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, July 04, 2009

testify heelers testify

Bagel Cafe in Lucan waiting for the Light of the Russias.
By chance I came across a copy of the Irish Independent.
It was lying on a table beside me.
The cover date was Thursday 2nd of July 2009.
I picked it up distastefully and began flicking.
On page four there was an article by something called John Cooney.
John Cooney's article claimed parishioners had walked out of a Tipperary church to protest at the unavailability of a priest to say mass.
John Cooney noted that he himself "applauded the gesture as a sacramental boycott."
Hmmm.
Let us try to explain to this dedicated servant of Independent Newspapers who now seems to wish to pose as a Catholic, let us try to explain to him the sheer cretinism of his notion about boycotting the sacraments.
Let us try to explain to him what the sacrament of communion means to those of us who really are Catholic.
And not just posing.
We shall use small words so he'll have a chance of understanding.
The sacrament of communion is the real presence of the creator of the universe in bread and wine at the mass ceremony.
None of us are going to be boycotting the sacrament of communion.
Not now.
Not ever.
The sacrament of communion doesn't owe us anything.
Nor does the Catholic church owe us anything.
Nor does God owe us anything.
We rejoice in the church.
We live in communion.
We serve God.
Not the other way around.
None of us are going to boycott our own rejoicing.
None of us are going to boycott the source of our own lives.
None of us are going to boycott God.
We may boycott John Cooney's God though.
By which I mean we may boycott Mr Tony O'Reilly and Sons, Prop Independent Newspapers.
In fact, many of us, perhaps most of us, have already been boycotting Independent Newspapers.
The irony is that we still end up financing Independent Newspapers and its huge bank debts, because our kleptocratic Fianna Fail government insists on giving Independent Newspapers limitless amounts of our money in the form of State Sector and Health Board advertising.
But we're not going to be boycotting the royal truth of the universe any time soon.
For those who boycott the unutterable truth of God are merly choosing to cease to exist.
That is how Catholics feel about communion.
And John Cooney doesn't speak for us.
Not for any of us.
Not now.
Not ever.
Towards the end of his article John Cooney writes: "In calling for a sacramental boycott, the Irish laity need to challenge Rome and Maynooth to supply leaders at the eucharistic table."
Pure drivel.
No member of the Irish laity has called for a sacramental boycott.
The phrase is John Cooney's.
His alone.
Let him take responsibility for it.
Before God and man.
I flicked on through the Irish Independent.
On page 24 there was an article by someone called Kevin Myers.
Kevin Myers' article touched on various recent events, including the death of Michael Jackson, the rescue of a little girl called Bahiya Bakari from the Indian ocean after an airline crash, and the death of a little boy called Mohammed Junaid Hussein who Myers says was struck by lightning last week in England.
Myers concludes with the following words:
"There is no reason to birth, to death, nor to those events between the two, which we call life. They just are, and that is that."
Ah yes, gentle travellers of the internet.
At least Myers is honest.
This is his world view.
In truth it is also the world view of the whole of Independent Newspapers.
Most of them attempt to conceal it.
So Myers in his miserable egotistical unctious presumptuous vanity has at least a smidgen of integrity, and I salute him for it.
But his keynote is not integrity.
His keynote is arrogance.
Of course Myers is not merely arrogant but also wilfully ignorant.
But still let it be said moderately honest about his own misery.
And still scum.
But here he tells us why he is scum.
He doesn't for a moment believe he is accountable to God for what he does.
And I say again.
Neither does anyone else in Independent Newspapers.
And at least Myers is honest.
As honest as a miserable lying atheistic servitor of the O'Reilly family and Independent Newspapers can be.
So Myers says life has no meaning.
We might wonder as to his qualifications to come to that conclusion with such gormless certitude.
I say gormless certitude.
There is another sort of atheistic certitude, well informed though just as misguided.
I had the privilege of being terrified once by the confident anti God statements of an Oxford Univerisity Brit atheistic genius called Professor Flue.
Flue was genuinely a genius.
He was genuinely terrifying.
All my own atheisms were laid bare by his clinical rationalistic expose of faith and belief.
Flue was sneering about the Catholic church and the possibilities of there being a God.
He sneered with such elan.
His beautiful cut glass finely modulated British accent rang with clear unswerving irresistable godlessness.
I have never felt so defeated.
I felt a stone in my heart.
I could never match this.
Unlike the fervourless O'Reilly apparatchik Kevin Myers, this Professor Flue knew his stuff.
Perhaps at the end of the day, we might honestly conclude that Professor Flue is one of the two finest minds of a generation.
(Modesty prevents me from naming the other one.)
I was privileged to be terrified of Professor Flue's sneers about God.
And I was privileged again to see Professor Flue on television twenty years later saying with quiet dignity:
"You see we thought there was limitless time for evolution to have occurred. But that's just not so. From the rationalist point of view it's just not so. From the scientific point of view it's just not so. And then for me the big difference came as we found out more and more about the complexity of the DNA molecule. The building blocks from which human beings are composed. It was just so impossibly wondrously complex. In all honesty I do not see how it is possible either rationally or scientifically to say it came about by chance."
Maybe Kevin Myers knows better.
Maybe his simple sneering is more finely evolved than the analysis of the world's finest theoretical scientist.
We hear lots about atheistic scientists, don't we?
We hear less about atheistic scientists who state honestly and openly that atheism is now for them rationally and scientifically untenable.
But maybe Kevin Myers and Independent Newspapers for all their lack of principle, qualifications, wisdom, experience, intellect and insight, maybe these worthless buffoons, maybe they know better.
Better than the simple peasant theoretical biophysicists anyway.
Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame, eh Kevin?
Get off the toilet you horrendous c---.
You're shat around too long for any good you've been doing.
But I digress.
Kevin Myers lists a few tragic accidents and thinks he's disproven the creator of the universe.
Be assured.
Myers is gormless.
Yes indeed.
Genuinely gormless.
Tragically gormless.
All the more gormless because he claims he's an intellectual.
I flicked on a few more pages through the Irish Independent.
I came to page 36.
And lo.
What clown through yonder window breaks.
It is the east.
And Ian O'Doherty is the scum.
Sure enough my eyes had fallen on an article by a nobody called Ian O'Doherty.
Here's larks, thinks I.
Ian O'Doherty is most famous for having written a few weeks ago in the Irish Independent that the Catholic church is a paedophile ring.
