charter for a new political party in ireland

1. Repudiate abortion, euthanasia and assisted suicide.

2. Elect the Judiciary. Allow any citizen to stand for election as Judge in order to break the monopoly on Jurisprudence established by unrepresentative unelected leftist colleges in Ireland. End the IRA mafia's infiltration of the Judiciary.

3. End unemployment by assigning an intern to every public sector government employee (State employees including teachers, nurses, police, soldiers, lawyers, television broadcasters, parliamentarians) on salaries above 80 thousand Euro a year, whereby the mentor awards 10 thousand of his own salary to the intern, which is joined to the 8 thousand unemployment benefit which the intern is already receiving to give a starting salary of 18 thousand.

4. Permit high rise sky scraper developments in Dublin and all Irish cities.

5. Establish anti rackateering divisions in the police force, dedicated to individual mafias, ie an anti IRA division, an anti Cosa Nostra division, an anti Al Qaeda division, an anti Chinese Triads division, an anti Russian mafia division, an anti Nigerian Devil Worshipper mob division, an anti Tinker Gang division etc. Make the new police divisions results driven. Issue six monthly progress reports from each division, numbers of arrests, expulsions, and seizures of assets.

6. End white collar criminal Denis O'Brien's control of Independent Newspapers and associated media groups, and sequester Denis O'Brien and his family's billion dollar assets on the grounds that their fortune was founded on bribes to a corrupt Fine Gael Communications Minister styled Michael Lowry, as already delineated by Judicial enquiry.

7. Issues public shares in the State broadcaster RTE, with citizens being awarded shares based on the number of television licences they have purchased over the years. Elect the governing body of RTE through universal suffrage of shareholders. End the IRA mafia's infiltration of RTE.

8. Deregulate broadcasting in Ireland. Permit political parties to establish their own television stations. Permit any citizen to establish television or radio broadcasting entities.

9. Incarcerate gangland figures in dispersed prisons overseas, preferably in Russia. Intern members off the Kinahane IRA skang gang without trial overseas. Ditto the Hutch IRA skang.

10. Re establish our border and enforce it.

11. Anathematise the IRA.

12. Permit universal suffrage of adult citizens in senate elections.

13. Permit any adult citizen to stand for the Presidency.

14. Impeach  Judge Kevin O'Higgins for his report whitewashing the manifold corruptions of Former Justice Minister Alan Shatter and former Police Commissioner Martin Callanan. Impeach Judge Mary Ellen Ring for attempting to stifle public awareness of endemic police corruption in Ireland by advocating the criminalistion of members of the public whose criticisms of the police were deemed by her and her ilk to be vexatious.

folkies

The most famous folk singer alive today in Ireland is Christy Moore.
He entered a cafe of which I am an habitue during a wondrously warm May afternoon last week.
The cafe is called the Chat And Chew and you will find it in the town of Newbridge.
Christy Moore entered the cafe escorted by a local activist from the Fianna Fail political party.
They sat.
A lady called Jolene (married so I'll resist the urge to enthuse louchly about her looks) approached the table.
She manages the cafe most Mondays.
"This is Jolene," said the politician to Ireland's most famous folk singer.
Christy Moore looked up roguishly.
At 70 he can still do roguish like he means it.
Then he sang with quite distinctive and exquisite intonation:
"Jolene, Jolene, Jole-e-e-e-ene, don't take my man just because you can."
Why it was like a poem the way he sang it.
Not one of your ould wet Seamus Heaney poems either.
More like WB Yeats on a good day.
Powerful and heart searing.
I would have liked him to keep going.
The lady in question interrupted just as it was getting good.
"Would you ever ---- off," she exclaimed, "I'm sick of that ----ing song. Everybody sings it to me,"
This is quite true as I could have told him.
And although Christy Moore sings it better, I'd say my version has more going for it in terms of wit and innovation.
It goes:
"Jolene, Jolene, Jole-e-e-e-ene,
Don't burn my ham and eggs because you can.
I know you've made this dinner before
But I need just one more.
Oh please don't burn my dinner please Jolene.
Jolene, Jolene, Jole-e-e-e-ene."
And endless variations on the theme.
I really like singing it but she has trained me not to.
Life is too short.
If I had a death wish, I'd go back to shouting "no more Muslim terror," at anti Israeli demonstrators in Dublin before I'd chance singing Jolene to the real Jolene.
She's named after her grandfather by the way.
I kid you not.
For truly Newbridge is a quaint little town.
Our present story ends with someone going into the kitchen and telling Jolene the guy serenading her was Christy Moore.
She came out and apologised to him.
Christy Moore said a tad ruefully: "Lots of people have told me to ---- off before but never when I was singing."
They shook hands.
I gotta tell ya folks.
The world is poorly divided.
Never in the course of many such encounters has Jolene dreamed of apologising to me.

confucius he say

Opium is the opium of the atheistic class.

this sporting life

A visit to Uncle Jim.

The dogs run into the house ahead of me.

Entering the kitchen I behold a scene.

Uncle Jim aged somewhere in the indeterminate 80s, appears to be waltzing around the kitchen with my sheepdog.

It's quite surrealistic.

I goggle.

Ckiser inspection reveals he is engaged in a tug of war with the sheepdog over an object I can't make out..

He is saying: "No, no, no," and is much too engrossed to even greet me.

They move back and forth around the kitchen.
Each one has a hold and will not let go.

I am mildly amused but feel it necessary to intervene lest one or other of them get over excited.

As the melee passes me, I reach out and pinch the dog's ear.

She drops whatever it is she's holding.

With a cry of "aha," Uncle Jim raises the item aloft triumphantly.

It is a full bacon joint.

Jess had grabbed it off the table when his back was turned.

We stand for a few moments.

The Uncle sighs.

"I suppose you'd better take it with you when you're leaving and give it to the dogs later," he says. "I can hardly let Vinnie eat it after this."

He is referring to his son, my gambling cousin Vincent.

I am agreeable to taking the meat in lieu of poisoning the cousin..

The aged uncle and me pass another few hours discoursing about sundry matters from American politics to Irish horse racing.

It is after midnight when I leave with the bacon wrapped in paper.

Next day I meet the Uncle on the avenue.

"Vinnie came in late last night," laughs the Uncle, "and he was looking for the meat. I told him you took it because the dog had gotten it. And I could hear him from my bedroom cursing you for about the next hour. You wouldn't believe the things he was saying."

"I'm not sure I want to know this," I murmur thoughtfully.

I head back to the house and retrieve the bacon from the fridge.

It is indeed a fine slab.

I get the dog dishes and cut a few slices for the hounds.

They eat happily.

I look at the remaining bacon.

It really is a fine hunk of meat.
I've probably cut off any bits that have been bitten or drooled on by the dog or mauled by Uncle Jim.

So I use what's left for my dinner.

Very nice it was too.

Positively savoury.

werewolves of london

the theatrical succession
years fled away
ham actors chewing up the stage
in their anodyne atheistic little play
stand now as one
with the ones who hammed
in shakespeare's day
and there's something very old and very fine and very grand
in this damp tacky theatre off clubland