heelers dazzles another love struck waif

Afternoon in the Starbucks cafe above the Fashion Store on Grafton Street Dublin.
I am ensonced at a window table reading Miracles Do Happen by Briege McKenna.
A waitress passes my table.
It is the elfin prettyish American one.
"That's a very positive book you're reading," she smiles brightly.
"Have you read it?" quoth me.
"No," says she, "but the title is very positive. Miracles Do Happen. I like it."
"Oh right."
"And the author has the same name as my boyfriend," she adds like an afterthought.
"Your boyfriend's name is Briege?" wondereth me wittily.
"It's McKenna," explains the waitress.
A thought strikes me.
"Congratulations," I call to her warmly. "You now hold the official record for Quickest Ever Mention Of A Boyfriend To Head Off Misunderstandings In An Otherwise Innocuous Conversation."
She scurries away.
I ask you gentle travellers of the Internet.
Do these beyotches think I'm attracted to elves now?

the last knight of europe

"Well James," said Jennifer, "at least you're willing to discuss the sex abuse issue and listen to other points of view. Daddy won't talk about it at all. He just switches off the moment I say anything against the church."
"Jen," I answered softly, "if a Nazi or a Commie, or whatever collection of half wits used to murder Christians centuries ago, a French Revolutionary maybe, or the Brits when they'd briefly lost the plot round the time of Henry The Eighth, or a Jihadi, or any other two bit atheistic loser from the past two thousand years of wars against the faith, if any one of those I say, burst in the door right now and cried out: 'Deny Christ and his church or we slit your throats,' the only one here I'd put money on to defy one of those or all of them, would be your father. In previous ages those who persecuted the church, slaughtered priests in the streets. Nowadays the persecutors of the Church don't commit direct murders so much. They just try to humiliate priests out of existence using contrived arbitrary retrospectively applied connotations of wrong doing devised by self styled atheistic humanists in the Media and the Judiciary to ruin the reputations of priests, nuns and Bishops in their old age. This is a far more cowardly and dishonorable persecution than anything the Nazis or the Commies every came up with. And yes ordinary people aren't always up to the word games or legalistic contrivancies of anti Catholic bigots such as Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times and Judge Yvonne Murphy. But still ordinary people who may not be so talented at the debating word games you and I excel in Jen, still they have an instinct for truth that makes it very difficult for the likes of Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times and Judge Yvonne Murphy to successful stampede them from the faith. By maliciously and malignly misleading the citizenry abou the nature and extent of child abuse, Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times, and Judge Yvonne Murphy do think they will succeed in destroying the Church where the Nazis, the Commies, the Jihadis and all the rest failed. I tell you this. Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times, RTE and Judge Yvonne Murphy have concealed far more sex abuse than any of the Bishops they seek so callously to impugn, malign and destroy. Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times and Judge Yvonne Murphy, have themselves concealed the broad mass of sex abuse engulfing every sector of Irish society simply by failing to point it out. Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times and Judge Yvonne Murphy have deliberately concealed the 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases which occur in family homes, sports clubs and laicised health facilities and have instead mendaciously misled the Irish people into the false belief that the majority of cases arise in the Church. So 999 victims out of  every thousand are ignored because those victims are of no use to Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times and Judge Yvonne Murphy in their kulturkampf against the Catholic Church. Let me be clear. Independent Newspapers, RTE, the Irish Times, and Judge Yvonne Murphy are attempting to shut the Catholic Church down through the courts. They will repent in hell fire."

from the heelers emails

Dear James,

The man who hears the story of them all.
poetic, tragic, comic and brawl.
I bring you another recall,
in a rhyme as lost and floating
as the soul truly is when searching.
Although we disillusioned, believe its fixed.

On a voyage to the inners,
a long lost lover returned into the light and life of the Chamki.
A story found its turn again, a bend and a loop.
A heart once kindled, is twice kindled.
Hushed secrets revealed how one twists sweet grapes into sour.
A heart now hangs on hope as vast and generic as the universe's flower.
But the heart is also a star moving ahead yet settled,
just like the earth is suspended among stars plenty-petaled,
but every earth has it own coat of clouds.

Such is the day of a life lived without fear.
Fear, a funny thing, it tried to mingle,
poke into place and crush hope and warmth
only to clutch and strangle.
But that which is a shadow,
needs something to fall on,
else it falls forever, endlessly into oblivion.

This silken coat of self love and respect of the temple one is,
is the truth of all love. Love begins here and emanates to the other,
absorbing further love and learning.

One has learned, hard and beaten,
to take the good and walk on.
There are no decisions.
None that we made,
None that are to be made.
Life is and will always be the constant combustion of one's fire.
Until the flame stands tall,
let the shadow of fear be small.

(And in this ordinariness of life
let the smile of a rose
teach you to spread your fragrance
without the fear of wilting.)

In all poetic freedom,
let down the brackets,
take the impulses from the passionate thing called life
you lead,
to make tiny peaces of heart, or art.
An intensity, that comes to you,
with it's own strength to handle.
Now, take down your pragmatic glasses,
let go of your brackets
and allow the sound of the storm that is me permeate you.

Chamko Rani.

obitchuaries

The News Of The World did more than any other single media publication to contribute to the debauching, infantilisation, and spiritual and moral desuetude of the ancient, great, beautful, holy and true British people.

goutman cometh

Browsing through the googleberries in my feminist cousin Pauline's health food shop.
The store is the abode of pseuds and trendies.
But today I'm here too.
A gentle faced somewhat hoity toity lady reeking of cash enters stage left.
"Do you accept Laser?" she enquires of Pauline who is holding court behind the counter.
Just goes to show.
I thought I smelled cash but actually she hasn't got any.
Laser is a bankcard provided by the collapsed vampire bank AIB.
My cousin apologises.
"I'm sorry we don't accept bankcards," she says. "But there is a bank machine just around the corner."
Before the lady can leave, I pipe up.
"Just once I'd like someone to ask you to accept Laser," quoth me to Pauline, "and for you to say no, and for the person to pull out a laser gun and zap you."
The feminist cousin and the hoity toity lady exude quizzicality.
There are no signs of any larfs.
I try again.
"I mean if you were Darth Vader," quoth me to the gentle faced lady, "and you came in all breath mask and black cloak and dark side of the force. And you said: Do you accept Laser? I know full well Pauline would give you any healthy vegetables you want and then some."
The lady exits still unsmiling.
Pauline favours me with a stare.
It's not her friendly one.
It is the stare developed by the feminist movement in their top secret research laboratory at Los Alamos.
I think it's illegal under the Geneva Convention and United Nations protocols.
Saddam Hussein had a few of them in storage but the Russians helped him hide them in Syria before the cavalry arrived.
Anyhoo.
Preferring life to being stared to death, I decide to leave.
Discretion is the better part of valour.
My regal preraphaelite features are a mask as I exit.
But once outside I am smiling like the cat that got the fembos.
Peace now.
Justice always.
Goutman forever.