The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

My Photo
Name:
Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, July 28, 2012

the finest end of reason is to dispute well

Late afternoon Saturday on O'Connell Street, Dublin.
4.25pm approx.
A group of Muslims have set up desks outside the General Post Office and are proselytising passers by.
At the front is a clean cut white man with a neat beard, urbane and congenial, doing all the talking. To his left hand side, behind the tables taking signatures, are several smiley Africans, some in suits some in traditional robes. To one side of these stands a watchful Arab. You mightn't notice him if you didn't look twice.
The GPO building is considered an icon to the modern democratic incarnation of the Republic of Ireland.
It served as the headquarters for our most famous rebellion against British rule, a rebellion normally styled The 1916 Rising.
Across their desks, the group of Muslims have unfolded a banner which proclaims: Islam Is The Religion Of Peace.
I am on edge after a renewed encounter with the Black Jackets Muslim Al Qaeda street gang in the toilets of the Ilac Shopping Centre twenty minutes earlier.
As I pass the desks outside the GPO, I see their sign and cry: "No, no. Ah f--k no. Get lost. No more Arab terror. Get out. Get out of my country Muslims."
Perhaps a little aggressive.
Not my finest hour.
"You've got it all wrong?" says the clean cut neat bearded white man, stepping forward confidently.
"No more Muslim terror," I cry again.
"We're against terror too," says Neat Beard Whitey mollifyingly.
"No more Al Qaeda's," I roar.
"We agree with you," insists Neat Beard soothingly.
"No more murders of little Jewish schoolgirls in France," I shout.
The Arab standing beside Neat Beard looks up and allows himself a smirk of malicious glee at the mention of the dead Jewish schoolgirls.
His smile is pure evil.
He is positively glowing with pleasure.
"Islam opposes all murder," says Neat Beard.
"Why is your friend smiling at the thought of Jewish schoolgirls being murdered?" I roar, pointing him out to the fast gathering crowd.
"He's not, he's not," insists Neat Beard.
The Arab is still grinning at me like there's no tomorrow.
"Why is your friend rejoicing at the mention of the slaughter of little Jewish schoolgirls?" I persist, appealing now with hand gestures to the crowd to see what is before their eyes.
The Arab faces me frontally and smiles as broad as the Red Sea.
Why! It's almost as if he knows me.
Dimly I notice his black jacket.
"He's not smiling," says Neat Beard weakly.
The Arab seems to be doing an impression of Benny Hill, he is smiling so hard.
I again challenge loudly: "Why does your friend find it so amusing that a Muslim would break into a children's school in France and murder three little Jewish girls? Does this not shame all Muslims? Is this really something that makes Muslims smile with joy?"
It was a Kodak moment.
Neat Beard puts a hand on the Arab's shoulder and says a few words in gum Arabic.
The Arab tries to wipe his smile.
Apparently he actually can't.
He turns his back to me and pretends to play with his mobile phone.
"No more Muslim murders of little Jewish school children in France," I roar again.
Neat Beard starts to look discomfited.
"You're a joke," he says.
So the mask was slipping.
"You're a joke," I roar. "You, and your religion and your prophet are a joke. And you and your religion and your prophet are a joke against humanity and the world."
The grinning Arab who had turned his back to me to play with his mobile phone, did an about face and looked up.
His face was contorted.
The grin was gone.
Not a trace of it.
His features were a testimony to limitless hatred.
I knew what had happened.
I have heard it said that if you insult the Prophet Muhammad, or if Muslims deem you to have insulted the Prophet Muhammad, they will kill you or maim you or do whatever they like without a thought.
Some analysts maintain that Muslims will more readily commit murder over what they claim is an insult to the Prophet Muhammad than they will over an insult to Allah or to the peaceloving religion of Islam itself.
The red line is mentioning the Prophet Muhammed.
I knew I'd crossed it as soon as I said it.
The Arab advanced on me.
"You go," he screamed. "You go. You go. Or I will smash you."
"You're not smiling now Muslim," I roared back.
"Walk. Walk on. Walk on or I will smash you," he screamed again, taking another few steps towards me.
It really seemed he knew me.
I always walk away.
Today I was not in the mood for walking.
"Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim. That's about your speed," I roared, holding my ground.
"Walk on. Walk on or I will. I will. I will," he foamed.
Literally foamed.
His mouth writhed with spittle like a rabid dog.
His facial expression betokened pure murder.
"Go kill another schoolgirl Muslim," I roared yet once more.
Lotsa roaring.
I was wondering would my voice break.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Arab's fist bunching.
I was trying to hold his gaze at the same time.
Let his imagination work on what he thought he might see in my eyes.
