return of a man called horse i mean heelers

The phone call came at midday.
It was my brother Doctor Barn.
The man known in gambling circles as The Lock.
Because he's never wrong.
"Can you get money?" he demanded.
"I could borrow some," I replied.
"Get everything you can get your hands on and put it on Wales to beat the Irish tomorrow in the rugby international," he advised dramatically.
I spent the afternoon fighting my gambling urges.
Not since I bet two thousand quid more than a year ago on John McCain to beat Barack Obama for the American Presidency have I ventured to gamble.
I thought McCain had cured me for life.
Now all bets are off.
Or on, as the case may be.
As the day warmed up, I drove to Naas.
Tea at Alice's Restaurant.
Alice's Restaurant is rather hilariously owned by someone called Eileen.
It's one of the few places in County Kildare where you can hear the ancient Irish language spoken.
I sat amid the cultural burble arguing with myself.
Thoughts like these...
I've spent the last twelve months paying off debts and reestablishing myself.
It makes no sense to risk it all.
There are no happy endings in gambling stories.
Cad a dheanfaimid feasta gan money, ta deireadh na Heelers ar lear?
Even if I won, I'd just go and risk the lot on something else.
I'd be caving in to an addiction.
It would be just like clapping chains of slavery on my ankles and on my wrists and on my wallet.
...Presently I realised that there was no way I could stop myself gambling using my rational mind.
As near as I can make out, my rational mind is already genuinely convinced I shouldn't gamble.
But some other part of me makes the decision.
Gotta fight this battle in the soul.
I phoned Rowena Baines on the mobile.
She's the Newbridge woman who some half lahs believe receives messages from the Almighty.
"Rowena," I said. "I'm thinking of having a bet on Wales tomorrow against Ireland. Any chance you'd ask the Blessed Mother whether it's a good idea."
"No," said Rowena.
"I'm trying to give up gambling but I figure I owe myself one last throw of the dice," I wheedled.
"James," said she. "It's a false god."
I wandered from Alice's Eileen's Restaurant up the main street.
And lo!
Caitriona Byrne, an old friend from childhood, approached.
"Are you coming for coffee?" I suggested.
"I'm going for a hair do," quoth she.
She really did.
"I'm wrestling with my conscience about a big gamble," I told her small talkily.
"I thought you gave up gambling," quoth she.
"Up until a few hours ago, so did I," said me.
"Who are you betting on?" wondered she.
"I'm thinking of backing the Welsh in the rugby," said I.
"Traitor," quoth she.
"My financial adviser thinks it's a good bet," I explained.
"Hmmm," said Caitriona, "Maybe you could back Wales but still root for Ireland. You know, it's only money."
"Heresy!" I cried hurrying away.
I really did.
Wandered into the Costa Cafe above Barkers Bookshop.
Quaffed a hot chocolate and consumed a hang sangidge.
Wandered up to Allied Irish Banks.
Considered withdrawing a thousand quid on the credit card.
Stood in the queue before the cash machine.
Mind cleared.
Walked away.
Wheeeew.
The sense of liberation was exhilerating.
Back to Kilcullen for family dinner in Fallons restaurant.
Doctor Barn is present.
He tells me Snells Bookmakers wouldn't take his bet on Wales.
Thank heavens.
Snells is next door to Fallons restaurant.
If they're refusing bets on Wales, then I needn't worry about my own lack of will power.
The Doc then tells me that Ladbrokes Bookmakers just up the road will take any amount of money I care to lay down.
I care to lay down a thousand.
While the nearest and dearest are eating hakes and steaks, I slip outside and strike the bet.
Five hundred quid on Wales at three to one.
Plus another five hundred quid on Wales at even money with a nine point starting advantage.
"You're mad," says the bloke behind the counter in Ladbrokes.
"Just have my three thousand pounds ready by five o'clock tomorrow," I tell him.
Bet struck, I phone text Doctor Barn.
My message reads: "In the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, Mission Garutska is go."
This is a reference to a practice I had in earlier years of giving my massive gambling operations senselessly exotic code names.
In the street outside the bookie office, I run into Vivian Clarke.
Mr Clarke is Director of the Easter pageant in Kilcullen.
The one where I'm playing Saint Peter.
Wait till you see the anguish of Saint Peter after the crucifixion.
I reckon by Easter Sunday, I'll be able to play anguish like Laurence Olivier, William Shatner, and Johnny Gielgud rolled into one.
Particularly if my bet has gone down.
"Are you coming for a pint?" says Vivian.
We repair to a pub called O'Connells which is owned by a man called Charlie Dowling.
Truly my country is a surrealistic place.
No one names their businesses after themselves.
In Charlie Dowling's O'Connell's Pup, I confess to El Director that I've put a wodge of cash on the Welsh in Saturday's rugby international.
Vivian looks a tad appalled.
"Don't worry Clarke," sez me. "If this bet comes up I'll be in to you on Monday to buy ten jumpers."
Mr Clarke, as well as directing Easter pageants, is co-proprietor with his brother Brian of a business called Clarkes Menswear Newbridge.
The Clarke brothers, rather unusually for this neck of the woods, have actually named their business after themselves.
"Ten jumpers," said Mein Director. "Heelers I'll hold you to that."
Outside the night sky had filled up with stars.
As I strolled home alone, the ghost of Frankie Stallone appeared beside me.
Frankie Stallone was singing thusly with strange high enthusiasm:

