out takes from the legalisation of murder in ireland

Coffee with Maisie Baines in the kitchen at Kilcullen parish centre.
She is holding forth.
"The priests aren't speaking out against abortion," she intones passionately. "I think it's a disgrace. It's their job to speak out. What's holding them back? Soon it'll be too late. They're really letting us all down. You'd think the priests would do more."
I am silent.
The necessity of a reply is obviated as the door swings open and a member of the Bridge Club bustles in seeking a tea pot.
From the corner of my eye I see that it is the mother of abortionist parliamentarian Martin Headon.
"What are you going to talk about at next week's prayer meeting  James?" continues Maisie Baines.
"I'm going to talk about the sanctity of life," I reply loudly. "I'm going to talk about how it is a crime until the end of time for anyone to kill an unborn child or to vote to legalise the killing of an unborn child, or to tell peasants that killing an unborn child is exercising control over your own body."
The parliamentarian's mother bustles out.
Maisie Baines looks at me aghast.
"That's a terrible thing to do, what you just did, terrible," she cries. "The way you just said that. That's terrible. That woman is our neighbour. You can't say that in front of Martin Headon's mother, James, you're really too much."
Her encomium to the malfeasance of mentioning the sanctity of life in front of an abortionist politician's mother went on for some time.
I let her finish.
Then I said:
"Do you see the irony here? You were complaining that priests weren't speaking up enough to defend the unborn. And now you're complaining that I'm speaking up too much when I drop the gentlest of hints in front of a politician's mother that there are consequences for a nation that willingly chooses Nazism. I mean isn't it ironic? Maisie? Maisie? Come back Maisie. Ah I didn't mean it."