Now he was writing about an advertising campaign for ice cream featuring a male model dressed as a priest kissing a female model dressed as a nun.
A picture of the advertisement gilded O'Doherty's semi literate prose.
O'Doherty asserted that it was baffling how anyone could be offended by an ad for a frozen milk product.
Missing the point surely?
It wasn't what the ad was for that had caused any concern.
It was the crass insulting commercialistic manipulation of the symbols of our religion which some of us considered to be, well, crass insulting commercialistic manipulation.
We weren't really offended though.
It's only people like O'Doherty who get offended.
The rest of us actually have a vibrant intellectual critical faculty about life, the universe, and our popular culture, which we express freely wherever and whenever we want.
(Except when it applies to Monica Leech. - Ed note.)
We're not really all that offended by the persecution of the Catholic church in the modern era.
But we certainly know what it is.
And we call it what it is.
Persecution.
The media of Ireland and certain shadowy figures within the judiciary and the political establishments of the Republic of Ireland and elsewhere, and certain cosmically cretinous hangers on like O'Doherty, are seeking to destroy the Catholic church as a platform for public influence.
There's no mystery about what they are doing.
They are doing so either knowingly or unknowingly in service to satan.
There you go.
That's my analysis.
The interesting thing gentle travellers of the internet, is that I'm rarely wrong.
When I call O'Doherty a worthless tit.
When I suggest there's an international satanistic conspiracy to enslave the human race.
Rarely wrong.
After that you make up your own minds.
Offended, moi?
What's to be offended by?
Some little scruff in Independent Newspapers telling lies about the ancient religion?
Offended by it?
Really?
Me?
No.
I call a scruff a scruff.
And a bastard a bastard.
And a worthless oleaginous toad a worthless oleaginous toad.
I'm not in the business of being offended by an atheistic Tony O'Reilly adoring coward like O'Doherty whose lies about the Catholic church will never be forgotten.
No, I'm not in the business of taking offence.
I'm in the business of causing offence.
It's how I get my jollies.
B-st-rd.
Thank God I'm perfect, that's all I say.
Arf, arf.
A little James humour there.
It always does to lighten the mood now and then when you're writing about cowardly mendacious Tony O'Reilly worshipping scum.
Speaking of which, Ian O'Doherty finishes his article with the following sentence:
"But perhaps these people are missing the point - after all in the wake of the revelations about child abuse we've had to try and stomach over the last few months, most people would actually be quite content to think that Irish priests and nuns are having sex with each other rather than the children in their care."
Ah yes.
It's a measure of his class isn't it.
Ian O'Doherty wrote those words and the Irish Independent printed them.
I folded the newspaper.
You've got to understand folks.
These people have no courage, no insight and no journalistic ability.
On the same day that John Cooney called for a boycott of God, and Kevin Myers asserted manfully that there is no meaning to life, and Ian O'Doherty once more compounded his cowardice with yet more lies about the Catholic church, all in the Irish Independent, on precisely the same day, figures were published showing the net indebtedness of Independent Newspapers to be in excess of 1.5 billion Euro. That's one thousand five hundred million.
You must understand folks.
They can't run a newspaper more incompetently than they are doing at present.
There are no losses that can compel Independent Newspapers to wake up and smell the heather.
There are no losses that will ever force these people to end the mendacious liberal posturings of John Cooney, or the mendacious atheism of Myers, or the mendacious juvenile cowardice of O'Doherty.
If losses of 1.5 billion can't stop them, nothing on earth can.
Except God.
You know Cooney, Myers and even the omnipotent O'Doherty really are accountable to God.
(Impotent O'Doherty surely? - Ed note.)
I am not their judge.
They will answer to God directly.
I hope he gives em a good root in the bawls.
(I will. - God note.)
Independent Newspapers though, before facing God, will probably more immediately be accountable to the market.
It will go bust.
Like the Johnston Press who fired me from the Leinster Leader three weeks before Christmas, it will cease to exist.
I say it again.
Independent Newspapers is not going to change.
Short of a Christian conversion among senior management nothing can change them.
Certainly not the collapse of their business.
They owe 1.5 billion quid.
You can't run a company any worse than in such a way that it produces losses of 1.5 billion quid.
That's like a corrupt collapsing bank debt.
Yes they've declared annual profits for the past two decades.
But we can all use accountancy tricks to declare annual profits of a few bucks if in actuality we are in hock to idiot banks to the tune of 1.5 billion quid.
The Heelers Diaries could declare profits of a hundred million a year if some idiot bank would give me a billion to play around with over the next decade.
That's how it's done.
So they're not going to change for commercial reasons.
They've been given money by idiot banks regardless of whether they have any readers or not.
There has been no requirement for them to change.
Until now when the reality check has kicked in.
You know, anti Catholicism was never as clever or profitable as these aardvarks claimed it was.
Aardvarks?
Independent Newspapers management and editorial cadres are made up of poor little Marxist rich kids the flotsam of pseudo intellectual Irish university life in the 1960's.
They were recruited from our universities to form the core ethos and values of Independent Newspapers management from the 1970's through to the present day.
After all the pseudo radicalism of their university days, they suddenly found they weren't so opposed to capitalism after all.
Or at least not to corporatism.
The worst dysfunction of the capitalist system.
The rise of large companies who aren't really accountable to anyone.
The poor little rich Marxists found they could happily serve in such corporate entities.
Tities, indeed.
The great Aonghus Fanning at the Sunday Independent.
The immortal Emmylou Harris.
Dribblers all.
They became champions of hedonism and the atheistic lifestyle.
Perpetually at war with the Catholic church which was the only real threat to their power.
Every year they told us how popular they were.
Every year they declared magnificent profits.
Until at the end of twenty years we discovered that the whole newspaper group is drowning in 1.5 billion dollars of debt.
Seriously though, they've done a brilliant job.
This decrepit outmoded crop of anti Catholics on Independent Newspapers' management and staff have all but killed a 200 year old company.
There's no going back.
Most of us wouldn't p-ss on them now if they were on fire.
The market has already given them all the warnings they're going to get.
Independent Newspaper is going to sink beneath the waves.
And the last thing you'll hear as Independent Newspapers finally does go down, will be John Cooney, Kevin Myers and Ian O'Doherty hunched on the poop deck still screaming their infantile lies about the Catholic church.
And the band played on.
Glub.
Glub.
Glub.
It's the only song they know.
Let's see if I'm right.
Again.
Here endith the lesson.

