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, August 22, 2015

today they said

Noirin O'Sullivan (Chief of Ireland's notoriously corrupt Police Force ironically styled in Gaelic as An Garda Siochana which translates equally ironically as Guardians Of The Peace): "I'm not sure if the IRA still exists."

James Healy: "Why don't you sit down dear. And have a nice cup of tea."

Friday, August 21, 2015

ballindribble news

This weekend the little west of Ireland town of Ballindribble will celebrate its annual mid summer Wanker Festival (Water Festival surely - ed note) when gangland skangers will take a break from terrorising the community, drug dealing, people trafficking, rape and murder to air their Audis on main street, swagger around drunkenly, compare mohawks, and attempt to pose as regular citizens for a day.
The high point of the festival will be a race on the river involving gigantic rubber ducks floating downstream ridden by local worthies.
Jockeys for the ducks will include Sanchez the drug dealer, Kadorsky the corrupt cop and a coterie of buzzcut psychos from one of the town's more salubrious sink housing estates.
NB: Race participants will not be having relations with their rubber ducks.
Spectators can bet on which duck will win with proceeds being donated to the IRA, Al Qaeda and other eligible charities (ie mafias).

Footnote: Kadorsky will be having sex with his rabbit.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

it's grim up t'east midlands

The Job Seekers office on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Before the front window a handsome man stands poignantly in the downpour scanning the notices.
It is I.
Defeated, I am about to turn away when the very last notice grabs my attention.
It reads:
Hope dawns.
The metaphorical sun comes out.
At last folks.
At last.
At last a job I can do.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

murders in the rue dole yer

do you believe in ghosts monsieur asked the editor of the irish times as we supped coffee in galligans last week I was about to launch into a tract on the indestructability of energy and the immutability of matter but he silenced me with a wave off his hair how can a man die of gunshot wounds in a one door room locked from the inside where no firearm was found someone shot him through the window I suggested and he looked momentarily distrait
there are no windows on this particular room he rallied maybe he shot himself before he entered the room and then staggered in you know closing and locking the door before he expired I ventured the irish times editor shook his ears twelve times in the head and chest je n'y pense pas alors maybe there was a gun and someone removed it after the door was opened who found the body i did said the irish times editor excusing himself excuse me i have a programme schedule to sort out at montrose it was from this I knew he was also head of rte
the day was wet so I lingered over my coffee and it was several hours later when the tired looking spanish waitress tapped me on the shoulder and said i've wanted you from the moment you walked in if only life was like this I repliqued what do you really want there's a phone call for you she said someone called de gaulle you can take it at the bar
it was the irish times editor another murder he said in a tone sepulchrale that told me immediately he was upset I hope it's your drama critic I answered before my belle nature reasserted itself calmez down I added more kindly it'll be alright
he swore then for a few moments clearly under an extreme pression at length he managed to control himself enough to explain that a lowly freelancer had been electrocuted at least he wasn't killed by a ghost I ventured feebly we haven't used electricity in this building since the electricity strike ten years ago repliqued the other and my heart sank I remembered well the strike to which he referred it had ended the previous week
eliminate the impossible and whatever else remains no matter how improbable will be the solution I advised the irish times editor thought pour un moment they were killed by a time travelling robot he offered somewhat lamely
ah zut alors I boiled if that's the best you can do we might as well call the police gardai corrected the irish times editor and from this I knew he was also a pedant
in the throes of an unspeakable grief my friend had started sobbing down the phone hold on I'll be right over I told him and whatever you do don't turn on the lights or lock the doors
in the streets outside dusk had fallen and shabby old dublin as was her wont had become strangely glamorous like paris or manhattan only without the glamour a chill wind sprang up from the quays and I quickened my step students were spilling from the gates of trinity college they seemed so innocent so alive on this night of death I looked at them and tears stung my eyes trinners types oufff les precieuses ridicules
I quickened my pace in the direction of the irish times building knowing only that lives were at stake and that fate seemed to have cast me in the role of rescuer it was all so overwhelming and what if the murderer started striking down the heroes at independent house would I have to try to save their lives as well or care even
now the familiar streets had taken on a threatening aura ever thickening darkness shrouding out shrinking pools of lambent flame from the orange street lamps pretentious moi I don't know what you mean
I quickened my pace again as a car pulled into the kerb and former prime minister bertie ahern called me over psst want to see a picture of mary harney in the nude I shook my fist you clowns are ruining the country I fumed how can you give 30 percent payrises to nurses police officers and bus drivers and expect the value of money to stay the same well pardon me for living he shot back but I wasn't finished and why have you sent 300 irish troops to chad where their lives are in jeopardy without a clear military objective and why have you put those same troops right slap bang in the middle of an arab muslim genocide but failed to give them the authority to inflict a clear defeat on the instigators of that genocide and why have you done absolutely nothing in the war on muslim terror and why has the elite irish army ranger wing been smuggled back into ireland from chad after the whole lot of them fell seriously ill and why on earth but he had driven away laughing maniacally you're driving the country into a brick wall of socialist dependency I roared after him and you're putting us on the wrong side of history but I don't think he cared the car swerved around the corner out of sight and suddenly I felt terribly alone
I quickened my pace it was very dark now and I began to feel afraid the criminals in dublin tend to congregate after dark it lends a certain atmosphere to their work and they know the police will all be too busy harassing motorists driving home to their families or in my case sheepdogs budgies and parrot after a hard day at the office too busy that is to take any notice of murderers or drug dealers or rapists
the wind rustled I shivered I realised that if I quickened my pace anymore I would be running flat out thankfully the irish times building lay just ahead a beacon of constancy in a world out of control
I hurried towards it
abruptly he stepped in front of me
I knew it was him
the murderer
evil too has its own aura
I drew my gun
I couldn't see his face but I knew he was smiling
I let the gun fall to my side
what can bullets do against the pitilessness of infinite cruelty
what chance has any man of defeating such a creature
what use is it even to struggle

