two worlds

muslim and infidel in dublin

the monica leech laugh in

Question: How many Monica Leeches does it take to change a light bulb?
Answer: One, but it'll cost you a hundred and eighty grand, and no one will ever use the light bulb. Boom boom.

pinball liberals

Morning English lesson at the Bagel Cafe in Lucan.
My student is a young Polish man called Jacob.
"I don't understand Ireland," said Jacob. "If people commit a murder here, the police talk to them, and let them go, and announce that a file is being sent somewhere. And that's it. In Poland if there's a murder, even if you're just a suspect, you're going to be in a police station for the next three months. Here it's crazy. In Dublin you've got teenage guys walking around the streets boasting about the murders they've committed. Why do the Irish let this happen?"
I weighed his question.
"It's a mindset among our Judges and certain powerful people in our country," I told him cautiously. "The Judges are liberal atheists. Some are ex communists. Who knows where they found the values they've used to undermine the law? But the general public never agreed to it. The Judges in this country have more or less remade the law in their own image. We never really had a choice."
My friend looked genuinely puzzled.
"But why do these guys want to let murderers wander around the streets?" wondered Jacob.
I thought for a moment.
"It's a mindset," I said. "A liberal mindset. The judges don't think the murderers are really responsible for what they've done. And many of the Judges hate our society, or hate Christian society, more than they hate murderers. Maybe that's it. Or maybe the Judges are just genuinely evil. But the liberal mindset is part of the explanation anyway. Another part of the explanation is that our Judges are out of control. They appoint each other. They are never in any way accountable to the general public. There is a hidden establishment in Ireland. An establishment of liberal atheists. I don't know if they're Free Masons. Devil worshippers. Old style Marxists. Some strange admixture of the three. Or what they hell they are. But they exist. They govern us. And they are hidden. I say they're hidden because they've never won an election or submitted themselves to public scrutiny. But still they rule us. And their malign incompetence beggars belief. Everything they touch turns to violence. The Irish Times is currently reporting on the case of Gerald Barry. He committed murders. He led a mob that committed murders. He raped people. He blinded an old age pensioner. I consider the blinding of the pensioner to be another murder. Nothing Gerald Barry could do would keep him in jail for long. Liberal Judges, Liberal Lawyers, Liberal Juries, Liberal Social Workers and Liberal Prison Wardens kept ensuring he was released. And we the general public, the citizenry, the victims, we finance these liberals. We finance the liberal lawyers who got Gerald Barry out of jail. Because Gerald Barry and thugs and murderers like him get free legal aid from our government. None of them pays for their own legal defence. Which means the liberal lawyers simply write themselves a blank checque and the Irish people have to pay it. We paid to keep Gerald Barry free to kill and kill again. Had it been up to the general public, Gerald Barry could have been locked up forever or executed after the first murder. But the liberals knew better. Finally he murdered a seventeen year old Swiss girl called Manuela Riedo. Just before he killed Manuela, Judge Liberal had released Gerald Barry on bail after his most recent rape of yet another girl. Now this week the Irish Times is reporting all this as if it's a scandalous surprise. As if the Irish Times hasn't for decades been an integral part of what the Liberal Judges have done to this country. As if the Irish Times itself wasn't the cheerleader in chief for Liberal Judges, Liberal Lawyers, Liberal Juries, Liberal Social Workers, Liberal Prison Wardens and the b-st-rd system they have created. If the Irish people ever appoint me as their ruler, the first thing I'll do is incarcerate all the liberals in the legal system who colluded to release Gerald Barry. All of them. I'll incarcerate them in a jail cell with Gerald Barry. Just so they'll know what they've been inflicting on the general public. Yeah Gerald Barry murdered Manuela Riedo. But the real crime happened after. When a Liberal Judge had the gall to apologise to Manuela's parents on behalf of the Irish people. How dare he. As if the Irish people had killed their daughter. This liberal judge was just another pious hypocritical swine. This murder wasn't caused by the Irish people. This murder was caused by the Liberal Judges and their acolytes who have hijacked our society. They have ensured that Gerald Barry was fee to kill, kill, kill, rape, rape, rape, and kill again. They have ensured it. And no one else."
"You think it's like this?" said Jacob.
"Listen Jacob," I said. "In this country it's nearly impossible to be convicted of murder. Someone stabs a person twenty times and is allowed to claim oh yeah I stuck a knife in him twenty times but I never meant to kill him. We have a State pathologist responsible for autopsies on murder victims who specialises in giving get out of jail free cards to murderers. She'll do an autopsy and say oh yeah he was stabbed twenty times but he had an underlying heart condition so maybe that killed him. Or oh yeah he had his head stomped to mush but he'd drunk twenty pints of beer so maybe the alcohol in his system was a contributory factor. Or in a case of a baby who was brought to hospital recently and bled to death from her head, oh yeah that could have been a rare type of brain haemhorrage and maybe the parents didn't beat the living shit out of the baby at all. You know what? The doctors who suspected the parents beat the living shit out of the baby, the doctors who suspected the parents murdered their baby, although they aren't allowed to call it murder here, the liberals call it shaken baby syndrome, well those doctors ended up apologising to the parents in court. In which case I'd better apologise to them myself because I suspected they beat the living shit out of their baby as well. In fact I suspected they murdered their baby. And I still do."
Jacob's hour was up so off he went.
Ah yes.
English lessons with the Mighty Heelers.
They reach the parts other English lessons seem to miss.
As I drove out of Lucan I began to sing.
My song was a parody of Pinball Wizard.
I sang with strange high gusto.
Elton John would have been proud.
My song went:
"The scum are on the streets
They all are out on bail.
They're lodging an appeal.
They know it will not fail.
They go into Judge Liberal
And they hear his hammer fall.
That deaf dumb and blind judge
Sure likes releasing Scumballs.
He's a pinball wizard.
Part of the machine.
A pinball wizard.
But does he really know
What justice means?
There's been another murder.
Twenty stab wounds in the head.
Judge Liberal thinks it's an accident.
You can't bring back the dead.
He plays by intuition.
That liberal's pretty mean.
His conception of justice
Sure verges on the obscene.
He's a pinball liberal.
Part of the machine.
He hasn't got a clue
What real justice means.
He lets em out of jail
Because he thinks society's cruel
But this hardcore liberal judge
Is really just a fool.
He opens up the jail cells
He lets the killers free
Whether it's murders assaults or rapes
He blames society
He plays by intuition
He always makes the call.
That deaf dumb and blind judge
Sure plays a mean pinball.
He's a pinball liberal.
Part of the machine.
A pinball liberal.
But he doesn't care at all
What real justice means..."