"We're back in the race.
They beat you up but that don't mean it's over.
Thrill of the chase.
I know I'm down but I am far from over.
I'm far from over.
Hoo yeah."

I've no idea what he was talking about.

the origin of species

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
I am flumped in an armchair disapproving of Southpark.
MC Hamster is flumped on the wing of the armchair.
We make quite a picture.
Occasionally I look over at the golden mouse a tad fondly.
"Why did God make hamsters?" I wonder aloud during a brief televisual intermission. "I mean what on earth was he playing at?"
Hammy thinks for a minute.
"He probably just wanted to make something nice," she answers finally.
"Yes but why did he make the only really cuddly member of the rat family and then hide it in Syria for ten thousand years?" I persist philosophically.
Hamster fans will be well aware that every hamster in captivity across the world is descended from a single nest of hamsters unearthed in Syria in the 1930's.
Before this hamsters were unknown to the human race.
(And the ghost of Robert Palance bursts in breathing heavily, looks from the screen at the readers of the Heelers Diaries and intones: "Believe it... or not." - Ed note.)
"Don't start insulting Syria," warns Hamilcar.
"Is it an insult to you or to Syria when I say I'm always worried you're about to put on a suicide vest any moment, shout something along the lines of Hamsters U Akbar, and self detonate," I muse.
The golden mouse fulminates silently about this discourteous badinage.
Paddy Pup arrives and puts his head on my knee.
"Lot of hamster talk going on here today," he woofs softly. "Lot of talk about an animal I'm not even allowed eat."
"You're too good a dog Paddler to ever really want to hurt Hammy," I tell him. "I thank God for you every day. And it must have been easy for God to make hamsters compared to dogs. Dogs must have been a lot more difficult. Because you're so good. Yes you are. So good."
"Hey," cries Hammy peevishly.
"Well think about it," sez me. "With hamsters all he had to do was zap pow and there you were. Little golden tennis balls. Little golden tennis balls that like running around on wheels and washing themselves all the time. That can't have been too hard. But with dogs he had to shade in a million nuances of loyalty, companionability, character, courage, and love."
"Hey," cried Hammy again, a bit more affronted this time.
Paddy Pup for his part was positively beaming.
"What about us?" sang out Greeny and Mr Blue the budgerigars from their cage in the hall. "How did God make us? And, er, why?"
I considered the probable mystic origins of budgies.
"I think with you guys God had probably just fallen asleep," I postulated. "Some people walk in their sleep. Maybe God sometimes creates things in his sleep. Somcreationism, the theologians call it. There was a lot of work going in the creation and he might have gotten tired. He was probably having a particularly wacky dream and when he woke up there you were. Either that or he just wanted to make an animal that would cheer people up enormously for no logical reason."
You know what bold readers.
I think my Origin Of Budgies theory may shortly be in the text books.
I'd say I'm closer to the truth than Charlie Ephin Darwin anyway.

a gentle parfit knight

Afternoon drive to Carlow to have my car tested.

The countryside glorious.

Splenderous beams of light translucent on the air ahead of me, falling in a fan tail of glory from heaven over the mountains and the fields.

