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, February 11, 2012

a challenge to poets

what are we who immortalise
steel and concrete vanities
of three words given
we are one word
poets artists mathematicians

we have lost the courage
to feel without thinking
to think without gauging cost
come my lords
rally round the cross
with keats kavanagh and old cervantes
mystical romantic or heartbroken
we'll shake the pillars of this concrete heaven

donal kinsellas first law of somnambulism

Kinsella's law states:
If you vote Fianna Fail and know what hotel room the bitch is staying in, you can terrorise her by hammering on her door stark buck naked three times in one night demanding sexual congress and Judge Eamon DeValera, a direct descendent of the founder of Fianna Fail, will still award you fifteen million dollars when you claim in court that your employers committed libel by releasing a damage limitation press release about your attempts to force a junior member of staff to have sex with you.

Corollary: Ireland's corrupt atheistic Fine Gael and Labour Party government is gambling. Ireland's corrupt atheistic Fine Gael and Labour Party government is gambling in closing the Vatican embassy, in facilitating Marxian atheist Ruairi Quinn's attempts as Minister for Education to seize Catholic schools, in facilitating Marxian atheist Ruairi Quinn's attempts as Minister for Education to terrorise ageing priests and nuns into paying ever increasing sums of money for the ever escalating ever more frivolous legal costs in trumped sex abuse cases which have nothing to do with them, in allowing bigoted anti Catholic Justice Minister Alan Shatter to legislate for government intrusion into Catholic confession boxes, in purchasing Ruairi Quinn's worthless brother Lochlainn's worthless Allied Irish Bank with fifteen billion dollars of public money, in paying corrupt civil servant Fine Gael and Labour Party apparatchiks twice the salary of the British Prime Minister, and in distributing abortion pills to children from Irish pharmacies. Yes. In all this and more Ireland's corrupt atheistic Fine Gael and Labour Party government is gambling. The corrupt atheistic Fine Gael and Labour Parties are gambling that the Irish people will never again vote for Fianna Fail with whom in any case Fine Gael and Labour are effectively coalescent in corruption. The atheistic Fine Gael and Labour Parties are also gambling that decent Irish people will never ever set aside our differences long enough to set up a new political party and break the monopoly on power in Ireland corruptly held by atheistic Fine Gael Labour Party Marxists, abortionists, kleptocrats, Free Masons, and Satanists, along with their friendly neighbourhood Fianna Fail Leeches (ie Monica Leech), naked apes (ie Donal Kinsella), and invidious politically appointed rackateer sponsored murderer releasing Judge Liberals (ie the De Valeras, Leonie Reynolds, Patricia Ryan et al. Particularly Al. I hate him.)

special guest blogger oswald spengler

Writing of Western civilisation: "You are dying. I see in you all the characteristic stigma of decay. I can prove that your great wealth and your great poverty, your capitalism and your socialism, your wars and your revolutions, your atheism and your pessimism and your cynicism,, your immorality, your broken down marriages, your birth control, that is bleeding you from the bottom and kuilling you off at the top in the brains - I can prove you that these were characteristic marks of the dying ages of ancient states - Alexandria and Greece and neurotic Rome."

(From Decline Of The West by Oswald Spengler. Written in 1926.)

heelers first law of somnambulism

Nothing is less conducive to the propagation of the sleep state than the itch provoked thought at midnight: I hope I don't have bawl mites.

Friday, February 10, 2012

heelers dazzles another love struck waif

Me and Miss Korea are rapping intellectually in a cafe.
I have been fascinated to find similarities in vocabulary between her language and languages that have had no historical connection to Korea.
The Korean for excrement is "dong," which is more or less identical to the English word "dung."
The Korean for mother is "uma," which is very close to the Arabic word "um," also meaning mother.
I begin to wax poetical about my linguistic theories.
"If scattered languages contain the same words for the same things, coincidences of terminology that have arisen before any known historical contact between those speaking the languages, why then might not this be an indicator that at some stage there was a single language spoken on the surface of the planet earth. And if that's true we have found an interesting concurrence between linguistic theory and the Bible. You know the bit where God scrambles the languages of the planet earth as a punishment for false pride. If our theories are correct, we might be coming across linguistic evidence that the Bible story might be specifically true."
Miss Korea is way ahead of me.
"Sometimes I wish God hadn't mixed up all the languages at the Tower of Babel," she sighs. "Then I wouldn't have to work so hard learning English."
The mighty Heelers grins with loony linguistic fervour.
"Yes but every language is limitlessly beautiful," I reply. "Every language is wondrous. Every language rewards study more than any of us could imagine. Can't you feel it? We are punished for pride and we receive all these glorious treasure troves of sound and meaning. Isn't it so typical of God! Even his punishments are gifts."

