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, March 24, 2012

earthly vision

The balm of early Springtime.
Gentle sun washing through the garden of my father.
A light haze upon the Wicklow mountains.
Jess tussles quietly with a stick on the lawn, her tail waving like a banner.
I stand.
A dove alights on a branch in front of me.
He looks at me and coo's.
His voice is holy.
It's all true bold readers.
The Church.
The power of God.
Everything you've heard.
Is true.
I must repent in sackcloth and ashes.

o'doherty's jihad agin the mussies

Paedophile Ian O'Doherty turned his brilliant mind in yesterday's readerless anti Catholic Irish Independent to the latest Al Qaeda terrorism attack against France.
I came across his article by chance. There were no less than three free Irish Independents on offer in the Costa Cafe, Dawson Street, Dublin.
Just left there on the tables in the vain hope someone might read em.
My oh my.
They are getting desperate to preserve their brand recognition aren't they.
So I read.
By the way Ian O'Doherty is known as Paedophile Ian O'Doherty since he falsely maliciously and malignly claimed in the Irish Independent that the entire Catholic Church is a paedophile ring.
If Catholics no longer have the protection of law in the Republic of Ireland when it comes to their good name, we must assume neither does Ian O'Doherty.
O'Doherty's latest comments on Al Qaeda were nothing more than an extended lowbrow atheistic plagiarism of my own insights two days earlier on this blog.
O'Doherty claimed that he and his "friends" had discussed the murders of soldiers, a rabbi and Jewish children in France and had immediately concluded that the killings were the work of an Islamic terrorist.
How strange that he and his purely fictional friends came to this conclusion immediately after the killings but waited until I had pointed out the same thing on this website before they said anything.
O'Doherty also claimed that he and his friends had been appalled by the reluctance of liberal Western media groups to call a spade a spade in discussing the killings, ie that they omitted all mentions of Muslims. The liberal media groups had, he noted, avoided at all costs any iteration of the most likely Islamist motivations for the murders and preferred instead to speculate nonsensically about the possible involvement of white supremacists.
And O'Doherty pretends he originated that insight without the help of the Heelers Diaries.
Well folks.
Adolf Hitler always used to say if you're going to plagiarise someone, you might as well do it in plain sight.
It didn't finish up the way he planned though, did it.
No one gets away with it forever.

archie flaps his cloak

Like Dracula stalking young virgins, Archbishop Diarmuid Martin flapped his cloak this week and showed ever so briefly, his true nature.
With beatific mien, Archie announced that secularism would be good for Ireland.
His words were of course glowingly reported by atheistic Marxist anti Catholic Patsy McGarry who is religious affairs correspondent for the atheistic Marxian anti Catholic Irish Times.
They do love their Archie do the atheistic Marxists.
Funny that.
So secularism is good for Ireland, eh Archie!
And whose values will guide this secularism pray tell?
Karl Marx's perhaps?
Archie I know what you are, and I know what you've done.
Neither you nor your brother, the famously pro Soviet former political editor of the Irish Times Seamus Martin who has recently returned from retirement (Risen from the grave surely? - Ed note) to cheerlead Putin's putative resovietisation of Russia, neither of you, I say, are going to get away with it.

Friday, March 23, 2012

an open letter to archie

Hey Archie.
As Archbishop of Dublin are you considering talking about the distribution of child killing abortion pills to teenagers from Irish pharmacies any time soon?
James Healy

