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, September 18, 2021

conquest of a cafe on the planet of the jackanapes

 

"Will you be eating in Sir?" a the peremptory manageress at Newbridge Silverware with an air of disdain.

I think she's married to the owner.

"No I'll be eating outside," and as I say this, I'm thinking to myself: "If eating outside means you won't start looking for vaccine passports and making illegal intrusive enquiries about my personal bodily health."

"Okay Sir. Now I have to ask you for your name and phone number for contact tracing."

I sigh deeply.

Contact tracing means they can call me if the government wish to bolster societal panic by claiming there's been a sudden outbreak of the Flu centred on that cafe.

"My name is William F Buckley," I tell her. "And my phone number is..."

I made up a phone number.

The thought struck me.

Who will I be tomorrow?

How about if I say: "It's an Irish name, Fionn Laherne. I'll spell it for you. F-o-g-h-o-r-n L-e-g-h-o-r-n."

Somewhere the ghost of Foghorn Leghorn would be saying: "Boy, I say boy, why are you using my name there boy?"

Or maybe we'll give Walt Whitman a run.

I am a bit of a Walt Whitman anyway.

And on Wednesday why not John Carpenter in his Dark Star days. (I'd be Ted Kotcheff but that sounds like a name somebody made up.)

Thursday I'm going to self identify as Ronald Coleman.

Friday I'll be Montie Baines.

Best not to completely eschew the classics. 

Friday, September 17, 2021

harassment watch

 

Incident date: Saturday 3rd April 2021 and various.

Location: Naas.

Type: Vehicular.

Perpetrator Identity: Male, slightly thickset, of Middle Eastern appearance, in his 20's or 30s. Was driving blue metallic car reg number 201 KE 3091. Perpetrator often resides at 20 Patrician Avenue, Naas.

Thursday, September 16, 2021

escape from the planet of the jackanapes


The noble Heelers orders a cup of tea, receives it, and goes to a seat in the corner of an otherwise empty cafe.

There are no women to ogle, presumably because the vaccine has killed them all.

Of course a gamin young gauleiter on the staff follows me to my table.

"Are you sitting in?" she asks as I sit in.

"No, I'm just testing the law," I answer flashing my broth of a boy grin.

"May I see your.."

"It's okay. I'll sit outside."

Well she was hardly going to say mickey.

I'm still old school enough bold readers to refuse to discuss my personal health with young women or indeed anyone else.

In a non Nazi country no one would expect us to show something so arcane as a vaccine passport in order to sit in a cafe.

Later I wander into a church where there is silent adoration of the real presence of Jesus.

There too I flash my broth of a boy grin to the assembly.

One woman stirs frantically and begins touching her mouth.

I am a bit nonplussed.

She is defnitely waving to me and definitely jabbing her hand repeatedly towards her mouth.

How very odd.

Perhaps she's thirsty.

Perhaps I make her feel like throwing up.

Realisation dawns.

She's attempting to silently tell me to put on a face mask.

Well we can test the law a bit here too.

Quite deliberately I turn my back on her and sit down to linger in the real presence.

Three traveller children peer in the door and whisper characterfully to each other.

One of them is in a wheelchair.

The children are whispering but I have quite acuitive hearing and can hear every single thing they say.

They are discussing the appearance of those of us sitting in the church, our looks and style of dress and so on.

They are no respecters of foibles.

I find this absolutely hilarious.

The facemask woman stands up and walks over to them.

I'm thinking of the Lord's one liner: "Let the children come to me."

They certainly brighten up the place.

In short order, Facemask runs them.

Lack of a facemask is apparently tantamount to lack of a soul.

My meditation is now laced with a certain ruefulness.

I'm thinking: "If she's got her confidence up after her victory over the traveller children, she might now be inclined to tackle me more directly."

But she returns to her seat without looking left or right.

Another woman radiating attitude, marches to the door and wedges it open.

This seems rum behaviour because an Autumnal breeze is blowing outside with a promise of winter in it.

There's more chance of getting the Flu from that breeze, thinks I, than of getting it from me but the woman seems to want to take her chances with the breeze.

I suppose the breeze is more trustworthy because the breeze has never defied the government.

Presently I betake myself from the church to the lakes.

A little old lady walks up.

She knows me.

"I've got another copy of the Irish Light for you," she says conspiratorially.

"You know I won't have it about the place because its editor has anti Jewish material on her website," I say.

"Well I have one for you if you'll read it."

