just a closer walk with thee

Night time at the chateau.
I am alone in the front room.
Praying the rosary.
It is a Catholic prayer where you meditate on mysteries from Jesus' life while reciting an Our Father and ten Hail Marys to go with each mystery.
My two hands are resting on the wings of the armchair.
As I pray, MC Hamster peeps out from the sleeve of my left hand.
She drags herself out via the palm of my hand onto the chair and looks up at me.
I keep praying.
She stays quite still for three Hail Marys.
Then she turns around, scrabbles briefly at the sleeve, gets traction with her nose, and squeezes back from whence she came.
Not for the first time, I am struck by the strange mystic dignity of creatures.

moment of clarity

you can never look any more beautiful than you did today
and i can never hurt any more than i do now
so i reckon i can live without you

the nephew files

Tom inserting chip in nose.

a child is born

the drunk and the drug dealer

from the ashes of their lives

have brought forth this jewel

shining like the centuries

their own and others

ruined by what they are

but their blood will know the future

 

curse them

curse them as they writhe

i am sick of their riddle

a buffoon and a criminal

between them can make a miracle

what idiot tortured destiny is this

how i envy it

 

envy beyond saying or sensation

for as the child's face lit up with sweentess

never was a smile so like redemption

proof positive there is majesty in the universe

and i must learn to live again

the empire pops a dookie

An almost wheedling note has entered the writings of Paedophile Ian O'Doherty, the abysmal mendacious coward, famous for his lying claim published by the Irish Independent calling the Catholic church a paedophile ring.
O'Doherty has perhaps become aware that some of us are not too happy about his disgraceful, blatent, egregiously foul attempt to ruin the reputation of our ancestors, our compatriots, our brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, priests, nuns, teachers, friends, neighbours and loved ones.
Hence the appearance of his more wheedling tones.
O'Doherty wrote recently that he didn't understand why Christians would get so upset when confronted with empirical evidence that their beliefs are untrue.
Wheedly dee.
But this is magnificent.
Empirical evidence that Christianity is untrue.
And O'Doherty has found it.
What an achievement.
Ian O'Doherty, this miserable cowardly jeering tyke has surpassed the thinking and philosophy of Albert Einstein, Carl Jung, Sir Isaac Newton, William Blake, Pope John Paul The Second, Bishop Von Galen, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Paul Claudel, Saint Teresa of Calcutta, Saint Teresa of Avila, Saint Therese of Lisieux, in fact all the Saint Teresas, William of Occam, and even King Charles The Second Of England, my personal favourite, the Merry Monarch who stunned the Protestant courtiers clustered around his death bed with the last line: "Er sorry lads, I'm a Catholic."
Ian O'Doherty has surpassed the intellectual and spiritual knowledge of the Christians murdered by Hitler.
Ian O'Doherty has surpassed the insight, testimony and courage, of the millions of Christians martyred in communist Russia and communist China.
Ian O'Doherty has surpassed the honour and integrity of the millions of Christians who have been slaughtered by the satanic alliance of Arab Islamists and communist tribal fascists in Africa.
Ian O'Doherty has surpassed the sacrifice of the priests and nuns who brought to Europe and the world a culture of humanity, education, respect for men, women and children, rights of the person, and cultural advancement which up to now has been quite frankly envied by every other non Christian culture on earth.
Ian O'Doherty has surpassed even me.
The immortal Ian O'Doherty has buried us all.
We're all just members of a paedophile ring intent on ignoring the clear empirical evidence O'Doherty has found for the non existence of God.
This is wondrous news.
Ian O'Doherty of Independent Newspapers says he has found empiric evidence that Christianity is untrue.
Empiric evidence.
Not syncopated sneering from a semi literate plagiarising cur unfit to tie the boot straps of the people he has calumniated and betrayed.
Empiric evidence.
He must share it with us.
He must not hesitate a moment further.
This should be a hoot.
I wonder does he actually know what the word empiric means?
But the wheedling doesn't stop there.
Again more recently Ian O'Doherty has written in the Irish Independent wondering self righteously why Christians are unforgiving of people who offend them.
He cites his own prophet the late American comedian Bill Hicks.
Bill Hicks, dead by the age of 30, is unique among comedians for never having said a funny thing in his life either accidentally or on purpose.
Bill Hicks is the comedian best beloved of half wits who have no opinions of their own.
He is particularly popular among the most atheistic dessicated anodyne conformist segment of the Irish journalistic profession.
Hey lads.
It's not that radical if you're all saying the same thing.
Ian O'Doherty rather plaintively cites Bill Hicks attitude to Christians.
Bill Hicks once claimed some Christians had come backstage to threaten him after a show.
O'Doherty quotes Hicks as having told the evil threatening Christians: "If you're Christian you have to forgive me."
Personally I don't think this ever happened.

