The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Saturday, November 01, 2008


From The Heelers Diaries ten years ago.

Sunday, 6th September 1998.
The glorious rain, the
triumphant wind, how I
love them
why love such things
I always have
They call me
Tonight I stood in the field
watching the tree tops
shiver in the moonlight
sweet majesty
glory to God
Visited Aunty Marie; phoned Peter; wrote lyrics for Vamps songs.
I think one of the great errors of science is to mistake mathematics for reality. Mathematics merely offers a highly organised way of looking at reality.
Too often men mistake the telescope for the stars.

Friday, October 31, 2008

a dog not engaged in mischief at this particular moment

the wakening silence

a woman sleeping
i watch her face
i've looked in half the world
and have not found such peace
as in it now
faint smile or sorrow
lights upon her lips
from the corner of her brow
a momentary flutter lifts
the wandering shadows
from her wakening eyes
a traveller returns
briefly we recognise
in the silence of our dawn
another silver universe being born

let's sartre at the very beginning

Musing on the nature of existence this morning in my favourite corner of the Costa cafe in Newbridge, I suddenly became aware of an acute hunger deep within myself.
The beautiful model girl waitress had just got me a coffee.
I was regally ensconced with my notebook.
My pen was artistically poised on the table for effect.
All seemed right with the world.
Then it hit me.
That strange empty longing.
This was no ordinary hunger folks.
This was a hunger that could never be satisfied by any passing wordly pleasure.
Not by caffe latte grandes.
Not by model girl waitresses.
This was the hunger for fame, fortune and glory.
All us artists suffer from it occasionally.
Lately it's been affecting me a lot.
The onset of this emotional state is normally marked by a creeping suspicion that all the worthwhile things of life are in the past.
All the great poets are dead.
How can those of us who remain say anything even vaguely interesting?
How can our words matter when the heart of culture is locked away in the centuries that are gone?
Ah hunger.
This is hunger.
The following story is told of Jean Paul Sartre.

Apparently Sartre spent most of his World War Two in the Cafe Flore in Paris. He would go there everyday, order a single cup of coffee and take it to the darkest corner he could find. There while Nazi troops marched up and down outside, he would sit for hours scribbling ferociously in his notebook. Years later when he had won great fame as a writer and philosopher, someone asked the manager of the Cafe Flore what he remembered of Jean Paul Sartre. "What a loser," fumed the manager. "Everyday one lousy cup of coffee. Everyday just sitting there taking up my space. Everyday for years."

Me and Sartre folks.
What a pair of losers.
Of course in the time I've been scribbling what you're reading now, old Jean Paul would have formulated at least three depressingly negative theories of reality, and written at least one mordantly pessimistic short story.
As a waster he was more productive than me.
So what can we do?
The big lesson for us geniuses is not to waste our energy trying to be Sartre or Orwell or any of the other dead immortals.
They've had their hour.
Somehow those of us who wish to write or create in the present moment, must find our true voices irrespective of what came before.
We must find our own resonance.
After all the joy is in the struggle not the triumph.
Although I gotta tell you, a bit of triumph never hurt anybody either.
Arrah Sartre, I can never write like you did.
Nor speak French as well as you.
But then why would I want to?
Does anybody seriously doubt that someday the owner of the Costa cafe in Naas will be saying heatedly: "Heelers? Of course I remember him. Ten lousy cups of coffee a day and perpetually ogling the waitresses. We all remember him."
Sure he's saying it already.
The present for those of us who live in it, is always the best of times.
Culture is ourselves now.

on wings of darkness

Nightfall in Iran.
An odd peace has descended on the rooftops of old Teheran.
The Presidential Palace is bathed in the orange glow of streetlamps.
Faint is the sighing of traffic from the street.
President Ahmed Ahmadinejad stands alone in his plush red curtained office.
Time itself stands with him.
It is the hour of decision.
Destiny is deciding.
President Ahmadinejad throws a hand in the air and thrusts out his hips at a rakish angle. He is like Johnny Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.
He begins to dance.
He sings:
"Whether you're a Mahdi,
Or just a Jihadi,
We're keeping our nukes,
Keeping our nukes.
People say we're crazy,
Nearly every other day,
But we're keepin' our nukes,
Keepin' our nukes.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,
Keeping our nukes,
Keeping our nukes,
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,
Keeping our nukes.
Yes, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a Jihad man, no time to talk.
You might think I'm really bad
Cos my name's Ahmadinejad.
But's it's alright,
It's okay,
The UN will look the other way.
We'll drop the bomb,
Israel be gone.
And I will still be singing this song.
Whether you're a Mahdi
Or just a Jihadi
We'll nuke the world,
Nuke the world.
People say I'm crazy,
Every other day,
But we'll nuke the world,
Nuke the world.
Ah ha ah ah ah.
Nuke the world.
I've got the UN in my pocket,
And the Russians in my locket,
Nuke the world,
Nuke the world,
I'm doing a rap,
And Israel's off the map,
Nuke the world,
Nuke the world,
Ah, ah, ah, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,
Ah ah ah ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Thursday, October 30, 2008