I've been praying for the babies.

I can see heaven now.

The thought comes to me that heaven might be what God intends for them.

But I'm asking for them to live.

Stopped at a Maxol Garage on the O'Brien Road seeking beverages.

A busy newsagents and deli shop attached to the garage.

I brewed up a hot chocolate, grabbed a packet of crisps and a mint aero.

It's been like that since I gave up sugar.

Sweet things suddenly taste very sweeeeeeet.

As I headed towards the counter I espied a series of nude magazines on the newspaper racks.

A frown creased the handsome features of the noble Heelers.

I looked closer.

The usual drivel.

Playboy and assorted projectile vomitous rags.

Very sad.

At the counter a pleasant roguish faced Irish countrywoman totted up the cost of my purchases.

"You've got some nudey magazines on the shelves back there," I said a bit stiffly.

"Ah only one or two," answered she.

"Are you not offended by what they do to women?" I probed.

"I don't think anyone worries too much really," she said, voice mild and diplomatic.

"But do you not think it's wrong to use women for pornography?" I pushed.

"Ah no, sure no one takes too much notice," she replied.

"Would you not be worried about the children coming in here and seeing that rubbish?" I pressed.

"They never look at them, well maybe one lad did once," she hedged.

"Does your boss really think it's worth the few quid he gets from those and the few quid he makes for Hugh Heffner, if the magazine then causes a rape or destroys some young lad's mind?" I insisted.

"We don't even sell that many of them," countered she.

"But are you not insulted personally to think that someone's daughters are being used in this way and you're selling it?" I challenged.

"Not really," she said distantly.

"But it's exploitation," sez I.

"I'm not saying you haven't got a right to your view," she said.

"Okay," I murmured.

"Some other people have even said the same as you," she volunteered generously.

I thanked her and turned to leave.

As I made my exit stage left, a sexalacious babe in the queue gave me the most wondrously soul lifting smile you've ever seen.

It was charismatic.

Woman can do that.

They can turn it on.

On special occasions.

So she'd been listening.

The smile said everything she wanted it to say.

There was gratitude in it. Admiration. And well done soldier.

I favoured her with my famous goonish grin as I left.

Clearly this sensitivity to the dignity of women gag is going to have to become a regular part of my routine.

all the gold in the world

 

a day in the life

Dropped into Newbridge Social Welfare office to discuss the class struggle with my pusher.

The door of the office was locked.

A sign on the door proclaimed: "Closed Due To Strike Action."

I turned and walked back up the street.

There was sunshine over everything.

A soul lifting day.

That fresh clearness in the air, that tang, which hints at something beyond.

Heaven really.

CS Lewis wrote once about occasionally feeling his spirit soar in such circumstances.

He said he believed a moment of spiritual exultation was a premonition of heaven.

He reckoned our capacity for such a feeling was directly related to an inbuilt knowledge that we have been made for paradise.

No.

That paradise was made for us.

I felt it now anyway.

In spite of the strikes and all the rest of it.

It was like stepping out of time.

Walking down main street on a sunny day.

I drove to Naas.

The main street there was packed with taxis.

The taxi men stood beside their vehicles clutching placards proclaiming their own strike action.

Occasionally in recent years, I have bearded strikers in their den.

Outside Naas police station I once yelled at a bunch of sign wielding monomaniacs: "Get back to work you overpaid bast--ds."

A few weeks later I yelled the same thing at clerks outside Kildare County Council's famous hundred million dollar office, La Maison Des White Elephants.

And yes, I did on two separate occasions engage in fond badinage with Palestinian protestors up in Dublin, a jovial greeting it was, along the lines of: "No more Arab terror, no more Al Qaedas, no more sneak attacks on Israel, no more Nine Elevens, no more Jihad murders."

Ah, memories.

Strangely today I felt little urge to shout at the taxi men.

They looked like tough guys.

Tougher than cops, clerks and Jihadis put together.

I pick my enemies carefully.

So no shouting.

Just a tinge of sadness.

It's not so much that they're rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

It's more that the Titanic is going down and they're standing stock still in the sunshine refusing to rearrange the deck chairs because they want a payrise.

I wandered into the Cafe Costa, purchased a cup of tea and pulled up a pew.

