fortunes of war

 

Talking to Padre Baines on the phone.

"Archbishop Diarmuid Martin has retired," sez he.

I pause.

Archie!

I knew him Horatio.

So Archie has retired.

Young Archie.

And hath not left his peer.

Who would not weep for Archie?

He knew himself to weep.

And to subvert the ancient church on behalf of the IRA, the Soviet Union, and whatever congeries of leftist ne'er do wells he was working for on any given day.

I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.

In 16 years as Archbishop of Dublin, Diarmuid Martin's keynote was his utter and abject willingness to acquiesce to, and collude in, the ongoing media and political Kulturkampf campaign against the Catholic Church in Ireland, whereby he endorsed the wholesale destruction of the rule of law and the replacement of the presumption of innocence with a soviet style presumption of guilt for any Bishop or priest or nun whose reputation was even tenuously being impugned.

And now he's gone.

Gone!

And never even said goodbye.

Or called me Mother.

"Archy's retired?" I enquire cautiously. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"You were following the American elections at the time," explained Padre Baines. "We didn't want to over excite you."

Well bold readers.

This is wondrous news.

The ghost of a singer styling herself Sheila E and the ghosts of her nattily garbed band have entered my room.

With the phone still to my ear, I dance as the ghosts sing:

"He don't need

The glamorous life

He don't need

A woman's touch

He don't need

The glamorous life

With the IRA no longer in charge of the Catholic Church

It ain't much

It ain't much

Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner

Ner ner ner ner ner ner

He don't need

A woman's touch

He don't need

The glamorous life

With the IRA no longer in charge of the Catholic church

It ain't much

It ain't much

Neh neh neh neh neh neh neh

Neh neh neh neh neh"

It's all very merry.

From far away I hear Padre Baines still talking on the phone.

He is saying: "Oh and your friend Ruairi O'Domhnaill has been made parish priest of Newbridge."

Well that was quick.

We just had a full two minutes of freedom there.

Sheila E catches my eye and instantly folds up her instruments. She and her band hastily depart.

In the hall they pass the ghosts of a musical combo styled Iron Maiden who are entering by that route. Iron Maiden proceed to set up their instruments.

"All right with you Heelers?" enquires Iron Maiden hard man Bruce Dickinson as if he cares.

"I suppose for the day that's in it," I reply.

Bruce Dickinson and Iron Maiden sing thusly:

"It's close to midnight

Lay your head on the pillow

Evil's all around

But wotchya gonna do

Bring your daughter

Bring your daughter

To the slaughter

Let her go

Let her go

Let her go

Bring your daughter

Bring your daughter

To the slaughter

Let her go

Let her go

Let her go

It's close to midnight

The IRA's back in town

You thought you were free of them for a moment

But I guess you've been let down

Ruairi O'Domhnaill is saying mass

Who do you think he's praying to

Ha, ha, ha,

Give this one a pass

There's nothing else you can do

Bring your daughter

Fetch your daughter

To Newbridge church

Let her go

Let her go

Let her go

Bring your Rahman

Bring your Rahman

To the Shaman

Let him go

Let him go

Let him go

Ner ner nerdle ner ner

Don't forget your foolish pride

Ner ner nerdle ner ner nerdle ner

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

Bring your Rahman

Fetch your Rahman

Bring your Rahman

To the Shaman

Bring your mafia man

Bring your Straw man

To the slaughter

Let him go

Let him go

Let him go

Ner ner nerdle ner

Ah ah ah ah ah ah

Ner ner ner"

Normally I disapprove of Iron Maiden in any circumstanes but fucking hell mate Missus Keaveney, I mean Kinneavey.