I had already decided I wouldn't throw a punch.
Nor would I try to debate him.
I would keep it simple.
For the next five minutes he screamed variations on his threats at me but held his distance just a single pace away.
For each of his screams I answered with the roar I wanted him to remember tonight.
"Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim."
As long as I was conscious and capable of speech, I was determined to keep saying it.
As the shouting continued towards feverpitch, a Dublin streetcleaner in one of those silly little pseudo environmental path sweeper vehicles drove up the path behind the Muslim and waited politely for him to finish.
The only thing missing to complete the pathos was the Laurel & Hardy theme tune.
Dublin streetcleaners in silly little pseudo environmental path sweeper vehicles normally just drive right through the citizenry if we get in their way.
But they do brake for Muslims threatening to eviscerate citizens.
Who wudda thunk it.
No sign of any police.
Of course there wasn't.
There was a crowd around us though.
I have an actorly sense for crowds.
No one was going to come to my aid.
But no one disapproved of what I was doing either.
And the fiction about Islam being a religion of peace was being repudiated before their very eyes.
"I beat you. I will beat you," panted the Arab.
"Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim."
"I... I... I.. tear you. You walk on or I tear you. I beat you."
"Go kill another schoolgirl Muslim."
"You... You... I beat you. I beat you. You... You... I beat. I tear. You. You. You."
My! He was upset.
We'd been at it for what felt like ten minutes, when from almost another world I instinctively felt my voice on the verge of cracking.
The actor in me knew to slow it down and take a good breath before each renewed bout of yelling.
No rush.
Plenty of time.
Still loud as justice I thundered: "Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim."
Even though shouting, I sought to give my voice an element of the mellifluously mocking inflective note that Mick Sneeran and Ian Stewart, my late putative bosses at the Leinster Leader, had come to know and love so well during our pleasant chats about company employment law over tiffin back in the long lost dulcet Summer of 2006.
Days of the halcyon indeed.
You know folks, I can be quite an irritating fellow when I want to be.
I had brought this peaceloving Muslim, so accustomed to hating all humanity, to a place beyond hatred.
He frothed and he fumed and he spumed.
But still he held his position a pace away from me and still his bunched fist remained unthrown, the knife unwielded, the Polonium Ninety uninserted in the water supply, and whatever else he had up his sleeve at least temporarily in abeyance..
Just about.
The threat of violence hung heavy in the air.
It was all so finely poised.
His face still contorted and his mouth still frothed but at last he knew I wasn't going anywhere.
And for some reason, today he was unwilling to kill.
He realised it and I realised it at about the same time.
And it was at this moment that his voice broke.
His shoulders sagged and he unleashed a sob.
"You. You are. You will. You, you, you..." was all he could manage now.
I let him say it.
Then I returned to full throttle with a particularly finely wrought rendition of: "Go kill another schoolgirl Muslim."
The watching Neat Beard and his African friends could take no more and stepped forward.
Had I been lying in a pool of blood dying at this stage, they would have happily sworn blind when the cops arrived presumably some time next week, that it had all happened so fast that there had been nothing any of them could do to stop it.
But clearly they had hung back through it all in order to give the Arab a chance to beat me to a pulp.
Or whatever the hell else he wanted to do.
For equally clearly the Arab, who had stood so nondescriptly to one side at the tables while Neat Beard and the Africans proselytised the infidels, clearly I say, most clearly, the Arab was in fact in charge of the whole show.
He was the boss.
That's the way Islam works.
Now the others gathered consolingly around him.
I resisted the urge to intone: "Where have you guys been? We missed you."
Wrong crowd for that joke.
As his friends joined him, the Arab choked out a few more: "You, you, you's," and managed an occasional heartfelt gasp of: "I tear you."
To each of which I replied with my own set phrase.
Always waiting for him to finish before I opened my mouth.
"Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim."
And always adding that last key word Muslim just so the crowd of afternoon shoppers and students who were watching might have some contextual handle on the discourse taking place.
Finally Neat Beard and the Africans caught their Arab boss by the arms and he allowed them to lead him back to their booth.
He looked like nothing so much as a particularly murderous James Browne being led offstage by his band after over exerting himself during a pop song.
I let a few more roars of "Go kill another schoolgirl, Muslim," just in case he'd forgotten the salient point.
Then I walked on up O'Connell Street.