From my pocket I drew Ian Wilson's latest book The Shroud which is about the shroud of Turin.

I settled back to read.

The cafe burbled happily with humanity.

Then the mood changed.

Two children entered the cafe.

A boy and a girl, each about nine years old.

They were laughing a bit wildly.

They purchased coffees and sat at window seats.

They began making remarks about people in the street.

The boy was loudest but the girl was drawing him out.

Soon the boy was iterating vulgarisms: "Penis, penis, balls."

Everyone else sitting nearby had gone quiet.

I could sense the children were disrupted.

How badly, I've no idea.

It might just have been scattered inappropriate talk.

It might have meant something more.

It went on.

I felt myself getting angry.

A thought came to me.

A one liner from Jesus when the apostles were getting annoyed with some kids.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

I let the thought sink in.

"I'm not the one to help these kids Lord," I murmured, addressing the Deity.

A woman entered the cafe.

She was attractive with bright eyes, brown hair, and a strong confident face.

She wore jeans and a red jacket which drew attention.

She ordered coffee, took a look around, noticed the situation, then without hesitation approached the children.

"Can you be quiet?" she demanded in a firm voice. "Can you be a little more quiet? Can you just keep it down a little bit?"

Her eyes never left the children.

Each time she asked the question she allowed a little more kindness into her voice.

The children went quiet, giggled a bit, but quiet.

The good looking woman collected her coffee and sat at the window.

She fixed the children with an honest, engaging gaze.

"Where are your parents?" she asked.

The boy and the girl pulled their chairs over towards the woman.

The boy said: "I don't know."

I watched them talking.

I heard the children say something about the girl getting sent home from school for beating up another child.

The woman never flinched.

Her eyes and her voice remained kind, easeful, but completely focussed on the children.

Presently the little boy stood up and like a gentleman brought his empty cup back to the counter.

The little girl followed him like a lamb.

Both said goodbye to the woman as they left.

I went over to her.

"That was amazing," I said.

"Oh I've worked with children before," she said.

"Do you mind if I ask you your name?" I enquired.

"Ann Fitzpatrick," said she.

"I'm..." I began.

"James Healy," she finished.

I found it rather flattering to be recognised by such a woman.

"How do you know me?" said I.

"I used to read you in the Leinster Leader," said she.

"Oh," said I.

"But I don't read it any more," said she. "I suppose I should."

"No," quoth I.

"Why not?" said she.

"Because they fired me," said I.

"Why did they fire you?" she wondered.

"To find out that," I said, "you'll have to read my blog."

possibilities

air borne insects hum

homeward go they homeless

and propose this street lamp or that car light

as the all important centre of the universe

 

purposeless they try again

to divine transcendent purpose

the light that animates their bodies

shines from the centre of the universe

seven little jihadis

Evening at the chateau.

"I didn't realise I needed a Visa to get into the United States," said my sister Petal looking peevish.

The noble Heelers allowed himself a gentle grin.

"It's a new requirement," I said. "As far as I know you have to contact the American embassy at least three days before travelling."

"Why?" said Petal.

My grin deepened into night.

"Because our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government has been selling Irish passports to Jihadis," I said grimly. "It's a tremendously successful policy. We've got two hundred thousand Muslims living here who will inevitably decide they want to rule us the way they've decided precisely the same thing in every other country that's let them in. It's a marvellous policy for Fianna Fail. They've got all these new friends who don't think we're human because we're not Muslim. And our old friends are requiring us to carry Visas for the first time in a hundred years. It's a Fianna Fail home run. They've managed to briefly enrich themselves with a currency that's about to evaporate. And they may just have put an end to Ireland."

As we spoke the Dad turned up the news on the television.

We heard a breaking news story, jangling and dramatic and accented as only Irish newsreaders know how.

The news was that seven Muslim Jihadis had been arrested this evening in Ireland.

The seven Jihadis were part of a plot to murder a cartoonist whom they considered had insulted their peaceloving religion with one of his drawings.

