riders on the storms

In their endless battle to convince the hardpressed citizenry of Ireland that climate change is real, those lovable goons in the Irish Meteorological Service have named a new rain shower this week.

Giving them a name is meant to heighten the drama and convince people that the storm du jour is unlike any of the ten billion indistinguishably similar storms we've had throughout recorded history.

Storm Dylan is approaching accompanied by imminent predictions of ultimate doom for all mankind west of the Shaughnessy O'Toole line. (The imaginary line which divides Ireland's half wits from her quarter wits.)

Anyone under a centimetre in height is at serious risk of drowning.

Anyone above a centimetre in height may get slightly wet.
All bog men are advised to head for the mountains.
Mountainy men should take refuge in the nearest bog.

But how did they choose the name?

The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowing in the wind.
Arf arf.
Meanwhile the Electricity Company is doing its bit to promote fictional climate change as reality by keeping the Poulaphouca dam open regardless of the flooding it's causing in towns downstream.
This enables the national Stalinist abortionist broadcaster RTE to claim towns are flooding that never flooded before.
The Electricity Company when challenged on the matter claims that it must keep the dam open until the reservoir drops below a certain level, even though in the previous ten decades this level was not insisted upon whenever flooding was being caused downstream.
Hilarious no.

On a lighter note, plans by the Met Office to name every rain drop have been quietly shelved.

Seriously though, they're doing a brilliant job.

(Hey - Ghost Of David Frost note)

(Homage - Heelers note)

no truth in rumour

There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that Ireland's Fine Gael government is going to appoint the Hat McCullough character from the opprobrious television cartoon South Park as their first ever Minister For Abortions. No hang on...

what i love about ireland in the yuletide season

The mawkish magnificence of Kilcullen choir at midnight mass.
That moment when a few days have passed and people begin cautiously stepping out of doors only to discover the entire nation disporting in outsize sweaters, psychedelic socks and futuristic rain coats that they received as presents and by no stretch of the imagination would otherwise have purchased for themselves.
Those sentimentalists at Ireland's monopoly Stalinist broadcaster RTE showing Thelma And Louise and Das Boot on Christmas Day.
Pushkin arriving on my window and going "Mrowwwr," until I give him some Turkey.

what prince harry didn't say in his christmas interview with former american president barack obama

President Obama's election slogan in 2008 was "Yes We Can," which I would suggest translates into plain English as "Flash Over Substance."
President Obama's appeal to the electorate hinged on a reverse psychology style slander of the electorate itself propagated consistently by his fans at media groups CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, the New York Times and the Washington Post, to wit: "Anyone who doesn't vote for Barack Obama is a racist."
President Obama's election as President of the USA was predicated upon a quisling, opportunistic, and adventurous criminalisation of his predecessor President George Bush which took place during war time and in a manner which emboldened our enemies the Jihadis for decades to come.
President Obama's financing, training and supplying of supposed rebel groups in Syria who turned out to be Al Qaeda, represented at best a monumentally incompetent act.
President Obama's precipitous withdrawal of the American army from Iraq left Iraq wide open for the five year death ride initiated by the Turkish backed Muslim Brotherhood Al Qaeda franchisee Isis resulting briefly in the creation of a new Jihadist caliphate, and culminating in what now looks like the ultimate domination of Iraq by Iran.

heelers fables

THE BOY WHO CRIED PEOPLE TRAFFICKING DRUG DEALING CHILD ABUSING IRA MAFIA

Long long ago in a faraway country called Ireland, a little boy tried to warn the peasantry that the IRA was taking over their country through its subversion of the institutions of State.

The little boy said: "The IRA has taken over the trade union movement."

But the peasants just laughed and said: "Ah it's not that bad."

Then the little boy said: "The IRA is subverting Ireland's mainstream political parties styled Fine Gael, Fianna Fail and the Labour Party, and it has set up proxies called People Before Profit and the Anti Austerity Alliance to go with its older proxy styled Sinn Fein. The IRA is using all these to mount repeated political campaigns for the legalisation of drugs so that the IRA can turn the dirty money it makes from poisoning generation after generation of Irish people into clean money overnight."

The peasants shook their heads and said: "That's just too much to worry about."

Then the little boy said: "The collapse of Anglo Irish Bank which turned Ireland into a Third World Country overnight was an IRA burglarisation of its own bank through illegal billion dollar loans approved by IRA agents on the bank's staff to IRA agents posing as businessmen on the outside."

And the peasants said: "Well, what's that  to us?"

Then the little boy said: "The IRA have infiltrated the RTE national television station, academia, the police and the Judiciary."

And the peasants said: "Stop bothering us. We're watching television and imbibing anti depressants."

Some time passed.

The peasants looked out their windows.

On the streets IRA skang gangs, styled the Kinahan Gang and the Hutch Gang, were shooting and stabbing each other as children made their way to school.

IRA drug dealers were using teenage militias to penetrate the schools and hook a new generation on drugs.
IRA front businesses lined Main Street.
The IRA had systemically collapsed immigration law simply by labelling anyone concerned about the collapse of immigration law as a racist.