the daffodils

The virulently bigoted anti Catholic newspaper styling itself the Irish Independent, carries a lovely full colour picture of Irish Prime Minister Enda Kenny today.
As it does everyday.
Today's picture shows Enda Kenny surrounded by daffodils and laughing children.
Enda Kenny is a weak vascillatory, vapid, vacuous, venal, viscous hairstyle of a man.
The Independent love him because he has closed Ireland's embassy to the Vatican.
Enda Kenny has also paid his personal adviser two hundred thousand Euro a year of public money, having promised to limit such payments to an also excessive ninety thousand a year.
Enda Kenny has permitted other government Ministers to pay sums higher than the annual wages of the British Prime Minister from public funds to their personal advisers.
Enda Kenny has purchased a worthless bankrupt Fine Gael bank called Allied Irish for the bargain basement fee of ten thousand Euros of my money.
Enda Kenny has continued to pour thousands of millions of dollars into the collapsed Fianna Fail gangster bank styling itself Anglo Irish.
Enda Kenny has permitted atheistic Marxist Minister for Education Ruairi Quinn (whose brother Lochlainn is a Board member of Allied Irish Bank) to seize control of Catholic Secondary Schools with the active collusion of infiltrating Soviet era Archbishop Diarmuid Martin.
Enda Kenny has permitted atheistic hoormaster Minister for Justice Alan Shatter to subject the Catholic ceremony of Confession to State control, an invidious outrage neither Hitler nor Stalin ever had the bawls to perpetrate.
Enda Kenny has falsely maliciously and malignly claimed in parliament that the Vatican obstruced Irish government enquiries into child abuse, and when challenged to substantiate his falsehoods, Enda Kenny at first refused to answer, and afterwards released a statement through a spokesperson claiming that he hadn't been referring to any specific case. (And yet he told a very specific lie.)
Enda Kenny has presided over a situation where the Judiciary have imprisoned seven thousand people last year for non payment of parking fines while allowing murderers, rackateers, burglers, rapists, drug dealers, corrupt cops and people traffickers to run riot in our streets.
Enda Kenny has sought to impose a poll tax on every householder in the nation rather than instigate the necessary pay cuts for himself, the Judges, the bankers, the nursies, the corrupt cops, the civil servants, and the soldiery. He prefers instead that the citizenry should be subjected to feudal taxation in order to keep himself and his acolytes in the style to which they have become accustomed.
Enda Kenny continues to suppress publication of a report into the deaths of 198 children in Health Board Care in Ireland. (The report only addresses the deaths of 118 of the 198 children the Health Boards have murdered in the past ten years. - Ed note. ) His Minister for Prevaricative Bollocksology  Frances Fitzgerald claims the report can't be published yet for privacy reasons. Ah you can publish it Francie. The dead children won't mind if their privacy is violated.
This is the Enda Kenny we see today smiling from amidst the daffodils and laughing children in the pages of the Irish Independent.
The picture purports to illustrate the launch of a fundraiser for a bunch of professional charity hand wringers styling themselves the Irish Cancer Society.
By professional charity hand wringers, I wish to imply that those running the self styled Irish Cancer Society are paying themselves executive salaries while decent volunteers shiver in the streets rattling collection boxes to raise money to put petrol in their bosses BMW's.
Ironic that Enda Kenny would be photographed at an Irish Cancer Society event.
For Enda Kenny is surely himself  a cancer, vitiating the Irish nation, people, polity and culture before our very eyes.
And how ironic that Enda Kenny is photographed with daffodils.
For Enda Kenny is himself a daffodil.
A yellow hued weed which blooms for a season and is thrown on the fire.
Verilly the yellowness of the daffodil brings out the yellowness of Enda Kenny's fake tan.
Just as it highlights the yellow streak down his back.
(Actually daffodils are a wonder of creation. But stick with me. I'm taking this somewhere. - Heelers note.)
And how much more ironic that Enda Kenny is pictured clutching two little children whose parents should know better than to lend their progeny to this sort of Stalinist cult of the leader crapola.
For Enda Kenny is presiding over the greatest mass murder of children in Irish history through the open distribution of abortion pills to Irish pharmacies.
And Enda Kenny is presiding over the greatest ever explosion in child abuse among the citizenry, a tidal wave of violation, almost wholly unreported in the media entities such as the Irish Independent, which simply cannot bring themselves to care about the 99.99 percent of sex abuse victims who are not abused by anyone with any connection whatsoever to the Catholic Church, and who are therefore deemed irrelevant to the culture war currently being propagated by Enda Kenny and his media pals against the faith of our fathers.
This is the Enda Kenny.
Smiling like a daffodil.
But without any of the finer qualities of a daffodil.
Beyond its yellowness of course.
This is the lying worthless sallow faced crapweasel who is gambling that the Irish people will never come up with an alternative to his sovietisation of our economy, our lives and our culture.
He remains redolent and assured that ordinary people will never forget their differences long enough to get together to repudiate the Fine Gael, Labour Party, Fianna Fail hijacking of our nation.
And you know what.
Enda Kenny is as wrong about this as he is about everything else.
The tide turns at low water as well as at high.
Let the tyrants beware.

return to newbridge college

An evening wind rustling ivy.
A clock tower.
I had been thinking for a long time of seeking my former teacher's help in setting up an Irish language group in the area.
Finally I was getting round to it.
On the quadrangle I approached a wandering Padre at random.
"Excuse me," quoth I. "Does Father O'Reilly still work here? He used to teach me Irish."
The boyish faced Padre gave me a queer look.
"There hasn't been a Father O'Reilly here for thirty years."
It was a poignant moment.
All of a sudden I felt the passing of time.
For the first time in my life, I knew I was old.

will ye come to my anecdotes o'er the broad majestic shannon

It was the dulcet Autumn of 1978.
Mr Locks looked at the packed classroom of twelve year old boys.
He was frustrated because me and the other hoodlums were showing some reluctance to learn the traditional Irish songs which he wished to teach us.
Red haired, ribald, Mick Finnerty had put up his hand and demanded with cheeky good humour: "Sir, why don't you teach us something from Top Of The Pops?"
Mr Locks was too weary to hit him.
After forty years of a thankless task teaching peasants (thankless except for the excessive remuneration Irish governments lavish on the teaching profession) Mr Locks had reached the end of his tether.
"I'll tell you one thing," he announced bitterly to the smirking classroom. "In fifty years time people will still be singing Will You Come To The Bower, long after Abba are forgotten."
He said the word Abba with marvellous contempt.
The memory of his prediction has come back to me today thirty four years later as Abba's Dancing Queen blares from the radio.
They sing Swedishly and with undiminished elan.
There are no signs they will ever stop.
Mr Locks had shown remarkable discernment all those years ago.
On that elegiacally beautiful Autumn afternoon at the dawn of time, he had somehow managed to predict imminent oblivion for the one pop group on Top Of The Pops that probably would indeed be still remembered in fifty or even a hundred years time.
What were the odds of that.
Any other group you care to name from the charts that particular week, is already long gone.
And now a new thought strikes me gentle readers...
What if Abba were to record a cover version of Will You Come To The Bower!
That would be a sure fire smash hit.
An immortal folk song meets an immortal pop group.
Bjorn would have a field day.
Oh sweet noble and enlightened friends of the internet, I see by the old writing on the wall  that it's time for Heelers to return to the music business.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

heelers defies the swastika

Bright effervescent Spring afternoon in the universe.
I wander into the Chat And Chew to meet Doctor Barn for lunch.
He is sitting there waiting at a corner table.
And lo!
He is reading a newspaper.
And double lo!
It is a Leinster Leader.
In a miraculously single motion I stride towards him, reach across the table, seize the newspaper and tear it into into strips.
When I'm finished fritters of Leinster Leader lie about the floor of the restaurant.
Daktari's jaw drops.
"That wasn't my newspaper," he murmurs. "It belonged to the cafe."
As if by magic Yvonne Foley appears.
She owns the Chat And Chew.
She is also, as of this moment, the proud proprietor of one finely frittered Leinster Leader.
Her jaw drops like the goodish doctor's.
"You'll know better next time Yvonne," I tell her kindly. "The Leinster Leader is dead in this town. I'll have an All Day breakfast when you get a chance. Would you thrown on a couple of extra rashers and gugs to go with it? I'm celebrating the fall of tyrants."