Friday, July 27, 2012

ruairi quinn's monument to sex abuse victims

Ireland's Education Minister atheistic Marxian Ruairi Quinn and his government allies, and his puppet political appointees in the Judiciary and Civil Service, are preparing to erect a monument to sex abuse victims in Dublin's Garden of Remembrance.
The sex abuse victims Ruairi Quinn and his atheistic Marxian pals which to commemorate are those 0.01 percent of victims whom they have managed to link to the Catholic Church.
In other words Ruairi Quinn and hsi atheistic Marxian pals are putting up a monument to one sex abuse victim in every ten thousand.
The other 9999 victims out of ever ten thousand who were abused by people with no connection to the Catholic Church will be ignored.
Furthermore the anti Catholic Irish government has announced that the victims who were not abused by employees of the Catholic Church will get no compensation from the State, ie 99.99 percent of sex victims will be receive no compensation simply because they weren't abused by anyone that Ruairi Quinn and his atheistic Marxian pals can use in their kulturkampf against Christianity.
The Supreme Court of the Republic of Ireland, packed as it is with atheistic Marxians and conflict theory feminists appointed by Ireland's anti Catholic governments and their attendant shadowy quasi satanic freemasonic elites in the upper echelons of the Civil Service, has once more upheld the government's refusal to pay any compensation to the 99.99 percent of sex abuse victims, the vast preponderance of all victims, the victims who have suffered the most grievous and egregious forms of abuse in the current tidal wave of sexual incontinence engulfing our country as a result of atheism culture, upheld the non payment of any restitution to those who have suffered the most, upheld this twisted perversion of jurisprudence, upheld it I say, simply because those 9999 victims out of every 10,000 weren't abused by any with any connection to the Catholic Church.
You know what the monument to sex abuse victims should be.
It should be a statue of Ruair f--king Quinn french kissing feminist atheist anti Catholic Judge Yvonne Murphy.
With a statue of President Michael D Higgins, (against whom there is an unspecified unrefuted and uninvestigated sex abuse allegation), lurking in the background.
Now there's a sex abuse monument we could all sign up to.
I mean one that accurately portrays the vileness of the evils we face.

sex and savagery in modern ireland


Evening over the city.
Ireland's greatest living lecher sitting in a tram.
Opposite him sits a slim tired looking girl with dark hair.
She might be a shop girl on her way home.
I glance at her.
She has a certain sensual je ne sais quoi.
Presently I notice she has made a moue with her lips.
They move about a bit.
The effect is quite dramatic.
Now they've moved over to the other side of her face.
The pout is more extreme.
Her tongue moistens the lower lip.
I try to keep my monitoring of the situation discreet.
Now she moistens her upper lip.
Her mouth is deliciously curved.
Her lips move as if forming words.
Now she's pouting again.
Good Lord.
Our eyes meet.
I see in her gaze a flash, not of desire, but of pain.
A thought strikes me.
I must speak.
"You've got a mouth ulcer, haven't you?" I ask wearily.
"Yes," she replies. "It's killing me."
Interestingly enough bold readers, I think it nearly killed me too.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

macheelers

A night of strange and perturbed dreams.
Elaine from the old Seinfeld TV series came to me.
She was the charming ingenue I remembered of old, not the eejit who made that awful New Adventures Of Old Christine crapola.
"Heelers," she said.
"Yes Elaine," I answered sounding more like George from Seinfeld than I might have liked.
"Heelers you've been calling lots of people bald," said she.
"No I haven't," sez me.
"You've referred to the pisspoor Leinster Leader sports writer Paul O'Meara as Baldy Meara."
"That's one."
"You regularly call Irish Nazi Reeducation Minister Ruari Quinn, Baldy Quinn."
"Okay just those two."
"You called a street thug Muslim on O'Connell Street, a little Baldy Muslim bollox the other day."
"That doesn't count. That was under my breath. I wasn't trying to commit suicide."
"Heelers do you see the irony here?"
"No."
"You're calling all these people bald."
"So?"
"You're bald."
I woke in a cold sweat.
What can it all mean?
God, I love her.

