french for beginners

Ze fire in ze channel tunnel yesterday was not, ow you say, an Al Qaeda attack. Even zough ze fire was a chemical fire and broke out on a train on ze anniversary of, ow you say, Nine Eleven, even so we in Fransh Intelligence quickly concluded zat ze perpetrateur was a humble brake line malfunction in a lorry parked on the train, and not, ow you say, ze work of psychotic Muslim murdereurs. We are in no doubt zat ze brakes overheated on zis parked lorry. Eet appens all ze time. Parked lorries containing chemical explosives ave ze brake line malfunctions every day ze week. Eet is alway betteur to conclude zat ze life threatening catastrophes are ze coeencidences, n'est ce pas? We theenk you will agree zat zere ees nozzing to be gained by calling a terrorist strike a, ow you say, terrorist strike. After Nine Eleven lots of tzings blew up in France. We called zem all ze, ow you say, industrial acceedents. So much easier than actually confronting zat, ow you say, nutbox Osama Bin Laden. And la France has no regrets. We regrettez rien. Occasionally some of our five millions of ze Muslim citizens vill burn down ze suburbs of ze French cities forcing ze ozzer forty five millions French peoples to live in fear. But we're okay vit zat. Now ven ze fire broke out on ze channel tunnel we were able to say immediately, while the blaze was still burning, that zis was not ze Musleem terrorisme. We are ze experts in what isn't Musleem terrorisme. Musleem terrorisme never appens en France. Or near France. Or on ze French trains. Now industrial acceedents, hoo boy, we have beaucoups of those. So just one more time to reiterate, ze chemical fire in ze channel tunnel on the seventh anniversaire of Nine Eleven, was not, repeat not, ow you say, anything to do with an, ow you say, Islamic conspiracy called Al Qaeda which is, ow you say, sworn to destroy the Free World, and is trying to, ow you say, keel as many Westerners, Christians and Jews as possible in ze process of re-establishing a, ow you say, Muslim caliphate and, ow you say, enslaving humanity to its useless clapped out, ow you say, seventh century cultural dysfunction masquerading as a, ow you say, religion. Why in God's name would zey tzink la France was part of ze Free World anyway? Be, ow you say, serious.