kiss of morning

who reads the heelers diaries

Coffee with Doctor Barn in the Whitewater Centre.
My face is a bit rueful.
"What's wrong with you?" sez Daktari.
I shrug preraphaelitely.
"The writers of an anti islamic terror website have put in a link to my blog," sez I.
"No way," sez the Doc.
"Yes way," sez I.
"How come?" quoth he.
The handsome visage of the mighty Heelers took on a certain moroseness.
"I wrote a fake review of the new James Bond film and they thought it was genuine," I explained. "They put in the link to it without my permission. My review had Bond taking on Al Qaeda."
The brother laughed heartily.
"How bad are they?"
"You mean the guys who linked me? Not sure. The site is called Infidel Army or something. It's got a kind of logo that looks a bit neo pagan. There's stuff on it I couldn't be sure of."
"So what are you going to do?" asked the brother.
"Do?" quoth me.
"Well are you going to complain and get the link removed?"
"Are you mad?" I exploded. "I'm more scared of those lads than I am of the Jihadi's."
The brother thought for a moment.
"So has it made you rethink your own attitude to Muslims?" he ventured.
I pondered his question.
"If I hate Muslims then my own soul is lost," I told him finally. "My understanding of the Biblical tradition is that the Arabs are children of Abraham just as truly as the Jews are children of Abraham. In fact the Arabs are his first born sons. God promised Abraham he would bless them for all time. God doesn't change his mind. If in detesting Muslim terrorism and Arab expansionism, I have come to despise the Arabs themselves then I have betrayed Christ."
This was all getting a bit apocalyptic for the brother.
To be fair to him, over the years he has listened to an awful lot of ranting out of me about Muslims, and every step of the way he has offered counsels of moderation and humanity.
He left me.
I sat alone.
In a little pool of stillness.
A faintly heroic figure.
How does it go again?
Ah yes.
The cops, the mob, the broads, the Jihadi's, the Johnston Press, the aliens, the UN spooks, and now the Infidel Bloggers Alliance... They're all out to get Heelers.