kenny watch

Ireland's Prime Minister Enda Kenny, a weak, vapid, vascillatory, vacuous, venal, viscous, haircut of a man, is again the subject of much press attention in today's newspapers.
The bankrupt anti Catholic Irish Times (annual losses around the hundred million figure) features a picture of him with Barack Obama.
The bankrupt anti Catholic Irish Independent (accrued losses above two billion dollars) features two pictures of him with Barack Obama.
The pharmaceutical company mouthpiece styling itself the Daily Mail (also anti Catholic and bankrupt to the tune of a hundred million dollars in accrued losses for its Irish title and well above a billion dollars for its English one) has one picture of him with Barack Obama.
Is it possible gentle travellers of the internet, that the bankrupt anti Catholic media groups of the Republic of Ireland are hoping to get their hands on public money by currying favour with this invidious anti Catholic clype posing as a Prime Minister?

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

watching the defectives

All Ireland's newspapers ran today with yet another rehash of sex abuse scandals involving the Catholic Church.
The excuse for this particular rerun was the release of yet another report by the Church itself into its handling of such cases.
The bankrupt near defunct atheistic media publications did their best to drum up some enthusiasm for yet another orgy of apologies for sex abuse from people who've never committed it.
The whole media campaign to label the Church an abusing institution has become far less fun for the atheistic scoundrels involved.
It's become less fun for them because I have exposed them for what they are.
Marxian atheists whose lack of values and beliefs have caused and concealed far more child abuse than can ever be laid at the doors of the Bishops they wish to destroy.
Even the dessicated Maoist Vincent Browne, famous for having sex with a mentally ill pop singer a quarter of his age (a act of arrant ridery which I consider sexual abuse in the extreme), even the great and noble atheistic Marxist Vincent Browne was to be found warning in the pages of the Irish times that the media was inflicting an inconstant standard on priests accused of abuse.
Yeah Browne.
But the real problem is that you and the atheistic media have concealed the vast majority of sex abuse cases from the general public by pretending with utter mendaciousness that the preponderance of cases arose in the Catholic Church.
To propagate this falsehood Browne, you didn't have to tell a single lie.
You just had to ignore 99.99 percent of the truth.
And that's some lie right there Browne.
It was interesting to note that among the jeering shills of bankrupt Irish newspapers, the most invidiously anti Catholic Irish Independent, was alone in keeping mention of the new sex abuse report off its front page.
It had significant coverage of it internally as it was perfectly entitled to do.
But the old Irish Independent, ie the one from last week, would have led off with the thing on its cover, and banner headlines seeking the proscription of Christianity in Ireland.
Seems some of the hoormasters are starting to figure out the merde they're in.
None of us are afraid of them anymore.
Many of us now have a vocabulary to assess their lies about the Church.
Hey O'Reilly.
Yeah you.
I'm talking to you fatboy.
Your newspapers are bankrupt.
And they're going down.
I'm not reforming you.
I'm ending you.
What have they got left bold readers?
What cards have they left to play?
What gambit?
What chance is there that the Irish Times or any of the loss making titles at Independent Newspapers, or even that the largely unknown Cork Examiner, what chance that any of them can survive?
And lo!
Every last one of them is currying favour with Ireland's anti Catholic Fine Gael Labour combo government.
Every last one of them carries daily photographs of Prime Minister Enda Kenny, a weak, vacuous, vascillatory, vapid, venal, vomitous, hairstyle of a man, engaged in some trivia that needs must be reported.
The Irish Times had two photos of him today, one on the cover and one on page ten in case we'd forgotten what he looked like.
The Indo had just the one.
The bankrupt atheistic anti Catholic newspapers of Ireland are reduced to currying favour with this non entity and his government, solely in the hope of gaining access to tax payers' money in order to keep publishing their bankrupt titles.

the desperate hours

I've refrained from commenting on the murders in France.
As I write a Muslim Jihadi is in a siege situation with the French police in Toulouse.
It was probably him alright.
He probably murdered those three French Special Forces soldiers and the Jewish Rabbi, and the three Jewish children.
But he certainly had accomplices.
Including his brother.
I know this already, because already, he has denied it.
One of the saddest and most salient features of the atrocities for me has been the delusional manner in which they've been reported on international television stations.
From the first murders of the Special Forces soldiers, to the slaughter a few days ago of the Jewish rabbi and the three Jewish children, every step of the way I've been struck by the media's refusal to contemplate the reality of what's going on.
There was talk of racist killing.
There was talk of serial killing.
There was talk of pathological sniper killing.
There was no talk of Al Qaeda.
There was no talk of terrorism.
There was no talk of Muslim fundamentalists.
The news channels of the Western world seemed congenitally determined not to mention Jihad in spite of the mounting evidence that Jihad was exactly what we faced.
And nobody, but nobody, mentioned the peaceloving religion of Islam in any context, except to disingenuously insist that one of the soldiers who was murdered was Muslim.
Of course Jihadi Muslims regularly target Muslims who join Western armies.
As I type this, the muted strains of Sky News' half wit reporters are filling my ears.
Sky reporters and others are desperately contextualising the murderers actions in the most neutral and foolish of terms.
They're justifying him for crying out loud.
They're veritably trumpetting his nonsensical claims to be a political activist protesting against French foreign policy in Afghanistan.
Here is the news.
The murderer is a Jihadi.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The Sky journos will say anything except the truth.
Their tears are the tears of a particularly appeaserish crocodile.
I'll tell you folks.
The murders of those three French Special Forces soldiers, the murder of the Rabbi, and the murders of the three Jewish children, were indeed crimes against humanity.
But the real crime happened after.
It's happening now.

