the monica leech laugh in

(THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF HOUSE BUILDING)
***

Two frightfully British old buffers are sitting in their club at Saint James.
"Did you hear about Carruthers?" says one stroking his silver tache.
"Yes, yes, all that stuff about moving in with a gorilla," answers his friend, delicately arranging his beard.
"But there's more," avers Silver Tache.
"Oh."
"Carruthers and his gorilla friend were living in a tree on the banks of the Zambezi. And do you know what happened? Out of the blue one fine day this Gerry O'Donoghue chappie, Irish dontchya know, came sailing up the river and  quick as a flash built him a house. Jolly good show, what!"
"Well done Carruthers!" agrees the bearded one.

***

(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

the monica leech laugh in

(THE HETEROSEXUAL TWILIGHT IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE)
***
The Foreign Secretary Sir Reginald Beet, KSM, DSO, GCMG, was dining at a discreet bistro in Saint James.
His dinner partner, a beautiful Russian blonde in a dangerously short dress which neatly displayed her splendid silken clad legs all the way up to her neck, (but I digress) seemed to be enjoying his company in an inordinately sensuous way.
Sir Reginald felt things were going swimmingly.
"Of course one has to be polite when dealing with the Prime Minister," he mused apropos of nothing at all. "Can't slap the chappie in the face and tell him to buck up. But one has to let him know who's boss all the same. Hur hur."
As he mused thusly, Sir Reginald placed a surreptitious hand on a splendid silken clad thigh.
Yes, things were going swimmingly.
This blonde Russki bimbo was simpering over his every inanity.
There's nothing like the phrase "Oh Sir Reginald" intoned in a Russian accent to give a man's self image a boost.
Hur, hur.
The hand inched  higher.
And higher.
And higher.
And now ever higher.
The sexy blonde leaned forward.
"Sir Reginald," she said in a masculine voice. "You can keep going. But just remember when you reach the top, it's Carruthers from M15."

***
(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

archie has a ball

Evening at the Archbishop's Palace in Dublin.
Archbishop Diarmuid Martin barks from his office.
"Miss Tessbakker, take a letter."
His secretary enters notepad in hand.
Archie begins dictating.
"For the attention of all journalists working in Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE. From now on I am to be represented as defending priests of the Catholic Church against those wishing to destroy them. The previous strategy of representing me as a firm ally of the media and the only Catholic in Ireland not involved in child abuse, is to be postponed temporarily. It is imperative that we establish the notion in the public mind and in the minds of priests and nuns, that I am on their side in this battle against the atheistic media, ie you. To this end you must focus continuously on my press releases that are critical of media attempts to ruin Father Kevin Reynolds. Continue to ignore the fact that I am forcing priests to take pay cuts in order to finance my network of spies around the Dublin diocese posing as parish workers. Nyah ha ha G-Force. No don't write that Miss Tessbakker. That's just for you and me. Nyah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, heee, haaaaaaaaaa, haaaaaaa, haaaaaaaa."

enter the dragon

Coffee with Miss Korea at the Cafe Insomnia near Stephens Green.
She is the best looking girl in Korea.
"Is it difficult adjusting to life in Ireland?" I enquire sympathetically.
"It is," she nods.
"What is the most difficult thing about life here?" I ask, all tenderness and compassion.
"There are no nice clothes in the shops," she answers frankly.

the monica leech laugh in

(HOMOPHOBIA AND THE FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE)
***

Two frightfully British old buffers are sitting in plush armchairs at their club in Saint James.
"Have you heard about Carruthers?" wondered one, stroking his silver tache.
"What's about him?" replied the other delicately arranging his beard.
"He's fallen in love with a gorilla in Africa," explained his friend.
"Great Scott," exclaimed Beardy.
"They've moved in together," said the tache man. "They're living in a tree on the banks of the Zambezi."
There was a moment's ruminative silence.
"Is it a female gorilla," asked Beardy at length.
"Of course it is," affirmed the tache man. "There's nothing queer about Carruthers."

