The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Friday, April 06, 2018

towards a reform of association football

The primary problem pertaining to the game of soccer is encapsulated in the words of my American cousin Joe vis a vis my sundry humble yet dedicated attempts to keep him entertained during an interminable holiday in Ireland in the dulcet Summer of 1982, to wit:
"This is bor-r-r-r-r-ring."

Thursday, April 05, 2018

the excelsior is an attack ship of the vroog class

Morning in the world.
I am sitting at a table in the Tearman Cafe.
Enter Phoenicia Baines stage left.
She sits with me.
I am surprised but pleased.
After a few moments of this and that she shares something.
"I'm waspish," she says. "No, I am. I admit it. There's nothing I can do about it. I come from a long line of waspish women. The aunts. Granny. They were all waspish. I have a waspish streak a mile wide. It's genetic. It's in my genes. I'm waspish and I'm stuck with it."
This is more vulnerability than she has shown to me in a fifty year acquaintanceship.
The noble Heelers ponders.
"I don't think you're waspish." I venture. "I think you're nice. And your foibles are nothing to do with genetics. Everyone thinks they've no choice in how they behave. Richard Dawkins has a lot to answer for. Him and his genes. You're not waspish, I'm telling you. You're just sometimes a bit of a bitch."

Sunday, April 01, 2018

the most wonderful day of the year

Looking for somewhere to spend my hard earned social welfare cash.
I pause at the door of the Tearman cafe.
Time for a slap up feed washed down with lashings of ginger beer.
I rattle the handle.
The door is locked.
A dark presentiment crosses my mind.
A sign on the door proclaims: "Closed Friday, Saturday, Monday and Tuesday."
My fist bunches bunchingly. (Hands off that word Steyn.)
"The useless ****s," I exclaim exclaimingly. "They don't want to work. The useless ****ing ****s. The lazy *******s. They actually don't ****ing want to work. The ****s."
Of course when I turn around there is a woman standing right behind me with a face on her as though she owned the cee word and I was infringing some arcane copywright.
Either that or she "works" in the Tearman.
With a muttered apology I hurry off.