snakes on a plane

The United Nations secretly organises a conference between Iran's Supreme Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini and three other influential religious leaders.
The idea is that the other religious leaders will discreetly prevail upon Iran without any loss of face to end its plans to develope and detonate atomic weapons in Israel and in Western Europe.
The three religious leaders joining Ayatollah Khomeini for the hush hush conference are the Dalai Llama from Tibet, the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh from India, and Archbishop Diarmuid Martin from Ireland.
The discussions are so ultra secret that they are held on a plane flying in international airspace.
There is cabin crew.
In fact so secret are the talks that there is no one else on board at all except the pilot.
Things get off to a brisk start.
"If you abandon your nuclear weapons you will be an icon of peace to all humanity," promises the Dalai Llama.
"If you abandon your nuclear weapons you will be a love object for thousands of Hindu babes whom I will personally send to your palace," pledges the Bhagwan.
"If you abandon your nuclear weapons I er, I emm, er, well I won't accuse you of child abuse," urges Archbishop Diarmuid Martin lamely.
The Ayatollah leans back in his chair thoughtfully.
At that moment the plane goes into a steep dive.
The pilot comes on the intercom.
"We're going down," he screams calmly. "We've gotta lose weight or we all die."
The great religious leaders scramble to open the cabin door and throw every moveable object from the plane.
A howling gale buffets them as they chuck chairs, lights and fittings through the door of the now depressurised cabin.
"That's good," screams the pilot helpfully over the intercom. "But it's not enough."
The four great religionists look at one another.
There's nothing left to get rid of.
The Dalai Llama is the first to step forward.
"Long live the peaceful philosophy of Buddha," he cries and leaps from the plane.
"We're still going down," screams the pilot.
The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh steps to the door.
"Long live the religion of free love," he intones and jumps into the void.
"Still not enough," screams the pilot.
The Ayatollah Khomeini steps to the door.
"Long live the Catholic Church," he roars and he chucks out Archbishop Diarmuid Martin.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

confucius he say

The bankrupt anti Catholic Evening Herald, part of the bankrupt anti Catholic Independent Newspapers group, which is incidentally the most bankrupt anti Catholic newspaper publisher in Europe, has been running a series of articles about the daily violence on Dublin's kill a minute Luas tram system.
Why it's almost like they've been reading my blog.
I say it here.
It comes out there.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

takako

Met Takako for goodbyes in Starbucks on Westmoreland Street.
Her pretty poignant face took on an unusually formal seriousness as she handed me a parting gift.
It's a scroll with traditional Japanese calligraphy, drawn by her Mother.
I gave her a New Testament Bible.
I'd written on the fly leaf: "May this Bible touch your heart as you have touched mine."
After coffees we strolled up O'Connell Street where I was to catch a tram out of the city.
She faced me.
Right that moment, Ireland sent the gentlest kindest rain as we looked at each other.
"I don't mind the rain," said she.
"I like it," said me.
The universe hiding behind such trivia.
Takako is the last of the girls of Summer.
They were a lovely bunch.
Best ever.
That glorious Sicilian, Chiara Luce.
The little sensual sexpot from Brittany, Lorraine Blanchard.
The class French bird from Paris, Margaux De La Tour.
Ah.
I'm britishdiaristing again.
I've never seen the like.
All gone.
Takako too.
We parted.
The ghost of Don Henley appeared beside me.
He began to sing his best song.
You know. The poetic one.
Rare in pop music to actually find poetry.
And the video is good too.
Whoever made the video was an artist.
Even if they did rip off Leni Riefenstahl.
The lyrics do get a bit silly but the whole thing is still pure poetry.
Don Henley sang:

"Out on the road today
I saw a death's head sticker on a cadillac
A little voice inside my head
Said don't look back you can never look back"

I did look back though.
To see a pretty girl vanishing jnto the rain up O'Connell Street.

the silence of the lamb

Much ado in the anti Catholic Irish Times and anti Catholic Irish Independent about the Pope's decision to silence Father Brian Darcy.
All week I've been listening to Father Brian Darcy on television and radio complaining in his inimitable nasal whine about the evil repressive conservative right wing Pope's silencing of him.
Now I've just sat through another hour and a half of him on anti Catholic broadcaster RTE's flagship chatshow programme.
Look.
I'm sure he's a nice guy.
But the whine.
Oh for God's sake.
The whine.
It's unbearable.
I gotta tell you folks.
I dread to think what Father Brian Darcy would sound like if he hadn't been silenced.

the litany of disasters

The record in government of Ireland's anti Catholic Fine Gael Labour Party combo government after six months in office...