***
(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

destiny

Miss Arabia told me this afternoon over coffees in the Costa Cafe on Dawson Street that she favoured abortion and that she had helped a young Muslim girl procure one.
Immediately I said: "No, no, no, no."
Miss A said: "Are you against abortion?"
I said: "Yes. Of course I am."
Miss A: "Oh."
I said: "I thought Muslims considered life to be sacred."
Miss A: "In Islam abortion is okay up to four months of pregnancy."
I said: "I think I know more about the peaceloving religion of Islam than you do."
She said: "Only the Taliban and those sort of nutters think all abortion is wrong."
I said: "You're telling me only the Taliban agree with me?"
She said: "Yes. And maybe some people in Iran. Only the extremists."
I said: "I think you're wrong. I think Islam forbids abortion."
She said: "No, actually it doesn't."
I said: "If you thought the unborn child was a human being you would agree with me."
She said: "It's not a child. It's a foetus."
I said: "Foetus is just Latin for unborn child. People who support abortion are more comfortable using a Latin term for the children they kill because Latin sounds medical. But the Latin term foetus means unborn child."
She said: "To you maybe. To me, it's a foetus."
I said: "Can we admit that whatever is aborted is a baby who has not yet been born?"
She said: "It's a foetus and abortion is absolutely a woman's right. Listen. The girl I helped had no choice. She had no other way out."
I said: "She did have a choice. She could have given the child to me."
Miss A said: "She had to have an abortion. Her family would have killed her if they'd seen she was pregnant. You don't understand the sheer terror these girls have to live with."
I said: "If my family threatened to kill me unless I killed someone else, I wouldn't kill for them."
She said: "You don't know what you are talking about. You have no idea what it is like for a young girl in that situation. You cannot even imagine the horror she faced."
I said: "In 1973, an eleven year old girl in Dublin called Cynthia Owens was prostituted by her father and mother to a devil worshipping ring in Dalkey. She became pregnant. Her unborn baby was the son of a devil worshipper who had raped her. And still she fought for her baby's life. Still she tried to save her baby when the mother who had prostituted her sacrificed her baby to satan by murdering him with a knitting needle. And Cynthia Owens was eleven. And when she became pregnant a second time by the devil worshippers, she again tried to save her baby, and again her mother murdered the child. No matter what the devil worshippers did to her, they couldn't touch Cynthia Owens' soul. She cherished each of those babies and sought to save them. Each and every time Cynthia Owens wanted to save her babies."
Our conversation ranged on for some time.
Then we talked of other things.
Then we went up to Stephens Green where I had an appointment to feed some ducks.
Then we went to a Cafe Insomnia to discuss UFO's and the shroud of Turin and a book Miss A appears in, courtesy of her friend who is an author.
Then we said goodbye.
I wandered back to the Costa Cafe, purchased a beverage and ensconced myself in the corner by the window.
I was in relaxed enough spirits sitting with a hot chocolate and a James Thurber book enjoying the cacophony of the cafe at evening.
Suddenly tears began to pour from eyes.
The oddest tears.
Not great raking sobs.
Just tears.
Streaming down my face.
I sat quite still.
I asked myself, what's going on?
Instantly I knew that I was crying for the little Muslim child I would never know.
I was fullly aware that the tears were a gift from God to me.
Yes.
I knew they were from God and did not fear them.
The booty girl I'd been ogling at an adjoining table a moment before eyed me curiously.
For long moments the tears for the child I would never know continued.
It would be more politically correct, more trendy, to pretend I cried also for his teenage mother.
I did not cry for her.
But when I stopped crying I knew what must be done.
We must establish a network of safe houses across Europe to help any girl in this situation.
And so it begins.

