book of days

 

great moments in bathos

Afternoon at the chateau.

Heelers sitting in the front room reading an Hungarian phrasebook.

Did you know, gentle travellers of the internet, that if a Hungarian girl says to you: "I want to eat your heart," she is in fact declaring her love for you.

Not many people know that.

Just me and Michael Caine.

And now you.

My little nephew Tom beetles in.

He wants to show me his money.

"Look what I've got," he says, counting out a stack of Euro coins.

His face is bright with innocence.

"I've got five ones," he explains, "and seven twos. That's nearly, that's nearly..."

I do my good uncle routine.

"You're very good at counting Tom," I tell him. "That's nearly a full twenty Euros."

After some more of these heart warming exchanges he toddles off to his own house and I return to my exploration of the unknowable lingo that is Hungarian.

From somewhere behind a crossword the Mammy pipes up.

"You know the kid got that money from your bedroom," she says conversationally.

My finely honed preraphaelite features take on a momentarily gothic veneer.

And the soundtrack from The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly goes: "Aieeeaieeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

the lateness of the hour

Coffee with Frederica in the Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus at Newbridge Silverware.
I'm keeping a weather eye out for that cracking Natalie Collins bird, the manageress.
Aroogah, as we do say in the trade.
Frederica said: "I think Bishop Eamon Walsh is a good man."
I said: "So what are you going to do about Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE hounding him from office using the false ascriptions of guilt in Yvonne Murphy's report into child abuse?"
She said: "I have a family to rear. This is not in my area of influence. There is nothing I can do."
I was silent.
Here we are bold readers.
If an honest, courageous, left wing woman like Frederica, never a pro Catholic I emphasise, but certainly a woman of integrity, if even she knows full well that Bishop Eamon Walsh has been hounded from office by Nazis, if she knows it and is choosing to do nothing about it, then we are living in a country where the Nazis are already in charge.

to the overthrow

the worm things of the soft earth
in the rainfall night crawl forth
onto pavement doorstep or road
into the concrete certainty of death

they do not think but they know
that in a darkness yet to fall
there will be an overthrow
and those who rule will crawl

and those who crawl will rule
though tonight in their impossible thousands they die
crushed under wheel trampled under foot
conquered by a nation that knows them not

lady hamilton's pussy 2 - the cat's meow

James Hamilton, Director Of Public Prosecutions, Greatest Hits.

1. The Irish banking system collapse due to false accounting by Allied Irish Banks and Bank Of Ireland in declaring massive profits for twenty years, profits which simply didn't exist, along with massive financial corruption at Anglo Irish Bank, which was assisted in its activities by billion dollar credit transfers from Trustees Savings Bank. No action. 

2. Douglas MacArthur's second murder. (MacArthur was the killer found hiding in the flat of the Attorney General to the government of now deceased Prime Minister Charlie Haughey.) No action. 

3. The murder in 1973 of a baby born to an eleven year old girl whose parents had sexually abused her as part of their activities with a devil worship ring in the Dublin village of Dalkey, a ring which allegedly contained at least three police officers. The murder of a second baby born to that little girl. The inexplicable disposal of the body of the first baby by the Irish police. No action.

4. The accessing by a police officer at Garda Head Quarters in Harcourt Street, Dublin, of child pornography through Garda computers in 2001. No action.

5. The deliberate prevention of access to a potential crime scene by police officers who held a Mexican Standoff with investigating agents from the ombudsman's office after the shooting dead of a police officer in Garda Head Quarters, Harcourt Street, Dublin, the ombudsman's people eventually being allowed to enter the premises after several hours, and the death later being declared a suicide. No action.

6. The opening of drug dealing shops, styled Head Shops, by crime gangs in every town in Ireland over the past five years. No action.

7. The gerrymandering of electoral rolls by Fianna Fail before the last election, when half a million people were illegally removed from the voting register, and several hundred thousand Fianna Fail voting immigrants were added to it. No action.

8. Gangland slaughter in Dublin and Limerick. No action.

9. Judges refusing to give the mandatory ten year sentence to drug dealers. No action.

10. Deaths in Garda custody. No action. 

11. A broken car light on James Healy's car. Within five days the Director of Public Prosecutions' office had issued a summons for James Healy to appear in court.

chessnutz

Our weekly chess puzzle.
***********************

Theo Von Dortzel versus Cyrus Bombeck

Munich 1938

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

The Black king has been drawn off his back line and is dangerously exposed. White's marrauders threaten from every angle. How did Black, to play, find a way out of the trap?

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

Solution

Bombeck offered Von Dortzel a thousand dollars to throw the game. This was when a thousand dollars could buy you an apartment in the Wienerplatz. Von Dortzel was happy to oblige.

in the chamber of secrets

A secret laboratory in Dublin.

I suppose at least some of what they do there might not be against the laws of God and man.

My cousin Z is adjusting a dial on a complicated looking didgeridoo.

Potions bubble nearby.

"How are things Heelers?" she wonders absently.

I shrug.

"The faith of our fathers is being attacked by liberal atheist cadres hiding out in the judiciary and the media," I told her. "They're forcing honest men to step down in disgrace. It's a pogrom really. They're trying to lodge the blatently false notion in the public mind that the church is an abusing institution and that she is an institution which habitually conceals child abuse. At the same time drug gangs have taken over our cities. Racketeers are shooting and stabbing people in the streets. The police are terrorising the general public at the side of the road while doing nothing about organised crime. In fact the police have just published falsified figures claiming that the crime rate is actually dropping. I suppose they might argue it's dropping since they didn't bother to do anything about Sean Fitzpatrick's corruption at Anglo Irish Bank. I mean if they just ignore the crimes, maybe they think that means the crimes don't exist. Meanwhile the liberal Judges who are striving to destroy the church are themselves releasing murderers and psychos into the community on bail. In cases involving drug dealers, the Judges simply refuse to impose the mandatory ten year sentence. While the public are distracted by false media accusations about abuse in the church, child abuse rages out of control in the general community. Porno culture dessicates a generation of young people leaving them hopelessly sexually incontinent. Rape is off the scale. Our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government continues to borrow billions to bribe the State sector for votes. Civil servants, nurses, teachers, nice middle of the road people, have caused our national debt to double in one year with their ridiculous extortionate pay scales. That's even before we factor in the debts run up the banks. The government is compelling the citizens to pay the banks' gambling losses for them. Two hundred thousand Muslims have infiltrated the country with a view to establishing Islamic rule here. They're flying in to Jim Mansfield's aerodrome because there's no customs or passport control there. Fianna Fail and the liberal Judges just sat back and let them do it. This is a maelstrom of societal decay. There is a serious danger of civil war."

Z looked up.

"So you think things are pretty bad," she murmured.

I grinned.