hartigan's stallion

animal from birth
the fire within
drove to the hill tops
creature of the wind
sinew spirit storm
smitten into form
with half forgotten dreams
the mountains the forests and the streams
your temple
your refuge
your domain

a rooskie in dublin


TANNING OBSESSION!
by Irina Kuksova
****************
It's written in the Commandments of our culture that a tan equals health, wealth and a better quality of life. It gives you a certain status. If you are really tanned, you:
(a) Have money to burn on an exotic holiday or lead an active life outdoors.
(b) Take care of the way your body looks.
The above is true for the countries that can boast proper Summers. What I find incredibly strange is why the tan is so fashionable in Ireland where the most likely way of gettting it, seems to be in a solarium or by using immoderate amounts of fake tan cream. (And before you say that a tanned Irish person is a just-back-from-a-holiday Irish person, let me point out that the latter is much more often BURNED, not tanned.)
Now being tanned is an intrinsic part of life in Mediterranean countries. There you get that 'brownie' look just by leaving your house once in a while. Plus since you are likely to get heatstroke if you wear anything more than a bikini/trunks, at least you know by the end of the day you are going to get more than just a bit of colour in your nose. Mediterranean tanning fans keep their status quo through the Winter by getting a five minute solarium session for hands and face only. Note that this is not to get from 'white chocolate' to 'milk chocolate' tint. It's to get from 'milk chocolate' to '80 percent cacao.'
In Ireland if you want a golden tint, you gotta seize that sunny weekend. Even if you're lucky though, on Sunday night we see more red tanners than golden ones. It always seems to come as a surprise to the Irish that one can have too much sun. But not too worry. Once the flaky skin is gone and the new tender white layer is revealed, the whole process can be repeated time and time again. It gets technically understandable why you might want to consider using fake tan after all.
We keep wanting to be the opposite of ourselves. Filippino beauties hide from the sun under umbrellas, popping tan inhibiting tablets. Irish beauties loll beneath the occasionally blazing sun trying to get a Cadbury tint at any cost... The answer probably lies in a more natural approach. Liking yourself, accepting yourself the way you are, and more to the point enjoying who you are. Fashionable things are usually the least natural. It's more natural to like all kinds of chocolate.

Friday, July 03, 2009

The Photographer's Eye (with Enrica Cecchini)

My Blue Heaven
****************
Howth on a lovely sunny day. My second day in Ireland. When I saw this I thought: "Oh my God, I want to live here, right here in the lighthouse." The very next day the weather was terrible. I thought: "Thank God I don't live in that lighthouse." So you see, everything depends on the moment. Everything is relative. Enrica

one man can make a difference

Another day, another demo.
If you had passed through Dublin late yesterday evening you might have seen a very handsome poet halted in his tracks in the middle of O'Connell Street.
He was looking at the latest batch of protestors to set up shop near the Spire monument.
These ones had placards condemning the Iranian government's theft of the recent elections in that country and the ensuing murders, intimidations, crackdown and imprisonment of ordinary people there.
There were maybe about forty protestors standing at the roadside in the centre of Dublin.
But no Irish Times types this time.
No Irish at all.
Apparently this cause isn't so trendy.

Wordlessly I crossed the road.
I shook hands with one of the protestors.
"Well done," I said.

on the turn of the tide

in the clammy stillness
of a calm monsoon
you came to me
pointed to the window
and a spanish galleon moon
sail with me
sayeth thou
the tide is turning soon

i woke to find i slept
i wept

darkness visible

Coffee with Valeria in Arnotts Cafe.
She took off her jacket as she sat down.
Underneath she was wearing a low cut blouse.
My eyes widened.
Ah, the trembling of the leaf indeed.
When I'd managed to restore my equilibrium, I espied a collection of ornaments hung around her neck.
"What are those?" I enquired, pointing.
"My breasts," shot back Valeria.
The noble Heelers released a deep sigh.
"You don't need to tell me that," I said. "I'd have figured it out eventually. And that's an arm, right? And down there, you've get legs? Okay. What I was asking about are your jewels. What are they?"
She grinned.
A baby at the table beside us let out a single shriek loud enough to wake the dead.
"They're religious symbols," explained Valeria unperturbed by the baby or by my roving eyes. "I don't believe in any one religion. So I have these."
The noble Heelers peered closely, trying not to let his attention wander southwards.
"Who's that?"
"He's Buddha."
"And this one?"
"That's Christian."
There was a a third symbol.
I couldn't see it clearly.
"So you don't believe in any one religion?" I asked.
"No, they're all the same."
"But do you not think Jesus is real?" said I.
"I think he existed but that's it," she replied.
"And you've no other opinion of him?" I wondered.
"I wear his symbol because I think he was a great guy," she said carefully.
"But if you think he's a great guy why don't you accept what he said about himself?" I persisted.
"I don't know what he said about himself," she said without hesitation.
"What about the Bible?"
"I don't believe that."
"But it's the source of the reasons you think he's a great guy."
"Look James, I don't care about any of that. I believe what I believe and I'm not going to change. Just like you're not going to change. You only believe in Jesus because your parents taught you to believe. I believed it once. But I don't believe anymore."
Gentle readers of the internet a part of me wanted to debate with her and win.
But nowadays I know the only act of faith I can make is for myself.
I became quite calm.
I waited just in case God would tell me to come out with some cracking one liner.
No words came.
My spirit grew still.
Something directed me.
"Valeria," I said softly. "Tell me that third symbol is not a picture of the devil."
Her beautiful hispanic features shrouded in confusion.
Her eyes fell.