god does not play dice

Evening at the church in Kilcullen.
The pews are filling up with a steady trickle of citizenry.
The mighty Heelers is ensconced alone posing prayerfully as is his wont in the central seating area, a few pews down from the front where everyone can see me without it being too obvious I want them too..
As many of you know, I am a showbiz personality and it's necessary to project a certain image.
So there I am.
Presently I glance to my left.
I groan inwardly.
Barbara Baines has just sat herself into the seat beside me.
Oh heavens no.
Not Barbara Baines.
Quietly I address myself in formal fashion to the Deity.
"Lord," I hiss internally, "what are you playing at?"
You should know noble readers that one of the few things I regret in life is a temperamental clash with Miss Baines sometime in the dulcet Summer of 1983.
I was a callow youth of 17.
By callow of course, I mean I was a handsome, roguish, devil may care sort of lad, with a buccaneering grin that used to drive women wild.
"Stop grinning at us," they would say, "you're driving us wild."
But I digress.
I had spent that Summer with my grandfather fencing a field whose ownership was disputed by a neighbouring farmer.
The neighbour's tenants had been periodically breaking down the fences. Breaking them down as quick as Grandad and I put them up.
Now on this particular evening in ye aforementioned Summer of 1985, Barbara Baines, university educated daughter of the neighbouring landowner, had arrived in the field to challenge myself and Grandad.
I had met her with one of my rare soliloquies, a dramatic peroration, against the iniquities of those who tear down other people's fences.
My voice as per usual had all the strange high dignity of Mini Mouse.
It was a tantrum of rare beauty, gentle readers.
My frustration about the wasted Summer, the ruined fences, my unhappy school life, boiled over and I vituperatively and vindictively insulted the newly arrived daughter who was studying law at university and well equipped to give as good as she got.
But she didn't deserve me in this form.
I let the side down.
Which side?
Oh the Judaeo Christian tradition, my family, Ireland, Manchester United, Save The Whales, all of them really.
And I spent the next two decades feeling guilty about it.
So we're up to the present.
Here we are in Kilcullen Church.
Enter Barbara Baines.
And as you can see, I'm complaining to God for putting her sitting beside me.
"I know what this is about Lord," I prayed. "You're putting me beside someone I've had a 20 year feud with to make a point. The whole idea is I've got to shake her hand at the sign of peace. Well listen God. I'm just here to pray. You don't have to prove to me you exist by staging any cutesy life lessons. I'm not going along with that."
By the way, in Catholic churches at a particular juncture in our ceremony the priest asks us to exchange a sign of peace with those sitting near us.
We normally shake hands with people to our right, and left, and behind, and in front of us.
The process is exhausting.
It was this that was really bothering me.
How could I look Barbara Baines in the eye and shake her hand, with both of us no doubt remembering clearly my unresolved verbiage of so many years ago?
The whole idea was unthinkable.
I was going to spend the entire joyful prayer celebration of fellowship we Catholics call the Mass, worrying and mullagroatin to myself about the approaching moment when I'd have to shake hands with Barbara Baines or let any number of sides down further by choosing not to as the case may be.
I lowered my head into my hands.
In my heart of hearts I knew Barbara Baines had sat in the seat beside me by chance. I knew it wasn't really God giving me a hint that I was to make an effort at reconciliation.
I raised my head again. Something made me glance around.
I took a sharp intake of breath.
In the pew directly behind me, the entire O'Brolchain family were seated. Teenage daughters, mother and father.
The bloody bifurcating O'Brolchains.
A family of loony Irish language activists.
Committed left wingers.
Loony, lefty. Irish language spouting, atheistic, euthanasist. contraceptivist, abortionists against the Bomb.
I mean I don't want to  go casting no aspoyshuns.
And yes.
Named parties in another of my 20 year feuds.
At least the parents are.
David and Judy O'Brolchain.
When they'd started fighting with me, they'd been a good looking couple of 1960's style liberals.
They're a bit more weathered now.
The years have not been kind.
Alas poor O'Brolchain.
I knew him Horatio.
Where art thy gypsy good look, wavy hair, and hipster pants now old Sport?
Well you know what I mean.
Our original conflict arose when the O'Brolchains, Pere et Maman, took particular umbrage at an article I wrote for The Bridge magazine in the dulcet Summer of 1988.
The article had urged people not to support the revolution in the Phillipines.
Yup folks.
I was doing my best to save the Marcos regime.
Hoo boy.
I could really pick em.
David O'Brolchain wrote a letter at the time criticising my article and the editor had printed my rebuttal dismantling his argument juxtaposed with the O'Brolchain letter in the same issue.
But the real O'Brolchain action of 1988 was to come.
Darkly statuesque Judy O'Brolchain approached me that Summer while I was playing tennis with my French cousin Marie Celeste in the sports grounds near Logstown.
It was doubles game actually. Marie Celeste's partner was my kid brother who later become famous in adult life as one Doctor Barn. My partner was the kid over actor who would later grow up to be John Coleman, left ham of the devil, star of my flop play Vampires Of Dublin. (Colers starred in it, not the devil.)
Judy O'Brolchain had walked up to me on the edgeof the tennis court while I was catching my breath after losing yet another set to Celeste and Barn.
"How ya Mrs O'Brolchain," I said all broth of a boy.
She did not trouble herself over my greeting.
Instead she delivered some mildly well observed objections to my points of view about the Philippines as expressed in my Bridge article.
