cf

IRA capo Sean Quinn is continuing his IRA orchestrated campaign of terror and intimidation in order to regain control of the IRA front companies he used to bankrupt Ireland on behalf of the IRA eight years ago. (Sean Quinn's IRA front companies bankrupted Ireland through illegal billion dollar bank loans from an IRA controlled financial institution styled Anglo Irish Bank.)
cf: The IRA has launched a wave of sabotage, intimidation and death threats against the companies and their employees with the direct intention of forcing the companies to hand over ownership to IRA proxy Sean Quinn.
cf: The companies are currently owned by American Hedge Fund corporations.
cf: Some months ago Sean Quinn forced the companies to rehire him as an "adviser" with the help of a Fine Gael politician who styles himself Councillor John McCartin. Cllr McCartin's role in forcing the companies to rehire Sean Quinn as an adviser on a supposed salary of half a million Euro a year, is the clearest current evidence that the IRA has been successful in subverting Ireland's mainstream political parties. IRA capo Sean Quinn has now informed the American Hedge Funds that he is "increasingly uncomfortable with his advisory role and has a strong desire to acquire ownership."
cf: Ha, ha, ha.
cf: The American Hedge Funds have replied, rather optimistically I thought, to wit: "We will in no way be intimidated. We have no appetite for Sean's role expanding beyond the advisory relationship already in place. Recent events have done nothing but move Sean further from his goal."
cf: The character Butters in the opprobrious cartoon Southpark attempting to talk Al Qaeda out of an attack on Imagination Land with the heartfelt appeal: "Why can't we all just get along!"
cf: Butters speech had a better chance than the Hedge Funds' heartfelt appeal to the IRA.
cf: The IRA are going to eat those American Hedge Funds alive just as their various allied mafias are eating Ireland alive.
cf: Although it's hard to sympathise with Hedge Funds that pay half a million dollars a year to Sean Quinn as an adviser when Sean Quinn is the man who bankrupted their companies just five years ago. In reality they are paying him 500 grand a year in the naive hope that he will leave them alone.
cf: This is called paying the Dane geld. And I'll tell you again you spa. Once you have paid him the Dane geld, you'll never get rid of the Rah.
cf: The IRA's subversion of trade unions, the media, the Judiciary and the Civil Service in Ireland.
cf: The only f---ing thing the IRA don't control in Ireland is parliament. That's because the IRA's proxy political party Sinn Fein is known to be the IRA's proxy political party. So they've got a lousy 22 seats. The only occasion when the IRA offer themselves to the public, they get roundly told to get lost. That's 22 seats with an election fund of billions of dollars stolen from Anglo Irish Bank via Sean Quinn's illegal fake loans and in an earlier more conventional heist from the Northern Bank in 1995. Hilarious no.
cf: Did I mention that Ireland itself has been bankrupted in order to cover up the IRA's burglarisation through Sean Quinn of its own bank. All the suicides, early deaths, ruined lives, mafia skang gang fiefdoms that have arisen in the past five years should be laid firmly at the door of the IRA and its front man Sean Quinn.
cf: Ciara Quinn's statement several years ago: "The Quinn family is at war and when this is over the Quinn family will still be standing."
cf: Why did Irish police not interview Ciara Quinn and demand to know what she meant, and who was she threatening, by the statement: "The Quinn family is at war?"
cf: Ciara Quinn would probably have answered a la another episode of Southpark where one of the kids asks the black rapper styling himself Puff Daddy what he means by the phrase "Vote Or Die," and Puff Daddy cocks a glock pistol and says: "What do you think it means, bitch?"
cf: Personally, without any disrespect to his machismo, I'd prefer facing down Puff Daddy than facing down Ciara Quinn and her IRA mobster family.
cf: The IRA's links to skang gangs who are currently dividing Ireland up into neo feudal territories with international mafia associates including Cosa Nostra, Al Qaeda, the Chinese Triads, Nigerian devil worship gangs and the Russian mob.
cf: The metastasisation of IRA cell groupings into the Kinahane gang, the Hutch gang (who have moved into my town of Kilcullen and what a joy it is to have them here), the McCarthy Dundon gang, et al, Especially Al. He's the worst of them.
