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, October 10, 2009

when freya met hammy


the nobel peace prize citation ceremony in full

Thorbjorn Lagland (I kid you not) speaker of the Norwegian parliament, stepped onto the rostrum.
He was a grey Norwegian man in a grey Norwegian suit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed grandly, "the Nobel Peace Prize for 2009 goes to President Barack Obama."
There were oohs and ahs from the assembly.
In Norwegian oohs and ahs sound like "ooorpadoorp a dink dink."
When the ooorpadoorp a dink dinks stopped, Thorbjorn Lagland smiled wanly at the crowd.
A band struck up.
The band was playing That Don't Impress Me Much by Shania Twain.
In the absence of Shania, Thorbjorn Lagland himself began to gyrate.
Thorbjorn pulled the microphone from its stand and sang with gusto.
He sang:

"Now Morgan Tsvangirai may have championed dignified courageous non violence
In helping the people of Zimbabwe endure Robert Mugabe's vile malevolence,
He may have urged peace when Mugabe brought war
He may have turned the other cheek a hundred times or more
And given hope to millions of a better way of life
While Robert Mugabe sought to enslave em with the culture of the knife
And Tsvangirai still endured when the bastards killed his wife
Telling people not to kill in the face of killers' strife
But that don't impress me much

Dooh dooh de doo.
Oh sure Tsvangirai makes peace when other men shed blood
But we Norwegians much prefer a little butcher's stew
Black freedom fighters who actually murder people too
Like Nelson Mandela and child killer Winnie pooh.
Now don't get me wrong I think Tsvangirai's alright
But that won't turn America into a Soviet Socialist Republic overnight.
Nern, nern, nern.
That don't impress me mucchhhhhhhh.
Now there's an Afghan lady who defies Al Qaeda Taliban.
But in the Nobel Prize she's just an also ran.
And they threatened her life and still she won't lie down.
For the dignity of women she just stands and holds her ground
She's not really black and she's not really white,
And she told the Muslim psychos to go and have a shite
But that don't impress me much
Dern, dern, dern,
Oh she sure she's got panache
And a certain amount of guts
But her idea of woman's rights is really kinda nuts
Nern, nern, nern,
Because this Afghan lady don't uphold our favourite distortions
For instance she's absolutely useless at promoting condoms and abortions
So she don't impress me much
Dern, dern, de dern.
Oh sure she defied the Mussies
And sure she's got a tush
Now don't get me wrong
I think she's alright
But she'll never make America surrender to the Jihadis overnight,
Nern, nern, nern.
That don't impress me much.
Der, der, de der.
As for the Chinese dissidents also nominated
Much too keen on democracy to ever be seriously rated
We in Norway prefer our heroes racked
In ranks of Marxian ideology and not holding back
Against the socialism of the age which comes wrapped in a sack
Of free money and hand outs and victim culture crap
And it also kinda helps

If you're the proper shade of black.
Nern, nern, nern.
We don't want any pacifistic farters

We much prefer black left wing Jimmy Carters
Nern, nern, nern.
Now don't get me wrong
The Chinese dissidents are alright
But they won't collapse the free world
While sloganeering about what's right.
They don't impress me much.
Oh sure the Chinese dissidents have endured sixty years of communist dictatorship
But who cares a toss
What's sixty years against nine months of Barack's corrupt socialistic incompetent Guantanamo bay closing dross.
Now Barack impresses me great.
Nern, nern ner ner.
Surrendering to the Jihadis and socialising the States.
That's gotta be worth a Nobel Peace Prize or two alright.
Because that's the sort of thing that keeps us Norwegians warm and cosy at night.
Nern, nern, nern.
Hoo boy."