I mean I'd like to see the empirical evidence for it having happened.
I think Bill Hicks made it up.
Ian O'Doherty thinks it's a great line.
What Ian O'Doherty means by citing it is: "Hey Christians, you have to forgive me no matter what I do."
And he thinks he's entitled to quote the Lord in this regard in order better to uphold his own crass lies about innocent human beings.
Because of course Ian O'Doherty interprets the Bill Hicks makey uppy line, the Bill Hicks fictional retort to fictional Christians, the Bill Hicks never happened and no one believes it routine, as answering all criticisms, including my empirical ones, of Ian O'Doherty's own cowardly mendacious malign lies about Christian people as published in the Irish Independent, to wit his most odious lie of all, when he wrote that the Catholic church is a paedophile ring.
Bill Hicks never made any jokes about Muslims by the way.
He was way too scared.
So Ian O'Doherty thinks Christians have to forgive him for trahaising and maligning those heroic people who gave their lives for our country, our nation and our culture.
Let me correct myself.
Ian O'Doherty thinks Christians have to forgive him for trahaising and maligning those heroic people who gave their lives for God.
God is why they gave their lives.
What we received, because they gave their lives for God, was our country, our nation, our culture, and in fact everything worthwhile we possess.
And O'Doherty quotes the Bible to infer we all have to bow to any lie he tells about them.
Remember folks, Ian O'Doherty hasn't apologised.
He hasn't asked to be forgiven.
He has demanded forgiveness.
But here's the deal.
We are not Ian O'Doherty's judges.
It is not up to us to forgive him.
Maybe the voices of unforgiveness going round in Ian O'Doherty's head are the voices of his own conscience.
He should try telling those they have no choice but to forgive him.
Of course Christians do quite frankly assess Ian O'Doherty's writings and dismiss them for what they are, namely lying, mendacious, malign, cowardly, dishonorable sneers.
The courageless outpourings of a conformist toe rag who saw everyone else in the school yard persecuting Catholics, and decided: "Me too."
We assess Ian O'Doherty's lies and calumnies and slanders without fear or favour.
We reject Ian O'Doherty's attempt to selectively quote the son of the Hebrew God (Hint O'Doherty: I mean the Creator of the Universe not Bill Hicks) to selectively quote the Messiah in order to compel those who would honorably speak out in defence of the persecuted innocents, in order to compel them I say, to acquiesce to Ian O'Doherty's outrageous unwarranted and crassly moronically dishonourable lies about the Catholic church.
Jesus told us to turn the other cheek.
And like all his teachings it's living teaching.
Even 2000 years later it's alive.
Infuriating teaching.
Crazily impractical teaching.
But oh something so unutterably alive about it.
None of us who seek to believe in Jesus parrot this teaching as justification for our own wrongdoings as O'Doherty does.
We discuss it, rebel against it, meditate on it, embrace it, fail it, savour it, sometimes understand it a little, occasionally live it, and most often listen to it proclaimed by scoundrels like O'Doherty who wish to silence due criticism of themselves, or to arrest any dignified defiance of their lousy persecutions of heroic Christian people.
Nothing in the Bible may be used as a justification for tyrants.
That means you O'Doherty.
Sometimes the devil quotes scripture for his own ends.
I am referring to you again O'Doherty.
Here is my opinion.
I believe that no statement of Jesus and no word of the Bible may be used by Ian O'Doherty to cover his tracks after he falsely, crassly, vilely and vomitously attempted to destroy the reputation of millions of decent people, the Catholics of Ireland and the world who have sought to preach the royal truth and in so doing have gifted humanity with its only real hope of deliverance from the oppression of Satan.
Thank you gentle travellers of the internet for your time and patience.

an open letter to john fry chief executive officer of the johnston press newspaper group

What did you do with ten years of my pension contributions you thieving gypsy bastard!

the monica leech laugh in

The leeringly evil Colonel Hans Gruber was addressing his assembled prisoners in the Nazi Prisoner Of War camp Stalag 19.
"I haff good news," he beamed. "Today you vill all get ze change of underwear. Ze British vill change with ze French. Ze French vill change with ze Americans. And ze Americans vill change with ze British."

