darkness visible

Sunshine and showers.

Lovely day.

I wandered into a church.

In  one of the pews a servant of evil reclined.

Even here.

Even here they seek to draw close in order to steal souls from in front of the very altar.

I walked to a different part of the church.

Presently I heard footsteps moving rapidly.

Uh oh.

Here goes.

But the door whooshed.

She had left.

I was alone again with God.

"Well Lord," I said ruefully. "That would be an improvement. Them running away from me. That would be a howl. I mean I could really enjoy that."

In my heart I thought I heard the following.

"Rejoice not that the spirits submit to you. Rejoice that your name is written in heaven."

lights camera achtung

Sitting in my paper strewn office at the chateau.

The phone rings.

"Mr Healy?"

"Who is this?"

"You would be wise to cease your enquiries into the life of Otto Skorzeny."

"Why? Am I getting close? The bit about war time contacts between the SS and the IRA? Did Skorzeny really know Pat McKenna who is styled on a headstone in Kilcullen cemetary,Northern Division Commander of the IRA? Did Skorzeny bring a black magic circle to Kilcullen? Did he initiate elements of the IRA into a devil worship cult? Is that why Pat McKenna's supposed son and daughter Joe and Breda McKenna are satanists? Am I right about my old history teacher at Newbridge College having some sort of connection to the thing?"

"It will all end in tears Mr Healy."

"Still not quite getting your name."

"There is only one way this ends. Either you stop what you're doing or you die."

"That's two ways."

"Es lebe unsere geheimnis Deutschland."

"Mugs is that you? You're such a kidder. And your German accent is a joke. Give it a rest will you."

"The sands of your life are running out. You will die in blood."

"Nyeahhhhh fuggoff!"

The line went dead.

The ghosts of four gentlemen in a music combo styled Limp Biskit entered the room, gave a curt nod and without any further word of explanation started playing their version of Mission Impossible 2 which appropriately enough is based on a Lalo Schfrin riff. Not the one from The Eagle Has Landed but still a good one.

It was super bad ass.

obitcheries

The freewheeling, self parodyingly avant garde, broadcaster, songwriter, composer, wit, Shay Healy has died.

He is not a relation of mine.

In 2012 he earned my respect by responding to a bigoted sneer from a broadcaster called Ray Darcy.

Ray Darcy had said: "The Catholic Church f--ked up Ireland.

Shay Healy responded:

"We need a new verb to describe the mess these people (those slandering the Catholic Church) are making of Ireland. When we want to say a situation is beyond f--ked up, from now on, we will say: Everything has been Raydarcied."

thank you for the music

 

Visited Bainesy who's dying in hospital.

The dying man true to form looked like death warmed up when I arrived.

My initial conversational sallies did not seem to be helping.

So I turned to prayer.

"Will I pray with you?" I asked.

"Nothing wrong with it," he grunted.

A few prayers.

Still not the atmosphere of warmth, peace and optimism. I like to engender with my visits.

This is bad.

Bad for my ego I mean.

Maybe I'm losing it.

Time to bring out the big guns.

I recommend to anyone visiting the sick to have a few strings to your bow, a repertoire of things you can do to give them a lift.

Lately I've taught myself to sing.

Or as I explained to the patient, it is my firm conviction that a mystical event has taken place in my middle years whereby I have been given the gift of song. I asked him did he mind if I sang a few bars.

Without much enthusiasm he gave me the go ahead.

I launched into Soul Of My Saviour.

As I finished, Bainsy appeared too moved to talk.

Were those tears of joy swimming in his eyes?

Interpreting his silence as an  appropriate encouragement I followed up with Jerusalem.

You know the one that goes:

"Jerusalem

Jerusalem

Life up your hands and sing

Hosanna

In the highest

Hosanna to our King."

It's a cracker.

But you've got to sass it.

Bainsy still hadn't spoken so I sang a few more, crowd pleasers every one, Ave Maria, Silent Night (you can't go wrong with Silent Night) and Our God Reigns.

My voice went a bit squeaky on the choruses of Our God Reigns but I don't think anyone noticed.

The patient seemed enraptured. I was beginning to realise how good I'd gotten at this. I was asking myself how long should I go on? Bono does two hours.

Maybe I could slip in a few John Denvers or a Roger Whitaker.

Presently the sick man spoke.

In good humoured but essentially colourful language, he roundly disabused me of the notion that I had ever been given the gift of song, early in life, late in life or at any other time in my life or anybody else's life for that matter. As politely as he could in the circumstances, ie broaching such a delicate subjec with a singer who can't sing, he forbid me under pain of death to ever try singing in his presence again.

This was the sensation scene of the visit. I recognised it would be hard to top it. I waited a few more minutes so he wouldn't think his lack of appreciation had offended me, and then cheerily enough, I made my excuses and left.

The great performer always knows when to call it a day.

You don't chase the audience as me and Pavarotti always say, him because he's too fat to chase anyone, me because I can't sing.

As I reached the door I glanced back.

Indupitably, Bainsy had quite perked up.

He was like a man who had realised there's worse things than dying.

towards a refutation of quantum and relativity theories

 

1. Reality never taps a theoretical scientist on the shoulder to tell him he's wrong.

2. The only limits to the errors of theoretical scientists are the limits of their vocabularies.

3. Without discernment, science itself as defined by theoretical scientists will ramble off into the limitless wastes of imaginative speculation.

etix fur beginnurz

 

Soylent Green is people.