where i was

I was sitting in my car, parked on Kilcullen Main Street.
Earlier I'd collected the Mother from one of her card games. We'd gone for coffee and now we were on the road home. She left me for a minute to get something in the shops.
I switched on the radio to RTE, Ireland's national radio and television broadcaster.
A voice said: "We are all thinking about the tragedy in America. Our hearts go out to the people there. We will have more news at three o'clock. For now we'll continue with Rattle Bag."
Rattle Bag is the Irish National broadcaster's arts programme.
On Nine Eleven, the Irish National broadcaster continued with Rattle Bag.
I have never forgiven them for it.
I moved the radio dial to a local station.
The station was Tipperary North FM.
Tipperary North FM broadcasts without State subsidy.
People there actually work for a living.
Tipperary North FM had already gone live to New York and was giving minute by minute updates of the situation.
The situation was this.
Someone had hijacked aeroplanes and crashed them into sky scrapers in New York.
Thousands of people were dead.
My Mother returned to the car.
"There's been an attack on America," I told her.
"Oh God," she said.
We drove home.
The Dad met us in the hall.
He'd seen the news on Sky television.
We went into the living room and watched the images on the screen.
"Who did it?" said the Mammy.
I considered her question.
"There's a tiny possibility of Russia or China," I replied. "But I'd say it was the Muslims."
"There's no sign of President Bush," said the Dad.
"You won't see President Bush today," I guessed. "The Americans won't let anyone know exactly where he is until they've assessed the full extent of the threat from whoever's attacking them."
(President Bush did address the American people on the day. But from a location that could not be immediately identified by friend or foe.)
We watched for a while longer.
There was some recorded footage of Sky journalists talking nonsense about flight paths close to the towers, after the first plane hit. But the journalists were entitled to a little leeway today. None of us were keeping the score.
On Fox News a stringer journalist working for an affiliate on the spot, interviewed a young man who had just run up the street from the towers.
The Fox stringer said to the man: "Hadn't you better go back and see if there's anyone else who needs help?"
It was the second most vile thing I've ever seen on television.
Keeping the score or not, it was abysmal.
(The first most vile thing I've seen on television happened years before, when an Irish presenter called Gabriel Byrne told the parents of murdered toddler Jamie Bolger: "You have to forgive. You have to forgive if you're Christian." Gabriel Byrne's statement to the parents of murdered toddler Jamie Bolger is the single most unchristian thing I've ever heard. And unrequitedly the vilest.)
I left the Healy house and drove to Dublin.
There was a traffic jam on the quays.
A young man and woman strode past my car.
The young man was saying: "Bill and Rowena are in New York at the moment. They might be in a lot of trouble."
I found a park at the Stephens Green Centre.
It was a sunny day in Dublin.
I fell into step behind a flock of young business people. They were striding along, talking animatedly about the news.
Outside an electrical goods shop on Dawson Street a group of about twenty people had gathered.
They were staring open mouthed at the images playing and replaying over and over on TV screens in the shop window.
I drifted down the street.
Outside another electrical goods shop near the Hodges Figgis bookstore, a similar crowd had gathered.
I glanced around.
I caught the eye of one man.
He was rough hewn.
He was smiling.
I glared at him.
He tried to stare me out.
He dropped his eyes to the pavement and wiped the smirk off his face.
The eternal satan.
Never far away.
I walked onwards towards O'Connell Street.
There was an aura of palpable emotion everywhere.
I like to think some of it was shock.
I like to think some of my countrymen knew already that we'd all been attacked.
I wandered into the Oval Bar which is beside Eason's bookshop on Abbey Street.
There was a television in the bar.
Reports coming in indicated a plane had struck the Pentagon and that more planes were unaccounted for, and apparently still in flight.
I looked into my heart.
These things call for wisdom.
If you drag God into it in an undiscerning way, you can end up hating God.
I didn't for a second think that Muslims were being favoured by God.
I didn't for a second think I myself was a holy enough person to discern the mystical truth behind the mayhem Muslims had inflicted on humanity.
But I knew God was here in some way.
I wondered where and how.
It didn't seem impossible to me, that like the Nazis and the Imperial Japanese before them, the cowards of Islam were being permitted their day, that they were in some part a judgement upon us, that they would have an hour, before the wrath of the free world engulfed them.
But I never for a moment thought God favoured them.
They just don't act like Godly people.
Ever.
"How much Lord?" I murmured. "How much do they get?"
By which I meant, how much victory would be granted to Muslim murderers on this day of hell.
I wandered into Easons bookshop.
For the next hour I moved between the book shop and the bar.
On my final visit to the bar there was a new report coming in.
A fourth aeroplane had been downed over Pensylvania.
This was Flight 93.
There was some speculation on the news that it might have been shot down by the American Airforce.
I felt instantly that this was not what had happened.
I knew.
The passengers had taken it back from the Muslim cowards who had presumed to hijack it.
They had sent the murderers home to Allah.
I felt the intuition of knowledge.
There would be no more Muslim victories today.
The will of God had denied them anything further through the actions of the American heroes on Flight 93.
Now the cowards of Al Qaeda would face an enemy tougher than unarmed air hostesses and unsuspecting airline passengers.
They would face the American army.
I had a feeling the Muslim cowards of Al Qaeda would find the coming encounter with the American army far less enjoyable.

television detective serials and the end of childhood innocence

in calm contentment we could review
shoot outs bank robberies all the rest
secure in the knowledge that the hero would come through
that ration legalism is the best

then one day in the late 70's
kojak was shooting at some thugs
i was relaxed in all my certainties
until kojak went over like a sack of spuds

and here's the rub he did survive
to keep the streets of new york free of human vermin
my sensibilities died that night
i could never put my faith in pop culture again

in denial

In the first nine months of the year the following has happened.

A British Airways jet suffered engine failure coming in to land at Heathrow and crash landed. No one died but everyone might have. British Airways now claims the engine failure was caused by ice blocking fuel lines. This unprecedented claim lacks a basis in science, and seems to be implausible at best. During all the variegated reportage of the sudden engine failure on a British Airways jet, there has been no mention of saboteurs working for the peaceloving religion of Islam.