cf: The deaths of six people last month in the town of Newbridge near where I live. The deaths are being attributed to suicide, the attribution of which is a sort of formal excuse used by the Irish police force to do nothing. My sources suggest that these people were hassled to death by IRA skang gangs and that some of the dead people were dealing drugs for the skangs. I consider their deaths to be IRA murders. I think it unlikely that the six people suicided. In any case if they killed themselves because they were being terrorised, their deaths are again clearly not suicide but murder. I did ask one source why he was claiming that the people killed themselves just because of "hassle." I suggested that a threat of death would be unlikely to stampede six people into killing themselves. My source said: "Well you see, if they do it themselves, they get to decide how they go."
cf: People in towns and villages all over Ireland are living in fear of IRA skang gangs.
cf: One of the American negotiators of the so called Peace Process in Northern Ireland, Senator George Mitchell is in Dublin this week receiving kudos for having effectively delivered us into the rulership of neo feudal IRA gangland by allowing the IRA to establish itself as a fully fledged international mafia while hiding in plain sight behind the facade of his fake Peace Process.
cf: I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
cf: IRA drug trafficker Michaela McCollum claiming she was importing two million dollars worth of cocaine to Europe after a "moment of madness."
cf: IRA drug trafficker Michaela McCollum staying with an Irish American prelate styling himself Archbishop Sean Walsh, wrongly reported as being a Catholic Archbishop by Independent Newspapers (and now revealed to be a so called Eastern rite Catholic) while she is on bail in Peru. I am suggesting that the largesse of the supposed Irish American Archbishop to IRA drug trafficker Michaela McCollum is evidence of ongoing Soviet era infiltration of the Catholic Church in Ireland and elsewhere by the IRA.
cf: Archbishop Diarmuid Martin in Dublin.
cf: I'm really quite intrigued gentle travellers of the internet as to how long I can keep you reading an article entitled "cf." I feel a certain satisfaction that you've come this far. Your reading is a tribute to my artistry.
cf: I take my hat off to one Henry Bauress though. (Two Henry Bauresses would have been ridiculous.) He has just bettered the title of this present oeuvre which you are reading with an innovative obscurantist masterpiece of his own, an article in the Leinster Leader newspaper teasingly headlined "xdwdw dwq dw wq." I should explain that I worked with Henry once in the Leinster Leader newspaper. Although to be fair, I never really worked, and I was never really with Henry except when we met in the corridors of power by accident. I wasn't his biggest fan. His fervourless prose and conformist trade union pseudery left me numb and cold. Whenever we talked our most innocent conversations were laced with cosmic disregard for one another. I remember once suggesting to the gathered journalists at a teabreak that we had no right to insist new employees should be in our union. I had said: "There are people out there who can write and are perfectly entitled to work here whether they are in our union or not, or whether they have the credentials we have or not. Who are we to sabotage their life chances?." Henry had replied: "Let them work in tele sales." His comment reminded me of Queen Marie Antoinette (whom I dated briefly) on one of her less sensitive days. Neither Henry nor I were saints in the union card matter. For I had lied my way onto the staff pretending to have a union card. And Henry had no talent and knew he wouldn't last a wet weekend if non union people were officially let come on board. He had also checked and knew full well that I was non union. Oh the humanity. I mean, think of the destruction I would have wrought on the tele sales industry if I had worked there. Henry had another salient exchange with me when I was urging the same journalists to resist the takeover of the Leinster Leader by a British company. After one of my firebrand perorations (ironically enough advocating the sort of er, um, direct action IRA capo Sean Quinn is currently taking to terrorise the companies he used to bankrupt Ireland on behalf of the IRA), Henry had remarked drily: "We could sit around all day talking about how many angels would fit on the head of a pin." This is a classical reference to the apocryphal legend that 500 years ago as Muslim armies surrounded Constantinople, the Christians of that city sat around debating how many angels could fit on the head of a pin. No evidence it ever happened by the way, but leftists love to apply such legends to the supposed Catholics of their day. I always found Henry's application