a l'ombre des jeunes sexors en fleur

Morning in the world.
Quaffing coffees with a religious maniac called Rowena Baines in The Tearman cafe which overlooks the bridge across the river in Kilcullen.
The Tearman is an eatery run on progressive principles with staff consisting of special needs people mixed in with able bodied Irish full timers, and volunteers from around the world.
If I understand the Tearman philosophy correctly, the idea is that by working together the supposedly handicapped people discover how able bodied they really are, and the supposedly able bodied people see that basically we all have some handicap.
We all need each other equally.
That's one lovely philospophy right there.
Straight from the gospel of the Hebrews.
I would unreservedly endorse the Tearman and its owners the Camphill Community but for the fact that over the past thirty years it has been company policy, no matter what, to always have at least one collossal bitch on the management staff to yank my chain.
I'd endorse em, I tells ee, but for that fact.
And but for the fact that it has been alleged to me that Rudolf Steiner the founder of the Camphill Community was a devil worshipper.
Anyhoo.
Aside from those above mentioned quibbles, hardly worth mentioning really, the Tearman seems to me to be pretty much a haven of sunshine and light.
I would hazard that everybody who goes there, whether to work or to drink coffee, discerns something just by the act of going there.
It is a veritable monastery for the getting on of wisdom.
Even the international volunteers seem to be undergoing a process of near mysical discernment.
For a start they discover that volunteering to do charity work will not preserve them from the lecherous leering eyes of me.
The present crop of international volunteers at the Tearman run very much to the Germanic ideal, ie golden haired, svelte, aroogah, whoarrrrr, take me to the drive in and swear that you love me, etc etc.
So here we sit.
My companion Miss Baines is rabbiting on about something.
A luminous Kraut staff member passes the table.
"Ah Darleen," I intone soulfully. "Du bist eine kleine steinervortzel."
"You haven't heard a word I've said," complains the Baines of my life.
"I have. I have. Something about the new Pope. You like him. That was it. Pope nice. There you go. I was listening. Oh mein Gott in himmel, will you look at that!"
"Do you not like the new Pope?"
"He's alright. As long as some sneaky little shits in the Curia didn't oust the old one, I like him. Oh heavens she's gorgeous."
"What's wrong with you?"
"There's Luisa. Did you see Luisa? She's a Teuton, Bainsie, a Teuton. I mean in a good way. Now I know what Nietzche meant by The Ride Of The Valkyries. Ah Luisa, golden haired and golden hearted, I would always have you be."
"James get a grip."
"If only."
"No really. This is undignified."
"Look, look, there's Karina. Good Lord. To what serves mortal beauty. If Hitler had had ten of those he could have taken two years off the war."
"How come you know all their names?" enquires Bainsatullo.
"It's nice to know people's names," quoth me.
"Do you know the names of the male German volunteers here?" proddeth she.
"Of course I do."
"Go on then. Name them."
"Well, er, er, I mean..."
"I knew it. You can't name any of them."
"Well there's Hans."
"That was a lucky guess."
"There's ermmmm, Wolfgang."
"You're just naming famous composers."
"And there's Heinrich."
"Now you're just naming characters from The Eagle Has Landed."
"You wound me Bainsie. You wound me."
"You don't really know those guys."
"I just named three of them."
"Well which is which?"
"Er Heinrich is the one who speaks really good English but with a heavy German accent. And Wolfgang doesn't speak great English but does have a good clear accent. And Hans, er, Hans, is the one who, um, speaks English with, er, actually with a faint London Cockney accent, just like, er, just like Michael Caine, in er um, The Eagle Has Landed."

obitcheries

Mrs T is dead.
If she hadn't attrited the IRA to the brink of destruction in the 1980's, the IRA would have conquered Ireland and handed our country over to Soviet Russia, lock stock and two smoking barrels.
That is my analysis.
You may go.

the stillness the dancing

Morning at the offices of the galactic empire, styled News Corp International.
Rupert Murdock is sitting at his desk.
A minion enters.
Rupert beams.
It is his favourite minion.
"What have you got for me today Clytus?" enquires Rupert beamingly.
Clytus proffers him a sheet of paper.
"It's an obscure blog in the SK system Your Majesty," he explains smoothly. "Its fans consist of five Jihadis and a Korean googlebot. They refer to it as The Heelers Diaries."
Rupert accepts the printout and begins reading.
He frowns.
Clytus cannot resist putting in his twenty billion dollars in debt's worth.
He positively simpers as he speaks.
You might almost think he was himself a fan of the Heelers Diaries.
"This Heelers says we deliberately sought to ruin Jimmy Saville from beyond the grave merely to distract public attention from legal enquiries into our corruption of police officers, our subversion of politicians and our hacking into the mobile phones of dead school girls. He says News Corp International should be broken up under anti trust legislation. He says you and the other Murdocks should be prevented from owning any media outlet on the planet above the size of a Chinese wall poster due to your neo feudal attempts to hijack political and judicial processes in Great Britain and elsewhere. He says a Seizure of Assets bill should be passed specifically to prevent the Murdocks from owning anything. He says..."
Rupert raises a weary hand.
"I get the point," he says tiredly.
"What will you do with this Heelers?" wonders Clytus with mollifying sycophancy.
"I like to play with things before anihilation," murmurs Rupert the Merciless stroking his goatee. Then with sudden and improbable venom he cries out: "Puny Heelers who can save you now!"