During the Summer, no less than three Qantas jets were forced to land in circumstances that have still not been fully explained. One plane suffered an on board explosion which Qantas claimed was caused by an oxygen cylinder in the hold. No one died. Everyone might have. The claim that an oxygen cylinder exploded in flight seems implausible at best. The flight recorder from this aircraft went missing after it landed. The two other aforementioned Qantas planes suffered equally unexplained though less dramatic life endangering malfunctions. Six other Qantas planes were grounded following what the company claims were "issues with maintenance." During all the reportage of Qantas' woes, there has been no mention of the possibility of Muslim terrorist infilitration of maintenance crews at Qantas facilities.

Two weeks ago, a Ryanair plane plunged from 26,000 feet after suffering a sudden cabin decompression. No one died. Everyone might have. The decompression has not been explained. Again there was no mention of the possibility of Muslims infiltrating Ryanair maintenance crews in the copious reportage which followed the near catastrophe

This weekend Muslims rioted in a southern Spanish city. Buildings were torched and vehicles were destroyed. The Muslims claim to have rioted because one of their number was killed in a street fight. In the admittedly sparse international reporting of the riots in Spain, the great journalists of the Western world managed the near miracle of not once mentioning Muslims. According to several news reports the rioters were "youths" or "Africans." Euphemisms indeed. The Spanish Prime Minister Jose Zapatero has granted several million Muslims citizenship since Al Qaeda bombed two hundred Spanish people to death in Madrid in the year 2004. Mr Zapatero also withdrew the Spanish army from its heroic role in the War On Terror following those Al Qaeda murders in Madrid. We might recall Rudyard Kipling's poem about Medieval nations who tried to buy off the Vikings. Kipplers wrote:
"This is called paying the Dane Geld.
And I'll tell you again and again.
Once you have paid him the Dane Geld,
You'll never get rid of the Dane."
The present day Spanish policy of withdrawing from the War On Terror and giving citizenship to millions of Muslims has a similar whiff to it.
"This is called paying the Al Qaeda Geld.
And I'll tell you without meaning to chide ya,
Once you have paid him the Al Qaeda Geld,
You'll never get rid of the Al Qaeda."
The Spanish for coward is Zapatero.

On Monday, three Muslims were found guilty in London of plotting to blow up airlines. One of their accomplices beat the rap and walked free. The jury found the three principal terrorists guilty on the less serious charges they faced. Juries, like journalists are in denial. The accused terror plotters were guilty of everything. Some twenty more of their accomplices have yet to stand trial. But here's the real news. British Intelligence is currently attempting to track 2000 Muslim terrorist plotters around Britain. That's 2000 we know about. This of course is a crass misuse of the security forces. Suspected Muslim terror plotters should of course no longer be tracked. They should at the very least be expelled.

When World War Two broke out, the British incarcerated those suspected of associations with Nazism for the duration. After Imperial Japan's sneak attack on Pearl Harbour the Americans similarly rounded up and detained Japanese nationals. The result of these round ups was that both Hitler and Hirohito had no capacity to mount terror attacks on the mainland USA or mainland Britain. The threat from Islamic terror is greater than anything the Nazis or Imperial Japan ever came up with. Yet in the modern era, a misplaced political correctness has ensured that Muslim terrorist Jihadi's are being left the freedom to plan and execute their mass murders in our midst. Our security forces are being contstrained by a frivolous pseudo legalistic probity. This must end.

If we do not act decisively on the Muslim terror threat, Al Qaeda will succeed in its stated aim of committing catastrophic mass murders in western countries. Here is the news. We can no longer afford the Cheerleading For The Jihadi's style of reportage favoured by CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, the New York Times, the Washington Compost, the Times of London, the dreadful Irish Times, Skybollah, Channel Four, Time magazine, Newsweek, and the Nazi channel Al Jazeera. We can no longer afford the Lord Haw Haws and Tokyo Roses of the liberal media, putrescent pilchards such as Robert Fisk, Noam Chomsky, Michael Moore, John Pilger et Al, (particularly Al, I hate him), whose every word gives succour to the Jihadi's. These media groups and the appeasers who sail with them, have given Al Qaeda its second wind. They have convinced the Islamic Republic of Iran that the West is too divided to stand up to it. They have furnished the miserably deluded avatars of Muslim terror with a business model for success.