across the picket lines

And now for something completely different.
Yes, it's time for a long rambling self indulgent reminiscence about nothing in particular.
At last the complete story can be told.
The full heartrending account of the dreadful Newbridge Lockout of 1985.
The General Strike which all but paralysed the corner of County Kildare where I live for a full, oh, it seemed like ages.
It must have been half a day at least.
Did I say paralysed?
Okay, I meant mildly inconvenienced.
I well remember those tense dramatic hours and the tense dramatic role I played in them.
I was a young man then of course, with fire in my blood, joy in my heart, and a constant devil may care leer on my handsome face that used to drive women wild.
"Stop leering at us," they would say. "You are driving us wild."
But I digress.
Innocent days.
Days of wine and roses.
The days of Pearly Spencer.
No dammit, that's just some song.
Some song about a Liverpudlian halfwit who had more cloche hats than sense.
Where were we?
Ah yes. Still 1985. I was a clerical officer working for Kildare County Council and stationed at the Machinery Yard in the town of Newbridge.
A situation that reeked of cosmopolitan glamour.
The Machinery Yard was home to me and two other fellow clerks, as well as to a dozen workshop technicians, known as fitters, who maintained and repaired the council's industrial vehicles and machinery.
My job involved processing invoices for the various companies that did business with Kildare County Council.
Processing invoices was a tough job for a young man with a poet's soul, so I spent most of my time in various Newbridge cafes trying to come to terms with the hand life had dealt me.
"Why me oh Lord?" I would moan downing another coffee and munching a tuna sandwich.
Assistant County Fire Officer Joel Murphy who joined us everyday for tea break, always claimed a monkey would have done a better job than I did.
He had a point.
Although a monkey would have been less likely to write pejorative comments about his coworkers and the Assistant County Fire Officer on the margins of invoice files that to this day gather dust in the labyrinthine cellars of Kildare County Council.
Ha, ha. That one's true.
Somewhere during those burnished roseate hours of my youth, the National Clerical Officers Union in Dublin decided it was time we had a pay rise.
All over Ireland, heroic working class clerks met with the agitative firebrand Dublin union reps to consult and vote for strike action.
The clerks of Kildare also met with their union officers.
They told us we were more productive than similar workers in Germany, Japan and the United States.
They swore blind to us that this was a human rights issue.
They urged the brave indomitable heroic working class clerks of Kildare County Council to vote yes for strike action.
And we, the traitorous quisling back stabbing bougeois clerks of Kildare County Council promptly voted no.
Personally I doubted that Japanese, Yankee or even Kraut clerical officers were spending half the time in coffee shops that I was spending. I could hardly have voted otherwise.
To the dismay of our national union the Kildare branch was the only one nationwide to vote to dissociate itself from the strike action.
On a warm light filled day at the dawn of time, the clerks of Ireland downed pens and left their desks.
All except us.
For us the comic opera was just beginning.
Myself, Byrno and Brendan Duffy arrived for work at the Machinery Yard only to find a rather militant picket line had been thrown up around it.
The fitters from the Machinery Yard workshop were in a different union but they had voted to go out on strike in support of us.
They had voted to support us in the strike we had voted not to take part in.
Now they were blocking the entrance to the premises and looking daggers at the three turncoat scum (Byrno, Duffy and me) who were obviously toying with the notion of crossing the picket line.
The same three turncoat scum in whose support they had erected the picket line in the first place.
Oh sweet delicious irony of life.
Richard our boss arrived looking slightly worried and went to confer with the lead fitter.
While he did this Jimmy Cullen, a normally agreeable chap from the workshop, approached the three lowlife scabs (Byrno, Duffy and me) and addressed us in a low voice.
The same three lowlife scabs lest you forget, in whose honour and for whose pay claims, Jimmy and his comrades were currently on strike.
"Youse are all individuals and youse are all responsible for your actions," he told us in rich Dublinese, before quickly rejoining his comrades.
He got a great sense of threat into the few simple words.
Nobody had ever called any of us "youse" before in such a grimly wrought Dublin accent, so it was a threat we were inclined to take seriously.
Richard the boss rejoined us shaking his head, and we turned and walked away from the picket line towards the town centre.
As we went the fitters cried out in unison: "Awk puck puck puck puck awk."
It was a moment of great working class solidarity.
The true working class can get a strangely dignified passion into their awk puck pucks.
It was reminiscent of a choir of Welsh miners singing Cwymm Rhonnda.
Aunty Mary's hens would have been proud.
"What a shower of clucking fitters," I muttered.
But I didn't mutter it too loudly.
Never provoke men who cluck. That's always been my motto.
Because sometimes they'll cluck you up real bad.
From a payphone on Newbridge Main Street we called the County Manager who instructed us in no uncertain terms to cross the picket line.
The four of us strolled back to the Machinery Yard and faced the massed ranks of now eerily silent fitters.
Massed ranks? Okay, all twelve of them were there.
Not a word did they speak.
"We've no choice," said Richard. "Come on."
We walked through the picket line into our place of work.
The fitters let us pass in stony silence.
Young Monty Baines started to cluck but Jimmy Cullen shushed him.
As we entered the building it seemed existence itself held its breath.
The deed was done.
A day later our national union abandoned the strike and everyone was officially back to work. But all was not forgotten.
The bitterness engendered by the capitulation of the class traitors (Byrno, Duffy and me) would fester in the workplace for a long time.
"It's awful, isn't it?" sez Byrno to me a few months later in the canteen during the afternoon Bridge game.
I looked at him with genuine surprise.
"What's awful?" sez I innocently.
It was Byrno's turn to look surprised.
"Do you not know what's going on?" he asked. "Can you not feel the tension? The fitters haven't spoken to any of us since the strike."
My eyebrows rose most quizzically.
"I never noticed," I told him honestly. "Most of them stopped speaking to me long before that."
I was ever the popular one bold readers.
And there our story ends.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