"Not at all," I said. "Out numbered on all sides. Countless enemies ruthlessly trampling our traditions and our laws into the mire. Our nation teetering on the brink of calamitous oppression. Situation excellent. I'm attacking."

the sky is an ocean

 

the mystery of the broken car light

It was November.
A Thursday evening.
8.30pm.
The wettest day of the year.
Flooding had been reported all over Ireland.
I was driving home through the town of Naas.
A police car drew out of the station and followed me.
It followed me out of town.
When I was outside of town the car flashed its lights, signalling me to pull in.
I found a safe spot and parked at the side of the road.
A thick set male police officer approached my car and tapped on the passenger side window.
I wound down the window.
The police officer said: "Your light's gone."
I said: "Which light, Garda?"
He ignored my question.
He said: "Gimmie your licence."
I said: "Are you permitted to ask for my licence in that manner, Garda?"
He said: "You're supposed to have your documents on you at all times."
I handed him my licence saying: "I asked are you permitted to ask for my licence in that manner?"
He said: "Get out of the car."
He didn't say: "Please step out of the car, Sir."
Or: "Kindly step out of the car."
He said: "Get out of the car."
I was wearing a tee shirt.
I got out of the car.
The police officer compelled me to stand at the front of my car in the pouring rain in a tee shirt while he shouted: "You should know that light is gone."
He shouted this several times.
He said: "Come around here."
He led me around to the back of the car and once more compelled me to stand in a tee shirt in the rain while he indicated that one of the rear lights on my car was gone as well.
At this point another police officer came from the squad car at a run.
She was an over weight female police officer.
She went around to the passenger side of my car and retrieved something off the ground.
She approached me and handed me a photograph of a girl which had been stuck in my licence.
The over weight female officer said the words: "He didn't do that on purpose."
I looked at her pleadingly, indicating that I wanted her to stay.
She scuttled back to her vehicle.
She had no wish to be a witness.
The first police officer now began shouting questions at me.
He said in quick succession: "Who are you? Where are you from? How long have you owned the car?"
I answered some of his questions.
Then I said: "Why are you asking me these questions Garda?"
The police officer shouted: "I'm trying to ascertain if you've stolen the car."
I said: "I've given you my documents. I've told you my name. Why are you asking me these questions?"
The police officer turned away and stomped back towards his vehicle.
Half way there he called out: "You can get back in your car."
I got back in my car.
Ten minutes later the male police officer returned to the driver's side window of my car and handed my licence back to me.
The police officer said: "If you get that car into me at Naas station before 8 o'clock tomorrow evening, I won't summons you."
I was not clear what he meant by this statement or whether any of what he was doing was legal.
Apparently late on a Thursday evening he was giving me until the next day to get my car lights fixed.
I was not sure he should be giving such ultimatums.
In the past a police officer might say: "Get that light fixed."
That would be the end of the story.
Seemingly anything goes nowadays.
Nor was I sure whether by threatening to send me a summons he meant he would issue an on the spot fine, or compel me to appear in court.
Nor was I sure that anything he had been doing was in any way appropriate or justifiable.
It certainly didn't feel legal.
I said: "What's going on here Garda? Are my rights being protected? Can I be sent to jail for this?"
The police officer replied smirkily: "That depends on what attitude the judge takes."
I said: "What law are you threatening to summons me under?"
He bellowed: "Under the road traffic laws."
I said: "Are you entitled to behave this way?"
The police officer smirked again: "Maybe you'd like to ask your solicitor."
Solicitor is the Irish term for lawyer.
I said: "I'd prefer to ask you."
He began to turn away.
I said: "Am I not entitled to see your identity tag?"
Irish police are compelled by law to display numbered identity tags.
The Irish police trade union has found a way around this requirement. Its members habitually conceal their identity tags by wearing large high collared anoraks over their uniforms.
The police officer adjusted the collar of his anorak.
He snarled: "You can see my tag."
His identity tag remained invisible.
I said: "Am I not entitled to know your name?"
He snarled: "My name is blah, blah, blah."
Whatever he said for his name was not audible to me.
I wanted to ask him to repeat it but he was once more stomping away.
I said: "I'm not finished Garda."
The police officer shouted: "Well, I'm finished with you."
I drove home.
I got the car repaired the next day.
Of course I went nowhere near Naas Garda Station seeking this thug.
I never like to encourage thugs by doing what they tell me to do.
Whether they're wearing Garda uniforms or not.
It only confuses them.
A few days before Christmas a police car pulled up to my house.
"Who's that for?" wondered the Dad.
"That will be for me," I murmured wryly.
"Oh God," said the Da.
"Will I let him in?" I asked.
"Of course you'll let him in," gasped the Dad with no little exasperation.
The car was driven by an elderly Kilcullen police officer.
Somewhat sheepishly he handed me a summons from the Director of Public Prosecutions to appear in Naas District court in February.
The older police officer said: "You must have been speeding."
I said drily: "No, I wasn't speeding."
The older police officer retreated, still somewhat sheepishly.
I don't give him any credit for it.
They're always less thuggish when they fear there might be witnesses to their casual improprieties.
I watched his car drive away.
Across the road from where I live, a Dublin crime baron has a house.
Further up Kilcullen main street, a drug dealer uses his home to deal drugs to childen.
On the approach road to Kilcullen yet another crime baron has built a house, right beside a Garda's house.
The Garda's house is itself built on land belonging to an elderly relative of mine who lives in vulnerable circumstances.
There has been deep disquiet within our family as to how a Garda came to build his house on our relative's land.
House, house, house, house.
Never in all my time living in Kilcullen, have I seen a Garda squad car pull up to any of these houses.
But just before Christmas a Garda squad car pulled up to my house.
Seriously though.
They're doing a brilliant job.
I looked at the summons.
It had been issued by the Deputy of Public Prosecutions.
It listed me for a court appearance in Naas District Court in the new year.
There was a charge listed for the front light and for the rear light being inoperative on my vehicle.
Awight Guvnor.
Cor blimey.
E got me.
I ask you gentle readers.
Are these people clowns?
Or are they something worse?
The name of the thug police officer who had forced me to stand in the downpour in a tee shirt, thrown my photograph on the ground, and refused to answer any of my questions, was written on the summons as Sergeant James D O'Meara of Naas.
What a brilliant fellow.
Such courage.
Such integrity.
What does the D stand for I wonder?
Presumably dipshit.
Sergeant James Dipshit O'Meara.
Or possibly Sergeant James Dickhead O'Meara.
Both seem to fit.
So let's get this straight.
The Deputy of Public Prosecutions took a year and a half to announce that he wasn't going to take any action in the case of a Garda who accessed child pornography from computers at Garda head quarters. Nine years later he has still not revised that decision or indeed taken any action in that most grievous case.
The Deputy of Public Prosecutions has failed to take any action to bring to justice members of a devil worship ring which killed two babies in Dalkey during the mid 1970's on foot of their satanic child abuse rituals and whose members identities are known to the police and include three police officers.
