splashings

in the pool of evening
quick silver
ripples widening
forever

cold water thing
risen to exult
in some unthinking imagining
ordinary is wonder enough

what do fishes dream

hell hath no fury like a biscuit nun scorned

"Sheila Clunes doesn't like me," said Uncle Throg.
"That's because she's a bitch," I answered knowledgeably.
"She's rude to me at the prayer group," sez he.
 "That's because your prayer group is an IRA coven," I elaborate opaquely.
"The worst of it is I think she's a nun," expostulateth he.
"She's an ex nun," quoth me canon lawily.
"Why did she leave?" sez he.
"Well," sez me, "in the Catholic tradition nuns are considered to be married to God. Sheila Clunes decided it wasn't working out and told God she wanted a divorce. She sued the Almighty for neglect and spousal abuse, claiming he stole Bridge Club biscuits, that he was never home, and that he failed to contribute in a meaningful way to the relationship. Oh and she accused him of seeing other nuns and not believing her made up stories about miracles. She's hoping the courts will award her half of the universe in compensation. That's the word on the street anyway. Personally I don't believe any of it. I bet it's God suing her for divorce rather than the other way around. There's only so much one deity can take."
"Actually James, she claimed you stole Bridge Club biscuits."
"Oh. Yeah. I'm mixing myself up with God again. I do that sometimes. But don't worry about the divorce. God probably had a pre nup. She'll get nothing except a good kick in the bawls."

bolero

december light
grey mist
pavements glistening with a touch of frost
christmas close but not yet
passers by scurrying in scarves and coats
shop windows glowing
seasonal good cheer
poetry in the early onset of evening
little birds with their feathers fluffed for warmth
craggy doubters believing for once
coffee brewed to a froth
allison humming something about love
heaven and earth are closer than they appear
all the promises of god are true

was the daily mirror newspaper group morally capable of framing deceased broadcaster jimmy savile for child abuse

The following information may be relevant to our considerations.
The Daily Mirror has in the past year been ordered to pay a total of 1.6 million Euros to eight individuals whose phones it hacked.
The eight individuals who are to be compensated by the Mirror are: air hostess Lauren Alcorn, actress Sadie Frost, footballer Paul Gascoigne, BBC Executive Alan Yentob, TV Producer Robert Ashworth, and soap opera actors Shobna Gulati, Lucy Taggert and Shane Ritchie.
Paul Gascoigne informed the court that the Daily Mirror's spying efforts had driven him into a spiral of paranoia and alcoholism.
British Judge Mary Arden in making the awards against the Mirror Group accused the newspaper of "disgraceful conduct."
Another hundred private citizens are preparing to sue the Mirror Group whose holding company is known as Trinity Mirror.
I would suggest that the salient difference between all these people and Jimmy Savile is that these people were still alive when the Daily Mirror attempted to destroy them in order to shore up its bankrupt newspaper group.
The Mirror Group has now set aside a further 56 million Euro for ongoing claims from members of the public whose phones were hacked and whose reputations were slandered by the Daily Mirror and its employees.

true greatness and its apposites

Coffee in the Tearman cafe with cousin Hector the church organist.
His power struggle over the organ in Kilcullen church with Mrs Von Horst the organ mistress is on hiatus.
It must be.
He's still alive.
Today he is reminiscing about his musical training in Newbridge College.
He had been taught by the now deceased Henry Flanagan, a priest with a formidable reputation as a sculptor and choir master.
Not a fan myself you understand.
Father F's sculptings always look a bit too chunky for me.
And his expulsion of me from the Newbridge College choir try outs of 1978 was precipitous in the extreme.
I'd barely warbled two notes when he said: "Thank you little boy, that will be all."
But there's them that thinks he's great.
"You know he taught Christy Moore as well," recalls Hector. "I remember Father Flanagan saying about Christy that he was the most promising musician he'd ever encountered but somewhere he took a wrong turn and all was lost."
I digest this reminiscence.
I find it most quaint.
Christy Moore gentle readers is Ireland's most famous living folk singer and song writer.
Father F's comment reminds me of the old gag footballer George Best used to tell about himself.
George would recall sitting on a bed in one of London's top hotels with a hundred thousand dollars scattered around the room which he'd just won at a casino.
A rather comely Miss World, one Mary Stavin, was also sitting on the bed.
The hotel room service porter was leaving champagne on the table.
The porter looked around the room sadly, taking in the scattered bank notes and Mary Stavin with equal diffidence.
"Where did it all go wrong George?" he wondered.

the muscovian candidate

The postulation regarding a fixed American election functions as follows.