the daily mail cures cancer... again

Today's Irish edition of the Daily Mail (net indebtedness for the Irish editon alone something around a hundred million dollars) carries a banner headline claiming that scientists have found a cure for Alzheimers disease.
These irresponsible headlines are stock in trade for both the British and Irish editions of the Daily Mail.
(By the way, the British edition has net debts around the billion dollar mark.)
I would counsel the citizenry not to get too excited by the Daily Mail's claims regarding cures for any disease.
They've been printing these sorts of claims throughout the two decades I have been monitoring their transmissions.
I would suggest that the Daily Mail's repeated and perpetual claims regarding cures for sundry diseases are rarely matched by any concrete cures in reality.
The Daily Mail's headlines inevitably boil down to an attempt to promote funding for research into some new drug.
I would further postulate that the Daily Mail receives payments from elements within the pharmaceutical industry and that in return the Daily Mail regularly annouces that scientists are close to finding cures for any and every disease.
These Daily Mail news stories are nothing more than advertisements for drug research programmes.
These people will cure nothing.
And the Daily Mail is sinking beneath the waves before our very eyes.

from my father's papers

A Dream
by Thomas N Healy
Put your hand in mine
And come with me
Together let us stroll
Along life's path in time
With thoughts united
By the love we share
And faith arising from
Each other's soul
And let us taste the vision
Of our eyes
And savour life and living
To the full
Give homage to the maker
Of it all
The Winter Spring and Summer
And the Fall
Reflected in the nature
All around
An idyll of existence in our world
With joy o'erlying sadness
Grief and pain
Until we reach the stile
On heaven's path
Where we may cross together
And renew
The gift of vision
Leading gently on
To blest eternity

(Dated 3.30pm, 11th May, 1999)

arabian nights

Evening in the Insomnia Cafe near Stephens Green.
The half light flickering.
In a moment of tendresse Miss Arabia gives me a book.
It is Educations Sentimentales by Gustave Flaubert.
Suddenly all my paranoia about Arabs and Muslims evaporates.
What an idiot I've been.
Thinking they were out to get the Free World and, more importantly, me.
Imagining Dublin street gangs could be Islamist enforcers carving up the city streets.
Suggesting that Bewleys waiters were putting bombs in my car.
Lordy, I'm a neuro.
After much fond and gracious thanks, I bring Miss Arabia's book home and open the covers.
I begin reading, first with enthusiasm, and then with growing alarm.
Realisation dawns.
The conclusion is inescapable.
They're still trying to kill me.
I ask you gentle readers.
What need has Al Qaeda of putting a bomb in my car, if they can just bore me to death using the works of Gustave Bloody Flaubert.
Somebody call Amnesty International.
This thing is a direct infringement of the laws of war as laid out in the Geneva Convention.
My God, it's unholy.

could you work at CNN?

(Take the Heelers Diaries challenge and find out.)

CNN Job Interview Questions.

1. Are you Gloria Venderbilt's son? If yes, congratulations, you're Anderson Cooper and you're hired. Otherwise go on to Question Two.

2. Have you ever engaged in sexual pecadillos with a man called Ted Turner? If yes, you're Meghan Whatsername and sundry other CNN faux hotties, and you're hired. If no, go on to Question Three.

3. Did you, as editor of the British newspaper styling itself The Daily Mirror, ever knowingly publish fake photos of fake British troops falsely depicting them urinating on fake Afghans, while you at the same time were routinely hacking into the phones of private citizens, and using the financial pages of your newspaper to gerrymander the British Stock Exchange? If yes, you're Piers Morgan, and you're hired. Otherwise go on to Question Four.