an open letter to garry o'sullivan editor of The Irish Catholic newspaper

Dear Garry O'Sullivan Editor Of The Irish Catholic Newspaper.
It has come to my attention that you are editor of a newspaper styling itself The Irish Catholic.
By what right do you use this title for your newspaper?
Have you been given a dispensation from heaven to describe yourselves as The Irish Catholic?
I want you to understand Garry O'Sullivan of The Irish Catholic newspaper, that I do not consider you a Catholic, nor do I consider your newspaper is Catholic, and nor do I accept you have the right to use the title The Irish Catholic for the commercial trading entity you currently edit which is known as The Irish Catholic.
Just so's you know.
I'd hate to think you were doing all this without realising I opposed it.
Garry O'Sullivan you asserted in your editorial this week that The Irish Catholic newspaper would have been driven out of business if it had attempted to expose sex abuse cases within the Catholic church twenty years ago.
More precisely you stated:
"If that had happened I firmly believe there would be no Irish Catholic newspaper today. It just would not have been tolerated. It would have been seen as disloyal, beating a liberal secular drum."
Ah yes.
Us evil Catholics would have been determined to hide the truth eh?
Remind me again.
How many newspapers have we driven out of business during the past twenty years of blatent anti Catholic media manipulation of sex abuse cases?
How many of em have we shut down exactly for their egregious and foul and mendacious attempts to destroy the Catholic Church by continually recycling the same sex abuse cases involving the same priests and ignoring the huge majority of cases which have taken place and are currently taking place in family homes at the hands of people who have no association with religious belief whatsoever?
Congratulations on your appointment as a Supreme Court Judge Garry O'Sullivan.
Presumably your appointment has come through.
Or else you wouldn't be in a position to find a whole generation of Christians guilty of a crime you just made up.
"If The Irish Catholic had exposed sex abuse..."
Really Garry O'Sullivan?
If!
Your newspaper exposed nothing, did it?
Because then as now it was a heap of crap.
But it's us vile peasants who are to blame because who knows what we'd have done if your newspaper had actually been doing its job!
Sound analysis there Garry O'Sullivan.
I don't think.
You just feel sure all us vile repressed peasants would have tried to shut down your whole enlightened saintly operation.
An instinct eh?
If, indeed!
The Irish Catholic never exposed anything.
And it never will.
It is the ultimate conformist rag usurping a name and title that does not belong to it.
I wonder will God recognise your copywright of the title The Irish Catholic.
You invidious commercialised little shits.
When The Irish Catholic as a trading entity perceived the country was generally culturally Catholic, it purveyed a most fervourless anodyne Catholicism for Catholic consumption which even today leaves a sour taste with those of us who remember it because its keynote was insincerity.
Now that your board of management thinks Independent Newspapers style liberalism is the order of the day, we are treated to you Garry O'Sullivan posing as a Catholic, clothing your liberal tosh with pseudo Catholic verbiage, and editing a publication which calls itself The Irish Catholic but which most of us regard as just another liberal atheistic propaganda hand out leaflet.
Your board of management has missed the boat by the way.
Even with State Sector and Health Board advertising Independent Newspapers has managed to run up debts of one thousand five hundred million quid.
Abysml scruff.
What do you think Garry O'Sullivan?
Independent Newspapers, The Irish Times and RTE all going down the toilet because us evil Catholics won't support them?
How evil of us.
I mean what right have we not to buy or finance newspapers and television stations we don't like.
How dare we.
To dare to actually have our own opinions and to act on them.
It's unthinkable.
How utterly autonomous, dignified, blessed with souls we are by the one true God.
It must be very frustrating for an enlightened fellow like yourself Garry O'Sullivan.
What do you think Garry O'Sullivan?
You that's so close to the Almighty that you can, at a stroke, condemn his followers to small minded hell.
What do you think?
Is Jesus coming back soon?
Or is that just stuff that evil Catholics make up to scare the children at night?
Give em condoms and let em off, eh Garry O'Sullivan?
The alternative is evil repressed Catholicism.
And we don't want that?
Do we?
Well you don't.
Let's be quite clear.
What you have written in your editorial is utterly false.
Every single newspaper in the Republic of Ireland has been beating a disloyal anti Catholic secular drum for the past forty years, never mind twenty.
In all that time, evil Catholics have driven a grand total of nought newspapers out of business.
Your premise is mendacious.
Those newspapers are actually finally going out of business through their own incompetence.
They forgot who their audience was.
They committed the same crime as newspapers everywhere.
They thought advertising was enough to make them viable.
They actually thought they didn't need any readers.
The Evening Herald, The Irish Independent, The Sunday Independent, The Sunday World, The Irish Times and The Daily Star have all blatently and consistently beaten the anti Catholic drum.
The real tragedy is not that Catholics tried to drive them out of business.
The real tragedy is that Catholics were required to finance them through government State Sector and Health Board advertising, even when many of us considered financing such entities to be entirely opprobrious, and when many of us were exercising our right as freely autonomous individuals not to buy the aforementioned anti Catholic crap sheets.
Freely autonomous individuals Garry O'Sullivan.
Entitled to buy newspapers if we want to buy them, or not to buy them if we don't want to buy them, as the case may be.
Entitled Garry O'Sullivan to make our own newspaper purchasing choices without a fake Catholic like yourself from a fake Catholic newspaper, standing in judgement on us and telling us how parochial and small minded and just plain evil we are.
Yes, many of us consider that The Irish Times, Indpendent Newspapers, RTE, et al, have no real concern about sex abuse.
If they cared about the victims why not make clear where most victims arise?
Why permit Ian O'Doherty to write in The Irish Independent that the Catholic church is a paedophile ring?
Why permit Daily Star editor Ger Colleran to falsely, malignly and mendaciously claim on RTE that children had been screaming for help in every Catholic church presbytery in Ireland?
Is there to be no compensation for religous people and churchmen who have been grotesquely libelled by O'Doherty and Colleran's utterly false and utterly cowardly lies as disseminated by Independent Newspapers and RTE?
A Public Relations consultant called Monica Leech got 300,000 quid in compensation from RTE after an anonymous caller suggested live on RTE radio that she had been giving blow jobs to a government minister in return for government contracts.
Monica Leech has just been granted 1.87 million in court against Independent Newspapers for their reportage of the events surrounding the same government contracts.
The Daily Mail paid her a paltry 100,000 for their attempts to describe the situation.
All this for Monica Leech.
And O'Doherty and Colleran via Independent Newspapers and RTE are to be permitted to calumniate and trahaise the faith of our fathers with impunity?
But I digress.
Catholics know that our media have been focussing on the tiny minority of sex abuse cases involving priests and ignoring the vast preponderance of cases which occur in the home or at the hands of passing pyschotics.
We know it well.
We know what's going on.
But through State Sector and Health Board advertising we were all compelled to finance Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and the broadcaster RTE regardless of whether we approved of their manipulative atheistic anti Catholic agendas or not.
Joe Stalin would have been proud.
I gotta tell you Garry O'Sullivan.
This is an age of massive sexual dysfunction.
The only effect cultural Catholicism has had on this vile evil, has been to limit its effects.
In non Catholic countries, or countries where the faith has been marginalised more completely, the effects of psychosexualised, murderous, satanic sex abuse are everywhere more virulent and observably more prevalent.
Your assertion Garry O'Sullivan that any Christian would boycott a newspaper for telling the truth about sex abuse offends me deeply.
We have never had any fear of the truth.
And if the truth is that the media in Ireland has been using sex abuse cases to fulminate an atheistic pogrom against the ancient religion, why then, let that truth be told too.
And if the truth is that the media in Ireland, including your self styled Irish Catholic newspaper, have actually created the most violent atheistic society Ireland has ever seen, why then let that truth be told also.
And if the truth is that the media in Ireland have actually wilfully, knowingly and invidiously sought to destroy the church, and in the attempt have fostered the must unprecedented levels of child rape, child murder and child sacrifice to satan ever seen in this country, if this is true, and if the media are responsible for it, why then, let this truth be told as well.
Nay.
Let it be proclaimed from the rooftops.
Let truth be told and let heaven rain.
Here is the news.
The Irish Catholic newspaper is not Catholic.
The Irish Catholic newspaper is owned by another trading entity known as The Farmers Journal.
The Irish Catholic newspaper is a business.
I resent the fact that my seventy year old Aunty Teresa sells The Irish Catholic at the back of Kilcullen Church thinking she's supporting the ancient religion and faith of our fathers, when in fact she's supporting the balance sheet of The Farmers Journal and ensuring that you clypes have enough petrol to put in your BMWs.
Imagine my aunt and thousands of volunteers like her working for nothing to bring in money for the board of management of the Farmers Journal.
It's a fact.
She does.
I resent this seemingly inconsequential fact most of all, Garry O'Sullivan.
It seems to me to be a manipulation of an old lady by cynical skanks with no real commitment or belief in anything beyond the great god of cash flow.
I want you to put a stop to it Garry O'Sullivan.
Thank you for your time.
James Healy