Other Nobel Prize winners announced this evening included Beyonce and Lady Gaga who respectively received the Nobel Prize for Physics and the Nobel Prize for Economics.
When reporters asked Thorbjorn Lagland why the Nobel Prize for Physics and the Nobel Prize for Economics were being given to two pop singers, he replied: "Let's face it we're giving a Nobel Prize to every half witted debauched treasonous f---ing c---s-ck-r these days."
These were the only true words ever spoken by a member of the Nobel Prize committee in living memory.
Al Gore who won a Nobel Prize for Peace back in 2007 when the Nobel committee was hoping he might stand for President of the United States and wished to help his putative campaign any way it could, was unavailable for comment.
The official reason Al Gore received the 2007 Nobel Prize for Peace was in recognition of his valiant efforts to distract public attention from the danger to western democracy represented by the terror armies spewing forth from dysfunctioning Muslim dictatorships, and instead focussing people's attention on much more groovy and thoroughly fictional environmental concerns.
Another previous winner of the Nobel Peace Prize Mr Jimmy Carter esquire who won in 2002 was also unavailable for comment.
The Nobel Prize Committee has never formally admitted to endorsing the Democratic Party's attempts to turn the United States into a socialist country.
They just keep giving Nobel Peace Prizes to the most useless Democrats they can find.
Subtle, ain't it?
The only non Democratic Party member to win the Nobel Peace Prize in recent years has been Mr Mohammed Nuke An Israeli El Baradei of the International Atomic Energy Agency who received his prize in 2005 for helping Arab Islamist regimes, along with the Pakistanis, the Iranians and the Koreans conceal their nuclear weapons programmes.
They all got the bomb on El Baradei's watch.
Seriously though, he's doing a brilliant job.
So here we are.
Al Gore, Jimmy Carter, and Mohammed El Boomadei.
Those are three recent winners of the Nobel Peace Prize.
I mean, like, wow.
What next?
Kim Jong Il?
I wouldn't put it past them.
It has been suggested that from now on the Nobel Peace Prize will have its name changed to the Nobel Prize For Left Wing Delusional Thinking And Appeasement Of Islamic Nazi Terror.
This would be a refreshing piece of honesty on the part of the Nobel Committee but honesty ain't something they're famous for.
Friday's ceremony concluded with a song from the new Chairperson of the Nobel Committee, Miss Dee Lite who sang Groove Is In The Heart.
It's about the price of them.

Friday, October 09, 2009

poetry as sex trap

make me immortal with a kiss
william shakespeare used to say this
when himself and francis bacon were on the piss
or maybe just hanging out at sir walter raleigh's place in the sticks
it was a highly efficacious line for pulling chicks
in those innocent days of 1586
thy beauty it has brought me home
to the grandeur that was greece
and the glory that was rome"
thus spoke the bold sir edgar allen poe
the critics applauded and his mistress wasn't slow
to favour him with a smile of purest joy
and mutter something about come up and see me big boy
girl i'm going to be more subtle
than shakespeare poe or simon tuttle
who's he you cry and i don't know
he rhymes with subtle so in he goes
i give you only a time and place
my house tonight half past eight

Thursday, October 08, 2009

eight graces

In the afternoon stepped smartly from the front door of the chateau.
Paused to savour the garden in bright September sunshine.
Racing away to Dublin for an appointment.
But paused.
My nephew Tom beetled in the front gate.
"Snakes and ladders," he cried when he saw me.
"I'm going to Dublin Tom," I told him firmly.
Best to be firm if you've got to be firm so they know no means no.
"Snakes and ladders, just one game," he persisted.
"No," said I.
The neighbour's child Hannah beetled in the gate.
She ran up to us.
"Will you show me Hammy?" she gasped breathlessly.
"No children, I can't stay, I'm going now," I said.
Another nephew arrived fleet of foot.
His name is John.
He is older than the others and an advocate, indeed master, of the wisdom summed up in the phrase: Softly softly catchee monkey.
He discreetly indicated that he thought I should be able to make time for one game of Snakes and Ladders.
He suggested it wasn't a lot to ask.
I uttered a rather vascillatory no.
The weakness of my answer succeeded only in provoking a storm of renewed lobbying involving hamsters, Snakes and Ladders, orange juice and climbing in trees.
We went inside with the three swinging out of me.
Tom fetched the Snakes and Ladders board.
We began playing on the floor in the sitting room.
Hannah with Hammy on her knee.
Paddy Pup on the couch with his snout resting on my shoulder.
The games blurred into one another.
Diarmuid the child of my cousin Frances entered in the midst of it all and took over stewardship of the hamster.
He asked: "Why don't hamsters have proper tails?"
I said: "God probably thought they'd look cuter with just the little stumpy thing you see there. He's very good at making animals. He sometimes adds distinctive little flourishes just for fun. He'd made rats and mice with long tails. He probably knew he was on to a good thing with hamsters. That they were really nice looking animals. That people were going to really love them. So this was the way he finished them off. When God makes something, there's always something glorious and beautiful in it. Even the rats and mice. It sometimes takes us a little time to see the beauty. That's all. I heard of a man who'd trained rats to sniff out land mines in Africa. And he had his rats on a leash. They were like pet dogs. And I thought, ah now I can see that there's something really good even about rats."
I glanced up from this keenly scientific discourse to see my cousin Frances watching me from the doorway.
Frances the teacher.
She who can stop a charging joyrider (and religionist) at fifty paces with a blow of her tongue.
Had it been Richard Dawkins himself listening in, I could hardly have looked more guilty.
There came a sound of pounding footsteps outside.
It was another company of neighbours kids.
Simon, Roger and Lisa entered stage left.