You couldn't make it up.

the why do the ways of evil men triumph while the good go unrewarded laugh in

An Irish government Minister called Martin Cullen has announced his retirement.
He's been walking around on a cane for a few weeks like an old ham.
The cane was supposed to tip off the public that he wasn't feeling well.
Hilarious, no.
I wonder why he really decided to retire.
Perhaps he suspects that the present strike action in the heavily trade unionised public sector is about to bring catastrophe, civil unrest, widespread bloodshed, currency collapse, and societal upheaval to the Republic of Ireland.
I know I do.
He is not short of cash of course.
None of them are.
Did you know that our Prime Minister, Wankshaft McGee, is paid more than the American President?
I kid you not.
And members of the Fianna Fail governing party generally have done very well over the years from selling passports to Muslim Jihadis.
Allah U Cashbar, as they say in the trade.
A nice little earner indeed.
Minister Martin Cullen himself has had his own unexpected sources of income in recent years. I mean over and above the usual obscene usurious gravy train remuneration and expenses paid to any Irish parliamentarian.
Martin Cullen's financial situation is what is known in the Irish language as fluirseach.
He's rolling in it.
He's made a killing in what we might call the libel industry.
He is after all the government Minister who came into huge wodges of cash a while ago over the media's febrile attempts to report his granting of public relations work worth hundreds of thousands of Euro to a woman called Monica Leech.
In this instance I feel a certain sympathy for our dessicated pagan abortionist sex abusing whore master media groups.
The way Judge Liberal has trampled on Irish free speech traditions, there was literally no way for any newspaper, radio station, or TV broadcaster, to report this story without ending up owing Martin Cullen and Monica Leech a stack of cash.
Everything the media said could apparently be interpreted by Judge Liberal as implying that Martin Cullen and Monica Leech were having an affair.
In fact there was no way for the media to tell the truth without allowing for the possibility of such an inference being drawn.
It was a reporting style I referred to as Stating The Bleedin Obvious.
If Stating The Bleedin Obvious is libel, and if Judge Liberal wishes to deem it so and therefore put a stop to it, why then free speech and democracy in Ireland have just ceased to exist.
By controlling what is said, Judge Liberal and his friends, can control what is thought.
More importantly, they can control what is done.
Independent Newspapers were instructed to pay the bould Monica 1.87 million Euro after a libel trial.
By calling her bould I don't mean to imply she was having an affair with Martin Cullen.
Where the hell would I get 1.87 million quid.
Personally, as a citizen, I am disquieted by the manner in which he awarded her hundreds of thousands of Euro of my money for designing websites that no one ever visited.
That doesn't mean I think it's likely that she rode him for the cash.
Although I do.
Is thinking it a crime?
The trial was presided over by a Judge called Eamon DeValera who is a direct descendent of another Eamon DeValera, the gunman who founded the Fianna Fail political party, yes the very party which in the present day governs Ireland corruptly and kleptocratically, and of which until yesterday Michael Martin was a Minister.
I am no friend of Independent Newspapers.
But in this case I consider they were compelled to pay libel damages for the crime of attempting to tell the truth.
Both Monica Leech and Martin Cullen received sundry other hundred thousand dollar payments in settlement of their claims against sundry other gutless pagan media entities.
Most of the sundry other gutless media entities just paid up without a fight.
Most opprobrious of all was the national broadcaster RTE who divvied up 240,000 Euro, no questions asked.
A quarter of a million bucks.
Bloody hell.
Monical Leech would normally design you a website for that sort of money.
Of course the money wasn't RTE's to give.
It was tax payers' money.
But never mind.
It went to a good cause.
Now Martin Cullen is retiring.
Shy and retiring.
Arf arf.
I wonder will he in his dotage ever find time to meet up with Monica Leech socially, perhaps at the senior citizens Ramadan party, to clink a glass and reminisce whimsically about the high old times they shared as the Irish nation sank giggling anti Catholic platitudes beneath the cold dark waves of atheistic islamic slavery.