The Deputy of Public Prosecutions has for decades simply refused to take any action at all to convict two time murderer Malcolm MacArthur of his second murder, MacArthur being a very strange murderer indeed having been captured in a Flat owned by the Attorney General, chief legal adviser to the government of now deceased Fianna Fail Prime Minister Charlie Haughey. I think we'd all like to see a trial in that case. When a person is murdered, they and their family and the community as a whole, are entitled to see justice done and to see inexplicable presences of murderers in Attorney Generals flats explained. The rights of Fianna Fail, and the Attorney General, and murderer Malcolm MacArthur are generally speaking of less importance to us.
So the Deputy of Public Prosecutions has for thirty years refused to do anything in these cases.
But when the great crime fighter Sergeant James Dirtbag O'Meara sought a summons on 23rd November 2009 against me for a front and rear broken car light, the Deputy of Public Prosecutions leapt to his feet, and within seven days had issued a summons to me to appear in court.
Marvellous work by the Deputy of Public Prosecutions.
This is apparently what we pay him half a million a year for.
And three thousand quid a week to Sergeant James Doltish O'Meara.
F--k me pink.
It only took the Doughnut eating twit cops of Kilcullen another two weeks to actually serve the summons.
But never mind that.
You gotta be tough on crime.
And tough on the causes of crime.
You gotta scare the kingpins in their lairs.
Isn't that right boys?
Gotta get it as close to Christmas as you can.
That will teach those James Healy types to allow lights to break on their cars.
You worthless three thousand quid a week clypes.
I stood in the hall looking at the summons.
A wry thought struck me.
I'd had another encounter with the police a few days after Sergeant James Dreadfullyincompetent O'Meara's magnificent display of heroism.
In the town of Newbridge, returning from church, I'd been stopped at a random check point and breathalysed.
The breathalyser is a little machine that you breathe into.
Some of the Irish cops don't think they should have to take breathalyser samples from the public.
The way they register their protest is by trying to force members of the public to dispose of their breathalyser equipment after use.
So it had transpired in Newbridge.
A baby faced cop breathalysed me and then without announcing the fact that I'd been clear of alcohol, instructed me to hold the breathalyser device.
His next action would have been to pull away and leave the device in my hands.
I said to him: "I don't want that."
Garda Baby Face Finlayson replied: "Neither to I."
I said: "Do I have to take it?"
Baby Face Finlayson shook his head.
"No," he said. "But gimmie your licence and produce the rest of your documents in a police station of your choice within the next ten days or I'll summons you."
I looked at him long and hard.
I said: "Why are you telling me to produce my documents in a police station. I have them all here."
Baby Face Finlayson shrugged: "Oh I've told ten people to produce their documents already tonight."
Of course gentle readers of the internet, the only reason this baby faced Garda scruff asked for my licence and then told me to produce documents at a station, was to deliberately inconvenience me for daring to refuse to dispose of his breathalyser equipment for him.
That's the sort of skanks we're dealing with.
Of course I never produced my documents anywhere.
And now weeks later, I'm in the hall of my house clutching a summons from the legendary Sergeant James Diplodochus O'Meara, and thinking rather rumly, that I may be shortly about to receive another summons from Garda Baby Face Finlayson.
A further rum thought struck me.
A week after my fateful meeting with Baby Face, I'd refused to pay an improperly imposed fine from the Eflow toll company which operates the automatic toll system on the motorway to Dublin airport.
I'd paid my toll but Eflow's automated system had only deducted half what it should have.
A few days later I received an Eflow late payment fine in the post amounting to 50 Euro.
I'd rung Eflow whose debt collection service is operated in high pressure style by a bookmaking company.
You couldn't make it up.
A debt collecting girl called Elizabeth had used typical debt collectors tactics over the phone, at first attempting to bamboozle me with pure nonsense about how I'd paid the wrong amount, then switching to page two of the Debt Collectors' Manual, accusing me of interrupting her, and cutting me off.
Of course I hadn't paid the improperly imposed fine.
That could be summons number three.
The new year hadn't even dawned yet, and already I was looking at three possible court appearances.
I recalled briefly how Eflow debt collectors had recently threatened a friend of mine who is a widow, (the widow of a Garda, hey, I didn't say she was perfect), threatened her with jail I say.
Bloody hell.
I stood in the hall with my summons.
A final rum thought, even rummier than the ones before, struck me.
Naas District Court is often presided over by a character styling himself Judge Desmond Zaidan.
The name has a vaguely Islamic ring.
Am I about to appear in the District Court before an Islamic Judge?
Will I be answerable to the laws of the Republic of Ireland or to Sharia Law?
I mean in Irish law traditionally a broken car light hasn't even necessitated a court appearance.
But in parts of the Muslim world, a broken tail light may be a treasonable offence.
Right up there with allowing girls to go to school or flushing Qurans down the jaxie.
I sure as hell hope he's not a regular reader of the Heelers Diaries.
My God, he might throw the book at me.
Not just any book either.
He might throw The Osama Bin Laden Do It Yourself Guide To Imposing Sharia Law On Infidels.
Yoikes, as we do say in the broken car light criminal trade.
The idea of a parody of my appearance before a Muslim Judge tugs at my consciousness with vague whimsicality.
A Muslim Judge.
Imagine if it was a televised courtroom.
Like Judge Judy.
Only this one would be called Judge Jihadi.
The coolo American voiceover introducing the show would begin: "James Healy was a journalist. And a good one. But he was framed for incompetence by other journalists, turned bad. Journalists who inserted twee misspellings in his humour column, and set James up to take the fall. Now he patrols the badlands. An outlaw hunting other outlaws. A warrior. A loner. A renegade. (Queue coolo theme music from the television series Renegade, and film of Lorenzo Lamas playing me riding out of the sun on a motorcycle with his long locks streaming behind him and a gold medallion glinting on his chest.) Oops sorry. Wrong parody. Er. I mean. James Healy was a journalist. But not a very good one. He lost his job at the Leinster Leader after that newspaper was taken over by British spiv company the Johnston Press. Now James has hit the skids, becoming a career criminal and regularly driving with broken lights on his car. His luck ran out however when he encountered ace crime fighter Sergeant James Dipstick O'Meara. Now James Healy must face his accuser and Judge Jihadi in The People's Court."
Ah.
Thank heavens for the gift of laughter.
I stood alone in the hall with my summons.
I was inclined to look for a way to get out of it.
Couldn't I just fail to turn up or leave the country or something.
The ghost of Maggie Thatcher appeared in full pantomime regalia clutching a magic wand.
"You shall go to the District Court Heelers," she proclaimed knocking me on the head with her magic wand and giving me a root in the bawls.
I will too.
At 2pm on 17th February 2010.
I hope to see you all there.
Perhaps a few of my old colleagues from the now defunct Leinster Leader will show up.
It would be fun to see some friendly faces.
Arf arf.
National media groups who spy on this blog may toddle along also.
And some of the Garda half wits who've been logging on regularly to read about themselves.
And maybe even a few Jihadis.
You will all be very welcome.
I assure you, I will do my utmost to keep you entertained.

lies damned lies and the irish times

The Irish Times has published a survey claiming that most people in the Republic of Ireland no longer wish the Catholic church to be involved in education.

