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, December 05, 2015

the bitch 5

Great Moments In The History Of European Literature...
What if...

What if Bertold Brecht had been writing his most famous portentous aphorism in the Tearman cafe, Kilcullen, and he'd read it aloud to himeslf to savour the rhythms of his prose thusly: "So the world got together to stop the bastard (referring to Hitler) but time has moved on. And the bitch that bore him is in heat again."
And Rowena Baines leaned over from the adjoining table and said: "You can't say bitch."

Friday, December 04, 2015

the bitch 4

So Rowena Baines, my source in modernity, tells me I can no longer say bitch.
That's why we've been celebrating Bitch Week all this week at the Heelers Diaries.
I needed time to say goodbye.
Now I'm driving along the motorway towards the dulcet town of Athy, de facto capital of the IRA's caliphate in South Kildare.
No more bitches.
Is that a supernatural truth?
If I don't say it, there won't be any.
I doubt it.
But let's have one more for the road.
No parodies.
The real thing.
The Bitch as recorded by the British music combo styled The Olympic Runners way back in nineteen seventy something. The Olympic Runners were Brits but they and their producers had the New York sound to a tee. They were more New York than the New Yorkers themselves.
I crank up the stereo and sing lustily as I drive:

"There are good girls
And there's bad
The bad are all I've ever had
I can't tell you which is which
But trust me to choose the bitch
Aha
God help me I got the bitch
She will ruin
Me I know
But I love her her and I can't let her go
She's like a wicked wicked witch
And trust me to pick
The bitch
God help me I got the bitch
There are good girls
And there's naughty
The naughty always are a little haughty
I can't tell you which is which
But trust me to get the bitch
God help me I got the bitch"

Well bold readers I don;t know how I'm going to get by without that particular gem of the language.
Thankfully we still have the cee word.

the sure thing

One thing is sure in these confused modern times: If the Jihadis nuked Western Europe and the entire eastern seaboard of the United States, Erin Burnett would emerge, her glorious raven tresses billowing, through the smoke and the 100 mile an hour rad winds, picking her way amid the ruins of our civilisation, clutching a CNN microphone and musing: "We're still trying to figure out if this is a case of workplace violence."

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

the bitch 3

A quiet moment.
There is a tradition in the Catholic Church that every human being has a guardian angel.
I turn to my guardian angel and address him in an accusatory tone.
"Why didn't you warn me I was about to crash the car into a gate post? I mean that's your job isn't it? What on earth were you doing? Some supernatural being mandated by heaven to protect me, you are."
I can almost hear him answer: "When you're full of hate, you won't even hear if an angel calls you."
This gives me pause.
"Am I full of hate when I talk about people who used to work with me in the Leinster Leader?" I ask.
There is a silence.
"Heelers," sez the angel finally, "when you talk about those bitches, there's no reasoning with you."

the next government of ireland

Cop killer Pearse McCauley who is a member of both the IRA terrorist mafia and its parliamentary political party proxies Sinn Fein has been sentenced in court this week in the Republic of Ireland for his most recent crime, committed last Christmas whereby he held his ex wife captive in her own home, tortured her for two and a half hours in front of their two young children, and stabbed her at least thirteen separate times.
His wife Pauline Tully is also a Sinn Fein member and has been a political representative for that IRA front group for several years.
She has appeared on television tonight claiming what happened to her was domestic abuse.
Judge Liberal has given Pearse McCauley a pattycake sentence which, according to reporters, means he will be released in five years.
Some comments...

1. The IRA is poised to take direct power in Ireland at the next election through its Sinn Fein parliamentary proxies and through a group of left wing and Independent candidates who are ringers for Sinn Fein. Unofficially, the IRA is already ruling Ireland: on the streets through its drug gangs and affiliated mafias; and in the courts through a subverted judiciary; and in the economic sphere through mob controlled trade unions.

2. Pearse McCauley should never be released.

3. Judge Liberal should be fired. The entire IRA infiltrated judiciary should be fired. We should elect our Judges from now on. In the meantime let's have military courts for IRA cop killers who torture, hold captive, stab and attempt to murder their ex wives at Christmas in front of their children.

4. What happened to Pauline Tully was not domestic abuse. What happened to Pauline Tully is what happens to gangland molls when they marry murdering psychopathic IRA cop killers after the said molls knew full well their husbands to be had slaughtered an Irish police officer and numerous others while trying to hand Ireland over lock stock and two smoking barrels to Communist Russia in the 1980s.


Memo to gangland molls generally: Stop fornicating with and marrying cop killers from the IRA Sinn Fein mafia. Eventually they'll pull a knife out of their shiny track suit and stab you in front of the children every time.