4. Did you, as editor of a magazine styling itself Newsweek, attempt to win the War On Terror for the Jihadis by knowingly printing a false story about false American military personnel flushing false Qurans down false toilets? If yes, you're Fareed Zakaria and you're hired. If no, go on to Question Five.

5. Did you as programme producer at the Irish national television station styling itself RTE, knowingly rush to broadcast a false story, falsely claiming that a priest whom you named and footage of whom you aired to an audience of hundreds of thousands, had raped a girl in Africa and had fathered a child with that girl, did you disseminate that false story on radio and television even after the priest had offered to take a paternity test, and did you deliberately promote your false story without giving the priest time to refute it, with the express purpose (unsuccessful) of precipitating the priest's suicide and an additional purpose (successful) of inciting public hatred against the Catholic Church? If yes to all these egregious crimes, you're hired. If no, f--k off.

an answer to the grand questions of existence

Coffee with the Clerk of Works.
He is looking kinda rheumy eyed.
"Heelers," he says. "Yesterday you asked my advice. You asked me did you think you should stop mentioning Monica Leech on your blog. I told you in no uncertain terms that you should never mention her again. You asked me whether you could chance one last mention for the road. I told you not to. You asked whether it would make any difference if you called her Monica Bleach instead of using her real name. I told you it wouldn't. You asked my opinion so presumably you were interested in hearing it. Yet today on your blog I find you have absolutely ignored my advice. Why? Why ask me and then ignore me?"
I drew a breath.
"Well Clerky old pal," I replied. "You gave me your very fine advice which I appreciated mightily. You then ruined any chance of me taking the aforementioned advice by bursting your hole laughing when I told you the joke about giving the kid one hundred grand and telling him to run down to the shops and buy a Ferrari."

Thursday, February 09, 2012

the monica blechhhhh laugh in

Monica Bleach sat in a plush armchair crying into her handkerchief.
Across from her sat Ron Snodgrass her lawyer, chief litigant at Snodgrass, Snodgrass and Dick Associates.
"Oh Ron," she sobbed. "It's horrible. Those people on the internet. The things they say. Oh the humanity. Wahhh."
Ron Snodgrass smelt money.
He leaned across the table.
"That's good emotion there Monica," he told her. "Has this affected your family in any way?"
Monica nodded through her handkerchief.
"My son Smedley came in from school the other day," she sobbed. "He and his friends had been surfing the net. And, oh, oh. Oh, boo, hoo, hoo. Wahhhhhh."
"That's really good Monica," said her lawyer. "Now how did you cope with your son's distress?"
Monica paused to wipe her eyes.
"I gave him five hundred thousand dollars," she sighed. "And told him to run down to the shops and buy himself a Ferrari."
Ron Snodgrass lowered his head into his hands.
"You might want to keep that one out of your testimony in court," he advised gently.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

in a country churchyard

A gentle breeze ruffled through the chestnut trees.
Mourners in little groups conversed here and there amid the headstones.
I stood for a moment alone.
Suddenly my spider senses tingled.
Turning I beheld a large handlebar moustache moving in my direction at a rate of knots from across the pasture.
It was Colonel Des Trunners Retired.
Ridiculous last name that.
Not as ridiculous as the tache though.
My mind raced.
Didn't I diss him on the Heelers Diaries a few years ago?
Good Lord.
What had I written?
Something about him going to Lebanon at the behest of Amnesty International and the Chief of Staff of the Irish Defence Forces, to stage what I'd called a trumped up investigation into what I'd thought was a thoroughly righteous Israeli vengeance mission against the Iranian backed proxy terror army Hezbollah, the Israeli action having in my view unquestionably justifiably arisen after the Hezbollah had launched an absolutely illegal absolutely criminal absolutely vicious sneak attack on Israel and then been pursued by the Israelis back into their Lebanese bold holes with venom, fire and the sword.
Something like that.
I think I'd suggested that Colonel Retired had gone there on behalf of his Amnesty International and Irish Army quisling appeaserish Islamist sympathising paymasters solely with the purpose of accusing Israel of war crimes and without any real interest in the truth of the situation, and without any real capacity to assess such a truth should it perchance come up behind him and bite him on the arse.
I had noted that in transitting to South Lebanon, Colonel Retired had been squired through the region and facilitating in reaching his destination by the Assad family dictatorship in Syria.
That is to say he'd passed without comment or concern through Bashar Assad's Syria, the fourth most foul police State on the planet. (After Iran, the Chinese and the Russians.)
And he'd passed through this murderocracy, this utterly enslaved Syria, without for a moment appearing to notice anything wrong.
He certainly hadn't noticed anything you might call a human rights violation on a dark night.
He'd found plenty of what he chose to call Israeli human rights violations just up the road in Lebanon.
And as per my usual form, I'd roundly jeered him for it on my gentle progressive little left wing blog.
Back to the present.
As Colonel Trunners approached me at my father's funeral I wondered briefly with no little trepidation if he might not have taken umbrage at any of my previous remarks.
They say his tache quivers when he discovers a war crime.
It was quivering now.
He shook my hand.
"I'm sorry for your trouble," he said.
This is a traditional Irish expression of sympathy at funerals.
I thanked him sincerely.
He turned to go.
Before he left, it occurred to me to mention the present Syrian government slaughter of thousands of Syrian citizens, the maiming and torturing of thousands more, and the imprisonment without trial of tens of thousands.
I was on the pop of suggesting he return to Syria on behalf of Amnesty International and the Chief of Staff of the Irish Defence Forces,  in order to find out what real war crimes look like.
But I let it go.
It was neither the time nor the place.