Hilarious no.

I wonder how the brave Bolshevicks of the Irish Times took their survey.

Quick head count in the Irish Times canteen?

Or perhaps it was more scientific.

Maybe they phoned their Mammies.

Here is the news.

The falsity of this Irish Times survey is borne out by the fact the parents in the Republic of Ireland still seek to move heaven and earth to get their children into schools run by the Catholic Church.

The lack of a mandate for the Irish Times for its ongoing war against Christianity is borne out by the trading loss of a hundred million dollars which the Irish Times recorded last year.

A hundred million in the red.

That's a long way from profitability.

The Irish Times can in no way pretend to be held in any regard by the Irish people.

No one buys it.

The company exists now only because idiot banks service its hundred million dollar debt mountains.

Yeah.

The same idiot banks who went bust last year and were bailed out with our money by the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government.

The same idiot banks who prop up the cosmically decrepit Independent Newspapers, a group famous for permitting Paedophile coward Ian O'Doherty to falsely and malignly state in his column that the Catholic Church was a paedophile ring.

Without any choice in the matter we're all propping up the bankrupt banks who prop up the bankrupt newspaper groups who are seeking to destroy the ancient church.

I draw your attention to the precise net indebtedness figure for Independent Newspapers which runs around the one thousand five hundred million dollar mark.

Lummie.

In fact, the only major media group in the Republic of Ireland, which has been equally involved in the persecution of the church as these mendacious clypes, and yet has not suffered a decline in its revenues, is RTE the national broadcaster.

RTE has no viewers but it still has revenues simply because our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government compels every citizen to finance RTE through compulsory taxation while forbidding any of us from setting up a television station to compete with it.

RTE gets our money whether any of us watch it or not.

The wheel is rigged.

And it's the only game in town.

So the three media groups, The Irish Times, Independent Newspapers and RTE, which have colluded with liberal atheistic members of the judiciary in attempting to destroy the Catholic Church, the three of them have absolutely no popular mandate from the public for the lies they are propagating.

Yet we're all being compelled by law to finance them.

I say it again.

Lummie.

an open letter to leonie reynolds

Leonie Reynolds.

I am writing to you in connection with your recent appointment as a circuit court judge.

I wish to put you on notice that as a citizen I do not agree to your appointment as a circuit court judge.

Personally I do not consider you a fit person to be a circuit court judge.

I am tired of judges receiving senior appointments who just happen to be the sons or daughters, grandsons and grand daughters of former Fianna Fail Prime Ministers and Presidents and government Ministers.

I've had enough of Judges called DeValera and barristers called Lenihan.

I note that your father is former Prime Minister Albert Reynolds.

I note that while your father was Prime Minister a Muslim seeking Irish citizenship donated a million pounds to your father's pet food factory, after which donation he received an Irish passport.

I note that your father claims he was unaware of the million pound donation to the pet food factory which he owned.

I personally do not believe your father's statement on this particular matter.

Leonie Reynolds I don't want you as a judge in any court in the Republic of Ireland.

I do not accept the manipulation of power whereby the sons and daughters of former Prime Ministers become senior judges.

I consider this a most egregious nay disgraceful conflict of interest.

James Healy

de schizophrenis

the war had raged long since

the valleys themselves were aflame

the dark legions stood at the borders

biding their time

 

that they should not conquer all

i retreated to the mountain pass

the dark place of the soul

to hide in madness

 

there's a peace for those who are broken

every darkness a light will find

and we poor prisoners will one day walk free

from the chalk and diamond chambers of the mind

the monica leech laugh in

My advice to Islamists with a big dog...

Muslim! (ie Muzzle him.)

the evil that medical councils do

For several decades many parents have suspected that their children's Autism was caused by joint vaccinations given to the children for Mumps, Rubella and Measles.

They, and I, believe that the joint vaccine used in the British Isles, known as MMR, turns a certain percentage of children autistic.

Doctor Andrew Wakefield came to the same conclusion several years ago based on his own researches which he published.

This evening the General Medical Council of Great Britain has censured Doctor Wakefield accusing him of the most seriously improprietous behaviour in his disclosures about MMR.

I believe the Medical Council is effectively closing ranks to protect the medical establishment responsible for MMR vaccination policy.

I believe also that the Medical Council is deliberately calumniating an honorable man in order to protect the interests of its pay masters in the pharmaceutical industry.

This is my analysis of the censure of Doctor Andrew Wakefield.

Thank you for your time.

today they said

Prime Minister Gordon Brown: "We are going to offer money to those who are willing to renounce the Taliban. This has been done in conflicts all over the world. We want to draw young people away from the Taliban and into the political process."

 

James Healy: "This is called paying the Al Qaeda Geld. And I'll tell you without meaning to chide ya. Once you have paid him the Al Qaeda Geld, you'll never get rid of the Al Qaeda."

great moments in bathos

A train to Galway.

It is the Summer of 1986.

My cousin Frances is pretending to snooze in the seat beside me.

It is she who will later become world famous for her capacity as a teacher to kill charging joy riders at forty paces with a blow of her tongue.

Now she is pretending to snooze in order to avoid making conversation with the other occupant of the carriage.

Across from us sits a thick set man in a suit. He looks hot and uncomfortable. His face is an unhealthy shade of red.

A sandwich seller passes up the train.

I buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

The noble Heelers is a bit of an innocent.

Certainly not yet the hard bitten Clint Eastwood type some of you will come to know and love through this blog.

I say: "Anyone want a bite of my sandwich?"

The red faced man in the suit says: "Yes, I will if you don't mind."

I said: "Not at all."

He took half a sandwich.

He folded it and squeezed it entirely into his mouth.

The whole half sandwich.

A few rythmic chews and it was gone.

Such a thing I had never seen.

I didnae think it was possible.

My face was a study.

Beside me, I could feel Frances shaking gently with laughter.

Must have been having a happy dream.

The red faced man got up to use the loo.

Still with her eyes shut, Frances said: "Why did you let him take it?"

I shook my head bemusedly.

