The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

the local yokel

Oooh arhhhh. What a lovely day. What a lovely for running into a police station and shouting: "Arrest the cops. They're all corrupt."
There's many a true word spoken in jest. Oooh arrhh.
I was thinking this late the other night when Garda Evil Knievel reined in his motorcycle at the top of the hill outside my house.
Garda Evil looked around him with an insouciant air as he steadied the restless motorcycle.
"Easy girl, easy," he muttered, staring down at the sleeping metropolis of Kilcullen. The motorcycle whinnied softly in the darkness.
"There are six thousand souls in the naked city," snarled Garda Evil to himself. "And everyone of them has done 40 in a 30 mile an hour zone at some stage in their miserable criminal lives. They think they're so smart. But I'll get them. So help me I will."
I could hear this edifying meditation on law and order through the open window.
While he spoke the motorcyle quietly champed the grass from the forest's ferny floor.
Garda Evil gazed about him balefully as if looking to pick a fight with a tree stump.
It is strangely reassuring to know that the full rigour of what passes for law enforcement in the Republic of Ireland, is being implemented by half witted thugs in uniform such as Garda Evil, and his friends Garda Psycho and Garda Droogs, at the behest of Judge Liberal, to ensure that the criminal classes, ie anyone who has failed to pay a parking fine or a dog licence, will do hard time in some hell hole prison while drug scum rackateers and people traffickers remain at large with the collusion of the police to lay waste what is left of our culture, our society and our lives.
Ooh arrh indeed.
Garda Evil revved up his motorcycle like nothing so much as a lagar lout showing off to his trollope.
(The lagar louts of Kilcullen love trollopes. Particularly The Pallisers. - Heelers note.)
Through the throbbing Four Stroke engine, the town of Kilcullen slumbered on.
Fitfully it must be said, but still definitely slumbering within the strict meaning of the Act.
"Sleep on ye b-st-rds," shrieked Garda Evil. "You won't escape me. I own you. There's no justice. There's just me. I am the law."
The engine of his motorcycle roared to a crescendo.
"Iceholes!" screamed Garda Evil, performing a wheelie and accelerating away down Main Street.
His voice as he said "Iceholes," sounded like a mixture of the action movie actor Arnold Schwarzeneggar and the objectionable television cartoon character Cartman.
It had a certain resonance, shall we say.
A sort of je ne sais quoi.
Behind the fast receding figure, a blissful silence rolled softly back into Main Street.
"Thank God for the police," I intoned drily, before adding even more drily: "Pray that he's out there somewhere."
I sounded very like Cornelius Chase in the film Fletch in the scene where Fletch was about to be murdered by a villain, and suddenly a corrupt police officer arrives whom Fletch knows full well is corrupt, and Fletch realises things have gone from bad to worse, and Fletch says in a voice very dry and very like mine: "Oh thank God, it's the police."
Ooh arrh again bold readers.
See you next Wednesday.


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