racial tensions

The Pakistani Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre approached the blonde women.
The blonde women has been on the staff at the cafe for some years.
She is not an entry level staff member.
She is herself in a management position.
She is polite and friendly and pretty and one of the reasons people still go into that cafe.
The Muslim manager began to shout at her.
She said a few words quietly.
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe continued shouting at her.
He was shouting at her in front of customers and staff members. Standing to his side was one of his friends a fellow who wears a fake name tag reading Vicky, who is also now on the staff at the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green Centre, and who has formerly been known to me along with the manager himself through their harassment activities on Grafton Street as part of the Black Jackets Muslim street gang.
Both the Muslim manager at the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre and his friend Vicky the street thug have come up in the world.
And the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre has come down.
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe was still shouting at the girl.
She spoke now a little louder and with dignity.
She said: "Don't shout at me."
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre leaned forward and menaced her with his balled fists.
He shook his fists at her.
He was careful.
He didn't shake his fist in her face.
He kept his hands well back moving them up and down like a demented Islamic monkey.
He shook his fists at her in this way for quite some time.
And all the while he shouted: "I'm not shouting at you."
Over and over.
My oh my it was quite inflammatory.
I turned and walked out of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephen's Green centre for the last time.
Outside it was sunny.
I took a deep breath.
Let it go.
As I headed down Grafton Street I came upon a Spanish guy shouting into the faces of two other men.
He seemed to be calling them out to fight him.
He spat.
The two men he was shouting at seemed inoffensive enough.
What was going on?
Then I saw.
The two men were holding hands.
They moved away calmly.
They seemed unruffled by what had happened.
I hadn't seen an incident quite like this before.
I walked on.
On Dawson Street a Chinese man strolled up the street.
An Irish street thug, a classic Dublin hoody, suddenly lunged towards the Chinese man.
The Dublin hoody screamed something unintelligible.
The Chinese man flinched but kept moving.
I went up to the Chinese man.
I said: "Are you okay?"
He said: "I just got a bit of a fright."
I said: "I thought that nut case was coming after me."
He said: "I didn't know what was happening."
I said: "Thankfully most people aren't like that but there's always some."
He said: "Yeah."
It was turning out to be quite a rum sort of day in the life of the Mighty Heelers.
That same evening I wandered into a salubrious little Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street.
Up to now it has been my favourite cafe in the city.
The Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street is renowned for having the friendliest staff of any cafe or restaurant in Dublin.
There are three Chinese people, each of whom is a joy.
There is a hardworking Boston girl who occasionally flashes a lovely smile.
There are several Hispanics and middle Europeans who are instantly friendly and alone worth the price of admission.
The friendliest staff in Dublin.
Except for one guy.
Just one guy.
The only Irish guy on the staff.
One bald Irish pillock.
The bald Irish pillock is a bit of a legend among people who frequent Starbucks in Dublin.
Legendarily obnoxious.
He is not always to be found at the Dawson Street Starbucks.
He is occasionally on duty in the Dame Street branch.
He's also sometimes to be found lurking in the Grafton Street outlet above the BT store.
He is a twenty something bald Irish pillock who gets his jollies out of being rude to customers.
Apparently Starbucks likes to spread him around.
It's not a good policy.
I had seen him in action in other Starbucks and had made a mental resolution that he would never under any circumstances get the opportunity to be rude to me.
This evening before I entered the Dawson Street Starbucks, I first checked to make sure he wasn't there.
He wasn't.
One of the girls took my order and I paid for it.
Presto.
As if by magic the bald Irish pillock appeared.
From a back room.
He took a position behind the counter and made some remark to me.
I didn't take kindly to the remark.
I said to the girl: "Bring me my coffee to go."
I sat down.
The girl brought me the coffee in a mug.
I said: "Okay, I asked for that to go and I have to go. Just bring me a refund."
She said she would.
Five minutes later my refund hadn't arrived and I went up to the counter.
The girl looked at her shoes.
"It's alright, just give me my refund," I told her.
She still looked at the ground.
The bald guy said to the girl: "I'm the manager. He has to deal with me."
He shooed her away so that there would be no witnesses.
I was now in conversation with someone I had sworn never to have any dealings with.
I said quite deliberately: "I have paid for a caffe latte. I am not happy with the service. Give me my refund."
The bald guy smirked.
The bald guy said: "Calm down sir."
I repeated just as calmly as before: "Give me my refund."
He repeated just as smirkily as before: "Calm down sir."
I said calm as ice: "Give me my refund."
The bald guy smirked and shrugged: "Refund for what?"
In quick succession I demanded the refund five more times.
Each time the grin on the pil garlic deepened and his remarks became ever more obtuse.
He was so sure I wasn't going to hit him.
Most Irish people would do a sublime bit of shouting at this stage.
Just to let the other customers and staff know a ball game was in progress.
I didn't think the bald guy whom Starbucks were permitting to pose as a manager in their Dawson Street store, was worthy of my shouting.
I reached across the counter and took the tips jar.
I removed the price of a caffe latte from the tips jar.
I strolled towards the door.
I was half way up the street before the bald guy Starbucks permits to pose as a manager found his courage.
The bald guy Starbucks permits to pose as a manager, stood in the doorway of the Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street and called after me.
His voice was a pseudo would be trendy twenty something voice, the sort of accent Irish kids ashamed of their backgrounds, put on because they think it makes them sound like they've been to college.
It is a mongrel cross between an upper Brit accent and a trans Atlantic American.
It is the saddest pseudo accent on the planet earth.
The accent of someone pretending to be something they're not.
The bald guy who Starbucks permit to pose as a manager called: "I'm going to remember your face the next time you come in here."
Without looking back I shouted in a voice fit to raise the dead: "You won't be working there you bald c---."
As my fury abated in the cool night air, a wry and rueful thought came to me.
What with all the Muslims and Irish behind the counters, it's getting hard to find a good cafe in this town.