special guest blogger the prophet joel

After this I shall pour out my spirit on all humanity.
Your sons and daughters shall prophesy,
your old people shall dream dreams,
and your young people see visions.
Even on the slaves, men and women,
shall I pour out my spirit in those days.
I shall show portents in the sky
and on earth,
blood and fire and columns of smoke.
The sun will be turned into darkness,
and the moon into blood,
before the day comes,
that great and terrible day.
All who call on the name of Yahweh
will be saved,
for on Mount Zion will be those
who have escaped,
as Yahweh has said,
and in Jerusalem a remnant
whom Yahweh is calling.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

life and nothing but

Morning coffee with Doctor Barn at the Newbridge Silverware Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus Et Sexy Russian Waitresses.
I told him I had been thinking of confronting a sister in law I was feeling under pressure with.
He looked at me with undisguised horror.
His brotherly professorial doctoresque demeanour vanished.
He looked like nothing so much as the haggard old boxing coach in Rockie Three at the moment when Rockie told him he wanted to fight Mr T.
"Heelers," he rasped. "Are you mad? She'll kill you to death."
I left him and drove to Dublin.
Parked the car and took a stroll down O'Connell Street.
Found myself in the middle of a Palestinian pro terror rally.
I didn't exactly fit in.
Detaching myself from the valiant little group, I crossed the street and stood outside the General Post Office.
From there I contemplated the knot of demonstrators.
There were about twenty of them.
Some Irish Times types with their classically gormless faces.
Poor little rich boys.
Their worldview writ large in spoilt infantile expressions.
Catholic church repressed us.
If we can't have Soviet Rule we're gonna surrender to something worse.
My gentle preraphaelite features became a tad grim.
Those galoots are gonna just lap up Sharia law.
Hoo boy.
The rest of the demonstrators were real deal Palestinians, Pakistanis and a couple of Iraqis.
The sort of Iraqis who felt they had to leave Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein's government.
Lovely people.
Our kleptocratic Fianna Fail government has been handing out passports to the Muslim world hand over fist.
I'm sure they'll all make fine citizens.
They can't be much worse than Fianna Fail anyway.
The street rang briefly with mildly bigoted anti Israeli slogans.
Some of the Muslims had gotten a bit bored and were shouting about what they perceived to be the plight of the Gaza Strip.
Hint: They don't blame their own terrorist rulers or their own terrorist sponsors in Iran for their own wrecked society. It's all someone else's fault.
I toyed with the idea of shouting a few slogans of my own.
No more Al Qaedas.
No more Arab terror.
No more Islamist dictatorship in Iran.
No more Muslim holocaust deniers.
No more Syrian murders of Lebanese Presidents.
No more suicide bombings.
No more crashing passenger jets into sky scrapers in New York.
No more blowing up passenger airliners anywhere.
No more murders of Dutch Prime Ministers and Dutch film directors.
No more torching of French cities.
No more murders of French Jewish citizens.
No more blowing up trains in Madrid.
No more blowing up trains and buses in London.
No more Algerians murdering Irish teenagers on Grafton Street with baseball bats.
No more Saudi Arabian and Lebanese pseudo Sheikhs murdering their Filippino and Hindu housemaids whom they have reduced to the level of indentured slavery before they kill them.
No more murders of Arab girls by their fathers and brothers for the evil crime of wearing a short skirt.
No more Black Jacket Muslim crime gangs.
No more murders of young mothers like Baibite on the doorstep of her house in Dublin for the crime of wanting to leave her Lebanese gangster jailbird husband.
I thought of shouting these.
But I decided there have to be easier ways of committing suicide.
The sun was flooding through the city centre in a sea of light.
This should be a day for joy.
I walked around the corner onto Henry Street.
And lo!
I was slap bang in the middle of another demonstration.
Truly my cup runneth over.
A leggy girl pressed a pro abortion leaflet into my hands.
I eyed her legs keenly.
Here was a moral dilemma indeed.
Around me a swirl of young dudes lolled protestingly.
This demo had been organised by the Socialist Workers Party.
Socialist Workers indeed.
They didn't look like they'd ever done a day's work in their lives.
Arf arf.
A little socialist worker humour there.
I gave one last wistful look at Miss Legs.
It was time to find a quieter more protestor free environment.
I wandered off towards Arnotts cafe.
Perhaps there I would finally find a suitable outlet for my sublime talents.
Coffee drinking and idleness.
You know gentle travellers of the internet, we must all seek to make a difference to the world in the way we know best.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

orchid at the chateau


my kingdom for a horse

Evening at the Chateau De Healy.
The noble Heelers enters the kitchen stage left in search of croissants.
He espies a bag of ye aforementioned croissants on the table.
He reaches for the bag and withdraws a croissant.
He stares.
The ends have been bitten off the croissant.
The mighty Heelers withdraws another croissant.
He jumps.
This too has had the ends bitten off it.
The finest mind of a generation withdraws the third and final croissant.
As expected the croissant has been serially bitten on both ends.
Heelers' gentle preraphaelite features go a bit gothic for a moment.
"Those bloody kids," he snarls. "They're taking the croissants out of the bag, biting them, and then putting them back in the wrapping."
The Mammy looks up from her crossword.
"It wasn't the kids," sez she mildly. "It was me."