great moments in bathos

My brother Doctor Barn and his colleague Doctor Farrell had journeyed from the Republic of Ireland to Great Britain to attend a Liverpool versus Sunderland soccer game.
The innocents abroad.
Like many Irish people they had long cherished ambitions to one day sit amid the real life fans in Liverpool's own football ground and breathe in the legendary atmosphere of this storied stadium for themselves.
The day had arrived.
They'd been lucky so far.
None of the legendary English fans had killed them yet.
After a childhood spent watching this boring game on television, reading about it in Shoot Incorporating Goal and Roy Of The Rovers, aping it in the school yard, dreaming about it night after night, after a typical Irish childhood, I say, obsessing about English League Football, here they were at last.
(Heelers own childhood was spent obsessing about the John Carpenter film Dark Star, and Woody Allen's Bananas. - Ed note.)
Around Doctor Barn and Doctor Farrell the real life Liverpool fans pressed.
On the pitch a Sunderland player was proceeding goalwards.
The Sunderland player was of Chinese extraction.
A Liverpool fan directly behind my brother and Doctor Farrell began to shout maledictions relating directly to the Sunderland player's Chinese ethnicity.
The accent of the Liverpool fan was classically nasally Liverpudlian.
The Liverpool fan was shouting thusly: "You f--kin gook, f--k off ya f--kin gook, you're only a f--kin gook, I'll f--kin kill you, ya f--kin gook."
Doctor Farrell turned to Doctor Barn who had never experienced anything like this in Roy Of The Rovers and was looking kind of green.
Behind them the Liverpool fan continued his medatio ad gookem fookiendem.
"Interesting," mused Doctor Farrell, "that must be the famous Scouse wit."

angel in the sky over dublin

 

heelers down aff pub

Sitting in a corner of O'Connells bar.

I am a brooding figure.

The original Irish hard man nursing a cup of tea.

Other regulars keep their distance when they see me.

All except Vivian Clarke.

"Hey Heelers," quoth he breezily, "I'm putting together a pageant for Easter. Will you take a part?"

"What part?" sez me.

"Saint Peter," replieth he.

"You want a balding red faced fat guy to play Saint Peter?" I enquire with false modesty.

"Yes," sez he without hesitation.

"I suppose I'll just have to act," I answer rumly.

"Great," sez he.

"You must be hard up asking me," murmureth the Mighty Heelers.

"To be honest we're desperate," expostulateth he.

And so it begins.

I always knew I'd be Pope one day.

the end of sky news

On Sunday the people of Iraq voted in their second ever genuinely free election.

They were able to vote because President George Bush, Prime Minister Tony Blair, the American and British armies along with gallant allies from Spain, Poland, Italy and elsewhere, had taken the courageous heroic decision in the year 2003 to put an end to Saddam Hussein's family murderocracy.

It was not an easy decision for President Bush.

The world has not thanked him for it.

But here we are.

The second democratic election in Iraq's history.

And Uday and Qusay are no longer waiting in the wings to take up where their murdering Daddy left off.

All thanks to America and President Bush.

 

The major news networks of the planet earth reported the Iraq elections as their main story in all their bulletins throughout the day.

There was genuine recognition, even among anti American stations like Russia Today and the Nazi channel Al Jazeera, that something momentous was happening.

The anti Bush CNN had a long and insightful report with interesting footage, perhaps mainly because they wanted to siphon off some of the credit for President Barack Obama.

The Hindus at New Delhi Television and the Chinese at CCTV also reported the elections with a positive slant.

There was no credit given to President Bush or the American army.

But if you read between the lines, the credit was there.

 

Alone among the major networks, Sky News did not report the Iraq elections as the major story of the day.

 

Here were the stories in order of precedence featured on Sky's ten o'clock bulletin.

1. A story about three people falling to their death from a high rise building in Glasgow. (This was Sky's top story.)

2. A story about an adult person who had killed a toddler child while he himself was still a child, being rearrested in Britain for unspecified breaches of his bail conditions.

3. A threatened strike in the English civil service.

4. The Queen getting ready to make a speech.

5. A story about police actions against men seeking the services of prostitutes in a British city.

6. A Pakistani boy with British citizenship has been kidnapped in Pakistan.

7. A British soldier has been shot in Afghanistan.

8. A murder in London.

 

The ninth story on the Sky News evening bulletin was announced as "President Barrack Obama today welcomed the latest elections in Iraq."

It was number nine on the list.

Sky's belated mention of the Iraq elections gave a brief nod to Barrack before itemising a series of explosions and catastrophes which Sky claimed had engulfed Iraq on polling day.

Funny that the other news networks, the Lord Haw Haws of Al Jazeera and the Commissars of Russia Today included, did not seem to notice this wave of violence ruining the Iraqi elections.

They would have been looking out for it.

 

Sky News is finished.