the news

The story of the night is that Mitt Romney will never be President of the United States of America. The cup has passed to another.

Tuesday, February 07, 2012

special guest blogger thomas hardy



When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate filmed as new spun silk, will the neighbours say,
He was a man who used to notice such things?

If it be in the dusk when like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
'To him this must have been a familiar sight.'

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.'

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries.'

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,
'He hears it not now, but used to notice such things.'


Monday, February 06, 2012

dramatic scene to be enacted in kilcullen as part of public preparations for the forthcoming eucharistic congress

(The court of Herod. Courtiers and socialites. Jesus is hustled in by soldiers. Herod interrogates him.)

"Yeshua Bin Iussuf.
Yeshua Meshiach.
Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum.
Isus Kristos.
Jesus Son of Joseph.
Jesus the Messiah.
Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews.
Jesus Christ...
I've heard of you.
I heard you were dead.
Not too far from it now, eh Nazarene.
So you're the king of the Jews.
Not while I'm around you're not.
Eh! Nazarene!
Allow me to introduce myself.
I'm Herod.
I will be your waiter.
Actually I am King Herod.
An actual king. Not a fairytale one.
Not like you.
It's good to be da king.
And in fact I will be judging you today: whether you live or die, and such like.
So. So. So you're a miracle worker, eh.
Alright then.
Give us a miracle.
Let's see what you've got.
If I could just see one.
One miracle.
I'd love it.
Hey Jesus.
I might even follow you myself.
Oh ho.
You wouldn't believe the stir you've been creating.
You're the sensation of 33AD mate.
Oh come on.
Fly over to the window and back.
If you walk across my swimming pool I'll let you go.
Isn't that how it went!
Oh come on.
Show us something.
We're your judges.
Don't disdain us.
Here we are now.
Entertain us.
Ah what's the point?
I mean what is the point?
What is the point of being a miracle working Messiah who just stands there doing nothing?
A saviour of the universe who just stands there looking glum.
I mean what is the point.
I heard that at Mount Amon you fed 500 men with a few loaves of bread.
Now that would be a good one.
Worth the price of admission that.
That I'd love to see.
Do it for us here and now.
We'd all like a snack.
Something tasty.
Multiply this sandwich.
Change some water into wine.
I know.
Make your clothes go all shiny.
Oh come on.
You've got to do something.
Jesus, I'll be your disciple if you give me a miracle.
Make us some pork chops and we'll all be your disciples.
Won't we boys and girls.
Ah for crying out loud.
Loosen up.
They say you raised a dead man to life at Nain.
That I'd like to see.
That would be a doozie.
And they say you raised another one outside the city just last week.
(Herod feints a punch at +)
Who are you that raises the dead but won't raise a hand to defend himself.
Raising the dead.
I mean it's incredible.
Raising the dead, healing lepers, making the blind see.
How do you do those wonderful tricks?
Raising the dead.
It is a trick isn't it?
How do you do it Jesus?
I gots to know.
Accomplice in the audience maybe.
Gotta be.
Excuse me sir. Before I raise you from the dead, have we met before?
That's how you did it.
Gotta be.
All those reports of impossible miracles. All 2nd and 3rd hand reports of course.
Parlour tricks.
Eh Nazarene.
They don't impress me much.
My cousin Marcus died last week.
Now if your really want to impress me, bring him back from the dead.
Or we could kill someone for you right here right now.
In laboratory conditions.
Come on.
Say something.
For crying out loud, say something.
You must say something.
Look Jesus.
Here is the news.
Whether or not you are King of the Jews, I am your king.
If you speak, I might just spare your life.
So how about it?
Jesus baby.
How about it?
(Herod's mobile phone rings. He answers it.)
Yo. Yo Pilate baby. No. No. He's just standing here saying nothing trying to get himself killed. Okay. Smell you later.
(Herod hangs up and resumes the interrogation.)
You really are just standing there saying nothing trying to get yourself killed.
Clearly you do not understand your predicament.
You are making a career decision here.
I... We... are your judges.
You will perform for our amusement.
You will entertain us.
Entertain us Nazarene.
I your king command you.
Would it help if I asked politely?
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
Can we have a miracle.
(Herod drops to his knees.)
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
(Herod is the only one visible now. +, the soldiers and the courtiers are no longer seen. Now it's just us and Herod.)
I have seen things you people wouldn't believe.
I don't care about you.
You understand.
I don't love you.
I didn't come here to warn you because I love you.
I hate you.
With all my damned heart I hate you.
It is an edict of heaven that I must journey here to warn you whom I despise.
From hell's black heart I stab at thee.
(For the first time we the audience see that Herod is in chains.)
If you meet your saviour, recognise him.
Don't think you're his king, or his judge, or the judge of his church.
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
Please Sir.
Can I have some more?
(Herod has become a crumpled heap as the stage goes black. A bell is heard ringing in the darkness. Some of the audience will be aware that Herod has conducted his interrogation in the idioms of popular entertainment. That he has drawn his vocabulary from Mad Max, Fawlty Towers, Blade Runner, a Lloyd Webber musical, et al. Some will see themselves in him. Others will see and hear nothing.)

confucius he say

Richard Dawkins finds in genes the ontological destinies he has already hidden there.

Sunday, February 05, 2012

today they said

Mark Lyall (Brit ambassador to the UN): "The Putin regime is complicit in the massacres in Syria. We must conclude that Russia and China have chosen to turn their backs on the Arab world and are supporting tyranny."

James Healy: Well, duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Michael Noonan: (Ireland's Minister for Finance): "Enda Kenny is a Catholic. In fact he's a better Catholic than me."