at evening

footballers cheer a score
pat carroll shoots rabbits in the gloom
children steal crab apples
and farmer byrne calls the cattle home

perhaps this chaotic place
is not kilcullen in 1989
but a dusty frontier town
at the heart of ancient palestine

the sounds dissolve
into a muted half felt bliss
fluted by fond memory
and a strange provincial holiness

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

a gift for you


the awakening

resolving not to love you
thinking myself free
released from that dream
once more i am surprised
by your words your smile your eyes
here in the stilly darkness
made a prisoner again
by the curse of men

what greater curse than to love
that which you cannot have
what greater dream behind curtains drawn
see shadows dance across the lawn at dawn
i love you i love you
it is true
accursed be the thought
be it so

heeler the peeler's supernatural tales of yoikes and ah for crying out loud

It was only a matter of time.
All this talk about Korean waking dreams and evil beings attacking while we sleep.
Of course I was going to get one.
One of those dreams.
Again.
Bloody ephin again.
I haven't had one in years.
Now they're back.
A man as suggestible as me has no place writing about anything to do with the supernatural.
It happened this evening.
I went to bed early.
I was under pressure with a relative.
One of the sisters in law.
I poured my heart out to God, telling him frankly I didn't want to heal the relationship, that I just wanted to get away from it.
I rarely try to make my prayers politically correct when chatting with the Deity.
I lay down to sleep.
And it was one of those.
Me paralysed.
Knowing full well I was asleep.
Sensing an evil presence approaching the bed.
Me barely able to form the invocation of Jesus to save myself.
Then I awoke.
Very similar to the Korean accounts, except the orientals often conceive of themselves as having already awoken when the attack happens, and then being paralysed in the presence of evil.
Of course the fact that I've been writing so much about these phenomena lately might mean my own suggestibility lay at the root of what I'd dreamed.
Of course Hungarian Psychologist Petronella Burjan may be right in what she has written on this website asserting that everything in these dreams is explainable in terms of brain chemistry.
Of course my own troubled mental history complete with similar examples of such dreams, which predates my awareness of the Korean phenomena by decades, might simply relate to psycho sexual fear, fear of life, fear of the future, fear of confrontation, all projected into the form I refer to as the presence of evil.
It might.
But you know gentle readers, my testimony to you is that I think there's another explanation.
So there we go.
When I awoke I turned again somewhat ruefully to the creator of the universe.
The family problems were a bit more in perspective.
My earthly fears about living, loving, money, careers and everything else, also seemed pretty irrelevant.
I had glimpsed the real danger.
And I knew full well as I've always known somewhere in my heart that my relationship with Jesus is the only thing in the universe that really matters.

we win one

It was the dulcet dawn of the swinging 60's.
The Beetles were storming up the pop charts.
The winds of change were lapping around the leaf fringed hedgerows of the South Kildare village of Kilcullen.
A woman approached my Uncle Scutch in his pharmacy.
She had a furtive air.
She was a few weeks from giving birth.
"Can you give me something for the baby?" she asked in a whisper.
"What do you mean?" said the Uncle.
"Can you give me something to make the baby go away?" said the woman.
"What?" said the Uncle.
"Anything," said the woman, "just make the baby go away."
The Uncle nodded.
"Why don't you just wait till the baby is born and drown him?" he said.
The woman had her baby and called him after my uncle.

special guest blogger the prophet baruch

Jerusalem take off your dress of sorrow and distress.
Put on the beauty of God's glory for evermore.
Wrap the cloak of God's saving justice around you.
Put the diadem of the eternal one's glory on your head.
For God means to show your splendour to every nation under heaven,
And the name God gives you for evermore will be 'Peace Through Justice And Glory Through Devotion.'
Arise Jerusalem, stand on the heights and turn your eyes to the east.
See your children reassembled from west and east at the holy one's command, rejoicing because God has remembered.
Though they left you on foot driven by enemies, now God brings them back to you, carried gloriously like a royal throne.
For God has decreed the flattening of each high mountain, of the everlasting hills, the filling of the valleys to make the ground level so that Israel can walk safely in God's glory.
And the forests and every fragrant tree will provide shade for Israel at God's command.
For God will guide Israel in joy by the light of his glory with the mercy and saving justice which come from him.

you can sing it

Another blooming Billy The Kid movie with Serafina.
The sequel to Young Guns.
Idiot violence made unfortunately attractive by rather improbably good acting.
Emilio Estevez as nutty as ever.
And Bon Jovi once more providing the highlight with a ridiculously self parodying anachronistic mish mash of western themes and modern rock rhythms.
Bon Jovi is singing:
"The newspapers are the same.
Only the names have changed.
The Johnston Press buys them up at ridiculously inflated prices.
And plays their usual game.
Sometimes it seems,
They're just firing all the staff
And replacing them with teenagers
To try and make their investment back.
They're cowboys.
On money lent by idiot banks they ride.
They're unwanted.
Scruff with a penny share price.
Oh I walk these streets.
A loaded six string on my back.
I worked ten years at the Leinster Leader.
The Johnston Press gave me the sack.
I have a certain naive charm.
You should see me kicking balls.
I've written a million humour columns.
And I've rocked them all.
Yeah I too am a cowboy.
On sublime genius I come.
And it ain't over Johnston Press
Until I say it's over scum.
Cos you're unwan-n-n-ted,
Dead or alive.
Deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle dee dee."