all shites on the western front

Reichskanzellor Enda Kenny strolled through the corridors of the Irish parliament.
His bright blue shirt had been recently starched as had his hair.
The Irish National Anthem, a traditional air entitled Kinky Boots, was playing on the intercom.
The killing of unborn children had just been legalised.
All was right with the world.
Enda Kenny hummed along with the national anthem and sang a few bars absently as he walked.
"All we've got are kinky boots, kinky boots, kinky boots."
He smiled contentedly to himself.
A weak vapid vascillatory hairstyle of a man, yet master of all he surveys.
In the throne room, his ministers sat bolt upright hearing his approach.
"Here come dah Fuhrer," exclaimed Re-education Minister Herrless Ruairi Quinn.
The door opened and after some high comedy with the Sieg Heiling, each one Sieg Heiling the Fuhrer, then turning towards his neighbour to Sieg Heil, and then turning towards the mirror for a few more Sieg Heils, and one guy getting Sieg Heiled in the eye, and the tea lady dropping a tray to Sieg Heil, all very merry, after some genuine farce of this nature, and more shuffling and huffling and scraping of chairs, the Fuhrer was seated and official government business could commence.
"Ze first order of business Mein Fuhrer," intoned Reichsminister Alan Shatter, passing a document across the table. "I have here the final solution to the Catholic Problem."
Enda Kenny read the document.
"You propose to require all Catholics working in the Civil Service to take an oath of loyalty to the State," he murmured.
"Jawohl Mein Fuhrer," affirmed Alan Shatter.
"Excellent," rasped Enda Kenny a bit like a Germanic Mr Burns. "Vee haff closed Ireland's embassy to ze Vatican. Re-education Minister Herrless Ruairi Quinn is seizing Catholic Church run schools. We are turning ze screws in our shakedown of ageing nuns and monks. Our plans to close the Church through the courts are proceeding with ever new contrivancies of wrong doing retrospectively attributed to Catholics for their running of care facilities for indigent women. Ze poor Catholic fools. Zey give zere lives in service to the nation and we casually criminalise them in their old age. Ah yes. Ze Magdalen Laundries shakedown is our cleverest yet. Blame ze church which was the only force in Irish society helping such women. It's hilarious. And ze peasants vill swallow it hook, line and sinker. We are also proceeding apace with our Symphisiotomy racket. Oh zat is a sweet deal. Ze symphisotomy was at one time considered safer than a caesarean section for pregnant women. But who's to know the difference when we claim that symphisiotomies were carried out by evil Catholics in order to discourage the use of contraception. It's even more hilarious zan ze Magdalen Launderies shakedown. And just to silence the women whose lives were saved by symphisiotomy operations, we tell them zey are victims. Yes victims. Und venn zey say 'but, but, but, the doctor saved my life,' we tell zem that vee are giffing them five hundred grand each in compensation for their victimhood. Zat vill soon shut zem up. Zey vill all be saying 'Er yeah, maybe I was a victim.' Vee haff forced every Catholic Church in the land to display a notice implying that every priest is a ticking time bomb child abuser just itching to commit sex abuse. Ze Churches must display zese notices advising ze public zat in ze event zat zey are sexually molested by one of zese ticking time bomb priests, zey should call ze health board or ze cops. Vee haff done ziss knowing full well zat zere is a far greater likelihood that people will be abused by health board workers or ze cops, or Irish Times sports writers or politicians like us, than by priests. Vee haff done it to create a presumption of guilt. Excelllllllent Herr Reichsmarschall. Ziss new measure, the oath of loyalty, will force people to assume that Catholics are inherently disloyal to ze nation. It's a stone groove baby. Ein reich. Ein yolk. Ein fuhrer. Sieg heil. Sieg heil. Sieg heil."
When the renewed and very merry theatrical business with the Sieg Heiling ceased (and not before the tea lady had re entered with a new tray and the Fuhrer had sent it skywards by turning towards her with one last particularly rumbunctious Sieg Heil) the meeting moved on once more.
Reports were presented of the current dispositions of the Fuhrer's armies.
"Where is Kampfgruppe Philip Hogan?" enquired Enda Kenny.
"Zey are cut off in a luxury hotel in Brazil," explained the Reichsmarschall.
"You tzink they vill commit suicide to save face?" wondered the Fuhrer.
"I think there's more chance that the staff at the hotel will do that," ventured the Reichsmarschall.
The Nazis fell around the table laughing.
They looked like nothing so much as the robots from the 1974 For Mash Get Smash ad for mashed potatos.
Their laughter was broken off by an exclamation from the far end of the table.
"Never mind about Hogan, what about ze fate of Oberkommando Das Allied Irish Banks, my brother Lochlainn's bank?" enquired Re-education Minister Herrless Ruairi Quinn.
"Vee haff purchased ze worthless bankrupt Allied Irish Banks for ten billion dollars of public money,," Enda Kenny assured him.
"Danke Mein Fuhrer, vielen danke," purred Ruairi Quinn.
"Not at all," said Enda Kenny, "it vas a pleasure. I actually got off on it."
"Army Group Independent Newspapers is experiencing some difficulties repaying their bank loans," ventured Heinrich Michael Noonan.
"Vee haff already cancelled half a billion dollars of Independent Newspapers debt," said Enda Kenny smoothly. "Ze rest vill be cancelled at an appropriate time, ie whenever no one's looking. Ze proprietors of Independent Newspapers, ie our supporters the billionaires Denis O'Brien and Tony O'Reilly vill not be required to pay a red cent. Nyah ha ha Gee Force."
The meeting turned to other business.
"Ze aforementioned Colonel General Denis O'Brien has been impugned by a Judge we don't control, and accused of subverting Reichsbollochs Michael Lowry with bribes to obtain licences for State mobile phone contracts worth billions of Marks," noted Reichsmarschall Alan Shatter.
"Oh Reichsmarschall Shatter you loveable goon," smiled the Fuhrer indulgently, knowing full well that the competitive nature of Nazi politics always involved one favourite trying to undermine another. "Let it go. Let it go."
"But vot vill vee do about zese horrifying revelations regarding Colonel General Denis O'Brien's corruption?" persisted Reichsmarschall Shatter peevishly yet daringly enough.
"Vee will do nothing," pronounced the Fuhrer decisively.
The Nazis fell around laughing like robots from 1974 once more.
Seated near the door, a lowly Feldwebel called Tom Barry sensed now was a good time to clutch the buttock of a Feldhure called Aine Collins.
He latched on to the buttock and the Feldhure responded as Feldhures do, by simpering and giggling and wriggling against him.
It was all classy classy stuff by the men and Feldhures who had just legalised the murder of unborn children in Ireland.