1. Julian Assange's Wikileaks website, a proxy for the Russian government, along with other Russian proxy websites, selectively leak extracts from Hillary Clinton's emails in the run up to the election depressing her overall support by several percentage points at key moments in the campaign. Assange and the Russians cannot collapse Clinton's support but they can make it an easier job to steal enough votes to beat her.

2. The mafia and their Teamsters union operatives who normally lean Democrat, lean Trump in this election because of Mr Trump's known mafia associations in New York, Atlantic City and Nevada. What fixing they can do, they do do, on his behalf.

3. Russian computer hackers (or mafia ones or others) use software programmes and possibly additional unknown manual methods involving corrupted poll supervisers to alter results in several constituencies. The hackers steal votes for Mr Trump simply by hacking into the tabular results programmes in local constituencies, enough to push Trump to victory in Michigan, Wisconsin and Pensylvania. Most of the precincts in these States will not be altered. There will be no fraud across more than 90 percent of tallies in these States. The hackers will steal just enough votes from essentially unverifiable and untraceable computer based ballots in the remotest precincts, to give the overall numerical win in the three targeted States to Mr Trump.

hence wilt thou lift up a cup of coffee

Quaffing coffees in the Tearman cafe with Uncle Scutch and my second cousin once removed Hector.
I use the term second cousin once removed advisedly.
It means Hector was once removed from a pub for insisting on talking to the other patrons  (Denizens surely? - ed note) about organ music.
He's talking about the same thing now.
For Hector is an organist who brings his work into pubs and cafes with him.
The Uncle and I listen nonplussed as he discourses.
Neither of us are huge organ music fans.
And if you don't like the music, a conversation about the music is unlikely to float your boat.
Maybe if Donald Trump banned organs I could work up a bit of enthusiasm for the subject.
My eyes are a bit glazed.
Hector pauses, suspicious that we're not listening.
"Organ music is like fine wine," I comment intelligently. "Ninety percent of the population know nothing about it and have no interest in knowing."
I am saved from Hector's response by the clinking of the cafe door.
Ninety year old Mrs Von Horst and her entourage of trained old ladies enter and occupy a table near us.
They can kill you at fifty paces with a blow of their tongues.
(One of mine? - Basil Fawlty note)
(Homage - Heelers note)
There is an awkward silence.
Hector looks extremely uncomfortable.
"What's going on?" says Uncle Scutch.
"Hector and Mrs Von Horst are in a power struggle over the church organ," I explain.
Uncle Scutch looks at Hector who is studying the view from the window.
"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard," says Uncle Scutch. "They're not really fighting over the organ, are they? That would be like two bald men fighting over a comb."
"You underestimate the stakes at issue," I elaborate. "Who controls the organ, controls the choir loft. Who controls the choir loft controls Rome. Who controls Rome controls the world."
"Are you really fighting with Mrs Von Horst?" says Uncle Scutch to Hector.
Hector nods.
"I'm not sure I want to be seen with you," grumbles Uncle Scutch as the little old ladies from Transylvania continue to stare us down.
You should visit my town bold readers.
It's strange here.
You'll like it.

from our autumn schedules

A coolo American voice announces:
"Bendedict the Sixteenth was a Pope. And a good one. But he was framed for incompetence by other Prelates, turned bad; Prelates who orchestrated a coup within the Catholic Church using left wing free masonic Jesuits (I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns) and set Benedict up to take the fall."
Camera cuts to a desert landscape. Pope Benedict looking super bad ass rides down the highway out of the sun on a motor bike tuned to roar. There is a gold medallion glittering on his chest. He's being played by Lorenzo Lamas as per our usual sledge hammer subtle satire arrangement.
The coolo narrator voice continues:
"Now he patrols the badlands, an outlaw hunting other outlaws, a warrior, a loner, a.... Pope Emeritus."
Coolo American music, in fact the classic Renegade theme, kicks in:
"Ner ner ner nerdle ner ner ner ner ner,
Nerdle ner ner."


*******

Glossary
Pope Emeritus = Catholic church jargon for a Renegade.