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.
