The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Friday, December 07, 2012

come back bette davis all is forgiven

Ireland's greatest living poet giving a talk on poetry to a writer's group in the town of Naas.
Outside it's winter.
His style of exposition is anecdotal with occasional smidges of maniacal method acting and extracts from his own work thrown in.
It's in your face.
But in a good way.
In any public performance, I am always desperate to reach my audience, to surprise them, to let em know they're in a ball game.
They come to hear me talk. They think they know the limits and conventions of what I'm going to say and do. And I like to bring them somewhere else.
Whether they want to come or not.
So I'm reaching out.
Kneeling before the better looking ones.
I've chanced a grab at one woman's collar in the front row and hissed into her face a la the promo for the old Patrick Swayze Demi Moore Whoopi Goldberg film Ghost: "You will believe."
And so it goes.
At the moment I'm pausing for breath.
The audience still seems a little placid.
I am tempted to remove all my clothing as had been suggested to me by American expatriate musician Alan Massie who lives in Greece, when I asked him how on earth I could surprise audiences who already know everything I can do.
Mr Massie claimed the poet Alan Ginsberg had once been asked by an audience member: "How much should a poet show of himself?" And that Alan Ginsberg had immediately stripped off and replied: "This much."
If my own audience tonight doesn't start to look more impressed they're going to find themselves contemplating a Heelers' willie.
I'm just saying is all.
Between valiant attempts to break on through to the other side, I recount stories from my life.
Just trying to get their guard down again.
Just trying to bring them into the unseen world.
(Wot you talking about Guv? - Ed note)
"My feminist cousin Pauline has an opinion about poetry," I venture.
I am interrupted by a firm faced British lady at the back who has raised her hand.
"Is that Pauline Fagan?" enquires she.
The noble Heelers looks a tad surprised.
Well done Pauline, he's thinking, you're famous.
Seeing my look of confusion the lady at the back hastens to shed some light.
"We're a feminist writers group," she explains.
I smile.
But not as Muslims smile.
More like a very self indulgent wolf on the verge of exploring his limits with some unsuspecting bints, I mean sheep.
"Fasten your seatbelts," I tell the fembos. "We may be in for a bumpy ride."

it's only rock and roll

Flicking through the channels on the sexevision.
I discover an all music channel called MTV.
How quaint.
Here's larks, thinks I.
The channel is playing a music video from the 1980's by a group called Survivor. I knew them Horatio. This was their biggest hit. The theme tune to the film Rocky Three. Its title is Eye Of The Tiger. Even now it seems oddly presicient to my wounded spirit.
Lead singer Seamus Guevara sings;

"Rising up
Back on the street
Got a thirty year old Chinese trophy wife
Got a corrupt corporate monopoly
Shut down the News Of The World
But now I'm back on my feet
Just an 87 year old robber baron with a will to survive

Because it's the Eye Of The Murdocks
It's the thrill of the fight
Rising up from the challenge of our rivals
It's libelling Jimmy Savile
To distract from the Leveson Enquiry
Or paying paparazzi to photograph Princess Diana dying in a car crash
(After they ran her off the road)
It's vomitous
It's evil
It's vile
Eye of the Murdocks

ner ner ner
ner ner nernnnnn

Face to face
I'm Number One
I own the Times of London
Sky News, Fox and the Sun
Bought them all with loans from idiot gangster banks
I'm just a thief with the will to survive

Because it's the Eye Of The Murdocks
It's subverting the police
Or having Rebecca Wade bed the British Prime Minister
It's hacking into murdered school girls' mobile phones
And blackmailing elected MP's
To put a News Corp sign above Westminster

Because you know there is absolutely nothing we won't do
Eye Of The Murdocks

Ner ner ner
Ner ner nerrrnnnnn

Eye Of The Murdocks

Ner ner ner
Ner ner ner
Ner ner nerrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnn

Eye Of The Murdocks

Ner ner ner
Ner ner ner
Ner ner nernnnnnn"

Thursday, December 06, 2012

box watching

Surfing through the music channels on the sexevision.
It's all dross.
Then I come upon the performer who styles herself Cher singing a new version of her old hit Gypsies, Tramps And Thieves.
This has something.
The song goes:

"Born in the back of a travelling mosque
My Daddy used to Jihad for the fun of it
Grampa'd do whatever he could
Kill a coupla schoolgirls
Shed a coupla million gallons of innocent Jewish blood

Murdering Muslim Jihadis
You'd hear them all the people of the villages called us
Murdering Muslim Jihadis
But as the day was going down
Their pseudo elites would gather round
And lay free passports down

Osama arrived on Nine Eleven
With his cool Arabian style
Sing months later we're Mussies in trouble
And we haven't seen him for a while
No we haven't seen him for a while
No no
(Because he was hiding in Pakistan)

Hitched up the wagon to Alamo Bay
Truck bombing churches all along the way
Osama was 50
I was twennny wunnnnn
I shot dead 13 soldiers at Fort Hood
oh and an unborn child
Cos you're never too young to be killed by a Mujahideen

Mudering Muslim Jihadis
You'd hear them all  the people of the villages called us
Murdering Muslim Jihadis
But everynight when the day was going down
Their pseudo elites gathered round
And laid free passports down

Born in the back of a travelling mosque
Her Daddy used to Jihad for the grenades they'd toss
Grampa'd do whatever he could
Bribe a coupla immigration officers
Shed a coupla million gallons of Western infidel blood

Murdering Muslim Jihadis
You'd hear them all the people of the Free World called us
Murdering Muslim Jihadis
But everynight as the day was going down
Their fervourless corrupt politicians gathered round
And laid free passports down." 

getting through the recession with uncle jayums

Cutting my own hair in front of the mirror.
The ghost of F Scott Fitzgerald appears.
He muses aloud by way of commentary: "After cutting his own hair, Heelers knew his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
"Shut up F Scott," I retort, "I'm not in the mood."
I sounded a bit like Cartman from the opprobrious television cartoon Southpark.

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

ireland's second greatest ever poet in love

WB Yeats looked into the lambent eyes of Maud Gonne.
He groped desperately for a chat up line that might work.
"Many loved you," he breathed, "with love both false and true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you."
"Oh goody," cried Maud Gonne clapping her hands. "Who is he?"

young heelers

The dulcet winter of 1981.
The day after my granny's funeral.
On the quad of Newbridge College a kid called Brian Collins beetles up to the kid who would later become Ireland's greatest living poet.
"I'm sorry about your grandmother," says Brian Collins.
"Why?" sez me. "Did you kill her?"

Monday, December 03, 2012

the amanda knox family xmas funtime revels special

"Oh mercy no. Amanda pleeeeeeeeeeese. No. Help. Oh mercy. Please. Oh why meeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Amaaaannda. Noooooooooooo. Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Etc etc."

heeler the peelers fashion tips for the modern girl

A cursed and infernal device spawned from the darkest pit of hell is the bobble hat.

the super soaraway phone tapping police bribing politician subverting naked lady publishing jimmy savile slandering rupert murdock owned sun newspaper's campaign against cyber bullying

The Sun Newspaper, has no credibility for its self styled campaign against internet bullying. The Sun Newspaper is the most arbitrarily bigotedly bullyingly virulent casually slanderous destroyer of people and people's reputations in Western Europe. The Sun Newspaper, like the Irish Independent and the Daily Mail who are engaged in similar self promoting corporate image anti campaigns,is running its anti internet bullying campaign merely because it wishes to promote censorship of the internet whose untramelled freedom of speech it regards as a threat to its own business model.


Footnote: If any gentle readers agree with me on these matters and wish to withdraw their consent from what the Sun and the other morally and financially bankrupt media groups have been doing to Jimmy Savile et al, you should stop allowing Rupert Murdock to take monthly deductions from your bank accounts to pay Sky Television's worthless subscription fees. Cancel your subscriptions to Rupert Murdock's Sky Channel. That'll get their attention. They'll feel that. Everything else is just talk.