breakfast at rafsanjani's

Morning in Iran.
A weak wintery sun blesses the tangled thoroughfares, the new fangled office blocks and the ancient minarets of downtown Teheran.
In a small family apartment on Akbad Street, the Rafsanjani family are having breakfast.
The apartment is well furnished by Iranian standards. There is a small television, a carpet, and some potted plants. The windows are open to the morning air.
A table and chairs dominate the centre of the room.
Abdul, the breadwinner, is a midranking civil servant who has prospered by remaining on the right side of the revolution.
The mother of the house is dark eyed, raven haired, gentle voiced Farina. She is without doubt a beautiful woman. But she is not weak. Her beauty conceals an improbable strength and resourcefulness.
A steaming pot of tea has been served.
Husband and wife are sitting opposite each other.
Farina butters a slice of nyahhahageeforce and munches it thoughtfully.
The man of the house reads a newspaper between sips of tea.
Abruptly Abdul feels a wave of shock sweep through him.
Over the pages of his newspaper he has spotted the family's three year old son Mahmud in the process of flushing a Koran down the toilet which adjoins the eating area.
"Mahmud," he rumbles threateningly, "don't do that."
"Why?" gurgles the little boy cheekily.
"Because if you do, I'll have to kill you," his father tells him.
The toddler wisely desists.
Meanwhile the Rafsanjanis' four year old daughter Rema runs into the room with a picture to show Daddy.
"Look, look," she cries, "I drew you a picture."
Abdul looks.
The picture shows a stick man standing amid a white background. The child has attempted to draw a beard on her stick man.
"It's very good," says her father wearily. "What is it meant to be?"
"It's the prophet Mohammed," smiles back Rema.
Abdul reaches for his axe.
Mother Farina jumps to her feet and snatches the drawing.
"It's a picture of our beloved President Ahmed Ahmadinejad," she proclaims desperately. "Tell your father it's President Ahmadinejad, darling. I couldn't stand another ritual killing at the breakfast table. It's only been a week since the last one."
Rema takes the soft option and obeys her mother's advice.
The atmosphere in the apartment lightens considerably.
Later, when the children have been led off by a maid for their morning lessons, husband and wife savour a few moments alone.
A thought strikes Farina.
"My husband," she says softly, "what do you really think of our beloved President Ahmed Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul throws her a shocked glance.
He looks around furtively.
"Woman," he says, "hold your tongue. You risk everything."
Then he softens.
He puts a finger to his lips and leads his wife into the hall.
He looks about him.
The hall is quiet.
Abdul is about to speak but thinks better of it.
He leads Farina into the street and sits with her in the family car, an Allahuakhbar Gti.
He leans close to whisper in her ear.
Again he thinks better of it.
He starts the engine and drives out of town.
He drives for hours.
Now they are alone on a country road. Abdul parks on a green verge overhung by trees.
Farina looks at him quizzically.
"Well husband," she says. "We are safe at last. What do you think of President Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul shakes his head.
"Not here," he mumbles hoarsly.
He leads his wife by the hand into the heart of the forest.
It seems they walk for ages. Farina cannot keep track of the time.
Deep into the undergrowth.
Until at last they find a clearing.
There Farina puts a hand on Abdul's shoulder.
"Tell me husband," she murmurs. "Truly. What do you think of President Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul snatches one more furtive glance over his shoulder.
Trembling with terror he leans towards Farina and with his voice close to breaking whispers in her ear.
"I like him."

ask uncle heelers

Dear Uncle Heelers.
Why are share prices rising again?

Dear Confused.
Share prices are rising because banks and insurance companies have been given a blank checque to begin behaving again precisely the same way they behaved before the world wide financial collapse which their behaviour precipitated last month.
Banks, insurance companies and stock exchange quoted companies generally, are for the most part still being run by the same people who ran them before the collapse.
The free money furnished by our governments, has allowed them to return to their old habits.
They are the ones artificially propping up the stock exchange by buying huge tranches of shares.
My analysis is that these shares are worthless.
The market for them only exists because banks with a vested interest in pretending the stock exchange is worth investing in, have been given our money to make those investments.
Oil prices are rising again too.
Oil prices are rising because two of the banks who have been bailed out with our money are in fact the main players speculating on oil.
They are once more up to their old tricks creating oil price rises through their speculations.
My analysis is that the integrity of shares as a unit of value has been completely shattered. The integrity of shares has been shattered by board members of stock exchange quoted companies who award themselves free shares and free money for doing no work.
I would counsel people to stay away from the stock exchange and to find an alternative to banks and insurance companies.
I would counsel governments to cater to ordinary citizens and small businessmen, and to find an alterative to the corrupt corporations of yesteryear.
All those corporations are going to disappear.
We shouldn't allow them to take the western world with them.

fortunes of war

All this week we've been celebrating the decision by the Johnston Press to fire me from the Leinster Leader a year ago just three weeks before Christmas.
It's been fun gentle travellers of the internet.
We've shared some laughs and basked in the measured mellowness that heals over old scars with the passage of time.
Even the august scions of the Johnston Press itself have sat up and taken notice.
Its representatives visited this website no less than sixteen times yesterday.
Now I'm told the head honcho at the Johnston Press is heading off into the sunset.
He's retiring.
Retiring, not in the sense of being possessed of a modest and discrete nature.
Retiring, in the sense that he's leaving the company.
What goes around comes around.
I wonder was he in on the original inspired decision to fire me.
Normally these things boil down to one man.
Of course a head honcho mightn't have been informed.
Head honchos are important fellows and must not be troubled with trivia.
A man's life.
Mere trivia.
Don't bother Lord Snotface with such banality.
In modern large scale companies it's not always considered necessary to inform the top man of every decision to fire someone who sad clownish clueless middle management pseuds have concluded is not a top man, from a job he's held for ten years.
In some companies such decisions are often considered to be small administrative matters of little importance.
I wonder did he know.
The fate of a man's career.
No need to tell the boss.
Yes, I wonder did he know.
I gotta tell you bold readers.
The mediocre piece of sh-t knows now.
Whose decision was it?
When you get down to it, someone must have made the decision.
It always boils down to one man.
And I wonder what sublime inisghtful genius made the call.
The actual firing letter had an editor's name on it.
But the name was appended beside the letters "pp."
Implying someone had signed it on the editor's behalf.
Classy classy people.
So nearly a year ago they fired me.
Presumably the Leinster Leader will have gone from strength to strength along with the other titles in the Johnston Press group since that firing.
If the right people are getting fired that is.
Presumably the Leinster Leader will have expanded its readership, its advertising revenue, its sales figures and its reputation.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