They're gone.

The editorial decision, on a slow news day, to all but ignore the Iraqi elections and then to deliberately diminish them with negative reporting, elections representing the first best hope of a long suffering now risen people, elections vouchsafed by years of heroism from Britain's own soldier heroes, the decision to downplay this, just out of a mean minded left wing detestation for President Bush, just that, this venal mean minded editorial decision ends Sky News.

 

 

 

 

Post script: Sky News major advertiser is the Royal Family of Qatar who also finance Al Jazeera. Sky News has almost no other significant revenue stream than the money which comes to them from these medieval Islamists.

a scientist's prayer

meteors

bright the sky

the god of miracles

and molecules

sits on his throne tonight

that the humble

and the mighty

may rejoice

the satanic rites of independent newspapers

For some time now, I have humbly sought to publicise the fact that Irish media groups are concealing the vast preponderance of sex abuse cases from the general public.
Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times, have concealed 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases simply by failing to report them.
By reporting only the 0.01 percent of cases that involve paedophiles within the Catholic Church and by ignoring the rest, Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times have maliciously fostered the abberantly false view that sex abuse was primarily carried out by Catholic priests.
This reporting policy was a deliberate piece of subterfuge.
Its whole purpose was to stampede the general public away from the church so that the church could be completed eliminated.
There was no intention to help actual victims.
The victims were tools.
The atheists of Independent Newspapers, RTE, and The Irish Times, along with assorted members of the Judiciary and parliament of the Republic of Ireland, have their eyes set firmly on recreating this country in their own image as a social atheistic dictatorship.
To do this they must drive the church from education and from health care.
By controlling these two spheres of Irish public life, where traditionally the church ensured we had the highest standards on the planet earth, by controlling these, the atheists will truly be able to make us their creatures.
That's the game.
If 99.99 percent of the most serious sex abuse cases had to be ignored for Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times to promulgate their anti Catholic lies, well then that's the price we pay.
I mean that's the price real sex abuse victims pay.
That's the price the old folks tortured, violated and murdered in the Leas Cross Nursing Home pay.
That's the price the children violated by Michael Shine at Drogheda Hospital pay.
That's the price the women carved up by Michael Neary on the operating table at Drogheda Hospital pay.
That's the price people living under the rulership of the McCarthy Dundon drugs gangs in Limerick pay.
That's the price the children murdered in Health Board custody in recent years pay. (At least twenty of them, but that's only Health Board figures)
That's the price the seven children who committed suicide in North Kildare as part of a suicide cluster in Educate Together schools pay.
That's the price people dying in the basement of Irish police stations pay.
That's the price the people murdered by Nurse Mulholland at Naas Hospital pay.
That's the price the middle aged lady murdered at Roscommon Hospital by being pushed down the stairs in a wheelchair (Yeah I'm saying it was murder) pay.
That's the price we all pay.

If the truth is no longer reported, then the lie flourishes like cancer.

Now Independent Newspapers, RTE, and The Irish Times are at last becoming cogniscent of my modest critiques of their culpable malignly vicious misrepresentations of the truth.
Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times are even more so becoming modestly disquieted by a creeping awareness among the general public of their satanic mendaciousness in seeking to use a tiny minority of sex abuse victims as a Trojan Horse with which to discredit the Catholic Church.
They are starting to try and cover themselves.
To preserve a little plausible deniability.
So they've begun to give a few pages to the more serious cases, that is to say the cases that don't involve Catholics.
The cases they've ignored for forty years.
Yeah.
All victims are equal.
But some victims were more equal than others, eh Independent Newspapers?
Particularly if they can be used by Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times for their kulturkampf against the faith of our fathers.

So they're reporting some of the other cases now.
Just to cover themselves.
They're still not telling the truth, mind.
The truth is alien to them.
They have wedded themselves to the lies.
They are people of the lie.
Here's an example.

