The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, July 10, 2010

nearer my god to thee

Evening at Newbridge parish church.
The mighty Heelers is sitting in a pew doing his best to look holier than thou.
In the pew ahead of him sits a 19 year old girl wearing a short dress. She has bare arms, swan like neck, and ye olde mane of dark hair tumbling etc etc.
She is beside her parents who look a bit weather beaten.
I am musing to himself: "Why did I sit here? I'll be thinking about her the whole time. It's my own fault."
Presently the girl's father addresses her mother in an inner city Dublin accent.
"Will ya look at dese chairs?" he hisses. "You could do yourself an injury on dese. Whoever's running dis place should be more careful. We could take a claim."
I found this statement to be immensely cheering.
My own lustful superludities notwithstanding, it restored my faith in human nature.
In the pew behind me an elderly nay ancient couple were installing themselves with leisurely dignity.
Another oldie shuffled down the aisle to speak with them.
She looked about ninety.
"Is it true you're celebrating your 62nd wedding anniversary tomorrow?" wondered the shuffler.
"On Monday," grunted the proud husband.
The shuffling oldie was effusive in her congratulations.
"You both look so young," she cooed.
At this I nearly fell out of my pew.
It was so wondrously splendid.
Mass began.
The Padre prayed.
He came to the sermon.
His sermon was about a new British report into the shooting of rioters in Derry in 1972, in an incident that became known as Bloody Sunday.
The Brits in the new report had ended up apologising to everyone.
The Padre waffled on happily about innocent people being slaughtered by soldiers.
I wanted to shout: "They weren't innocent. They were rioters."
The Padre waffled on about Blood Sunday having caused thirty years of violence in Northern Ireland.
I wanted to shout: "The IRA had been killing hundreds of people a year in the early seventies. After Bloody Sunday, violence levels actually fell."
The Padre waffled on about the injustices of British rule in Northern Ireland.
I wanted to shout: "Are you tee totally insane? I mean are you abolutely congentitally off the toilet bonkers in the nut? Are you a complete ephin sasquatch? Listen to me. My source in the IRA has confirmed to me that from the !970's the IRA was no longer just an ally of Soviet Russia's but actually a client organisation working for the KGB. Specifically my source has named Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and a southern Irish politician called Frank Ross now known as Proinsias De Rossa, who were key figures in the decision to accept orders from communist Russia. Do you know what? If the British army had not been attriting the IRA to destruction in Northern Ireland for thirty years, these people would have conquered all of Ireland and handed it over lock, stock and two smoking barrels to the Russians. You, me and everybody owe the British army an apology. We also owe the British army our thanks. And we also owe the British army our every freedom and our country."
Mass ended.
I stood up and strode to the altar to confront the Padre.
I looked into his eyes.
I took a deep breath.
"Father," I stated. "Two months ago you gave a sermon here about a man called Freddy Day whom you'd met in an old folks home in Australia. You said he'd spent his whole life living in a room above a garage in a rich man's house. You said that at the end of his life he was confined to a nursing home and that it was there you had seen him pray with other dying patients. You said that when Freddy Day prayed, his face lit up and that at that moment you understood what the story in the Bible about Jesus' transfiguration meant. Jesus went up the mountain and his glory became apparent upon him. He shone whiter than white. You said you understood the Bible account because you had seen the same thing happen with your own eyes to Freddy Day when he prayed. You said he was already in heaven as he prayed. That story really touched me Father. I wanted to say thank you."
I shook his hand.
And walked away.

Friday, July 09, 2010

from russia with celibacy

Vladimir Putin sat at his desk.
The intercom buzzed.
"Agents Ninety Nine, Ninety Eight and A Hundred And Six to see you Sir," said the voice of Lyudmilla his tigerish bespectacled sexually repressed secretary.
"Send them in," instructed President Putin.
The door opened.
The Russian secret agents known at KGB headquarters as The Three Honeys entered in single file.

Ninety Nine real name Alyona Blizhnikova, Ninety Eight real name Irina Kuksova, and A Hundred And Six real(ish) name Evgenia Tarasova.
They made quite a picture.
Each more stunning than the last.
A weaker man than President Putin might have been a little overwhelmed at the sight of them all together.
Alyona slid into a chair, petite and smiling, lustrous brown hair tumbling forward, her eyes alight with mischief.
She was from Kazakhstan in the Russian south, a land of cruel commissars and mad mad muslims.
Uniquely beautiful.
The eyes.
The eyes.
One eye blue and another eye brown.
It was said no human male could resist her.
Next to her sat Irina, a Moscow city girl, all blonde tresses, and golden glow, and intellect, and wow.
She was an artist, multilingual, an actress and a fashion model, meaning she could break hearts in a dozen different languages and afterwards draw a very nice picture based on what had just happened while reciting Hamlet and posing for Vogue.
Lastly came Evgenia.
A vague impression of spirit crafted into form.
Lissom loveliness.
Subtle intimations of impossible things.
Words fail me.