the ghost and the darkness

Driving through the maelstrom of an Irish winter. My little car careening along the winding roads of the west. I am heading to the country house of an English lawyer friend whose name is Fortescue Smythe. Rain and wind and desolation. Blackest night. My thoughts match the mood of the elements. Here's what I'm thinking. Could I have been wrong? To defend Jimmy Savile? What if I was defending the indefensible? What if Rupert Murdock's Sun newspaper and the bankrupt Daily Mirror and the viewerless ITV and the bankrupt hind tit Me Too criminally owned Irish newspapers, what if they had all been right to try to ruin him from beyond the grave by paying dubious characters of low morals to impugn his integrity? What if they were right to vitiate his life and life's work and his family's dignity in a media show trial conducted by scoundrels? What if they were right and I was wrong? My car rounded a bend. There was another car in the middle of the road on its roof. Three men stood around the car frantically manipulating it. It was the oddest thing. Suddenly I was in a different universe. The rain still poured down. The elements howled. But I was in a new reality. I couldn't see any blood or anybody injured in the car. Very quickly something in the attitude of the three men caused me to frown. They were waving me on. And I knew. The men were hoodlums. I registered that almost immediately. I slowed and locked my door. I was taking in as much as I could and thinking about my options. The three men kept gesturing at me to drive on. They manually swung the car with its roof as an axle so that its bonnet no longer even partially blocked my passage. I drove through without a backward glance. About two minutes later I was at Fortescue's house. He was on the phone when I knocked. "My wife," he explained. "She's in Bolivia. Make yourself comfortable." "I need to use your phone." "You what?" "There's an accident about half a kilometre up the road. I need to call the cops." "Anybody hurt?" "I didn't see anyone hurt. There were three men there. One vehicle. A car. On its roof. I thought the men were gangsters." "Then leave it." "You know I can't do that." The Brit sighed. "I'm on the phone to my wife... She's in Bolivia," he repeated earnestly. "Have you got a mobile?" sez me. He pointed to it and I rang the cops. And that was that. The three men and their crashed car passed from my reality. The universe returned to what passes for normal down my way. When Fortescue finished on the phone to his wife, he served up a repast and we talked about old times. Nothing else happened of note that evening except the following inconsequential piece of conversation with mein host. "Heelers," he said, "can you keep a secret?" "Yes," I told him. "I'd need your word of honour," quoth he. "My yes means yes and my no means no," sez me. "I'd need your word of honour that you wouldn't write about this on The Heelers Diaries," insisted Fortescue. "Well if I say I won't do it, I won't do it," I answered. Fortescue took a breath. He seemed to be measuring his every word and thought. "You may have made a good call about Jimmy Savile," he said slowly and meditatively. "I had a visitor at my office in London last week. It was one of my clients. A woman. From a troubled background. Not entirely stable. She wouldn't be much good in the witness box. She'd been a pupil at that school for troubled teenagers where some of the women who are accusing Jimmy Savile of molestation were students. She knows them. She says she doesn't believe it's true. She remembers him coming to the school and she maintains there were never even the slightest rumours of misbehaviour afterwards. Everyone was just delighted to see him. Each and every time he visited. She says one of the girls wasn't even there during the years Jimmy Savile visited. She also says she thinks they've been planning this since 2007. And she says that the newspapers are now ringing her continuously asking her to make statements against Jimmy Savile but she doesn't want to have anything to do with it. What do you make of that?" "Fortescue," I cried. "Heelers," said he. "You can't ask me not to publish this," I pleaded earnestly. "You would be betraying my trust and losing my friendship," said he. "But Fortescue. A man is being destroyed. Before the eyes of the world. For no other reason than the profit motive of scoundrels. Think of his family and his relatives. We have an opportunity to do something about it. You couldn't expect me to keep silent. You couldn't." "No." "Think of our duty Fortescue. You and me. Our duty to the truth." "Heelers, you gave me your word." "You thought I was serious about that?"

an open letter to savita's husband

Official statistics for deaths in childbirth. Ireland: Six women die in childbirth out of every 100,000 who give birth.
England: (The abortion capital of Europe) Twelve women die out of every 100,000 who give birth.
India: (The abortion and suttee capital of the world) Two hundred women die out of every 100,000 who give birth. This is an official Indian government statistic. The real figure will be higher. There are no current figures available for the exact number of women annually compelled to commit suicide by suttee in India, ie by throwing themselves onto their husbands' funeral pyres.