"It was hard to see any way of stopping him once his intentions became clear," I told her. "Anyway he'd just been talking about his factory going bust. He might genuinely have needed that sandwich more than I did."

"Wah, ha, ha, ha," said Frances sleepily.

And there our story ends.

flashback

From The Heelers Diaries, twelve years ago.

 

Friday 3rd July 1998:

 

Tired and drawn. Trip to Naas, then Athy, then Monasterevin. Didn't do much except drive.

 

In the bosom of my family. Marie and Edward called. The Mam and I played Scrabble. Shower. Dog walks. Prayer.

 

War in Kosovo. Serbs again. Balkans again. History repeats.

 

The abortion age continues seemingly unstoppable. Politicians steward Ireland towards ecnomic collapse while parrotting cretinisms about Celtic Tigers. Scientists engineer life in test tubes and destroy it there. Women begin to believe they are the mannequins they see on screen.

 

I renounce the age.

I criminal.

I poet.

Now to live honestly.

Humbly.

Taking joy from family and from the tasks God sends.

Life justifies itself.

Even now.

God from God.

Light from Light.

True God grom true God.

how corrupt is the irish police force

We've had another murder last night.
That's more than a dozen so far this year.
A bit higher if you factor in the three dead babies.
So far none of them solved.
No one arrested.
No euphemistic files being prepared for the Director of Public Prosecutions.
Ah yes.
A file is being prepared for the DPP.
That's what they say when they're releasing the murderers, the rapists, the stabbers, the assaulters and the drug dealers without charge back onto the streets.
A dozen murders in January.
This in a country that had almost no murder rate at all during the period of Catholic church influence.
The present spate of gangland killings comes as the cops are still claiming they brought down the road death rate by 30 people last year.
In fact several hundred thousand foreign nationals left Ireland last year, according to the government.
Several hundred thousand less people means several million fewer journeys on the roads.
Which in turn means that there has been no decline in road deaths at all.
When you factor in the reduced number of journeys, the decline of 30 actually represents a statistical increase.
Well done Officer Douchebag.
You're terrorised the general public for nothing.
And of course while the police have been intimidating honest citizens at the side of the road, the murder rate has once more exploded.
The cops claim 30 fewer dead on the roads.
But the gangsters are well on course to kill more than 30 while the police are busy harassing and intimidating the rest of us.
Yes, the Irish police force has replaced the internationally accepted standard of policing To Protect And Serve, with a motto of their own, To Harass And Intimidate.
They really are useless.
Usless and out of control.
Whatever next?
A commendation from the Commissioner for Sergeant Bill Biggins of the Traffic Corp at Naas Garda Station for his solving of the case of the broken car tail light?
Brilliant.
Brilliant work.
I wouldn't be surprised.

annabelle

 

porch light

creatures of the wing

crowd the haloed glass

chained by lightning

to darkness

 

i kill the light

they fly away free

to chase new dreams

to embrace new slavery

the monica leech laugh in

Andrew Lloyd Webber goes into a Burgher King.

"Give me two Whoppers," he demands.

And the guy behind the counter says: "You're very good looking and your musicals are terrific entertainment."

goutman rises

Got out of bed and flinched.
Stood up to walk.
Nearly couldn't.
Uh oh, Jungo.
It looks like the superhero known as Goutman is back.
It's been two years since I was first diagnosed with gout.
Beginning of 2008.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
The mirth it provoked among my nearest and dearest was poignant in the extreme.
"You're like one of those British army Colonels," the Mammy had said gleefully.
"What British army Colonels?" I'd replied.
"You know, big red faced port drinking British army Colonels, the ones with gout," she'd crowed.
Such gems of wit encrust my life.
And people wonder why I scowl a lot.
At the time I'd considered the possibility that the gout might have been caused by my hatred for Muslim terrorists.
You know.
Had I somehow allowed the hatred to metastasise inside me into gout.
Medical opinion, courtesy of Doctor Barn, was that it had been caused by viewing ten hours of Star Trek a day, interspersed with a few Raymonds and Seinfelds, copious coffees, and three dinners.
I wasn't keen on the pharmaceutical companies solutions to gout, ie buy their chemical products and eat them forever.
So I intervened in my own life.
As Goutman I did a little crime fighting, sure.
But also changed my diet.
Took more exercise.
Tried not to hate Muslims so much as I hated the innate capacity of their culture to generate terrorism.
Soon the superhero known as Goutman went away.
I became mild mannered ex journalist Clark Kent once more.
I've taken no medication and yet have been symptom free for two years.
So what's brought it back?
Umm.
I've relapsed on some of the life style changes.
Yeah, got a bit more concerned about Muslim terror again too.
Plenty of vexatious stuff going round in my cranium.
Family estrangements.
Stress.
Could be any of it.
One thing I know.
Every difficulty is an opportunity to love God more.
Every affliction brings a particular gift.
That's two things.
Two things I know.
A surge of optimism takes me.
I hobble out of the old chateau and take a right turn down main street.
It is time to renew acquaintance with the local health food vendor.
As I struggle up the steps to my feminist cousin Pauline's natureopathy store, I am thinking: "Can it really be two years since I've seen Pauline?"
She watches me from the doorway with a roguish grin
Her greeting as I arrive at the top of the steps is the classic line: "Do you need any help up the steps?"
And then: "I knew you'd be back."
Hilarious no.
I go interior, seeking miraculous cures for gout.
Life is good.
Who knows what strange high spiritual progress I'll make in dealing with this.
And it'll be fun to be a superhero again.
Shuffling after bank robbers who can barely believe their nemesis could take this form. Dazzling damsels in distress with my slow rescues. Writing snotty letters to the press about the price of alfalfa beans.
It'll be great.
As I shuffle down the steps from Pauline's store, laden with cherry juice and basil leaves, I do believe I hear her singing.
She is singing: "Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds."
Cheeky.
Goutman don't get no respect.
A superhero is never respected in his home town.
But the Inch Worm song cannot be my calling card.
That will never do.
I'm gonna need a catchier theme.
I wonder would U2 write me something.
They did a nifty Batman a few years back.
I'll have to give Bonio a call.
One more thing gentle travellers of the internet.
Peace now.
Justice always.
Goutman forever.
That's three things.
Three more things.
But you know what I mean.

what it is

I believe the orchestrated campaign by the national broadcaster RTE, The Irish Times, and Independent Newspapers, (along with their hind tit The Daily Mail and the readerless British tabloids,) manipulating old sex abuse allegations against the Catholic church with a view to discrediting church leaders, is nothing more and nothing less than a persecution.

Other generations of Catholics were often asked to die for their faith.

Many Catholics in foreign countries still face martyrdom.

The choice for us in Ireland has been much softer.

We aren't being asked to die.

We're just being asked to endure ridicule, humiliation and a culture of lies.