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

a child is born

the drunk and the drug dealer from the ashes of their lives
have brought forth this jewel shining like the centuries
their own and others ruined by what they are
but their blood will know the future
curse them curse them as they writhe
i am sick of their riddle
a buffoon and a criminal
between them can make a miracle
what idiot tortured destiny is this
how i envy it
envy beyond saying or sensation
for as the child's face lit up with sweetness
never was a smile so like redemption
proof positive there is majesty in the universe
and i must learn to live again

Monday, August 17, 2015

heelers believe it or if you like don't believe it


King Charles the Second opened his eyes and sat up.
He was on his death bed.
Around the bed stood his Protestant courtiers, princes and friends.
In the antechamber, his mistress Nell Gwynn sobbed (possibly into an orange).
King Charles the Second spoke clearly for the first time in days: "Get me a priest."
There was a kerfufflous murmuring from the attendants.
"His Majesty means a Minister," explained his physician.
King Charles spoke again more strongly.
"I mean a Catholic priest," he said with something of his old regal force. "I wish to confess my sins and make peace with God. Oh come on. You must have known. When I reopened the theatres. When I permitted the bawdy comedies after years of puritan censure. When I consorted with sweet little Nell. You must have known. I was a Catholic all along."
And that gentle travellers of the internet is pretty much what happened.
Believe it, or, if you like, don't believe it.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

the story of my argument with supreme court justice catherine mcguinness

Catherine McGuinness announced last week that those of us who had made dire predictions about the legalisation of divorce in Ireland, had been proven wrong.
She averred that contrary to our prognostications of doom, the promulgation of permissive divorce legistlation had not caused extensive family break down.
She cited some statistics and preened her feathers and received the usual plaudits from the usual bankrupt atheistic abortionist contrareceiving euthanasist assisted suicide sex change vending citizen debauching newspaper groups. (Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE)
I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
Ah yes.
I'll have to ask for a judge's ruling on this one.
Some years ago, after Catherine McGuinness and her friends succeeded in suckering the Irish into accepting a gerrymandered referendum legalising revolving door divorces, a member of Catherine McGuinness' activist group came to me.
(I say the thing was gerrymandered by the way because the government were deemed in court to have wrongfully used public money to promote their desired result.)
The woman who came to me was Linnie Binks a veteran British socialist cum commie cum Rah woman.
An unlikely friend for me but whatchya gonna do.
She said: "James, would you help me with publicity for a women's group I'm setting up?"
I said: "What sort of a group is it?"
She said: "I want to help women who've been divorced and left high and dry."
I said: "Tell me more."
She said: "A lot of women, particularly in rural areas, have been divorced against their will and they're just floundering helplessly you see, in a sort of shock or despair, and in isolation. They may not have had particularly happy marriages, but they didn't think there was anything wrong. And when divorce was legalised their husbands more less just came home one day and said: It's over. Many of them are quite old and I want to see if we can do something to help them get their lives back on track."
I said: "Do you see the irony here?"
She said: "What do you mean?"
I said: "Well a few years ago you were campaigning in the streets about people like me who said permissive divorce legislation with the right to remarry would ruin lives. Now you're here asking me to help you patch up the lives you've ruined. Can you see the irony?"
Those were my exact words.
She answered brusquely: "Yes. Yes I do see the irony. Will you help us?"
A woman of character.
Back to Former Supreme Court Justice Catherine McGuinness.
Catherine McGuinness has claimed this week that those of us making dire predictions about her permissive divorce legislation have been proved wrong by time and by her statistics.
But consider this.
For the women of South Kildare dumped in old age by their husbands who interpreted Catherine McGuinness' permissive divorce legislation as countermanding their promise to God to love their wives for richer for poorer in sickness and in health till death do us part amen, for those women I say, every one of my dire predictions has come utterly unalterably tragically true.
And consider this as well.
Catherine McGuinness had promised that her permissive divorce legislation would reduce violence in marriages.
And what have we had since?
An explosion of violence within marriage.
An explosion of murders of children and wives and husbands within marriages.
An explosion of psycho sexual tortures within marriages.
That's just a statistic.
And both me and Catherine McGuinness know that when wrongly applied or interpreted...
.... statistics lie.