The media groups and pseudo intellectual elites of the free world are in denial about the evils we face.

We must defeat Islamic fascism or surrender to it.

The War On Terror has just begun.




(Memo to all journalists: Whatever you do, don't mention Muslims. I mentioned them once but I think I got away with it.)

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard)

"Mirror, Mirror on the wall, arghhhhhhh!"

sublime good humour

Sitting in the canteen at the surgery of the medico known to scholars of classical literature as Doctor Barn.
I am waiting for the goodish doctor to join me for a cup of tea.
He's seeing a patient in an adjoining room
As I stir the tea, I hear the following exchange.
"How are you today Mick?"
"Not so bad Doctor."
"What can I do for you?"
"To be perfectly honest Doctor I need a sick cert to get off work for a week."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Er, to be perfectly honest Doctor, I'm going to Medjugorje."
This conversation caused Ireland's greatest living poet no little amusement from his vantage point in the canteen.
When my brother finally enters the canteen, I am unable to contain my enthusiasm.
"Is that the sort of patient you get paid to see?" I demand.
"It is," sez Daktari.
"And do you ever actually save any lives?" I insist.
"No," sez Daktari.
Having shared a beverage with the Doc, I wander up town to see the obsessive dentist.
I call her the obsessive dentist because she's obsessed with dentistry.
Absolutely impervious to my charms.
There'll be nought going on here this morning, except plucking teeth.
I kid you not.
With brusque efficiency and an absolute paucity of romantic badinage, the obsessive dentist gets me to lie back on a chair in her office while she endeavours to part me from one of my wisdom teeth.
The operation takes longer than expected.
Although she's drugged me, I'm not exactly comfortable.
After half an hour of the obsessive dentist grappling about in my mouth, I am finding it difficult to escape the suspicion that she's actually trying to detach my lower jaw for a joke.
That's just the sort of thing Doctor Barn would put her up to.
I become mildly impatient.
I'm thinking: "For crying out loud, how much longer are you going to be at this? What in tarnation are you doing in there? Are you trying to install a kitchen sink in me?"
Her blonde assistant, a comely lass called Eugenia, moves to the back of the chair so that she can cup my head in her hands.
She needs to cup my head in her hands to prevent it lashing from side to side as the obsessive dentist is at present lashing it from side to side.
Anyhoo.
Eugenia's hands cradle me gently but firmly.
My perspective on the universe changes in a millisecond.
My thoughts are now these: "Why is the dentist in such a rush? What is she playing at. The man who made time made plenty of it. Take it easy there. Slow down. There's nobody here racing away to any appointments. Why does she always have to be in such a god damned hurry? Ah Eugenia. Take me to the drive in and swear that you love me."
All good things come to an end.
Eventually the tooth surrenders.
Emerging from the obsessive dentist's, I betake myself to the Costa Cafe for a brief rendezvous with the Mammy.
We're quaffing lattes.
The Mammy says: "Are you in much pain?"
I shrug disconsolately.
The anesthetic is wearing off.
Mr Pain and I are indeed becoming acquainted.
I'm also becoming painfully aware of my financial situation.
Paying for the lattes has left me entirely devoid of cash.
"Okay," sez the Mammy, "I've got some good news for you."
Curiosity alights on my finely honed preraphaelite features.
"John McCain," sez the Mammy, "has gone ahead in the polls."
Bold readers you should know that the last few thousand quid I'd saved before the Leinster Leader fired me last Christmas, has been invested in a bet on John McCain to win the American Presidency.
The sun comes out.
The Mammy and me toast each other with the lattes.
From somewhere not too far away the ghost of Sylvester Stallone's musical brother Frank comes over to our table and starts to sing the theme tune to the film Staying Alive, which by the way was the sequel to Saturday Night Fever.
Frank Stallone sings:
"I'm back in the race.
The Leinster Leader fired me.
But they are scuzzos.
The thrill of the chase.
You know I'm down.
But I am far from over..."

I find his rendition most inspirational.

bushy