And if we'll only stay silent while the media takes down their selected targets, why it's possible to live quite happy lives as our country self destructs around us.

The challenge to us is to spurn the powerful fakirs of media, politics and the judiciary, and to expose their pious bastardy for what it is.

RTE, The Irish Times and Independent Newspapers have used a contrived report by a liberal atheistic feminist styling herself Judge Yvonne Murphy, into decades old sex abuse cases, to bring about the resignation of Bishops who have never in their lives done anything wrong.

Their only crime was not to handle sex abuse cases thirty years ago, in a manner in which Yvonne Murphy claims she would like to see them handled today.

These Bishops are decent men being vilified for the delectation of scoundrels.

Yvonne Murphy's report falsely attachs the label of "cover up" to the actions of these Bishops.

This is the key to the present persecution.

In the past, oppressors normally tortured and murdered Bishops.

Yvonne Murphy and her friends are much too clever for that.

Their tortures and their murders are the torture and murder of reputations.

The present campaign to label Bishops as concealers of sex abuse is just as malign and more grotesque than anything the Nazis or the Commies ever did.

The humiliation is diabolical.

Diabolical Yvonne.

You heard me.

Sex abuse is merely a Trojan Horse for RTE, The Irish Times, and Independent Newspapers, in a war they were already waging against the faith of our fathers.

It is a war being led by shadowy members of the judiciary, Judges, Barristers, Lawyers, and by their political allies, who wish to create a social dictatorship in Ireland.

Their agenda for abortion, contraceptive culture, euthanasia and divorce, could never move forward as long as the Catholic Church was available to the people as a platform for cultural influence.

For the liberals' dreams of atheistic power, the church had to be broken.

That's what this war is about.

Not sex abuse.

Sex abuse is just a tool for them.

If RTE, The Irish Times and Independent Newspapers had sincerely cared about sex abuse victims they would have been concerned about the 99.99 percent of victims who were not abused by supposedly clerical or religious people and who rarely if ever figure in newspaper or television reports.

In deliberately obscuring the fact that 99.99 percent of the most serious sex abuse victims are assaulted in family homes, by hiding this veritable maelstrom of abuse from the general public, RTE, Independent Newspapers, The Irish Times, Judge Yvonne Murphy, wealthy lawyer Pearse Mehigan who represents a supposed victims group styling itself One In Four, and all the great heroes of the liberal atheistic jihad against the church, all of them I say, all of them have committed the worst crimes of which they have accused any Bishop.

They have concealed sex abuse.

The media and its allies have turned truth on its head in order to conceal the extent and nature of sex abuse throughout our society.

They have done so with malign intent.

I'm saying they did it on purpose.

Someday they will answer to heaven for the lies they've told.

Here is the news.

No family in Ireland is untouched by sex abuse.

Every family in Ireland has sought to be discrete in some measure as to how it handled such cases.

If we take Yvonne Murphy's arbitrarily invented standard for disclosure which she has applied to the Bishops she wished to criminalise, that same standard would put every householder, every hospital manager, every business person, in Ireland in the dock.

Including, I would venture, a good few whose last names are Murphy.

As for the same three abuse victims who have been perpetually recycled on air at RTE, it seems a little strange to me that RTE can only find three willing to consistently jump through hoops in condemning the Catholic Church.

But what a privilege it is for me to finance RTE's anti Catholic propaganda through compulsory taxation in the form of a television licence fee.

By the unjust contrived Stalinist laws of Ireland, I am forced to finance the television station run by people trying to destroy my church and yet I am not allowed to set up a television station of my own to compete with it.

Mother Ireland you're rarin them yet.

Did I say Stalinist?

Not fair.

Joe Stalin would be ashamed of you.

Do the liberal atheists of the Judiciary, the political sphere, RTE, Independent Newspapers and the Irish Times really think they'll get away with this forever?

No persecutor in history gets away with it forever.

And still the same three sex abuse victims pop up time after time on RTE.

My own assessment of them is this: If a sex abuse victim helps the Nazis, that sex abuse victim is still a Nazi. Maybe a Nazi with a good excuse. But still a Nazi.

I have also been deeply disquieted by the curiously appeaserish attitude of Archbishop Diarmuid Martin who is some sort of titular head of Catholicism in the region.

His attitude seems to me to be geared towards appeasing the persecutors of the church rather than recognising the reality of the unfolding persecution.

I was interested to discover that Archbishop Diarmuid Martin is a brother of former Irish Times political correspondent Seamus Martin.

There's a man with connections.

I have noted here that Seamus Martin in his writings for the Irish Times effectively spent the Cold War rooting for the Russians.

I have suggested that Seamus Martin may have had closer and more direct links with Communist Russia via the old KGB which was running several Irish Times staffers as agents up until 1988 and probably longer.

If Archbishop Diarmuid Martin shares his brothers sympathies, it would explain a lot.

When you look for communist infiltrators, gentle readers, the tradecraft rule is to look for the ones with communist links.

They won't be invisible.

His brother Seamus is one big fart filled communist link for Archbishop Diarmuid Martin.

Is Diarmuid Martin himself a commie who has found his way into a plum Catholic Church job in Ireland?

It wouldn't be the first time that a Communist infiltrator found senior office in the Catholic church.

The Poles were a whisker from appointing a communist agent as Cardinal last year before he was unmasked.

Shit happens.

The fact that a significant number of Polish Padres wanted the appointment to go ahead, suggests to me that shit happens quite often.

Diarmuid Martin's practice of leaking stories to the Irish Times is coming into perspective.

My advice to people of goodwill is not to wait for leadership, courage or guidance from Diarmuid Martin.

He is never going to defy the media and judicial manipulators who currently besiege our faith.

That's not his bag.

He's one of them.

You know this persecution of the church, by agents without and within, has by no means reached its zenith.

Somebody said to me recently: "Oh if only the Bishops would just go, all this would stop."

I replied a tad darkly: "No persecutor in history every stopped because his victims gave in to him."

This persecution started with humiliation.

The murders will come next.

And remember gentle readers of the internet.

Remember who is judging the Bishops.

Judge Yvonne Murphy and her friends.

All pulling in hundred thousand dollar salaries.

A few lifetimes wages for every year of work they claim to do.

With no accountability to the public.

None.

Judges found accessing child pornography on their computers are found not guilty by other Judges because the police enacted the search warrant a day late.

Hilarious no.

These are the same Judges who released Gerald Barry, to kill, kill, rape, rape, rape, blind a pensioner, rape, and kill again.

These are the same Judges who found Nurse Mulholland guilty of something they called Causing Actual Bodily, when she had in fact murdered at least two people at Naas hospital.

These are the same Judges who sentenced Wayne O'Donoghue to four years when Wayne O'Donoghue raped and murdered a little boy called Robert Holohan.