Her exact words were: "I know what you are. You're a lonely sad man who never socialises. I bet you never go to Discos. I bet you never go anywhere. I bet you've no friends. You know nothing about the Phillipines."
This was her opening gambit in response to "How ya Mrs O'Brolchain."
It was like a gypsy curse.
Ring of truth and all that.
My considered rebuttal was not long coming.
It began: "You... monumental... fucking... fish wife."
The rest of my reply then became a monumental discourse on Fish Wife's Inhumanity To Man.
It went on for a long time.
I was screaming at the end.
I was pretty much screaming at the beginning too for that matter.
Doors in genteel suburban Logstown, which adjoins the tennis courts, had begun to open.
People had looked out warily and then decided this was too good to miss.
They stood in their doorways watching.
As though in a dream I was aware of the audience though in no way impeded by it in my excoriation of Fish Wife.
At some stage I paused.
Judy O'Brolchain unleashed an absolutely adorable withering glance and stalked away.
Whatever it is she had, she still had it in those days.
I turned to cousin Celeste.
A part of me was beginning to suspect that my epic peroration might not have been as magnificent in reality as it had seemed in my head.
I needed affirmation.
Maybe I hadn't quite managed to evoke the splendour of the Gettysburg Address.
But I might have gotten close, mightn't I.
Already I had a nagging feeling that Mini Mouse had once more taken charge as she often does in my tantrums.
Celeste would be a good judge.
Celeste would know.
"Did that sound bad?" I asked Celeste.
She favoured me with a stunned expression.
Then she allowed herself a seditious little laugh.
Then she lowered her head into her hands.
Then she said: "Oh Gems, zat sounded Terry Bull."
Well folks it was 20 years ago.
And here we are.
I'm mortified still.
Sitting in church.
A wiser weaker man.
Barbara Baines to the right of me.
David and Judy O'Brolchain to the rear of me.
I cupped my handsome preraphaelite head in my swordsman's hands.
Once more I presented myself to God.
"Good one God," I said frankly a la Cartman from the opprobrious television cartoon Southpark. "Well you got me again God. You really got me there. Oh come on. Do I really have to shake hands with Barbara Baines and the O'Brolchains? On the same day? I'm beginning to believe you really are assembling in this church a congregation of people I can't abide. Abide not with me, ye O'Brolchains. But this is most impressive Father. Impressive in an insufferable way. One mortal enemy could be coincidence. Two is beginning to look like you're up there enjoying yourself. Ah, Lord what are you playing at? I just want to pray. I'm in church. I want to pray. I don't want to learn anything new about myself. I don't want to encounter my own lack of forgiveness towards others. I don't want to explore any deep seated unresolved issues at the core of my psyche or my soul. I just want to say a few prayers. Is it too much to ask Lord? And have you get any more surprises for me? I mean I don't see what else you can pull. There are no other bitter internecine 20 year feuds in my life. What have you got left God?"
I stayed in the stillness for a moment.
I looked up.
This bit is true.
I expect you to know bold readers when I'm joshing.
A pretty woman of middle years was stepping into the pew in front of me.
She was expensively dressed, coiffed and perfumed.
I recognised her as Cristina Goulandros the Greek shipping heiress.
Cristina Goulandros the Greek shipping heiress is nothing to me.
I do not care if she lives or dies.
I feel no urge to apologise to her about anything.
I have no feud with her.
But she is married to Sir Anthony O'Reilly, owner of Independent Newspapers, proprietor of The Sunday World, The Sunday Independent, The Irish Independent, The Evening Herald, and sundry other dreadful entities of their ilk.
Ireland's richest man.
At this moment Tony O'Reilly stepped into the pew directly in front of me and sat beside his wife.
Tony O'Reilly.
Bloody ephin Tony O'Reilly.
For 20 years I've despised him above all other human beings for what I perceived to be the deculturing effect of his newspapers on the Irish people and nation. I have detested him for what I believed to be the blatent anti Catholic agenda his titles shamelessly pursued. I have abhorred him for what I believed was the part his newspapers played in the theft of God from a culture, no, from a generation, crying out for divine mercy.
Have I a feud with Bloody Reilly?
I'm telling you folks.
From hells' black heart I stab at him.
On a lighter note, the actual commencement of my feud with the great O'Reilly can also be precisely dated, to the dulcet Summer of 1981.
Before all the others.
The other feuds, I mean.
Not dulcet Summers.
I was about 15 years old.
I remember, his newspapers focussed a lot on life style. Advocating hedonism I called it. At the time they were reporting attempts to legalise abortion in Ireland.
I was not satisfied with their reportage and presentation of the Catholic position on this matter.
I... never... forgave... them... for... it...
Or him.
Back to the present.
Here he is sitting in front of me.
Baines to the left of me.
O'Brolchains behind.
Tony Bloody O'Reilly in front.
I was absolutely staggered.
What to do?
Three of my life long enemies, self chosen by me I admit, sitting right beside me in church.
It was the most extraordinary demonstration I've ever had of the subtle yet absolute reality of God.
The subtle absolute glorious unfathomable truth of the Creator of the Universe.
I knew this was a wonderful moment.
Yet I was truly mortified.
What, I repeat, what was I going to do at the sign of peace?
I thought of the mystery unfolding and prayed without words.
Time passed.
At the sign of peace I shook hands with Barbara Baines.
I held her hands gently in mine.
I looked into her eyes and she looked back.
I let her see all the way to the soul.
Made quite the Hollywood production of it.
By the time I broke our handclasp, the sign of peace was over and there was no opportunity or requirement to shake hands with anyone else.