realistic urban drama

This morning two cockney wide boys are standing on Westminster Bridge in the great city of London.
"Ere Trevor, gizza loan of eighteen and three quarter pennies," says one.
"Cor blimey Rodney, wotcha want eighteen and three quarter pennies for?" asks his friend.
"I wanna buy a share in the Johnston Press," explains Rodney.

Er, that's it.

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard)

"If Heelers doesn't get here soon, I've a good mind to start the public audience without him."

apologia pro religious mania mea

My spies in international finance rang me with some interesting news.
A few days ago, senior staffers at the Johnston Press had bought small blocks of shares in their own company.
According to my spies five Johnston Press officials had purchased four hundred shares each.
I don't know if these figures are correct.
I don't know if Johnston Press board members are buying small packets of their own company's shares to send a message of confidence to the market.
And I don't care.
Frankly I don't think any shares are worth buying.
Let alone Johnston Press shares.
I'm telling people to stay away from the stock market generally.
My analysis is that the whole thing is banjaxed.
The stock exchange is banjaxed in general.
The Johnston Press is banjaxed in particular.
I'm hardly an objective judge.
I hold the Johnston Press in such supremely low regard.
Since the great men of the Johnston Press fired me from the Leinster Leader newspaper last November, I have been profoundly convinced that the company would go bust without me.
I wonder will it.
Four of the five senior officials are now said to have a share holding in excess of a million shares.
One of them has a little under a million.
When the Johnston Press fired me, a million shares in that company, would have been worth several million pounds.
A million shares in the Johnston Press today would supposedly be worth around two hundred thousand.
I say supposedly.
Personally I'm not convinced you could sell em.
You all know my analysis of the Johnston Press woes.
I believe God is punishing them for firing me.
I wonder could it really be true.
I wonder have they fired other people in other newspapers the way they fired me.
I wonder.
God could be really annoyed about something like that.
I don't want to seem like a religious maniac.
But I'd advise any Johnston Press staffers visiting my website who think they may have offended God to repent of the evils they have done.
Repent, I say.
The end of the Johnston Press is nigh.

Arf arf.
A little end of the world humour there.
I wonder could I get a billboard to hang around my neck with that slogan painted on it.
"Repent. The end of the Johnston Press is nigh."
It has a certain ring to it.

Now I'm driving down south for an afternoon in the country.
I'm alone in the car when the ghost of Robbie Burns appears.
Robbie glances out the window at the sylvan frost silvered countryside passing by us and declaims his most famous poem:

"Oh my love is like a red red rose
That's newly sprung in June,
Oh my love is like a melody,
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
That I would love thee still my dear,
Till the Johnston Press share price gang dry.
Till the Johnston Press share price gang dry my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun,
And God gives those parvenu pieces of crud a good kick in the goolies,
Each and every one."

When Robbie finishes his poem, he disappears.
My applause ringing in his ears.
It is the turn of the ghost of Elvis to appear in the passenger seat.
Together we sing:

"The Johnston Press fired Heelers.
A decision not really too bright.
Now their shares are worth next to nothing.
In fact they're a heap of shite.
I can feel it.
Feel it.
Feel it.
Feel it.
Feel it...
They're going,
Way down, like it used to be,
Way down,
Way down like a monkey's pee,
Way down,
Way down like a tidal wave.
Wayyyy dowwwn.
Way dowwnnnnn.
Oh wayooo downnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Elvis and me just laughed and laughed and laughed at this.
You know folks, we all really should thank God more often for the gift of laughter.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

the eternal question

What can you buy this morning for twenty pennies in the city of London?

Answer: A share in the Johnston Press.