of mice and men

Wandering home by night unstarred.
I unlock the front door.
Jess, the bitch pup greets me in the hall.
I switch on the light and stroll towards the kitchen.
I look down.
Jess is trotting at my left heel.
At my right heel Fur Ham is waddling purposefully along in a little ball of animated golden fluff, for all the world is if he's trying to show me he's just as loyal as any dog and can keep up just as well.
The beauty of the moment strikes me.
All those coincidences.
Fur Ham escaping from his cage.
Fur Ham loose in the dark.
Jess not eating Fur Ham.
Me not walking on Fur Ham.
Fur Ham being in the right place at the right time so that it appeared he was following me loyally and welcomingly to the kitchen.
All those coincidences.
Some of you gentle travellers of the internet, will supsec that none of it was coincidence at all.
Ah, the dignity of creatures.
And the words of Adonai come whispering once more unto my wounded spirit: "The kingdom of heaven does not admit of observation. For look! The kingdom of heaven is among you."


Coffee with Donald Baine.
He is complaining about his treatment at the hands of the worthy burghers of Kilcullen Drama Group.
Apparently they wouldn't let him have the theatre one night six months agp when he wanted to rehearse a play (one of mine) which he intended staging for charity.
Men have killed for less.
Particularly in Kilcullen Drama Group.
I am enjoying his plaints.
"Sure half of them are not even talking to me," I cry cheerfully during intermission.
"Why not?" wondereth he.
"Because I wouldn't play Victor Hugo in Les Miserables," I tell him.
"But what makes you think they're not talking to you?" insisteth he.
"Because Siobhan Scattergun hung up on me the other day," sez me.
"She didn't," sez he.
"She did," sez me.
"What did you say to her?" sez he.
"I rang her and shouted Bonjour down the phone," sez me.
"No wonder she hung up on you," quoth he.
"It's very offensive hanging up on someone," sez me.
"Ah it's nothing, and not talking to you is nothing," sez he.
"What do you mean?" quoth me.
"I mean that what they did to me was worse. It was low. Mean. It hurt. It still hurts," quoth he.
The noble Heelers pauses to polish his halo.
"Listen Baine," I intone. "Two years ago you got creamed by a lorry in the streets of New York. And you lay there on the ground unable to see or hear anything. And you prayed to God. You said: 'God, let me live. I'd like to see the kids grow up. I won't mind if I'm in a wheelchair. But let me live.' And your life was given back to you. And you're not in a wheelchair. How on earth could you ever be upset by anything that might happen in Kilcullen Drama Group? Forgive the hurt. Turn the other cheek. Think not about what came before. Reach forward into the future. Press on to the mark."
Baine digests this for a moment.
"I seem to remember," he murmurs, "you doing an awful lot of complaining about the Leinster Leader after they fired you. There wasn't much Christian forgiveness going on there. You kept it up for years."
"Touche Baine old pal. Touche."
And there our story ends.

Monday, March 19, 2012


in the pool of evening
quick silver
ripples widening

cold water thing
risen to exult
in some unthinking imagining
ordinary is wonder enough

what do fishes dream

war and peace

Vladimir Putin lowered his copy of the Daily Mail.
His knuckles were white.
Around him, smooth suited Soviet apparatchiks quaked.
"First Heelers starts joking openly about our spies in the West," he grated. "Now everyone's doing it. The Daily Mail. I ask you. These, these... intellectually redundant... morally otiose... scumskis. Look at this. 'An exclusive expose of Russia's sexy new breed of seductive super spies.' Heelers has made us the laughing stock of Europe. Can these people not think of their own ideas for news stories? Is all Europe trawling through the Heelers Diaries for feature ideas? I wouldn't mind only Heelers is sketchy at best on his facts. He says I killed that dissident in London with Polonium 90. You cloth eared goon Heelers. It was Polonium 293 for crying out loud. I'm not surprised the Leinster Leader fired him."
The desk intercom buzzed.
The voice of Lyudmila his sexually repressed sexily bespectacled sexy secretary filled the room.
"The Archbishop of Dublin is on Line Two, Mr President."
Putin waved his apparatchiks from the room and lifted the receiver.
"Archie," he purred.
Outside the skies of Moscow were a tableau of low flying cloud and numinous rain drops.
Above Dzerzhinsky Street, a single cormorant said: "Caw (blimey)."

