mahogany desk alone in the presidential office.
Amid the finery of that room, the gold fittings, plush carpetry and discretely dimmed red lights, he presented an almost bestial presence.
President Ahmadinejad was a brooding figure.
Sitting motionless now.
Face in shadow.
In an odd almost mystical way he seemed to exude an unutterable sense of threat.
A sheaf of loosely thumbed documents lay on the table beside the President's baseball cap.
Like many Arab and Islamic extremists, President Ahmadinejad despises America but loves baseball caps.
Hate America.
But gotta love dem baseball caps.
It's most strange.
And so sat the President of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
There was a knock on the door.
Defence Minister Hashemi Snotbosca looked in and received a curt nod from his master. He entered and sat down.
President Ahmadinejad was the first one to speak.
And his voice throughout the garden was a thunder sent to bring black Azriel and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Well, you know what I mean.
The President said: "What do you think of the Heelers problem?"
Minister Snotbosca cleared his throat, coughed, and stroked his chin.
He was a cautious man. A survivor.
When he spoke, his words were measured, thoughtful.
"I think they're going to fire him," the Defence Minister of the Islamic Republic of Iran said finally. "It's going to happen soon. It's what they've been preparing for and they're a fairly low rent crew. They're not smart enough to come up with another solution. I have a bet on with Osama that he'll be gone by Christmas."
President Ahmadinejad's dark eyes took on a glacial quality.
Souls could have drowned in those eyes.
"I am not referring to Heelers' problems with his employers," he rasped. "I am referring to the problems he presents to us."
Defence Minister Snotbosca began to babble an apology but the other silenced him with a wave of his ears.
"Do you know what he called me on that blog of his?"
Minister Snotbosca essayed somewhat unconvincingly to convey by dint of facial expression that he did not know.
"Grinny," exploded the President of Iran. "He called me Grinny Ahmadinejad. Grinny. Grinny. Grinny."
He pounded the table after each iteration of the offensive word, in a manner that left no room for doubt about his strong feelings on the subject.
Hashemi Snotbosca flinched in spite of himself.
"It's outrageous Excellency," he murmured.
Minister Snotbosca is indeed one of the great survivors of Iranian political life and he knew at this moment that his continued survival depended on him not bursting out laughing every time the President said Grinny.
Or once even.
He could feel himself sweating profusely beneath his Charvet shirt.
The President of Iran leaned across the table.
"Last week Heelers called our country a toe rag Islamic Republic," he snarled. "Do you know what a toe rag is?"
"No Excellency," admitted the Snotbosca awkwardly.
"Well it's nothing good," roared his boss.
Silence reigned briefly in that dim lit room of ultimate power.
It was some minutes before President Ahmadinejad spoke once more. His voice was more controlled now. But if anything the malevolent note had deepened. He no longer exuded threat. He was threat incarnate.
"Listen to me Hashemi," he breathed. "Nobody... but nobody... nobody calls me Grinny and lives. Whatever is necessary. See to it. See to it now. At once."
The Defence Minister nodded briefly, excused himself and left.
President Ahmadinejad sat back in his chair, alone once more in the red light of that plush little office, an office which at this hour and in these days occupies a central place both in the history of Iran and of all humanity.
Presently President Ahmadinejad lifted the receiver on his phone and dialled.
"Hello Osama. It's Mahmoud. The one in Iran. Yes. The Number One in Iran. Yes, it's been a while. I've missed you too. How's the wives? And all the little Jihadi's? Good, good. Listen. I hear you're giving odds on the Heelers situation. I want some of that action. I'll bet you a hundred grand at ten to one he makes it past Christmas. Oh, and what price are you offering on Hillary for President of America?"

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

the cops the mob the broads

Well folks we owe it to ourselves to live a little.
I've just checked the statistics counter which monitors this blog.
Aside from the best beloved among you who regularly check in here...
I mean Schnee, Gen, Frances, Mycroft et al, particularly Al, you can call him Betty, you know but Betty when you call him, just call him Al.
Lost it there for a moment.
Aside from the best beloved.
And aside from the scrotumnal irrelevancies at the Dark Satanic Mill in Yorkshire who log on here for an occasional lesson in company law.
(I really ought to charge the bastards.)
Aside from the occasional wandering internet ghosts who come through like whispers on a voodoo wind.
Aside from all these...
Well folks.
...We have just had our first log on from the Ministry of Fear in the Islamic Republic of Iran.
I kid you not.
The stat counter tells me someone in Iran googled "Heelers and Iran."
When I saw this my little heart leapt.
It was quite the funniest thing I'd ever seen.
In many ways I am a simple poor soul.
Like many an artist of greater and lesser degree, a little part of me just wants to be... dangerous.
Folks I think I can promise you that if Ahmadhinejad's spooks are logging on to this site, we are really going to have to raise our game.
And damned be he who mentions mid ranking UN staffers.
Okay my gentle friends, if you want a smile click on the stat counter icon at the end of the page. I've ensured the data will be accessible to you all.
Oh lawsy me.
Toe rag employers.
The corrupt cops.
Tony O'Reilly's low rent journalistic scruff.
And finally the Islamic Republic of Iran.
I suppose it's popularity of a sort.
Yes truly might it be said...
The cops, the mob, the broads, and now the blooming Jihadis... they all want to get poor Heelers.