heeler the peeler's supernatural tales of yoikes and ah for crying out loud that never happened

Coffee with Doctor Jill Allaway.
She is a lecturer in English literature.
We are in the Costa Cafe.
"The most ridiculous claims about the supernatural come from people who think they've seen fairies," I muse out of the blue.
"I've seen them," sez she without hesitation.
"No you haven't."
"Yes I have."
"When?"
"All the time up until the age of about seven or eight."
"What did they look like?"
"They had wings and flew above the tree tops."
"Could they have been insects?"
"They had little faces and bodies. To me they were fairies."
During her childhood, her family had lived in Prestatyn, a Welsh coastal town ringed by hills.
My curiosity tweaked, Jill agreed to tell me more.
"One day when I was three my father noticed I was missing," she says. "He looked out the window and saw me climbing over the fence at the bottom of our garden. There was a railway line on the far side of the fence running along the bottom of our garden. He ran out to fetch me. When he asked where I was going, I replied: I've got to go to the fairies. I've no memory of this incident. But he remembers it."
The noble Heelers nods sagely.
"But you say you do have actual concrete memories of seeing fairies?"
"All the time in my childhood. The woods were full of them. I think they were attracted to certain trees."
"Did you talk to them?"
"There was one little creature I talked to. He wasn't a fairy. He was a sort of woodland sprite. He didn't have wings. I thought of him as a brownie."
"Had he a name?"
"He was called Tiggy."
"Did you give him the name or did he tell you it was his name?"
"I don't know."
"Did anyone else see him?"
"Well he was very friendly to me. But he was shy. Very secretive. He would go away if anyone else came. Children played in the woods all the time."
"You're a Christian. Could he have been an evil spirit?"
"No. I had no impression of evil in him whatsoever."
Back in modern day Dublin, the day was bright and clear. We were in the window seat at the Costa Cafe. Buses creaked down Dawson Street.
"So eventually you stopped seeing the fairies?" I enquired.
"When I was seven or eight, yes," she said.
"Why do you think you stopped seeing them?"
"I don't know. Maybe they just went away."
"Did you ever see them again after you grew up?"
She thought for a moment.
"Just once," she admitted.
"Were you drunk?" quoth I.
Jill shook her head with a motion indicative of mild reproof.
"No," she said. "I was in London. Walking down the street at Victoria. A fairy just flew up to me around the corner. I saw his face. And then he whizzed away. That's the only time I've seen one since childhood."