Er, that's it.

greatest scandals of the war on terror

1. As soon as the twin towers exploded, Noam Chomsky, Robert Fisk, Michael Moore, Norman Mailer, and a coterie of similar appeasers rushed into print to try and impede any decisive American response to the cowardly Islamic terrorist sneak attack. Noam Chomsky, Robert Fisk, Michael Moore, Norman Mailer, and their pals, have been responsible for emboldening Al Qaeda in the aftermath of its defeats in Iraq and Afghanistan. These paltry traitors have convinced Al Qaeda that the war can still be won on the home front. They have been complicit in every act of terrorism since Nine Eleven.
2. The mainstream media shamelessly hyped up the mistreatment of terrorist prisoners at Abu Graib. The mainstream media did this even knowing that their reportage would cause the deaths of American and Allied soldiers, and give succour to the Jihadi's.
3. In Britain, the Daily Mirror editor Piers Morgan deliberately printed fake photographs of prisoners being violated in an attempt to discredit the War On Terror. The photos show falsified images of British soldiers urinating on Iraqi prisoners. Piers Morgan claims he believed the photos were genuine. To this day Piers Morgan persists in a related lie, that he believes the story is genuine even if the photos are demonstrably fake. Piers Morgan has been fired from the Daily Mirror.
4. As British soldiers prepared to set forth on an heroic mission to overthrow Saddam Hussein's fascist regime in far distant Iraq, they listened to BBC reports criticising their impending departure. The reports were so clearly anti British and anti American in tone that the British troops themselves from then referred to the BBC as the Baghdad Broadcasting Corporation.
5. A Daily Telegraph journalist was captured by Jihadi's in Iraq. His articles had been published under the name James Treves. His real name was Mohammed Bin Kareem or some such. The supposedly patriotic Telegraph had been passing off Muslim written articles as something quite different. The Daily Telegraph journalist was later released by his kidnappers.
6. British broadcaster David Frost accepted a high profile presenting job at the Nazi television station Al Jazeera earning for himself the fondly applied epithet Frostie The Snow Muslim.
7. Former President Jimmy Carter met with Hamas, the Iranian sponsored terror movement in the Gaza Strip.
8. Former President Jimmy Carter attempted to weaken and discredit President Bush's negotiating position with North Korea regarding North Korea's nuclear weapons stockpile. Carter had himself signed an accord with the North Koreans as roving ambassador during the Clinton era under which the North Koreans promised not to develop nuclear weapons. The Koreans accepted free food, money and oil from America under the Carter deal, while going ahead and developing the A bomb anyway. President Bush's negotiating position was to insist that other regional powers play an equal role with the USA in dealing with Korea. There warn't nobody in that neighbourhood who could afford to have the North Koreans packing atomic heat. The Bush policy prevailed. But no thanks to Carter who scandalously tried to weaken and discredit the President when the negotiations were at a critical juncture. No thanks to the mainstream media either who have not reported the even handedness and efficacy of the Bush strategy.
9. The Associated Press news group have throughout the past seven years of the War On Terror, employed journalists and photographers who are Al Qaeda agents. In Afghanistan an Associated Press photographer attended the beheadings of two women, taking pictures of the women as they were violated and killed, and being sure all the while never to capture anything on camera that might identify the murderers. In Iraq the Americans grew weary of detaining Associated Press photographers at the scene of road side bombing murders of American troops. The Associated Press photographers had an uncommon ability to turn up to photograph murdered Americans before the murders actually took place.
10. In Iraq after the defeat of Saddam Hussein, a group of American Generals and administrators were met by a senior Islamic cleric. The Americans recognised that this cleric was a real tough guy but one who genuinely loved his people. Privately they referred to him as "Darth Vader," because he presented a most intimidating presence. This senior Muslim cleric told the liberating Americans: "Iraq welcomes you. You must defeat all those who will try to sabotage this victory. Then you must unite Iraq under a constitution inspired by the teachings of Jesus Christ." This event happened. It was witnessed by a senior Time Magazine staffer. The Time Magazine staffer did not report the incident. His mendacious excuse for failing to report this information? "No one would have believed me."
11. Andrew Gilligan a BBC journalist attempted to impede the War On Terror by manufacturing a series of innuendos and presenting them as news to incriminate Prime Minister Tony Blair. Gilligan's main strategy was to insert in the public mind the phrase: "The case for war was based on a sexed up dossier." The BBC repeated this phrase oh about 5000 times while British troops were fighting and dying in Iraq and Afghanistan. The BBC continued to repeat the phrase "sexed up dossier" even after two public enquiries had exonerated Britain's war time Prime Minister, Tony Blair. Gilligan was fired. The inside source, who Gilligan claimed had furnished the story, was found dead, a death that has been declared suicide. Gilligan's use of the agit prop phrase "sexed up dossier," and the BBC's blatent collusion with him, amounted to a treacherous attempt to derail the War On Terror. I do not believe Gilligan's source committed suicide.