sesame heelers

The American children's show Sesame Street is getting more controversial every episode.
One of Sesame Street's most famous features is a weekly Guessing Game where the television screen is divided into four compartments and you see four people going about their business, one in each compartment, and you've to guess the odd one out.
While you're trying to guess the answer, a Muppet sings:
"Three of these guys have something in common.
Three of these guys are kinda the same.
One of these guys is doing his own thing.
Can you tall me his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."
It's very catchy.
Last week's edition of Sesame Street had the usual Guessing Game segment but with topical Irish characters instead of the usual generic American mailmen, police, bakers, etc etc.
In the top left compartment you had Monica Leech.
Monica Leech famously sued Independent Newspapers for libel after Independent Newspapers attempted to report the circumstances in which Monica Leech had been awarded a two hundred thousand dollar contract to design a pissant little website which no one every visited, by a corrupt government Minister in Ireland's now defunct kleptocratic Fianna Fail party.
A trial presided over by Judge Eamon DeValera, (yes a direct descendent of the founder of Ireland's now defunct kleptocratic Fianna Fail party also called Eamon De Valera) awarded her two million dollars when she claimed that she felt the Independent Newspapers coverage had implied she might have been having an affair with the corrupt kleptocratic goverment Minister concerned.
On Sesame Street, Monica Leech can be seen beavering away in her office.
Right across from her, in the top right hand compartment on the television screen, we see Donal Kinsella, known in Ireland as the naked ape.
Several years ago Donal Kinsella, a senior employee of a particular company, was caught trying to gain access to one of the same company's lady employee's hotel bedrooms at an overseas company conference in Africa.
Donal Kinsella was found outside this particular lady's bedroom on three occasions in one night demanding entry.
She was his subordinate in the company.
Stinks, doesn't it!
He knew where this particular lady's bedroom was because he had originally been booked into it himself but had earlier suggested she use it instead, purportedly so that she could have some privacy.
On each of the three occasions when Donal Kinsella arrived at the lady's bedroom door demanding entry that fateful night, he was stark buck naked.
Donal Kinsella claimed that he was drunk on the night in question, suffered from somnambulism (ie sleep walking), and hadn't brought any pyjamas to the company conference in Africa.
Shortly afterwards, the company that employed him released a damage limitation press release about his attempts to gain access to the hotel bedroom of a junior company employee on three occasions in one night while stark buck naked.
The naked ape promptly sued the company that employed him for libel claiming to have been deeply hurt by the damage limitation press release.
In a trial presided over by (wait for it) Judge Eamon De Valera, direct descendant of the founder of Fianna Fail also called Eamon De Valera, Donal Kinsella the naked ape was awarded nothing less than fifteen million dollars.
In the bottom left of the television screen, directly below Monica Leech, we see Rosanna Davidson, the haggish anti Catholic daughter of twee pop singer Chris De Burgh. (I quite like Chris De Burgh - Ed note.)
Some months ago Rosanna Davidson was supposedly called racist by a manager at Ryanair on a website no one reads.
She sued for libel and was awarded sixty grand in a court case presided over by (yawn) Judge Eamon De Valera, the direct descendent of the founder of Fianna Fail also called Eamon De Valera.
On Sesame Street she can be seen miming to a medley of her father's hit, while counting her sixty grand.
On the bottom right of your screen, you see Father Kevin Reynolds.
The Irish national broadcaster RTE recently attempted to ruin him and his family and his Church by falsely maliciously and malignly claiming live on television, that Father Reynolds had raped a child in Africa and then fathered a child with that child.
RTE repeated its malicious attempt to destroy Father Reynolds, his family and his Church, on subsequent radio programmes.
Father Reynolds received an undisclosed payment from RTE in compensation.
His case never came to trial.
He probably got a couple of hundred grand.
I will be paying the bill for RTE's vicious attempt to vitiate Father Kevin Reynolds reputation.
RTE is funded from compulsory taxation on any member of the general public who dares to own a television set.
I kid you not.
There are no consequences for these people.
They're caught trying to destroy a human being, and we all pick up the tab.
The wheel is rigged and it's the only game in town.
The journalist responsible for libelling Father Kevin Reynolds, Miss Aoife Kavanagh will not pay a cent.
Anyhoo.
Sesame Street neatly juxtaposes these four "victims" of libel on screen while Kermit the frog sings most engagingly in front of them.
Kermit sings:
"Three of these guys claim they were libelled.
Three of these guys have really no shame.
One of these guys was genuinely slandered.
Can you guess his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner.
Three of these guys are fraudulent b------ds.
Three of these guys are truly a pain.
One of these guys is a victim of RTE bigots.
Can you tell me his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."