And so it went on.
The bit about the oath of loyalty isn't a joke by the way.
And the rest of it is closer to the truth than anyone dreams.

heeler the peelers fashion tips for the modern girl

If you give two hundred quid to someone called Manolo Blahnik for a shoe, you are a clodpoll.

death in the afternoon

 In the past month...

1. A train carrying oil mysteriously came loose from its overnight berth, and exploded in the centre of a Canadian town, killing upwards of fifty people.

2. A train derailed in France killing a half dozen people. News reporters were surrounded at the scene by grinning Muslims who smirked into the cameras as though awfully happy about something.

3. A train in Spain derailed today killing an estimated eighty people. Investigators say the driver had deliberately exceeded the safe speed limit.

4. A passenger jet airliner crash landed at San Francisco airport. Three people were killed, including one run over by a fire truck at the scene.

5. A passenger jet crash landed in New York airport. No one was killed.

6. A passenger jet in park mode went on fire at Heathrow airport.

7. The same day as the incident at Heathrow, another passenger jet developed problems in the air over the UK and was diverted for an emergency landing.

8. I think there is a significant possibility that some or all of these incidents are Jihad. I am suggesting that Muslims are sabotaging transport services as part of their Jihad against humanity. I am also suggesting that proper security procedures should now be introduced at mass transit facilities and within airline companies all over the Free World. Muslims should not be permitted to work in maintenance or security. People trafficking crime gangs should be prevented forthwith from transhipping Muslims into the West. The people trafficking mafias themselves must be smashed. Their footsoldiers among the drug dealing petty mafias of Ireland and Britain should be interned without trial or subjected to trial by military court.

9.The Free World is America, Britain, Ireland, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. If we continue to allow Muslim Jihadis to attack us from within, it's not going to be the Free World for very much longer.

10. Delenda est jihadis.

******

Footnote: Before the end of July a further train crash occurred involving two trains colliding in Switzerland. On 7th August, a plane flying to the USA from Ireland was diverted with a suspected bomb on board. No device was found. Also on 7th August, the Arrivals Terminal at Nairobi airport in Kenya, the busiest airport in Africa, burnt to the ground. The airport at Nairobi blazed on the 15th anniversary of Al Qaeda's 1998 bombing attack on the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. This is unlikely to be a coincidence. And finally, still in the past few days, twenty US embassies were shut down on suspicions that more Al Qaeda attacks were imminent. The suspicions supposedly arose from intercepted phone conversations. The Jihadis are playing with us.

ode to brenda power

(after yet another of her exquisite denunciations of social welfare recipients)

Shall I compare thee to an unemployed person
Oh Brenda Power
Thou art indeed far less gainfully employed
For you are a contributor to the bankrupt Daily Mail,
Whose Irish edition owes bankrupt gangster banks a hundred and fifty million dollars
And whose British edition owes bankrupt gangster banks a billion dollars
And both of whose editions are refusing to pay their debts to bankrupt gangster banks
And are hence being kept afloat like the bankrupt gangster banks
Which have gone bankrupt lending money to the Daily Mail
By government largesse
I kid you not
Here is the news
You Brenda Power are unemployed
You are in receipt of social welfare benefit
Though far less honourably so
Than those who admit they are unemployed
You are not fit to tie up the shoe laces of the unemployed
Because the unemployed claim a modest stipend in order to live
But you bankrupt a nation
Merely in order to pose as something you call a journalist
Something for whose talent, abilities, insights and comments on the unemployed
There is no public demand or interest or market
Whatsoever