IRA enforcers were dividing up the cities, towns, and villages of Ireland, as well as swathes of the countryside into neo feudal kingdoms for their associates from the Chinese Triads, Cosa Nostra, the Russian Mafia, Nigerian devil worshipping gangs, Tinker Gangs, South American Gangs, Muslim gangs generally and Al Qaeda in particular.

Serial killers, rapists, burglars, murderers and extortionists were being released onto the streets by IRA Judges and by IRA agents in the prison service.

The peasants looked at one another.

"The boy who cried wolf was right," they said.

****************

Moral: Sometimes there really is a wolf.

at the heart of christmas

There is a moment.
You may feel it.
When the stillness becomes something beyond stillness.
He is here.

yuletide

Sitting in a pew.
The loveliest stillness of the season.
Soon the Gormanstown choir will sing.
Soon I will sing too.
Soon the choir mistress Dorly O'Sullivan will look down warningly into the congregation to let me know I'm shouting the hymns.
Ah tradition.
The warm embrace of years.
Heaven and earth are close.
The church fills with the people of Kilcullen.
Neighbours wrapped up like Dickens characters greet each other in warm good fellowship.
Angels and saints from heaven mingle in the throng.
The air is hushed and expectant.
We are waiting for the child of Bethlehem.

heelers fables

There once was a duckling who was considered by several other ducklings not to be conventionally attractive.
The ducklings of this particular milieu conducted themselves with hauteur and disdain toward the duckling they considered unattractive.
Time passed.
The duckling who had been deemed unattractive grew.
She became very beautiful indeed by any conventional measure of pulchritude.
She was in fact a swan and not a duck at all.
The other ducklings now crowded around her seeking her favour.


Moral: Ducks are ****'s.

the five worst hair cuts of my life

In chronological order...

1. Back in the 1980's a girl cutting my hair at a salon in the town of Newbridge suddenly began to tremble. Soon she was emitting little sensual whimpers of orgastic arousal. Every time she brushed against me there was a shrill little cry. All this while cutting the hair. For one brief shining moment I thought she was so excited by my presence that she was in danger of passing out. I had lice. The hair cut was not good.

2. Back in the 1990's a girl cutting my hair in Dublin began to excoriate the singer Michael Jackson. I listened for a bit and then informed her thusly: "There is a significant possibility that while Michael Jackson was a child someone in authority over him dosed him with female growth hormones in order to preserve the billion dollar tremelo in his voice. His little boy voice was worth a fortune to various record companys. An adult voice might have been worth nothing. I think they dosed him. If that happened and those hormones caused a derangement, we should not hold Michael Jackson entirely responsible for what came next. Whoever was a party to filling a little boy with those poisons in order to retain him as a cash cow would surely bear some or all of the blame for whatever he did afterwards." The girl became hostile. The hair cut was not good.

3. In the dulcet Autumn of 2016 in a salon in the north of the Kilcullen metropolis a girl cutting my hair spotted that I was carrying a book about the sanctity of life. She said: "If you were a woman you would never oppose abortion." I asked her did she think all women were in agreement with her. The conversation snowballed pleasantly into classic accusations of mutual monstrousness. The hair cut was not good.

4. Early last year in the Windrush hair salon (the only one to figure twice in our survey by the way) one of the girls was cutting my hair in a manner that did not betoken serenity. A wave of resentment flowed from her. For once I had said nothing which might have provoked her. I looked at her keenly. No. I didn't recognise her from my past. Still it was unmistakeable. She was not a happy camper. The radio in the background was droning on. Presently I discerned an extended news report. A former IRA leader latterly a parliamentarian in Northern Ireland called Martin McGuinness had died. I considered the lady massacring my hair. She was needless to say from Northern Ireland. But she could hardly be blaming me for the death of Martin McGuinness even if she did by chance happen to be aware of the critical assessments in my public writings about the drug dealing, people trafficking, child abusing, IRA terrorist mafia and their parliamentary proxies in the political party styled Sinn Fein. In any case the hair cut was not good.

5. A mildly unpleasant experience with one staff member at the Windrush salon was not enough to put me off. I am an optimist and went right back there a few months later. The owner cut my hair this time. While she snipped busily around the Heelers cranium, I began musing aloud about people who put their parents into old folks homes. "Even the red Indians didn't do that," I opined. "The Indians would drag their elderly up the mountains and leave em to die. I'm telling you they were more humane than us. We've come up with something really callous. We dump them into a prison styled a nursing home, where they're systemically abused by heavy metal listening sub norms. That's our humanity. What on earth has happened? The old contract between the generations was that our parents looked after us when we were babies and we looked after them when they got old. What happened? Now we're aborting our babies and throwing the oldies into a dungeon. It's unholy." I paused because the snipping had become a little tense. "It's not that simple," managed the hairdresser between gritted teeth, "some people have mortgages." Without thinking I shot back: "Yeah and lucky for them their parents didn't use the mortgage as an excuse to throw them in the bin when they were kids." The hair cut was not good. And she charged me 50 percent more than usual for the pleasure.