Simon disentangled me from the menagerie and took me by the hand to the computer room where he asked for a computer lesson.
This ended only when Lisa arrived with a book called I Love Mum, and indicated by dint of repeated tuggings and proddings that I should read it to her.
I hadn't had time with the toddler before and was rather pleased that she would seek me out.
Roger peeped in the door, took some paper from the printer and settled beside us on the floor to draw pictures.
I glanced up.
Dusk was falling on the garden.
I'd quite forgotten about my appointment in Dublin.
Ah well.
If I'd been meant to be there I would have been there.
I slipped away from the children and brought Paddy Pup outside for a walk.
Robin was singing his evensong in the Dad's plum tree.
A lovely flighting lyric.
I sang with him: "I know your song means that Jesus is true."
Robin paused while I sang a new line.
"The God who gave me life gave life to you."
Then he sang again.
Then he paused as I sang: "We rejoice in praise of Christ we two."
Then he sang some more himself.
Then stopped.
"Every animal, every man, every child, every nation,
We are creatures praising the creator in his creation."
And it was Robin's turn again.
The ghost of Charlie Darwin appeared.
"The robin is marking his territory," said the ghost of Charlie Darwin.
I shook my head.
"He's praising God," I insisted. "By his very being he's praising God. The idea that he's marking territory seems quite unscientific to me. Why it's not even good Darwinism. If the birds in the hedge were really marking territory, by singing like this, it wouldn't help them to survive at all. My cousin Emma's cats would be out there picking them off one by one. It's nothing to do with survival. They're singing to the God that made them. And the cats don't pick them off one by one because the cats also praise the same God. And if it's so important for the birds to mark territory by singing like this, why aren't there other birds stalking up and down the hedgerows mugging birds that don't quite sing loud enough. Pshaww Darwin. You can do better."
His bushy eyebrows bushed bushily.
"Do better? How?"
"Jubilate agno Mr Darwin. Jubilate agno."
"But what does that mean Mr Healy?"
"It means rejoice in the lamb."

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

from the heelers emails

From: Michael Appourchaux. (La Falaise Theatre Company, France.)


We're delighted to announce that our collective of bilingual artists, Collectif La Falaise, will present a performance of Howard Barker works in the prestigious university of La Sorbonne in Paris during October, as part of the "21 for 21" world event, celebrating the 21st anniversary of The Wrestling School, H. Barker's celebrated company.

More details on :

You'll receive your personal invitation soon!

Hope to see you there,

Michael Appourchaux

Tel : 00 33 614 645 454

From Heelers to Michael Appourchaux.

Noble Appershocks.

What have I ever done to offend you? Why are you now threatening me with invitations to your horrendous productions? I would prefer to be hacked to death with a machete than to sit through Howard Baker's macabre depictions of machete inflicted death hackings as presented by you and your hyperbaric crew of conformist anti Catholic drones. When I first cast you in my play Vampires Of Dublin all those years ago, I little dreamed what a monster I was creating. Fail. For crying out loud, fail. Fail damn you. Fail. Stop succeeding.


