the ineluctable modality of has beans

Coffee with Doctor Barn in the Costa cafe.
The place is full of mid morning shoppers and mischievous truanting teens.
It cacaphones with rich vibrancy around us.
A warm September sun splays through the windows.
The goodish Doctor is snatching a few minutes to chat with his brother between saving lives.
He has a moderately stern expression on his face.
"What are you playing at on your blog?" quoths he severely. "You're still writing about your former employers. I thought you told me you'd forgiven them. I thought you promised me you'd stop writing about them."
The mighty Heelers looks a bit sheepish.
"I have forgiven them," sez I. "Sure you know me well enough to know that once I'd have moved on a bit, there'd be no room for bitterness in my heart towards anyone. Not even towards such consummate worthless bast--ds."
Daktari sat back in his chair.
"That doesn't sound like forgiveness to me," sez he.
I grinned.
"Okay," sez I with the air of one coming clean. "They fired me from the Leinster Leader, where I'd been working for ten years. Sometimes I can't help wondering did they fire me in order to bring in staff that would work for less and would have no pension entitlement. Is that the calibre of low rent toe rags they are? I wonder. Hmmm. We'll probably never know for sure. But I'm telling you I've forgiven them. There's nothing personal in it any longer from my point of view. I only mention them on my website now when it's getting near the end of the month, and I'm trying to bump up the ratings. If I'm lucky this month Barn, we'll break the thousand visitor barrier for the first time. It's true. You see, whenever I make a few innocuous remarks about the Johnston Press, they never fail to come running. Why I've only to mention the words Johnston Press and scumbags, and my stat counter lights up with log-ons from across the United Kingdom. All their regional sicherheitsdients seem to tune in for a conference call. There's visits from their mouldy ould lawyers in Glasgow, from their woeful cheap executives at The Scotsman newspaper in Edinburgh, (Chief Executives surely? - Ed note), not to mention visits from their data monitoring companies in Herefordshire, and from their dreary little High Command in Derbyshire. I welcome them all. I have no room for bitterness or recriminations in my heart."
The brother eyed me keenly.
"You haven't forgiven them," he mused with a hint of weariness.
A baby in a push chair squalled nearby.
I leaned forward.
"Okay Barn," I murmured. "Let's face it. Whatever I write is literature. If I write a grocery list, the thing is liable to be laced with an elegaic ethereal musicality. A lissom melodiousness that tugs at the heart strings in ways all may savour but none may understand. Seriously though. My website is literature too. More so even than my grocery lists. No really. And literature needs a villain. Sherlock Holmes needs his Moriarty. Churchill needs his Hitler. Sir Galahad needs his Mordred. Maybe, just maybe, Ireland's greatest living poet in some mystical symbiotic sense needs his Johnston Press."
Doctor Phibes groaned.
"Would you just stop," said he.
I gazed into the middle distance.
"Not only have I forgiven them," I told him gently, "I've written them a poem. It's called England My England."
Doctor Barn's silence could legitimately be interpreted as an invitation to recite.
I needed no further invitation.
A strange otherworldly pallor suffused my handsome preraphaelite features.
When I spoke it was as though a young Johnny Gielgud was declaiming right there in the cafe.
A stillness fell.
Heads turned.
The poem ran:
"There'll always be a Johnston Press.
Of this I'm nearly sure.
For the world can never do without,
Its share of horse manure."