Shall I compare thee to the Unemployed
Oh Brenda Power
Thou art indeed far less temperate
And wait a minute
You also "work" for Rupert Murdock's bankrupt Sunday Times
(As well as the Daily Mail)
So
So
So
You "work" for Rupert Murdoch
And you criticising the unemployed
Is like
A member of the Mafia
Criticising anybody
I mean
Rupert Murdock's News International Corporation
Has just been caught red handed
Routinely bribing the police
Routinely subverting politicians and parliament
Routinely hacking into the mobile phones of murdered British schoolgirls
Routinely hacking into everyone else's mobile phone
Routinely sleeping with the British Prime Minister
(Ah Heelers I gave him a horse. - Rebekkah Wade note)
(Now who's being naïve. - Heelers note)
So again
Basically when you "work" for Rupert Murdoch
You're working for something
On a lower moral plane
Than the Mafia
Hoo baby
That puts you in a unique position
To not be a judge of anything
Least of all
Of those of us
Who are formally unemployed
Because of the economic malfeasance
Of one or other or all
Of your "employers"
Seriously though

Shall I  compare thee to an unemployed person
Oh Brenda Power
Nah
For you were never unemployed
You may have spent ten years
At State subsidised educational facilities
Studying to be something you call a barrister
And you never even worked a day in Starbucks
No
You were too good to make coffee with the other barristers
So your ten years of subsidised dating
Set you up nicely for "jobs" with newspapers
That no one reads
But all of us subsidise through
The aforementioned Murdoch and the Daily Mail's corruption
Of our governments and our banks
Yes
This is a perfect world
All of us
Get to subsidise your sex life at college
Where do I sign up for that
Shall I compare thee to an unemployed person
I won't
For the least among the unemployed
Is more honourable
More noble
And works harder
Than
You

a night at the opera

Theatre Review

(for the Bridge magazine)

FOOLS RUSH IN WHERE ANGELS DIFFER

 

"There is no way I'm going to sit through another damned variety show," I declared. "I've had enough of these wearisome exercises in self congratulation with a cold collation of pseuds raising money for faux charities whose sole purpose in life is to justify the congenitally unemployable using titles like Chief Executive Officer while swanning around Dublin in their BMWs. Pass the sick bag Alice. I'd rather die. Or maybe you'd just hack my arms off with a machete."

"So you don't want a ticket?" ventured my venerable Uncle Bernard who was proffering same. (Tickets, not a machete.)

"Under no circumstances," I averred.

He seemed to take it as a kind of challenge.

A few days later he phoned me.

"I need you to video the concert," he said.

"When is it on?" said I.

"In half an hour," said he.

"Bloody hell," said I.

"Will you do it?"

"You must be in dire straits to be asking me."

"To be honest, we're desperate," quoth he.

And so there I was. Half an hour later. In the back row of Kilcullen theatre, wedged with a video camera between the actress Siobhan Scattergun and her husband Tom Murphy, whose voice is a dead ringer for Enda Kenny's by the way. Siobhan and Tom are a howl. At least they make me howl. I looked around the theatre to see if there was anyone in the audience that I was on speaking terms with. There weren't many. Aside from Siobhan and Tom. And frankly I'd prefer not to havve been on speaking terms with those. But I digress.

The violet hush of evening had descended on Kilcullen as Violet Hush Chairperson of the Friends of the Rise Foundation, introduced the first act in the Charity's fund raising venture.

(Her real name is Brenda O'Grady. - Ed note.)

Tom Murphy and and his wife chose this moment to enquire of me in hoarse whispers: "Tell us again why you were fired from the Leinster Leader?"

If you ever see the video, gentle readers, you'll notice the camera shaking a bit at this point.

That's pure rage, that is. Let he who hath never sat beside Tom Murphy and Siobhan Patterson while trying to video a variety show he didn't want to attend in the first place, stand in judgement on me.

And lo.

Violet Hush had stepped to one side, the curtains had parted, and a cascade of Irish dancers had engulfed the stage.

Suddenly things were starting to look up.

The Lynam School of Dancing may be a bit young for their outfits but by Gadfrey, they can dance.