12. In America, CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, Newsweek, Time Magazine, the Washington Compost, and the New York Times all colluded in agit prop of their own. Their intent was similar to the BBC's. To lodge in the public mind a false phrase that would, false or not, in any case discredit the President. The phrase these entities tried to sell to the American people was: "Bush lied, people died." People did die after the Jihadi's realised that mainstream American media were now so anxious to discredit President Bush that they were now actually on the side of Al Qaeda.
13. After the American and British liberation of Afghanistan, a United Nations official called Mary Robinson, warned the liberators, that Taliban/Al Qaeda prisoners must be treated humanely. The Taliban/Al Qaeda prisoners in Afghanistan's most notorious prison promptly attempted to murder their way to freedom, attacking their guards in the foulest manner, biting some of them to death, and all the while basking in the sure knowledge that Mary Robinson would never ever criticise any atrocity they committed.
14. Fox News, which is generally fair minded in assessing the War On Terror, continues to rely on Associated Press agency reports laced with anti American propaganda for its website coverage of the war. Fox is of course owned by Rupert Murdoch, the proprietor of Sky News, a quisling appeaserish anti American anti British station. Presumably Sky hopes to do a lot of business in Arabia when those enlightened Al Qaeda fellows take over the world.
15. CIA employee Valerie Plame wished to impede President Bush's move to oust Saddam Hussein. She suggested her husband Joe Wilson be sent to Africa to check whether Saddam had been trying to buy uranium. Both Valerie Plame and her husband were Democratic Party supporters virulently opposed to President Bush. Of course Wilson claimed he found nothing in Africa. Afterwards he and his wife falsely alleged that his wife had secret agent status within the CIA and that the Bush Presidency had risked her life by leaking her identity. This claim was frivolous. After making it, Plame allowed herself to be photographed on the cover of Vogue magazine. Plame and Wilson did manage to blow enough snow to get a Bush Administration staffer called Scooter Libby sent to jail on some technicality. Both Plame and Wilson are thoroughly vile people, each equally deserving of jail time. During World War Two they would have been beheaded. Both Plame and Wilson did their level best to save Saddam Hussein and perpetuate his regime in Iraq.
16. CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, Sky News, Time Magazine, Newsweek, et al, have failed to give proper news coverage to the new government of Iraq's recent disposal of Saddam's pre-war uranium stock pile. This uranium is evidence that Saddam had been seeking to build atomic weapons. News reports have instead focussed on an unattributed comment carried by the Associated Press claiming that the uranium being disposed of dated from before 1991 and had been submitted to UN weapons inspectors by Saddam. There has been no confirmation of this dating of the uranium, or of the methodology used to date it, or indeed of the identity of the person who supposedly told the Associated Press exactly what it wanted to hear. Nor is it clear how anyone could tell from a barrel of uranium whether it had been purchased in 1991 or 1999. The scant media mentions which this uranium stockpile has been given are sure evidence that mainstream media groups are still arrogantly, facilely and culpably, attempting to manipulate the public into an anti President Bush posture. The alternative for them would be unthinkable, ie to tell the truth.
17. Most of the Democrats, including Barack Obama, voted against President Bush's Surge Strategy. In Iraq the Surge defeated Al Qaeda. The Dems and their media allies never admitted to being wrong. CNN and company continue to pretend that a wide range of factors led to the downfall of Al Qaeda in Iraq. They suggest it was a Shiite ceasefire, or Moqtada Al Sadr becoming peaceable, or a Sunni change of heart. Anything but the truth. The truth is President Bush finally found a General worthy of the American troops who had fought so valiantly for to free the world from Islamic terror. President Bush finally found a General who wasn't just a Clinton era appointee with a penchant for fanciful notions about human rights. He finally found one who knew the business of war. That General was David Petraeus. Petraeus was not fazed by nonsense talk along the lines of: "You can't defeat an insurgency." Petraeus bluntly told President Bush: "If you give me enough soldiers, no one will be able to walk down a street in Iraq without my permission. At that stage the insurgency is over."
18. Democratic Party politicians referred to General Petraeus as General Betrayus.
19. The Nobel Prize Committee awarded its peace prize to Al Gore who was attempting to distract the public from the threat of Muslim terrorism by scaremongering about the environment.
20. Mainstream media groups, by their sins of omission and by their negligence in reportage, are still effectively colluding in concealing the prevalence of Islamic terror cells throughout western Europe and America. The media has been treasonably negligent in failing to advocate detention without trial for those involved in committing or planning to commit Jihad crimes against humanity.