1.Fine Gael and Labour have closed Ireland's embassy to the Vatican.

2. Prime Minister Enda Kenny, a weak vacuous vapid hairstyle of a man, has falsely accused the Vatican of obstructing Irish sex abuse enquiries. When challenged to substantiate his claim, Enda Kenny at first refused to answer. Later through a spokesman he announced: "I wasn't talking about any specific case." Yet he had told a very specific and very monstrous lie.

3. Education Minister atheistic Marxian Ruairi Quinn of the Labour Party has endeavoured to seize control of Catholic secondary schools. He has been assisted in this project from within the Catholic Church by Archbishop Diarmuid Martin whom I have suggested is a Soviet era infiltrator of the Church.

4. Justice Minister Alan Shatter of Fine Gael has criminalised the Catholic sacrament of Confession, passing legislation that seeks to compel priests to reveal what Catholics confess to them. Not even Hitler or Stalin or Chairman Mao attempted this sort of thing.

5. Justice Minister Alan Shatter of Fine Gael turned the corrupt Irish police force, styled ironically An Garda Siochana, or Guardians of the Peace, loose on turf cutters who had dared to cut turf from bogs near their homes where they had enjoyed turf cutting rights for generations but whose turf cutting Alan Shatter now deems to be in contravention of some European Union pseudo environmental ruling.

6. Justice Minister Alan Shatter of Fine Gael used drone aircraft to spy on turf cutters.

7. Fine Gael and Labour have continued to nationalise bankrupt banks at public expense, moving the Irish economy a step closer to full sovietisation. Most disquietingly, one of the bankrupt gangster banks that Fine Gael and Labour have purchased with money borrowed against the nation, is Allied Irish Bank, on whose board Lochlainn Quinn, a brother of atheistic Marxian Education Minister Ruairi Quinn, sits. Neither Lochlainn Quinn or his brother atheistic Marxian Justice Minister Ruairi Quinn are contributing anything to the ten million Euros which the Fine Gael Labour Combo government have borrowed to purchase this worthless bankrupt gangster bank. Lochlainn Quinn is keeping the 30 million Euro vineyard in France which he purchased a few years ago from the ridiculously excessive remuneration Allied Irish Bank was paying him to wax board room chairs with his arse.

8. Having been elected to repudiate the kleptocracy of the outgoing treasonous Fianna Fail government, Fine Gael and Labour instead opted to uphold and extend this kleptocracy, continuing to pour money into the collapsed Fianna Fail gangster bank, styled Anglo Irish Bank. The head of Anglo Irish Bank is Alan Dukes a former leader of Fine Gael.

9. Fine Gael and Labour continue to provide public money to pay eight staff members at worthless collapsed gangster bank Anglo Irish Bank, more than 300,000 Euro each per year. Anglo is the bank that single handedly collapsed the Irish economy. It was treasonously bailed out by now deceased Fianna Fail Finance Minister Brian Lenihan. Brian Lenihan's wife is Circuit Court Judge Patricia Ryan. What chance have we of justice in these matters when the single greatest thief in the history of our nation has a wife who is a Circuit Court judge?

10. Fine Gael and Labour continue to provide public money to pay sixteen other people at worthless collapsed gangster bank Anglo wages of 299,000 each per year.

11. Fine Gael and Labour continue to provide public money to pay no less than 119 people at worthless collapsed gangster bank Anglo wages of 199,000 each per year.

12. Fine Gael and Labour continue to provide public money to pay no less than 861 worthless bankers at worthless corrupt gangster bank Allied Irish Bank, on whose Board Lochlainn Quinn brother of atheistic Marxian Labour Party Education Minister Ruairi Quinn sits, annual wages of over 100,000 Euro each per year.

13. Sixty six corrupt property developers who colluded with Ireland's main banks in an illegal attempt to corner the property market, have been retained by Fine Gael and Labour as employees of the National Assets Management Agency, on salaries above 100,000 Euro each per year. These 66 corrupt property developers, who were unable or unwilling to pay for the properties they purchased, and unable or unwilling, to repay the corrupt banks the money they had corruptly borrowed to purchase those properties, have been retained on executive salaries as full time employees by the Agency that was set up to seize their properties. You couldn't make this up.