cry havoc and let slip the murdering scum

Cry havoc and let slip the murdering scum.
This is the motto of the Irish courts service who are proposing to release yet another serial killer psycho into the community.
More than a decade ago, Psycho killer Sean Courtney singled out Patricia O'Toole an innocent girl in Dublin, kidnapped, tortured and slaughtered her.
She had done nothing to deserve the attentions of the vomitous disgusting serial killer coward Sean Courtney.
Lying murdering coward Sean Courtney dismantled Patricia O'Toole's face with a brick and then drove over her as she lay on the ground.
When her family went to see her body one last time, they could not kiss her goodbye, because psycho killer coward Sean Courtney had destroyed her face entirely.
In court psycho killer Sean Courtney lied in claiming that the girl had stopped her car to ask him for directions.
There were no real witnesses to confirm the word of the murdering psycho Sean Courtney on this matter, except of course for his girlfriend at the time who claimed to have been present during the early fictional asking for a lift part of the evening, and to have left before the later actual real life torturing, slaughtering and murdering got underway.
What is clear is that somehow murderous scum Sean Courtney and his girlfriend of the time gained entry to the car of murderer Sean Courtney's victim and that the girl whose car they entered ended up being slaughtered mercilessly by deranged psycho scum Sean Courtney shortly afterwards.
We only have their word that she asked them for directions.
So let's not believe psycho killer Sean Courtney and the girlfriend who was with him for at least part of the night he slaughtered Patricia O'Toole.
Let's stick to what we know.
No girl ever asked psycho killer torturer Sean Courtney for directions.
And newspapers should now stop repeating psycho killer Sean Courtney's lie.
It was an important lie that his lawyers had devised for him.
Because it allowed him to pretend he hadn't singled out his victim.
In court psycho killer Sean Courtney tearfully insisted that his victim had invited him into her car.
There was no independent corroboration of this, unless you consider Sean Courtney's then girlfriend to be independent corroboration, and of course it never happened.
Psycho killer Sean Courtney singled out his victim, forced his way into her car, and slaughtered her for his entertainment.
I say it again.
Newspapers should now stop repeating uncritically the lies which were devised for Sean Courtney by his crooked lawyers in order to get him the minimum sentence for kidnapping, torturing and slaughtering an innocent girl.
Worthless vomitous psycho killer Sean Courtney also falsely claimed in court that his victim had mocked him and provoked him into killing her.
Weeping on the stand he whined about the stress he claimed to have suffered as a solider with the Irish army on peace keeping duties in Lebanon.
The worthless cowardly murdering scum Sean Courtney was permitted by a Judge and by his lawyers to falsely insist in open court that his innocent victim had laughed at the idea of him assaulting her and had said: "I could claim you assaulted me. It would be your word against mine."
This grand lie was the worthless cowardly murdering psycho killer Sean Courtney's final insult to Patricia O'Toole his innocent victim, his final rape of her, having already tortured her, taken her life, staved in and erased her beautiful face, and condemned her family and friends to a lifetime of sorrow, this was his ultimate mockery of all of them and of all of Ireland and of all the world, in open court.
And this evil murdering scum serial killer bast--d Sean Courtney is the person the courts service have allowed to father a child while serving a life sentence, (apparently with a new girlfriend who must be at least as classy as the one who was with him for at least part of the night he cruelly brutally and mercilessly slaughtered an innocent girl) and are now proposing to release into our midst.


Footnote 1: Other serial killers previously released into the community by the courts service include Larry Murphy, Michael Bambrick (like Sean Courtney a former member of the Irish army), Private Michael McAleavey (yet another Irish army hero who found Lebanon so stressful that he murdered three of our soldiers there) and Malcolm McArthur.

Footnote 2: After being sentenced in court, psycho killer Sean Courtney turned to the family of the girl he murdered and said: "The tramp deserved it."

Footnote 3: It has emerged that a former partner of brutal murderer Sean Courtney with whom he had two children, has emigrated to Australia from where she has spoken out warning against his release.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