as the last light faded

It was the week of the Michael Jackson trial.
I had gone to London to lose myself in the teeming streets of the metropolis.
In London I am no longer Ireland's greatest living poet.
I am just another face in the crowd.
Walking up towards Picadilly, I came upon a group of dancers.
They were performing beside the statue of Eros.
There were crash barriers nearby.
Two police officers stood sentinel.
About ten teenage girls were behind the crash barriers watching the dancing and waving placards.
The placards bore the words: "Michael Jackson Innocent."
I realised this wasn't just a piece of street dancing.
This was a demonstration.
Not many people though.
Aside from the dancers just ten youngsters behind the barriers.
Another fifty or so onlookers standing at the base of the Eros statue to watch.
But not really part of the demo.
I stood to watch also.
The dancers were an eyecatching mix of age groups, nationalities and income groups.
One guy looked middle aged and was wearing rags.
He might have been living rough on the street.
But he had a gentle face.
There was a six year old African girl, bright as a button.
She was like Raven Symone from The Cosby Show.
A tough looking Arab chap.
Some rather sexy Spanish babes.
A smattering of Anglo Saxon Britlanders.
A few Hindu teen angels.
An African with more muscles than Arnold Schwarzeneggar.
All were at ease in each others company.
Occasionally slapping each other on the back.
Doing the high five.
Giving encouraging smiles.
This was humanity as it's meant to be.
All of em, from the well dressed to the raggedy man, could dance like you would never believe.
There was such joy in them.
This was the best statement I'd ever seen of what Michael Jackson's music is all about.
Here were these people.
So diverse.
So different.
Each in their own way beautiful.
United.
By Michael Jackson's music.
I wondered what their story was.
All of them were a part of London life I guessed.
City folk.
Their story is London's story.
Youngies, teens, twenty somethings, oldies, all Londoners in the mystical and accidental sense, though not all natives of London. Some shipwrecked here by fate. Others never having known any other home. Meeting now at weekends to dance up a storm.
And somewhere along the way, they'd become incredibly good at it.
Who knows how difficult those first get togethers had been.
Breaking down the barriers.
Coming out of the prisons we build for ourselves in daily life.
Defying the divisions of background and geography and social status and age.
Meeting up to rejoice in the glory of music and dance so uniquely expounded in his public life by Michael Jackson.
Joining together and celebrating life through Michael Jackson's music.
My God they could dance.
On a London street.
Like that.
Unbelievable.
Their sound system was a boom box.
It gave impeccable sound.
And Lord when they danced.
The only place you'd see better is in a Michael Jackson video.
I watched.
Every fifteen minutes the dancers took a break, and the teenagers behind the crash barriers tried to get a chant going of: "Michael Jackson Innocent."
Most of the onlookers around the Eros statue refused to join in.
I realised with a guilty start that I was pleased people weren't taking part in the chant.
But we were all savouring the music and the dancing.
Beside me a Hindu babe watched too.
She flipped out a mobile phone.
Our eyes met.
She had hard eyes.
Not a casual onlooker.
I recognised something.
Not just a Hindu babe.
In a flash I knew what she was.
She was corporate.
Her eyes threw off my gaze effortlessly.
She was tougher than me.
Now she was talking in a businesslike manner on her phone.
Something clicked.
I understood.
She was giving Mr Tamanouchi back at headquarters an update.
Everything fell into place.
This wasn't a spontaneous street demonstration in support of Michael Jackson.
This wasn't a bunch of dancers from all walks of life telling the world that they stood by their hero.
This was something else.
Something more malign.
This was a corporation trying to save its investment.
This was a record company trying to protect the value of its back catalogue.
Nothing here was as it seemed.
I went upon my way.
Sorrowful.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

badlands


heeler the peeler's supernatural tales of horror and suspense

This in my inbox.

From: Genevieve in Kentucky.
Hi James.
About your recent post on the supernatural.
I once had a very vivid encounter with an intensely evil being, in a dream that I couldn't wake up from. I had this experience at a time when I was physically exhausted and mentally stressed. To be precise, it was when we moved from Berlin to Kentucky. Our children were little, aged two and five, and I was their primary caretaker, of course. I managed most of the packing and Army-related details, and paper work, and cleaning, in preparation for the move, because my husband was working such long hours right up to the day we left.
On our very last night in Berlin, before we flew to Kentucky, I was exhausted. I did the last minute laundry and packing of the kids' clothes, and disposed of the last few belongings that we would not be taking with us. At midnight I law down to sleep on a bare mattress in our empty apartment. It was about three hours before we had to get up and go to the airport.
That is when I had the dream. I think a demon took advantage of my weakened physical and mental state. I realise that would sound crazy to people who don't believe in such things but that is what I think happened. In my dream I was paralysed with fear. I thought it was a dream but I could not wake up. The evil presence was inside me. Then I remembered what someone once told me to say if I ever faced the devil. I told the evil presence, "I claim the blood of Jesus Christ." That is when I finally woke up. And I did not sleep anymore that night.
Genevieve

Heelers replies: Gen this story strikes a chord with me. Not so long ago, I was asleep, dreaming I was in familiar surroundings. At a certain point in the dream I was removed from the familiar surroundings. I found myself completely alone. I knew what was happening. I knew it was an attack. I turned to Jesus and awoke. Gen, you mentioned the invocation of the Precious Blood of our Lord in your account. A Christian has prayed for me in this way and I believe I have received tremendous deliverance from the rulership of fear by her prayers. These stories are salutary. I do not publish them intending to frighten or terrify people. When I contemplate these accounts, I feel a renewed determination to live in the light of Jesus, making his word, the word of the gospels, my home, rejoicing in the love of his sacred heart, where the truth is upheld and the power of divine love offers joy, fulfilment, liberation and peace to each and every one of us, each and every day, each and every night, each and every hour, for all eternity world without end, Amen.

