The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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

Saturday, May 19, 2018

the bookshop on the edge of forever

Wandered into a quirky little bookshop on Main Street.
The proprietress proffered me a leaflet.
"Where do you stand on this issue?" she smiled with a hint of challenge.
Her leaflet was headed The Martyrdom Of Gaza or some such.  It advertised a forthcoming book release. (The book is actually called Gaza, An Inquest Into Its Martyrdom by Norman G Finkelstein - Ed note)
Without looking up I answered her question.
"The Jews are the holy people. They were chosen by God to make himself known to the human race. They're in the holy land because God wants them there. Don't fight them lest you find yourself fighting God. That's where I stand. Left, right and centre."
The proprietress seemed a bit taken aback.
"They've done some bad things."
"It's a tough neighbourhood."
"Colonel Des Travers says..."
"Oh not him. He's awful. I mean he's a gentleman and he went easy on me the last time I libelled him over his commentary on the Middle East. But he's awful. Reliably wrong about everything. Why do you  even quote him to me? Why don't you just shoot me? Or start quoting Robert Fisk? At least I'd die of boredom quicker."
"He's very respected."
"Not by me he's not."
"But he knows the region and he's often asked to..."
"There's nobody asks Des Travers to do anything except the Rent-A-Mussie crowd, Amnesty International, the Irish Times and their ilk. Do you seriously think any of them go to him because of his impartiality and fairness towards the State of Israel?"
"Hey I used to be in Amnesty International."
"You left em. Attagirl! That's the spirit."
"But James, Des Travers is an expert on the Middle East and he cares."
"You think."
"Well if all this violence is not the Israelis' fault, who do you think is to blame?"
"My dear, sweet, innocent child, haven't you noticed that the one constant in Middle Eastern politics is that Des Travers keeps visiting the place! I think it's him. He's the cause. Things haven't exactly gotten better have they, in the four decades since he started swanning around the battle zones? And have you noticed that whenever the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Ayatollah Sayyid Ali Hosseini Khameini is on television calling for the complete destruction of Israel, Des Travers is nowhere to be found? It's like Superman and Clark Kent. You never see them together. Because they're the same person. You know the Wailing Wall was called the Singing Wall before Des Travers visited it. But I digress. All this time we thought it was an Arab Israeli conflict. But no. It's bloody Travers. And today I'm calling for a complete withdrawal of Des Travers from the occupied territories."
"So you admit they're occupied."
"By Des Travers. Yes."

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

the effect of inane profanity on man in the moon feldwebels

Driving down Main Street.
Two hare baithers putting up abortion posters near my avenue.
I am not best pleased.
I wind down the car window.
My intent is to roar something pithy, principled and with an engagingly insightful intellectual spin.
"**** off you abortionist *****," seems about right.
But a thought comes.
This is a remedy that is forbidden to me.
I drive on snowberly.
I am reflecting that the abortionist posters are actually a good deal more appealing than the sanctity of life ones put up by the goodies.
Lots of nice greens, blues and yellows in them.
The Nazis always have the best paraphenalia.
As I pass the Town Hall, I see a temporary sign beckoning people to enter.
The sign proclaims: "Together For Yes, coffee morning, all welcome."
All welcome?
Presumably not unborn babies though.
You've got to abort those at the door.
I wind down my window again.
The door of the Town Hall is wide open and assembled Nazis can be seen quaffing beverages in pomp and splendour.
I am ready to roar:
"**** off you Nazi *****, you should have been abortions."
Again I feel the faintest intimation.
This too is forbidden to me.
I betake myself to the Tearman cafe.
Well, well, well.
Since the eph word and the cee word and me have just permanently parted company, I'm starting to feel quite mellow.
There are Jihadis, corrupt cops, and do nothing permanently on strike educationalists who wouldn't recognise me right this moment.
I sit down and open a copy of the Bridge magazine.
Monty Baines' daughter Drusilla is waxing poetical on page three about great abortions she has known and what a triumph for humanity they were.
I fling the Bridge across the cafe.
"You stupid ******* Nazi ****," I scream. "This is what happens when a ******* ****** names his ******* daughter after a ******* poodle."