Judge Liberal and Defence Lawyer Liberal, and the infamous Deputy of Public Prosecutions James Hamilton, didn't allow the jury to hear evidence that Wayne O'Donoghue's semen had been found on the murdered little boy.

That's some child abuse Judge Liberal.

Right there.

I'm not talking about O'Donoghue's actions.

I'm talking about yours.

Worse than anything we could lay at the door of the Bishops.

I'm talking about your actions Judge Liberal in sentencing a child abusing murdering coward like Wayne O'Donoghue to four years.

Worse than O'Donoghue's actions.

I'm calling you a child abuser Judge Liberal.

And an abuser of families.

And an abuser of the law.

So Judge Liberal sentenced Wayne O'Donoghue to four years for something Judge Liberal called manslaughter.

Wayne O'Donoghue served a year and a half.

He's currently loose and attending college in England where by all accounts he's having a whale of a time.

Judge Liberal also continues to have a whale of a time.

But his hour is coming to an end.

two

two lovers walk the claddagh

ruffed and ragged by the winter breeze

they're as much a part of galway

as the wildern wintern seas

their laughter echoes gleaming

like the verses of a song

their image held and bade me

scorn the wealth of solomon

heeler the peelers supernatural tales of yoikes and honey if the house tells us to get out i really think we should go

When my father was 17 and newly enrolled at university, he was returning home on foot from a student dance one dark night.
He was walking up Blessington Main Street.
The street was unlit in the 1940's.
It was so dark he could not see his hand in front of his face.
He shuddered in the midnight cold.
He had an eerie feeling he wasn't alone.
Blessington people often told stories about ghosts accosting lone travellers late at night.
The ghosts were said to be the spirits of drunken revellers who had wandered in front of trams.
My father was half way along the street when he felt a presence materialise in front of him.
There was a rancid smell.
A boney cloth wrapped figure enfolded my father in a claustrophobic embrace.
It made an unearthly sound.
The sound was: "Urggggghhh."
The young man was almost paralysed with raw fear.
Then he heard another sound.
A clinking.
As though a bottle had just fallen over.
My father realised he had stumbled into a local character who occasionally got drunk and slept off his liquor out in the open on Main Street.
A wave of relief swept over him.
He burst out laughing.
A light came on in a house nearby, briefly illuminating the scene.
The cloth wrapped figure stepped back from my father and shook a fist.
"Who's laughing at me?" roared the Diderum.
The young student finished his journey home at a gallop, pursued by the enraged Diderum.
The Diderum could run surprisingly fast for an inebriate.
The front door of the Healy homestead, which was the old post office on Blessington Main Street, banged shut behind my father with inches to spare.
There came a thump as something collided heavily with the other side of the door.
Then a sliding sound reminiscent of a body slumping gently onto the pavement.
Then, ever so softly, the long easeful cadences... of the Diderum snoring.

mistrale

Night on the heart land. A cold mist has risen from the fields. The trees in the garden of my father loom sere and strange. Orange street lamps hover above the lullay little town. I walk with the dog through the stillness. I am a ghost. Not another soul. The numbers we give years blur away. I suppose it is on nights like this I may be permitted to return. If you meet me do not be afraid bold traveller. I wish you well.

aoife

this jewel woman

i did not see

when close

now gone

look look

the brightness

 

this day we held

each to each

until

the holding

being strange

was farewell

irish jewels

 

great moments in bathos

It was the dulcet Autumn of 1978.
Gentle sunshine splayed across the grounds of Kilcullen Boys National School.
In the yellow prefab, Mr Locks was asking the boys of Sixth Class what name they wished to take for their confirmation.
Confirmation is a Catholic ceremony where children of twelve and thirteen take an extra name, representing their acceptance of the promises of faith made by parents and guardians on their behalf at baptism.
Many children take the name of their favourite saint.
Mr Locks was at the head of the class.
As he pointed to a child, the child would say a name, and Mr Locks would write it down.
I could feel a buzz of anticipation growing in the room as he got closer to me.
For some reason, my gentle school mates believed I would say something funny.
Mr Locks nodded in my direction.
"Joseph," I said simply.
There was an audible sigh of disappointment from my class mates.
Even Mr Locks looked a little let down.
Discrete whispers ran through the room as the news spread among those who hadn't heard properly or didn't believe their ears:
"Joseph."
"Really? Just Joseph?"
"What did he pick?"
"He picked Joseph."
"Oh."
Mr Locks moved swiftly on.
He nodded to the kid sitting beside me, Mugs Martin.
Mugs intoned with sacred seriousness: "Colmcille."
There was a brief and unholy howl of laughter from the assembled youngsters.
Their guffaws and chuckles seemed tinged with relief that the day wasn't going to be a total write off.
Robin Williams may have failed to perform but here was Seinfeld.
And who would have guessed Seinfeld could be so funny.
I for my part felt an immediate stab of envious disappointment that I'd let my own moment in the spotlight pass so uneventfully.
Who knows, I might never get a chance to say anything funny again.
Childhood is full of such tragedies.
At least mine was.
As the laughter continued Mugs looked around with mildly ruffled dignity. The name had not been a joke.
Mr Locks silenced the general mirth with a roar.
"What's wrong with you?" he thundered at the rollicking classroom. "Colmcille is a holy Irish saint. There's nothing funny about him."
Order was restored.
Mr Locks noted the name Colmcille and pointed to the next boy.
The next boy was Sean Bates.
He had a mild special needs condition.
Sean took a deep breath and with great deliberateness pronounced: "Kunte Kinte."
It was the name of the slave in the Roots television series.
The explosion of laughter that rose this time from the serried ranks of children would brook no limitation.
Some of them even applauded.
Mr Locks found himself laughing too.
I was the only one who didn't join in.
Too grieved by my missed opportunity and stolen crown.
The laughter died down eventually.
The good performer knows it always does.
Only then did Sean Bates, with perfect showmanship and no little aplomb, announce the real name he intended taking.
I can't for the life of me remember what it was.

the lake isle of innis muslim

i will arise and go now
and go to the republic of ireland
because barack obama has freed me from guantanmo bay and i need somewhere to stay
nine jihad groups will i have in the major cities there
a hive for the honey bee
and terrrorists dispersed throughout the rural areas as well
and i will have some peace there
peace to plan mass murder in britain america and europe
for ireland is a forward operating base for al qaeda
we normally don't commit too many murders there
because at the moment we're just infiltrating
but give us time
you know we're intent on bringing black islamic night to the whole world
little old ireland ain't gonna escape
it'll be easier conquered than the netherlands
ah ireland
there midnight's all a glimmer
and noon a purple glow
and evening full of protests against the israeli's
and in favour of iran's hamas proxy army in palestine
and iran's other proxy army the hezbollah in lebanon
i will arise and go now
for always night and day
i hear jihadi's plotting mass murder
with low sounds by the shore
whether standing on the roadway
or on the pavement grey
i hear them in the deep heart's core

Note 1: No apologies to WB Yeats for my use of his famous poem The Lake Isle Of Innis Free. I think my version is better.

