sangers with hashemi

Afternoon at the presidential palace in Teheran.
Outside the streets are bustling with the immutable poetry that is life.
Iran under the dictator is still the immortal Persia of old.
In the streets her people shine with divine beauty.
And inside the Presidential Palace...
Inside...
Inside in an atmosphere of plush blood red drapes, ornate marble pillars and limitless evil, His Excellency President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad sits in the communal canteen munching a hang sangidge.
Defence Minister Hashemi Snotbosca enters and pulls up a pew.
"Excellency," he murmurs discreetly. "The plan to eliminate Heelers is moving ahead. Our assassination squads are in place and await only your command. The daughters of the purple night. Our must illustrious hashisheen. Assassins so beautiful so deadly no man can resist them. Beneath their burkas these are the sexiest girls in Iran. They will seduce this Heelers with impossible pleasures and then kill him in his hour of ecstasy. He won't know which end of him is up."
The President of Iran gagged briefly on his sanger.
"Hashemi," he spluttered. "What in the name of Allah are you talking about?"
"Heelers, Excellency."
"Who?"
"The Irish guy with the internet blog."
President Ahmadinejad sat back in his chair.
"Oh I forgot about him," he said absently. "What's he up to now? Never mind. You know what I've been thinking about? I've been wondering why Muslim names are all so guttural. Mahmoud, Mohammed, Ahmed. You can't say them without spit flying all over the place. What were our ancestors thinking of? Not a Bill or a Ted or a Ron among them. It's like our entire civilisation has been based on us having names you can't say, and a language you can't speak, without expectorating green sputum. Hmmm. I suppose that would explain a lot."
It was the Defence Minister's turn to splutter.
"What?" he said weakly.
President Ahmadinejad shrugged.
"Forget Heelers. He's not important."
Minister Snotbosca was momentarily distrait.
"But I thought you said..."
The President waved him to silence.
"I haven't read Heelers in ages. His blog is overrated anyway. He's not all that funny. And he's really not that interesting either, and certainly not that dangerous. Actually the whole thing gets quite boring after a while. The same old jokes about Paddy Pup, the Mammy and his feminist cousin Pauline, rehashed over and over. He's a bit of a rehashisheen himself, come to think of it. You know if you read the Heelers archives you'll discover he brings back the same anecdotes from his family life and reworks them time and time again. The only original jokes have been stolen off old British television comedy shows. As for his catchphrases. Anyhoo. I digress. And momentarily distrait. Puhlease. Look, all I'm saying is, he really needs new catchphrases."
The Defence Minister looked abashed.
"So you're telling me..."
"Recall the assassination squads. If Heelers wants to get a date on Saturday night, he will have to do so without the help of the Islamic Republic of Iran."
"But, but, but, all my work, my preparations..."
"Tell it to the hand Hashemi."
And at that moment the ghost of Kenny Everett, riding on a black Norton Commando motor cycle, pulled up outside the palace.
He is wearing the uniform of a Nazi storm trooper circa 1941 no less.
Kenny turns to face the readers of The Heelers Diaries.
"Ze joke is over," he snarls, "go avay!"

priorities

Dropped into the hospital to see Phoenicia who has just had a baby.
"James," sez she with a worried frown, "are they still monitoring your website?"
"I don't think so," sez I. "You know President Ahmadinejad has a famously short attention span. He probably got bored with it."
Pheonix gave me a moderately paint stripping stare.
"For crying out loud," she exclaimed. "I'm not talking about the bloody Iranians. I'm talking about your employers."

straight ahead second star past morning

mountains of northern italy

pic by Luisella Avaro

what can we ask

It happened very quick.
Sitting in the window seat in the Costa cafe quaffing a cup of coffee.
Main Street of the town of Naas basking in the bleak midwinter outside.
Suddenly I heard a woman's voice raised in alarm.
"Joseph, Joseph, Joseph."
I looked around.
She was hurrying through the cafe.
I returned to my coffee, muttering aloud: "Ah, can they not keep an eye on their bloody kids."
The woman's voice grew louder.
"Joseph, Joseph, Joseph."
I looked again.
She was running up the stairs to the second floor.
Her manner had become more frantic.
I heard her shouting from the upper floors.
"Joseph, Joseph, Joseph."
She appeared again running.
She ran outside calling his name.
Now I could see people on the street.
Faces flushed, walking up and down, searching.
The woman too.
Now appearing.
Now disappearing.
A police car pulled up.
The cops thick set, determined, red faced as well.
Then the street went quiet.
I retreated into my own little world.
In my minds eye I could see the little boy.
Maybe in a car.
Getting further and further away.
I turned to God.
How much can we ask for? How should we ask? What if the answer is no?
I said: "Please."
When I left the cafe I went to Derek Bolan's shop which is on main street.
"Did they find the child Derek?" I asked the proprietor.
He came round the counter.
"They did," he said. "He was just up around the corner. He'd wandered off."
I left the shop.
Rejoicing.