Tuesday, December 01, 2015

the bitch 2

Exiting the car park at the parish church in the dulcet medieval town of Athy, the old murder capital of South Kildare.
Athy is home to a particularly brutal IRA murder squad along with a coterie of attendant psychotic splinter groups, and a whole passel of notoriously vicious drug gangs.
The place has atmosphere at least.
My car radio is on.
A presenter called Matt Cooper is interviewing the British actress Joan Collins.
"How many dresses are you selling in the auction?"
"Seven."
I begin shouting at the radio.
"Cooper what are you doing? Joan Collins is witty. I may disapprove of her life's work but she is witty. All you've got to do is let her perform. Let her personality come out and it's going to be okay. Come on. Aw this is terrible. Just, just, just gently provoke her and stand well back. Mercy. This is abysmal. I'd do better myself. I'd say: Joan your most famous film is The Bitch. Now I've got to tell you I've known a few real bitches in my time. There was one at the Leinster Leader a newspaper where I worked called Joanie Walshe. She'd leave you in the ha'penny place. And then there was another in the same newspaper called Sylvia Pownall. Although to be fair if they made a film about her it would probably not be called The Bitch. It would be called The ******* ****."
My meditation on Great Bitches I Have Known (and Matt Cooper) was interrupted by the sound of rending metal.
With a feeling of recognition (not exactly shock) I realised I'd crashed the car again.
The metal was still rending.
What have I hit?
More correctly, what am I hitting?
The crash is still going on.
Thank heavens not a person.
A gate pier.
What do you do?
Do you drive clear?
Metal rending.
Will it be worse if I stop immediately?
Errryyyyyurghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Rending sound.
Do I yank the wheel to the right?
More rending.
I drove clear.
Another decision.
Should I stop?
I always find it hard to stop at the scene of an accident I've caused in a town straight out of The Hills Have Eyes.
It's one of my foibles.
Moral turpitude thy name is James.
Have I demolished the gate pier?
Did anyone see me?
I drove on.
Reached the road out of town and headed hard for home across the badlands of Kildare.
A few times I checked the rear view mirror, half expecting to see a trailer truck full of wide eyed yokels brandishing pitchforks bearing down on me.
(A black Audi A4 full of IRA drug thugs brandishing Kalashnikovs and Glock pistols surely? - Ed note)
Thankfully aside from a few disparate banjo notes from the theme tune to The Dukes Of Hazard, which I may have imagined, there was nothing.
Back home I examined the car.
Frankly it did not look good.
The left hand side panelling has been altered out of recognition.
Pulverised is the word, I believe.
The mot juste.
Pulverised again.
Like some malign fate constantly renewing itself.
Heelers pulverises another Nissan Almera.
Passenger door still opens though.
And the window can go a quarter of the way down.
All in all, it could have been worse.
But what is the Almighty telling me?
Is he telling me to not to let my attention wander when driving?
Is he telling me not to shout at the radio?
Oh mercy.
He couldn't be telling me not to harbour resentment in my heart against my fellow human beings (and Matt Cooper).
That would be the last straw.
The ghost of the techno musician who styles himself Moby appears beside me in the evening gloom,
Moby contemplates the scratched bodywork on my car.
Then he sings his most elegiac song.
It goes:

"Oooooh Lordy
Troubles with God
Ooooh Lordy
Troubles with God
Don't nobody know my troubles with God
Ain't nobody know my troubles with God."

He's an apposite fellow is Moby.

in time of the breaking of nations

Elaine Primula talking to me...
"I was at the U2 concert on Friday with Teresa. Both of us were a bit nervous thinking this is just the sort of place where an attack like in Paris might happen."
Ah yes,
The new normal.
On a night out rather than worrying about casual thuggery from drug scuzz, now the main concern is Muslims machine gunning the crowd.
Personally I wouldn't tolerate this.
Or the drug scuzz.

Monday, November 30, 2015

the sanchez family decide to quit spain

It was the year 2014.
"We're moving to the US," said Jacinta.
"Why did you decide to go in the end?" quoth me.
I was finding it hard to believe that anyone could give up on Spain.
It's so beautiful. The language. The culture. The buildings. The land The people. The ancient faith.
Ramon gave the answer.
"There's no way to make a living here," he said. "The Moroccans kept breaking into my business, robbing us and sabotaging the equipment. We couldn't even begin to make repayments to the bank."
"Why would they damage the equipment?" sez I, eyes wide and round.
"Because," answered he matter of factly, "they had similar car repair businesses in the area and they don't like competition."
In all this conversation bold readers, I didn't once mention Muslims or our earlier conversation ten years ago when I had predicted the end of Spain if the Sanchez family voted Socialist as Al Qaeda at the time had been so keen they should do.
Sometimes ya gotta take the high road.