Note 2: Barack Obama has recently freed two Muslim Al Qaeda members from Guantanamo Bay prison and sent them to Ireland. The terrorists are natives of Uzbekistan. What Ireland did to deserve them is anybody's guess. But the Irish people were not consulted on the matter. Our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government has permitted these Uzbek Al Qaeda members to take up residency here. The name of one of the Uzbek Al Qaeda members has been published. The other has not. Their exact location in Ireland remains a secret. We'll all just have to take our chances on whether or not they decide to do a little more Jihad to make up for their long years of inactivity since the American army kicked their arses all over the battlefield in Afghanistan. Welcome to Ireland you miserable terrorist scum. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Country.

are you an anti catholic bstaad, a masturbatory bolshevick, or a hypocritical poseur

Are you an Irish Independent wielding anti Catholic bstaad, an Irish Times reading masturbatory pseudo intellectual bolshevick or a Daily Mail perusing hypocritical pornographic poseur?

Take this fun Heelers Diaries quiz and find out.

 

1. When you read a newspaper, do you prefer...

(a) The Irish Independent.

(b) The Irish Times.

(c) The Daily Mail.

(d) The Heelers Diaries.

 

Find out how you scored...

Mostly (a)'s: You're an Irish Independent wielding, drug using, hedonistic, vomitous, pagan, anti Catholic bstaad. I hope they shrivel up and fall off.

Mostly (b)'s: You're an Irish Times reading, masturbatory, pseudo intellectual, bolshevick who spent the cold war rooting for the Russians. May you die roaring.

Mostly (c)'s: You're a Daily Mail perusing, hypocritical, pornographic, poseur who believes in nothing and thinks God is a pharmaceutical company. Ea re sanguinolente doofe. (May you go beneath the earth retching blood, you doophus.)

Mostly (d)'s: Hey. It doesn't matter what you are. You're alright.

the monica leech laugh in

A joint statement from Bono and Bob Geldoff about the Haitian earthquake.

 

"Dis is a horrible urrtquake. Deh peeple are dyin. We want peeple to trow money at Haiti. Remember when we got deh idiot banks to cancel Turd World debts. I wonder, loike, did we cause deh banking collapse. I know deh bankers caused it demselves by paying demselves limitless sums of money for doin no work. I know deh banks are to blame for usin accountancy tricks to declare profits dat never existed. I know deh big car companies were givin derr chief executives free aeroplanes and hundred million dollar salaries. I know deh stock exchange companies were doin the same. But still. I like to tink we played a part. Funny dat. Anyhoo. At least by cancelling Turd World debt we ensured dat Robert Mugabe would still be able to pay his soldiers and police. And dat the government of Burmah could pay the wages of its gaolers holdin deh elected President Aung San in solitary confinement for twenty years. And dat deh Nort Koreans would be able to service derr nukes. More free money for deh poor. Poor dictators we mean. You know we never loiked Ronnie Reagan or Mrs Tatcher. I wonder whah Sharia Law will be loike. Seriously doh, we're just awful. Deh boat of us."

darkness visible

Look for devil worship where the murders are particularly lousy and where mysterious accretions of power become visible momentarily when someone is convicted or threatened with conviction for the crime.

The murder of Jon Benet Ramsey is one such example.

Jon Benet's billionaire parents were able to avoid answering police questions for months after their daughter was found violated and killed in the basement of their home.

Jon Benet's mother has since conveniently died.

Her father will answer to God. (And apparently also to the makers of the cartoon South Park who said the unsayable about the Ramseys in an episode along with Intern murdering Congressman Gary Condit and double killer OJ Simpson.)

The recent case of Amanda Knox is also instructive.

Amanda Knox and her friends tortured and slaughtered a girl called Meredith Kerchner.

Amanda Knox has been convicted of the murder in Italy.

The murder has all the appurtenances of a satanic killing.

What happened afterwards is even more disquieting.

As the verdict was announced a series of interviews were broadcast on major US news networks featuring relatives of Amanda Knox and their allies.

Some of the allies were very powerful people.

There was no similar focus on the girl who had been slaughtered by Amanda Knox or on the family of the girl who had been slaughtered by Amanda Knox.

This enthusiasm on behalf of news networks for the family of Amanda Knox a vicious murderer, and this lack of concern for her victim, made for an astonishing bout of televisual obscenity.

It was positively evil.

The major English language news broadcasters of the planet earth had gone into bat for Amanda Knox, the devil worshiping Nazi bitch.

CNN interviewed the editor of Vanity Fair magazine who asserted cruelly and mendaciously that Amanda Knox was innocent.

The editor of Vanity Fair.

How the hell would she know?

Hell being the operative word.

Congresswoman Maria Cantwell of Washington DC issued an instant statement similarly asserting that the murderess Amanda Knox was innocent and accusing the Italian court of being anti American.

Hilary Clinton's office released a statement saying Mrs Clinton would consider intervening on behalf of the murderess Amanda Knox.

Before our very eyes, an outrageous display of malign power was unfolding.

Since that evening, the parents of the murderess Amanda Knox have continued to feature in newspaper and television reports.

The victim of murderess Amanda Knox is still callously ignored by these networks and publications.

Victim.

But Meredith isn't a victim now.

She is with God.

After the first death there is no other.

Amanda Knox and her friends can never reach her again.

For the murderess Amanda Knox is facing hell.

Hell.

If she does not confess and repent of the murder she committed.

Her undead soul will go down forever.

The Knox family continue to exercise improbable influence over reporting and political statements about the murder committed by their satanic daughter Amanda Knox.

Just yesterday Amanda Knox's father attempted to cast doubt on the integrity of the prosecutor in the case.

In an incredible twist, an Italian court has found the prosecutor guilty of tapping phones when he was trying to track down a serial killer in Florence as part of his investigation of a previous case.

The Florence serial killer or killers, had specialised in killing couples in parked cars.

Virtually every human being on the planet, outside of the Mafia, serial killers and devil worshipers, would consider that the prosecutor had done the right thing in seeking to bring the Florence serial killer or killers, to justice in any way possible.

But an Italian judge has indeed sentenced the prosecutor of Amanda Knox to a jail term of more than a year for tapping phones.

The term is suspended pending appeal.

To all but the family of murderess Amanda Knox, the sentencing of a prosecutor who tapped phones in pursuit of a serial killer, is an outrageous and malign injustice.

It.

Is.

Darkness.

Visible.