PS: Hilary Cotter, another cast member whom you will remember from my production of Woody Allen's Death, has gone on to become the number one voice over artist in Ireland. I kid you not. You gotta admit Appourcevoir, I really could pick em.

From: Snipcock And Tweed Lawyers, London W1.

To: Bianca Bianco, Italian journalist at Il Nolano.

Dear Miss Bianco.

We are sorry to have to inform you of the recent death of a friend of yours, the inimitable and much loved writer Mr James Healy. Mr Healy's death occurred unexpectedly last Thursday when a poem he was working on, suddenly detonated without warning. He was killed outright in the explosion. Fortunately no one else was hurt except for three passing Jihadis who were caught in the blast. Mr Healy has named you as the sole beneficiary in his will. The estate consists of five hundred poems (some of them quite incendiary), along with a sheepdog and a hamster. We will contact you again shortly to finalise transfer of these assets to your possession.

Best regards.

Erwin Snipcock

Managing Director, Snipcock And Tweed.

From: Bianca Bianco.

To: Snipcock And Tweed.

Dear Sirs.

The dog and the hamster I'll take. You keep the poems.


From: Mar Diaz, Meki Orphanage, Ethiopia.

To Heelers.

Hi James.

We celebrated the Ethiopian New Year in September. By the Ethiopian Calendar this is the year 2002. I think it was the best New Year's Eve of my life. We had the most delicious food and we sang and we danced. The children got to play with their first ever pinyata. We had thousands of kisses and presents and confetti thrown over each other when we least expected it. There are 33 children in the orphanage now. The youngest is six months old. We are happy. I enjoy every moment here. But sometimes there are problems like with any family. I am truly happy. How is your mother? Give her a big kiss. I think of you two a lot. If you plan to visit Africa, let me know. You have food and a bed in Meki any time you want.

Abrazo grande.


Heelers to Mar.


You are the richest woman I know.


Tuesday, October 06, 2009

doing what comes naturally

Bushy savouring some of the joys of life.

the poetic manifesto

half heard melodies at dawn
dreams or the traces of dreaming
a woman's name said soft like breathing
memories of faces gone
footsteps in the hall on winter nights
sadness in the heart where love has been
softness on the fields after a storm
shadows bright with remembering

we will go
through cowardice to bravery
into the timeless eye of mind
across the ungovernable sea
to where all poems have their end
and their beginnings naturally
come with me

a rooskie in dublin


By Irina Kuksova


There's a Russian expression 'you can't take enough breaths before you die', which roughly means 'you can only do things in their own time, not beforehand'. This week I definitely tried to take more breaths, i.e. squeeze in late work hours, meetings and chores – than advised by the World Health Organization. Despite the most arduous execution of an unusually ambitious schedule, yours truly is alive, safe but not very sound.

I did try to fix this 'not very sound' state – a two-hour walk in Corkagh Park here (fresh air cures all, right?), a glass of wine with a friend there (Chianti fights stress, right?), double espressos… nothing seemed to work. My body, tired of these lousy attempts to 'sort it out", gave up sending hints. It resorted to doing the only thing that would make me give it some loving attention and get some proper rest: it caught cold.

I don't know about your home, but I discovered that my new Irish home practices 'tough love' philosophy. There is no hand-holding by the bedside, creamy treats in bed or putting on my favourite DVD. I remember such gestures used to make my every childhood flu in Russia a holiday. Oh, those days are long gone. Now I am only gratified for getting out of bed and looking healthier. Just as I thought I could collect more extra 'love points' for being ill.

Much as I find this 'we only love you when you're healthy' approach more adequate for an adult than pampering, it has its drawbacks. I am already on the slippery road of 4 Lemsips a day (an Irish most used cold&flu medicine). Should I overdo it and get back on my feet too early just to keep my homies happy – I'm sure to be back down with cold within a week. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just trying to collect 'love points' for you, my dear reader.