James Healy: "Ah yes. The Mick Noonan standard of Catholicism. Here is the news. Neither Finance Minister Michael Noonan nor Prime Minister Enda Kenny nor the invidiously irreligious government of which they are a part, can in any way or with any credibility claim to be Catholics. Except in the sense that they wish people who are Catholics to vote for Michael Noonan and Enda Kenny and the invidious irreligious government of which they are a part so that their atheistic collective which now governs us may maintain their sinecures as criminally incompentent and congenitally corrupt holders of high office in the Republic of Ireland. Both Michael Noonan and Enda Kenny are leading power brokers in the most blatently atheistic anti Catholic government ever seen in either Irish or contemporary Western European history. As far as I'm concerned, Michael Noonan's claims to religiosity may be refuted simply, solely, sincerely and completely by his own recent comments on the travails of super thief gangstah thug Sean Quinn and the ferociously corrupt Quinn family, to wit "I feel sorry for Sean Quinn." This was the same Sean Quinn, remember, whose corrupt receipt of multiple thousand million dollar loans from gangster financiers at Anglo Irish Bank enabled and facilitated staff and management at that same bank to continue robbing their own coffers through loans to themselves and to Quinn, the same loans, I'll have you know, which ultimately bankrupted the Irish nation when the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party compelled the citizenry to make good on the very funds Anglo staff had stolen from their own bank. Catholics indeed. The gangster Sean Quinn and his family were a key part of this conspiracy in that they used their corruptly obtained multi thousand million dollar loans from Anglo to prop up the share price of Anglo while corrupt kleptocratic gangster Fianna Fail government Minister the late Brian Lenihan (husband of Circuit Court Judge Patricia Ryan) was emptying the treasury for the next hundred years in order to bail out the gangster. And current Finance Minister Michael Noonan feels sorry for Sean Quinn. So no hope of anything you might call justice there. The Quinn family will remain at liberty. And they'll keep they money they've stolen. Michael Noonan is no Catholic. He's a Quinnalic. He worships thieves. As does Prime Minister Enda Kenny. Enda Kenny as leader of Fine Gael was recently elected Prime Minister of Ireland. Enda Kenny was elected, I think we all agree, to repudiate Fianna Fail kleptocracy. Here's what Enda Kenny has done in six months in office. Enda Kenny has continued to compel Irish citizens to pay thousands of millions of dollars to the collapsed Fianna Fail gangster combine formerly styled Anglo Irish Bank. Enda Kenny has gone one better. Enda Kenny has compelled the Irish people to take into public ownership a collapsed Fine Gael gangster combine styled Allied Irish Bank, and worth nought pounds. Enda Kenny has purchased his gangster pals' worthless bank on behalf of the nation for the rock bottom price of ten thousand million dollars. We should note that the worthless gangster bank styled Allied Irish includes on its board of directors one Lochlainn Quinn, a