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, September 22, 2012

the dream

The dream moved seamlessly from scene to scene without narrative interruption.
I was in a hospital.
The place was crowded with school children on their lunch break.
The school children were talking in pejorative terms about Muslims.
I felt a sudden sense of concern.
The thought came to me: "I hope I didn't cause them to think like that."
The Dad was in the hospital.
He was sick.
I was looking after him.
In the dream I had no conscious knowledge that he has already died.
My sister Marie was there too.
She hasn't died, thank God, either in my dreams or reality.
In the dream she was looking after the Dad with me.
Mother Teresa of Calcutta wandered by up the corridor, hale and hearty and haggish.
A doctor took me to one side.
He looked at me gravely.
Now I realised I had taken medical tests myself for some illness and was about to receive the result.
The doctor told me I was dying of cancer and that there was no hope of successful treatment.
I was thinking: "How will I write about this on the blog?"
I thought: "Well I could have the doctor just shake his head without saying anything."
Then I thought: "No, can't do that. Doctor Barn would know well that no doctor tells you you're dying by shaking his head at you."
Now the Mammy was there.
She was in perfect health.
I had no memory in the dream that she has already died.
In the dream she was nursing me.
The realisation became very strong that I would soon be facing death.
I was aware of three regrets in my life.
Firstly, that I had spoken harshly of Muslims.
Secondly, that I had not written any books.
Thirdly, that I had not visited the sick.
I looked into my heart.
I was sure I should have a thousand regrets.
I sifted my own heart.
Fully sure I was dying, these three were my only regrets.
Steve McQueen was in the hospice playing football with some other cancer patients.
I had no awareness in the dream that Steve McQueen was already dead.
Nor did I recall that I had suspected from his connection with the Polanskis that he had engaged in devil worship while alive.
He sent me a few passes of the ball to include me in their game.
I kept thinking: "Why is he sending me such easy passes? I've just been diagnosed. I haven't gotten weak yet."
But I couldn't reach any of his passes.
Then I awoke.
I would have thought it was a mystical dream, except for the fact that in the dream I mixed up Steve McQueen with Gene Wilder, and Steve McQueen seemed to be mixed up about being Gene Wilder too.
And there was some nonsense talk about Steve McQueen getting an Oscar for a film called Gulliver which rather spoiled the chances that this was anything other than my mind acting the sack.
The realisation of my three regrets remained beautiful to me after I awoke.
And I was thrilled to see the Mam and Dad.
And Mother Teresa was looking well.
And I'm rather happy that if Steve McQueen is making guest appearances in my dreams, he probably wasn't a devil worshipper.

Friday, September 21, 2012

heeler the peelers fashion tips for the modern girl

Girls with gnarly toes should not wear open topped sandals.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

considerations of medjugorje

According to my sources, the Kildare Gaelic footballer Jack Donnelly carried a knee injury from his playing days for several decades.
He went on pilgrimage to the Marian shrine Medjugorje.
On the mountain, his knee gave an ominous click.
He thought: "I'm in trouble now but at least I have an appointment with the Specialist when I get home."
He walked down the mountain.
He has never needed to see a doctor or specialist from that day to this.