chaffy chaffinch eating a pizza

the immortals

in berneys pub at closing time
lord byron swigs his pint and tries again
to chat up claire o'brien
but getting nowhere shakes his head
and makes a move on mary shelley instead

doubt me if you must bold traveller
but know you this
tonight the balmy wind and splendid moon
with their touch
with their kiss
in truth and to my mind
have rendered cold kildare
florentine

the monica leech laugh in

Paddy Englishman, Paddy Irishman, Paddy Scotsman went into a pub.
They saw Monica Leech drinking in the corner.
"She's quite attractive, isn't she?" said Paddy Englishman.
The other two shrugged.
"Um, she's alright," said Paddy Irishman.
"Och, not really ma cuppa tea," said Paddy Scotsman.
And Judge Liberal emerged from the shadows and instructed each of them to pay Monica Leech two million quid for implying she'd been having an affair with the Minister for the Environment.

our television listings

RTE1
4.25 Murder She Wrote. Jessica is arrested after a vigilant Chief of Police notices that there has been a murder in her vicinity each week for the past ten years.
5.20 The Bill. Roger Hargreaves gets sent down for GBH after Miffley steals a car from DI Sportsbra. Meanwhile Ramani De Costa returns to Sun Hill and wonders where everyone has gone. The viewers I mean.
5.45 Ahcunt. I mean Nuacht.
6.00 The Angelus. Rung by Quasimodo.
6.01 News. From a left wing atheistic anti Catholic perspective.
7.00 Fresh From The Sea. Some Dublin Four bint visits a fish farm where she gets mistaken for a trout. The Irish Times television reviewer Bernice Harrison notes that tonight's programme is "pleasant enough but the real mystery is why fish is so expensive in a country surrounded by water." Ha, ha, ha. Ho, ho, ho. Oh Bernice. Oh. One of my sides just went there. That's so funny. Side splittingly funny. Oh my God. Ha, ha, ha. This much fun can't be legal. Chortle.
7.30 Eastenders. The residents of the East End turn out in force for the annual Cor Blimey festival. Anissa falls in love with James but will her family accept his wild Irish poet ways?
8.00 Fair City. The residents of Inner City Dublin turn out in force for the annual You Know Yourself Loike Mate Missus Keaveney festival.
8.30 How Long Will You Live? Self help gurus advise gullible slobs how to improve life expectancy. The one thing you can be sure of on this programme is that no one will advise you to go to church.
9.00 News. Everything that's happened since the last news programme an hour ago.
9.30 Flesh And Blood. Somebody called Carlo Gebbler rabbits on about his father. With contributions from Carlo Gebbler's mother Edna O'Brien, along with PJ Donleavy, and Alan A Hopkin. Wearisome promotion of liberal non entities by their friends at RTE.
10.15 Mistresses. The endless battle to debauch the nation continues. If you want religious programming you can jolly well video The Angelus, and watch it over and over. You vile evil repressed Catholics you. Don't you understand? You serve RTE. RTE does not serve you. You finance RTE. RTE does not finance you. Or answer to you in any way. Remember that. Remember it when you look up at the night sky. Sorry. Lost it there for a moment.
11.15 Medium. Yawn fest featuring one of the Arquette birds.
12.10 News. Read by Mary Tyler Marx.
12.15 Fatal Error. (Film, 1999.) Starring Janine Turner and Antonio Sabato. Directed by Armand Mastroianni. Armand Mastroianni's mother didn't even bother watching this film
1.50am Telly Bingo. RTE's trump card to send anyone to bed who actually stayed awake through Fatal Error.
2.00 Shortland Street. No mortal man has ever survived Telly Bingo long enough to find out whatever the hell this programme is.
2.25 Doctor Phil. Doctor Barn surely?
3.05 Doctors. A programme called Doctors following immediately on a programme called Doctor Phil. Apparently RTE has a fetish about the medical profession. Has anyone in RTE ever met a doctor? I've been encountering doctors off and on for forty years. I've never once met a quirky, witty, dynamic, caring, cute, interesting one like those which proliferate in ER, Scrubs, Mash, Marcus Welby, Trapper John, Doctor Phil or Doctors. Real medical practitioners are not that interesting at all actually. For the most part doctors are snobbish, overbearing, egotistical, overpaid, and over exposed. For God's sake bring back Mannix.
3.35 Blue Heelers. Small screen pornography built around a sensationalised version of my life. Truly, they had to use their imaginations. Arf, arf. Actually nothing to do with me at all. This programme is a mystery. Shown so far into the small hours of the morning that we can only guess what it's about. In effect Blue Heelers is the undiscovered country. A mystic bourne from whose realm no traveller returns. Either that or it's another bloody boring Australian soap opera about police dogs.