Although as I think of her, I am drooling.
The ladies waited.
President Putin broke the silence.
"Five years ago we sent you to Ireland to infiltrate high society," he said. "What have you accomplished in that time."
"Well," said Alyona briskly. "I've made contact with a poet called James Healy. He writes a blog occasionally on political themes. He is unusually insightful and much read in the circles of power."
Irina and Evgenia started forward in their seats and exchanged quick glances.
President Putin did not appear to notice.
"I am aware of Heelers blog," he intoned ominously, his knuckles reddening. "And though he is indeed widely read, he is not widely respected. For the simple reason that he's as mad as a Xomyak. Agent Ninety Nine if you were seeking to extend our influence, you might have chosen someone who actually had some influence. The whole key to manipulating public opinion is to seduce someone who is not a complete nut job and known to the world as such."
"But he predicted our invasion of Georgia six months ahead of time," blurted out Alyona.
"And our attempted murder of the former President of Ukraine," put in Irina.
"And our alliance of convenience with the Islamic Republic of Iran," smiled Evgenia distantly.
"Silence," barked President Putin. "Does Mother Russia pay you all to read The Heelers Diaries? Agent Ninety Nine your interaction with James Healy has been an utter waste of time. I have a good mind to send you to Siberia."
Irina put up her hand, somewhat sheepishly.
"Er Mr President," she murmured, "I didn't just read his blog. I, er, I may have put in a few years influencing and, er, manipulating Heelers as well."
Evgenia smiled enigmatically.
"Um, me too," she put in.
President Putin's shoulders sagged.
"All of you?" he muttered.
"Yes," they chorused.
Alyona added in a whisper: "And it was worth it."
The President waved them from the room.
"Leave me," he ordered.
The Three Honeys filed out.
Alone once more President Putin stared blankly into space.
"This is too much," he mused bitterly. "The top agents of the Russian Federation have just thrown away the last five years ensuring James Healy has a whale of a time at weekends. At least our spies in America went through the motions of actually spying. And now Heelers will probably write about The Three Honeys on his blog and we won't be able to deploy them anywhere else. Why it's, it's, it's..."
He searched for the mot juste.

"Unholy!" he thundered to the empty room.

Outside his office the three girls compared notes.
"Did either of you seduce Heelers?" wondered Evgenia.
"Seduce him?" queried Irina. "It's not possible to seduce him. What with his repressed Irish attitudes to sexuality and his infantile Catholicised imperialistic neo conservative respect for women. You couldn't seduce him unless you pulled a gun on him. And even then I'm not so sure."
"He's quite the gentleman isn't he?" sighed Alyona.
"Oh I don't know," murmured Evgenia dreamily.




Thursday, July 08, 2010

auld acquaintance

can two as we ever be apart
who stood victory and defeat in the line
does a childhood companionship ever lose the heart
in the narrow dust strewn alleyways of time
for when the world in ardour sings your praise
and men in suits chant in the streets your name
i'll sit at home and scorn the public craze
and guess you must account it quite a game
and when you hear of my great worldly failing
will you not as few others can
think he may perhaps have willed and worked it so
i knew him once and he was such a man
in the morning of the world i called him friend

Wednesday, July 07, 2010


(our weekly chess puzzle)

Juan Antonio Samaranch versus Felippe Gonzalez
Spain 2010
Material is level and a long period of trench warfare looks inevitable. But White found an interesting way to shorten the game. Can you spot it?
Solution: Samaranch resigned and went off to watch the soccer world cup where Spain were playing Germany in the semi finals.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

an irish solution to an irish problem

A statement by Prime Minister Brian Cowan on bold new measures to rectify Ireland's economic problems.
Mr Cowan: "Ireland's national debt is 250 thousand million dollars. We propose to introduce a new currency which will be called the Zogabong. One zogabong will be equal to 250 thousand million dollars. Having introduced this new currency, we will print two zogabongs. The first zogabong will be used to pay off the national debt. The second zogabong will be used to par-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-tay."

Monday, July 05, 2010

hannah the kid

The neighbour's child breezed in this morning.
Bright as a berry and cute as a button.
"I'm six today," she announced.
My venerable Mammy rose in acclaim.
"Oh we'll have to give you something to celebrate," she said reaching for her purse. "What would you like?"
"Fifty would be nice," said the kid.
The Mammy was momentarily nonplussed.
"Well how about twenty?" she managed finally.
"Twenty is fine," said the kid.
Presently she breezed out, waving a twenty Euro note.
I watched her go.
"Could she ever have meant 50p?" I murmured.
The Mammy eyed me with something approaching derision.
"You're living in the dark ages," she asserted. "The youngsters of today don't deal in pennies."

Sunday, July 04, 2010

let us speak of mental telemetry

Evening at the Chateau.
I am informing the Mammy of the latest plot twists in the soap opera which is our town.
A neighbour called Drusilla Baines is the subject of my report.
"She was driving her husband to the hospital," I recount. "Her husband had fallen and dislocated his elbow. Drusilla was a bit wound up about it. In fact she got so excited that she crashed the car into the gate of the hospital."
The Mammy sighed.
"I thought Drusilla was a very calm person," she said.
I shook my head.
"Lil old pal," sez me, "she's like my blue budgie. A bit of a neuro."
"How do you know?" sez the Mammy.
"Because whenever I put my hand near her she freaks out running around the bottom of the cage squawking like it's the end of the world," sez me.
"I didn't mean the budgie," sez Lil.
"Neither did I," sez me.