Footnote: The anti Catholic atheistic abortionist Marxian champagne socialist millionaire with a second house in the west of Ireland styling himself Fintan O'Toole, and writing in the anti Catholic atheistic abortionist Marxian champagne socialist bankrupt because its commie staff are all millionaires Irish Times, this week claims that no independent expert accepts the above figures showing Ireland as the safest country on earth for women to give birth. The figures were compiled by the pro abortion subsidiary of the United Nations, which calls itself the World Health Organisation. They are abortionists' figures. It is ironic that Fintan O'Toole would even imply that he himself is an independent anything. Tellingly he uses the phrase I use in regard to India to describe the figures from Ireland, to wit: "The real figure will be higher." Been reading the Heelers Diaries again, eh Marxian scum? I mean Fintan. (Always getting those names mixed up.)


An Open Letter to the editors and staff of the atheistic abortionist Bolshevick anti Catholic Irish Times and the atheistic abortionist Tony O'Reilly Denis O'Brien worhsipping anti Catholic Irish Independent newspapers. *** Dear Sirs and Madams. There is not one reference to Savita in today's editions of the anti Catholic Irish Times and the anti Catholic Irish Independent. You have over the past three weeks accused me and my church and my country non stop of murdering Savita through our prohibition on abortion. You didn't miss a day. Why on earth have you stopped now? She's still dead. Is it because people have recognised your hijacking of Savita to further your own anti Catholic pro abortion agendas as something crass, vile and invidious? Is it because your negligible readerships have collapsed still further everyday you jeered your lies into the public record? Is it because you're just the teensiest weensiest bit ashamed of using Savita's death for the promotion of your own bigotries? Is it because your false accusations have exposed you as the champions of the murder of unborn children? You miserable Satanic scum. Thank you for your time. James Healy

Sunday, December 02, 2012

the madness of king heelers

Coffee with my feminist cousin Pauline in the White Water Centre.
"I was reading some of my poems at a recital last week?" prattleth she brightly.
The noble Heelers cast her a look of some asperity.
"There was a poetry recital and I wasn't informed?" I intoned coldly.
"It was by invitation only," quoth she.
"And who was invited?" sez me still cold as ice.
"Well Brigadier Berrigan read after me," quoth she.
I nodded bitterly.
"After reciting poems with the Brigadier she knew her mind would never romp again like the mind of God," I pronounced with just a smidge of sarcasm.
"He was very good actually," said Pauline.
"Who? The Brigadier or God? Oh right. You don't believe in God."
"And what God or lesser god was responsible for sending out the invites to this gathering of geniuses?"
"It was Trudie O'Brolchain."
Trudie O'Brolchain.
Nymph in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.
What could she have against me?
Oh I may have called her a fish wife in the streets back in the 1980's during the hugger mugger of an impromptu debate about the political situation in the Philippines.
(Hint: I was supporting the Marcos regime.)
And decades later I may have casually libelled her Third World charity group on this website by suggesting it was more like a travel agency providing Summer hols for its volunteers.
But aside from that what could she have against me?
The enigmas endure.
Pauline was examining the little vein on my forehead which was pulsing Dirty Harryishly.
"You've got a tick there," she said. "And James you've got to be realistic. Maisie Baines is never going to invite you to a poetry reading. And er. I wouldn't hold out for any invites from the Brigadier either if I were you."
"I suppose you're right," quoth me. "If I coughed up a Nobel Prize, those people wouldn't invite me to their poetry readings."
"Have you won the Nobel Prize?" enquired Pauline.
"Not recently," sez me drily.
"Oh by the way," sez she, "if you're reading Brian Byrne's blog, look out for an interview with me about my work."
Brian Byrne.
Another nymph.
More orisons.
So many orisons so little time.
His most recent orison was outing me on his absolute arse of a blog for casually libelling Trudie O'Brolchain's charity.
Back to the present.
So Pauline has just been interviewed on Scrotie McBoogerballs' blog about her life and work.
Ireland's greatest living poet stared furiously (nay jealously) at his feminist cousin.
"You," I thundered. "You. You. You go now."
And she went.