a prophet is never welcome in his own car

Driving Miss Lily through the heartland of South Kildare.
The last days of October have come to us with frost and sunlight and the sweet heady tang of cold winter air.
My spirits rise.
I am singing lustily.
The song goes:

"Down in Dublin city,
Full of crannies and nooks,
Lived a German girl,
Called Julia B Fuchs.
She never ever learned
To read or write too well,
But she could speak German
Like she was ringing a bell.
Little country girl
With moderate good looks,
That's our girl
Julia B Fuchs.
Go Julia go.
Go go.
Go Julia go.
Julia B Fuchs."

I pause for breath.
The Mammy's keeps her eyes straight ahead.
Her voice when it comes has a gentle but persistent dignity.
"I think your singing," sez she, "is a form of elder abuse."

Monday, October 27, 2008

jacopo, the youngest grape picker

photographed during the october grape harvest in bricherasio, northern italy, by Luisella Avaro

apologia pro atheismus mea

me and the ghost of charlie darwin
on a day of rain and wild wind
staring from the windows of mount carmel
at the gulls rising high in ecstacy

now says i to charlie darwin
look at that creature rejoice
riding high on rain and wild wind
and tell me there's no majesty in existence

says he to me
there isn't

Sunday, October 26, 2008

special guest artist Divyavibha Sharma

what's in a name

Lunchtime coffee with Doctor Barn in the Whitewater Centre in Newbridge.
Doctor Barn says: "I presume you're coming to my party tonight."
It's his birthday folks.
He's hoping to collect £10 from every player.
There is an awkward silence.
"Er no, I'm not free," I manage eventually.
The brother stares.
"What do you mean?" sez he sharpish.
"I'm meeting a new girl tonight," sez me.
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Julia B Fuchs."
"What kind of a name is that?"
"It's German."
"You're kidding."
"Would I kid about a serious thing like her name being Julia Fuchs?"
"It's probably not even a real name. I've never heard of it as a name before anyway."
"On the contrary, it's a very popular and much respected name down Germany way."
Doctor Barn takes a draught of latte and shakes his head. He has the air of one who has been grievously disappointed.
"Why do you have to meet her tonight?" wondereth he.
"I'm meeting her for a German lesson," I explain apologetically.
"I didn't know you spoke German," quoth he.
"I'm willing to learn," grinnith me.
"Your nephew and nieces are looking forward to seeing you," sez he accusingly.
"My need is greater than theirs," shot back Ireland's greatest living lecher.
The Doc groans.
"Just postpone it," he ventures without much optimism.
My turn for the head shaking routine.
"I can't postpone it."
"Why not?"
"Old brother old pal, I am in many ways a weak man. I am not capable of cancelling my first ever rendezvous with a girl called Julia Fuchs."
"Because of the name?"
"Because of the name," I affirm shallowly.
So I drove to Dublin.
Later that evening I sat in a cafe waiting for Julia Fuchs.
As I waited, the following text arrived on my phone.
"James I am sorry. I am not going to meet you. I met someone else earlier for a language lesson. He didn't really want to learn German at all. It was very awkward. From now on I will just be giving lessons to girls. I hope you understand."
And from somewhere not too far away the sound track to The Good The Bad And The Ugly went: "Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaah!"
That night back at the Chateau De Healy, the Mammy found me flumped in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.
"You missed a great party," proclaimeth Lil. "How did it go with Julia Fuchs?"
"It didn't," I glummed back.
"What happened?" persisted El Mam.
My handsome preraphaelite features went a bit gothic for a moment.
"She stood me up because she thought I might have been going to make a pass at her."
The Mammy took a deep breath.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."
Her laughter had an almost orchestral quality.
And there our story ends.