a rooskie in dublin

The Art Of The Possible!

By Irina Kuksova

****************

Every time I visit my father in Moscow I never fail to be surprised. My father has the most extensive collection of... of... I'm not even sure what they are. Electronic knick knacks is the best phrase I can think of for them. My father is a compulsive hoarder of gadgetry. And he has a genius for transforming it. All I know is that he can put those little pieces together and come up with a television, a computer, a fridge, anything you need.

But the process is slow. Mostly the stuff is left lying around while he figures out ways to use it. And anyway he's always busy repairing things for other people. So his own projects have to wait. Wait in a state of electrical limbo. We often wonder how many of his gadget innovations stay in the realm of the imagination for want of time to get to work on them.

My father is an artist. An artist of gadgets. He doesn't like to throw anything away. It's a vision thing. He can see endless possibilities where I see clutter. Where I see junk, he sees technological break throughs. The rest of us throw up our eyes at the bits and pieces occupying an unreasonable amount of space in his unreasonably small Moscow apartment. But his imagination is not confined by space and time.

Suggesting he get rid of even a fraction of his collection would be heresy. The notion would definitely fall on deaf ears. It would be like telling Michelangelo to get rid of a huge chunk of marble he was working on. So it takes up a lot of space, and guests keep stumbling over it. So what? Michelangelo knows that slab will soon be David. Just as my Dad knows one of his gizmos will shortly be a sputnik communications satelite. Okay the stone slab doesn't look like David yet, and Dad's gizmos don't cook. freeze, transmit pictures, or fly. But someday they might.

I always think what's really important to my Dad, and to many people with the same obsessive flair for collecting things, is not so much using the collection, as savouring the sense of possibility such a collection brings.

Back in Dublin I myself search for a sense of possibility in different realms. In books. And my collection takes up barely any space because I use digital downloads and can store whole volumes on my lap top. The rest of my collection comes via the Dublin City library from which I borrow at will.
But maybe my father's creative impulse hasn't entirely passed me by. Lately I've been thinking that instead of reading books, it's time I wrote one. Ireland has given me plenty of material. Now if I can only find the time to begin.