They were followed by a singer songwriter called Allison Sweeney, and suddenly I thought I might be going to enjoy this.

The delectable Ms Sweeney was followed by the nationally famous oboeist David Agnew.

Tom Murphy chose this moment to enquire conversationally: "Why don't you go back to the Leader?"

I replied: "I'll give you a hundred Euro either to shut up or to shout out loud to David Agnew: Talk about Twink."

Tom Murphy lapsed into silence and Twink's husband got down to business.

Mr Agnew's tootling on the oboe was about as entertaining for me as oboe tootling can be. I even recognised some of the songs: Gabriel's Infernal Tootling from the film The Mission, and Bach's Infernal Tootling in D Minor from Bach.

He stepped off the stage and was replaced by the international singing star Niamh Murray.

Niamh Murray proceeded to wow the audience, transforming the mixum gatherum of Kilcullen first nighters into her own little fan club.

It was extraordinary. I wouldn't have believed I could enjoy myself so much at a recital unless I'd experienced it myself.

Flirtatious, flightly, whimsical and musically superb, Niamh Murray could entrance for Ireland.

There's something about her. She has that rare quality. The quality of the genuine. I wonder was she faking it.

The night rolled on with some lovely cameos and ever more likeable performers.

Dick Dunphy performed a curmudgeonly monologue. Philomena Breslin sang Memories. My Uncle Bernard emceed. There was a sexy country singer. A sexy tin whistler.

The mellow mood of the audience deepened further into something special.

And not just the audience.

The mood of the performers, the fellowship between them, the fondness even, was alchemic.

There's something about seeing toffee nosed lads in tuxedoes sharing the stage with sexy young pop singers and clearly enjoying each other's talents immensely, something about that which hearkens to the golden age of music hall, I tells ee.

This is what theatre is all about.

Jim Stewart sang backed by Clive Snurdlebaum from the Nas Na Ri Infernal Tootlers. Together they delivered some operatic show stoppers.

Accountant turned street musician Peter Walls brought tears to the eyes with his soulful rendition of Garth Brooks The Dance.

For my money the night belonged to Peter Walls. The quality of the genuine again.

When the ensemble gathered on stage to sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, the audience positively cooed with delight.

This was the biggest tribute of all to the performers and producers, the fact that people were still hungry for more at the end of the night.

I'm told the performers turned out as a favour to Philomena Breslin. The event represented a remarkable marshalling of talent. I've tried to tell you about it without ladling on the cliches. I didn't even want to be there. But even I had to admit, the fellowship, the wit, the accomplished performances, the whole thing, it was extraordinary.

As I left the theatre I bid adieu to Tom Murphy and his lady wife.

"Tom," I said seriously. "I'll give you ten thousand Euros if you'll ring every member of Fine Gael and Labour, tell them you're Enda Kenny, and that they're to vote no to the legaisation of abortion."

an open letter to irish prime minister enda kenny

What have you done.

an open letter to the abortionist daily mail

Sirs and Madams.
I noticed an article by one of your drones in Sector Seven Gee last week.
A drone styling herself Eithne Tobin.
Her byline informed the readers that she was writing for you while a certain Mary Carr drone was on holiday.
I read the article on the express understanding that it would not be written by Mary Carr.
Thankfully it wasn't.
But here's larks.
I hardly expected to find it was written by me.
I mean, I hardly expected to find my own work in the pages of the abortionist Daily Mail, bylined by something called Eithne Tobin.
For Eithne Tobin, following the grand tradition of Daily Mail plagiarists throughout the ages, had lifted her exquisite put down of the Irish Stalinist television station RTE, direct from the pages of the Heelers Diaries.
To wit: "Irish people see no reason why they should be compelled by direct taxation to finance a television station they don't watch or approve of."
Hilarious no.
Nicely worded Eithne.
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Anything else I can help you with there?
I mean bloody hell.
Listen lads.
Why don't you just rename the Daily Mail, the Heelers Diaries and be done with it.