of the term to me, a strangely evocative sallie. For a man who hadn't a tither of wit, he had got me right in the theological bawls. In truth, miffdom notwithstanding, I was actually somewhat flattered that Henry thought I was a Christian. I wish the God of the Hebrews thought so. Ho hum. There was yet another Henry-esque incident when an old editor at the Leinster Leader forced me to give up a financial column I had created. The ed told me he was handing the column to Henry. I pretended to be upset. The loss of the column didn't really bother me because I felt I was already doing too much work, even when doing half nothing. Still noblesse oblige. I feigned chagrin to the old editor thusly: "That column is like a son to me. And if you put Henry in charge of it, who knows what rubbish he'll have the kid spouting." It is best not to speak further of the fate of the Layman Finance column under Henry. It became a pustule on the Leinster Leader's bum. Oh. One other Henry reminiscence springs to mind which should shed light on our oddly adversarial little acquaintanceship. When I published my book Laughing On The Inside it had makey uppy quotes on the back cover from celebrities. One of them was from the road safety campaigner Sir Robert Mark. That is to say I made up a quote and attributed it to Sir Robert. Sir Robert is quoted on the back of my book saying: "I'm convinced it's a major contribution to road safety." The day after the book was published Henry accosted me in ye aforementioned corridor of the Leinster Leader High Command. "I hope you got permission from Robert Mark for that quote," he said. I had to spray him with mace to get away. I ask you bold readers. Wouldn't you just love to give that lad a good kick in the bawls. (Henry Bauress not Sir Robert Mark.) Ah, memories. Back to the present. Henry has an article in the Leinster Leader newspaper this week intriguingly headlined: "xdwdw dwq dw wq." I'm not joking. That is his headline. That's the headline I ruefully admit has bettered the one at the top of this page. Henry's article has got a big picture of his grinning maw beside it. Normally, alerted by the presence of his visage, I would have read no further. But the individuality, mystique and, yes, daring, of his headline had a hold of me dammit. So I scan. And lo! His opening is like old times. I mean it is not promising. It reads: "The questions of balance and proportion have been ringing in my ears. Councillor Seamie Moore added to the intrigue for me when he suggested the d'Hondt elections system is the better basis for electing those to represent and govern us." Okay folks. I know I'm not a fan, but that opening is coasting along the ragged edge of terribleness. And yet! And yet I'm still rendered helplessly curious by the title. I gots to know what it's all about. So I read on. It's certainly not light reading. Nor is it Henry's clearest work. I can't wait to see how he ties in his title. I concentrate. He seems to be wittering on about Irish electoral politics. There's a vague thumbs up for the notion of forcing parties to nominate women candidates. Something incomprehensible about the senate. Some boring stuff I couldn't be bothered to parse. And his big philosophical finish which states: "It may be that we don't care who is in power or how they get there if we have a roof over our heads and an income to support us in dignity." I gaze astounded. I understand those words. But I have no idea how he got to them and I've no idea how his headline has anything to do with what I've just read. But I can't admit defeat. It will be cold day in hell before a Henry Bauress article stumps me. I read it again. And, God help me, again. I've read it five times now. I've pondered it. I've racked my brains. And finally and poignantly, almost shuddering with frustration, the penny's dropped. That is to say, at last and at least, I understand his title. His title is a classic Leinster Leader misprint. They had a more infamous one a few years ago when an article by one Paul O'Meara (Two Paul O'Meara's etc etc) about the local Gaelic Football team nicknamed the Lily Whites, was headlined with a reference to the Lily Shites. Hilarious no. But for me Henry's has a unique subtle genius of its own. I cannot hate it for in pondering it, I have bonded with it somehow. Yes. Having read "xdwdw dwq dw wq," five times, I have started to like it. Even the boring windbag bits have a distinct flavour. I think perhaps I have misjudged him in the past. Here is a talent that defies the conventions of coherency and interest and engagement. My churlishness has been unmerited and poorly applied to a professional writer whose talent and achievement I should more readily bow towards. I recognise the better man. And I dare say in this moment of strange high epiphany, "xdwdw dwq dw wq," is the finest thing he's ever written.