an open letter to Judge Eamon De Valera

Dear Judge Eamon De Valera.
It has come to my attention that you have recently presided over a court case in which something called Monica Leech was awarded 1.87 million smackers in a libel trial against Independent Newspapers.
I am no friend of Independent Newspapers.
But I have a passing affection for the freedoms, culture, principles, faith and traditions of the nation of Ireland, all of which I believe are now imperilled by this crass and invidious award.
Monica Leech claimed in court that an article in The Evening Herald could be interpreted as implying she had an affair with Fianna Fail Environment Minister Martin Cullen.
Well, duhhhhhh.
A majority of the Jury in your courtroom agreed with her and ordered that Independent Newspapers should be held liable for the above mentioned ridiculous amount of money.
We do not know how many members of the Jury dissented from the majority verdict.
Nor do we know how many members of the Jury are in the habit of voting for Fianna Fail at election time.
However we do know that you Judge De Valera issued an instruction in court that only members of the Jury who voted in favour of the award should have a say in deciding how large that award should be.
Can this be right Judge De Valera?
I mean as a point of law.
One more thing.
I want to protest to you personally as a citizen of this country about the outcome of this case and about the manner in which you directed the Jury.
I just want you to know how I feel Judge De Valera.
Something about this whole trial bothers me.
I consider Independent Newspapers to be scumbags.
But what you've done here is an attack on freedom of expression.
No I'm wrong.
It's worse than that.
It's an attack upon the right to state the bleedin obvious.
Tell me Judge De Valera.
Are you a relation of the Eamon De Valera who founded the Fianna Fail party?
If you Judge Eamon De Valera are a relation of the Eamon De Valera who founded the Fianna Fail party, how on earth could you have allowed yourself to preside over a case in which a woman like Monica Leech was claiming to have been libelled by a suggestion she had been having an affair with Fianna Fail Minister Martin Cullen?
How.
Dare.
You.
Judge.
Eamon.
De.
Valera.
Surely Judge Eamon De Valera if you are in fact a direct desecendent of the Eamon De Valera who founded the Fianna Fail party, surely you had a duty to recuse yourself from that courtroom?
Cancel the award to Leech, Judge De Valera.
Resign from the bench Judge De Valera.
Hang your head in shame Judge De Valera.
Fond regards.
James Healy

a rooskie in dublin

Will be there in a few minutes
By Irina Kuksova
****************
When talking about the subjectivity of time, lots of people mention Spain. Surely in that country, time has a life of its own. Minutes and hours are stretched randomly according to people's likes and whims. I often think my Spanish friends live in a completely different universe. It's enough for them to SAY something to consider it done, and then completely forget about actually doing it. Many is the number of pizzas we never had, after deciding on a date, time and place to get together. Restaurants probably went out of business because of our bookings.
Then again if the Spanish world feels so different, what sort of world do I myself live in? I have been forever traumatised by my university years in Moscow. Waking up at 5.50am just to face 2+ hours of an on-foot bus journey, especially in winter, disciplined me in a pretty rough way. The punch line at the end of that journey was not being admitted to a lecture because of being one or two minutes late. Thus my world view about time keeping and appointments is quite black and white. One is either late or not, no matter how long the trip takes.
Living in Ireland has added a shade of grey to my vision. You often hear "will be there in a few minutes," in this country. What's considered "few" is still a mystery to me. Unlike the Spanish, the Irish WILL actually show up. But it's sorta hard to say when. My latest research on the matter supports the theory that multiplying by four is pretty accurate. This way, if an Irishman says "be there in five minutes," you can have twenty minutes of guilt free window shopping and still be on time for your appointment. If he says "fifteen minutes," you might as well enjoy a leisurely lunch.
I still feel quite guilty every time I am personally late. The good thing is, I am in the right country to learn some flexibility. So it should not take much time. I am sure to be flexible by this time next year... Give or take an hour!

there will come an hour

It was the eve of the Michael Jackson trial.
A guilty verdict was widely expected.
Disconsolately I wandered into a hairdressers in Kilcullen.
A girl began to cut my hair.
"Isn't Michael Jackson disgusting," she said chattily going about her business.
I sighed.
The salon was full.
"He became very famous very young," I began. "You know by the age of ten he was worth a billion dollars a year to his record company."
The girl snorted.
"Lots of people become child stars," she said. "They don't all do what he did."
I went very quiet for a moment.
I had the unmistakable feeling that whatever I said next was going to be misreported down the boozer that very same evening.
"I wasn't finished," I murmured. "My point wasn't that there's an excuse for his behaviour because he was a child star. My point is this. He was worth a billion quid a year to the record company when he was ten years old. I think someone may have tried to protect their investment by injecting him with female growth hormones which would preserve the tremulous childish girlish note in his voice. This is what I think happened. I think somebody got worried that Michael Jackson's billion dollar ten year old boy's voice was about to become a man's voice. The man's voice might be worth money too. But who knows? It might be worth nothing. The world is full of child stars who never generate quite the same amount of cash flow as adults. At the age of ten Michael Jackson and his little boy voice were floating that record company on a sea of money. I think someone decided not to gamble on what his post puberty voice might sound like. This is what I think happened. It's just my opinion. I think someone in the record company, and maybe someone in his family, and some doctor or doctors, colluded to inject Michael Jackson with female growth hormones. I think this was done to prevent the onset of puberty. But the problem with female growth hormones is that if you inject them into human beings they can alter sexualities, affect mental states, disrupt growth patterns, and let's face it, cause profound derangements in the person's emotional and intellectual development. This is my point to you. If someone injected Michael Jackson with female growth hormones, anyone who was party to that decision, anyone, became deeply responsible for whatever Michael Jackson did afterwards on foot of the damage caused to him by that decision. I think it happened. And I don't think the ten year old boy could be held responsible for that early decision to inject him with female growth hormones. I doubt he even knew what was happening. He's had a little boy voice for forty years. But I think the female growth hormone injections first took place when he was ten. Because that's when the voice was due to change, that's when the voice was worth a billion a year, and that's when for some reason his voice didn't change. I'm not justifying anything he may or may not have done. If he did it, I believe he's responsible and will answer for it. But if he was injected with something that drove him out of his mind... Well... I think the real criminals are those who were responsible for that initial decision to put psycho sexual poison into a ten year old boy's body."
I left the hairdressers.
Outside, evening was closing in.
I considered Michael Jackson to be the finest musician and performer of a generation.
Not the King of Pop.
The King of Pop was a nonsense title thought up by record company idiots, and it was a pity he didn't know better than to reject it.
He was an artist.
A poet.
A poet because what he did made people feel truly alive, made them want to create something themselves, enabled them, reminded them that life was good, extended experience.
In his songs and dancing he uniquely enunciated the principle of celebration in existence.
That was it.
He celebrated life.
And he was touched by the light.
I have never rated any artist higher than Michael Jackson.
I walked down Kilcullen Main Street away from the hairdressers.
The Jury acquitted Michael Jackson on all charges later that evening.
I never listened to a Michael Jackson song again.