the monica leech laugh in

I'm not sure if it's legal anymore to write the words Monica and Leech in the one sentence in the Republic of Ireland.
Independent Newspapers has just been instructed by Judge Liberal to pay someone called Monica Leech nearly two million quid.
The liberal libel award followed Independent Newspapers attempts at reportage of a situation whereby a Fianna Fail government Minister paid someone called Monica Leech hundreds of thousands of Euros in State money for developing a website no one ever visited.
I hope I have that right.
Otherwise someone called Monica Leech is going to have a lien on the Heelers fortune.
I hope she'll give the hamster a good home.
Ah that hamster's worth a million dollars.
A million I tell ya.
She's lovely.
You should see the dignity God has crafted into her. The perfectly shaped ears. The lovely russet golden sheen on the fur. The tickly twitchy whiskers. The delicate little hands that can grab a cheese slice faster than a speeding bullet.
This is craftsmanship.
Craftsmanship in a creature.
Proof of the existence of the divine.
Yes she's lovely.
Just to be clear. I mean Hammy is lovely. Not Monica Leech.
Nor am I implying in any way that Monica Leech has had a relationship with Hammy.
Nor am I suggesting that Monical Leech would seriously accept my hamster in payment for any libel award which Judge Liberal may decide to give her after reading this.
But I digress.
You can see a certain problem here.
Quite apart from me finding myself on the same side as Independent Scruffpapers.
None of us are now sure what we can or cannot say.
For instance...
Is it legal to ask any government minister as to the nature of his relationship with anyone whose name rhymes with Zonica Zeech?
Is it legal to enquire publically as to whether any government minister was behaving entirely appropriately in his professional dealings with someone whose first name is that of Ross's sister in Friends and whose last name in French is Volauvent?
(Heelz would you just look it up. - Ed note.)
Is it legal to speculate as to the manner in which any government minister awarded a government contract to a person who may share a first name with Saint Augustine's mother and whose last name is a synonym for a blood sucking, er, leech?
The enigmas endure.

Basil Fawlty note to journalists: Whatever you do, don't mention Monica Leech. I mentioned her once but I think I got away with it.

a scientist's prayer

meteors
bright the sky
the god of miracles
and molecules
sits on his throne tonight
that the humble
and the mighty
may rejoice

The Photographer's Eye (with Enrica Cecchini)

Tanzanian Moon...
******************

A moonlit night in Tanzania. Such wonderment. I love Africa. I lived there as a child and now scarcely a day goes by when I don't think about that wonderful land. I want to share with you some of the magic and mystery which I find there. Enrica

the witnesses

Reading the letter of Jude, the brother of the Lord.
Jude is counselling moderation in speech.
He is advising that we should remember the warrior angel Michael in debate with Satan.
And the strongest words Michael had used were: "May God rebuke you."
I'm reading this with a wry realisation.
Normally I've been immoderate in speech at least four times before I get out of bed.
And my writing is definitely from the Whap Bam Thud school of literature.
Maybe I need to think again.

Then I come across Father Gro on that surrealistic Catholic television station EWTN.
Father Gro is saying: "Be aware how you are conducting yourself. You may not realise it but non believers watch Catholics very very closely. Just remember this no matter what you are doing or saying."
Hmmm.

And finally this morning I come across Walid Shoebatt chatting on one of the Protestant channels.
Mr Shoebatt is a Christian convert from Islam.
I'm familiar with some of his writings.
He seems to go nuts occasionally predicting the apocalypse. I'm not a fan.
This morning he's saying: "We don't have to be angry. We Christians don't need anger. God doesn't ask us to be angry on his behalf. God is tough enough to defend himself. We can be confident in the power and grace and light of God without resorting to anger. God asks us to speak with a spirit of love, no matter who we are speaking to. When we speak with a spirit of anger we are speaking for Satan. You can see some of the believers in other religions who claim to be angry all the time in the service of God. This is Satan's anger. We should remember it when we ourselves are speaking about the true God of love and we should be sure always in those circumstances to speak with love."

the fireflies

the heart of the city is ablaze
with the light of a million fireflies
electronic music carillions
a million heartless melodies
for youth to get old by

they have come
from hostelry or home
to prove they exist
as more than passing ornament
to the concrete where they kiss
but they don't

carefree cocksure cool they die
pledged in troth to a quick eternal
drunk with the glory of shining eyes
that waft a spell a touch infernal
from off the shores of paradise