14. Fine Gael and Labour have packed the Judiciary with their sons, daughters, first cousins, Uncle Freds, friends, family and supporters.

15. Pharmacies in Ireland have been permitted to quietly begin distributing abortion pills to children.

16. Justice Minister Alan Shatter refused to allow the Irish police force to take part in ceremonies at an international Catholic gathering in Dublin last month.

17. Education Minister Ruairi Quinn, brother of Allied Irish Banks board member vineyard owner Lochlainn Quinn, has visited ageing priests and nuns to demand that their Religious Orders stump up more cash for a selected group of sex abuse victims ie, the tiny minority of victims who were abused by an employee of the Catholic Church.

18. The Fine Gael Labour government continues to refuse to pay any compensation to the 99.99 percent of sex abuse victims who were not abused by an employee of the Catholic Church.

19. Fine Gael Environment Minister Phil Hogan has been accused of sexually harassing an elderly lady at a golf do. The government has taken no action against him.

20. Fine Gael Finance Minister Michael Noonan has stated: "I feel sorry for Sean Quinn." Sean Quinn is a super thief with gangland and terrorist connections, who played a key role in the organised burglarisation of Anglo Irish Bank. Sean Quinn and his family assisted Anglo Irish Bank's corrupt chief executive Sean Fitzpatrick in robbing his own bank, by accepting multi billion dollar loans from him which they never intended to repay. Fitzpatrick was giving himself and other bank staff similar billion dollar loans. It is these organised burglary loans that now deceased treasonous Fianna Fail Finance Minister Brian Lenihan looted the treasury to repay. Fine Gael has followed through on Lenihan's criminal actions by insisting that we have all signed up to repaying the money thieved from Anglo Irish Bank by its own staff. Fine Gael Finance Minister Michael Noonan's statement to wit, "I feel sorry for Sean Quinn," would render him unemployable as a government minister in any other country on earth.

21. On Saint Patrick's Day, Prime Minister Enda Kenny, a weak vacuous oh you know, allowed himself to be photographed with super thief Denis O'Brien at the Stock Exchange in New York. White collar gangster Denis O'Brien corruptly obtained mobile phone licences dirt cheap in Ireland by bribing gangster Michael Lowry a corrupt former Fine Gael government Minister. The licences were given to Lowry for a few million quid when they were in fact worth billions. Enda Kenny, in permitting himself to be photographed with Denis O'Brien, would have disqualified himself from office in any other country on earth.

22. Fine Gael and Labour have refused to take action against Denis O'Brien after a tribunal of enquiry which sat for years and cost the country hundreds of millions, ruled that Denis O'Brien is corrupt pond scum. Instead Denis O'Brien has been permitted to remain at liberty, announcing grandly : "I reject the findings of the tribunal." In any other country on earth, this would lead to a violent overthrow of the government.

23. While corrupt super thief Denis O'Brien, whose crime was to rob the nation of thousands of millions of Euro, remains at large, Fine Gael and Labour Party Judges have imprisoned a hardworking family man called Paul Begley for six years over a quarrel with the tax man. Mr Begley had been paying back the money the tax authorities claim he owes over his importation of garlice. Judge Liberal jailed him anyway.

24. Fine Gael Health Minister James Reilly is seeking to formally legalise abortion.

25. Fine Gael Health Minister James Reilly is also a tax cheat. Unlike Mr Paul Begley his evasions are monstrous, wilful and unrepented. In view of his tax evasion activities, in any other country on earth James Reilly could not retain a place as a government minister.

26. Fine Gael and Labour continue to use public money to pay staff at collapsed gangster bank Permanent TSB wages of over 100,000 per year each.

27. Having promised not to pay their personal advisors more than 90,000 Euro per year, a figure still much too high for professional talkers in a bankrupt country, Fine Gael and Labour have blithely proceeded to pay their personal advisors 220,000 Euro per year each, plus bonuses, plus an inflated pension entitlement, plus twelve months holiday a year. Well they don't get twelve months holiday. But let's face it. They don't actually do any work either.

