the last knight of europe

It was Spring.
Spring in Dublin.
And Heeler the Peeler was accompanying a group of religious maniacs on a prayer vigil outside the selfstyled Wellwoman abortion referral centre.
They call emselves Wellwoman.
They don't call emselves abortion referral centre.
But that is what they are.
And well they are not.
So there we are, seven of us, standing on the pavement praying the Rosary aloud in a city that has forgotten itself and acts as though it never knew God.
An elderly man on a bike turns his head towards us as he cycles past.
His face is flushed.
"You fuhen Catholic cunhs," he roars in fluent Dublinese. "Deh people in dat clinic are helpin women. Yiz Catlic basthurds."
The front of his bike wobbles dangerously.
The road is busy.
A bus is approaching behind him.
We motion to him concernedly and he regains control.
He disappears around the corner with a final roar of "yiz fuhn cunhs."
I am quite charmed although a bit disappointed that the bus didn't at least slightly maim him.
Clearly I am the least Christian of this merry group.
But charmed I am.
I've never actually suffered anything on behalf of the Lord so it is quite a refreshing experience to be called a Catlic basthurd by a native red faced wobbling galoot in broad daylight.
The prayers continue.
Presently the manageress of the Wellwoman abortion referral centre emerges to mingle.
She has a face on her like a boiled shite.
She looks like the bitchiest bitch in the history of bitchdom.
"Stop leaning against the wall," she barks. "I would have thought professional protestors like you would know you're not allowed to touch our premises."
She returns to her kennel, the door of the premises tinkling abortionistically behind her.
An elderly lady protestor elbows me in the ribs.
"She thinks we're being paid," says the lady. "I'm a granny, there's no one paying me."
The sun is in his zenith.
In Ireland that means the temperature is only a few degrees below zero.
A chill wind whips up from the quays.
It's all very bracing.
There's been talk among the group that maybe we should reduce our numbers so as to avoid frightening women as they enter the premises seeking to kill their babies.
Before we disperse I quietly lobby group leader Maisie Baines on the matter, investing my two cents in favour of ever increasing numbers.
"You know," I murmur, "that one day there will be a hundred thousand people praying here if the spirit calls us. I wouldn't try to turn anyone away. And another thing. We're not just here to save the babies. We're not just here to help the women. We're here too because God is working in our own lives and perhaps healing us of our own sickness. God is finally calling our bluff as armchair Christians and asking us to get up and do something. Our numbers give the lie to the con job that the Irish Times and Independent Newspapers want to perpetrate on the citizenry in claiming we have no support. And one other thing. If more and more people are coming here, at some stage the Irish Times and Independent Newspapers are going to send along their own spies to infiltrate us. And they'll all be full of nice, civilised, well meaning advice about limiting our numbers so as not to cause offence to the helpless little waifs who come here to kill their children."