day among days

2pm Cafe Insomnia, Stephens Green.
A man as suggestible as me, has no place reading the Alan Clarke Diaries.
Memo to Self: I am not Alan Clarke.
The will is a monumental cock up.
I got the chateau but Cousin Rontgens has a right of residence.
So do I have it or not?
Can I sell it?
I suppose I could ask Rontgens for permission.
I met him this morning in the kitchen, engaging in some territorial pissing. We circled each other warily, like a couple of Conservative Party MPs, jockeying for the succession after Margaret.
The worst case scenario is if he resigns from the bank and spends all his time here mooning around filling the place with cigarette smoke and scruffs.
My analagies and unquiet tone are pure Alan Clarke.
Dublin surrealistic as all hell today.
Either that or I'm caffeinated to the gills and hallucinating again.
Saw sexy blonde school teacher from Kilcullen Secondary School in Hodges Figgis bookshop. She is a sextron. I went up to her and greeted her thusly: "Ah Miss Sexotron." These were my exact words. I didn't use her real name but chanced the admiring epithet. Only it wasn't her. All these blonde sexors look the same to me. The one in the bookshop goggled at my greeting. She did not keep the quizzicality from her regal features.
Later, this afternoon on Stephens Green, a hard faced Arab loomed out of the throng.
There seemed to be a moment of recognition.
He was one of the Black Jackets, my former persecutors.
For a moment I thought it might have been Amrasser himself, my old Bewleys nemesis.
There was no mercy in his eyes.
He looked like he fancied a shoulder jostle but the crowd swirled him away and the chance was lost.
He was older and more haggard, the Arab good looks dessicated by bitterness.
Time had been cruel.
In the Insomnia Cafe, the pretty Brazilian waitress cut me dead when I asked was there a special offer on the buns.
Clearly the bituminous bitch has reached her niveau d'excellence.
And clearly I must find another cafe.
Raging that I still bought the bun.
But I'd already handed her the money.
Ah. I'm Alan Clarking again.
5pm Starbucks, Grafton Street.
The one thing I liked about Alan Clarke was what I call the quality of the genuine. He opposed abortion which might just mean he was a Christian. He referred to the Labour Party's pro abortion women as the "tricoteuses," referencing the ultimate hags of the French Revolution who sat beside the guillotine and cheered each beheading while continuing their knitting. Sheer brilliance. An old Catholic priest claimed he'd converted to the faith on his death bed. His wife insisted he did no such thing.
7.40pm Starbucks, Dawson Street.
Idiotic Spanish couple sitting at separate tables, with a third empty table, separating their already separate ones. No lecher on earth could have figured out that the woman was accompanied. Hispanic cretins. The worst kind. The Muslims know how to deal with this sort of thing. Put the bitch in a burka and send the beardy little bollix outside to self detonate. Speaking of which, Miss Arabia (Amal she called herself) has quietly folded her tent and moved away. I will never see her again.  She engineered our ultimate parting through the simple expedient of being a collossal beyotch during our last two encounters. She kept it up until I finally called a halt. I won't know till Judgement Day whether she was a spy. I'm not even sure she was an Arab. Staging a falling out would of course be standard spycraft for getting rid of a mark if you are not actually going to kill him. Let him think he's ditching you. Make him never want to see you again, etc etc. Yes. She could have been a spy. But sometimes a beyotch is just a beyotch.
7.70pm Still Dawson Street.
Rang Doctor Barn to tell him some of the lines from this diary. He said: "You're writing a bit like Alan Clarke." I said: "I know. It's because I'm reading him at the moment. I'm too suggestible. If I was reading the Hitler Diaries, I'd probably be out trying to take over the world or something."
8.10pm Another Starbucks, Some Tiddly Little Side Street.
Room upstairs occupied by odious males unaccompanied by any females and consequently looking for trouble. I moved downstairs. Earlier saw two beggars outside Clarendon Street Church. They were arguing in the most civil tones. One said: "I've nowhere else to go." And the other answered: "Now you know that's no good to me Bob. This is my pitch." I was giving a ten spot to my travelling woman Maisie Baines who also has a pitch nearby. I whispered to her: "Are you safe from those two guys?" She grinned roguishly. Maisie has protection.
10.30pm Topaz Garage, Naas Road.
Driving home tonight, a fire brigade going through the lights nearly creamed me at Newlands Cross. The guardian angel took over the car. Great screeching of brakes. I went on my way, sobered and soulful. Close enough to heaven. I suppose the Dublin fire brigade were heading out for a burgher and chips. One of their regular emergencies. To think what a near thing it was. I might right this moment be discussing literary style with Alan Clarke himself at a discreet Starbucks near the pearly gates. It was that close. Time enough for that. Life is sweet. I'm in no hurry to shuffle off any coils, mortal or otherwise. What was it the son of the Hebrew God said? Something like: "Many will ask where the kingdom of heaven is. Or when it is. Or what it is. But the kingdom of heaven does not admit of observation. For behold. The kingdom of heaven is among you." To me this means that when we love each other, or praise God for the creation, or see his beauty in people, creatures, or music, or nature, or the night sky, when we do this, we're already very very close to heaven wherever, whenever, whatever it is. Amal, forgive me. Fool Clarke. Fool, fool, fool. I mean Heelers. Fool Heelers. Fool, fool, fool. Why did you let her go?

kenny watch on saint patrick's day

Independent Newspapers and sundry other bankrupt atheistic titles have spent Saint Patrick's day featuring multi coloured splashes on Irish Prime Minister Enda Kenny.
Enda Kenny is a weak, vascillatory, vacuous, vapid hairstyle of a man.
But he is anti Catholic.
And that makes him the King of the World as far as this shower are concerned.
The most vomitous and sycophantic of a vomitous and sycophantic lot came when something styling itself the Sunday World featured Enda Kenny on its cover promising: "Ireland will be back."
Listen folks.
Here is the news.
Enda Kenny was elected Prime Minister to repudiate Fianna Fail kleptocracy.
Instead he has chosen to uphold and extend the kleptocracy of his predecessors.
And he's gone further.
For Enda Kenny is in the process of ending Ireland's existence as a nation.
Under Enda Kenny, Ireland will not be back.
Ireland will cease to exist.
In a few short months in government Enda Kenny has:
Continued to pour billions of dollars of public money into the Fianna Fail gangster bank Anglo Irish.
Purchased for ten billion dollars on behalf of the nation another bankrupt worthless gangster bank called Allied Irish which included on its board of directors his Marxian Minister for Education Ruairi Quinn's brother Lochlainn.
Allowed Minister for the Environment Phil Hogan to impose a poll tax on every householder in Ireland, with the alternative to payment being instant criminalisation. (Interestingly enough Phil Hogan has recently been accused by a seventy year old woman of the making opprobrious sexualised remarks to her.)
Failed to take action against Minister for the Environment Phil Hogan for the opprobrious sexualised harassment he inflicted upon a seventy year old woman.
Paid his personal adviser two hundred grand a year, that's twice the salary of the Brit PM, and two and a half times the salary of the President of Russia.
Falsely, maliciously and malignly accused the Vatican of obstructing Irish child abuse enquiries.
Failed to account for his lies about the Vatican when challenged to do so, instead relying on a spokesman to issue his excuse, to wit: "He wasn't talking about any particular case."
Permitted his Minister for Justice Alan Shatter to intrude via legislation into the Catholic ceremony of Confession.
Permitted the Marxian atheistic Labour Party to close Ireland's hundred year old embassy to the Vatican.
Permitted atheistic Marxian bigot Ruairi Quinn, the brother of Lochlainn Quinn from the Board of Allied Irish Bank, to seize Catholic Church run secondary schools.
Presided over an astonishing break down of law and order in Irish cities.
Presided over catastrophic unemployment while still paying ridiculously extortionate salaries to teachers, nurses, cops, soldiers, lawyers, judges, uncivil servants and of course his own personal advisers.
Presided over a situation whereby the police force has become individually and institutionally corrupt, with thug cops regularly obtaining court injunctions from corrupt Judges to prevent any investigations into their murders and assaults.
Presided over a situation where rackateers have taken over Ireland's major cities.
Presided over an explosion in the most gratuitous of murders on our streets.
Suppressed a report into the deaths of 198 children in Health Board care in Ireland over the past decade.
I could go on.
No amount of smiling Enda Kenny photo ops, disseminated daily by defunct atheistic hoormaster newspaper groups, who in puffing the smiling Enda Kenny are merely seeking to obtain access to taxpayers' money from that same smiling Enda Kenny in order to prop up their useless dessicated fervourless readerless organs, no amount of this pap I say, will change the fact, that this smiling Enda Kenny and his showboating anti Catholic entourage, are inaugurating a new Dark Ages in Ireland.