Temptation.

It would be so refreshing to read a few articles opposing the vaccines.

I accept a copy of the Irish Light.

True enough there are some articles in it which convey an important critique of the present government induced Flu hysteria.

There are some other articles which are kooky enough even by my standards, including one where an English doctor appears to be claiming that there is  no proof that viruses cause any illness.

Right at the back of the newspaper I come to an article by the editor Gemma O'Doherty herself.

It contains a personal assertion from Gemma O'Doherty that "globalists" have found a way to control the weather and are staging catastrophic weather events to terrorise the public into accepting increasing limitations on personal freedom.

Why would she say such a thing?

Could she be what we call in Ireland, a bitteen touched?

Or are there people on both sides of the discussion regarding the climate change fooboon actually trying to promote chaos in service to evil?

I fold up The Irish Light and watched by an approving group of swans and ducks, I place it respectfully in the bin.

That was issue four of the new newspaper.

There will be no issue five.

Everyone in the world is mad except me.

Wednesday, September 15, 2021

in search of saint patrick

 

Saint Patrick as an historical figure floruiting circa 430 AD is quite well attested.

We have two pieces of substantial writing from his era which scholars fairly strongly affirm that he actually wrote himself, The Confessio and The Letter To Coroticus, and a third piece of writing which tradition attributes to him, a prayer hymn entitled The Lorica also known as Saint Patrick's Breastplate.

The melody of the Lorica was used by the great 1960s caterwauler Cat Stevens for Morning Has Broken. Not many etymologists know that.

Saint Patrick is known by four names. The one he uses for himself is Patricius. Ancient records show that he was also known as Succetus meaning God of War and Magonus, meaning the famous one. A further name given in the oldest chronicles for Patrick is Cothirtheachus, which is most convincingly explained in my view as a Latinate piece of old Irish for "four houses." Patrick having been a slave in four houses of Druids became known to some among the Irish by the fond epithet Four Houses.

A vogue has sprung up in recent years, particularly on internet publications, claiming without much explanation that Patrick's real name was Maewyn Succat. I doubt it.

The enduring mystery that most whets the investigators appetite today vis a vis Saint Patrick is the identity of his home town in Britain from which the Irish raiders kidnapped him while he was still a teenager.

According to Bishop Joseph Duffy in his 1972 work Patrick In His Own Words, (Veritas publications, republished 2019) Patrick names his home town in his Confessio as Bannaventa Burniae.

Various versions of the Confessio spell the name and divide up the words slightly differently. Benaven Taburniae is a not unknown version.

Scholars have been unable to agree where this might have been.

For centuries it was believed to be Dumbarton on the Clyde. About a hundred years ago, scholars began pushing other possibilities.

My leaning would be towards the older traditions that he came from Dumbarton. Old traditions exist for a reason.

The modern consensus has been that wherever his home town was, it must have been on the west coast of Britain for Irish raiders to reach it so readily.

This reasoning may not be exhaustive.

If the raiders who kidnapped the teenage Patrick from Britain were in fact a party of the High King of Ireland Niall Naoigiallach (Niall of the Nine Hostages) as some traditions maintain, then it might not have been so much a raiding party as a war party and well capable of travelling far inland or even to the eastern coast of Britain where my personal aspirations are to place the great saint.

Historians have identified an ancient town called Bennaventa in Northamptonshire but discounted it as being in the midlands and too remote for coastal attackers to reach.

Among those noting and rejecting the Northamptonshire possibility is Jonathan Rogers is his book Patrick (published by Thomas Nolan Inc 2010.) Rogers renders Patrick's spelling of the location of his home town as Bannaventa Burniae.

To be susceptible to pirates (the pirates I'm suggesting may have been a full war party) Rogers insists the place must have been on the west coast of Britain and notes the high concentration of Roman villas on elevations adjoining the Bristol channel.

Roger argues that since there are now thought to have been a higher concentration of Roman villas near the Bristol channel than anywhere else in Britain, this location as the home town for Saint Patrick is "as good a guess as any."

Certainly by the lifetime of Saint Patrick, Irish raiders had been attacking Roman outposts in Britain for 200 years non stop. We might suspect that after 200 years even at the Bristol channel location, some security measures would have made the pickings less easy to get at.

I am postulating that a full war party from Niall of the Nine Hostages was well capable of sailing a substantial extra distance to get at the rich pickings, less well defended because so inconvenient to attack, on the soft underbelly of eastern Britain.