of mice and atheists

"You're being a bit judgemental about atheists," ventured Montgomery. "Do you mean to say you've never doubted the existence of God yourself?"
I shook my regal head.
"I'm not saying that at all," I replied warmly. "I've doubted the existence of God six times already this morning. Seven if you count right this moment. But you're missing something. In my more trenchant criticisms of atheists, I have judged no one. I have restricted myself to commenting on those who are surreptitiously pursuing a ruthless and malign atheistic political project. That is to say, I have only commented on those atheists who have unbeknownst to the Irish people pursued a crassly and vilely manipulative atheistic agenda and sought to impose it on the nation. I got tired of people saying to me: "Oh Michael D Higgins couldn't be an atheist," or "Ruairi Quinn surely he isn't an atheist," or "Mary Robinson isn't an atheist, how could she be, she's got such nice hair and comes from a nice rich family," or "Eamon Gilmore is such a nice man, he can't be a former bankrobber or an atheist" or "Alan Dukes," or "Garret Fitzgerald," or so on ad infinitum. The only reason people didn't know the political affiliations of these scoundrels was because our atheistic media hadn't troubled to make it an issue. Know this. I haven't criticised people who doubt the existence of God. I have criticised solely those communists and Nazis who have reinvented themselves as atheistic humanists, and who are projecting atheism into our institutions of State as well as into the public policy sphere. They are the ones seeking to criminalise the Catholic Church so that they can remove the liberating spirit of Catholicism and all the more readily enslave Ireland to their own vapid, vacuous, ideology of despair. And they have done all this mark you while concealing their ulterior motives from the people who elect them. The atheists I've criticised are specifically those lurking in the shadowy recesses of the upper echolons of Irish society. Those unelected manipulating power brokers hiding in the Civil Service, the Judiciary and elsewhere. The same scoundrels being cheerled by the media. The same ones who are attempting to enslave our country to their own visionless religion of death. With abortions for all, you might say. And you know what. I've noticed that an awful lot of what I'm saying about these scoundrels has been reproduced in the national media. Even though the media is itself anti Catholic and functionally atheistic and implicitly involved in the atheistic conspiracy against the Church, even so, it can't allow a lowly genius like me to be continually pointing out to the citizenry that there are atheistic Marxian Maoist elephants in our drawing rooms. And in our parliament and Judiciary and Civil Service and Police. Last week even the running dog atheist Daily Mail was calling Ruairi Quinn an atheist. As were the deeply spiritual whoremasters at Independent Newspapers. Hilarious no. I say it here. It comes out there. You gorra laugh."

apologia pro atheismus mea

me and the ghost of charlie darwin
staring from the windows of mount carmel
on a day of rain and high wind
at the gulls riding high in ecstacy

now says i to charlie darwin
look at that creature rejoice
riding high on rain and wild wind
and tell me there's no majesty in existence

says he to me
there isn't