Monday, October 05, 2009

The Photographer's Eye (with Enrica Cecchini)

In the foot hills of the Andes, Argentina. When you see the Andes for the first time, you realise how beautiful and precious our planet is, and how we must protect it. Enrica

two great writers shooting the breeze

The ghost of Tolstoy wandered into the Costa cafe.
"James Tomovitch," he cried when he saw me, "mind if I sit down?"
He pulled up a pew without waiting for an answer.
"So," he boomed, "what have you learned about Russia?"
I thought for a minute.
"Russia always seemed to me to be living through hell on earth," I ventured. "It was like Satan ran the place for sixty years during communism. It was Satan's kingdom. All those murders. All the tortures. And the communists in Russia weren't content with murdering and torturing Russians. They pushed communism into China and gave the world Chairman Mao who murdered and tortured people on an even greater scale. And together with Mao they then pushed communism into Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. They killed a quarter of the population in Cambodia. Did you know that? Even that wasn't enough. Communists in Russia sponsored communist and Islamist dictatorships all over Africa and turned Africa into a charnel house of death, which it still is today. And still that wasn't enough. Russian communists pushed communism into Eastern Europe where the murders and the tortures were maybe not quite so numerous as in China and Africa but still pretty awful for the thousands of people at any given time who happened to be getting murdered and tortured. Under the communists, it was like Russia was drenched in blood. Her own and other peoples. But I could never understand why God would abandon Russia. And then I saw Evgenia. And I said ah. The mark of the divine. God never abandoned the Russians. He left them the most beautiful girls on earth as a sign of his presence."
There was a brief silence.
"You're right," said Tolstoy. "At least about the last bit."
"I'm always right Alexander Sergeyevich," I told him.
"So are you going to ask her out?" he wondered.
"No I am not," I answered.
"Do you mind if I ask her out?" ventured Tolstoy.
"You're a ghost," I reminded him.
"Hey Heelers," grinned Tolstoy, "we owe it to ourselves to live a little."

there's many a true word said in jest

Evening at the chateau.
The Mammy looks up from her crossword.
"Give me a nine letter word meaning dislike for work or effort," quoth she.
"Indolence," answereth me without hesitation.
"I thought you'd know that," averreth she.
I did not like the way she said it.

the monica leech laugh in

The leaders of France, America, Russia and Iran had gathered for a secret conference.
The international political situation had deteriorated to such an extent that there was a real risk of nuclear war. In a last ditch attempt to avert catastrophe, the great men had decided to lay their differences aside and sit down together for a chat.
No location on earth could have been safe enough for this meeting.
So it was being held on the American Air Force One presidential plane flying at 30,000 feet above the Atlantic ocean.
President Nicholas Sarkozy, President Barack Obama, President Vladimir Putin and President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad were seated around the conference table.
For security reasons the only other human being on board was the pilot.
The great men seemed relaxed and smiling, even though the stakes were astronomically high.
The fate of humanity rode on this meeting.
But before the leaders could seriously get down to business, the pilot's voice crackled the intercom.
"We've had an electronic systems failure," he screamed. "Unless we lose weight we're going down. We're all gonna die."
The four Presidents scrambled from their seats and began throwing everything moveable off the plane.
"That's good," screamed the pilot over the intercom. "But it's not enough. We're still going down."
At this, President Nicholas Sarkozy stepped to the open emergency door.
He turned back to look at the others.
"Vive la France," he said simply.
And jumped out.
"Still not enough," screamed the pilot.
President Ahmadinejad stepped up to the door.
"Allah u akbar," he said with a jaunty little grin.
And jumped out.
"Still not enough," screamed the pilot.
President Putin stepped to the door.
"God bless America," he said.
And chucked out Barack Obama.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

advanced studies in the hindu zone

Heelers to Divyavibha:
Dibs, just ask Jesus if he's real to let you know he's real.
Divya to Heelers:
I know Jesus is real. I know, everything that is Jesus.
But my understanding of Jesus and your understanding of Jesus might be different.
And thats ok with both our Jesuses I think.
So we shouldnt worry.
I'm experiencing my first autumn,
and there is every bit of Jesus in it.
lotsa love,