morning becomes a splendid peroration against independent newspapers manipulative misrepresentation of the reality of sex abuse throughout our culture

Dawn at the Chateau De Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet and his Mammy are seated in front of the computer checking emails.
The door opens and the Dad, wearing a dressing gown, peers in.
"That Tony O'Reilly stuff on your blog is nearly past its sell by date," quoth he pleasantly.
"What do you mean Dad?"
"It's gone by. There's no reason to keep rehashing it."
I digested this.
"Okay," I said. "But I have the unmistakeable feeling Independent Newspapers is going down. They've run up debts of one and a half thousand million dollars while claiming to be selling newspapers to every home in Ireland. Now the truth is coming out. They never had any readers. They never were popular. It was all a monstrous con. Yeah. We could all declare massive readerships if the idiot banks were throwing 1.5 billion at us to do with what we will. The great jeering anti Catholic Marxists and the great sneering anti life atheists of Independent Newspapers, the immortal Gene Kerrigans, the shleeveen Aonghus Fannings, the odious Emmylou Harrises (a husband and wife team who spent the 1960's and 1970's cheerleading for communist Russia and/or communist China and/or anything else Arabist, Islamist, murderous and communist they could find on the surface of the planet earth), these rancid geniuses that O'Reilly hired and promoted as the stars of Irish journalism, these clypes and clowns, these blocks, these stones, these worse than useless things, have in less than three decades, bankrupted a 150 year old newspaper group. But that's not the worse thing they did. In the process they dechristianised, decultured and debauched the ancient nation of Ireland. With just a few decades of their vitiating cretinism they furnished to us signed, sealed and delivered, the violent society, the abortion society, the condom culture society, the contraceptive pill masculinising women and feminising males society, the porno society, the drugs society, the unprecedented levels of child abuse across every segment of the populace society, the MTV sexually disrupting ever younger and younger children society, the babies murdered in their homes by psycho bitch bastards in Sligo society, the old folk violated and killed in Leas Cross nursing home and countless other nursing homes society, the Blackrock schoolboys murdering teenagers outside night clubs society, the Doctor Neary violating women on the operating table at Drogheda Memorial hospital society, the bankers forcing us to finance their losses while still paying themselves massive bonuses society, the Judge Liberals and Prison Warden Liberals releasing murderers to kill kill and kill again society, the rulership of corrupt trade unions society, the gangs taking over the cities society, the couple of hundred thousand Muslims biding their time for civil war society, the debased scoundrels standing in judgement on the decent Christian people who built our nation and our freedoms society. All of this. All of this came via the crass dessicating propaganda of Independent Newspapers. It's a tremendous accomplishment And I'd just like to send them beneath the waves under fire. Not let them make a quiet exit. I'd like em to go down with the sound of cannon fire ringing in their ears. You know. With incoming from all sides. I've no intention of allowing them to retreat to some remote port to refuel and refit. By which I mean, I have no intention of allowing them to compel our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government to use borrowed money to prop them up and then force the rest of us to pay off the money they've borrowed to save their atheistic hedonistic crapweasel friends. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Let. Fianna. Fail. Bail. Out. Tony. F---ing. O. Reilly. And. His. Dying. Newspaper. Group. And. Or. The. Abysmal. Anti. Catholic. Bar. Stewards. In. The. Irish. Times. And. Or. The. Miserable. Lying. C---s. In. RTE."
The Dad shrugged and exited stage left.
The Mammy chuckled.
"Why do you think he's wearing a dressing gown?" wondered she.
My handsome preraphaelite features broke into a handsome neo Platonist grin.
"It's early," says I. "And maybe he thinks he's Nero Wolfe. He might be about to start solving mysteries."
"It's more likely he thinks he's Hugh Hefner," quoth the Mammy.
We tapped away agreeably on the computer for a few minutes.
Eventually growing bored with my email correspondence, the Mammy made her excuses and left.
Presently MC Hamster emerged from a hole in my left sleeve looking a bit shook.
"What's up Hammy?" said I.
"I'm getting old," said the Hamster.
"You've lived a year and a half which is longer than most hamsters," I told her.
"Tell me about it," she replied.
"You were a vital and vibrant little golden mouse when you came here first," I remembered fondly.
Hammy looked at me fiercely through the hole in my jumper.
"I'm still vital and vibrant," she cried defiantly, "it's the jumpers got small."