morning becomes a cleaning lady

Dawn at the Chateau de Healy.
The young squire and his mother are supping coffees in the kitchen.
"Mama," says the son delicately, "I wonder could we get rid of Cleaning Lady."
His aged parent pondered a mo.
"No," she answered. "Murder is wrong. And anyway she likes it here."
My handsome preraphaelite features became a bit gothic.
"The cleaning lady's happiness has ceased to be of paramount importance to me," I muttered darkly. "And I wasn't actually suggesting murder. Although now that you mention it, perhaps some sort of accident with the hamster cage could be arranged."
"What has you so upset?" enquired the Lady known as Lil.
My newly gothic macho features drifted back towards poignancy and preraphaeliteism.
"Mama," I said in a strangulated voice, searching for the right words. "Mama, she took my curtains. She took my curtains from the bedroom upstairs. And she never replaced them."
"Oh that."
"Five years ago. She took my curtains five years ago."
"And why didn't you mention it until now?"
"Well I suppose at first I just assumed Paddy Pup had eaten them or something. I didn't want to get him into trouble. Then I figured out that six curtains would be too much even for Paddy Pup. And he always leaves traces of debris. You know I've been sleeping for five years in a room without curtains. I'm woken at first light by the dawn in my face. At night time sexxx starved groupies are peering in at me as I get undressed. I mean what the hell did she do with them?"
The Mammy smiled.
"There are a number of theories," quoth she.
"Enlighten me."
"She may have taken them away to wash them and they were so old they probably just fell apart."
"Is that it?"
"Maybe."
"What are the other theories?" wondered me.
"Maybe she just kept them," postulated the Lildebeest brutally.
"She wouldn't dare."
"Or sold them."
"My God."
"Or gave them to charity."
"My curtains! The devil woman."
"Anyway they're gone. You should buy new ones."
The Mammy exited stage left pursued by a robin.
I sat alone.
If you could have seen me at the moment gentle voyagers of the internet, you might have thought me some dangerous Byronic anti hero, soul in turmoil amid the coffee cups and cornflakes bowls, face black, thunderous and malevolent, contemplating an act of wild and dangerous heroism.
The single burning thought creasing through my wayward spirit was this.
I think I'll have another cup of coffee.

my love is like a red red metaphor

my love for you is more pretentious

than john keats' love for fanny brawne

my love for you is more tendentious

than oscar wilde's love for bayonne

my love for you is more swantentious

than a swan's love for another swan

 

my love for you is more of today

than the latest music from the united states

my love for you is richer far

than all the riches of bill gates

my love for you is more deeply imbued with meaning than the hieroglyphics in the great pyramid

which by the way it predates

 

my love for you is more mystical

than the eternal wheel of destiny

my love for you is more speckled with stars

than galaxy azmx769843

my love for is beyond price

okay then 50p

sympathy with the devil

I am not accustomed to expressing positive opinions about any article carried in the Daily Mail.

However in this instance such an action is regrettably necessary.

After the pop star Stephen Gately was found dead recently, only one writer in the British isles commented on his demise with honour and integrity.

This writer was Jan Moir of the Daily Mail.

Alone amid the array of sacharine and duplicitous accolades from the pop star's family, friends, and hangers on, all of whom scrambled with indecent haste to aver what they did not know, namely that no foul play had taken place, Jan Moir was the only person to actually place value and dignity on Stephen Gately's life and to wonder quite frankly what the hell killed him.

She was the only one who dared hint that he may have been murdered or have met his death through the use of drugs.

She was not sensationalist.

She stated the bare minimum.

What we social anthropologists call the bleedin obvious.

It is not normal for men in their 30's to die after an evening at a night club.

In expressing concern about the manner in which such a young man met his end, and in expressing a degree of scepticism about the official explanation, Jan Moir has acted with courage and tenacity.

And restraint.

She made no comment about the stranger Stephen Gately and his male lover brought back to their apartment.

That stranger and indeed the male lover most newspapers including The Daily Mail are content to erroneously call Stephen Gately's husband, have a lot of questions to answer.

The storm of criticism that has been fostered against Jan Moir is a sure sign she has spoken the truth.

the monica leech laugh in

Question: What's the difference between Monica Leech and an egg.

Answer: You can beat an egg but you can't beat Monica Leech. (Particularly when the libel trial is presided over by the grandson of the founder of the Fianna Fail party.)

momentaria