Star Bores

Chapter Ten

Evening at the head office of Independent Newspapers in Dublin.
The galactic emperor Tony O'Reilly is sitting at his plush mahogany desk in a plush mahogany office on the plush mahogany top floor.
It is a bright sunny day in Dublin.
But the prophylactic emperor is brooding.
His black cloak is unfurled about him.
His breath rasps through a black face mask.
"Koh, koh, koh," it says.
It sounds tremendously sinister as breaths go.
Presently there's a gentle tapping on the door.
"Come in," rasps Darth O'Reilly.
The words too sound tremendously sinister the way he rasps them.
It takes a Dark Lord of the Sith to make the most innocuous remarks sound dangerous.
You wanna hear him say: "Pass the sugar please."
The door opens and in walks Paedophile Ian O'Doherty, a humorist drone from Sector 7-G at Independent Newspapers.
"Ah," rasps Tony Vader. "My apprentisssssssssss. Sit downnnn."
All this was rasped of course.
Did I mention that?
(You mentioned it sixteen words ago - Ed note.)
And you could cut the tension with a knife.
Or a rasp.
O'Doherty couldn't be sure if he was being called in for a pay rise or to be executed.
An odd irreverence swept through him.
"Good morning Lord Vader," he said breezily drawing on a canabinoid. "Is that a light sabre in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
Vader shot him a warning glance.
O'Doherty genuflected, sat down and fell silent.
"We have problemssss my young apprentice, koh, koh, koh," rasped Fart O'Reilly. "This James Healy Jedi. He has a sense of humour. He should be working for us. But word on the street, koh, koh, koh, is that Heelers thinks Independent Newspapers in general and the O'Reilly family in particular, are pond scum. Can it really be five years since I first told you to rip off his material? Remember? My instructions were that you must immitate him. You must read his blog. You must write like he writes. Koh, koh, koh. Except for the bits about me of course. Koh, koh, koh."
O'Doherty looked troubled.
"I've been trying Dark Lord," he blustered drawing on another canabinoid. "This week I wrote a vaguely favourable remark about George Bush, to wit that George Bush wasn't the devil. Then I claimed to have friends who were pro life. After that I even cited South Park as part of some interminable pointless anecdote. Nothing seems to work. I still come across as a b-ll-x. Most people wouldn't p--- on me if I was on fire."
Darth Vader's malevolence filled the room.
"It's true," (he rasped), "Nothing seems to work. And you are a bollocks. You steal Heelers' every gentle life affirming insightful idea. But when you write them in your column, you still come across as a mean minded atheistic little shit. Koh, koh, koh."
O'Doherty blanched at the truth, wondering briefly why someone hadn't bothered to edit out the vowels in sh-t.
"We must find a koh, koh, koh, solution," rasssped O'Reilly. "Make yourself charming. Take a lead from those other Heelers immitators currently wandering around Irish journalism in pseudo intellectual drag. Stage a Christian conversion like John Waters. Become a born again conservative like Kevin Myers. Change your dog's name to koh, koh, koh, Paddy Pup. Something. Anything."
There was an awkward silence except for the continuing koh, koh, kohs.
A knock on the window broke the spell.
Darth O'Reilly turned in his swivel chair, rapping his cloak around the axle which annoyed him intensely.
At the window James Healy was peering in at them.
He was dressed as a window cleaner and perched on a window cleaner's crane hoist.
Truly Heelers has been doing some interesting jobs since the Johnston Press fired him from the Leinster Leader three weeks before Christmas 2007.
"Obi Wan," rasped O'Reilly. "You. Here. How? Cleaning my own windows. It's too much."
"Don't worry O'Reilly," shot back Heelers. "I'm not doing a very good job."
(And from somewhere not too far away, the ghost of John Fry, former Chief Executive at the Johnston Press, oh he lasted a good six weeks, allowed himself a wry chuckle.)
The Dark Lord of the Shits was on his feet. His young apprentice unsheathed a light cabinoid.
"When you left me, I was but a learner," rasped O'Reilly. "Or you were a learner. Well one of us was a learner. And one of us stole secrets from the Knorr Food Company to bribe Heinz International to give me the top job after I rode the bosses daughter. But I am the master now. I, Fart Braider."
Heelers just grinned.
"Listen O'Reilly," Ireland's greatest living poet said softly. "I'm gonna use small words so that even you can understand. I've never asked you, or Independent Newspapers, or the Irish Times, or your horrendous little acolyte here, to be nice to me. I've asked you to... go... away."
At which point the crane hoist cable came undone and Heelers plummeted out of sight.
He disappeared singing: "Now I'm washing windows."
(And somewhere the ghost of George Formby had a canniptian.)
The Dark Lord of the Witless and his young apprentice were left standing stunned at the window on the top floor of Independent House. They had no way of knowing if Heelers had survived the fall.
They and you, bold readers, will find out in our next thrilling instalment.