28. Folks, these people aren't going to stop until we stop them.

poem for the new baby

the years mount up
but do not gallop off
not yet though soon they'll run amok
tonight we are between time
between destiny darkness fortune
and luck
i want to give you a gift
something that rhymes
but the only theme i can think of
is an old gag along familiar lines
about the world being at war the day you were born
it is you know
it always was
and it will be so in the morn
history itself is a storm
of souls against the infinite
but the thought rings too violent
for the poem i want
and i am left
with something half achieved
something more prose than poem
inspiration flees
soon no more words will come
the jungle chirrup
of fledgelings in the hedgerow
draws my eyes to the window
the darkness pulses
as a billion times before
into something old
something new
something murky pure

grey light
becoming white light
as the firstlings of the dawn
drink the night

Monday, July 23, 2012

the diarists

Bought a book in Chapters near O'Connell Street.
It's an anthology featuring extracts from Brit diarists over the past five hundred years.
As per usual I find myself ordinately influenced by the various contributors.
I am too suggestible.
Many of the entries feature a curiously British and vaguely joyless eroticism.
Denton Welch homosexualling around London.
Good old Denton.
My feminist cousin Pauline used to always give me a Denton Welch book whenever she thought I was getting too confident in my masculinity.
He's still got  it.
Samuel Pepys coyly switching into French or Spanish for the indiscrete bits.
A chap called George Gissing meditating on his wife who seems to be the absolute beyotch of 1898 dear.
Elias Ashmole writing about the pustules on his bum in 1686.
It's all quite paradoxically life affirming, joyless or not.
And there is joy too.
A certain Joan Wyndham writing about a middle aged man trying to shock her in the 1940's, and she excitedly telling him to go ahead, and then how disappointed she felt when he merely asked her could he pee in her sink, and she laughing herself silly, and he annoyed that she wasn't shocked.
From her other extracts, I'd say Joan Wyndham could drone for England, but this bit was elevated prose.
And John Wesley the founder of a Protestant sect, proving unusually likeable and surprisingly Christian, visiting condemned prisoners and seeing them safely home.
This afternoon I was noticing everything through the lens of the diarists.
Their styles and voices are with me now.
It's hard to write as myself.
On the tram into town I sat opposite a rather appealing blonde girl.
A copy of Fifty Shades Of Grey peeped from her handbag.
(Samuel Peeped? - Ed note)
Fifty Shades of Grey is a domination porno concoction currently being hyped to the nines by the publishing companies.
They're apparently trying to debauch the middle classes.
They'll repent at leisure.
This sort of thing can achieve a short term sensation but overall I feel sure it causes people to read less.
I think it's likenable to the actions of the film companies and the music promoters.
Their most exploitative sensationalisms produce short term profits and long term bankruptcy.
Each Lady Gaga, or Rianna, or mindlessly marketed Hollywood cinematic explosion fest merely contributes to a sort of burning out, a moral debasement, of the popular imagination.
A pornogrification.
Lust is ueseless.
The eye grows tired.
Her promising reading material notwithstanding, the blonde on the tram remained demure all the way into town, not so much as favouring me with the merest ghost of a sado masochistic leer.
Later this evening, I sat opposite a black lady in Starbucks of Dawson Street.
She was wearing very high heels and a very short skirt.
Her beauty was simple and confident.
Her splendid form positively undulated as I sat down.
Lovely lovely eyes.
Eyebrows hairier than a werewolf.
With a wary optimism I saw she was reading Fifty Shades Of Grey.
My optimism increased as she shot me a dangerous look and gave a surreptitious jiggle.
In fact she kept up the jiggling in a most friendly manner in my general direction for about an hour.
Occasionally varying the pace to absent mindedly stroke her legs, just to remind herself they were there perhaps.
The only intermission came when the Muslim waiter arrived in our immediate vicinity and banged about our tables for about ten minutes on the pretext of tidying up.
I suppose she'd inadvertently worked him into a state too from across the cafe, and he needed to work off his frustrations with a bit of chair scraping and table wiping.
She ceased her ministrations while he was present.
Women are exquisite, adaptable and indeed amazing creatures, but no woman alive can continue an onanistic flirtation while a Muslim is banging tables at her shoulder.
It breaks the spell.
When the Muslim retired, the black lady resumed her sensual dance with me.
I suppose I might have actually talked to her.
It didn't happen.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

caoineadh aoife o'leary

this jewel woman
i did not see
when close
now gone
look look
the brightness

this day we held
each to each
until
the holding
being strange
was farewell