That is to say the flu vaccines have been made out of murdered babies whose bodies pharmaceutical companies purchased from abortion providers.

Are we to believe that those brilliant peer reviewed and sublimely moral scientists at Pfizer and Astrazeneca call around to the abortion clinics on spec and pick up whatever has been thrown out in the bin?

No.

For this transaction, everything is ordered in advance.

They need the cells and organs of murdered babies which they buy from abortion providers to be in good condition.

Here is the news.

Aborted babies are usually deader than dead.

Abortion will do that to a baby.

Their cells and organs are in no condition to be used in vaccines.

So what I'm suggesting to you gentle travellers of the internet is that the pharmaceutical companies notify the abortion providers in advance that they want intact organs and living tissue from the babies being murdered, and the abortion providers for their part, take the living baby from the womb of the mother on the operating table, and harvest his organs and tissues before killing him.

Lascerated organs as per abortions by curettage (where the babies are cut to pieces in the womb) or cells that have been toxically poisoned  in other forms of abortion (where the babies are chemically burnt alive) are of no use to pharmaceutical companies for their concoctions.

The implication is that Pfizer, Astrazeneca el al, have been ordering up dead babies in advance and stipulating that the organs must be intact and the cells alive, and that this has led to a whole new level of barbarity within the abortion industry.

I say it again.

To meet the orders of pharmaceutical companies, the abortion providers are inducing the birth of babies alive and harvesting from them the organs and the tissues which so many of you have now consumed in flu vaccines and Mumps Measles Rubella jabs.

It's time to put a stop to this.

Otherwise it is we in our conformism and complicity who are the Nazis.

lost in a medieval wood

 

Wandering with Professor Serena Sanchez in the medieval Hill Wood, near the dulcet South Kildare hamlet of Monasterevin.

She keeps talking about a proposed collaboration with Professor Heinrich Bloort an academic from the university of Heidleberg.

Everytime she says his name I mime throwing up motions indicative of projectile vomiting and c.

I have doubts about the exact nature of the collaboration.

Our conversation goes something like this.

Serena: "Heinrich Bloort is going to help me with a paper on Yeats."

James: Oh my heavens. You young people and your euphemisms for sex. Doing a paper. Is that what he calls it?"

Serena: "It's his field of expertise. Yeats I mean. He offered to help."

James: And no doubt his ulterior motive will soon become apparent to you, poor innocent girl that you are." (Bit of an homage there to Fawlty.)

Serena: "He is sick you know. Seriously ill. He may not be alive at the end of the year."

James: "Oh come on. We've all used that line. I'm dying. I may not last the night. But one last night of love with you my darling... Uh, uh, ugh, urrrrgghh. I'm dead. No I'm still here. How about it?"

Serena: "He really is sick."

James: "I think you'll find he feels better in the morning."

Serena: "I had a friend who got cancer. She was dead in six months."

James: "That's because your friend had what we call real cancer. Heinrich Bloort has pretend cancer, also known as fake cancer, or please sleep with me cancer."

Serena: "Oh James, you're too cynical."

James: "Why don't you let me, what do you call it, <<collaborate>> with you on that paper?"

Serena: "What do you know about Yeats."

James: "I know that the real genius of Yeats was to convince so many people that he was a genius. I know that he was involved in devil worship. Stick with me baby. I guarantee you the paper you'll write will be a lot more interesting for your students than what you're going to write with that other fellow."

Serena: "That's what I'm afraid of."

*******

The above walk in the woods took place on Wednesday August 3rd in the year of our Lord 2005. As of today, April 25th 2021, nearly a full sixteen years later, Professor Heinrich Bloort is thankfully still with us and currently floruiting somewhere as an Emeritus Professor of Classics. No disrespect intended, but I'll believe he's dead when I see him in a coffin with a stake rammed through his black heart.

SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY BLUES

 

One Agnetha Falskog is singing on the radio. Two Agnetha Faltskogs would have been ridiculous.

She sings as follows:

"I've had a such a happy life.

I'm the girl with the golden hair."

Before she gets any further I exclaim:

"Ah shut up Agnetha. You're riding Bjern."

Having muted the radio I reflect further.

Bjern supposedly told a reporter recently that Swedish music is successful because Sweden is godless.

They should have let Bjern sing Agnetha's song.

And it should have gone:

"I've had such a happy life.

I'm riding zat blonde girl over zere.

What a joy.

What a world.

What a ride.

So... I... say...

Tzank you for ze ridies

It's ze song I'm singing

Tzanks for all

Ze joy zey're bringing.

Who can live vithout zem

I ask in all honesty.

Vot vould life be?

Vithout a tumble in ze hay

Vot are we?

So I say

Tzank you for ze ridies

For giving zem to me.

I am ze man vith ze dyed blonde beard

I'm razzer wealthy too

Isn't that weird?

What a joy

What a world

What a ride

So I say

Tzank you for ze ridies

It's ze song I'm singing

Tzanks for all

Ze joy zey're bringing

Who can live vithout zem

I ask in all honesty

What would life be

Vithout a bit of slap und tickle vot are vee

So I say

Tzank you for ze ridies

For giving zem to me."