the highest rating article ever published on the heelers diaries

John Fry Chief Executive Officer of the Johnston Press walked up the gang plank of the shining passenger jet.
It was a Primera Air passenger jet scheduled to fly from Dublin to London.
John Fry squeezed his way among the other passengers.
He found his seat where he always likes it, right next to the aisle.
He glanced sideways.
And lo!
He was sitting beside a woman whom I might describe as attractive but I won't, in case Judge Eamon De Valera tells me to give her 1.87 million quid for implying she's having an affair with a government minister.
Actually she's not that attractive.
I don't know what Independent Newspapers were thinking of when they called her pretty.
The woman was of course Monica Leech.
If you have to pay 1.87 million for saying she's good looking, I wonder what's the toll for saying you don't like the look of her at all?
Two point eight seven million?
John Fry and Monica Leech weren't exactly beside each other.
Monica Leech's seat was at the window.
A vacant seat remained between them.
There was no hanky panky.
There was no accidental touching.
There was no surreptitious contact whatsoever.
Because clearly this article is a fantasy for which I should not be compelled to pay 1.87 million lids to anyone.
Anyhoo.
John Fry scanned the other passengers.
He saw my Uncle Scutch and the soprano singing sensation known as The Brezzer sitting adjacent to each other chatting aimiably.
Both were clutching candles.
The Brezzer was saying: "Maybe the next time we perform Poets In Paradise, we could get a candle to play WB Yeats instead of James."
The plane gave a little jolt.
"Well the candle would probably shed more light on the character of Yeats than James does," replied Uncle Scutch thoughtfully.
John Fry had no idea what they were talking about.
Across the aisle a group of Jihadi's sat cradling their clocks and cackling evilly about the latest football results.
"Allah U akbar," said one conversationally when he caught John Fry's eye.
The Johnston Press man looked away hurriedly.
He's not in the least bit interested in soccer results or clocks.
Right at the front of the plane he could make out a group of police officers travelling first class.
John Fry didn't know it but they were the officers handling the investigation into four recent stabbings in Ireland.
Ten days after the stabbings, the cops still haven't taken statements from the two survivors of the incident.
Ten days and counting.
Sure what's the rush.
Seated around them in first class were senior executives from Ireland's corrupt banks, AIB, Bank Of Ireland, TSB, Anglo Irish, and all the rest, chattering happily about the free money the government has given them to help pay for their gambling addictions.
Just behind the bankers were Irish Prime Minister Brian Cowan and former Prime Minister Bertie Aherne, along with other members of the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party, all clutching black brief cases stuffed with cash looted from the treasury.
Briefly John Fry felt sick.
He looked at the ground and then towards the back of the plane.
Down at the back he espied a group comprising the annual reunion of the Little Boys Who Attempted To Project Their Homosexual Fears About Themselves Onto James Healy At Newbridge College Secondary School Society.
Squeezed into the back seats fingering each other were Conor Bowman, Garret O'Reilly, and Patrick Duignan.
The ghost of Elvis sat on Bowman's knee.
The Johnston Press man faced forward again.
His eyes widened.
A few seats ahead of him sat Irish Times contributor Doctor William Reville deep in conversation with American political commentator Mark Steyn.
Steyn's books aren't available in Easons, Waterstones, Hodges Figgis or that nifty nooky nichey Dubray bookshop where sexy little Punky Brewster works on Grafton Street.
The great Paddy Whacks think Steyn is a monster.
So they don't have his books.
O tempera o morons.
John Fry could just about hear Doctor Reville and Steyn discussing the latest theories about the death of Michael Jackson.
"Heelers tried to find exculpatory material for Jackson during his legal troubles," observed Steyn drily.
The plane began to taxi down the runway.
"Yes," said Reville. "He maintained someone had dosed Jackson with female growth hormones during the singer's childhood to preserve the tremulous quality in his voice which at the time was worth the equivalent of a billion dollars a month to the record company. Heelers suggested dosing human beings with femal hormones might be expected to have a deranging effect on the mind. Particularly the formative mind of a young boy. An interesting theory. Heelers is always rooting for the underdog. Always cheering for the hopeless cause. You know you're really in trouble if he starts trying to defend you on his blog."
"Heaven forbid," murmured Steyn shuddering.
The plane was almost full.
Suddenly John Fry froze.
James Healy himself was walking down the aisle.
Without a word Ireland's greatest living poet took the one remaining free seat between John Fry and Monica Leech.
The plane took off.
Everyone sat back in their seats.
It levelled out at 38,000 feet.
Then the pilot suddenly dived to 20,000 feet.
After that he set out bald headed for Rome, Paris, New York and anywhere else he thought he might get to meet Barack Obama.
The Jihadis in Row Seven looked petrified out of their wits.
They are accustomed to causing terror on aeroplanes not being the victims of it.
The rest of the passengers were quite blase.
We're past worrying about these things.
For long moments no one spoke.
Then Healy that incomparable magnificent basterd, started singing.
He was singing a song from an objectionable pornographically violent Taranatino film.
(You'll have to be more specific. - Paedophile Ian O'Doherty note.)
The song went:

"It's Monday and I don't know what to do.
There's a certain malaise in the zoo.
There's scruff leaking out of the walls.
They all need a good kick in the bawls.
Clowns to the left of me
Jihadis to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you.
We're on a plane and the time's getting late.
I've tried but I can't find my plate.
I'm tired of kicking sand off my shoes.
That's why I'm sitting here singing the blues.
Al Qaeda to the left of me.
Johnston Press to the right.
Here I am stuck in the middle with you."

I gotta tell you folks.
It was simply hilarious.