If I'm right, all bets are off on conventional locations for Benaventa Burniae. (I have reasons for my favoured spelling of the town's name. Stick with me. I'm taking this somewhere.)

Liam De Paor in his book Saint Patrick's World (published by the Four Courts Press in 1993) advocates translating the title of the Confessio as Declaration contending that this is a better translation and captures Saint Patrick's real intent in writing the document. Mr De Paor transliterates the Saint's home town name as Banna Venta Berniae, breaking it up into three words. Opting as per usual acedmic form for the west coast he suggests: "It is probably near Carlisle."

My own disposition had been to search for clues by breaking down the name and to hope that the Benaven particle of the name might have Celtic, Gaelic or Scots Gaelic origins, with ben meaning mountain, and avon meaning river.

Ben Aven Taburniae then might might give us The Tavern Near The River And The Mountain.

Ah.

Wishful thinking.

It's extraordinary what it can do!

Incidentally the county of Avon and its river Avon adjoining the Bristol channel both historically received their name some say from the Irish word abhainn, river.

But my hopes of an Irish derivation for the name of Saint Patrick's homeplace in Britain seem far fetched enough.

Let's stick to something more coherent.

Benaventa still exists in European place names, There's a Benaventa in Portugal. The name is from the Latin. It means welcome.

We might legitimately postulate that Benaventa was in Saint Patrick's time routinely prefixed to certain place names for aesthetic reasons. This is how names develop and are bestowed.

And lo!

In the east of Britain even today, we find the ancestral homeland of my own kinsmen the Berneys in rural Norfolk.

It is a town which from time immemorial has been called simply Berney.

Nowadays the formal name is still Berney but the spelling is more often rendered Barney.

In Latin we get various forms including Burnia in the nominative case and Burniae in the genitive. Burniae would mean "of Berney."

Close to Berney is the townland of Berney Arms, which has been left to the State on the proviso that there will always be a train stop maintained there. Berney Arms thus has a train station but no road access.

I am proposing that Benaventa Burniae is the orginal name of the town of Berney and is best understood as deriving from the Latin for Welcome Of Berney or Berney's Welcome; that Niall of the Nine Hostages and co, having grown bored with attacking Bristol, Carlisle, Dumbarton and the like, and fancying a change of scenery and an easy raid on a relatively undefended outpost, sailed the extra distance all the way to the east coast of Britain and rampaged through Berney's Welcome some years before 430 AD purloining at their leisure any valuables, wenches or Saint Patrick's wandering around that weren't tied down at the time; and that this therefore is the ancestral home not only of my ancestors the Berneys but also of Saint Patrick himself.

Monday, September 13, 2021

portrait of a gaelic football team of character

 

The Ballad Of Crettyard


There's a football team in Erin

Not known for grace or style

Whose ruthlessness and depravity

Is mixed with female guile.


The girls of Crettyard

Are famed in song and story.

There football, tis not hard

So much as it is gory.


If a linesman goes a missing

Or a referee's been debawled

It's not so much a question

As a certainty who's involved.


But the girls of Crettyard

Will always stay the course

With a dollop of sheer savagery

And a smidgen of brute force.


The ladies of Ballsbridge

Arrived one day to play.

Crettyard marched onto the field

And the ladies ran away.


Then Athy came to face them

Who were rough enough themselves

And quickly fell to weeping:

"Mammy, is this hell?"


Or the glamour girls of Kerry

With skills beyond compare

Who limped home on broken ankles

Missing tufts of golden hair.


Their roll of honour lives in infamy

On every Gaelic pitch.

There's Sheila Na Giggs Nic Pull Yer Breasts

And Caitlin Og Mac Bitch


And sundry other heroes

With names too crude to call

Who live for Sunday football

And vote for Fianna Fail.


They've been in many championships

But they very rarely win

Because great big softy referees

Think fouling is a sin.


And all across the midlands

When children are abed

It's not the bogeyman they fear

But Crettyard they dread.


Still all good things come to an end

Even a life of crime

And Crettyard will meet their maker

At the game of life full time.


They'll troop up to the pearly gates

while Saint Peter says: "No way."

"Let them in ye twit," says Michael,

"That's Crettyard GAA."


And when the great Apocalypse

Rolls through all creation,

And demons swarm about the walls

To threaten heaven's station,


God will say to Gabriel,

With the battle going hard:

"It looks like the devil's winning.

Better send in Crettyard."