blue shirts on the reek

Members of the atheistic abortionist anti Catholic Fine Gael party climbed Saint Patrick's holy mountain in Mayo last week.
It was a photo op.
Nothing more.
If only someone had screamed "Nazis on the reek," or some such thing.
I screamed it.
In my front room.
No one heard me.
Fine Gael recently closed Ireland's embassy to the Vatican and is moving ahead with legislation to facilitate the murder of unborn children in this country.
At the same time the Pharmaceutical Union of Ireland has been permitted to issue an unprecedented edict attempting to compel pharmacies to dispense abortion pills.
It's already here.
Abortion in a pill.
The pharmacies are already doing it.
Helping little teenage girls to kill their unborn children.
No questions asked.
There's more.
Fine Gael Justice Gauleiter Alan Shatter has recently introduced a law which will allow him and his ilk to retrospectively ascribe guilt to anyone whom they deem to have been at any time informed of a child sex abuse allegation and whom they also deem not to have gone to the police with it.
That's the new law.
The whole thing.
Alan Shatter and his ilk will be able to use the new law to casually criminalise the entire population of Ireland.
But they won't criminalise the entire population.
They will only seek to criminalise a generation of ageing Catholic Bishops with purely contrived and maliciously invented connotations of wrong doing.
The Bishops will be criminalised for not handling sex abuse allegations thirty years ago, the way Alan Shatter and his ilk say they should be handled today.
The rest of us will be safe.
As long as we don't in any way impede the ambitions of those liberal atheisic abortionist Marxians who rule us from the shadows of the Civil Service and from parliament.
And as long as we are not ourselves an unborn child.
Oh yes.
We'll be quite safe.
As long as we're not a Bishop, or a baby, or a Christian.
Now bear in mind that Alan Shatter and his ilk remain utterly inactive on the 300 deaths (and counting) of children in State care over the past twenty years.
The Health Boards now admit there are at least 12 children who meet their demise in Health Board care every year.
This is the figure they admit to.
The real figure will be higher.
And Alan Shatter and his ilk remain utterly inactive on the 99.00 percent of child abuse victims who are abused by someone with no connection to the Catholic Church.
Here is the news.
No family in Ireland has been untouched by sex abuse.
Most of us choose to handle any such situation discreetly.
The entire population would be guilty under the Shatter definition of concealment of sex abuse.
All of us.
The whole country could be jailed.
But he's only after Catholic priests, nuns and Bishops.
Alan Shatter and Fine Gael solely wish to target that tiny percentage of sex abuse cases where the culprit was an employee of the Catholic Church and where a Bishop can be alleged to have been told of the allegation.
Alan Shatter is targetting 0.01 percent of sex abuse cases by contriving attenuated criminality for people who have done nothing wrong, and Alan Shatter is at precisely the same time ignoring the victims and those who were told about their victimhood in the 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases (the most serious, violent and murderous ones) that have no connection to any employee of the Catholic Church.
Welcome to the Fourth Reich folks.
The suntan is free.
The Catholics are burning.
And it's a stone groove.
Es lebe Deutschlund.
Es lebe Alan Shatter.
Es lebe the abortionist Fine Gael Labour Party coalition government.
Ein Reich.
Ein Volk.
Ein Enda Kenny.
Sieg Fine Gael.
Sieg Labour.
Sieg Abortions.
Jawohl Mein General.
Nothing can stop us now.
Nyah ha ha G Force.
Ein most bigoted collection of brain dead atheistic sovietising Nazi scheisskopfen in Western Europe.
I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

kates boobs

Opinion: I think the staff and management at the bankrupt Irish edition of the bankrupt Daily Star newspaper have seriously under estimated the strength of British feeling on the publication of topless pictures of the wife of Prince William. I think they will repent at leisure. The intervention of  Seamus Dooley of the National Union of Journalists all but seals their fate.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

the bells the bells

Exiting the Ilac Shopping Centre in Dublin.
The clangour of the toilet smoke alarm courtesy of Smokie The Sinister Oriental Toilet Attendant still ringing in my ears.
In the corridor I become aware of a woman passing me.
I look closer.
It is Amal Al Idrissi Ouzagagh.
Her family are clan cousins of the Prophet Muhammed.
Boy did I get close.
As she sees me, she whips up her yashmak and hurries past.
Now I'm not saying Amal is involved with the Charlie Chan toilet attendant's bell ringing activities.
I've seen the Muslims who signal to him as I enter the jax.
They're street Mussies from the Black Jackets gang.
Amal would probably be a bit too classy for them.
But I don't care what you say folks.
That bitch is definitely a spy.

keeping a breast of things

Prince Philip lowered his newspaper.
"Our Kate is in trouble," he pronounced sagely and not a little roguishly.
Queen Elizabeth The Second sniffed.
"She's done nothing wrong," said the Queen.
"You don't think she's been a little indiscreet?" prodded the Prince.
"She is entitled to her privacy just like anyone else." insisted the Queen.
"But disporting herself nude in public Queenie?" challenged the Prince.
"She has a divine right," said the Queen.
"She has a divine left too," mused Prince Philip.
The Queen gently lowered her head into her hands.
"Oh Pheeleep," she murmured, "you've done it again."
Behind them a footman discreetly dropped a tray of tea things with a loud crash among the rhodedendrons.