brother of Ireland's current Minister for Education Ruairi Quinn. Ruairi Quinn is a member of the antic Catholic Labour Party, coalition partners of the anti Catholic Fine Gael Party. This is the same Ruairi Quinn who is currently attempting to seize control of Catholic Secondary Schools. This is the same Ruairi Quinn who this week attempted to compel religious orders to hand over their assets purportedly so that he could disburse the money to supposed sex abuse victims. Ruairi Quinn's attempt to bankrupt religious orders comes at precisely the same time as the corrupt anti Catholic Fine Gael is refusing to pay any compensation whatsoever to the vast majority of victims of sex abuse who were violated in Health Board Care, State Schools, in sports clubs, and in family homes. Fine Gael is refusing to recognise and deliberately concealing the victimhood of the vast majority of those cases which the Irish Police Force, styling itelf An Garda Siochana, now admits to deliberately shelving after those cases had been reported to it. The notion devised by radical Marxian atheists lurking within the Judiciary and Parliament, that the Catholic Church must pay out vast sums of money to anyone who claims one of its employees abused them, why this notion is being applied only as a tool for bankrupting the Church. It is not being applied anywhere else. All victims are important apparently but some victims are more important than others. The notion that the institution must compensate anyone abused by its employees is not being applied across our society. It is not being applied to the State run institutions, hospitals, schools, and police divisions, where most abuse, and the most serious cases of abuse, and the most egregious cover ups of abuse have taken place. Enda Kenny is the Prime Minister responsible for the ongoing cover up of all those sex abuse cases, the vast majority of them, which are of no use to the kulturkampf being waged by Enda Kenny and his supporters against the faith of our fathers. Enda Kenny is the Prime Minister who has facilitated Ruairi Quinn and the Labour Party's bigot war against the Catholic Church. Enda Kenny is the Prime Minister who has facilitated Fine Gael Minister Alan Shatter in his attempts to intrude via legistlation into the Catholic confession box. Enda Kenny is the Prime Minister elogised daily in the most virulently anti Catholic newspapers in Europe, namely The bankrupt Irish Times and The  bankrupt Irish Independent. Enda Kenny is the Prime Minister who closed down the Vatican embassy. Enda Kenny is many things. Enda Kenny is a weak vacuous vapid hairstyle of a man. Enda Kenny is not now nor has he ever been, a Catholic or a Christian."

Vincent Brown (Marxist broadcaster and failed newspaper publisher): "The Irish government is throwing our money at banks that have ceased to exist. Using our money to pay gambling losses."

James Healy: "Good man Vincent. I say it here and it comes out there. Eh? By the way, who gave you money to run left wing anti Catholic newspapers for thirty years that never made a profit? What sort of banks were you up to your neck in? How does it work Vinny? Did corrupt banking practices just become opprobrious to you after your read the Heelers Diaries?"