A particularly grotesque case of familial sex abuse has come into the public domain this week.
A father and mother were systematically raping their six children in the family home for fifteen years.
The father and mother were known to social workers for the fifteen years.
The six children were left in the family home throughout that time to be violated and tortured, prostituted, raped and abused.
At one stage the social workers did attempt to take the children into care.
They were prevented from doing so by the Judge Liberals of the High Court of the Republic of Ireland.
Okay.
Let's be calm.
So here we have a case, where social workers deliberately and knowingly abandoned six children to be prostituted, raped and violated by their father and mother in the family home for fifteen years.
I mean you wouldn't do it to a dog.
Here we have a case where the Judges of the Republic of Ireland, on the sole occasion in fifteen years when the useless dilletante social workers tried to help those children, we have the Judges I say, refusing to allow any help or any relief whatsoever of the degradation those six children were being subjected to.
All this happened while Independent Newspapers, RTE and The Irish Times, the Judges and shadowy elements in the civil service and in parliament, were pursuing their pogrom against the Catholic Church.

Now here's how Independent Newspapers actually reported the case of the six children raped for fifteen years by their parents while social workers and liberal judges looked on.
Independent Newspapers did not emphasise the guilt of the social workers in leaving the six children to their fate.
Independent Newspapers did not emphasise the guilt of the Judges who forced the social workers on the one miserable occasion in fifteen years that the social workers tried to extend the children minimal help, forced these useless trendy liberal social workers, forced them I say, to leave the six children in the seventh ring of child abusers hell.
Independent Newspapers did not name a single social worker.
Independent Newspapers did not name a single High Court Judge.
Independent Newspapers did not call for the sacking of any Departmental head in the government or civil service with responsibility for children's welfare.
Independent Newspapers did not name the mother who had sought to crush the lives of the six children.
Independent Newspapers did not name the father who had sought to crush the lives of the six children.

Didn't name any of the guilty ones or call for their resignations.

No names at all.

Except one.

Amidst their copious coverage of the case, Independent Newspapers named only one person, an 82 year old woman, a veritable nobody, utterly unconnected with the rapes, an ould biddy styled Bean Ui Chribin, a woman they claimed belonged to a "right wing Catholic group," a woman they implied had helped the violating parents to retain custody of their children in the High Court through some miraculous unspecified action, an ould biddy apparently so powerful that the entire liberal atheistic machinery of the Irish social and judicial establishments lie down at her beck and call.
Independent Newspapers exonerated everyone, the social workers, the Judges in the High Court, the raping parents, but not this lone twit who Independent Newspapers insists was a "right wing Catholic," and who according to Independent Newspapers somehow single handedly prevented the children being rescued the only time in fifteen years that the half witted deleterious social workers bothered their arses to try and rescue them from the maelstrom of violation in which they lived.
Of all the people involved in the case, the only person Independent Newspapers deigned to name was this aged crone whom Independent Newspapers claimed was a "well known activist" from a "right wing Catholic group."
Yes, the name they gave to this "well known activist" was Bean Ui Chribin and apparently she was indeed 82 years of age at the time Independent Newspapers alleges she single handedly prevented any semblance of justice being done for those violated children.
Bean is an Irish word meaning Mrs.
Mrs Cribbin.
The well known right wing Catholic activist from a well known right wing Catholic group.
I've never hear of her.
Or her group.
I have never heard of this woman whom Independent Newspapers claims is a well known "right wing Catholic activist" who can with a wave of her hand prevent atheistic social workers and atheistic liberal Judges, all of whom despise the Catholic Church, can prevent these arrogant atheistic shills from doing even a smidgin of their duty to six children who were being systematically debased in their own home by their father and mother in the full knowledge of those same diabolically callous social workers and those same twisted guilty as hell turpitudinous High Court Judges.
Independent Newspapers (like The Daily Mail who reported the case in similar terms) didn't trouble to give us the identity of Mrs Cribbin's supposedly right wing Catholic activist group.
No details at all.
I assert that Independent Newspapers was once more being liberal with the truth, I mean lying, in claiming a few half lahs who had a personal acquaintanceship with Mrs Cribbin were in fact a "right wing Catholic organisation."

You know what folks.
We gotta stand up.
We gotta call them what they are.
We never surrendered our faith.
We never surrendered our faith to the Communists, the Nazis, the British penal laws, Charlie Darwin, the pagans, the devil worshipers, the Muslims or are any other low rent atheistic or satanic outfit that sought to enslave us over the past two thousand years.
Let's not surrender to oppressors as worthless as Independent Newspapers.
Don't let them take Ireland.
Don't let them take your children.
Don't let them murder our Church.