book review with constant weader

This week's title: Immaculate Deception by Jim Gallagher, Merlin Publishing, 2009.

Jim Gallagher's hatchet job on the claims of Achill Island visionary Christina Gallagher to be receiving personal visits from the Blessed Virgin Mary, is well worth another look with the passing of a few years since its original publication date.

The book is essentially a weaving together of attack articles Mr Gallagher first published about Miss Gallagher in the Sunday World newspaper.
Since then Christina's loyalists have not totally abandoned her and nor have students of the nature of reality like me entirely lost interest. (My own conspiracy theory du jour for Christina is that she has currently reinvented herself as internet loon prophet the self styled Maria Divine Mercy, a not for profit Prophet, if you believe her publicity handouts.)
As a distillation in narrative form of Jim Gallagher's merciless newspaper attempts to blow Christina Gallagher out of the water, the book, like the articles, attempts a systemic debunking of her as a visionary. It was first published in book form in 2009 but even today it still has merit and is still relevant.
Caveats: His book may be seen as a personalised and vitriolic attack on Christina Gallagher. It is these. But it is more.  It may also be seen as an exculpatory piece, intended to justify The Sunday World newspaper's three year long campaign to ruin her. It is this too. But it is more.
The book is billed by its publishers as "the shocking true story," and the truth is in here somewhere I'm sure.
I'm just not sure that the Sunday World ever really found the smoking wafer it insists it has found. Nor am I sure that the evidence as presented in Jim Gallagher's book justifies his trial by newspaper attempts to ruin a private citizen.
If you read Jim Gallagher's book I think you will end up asking yourself not just about Christina's integrity but about Jim Gallagher's and the Sunday World's integrity as well.
The book is fascinating because all these moral contradictions become relevant in any consideration of it.
Presumably Jim Gallagher is no relation of the reputed visionary Christina Gallagher although the coincidence in last name's creates a little confusion for the unwary reader.
The book features a clear narrative overview of Christina and her claims even if the author seems at times to prevent our access to any details that might happen to be in the visionary's favour.
There is a dissatisfying reliance on sources who are permitted to remain anonymous. Jim Gallagher tells us how decent his sources are, how brave and how sincerely religious.
But he would say that, wouldn't he.
And if his sources are so decent, brave and religious why wouldn't they have the most basic common brave religious decency to set their names to their slanders?
I reckon fully ninety percent of the allegations in this book are attributed one way or another to supposedly real individuals whose identities remain Jim Gallagher's little secret.
This stuff would not pass in a court of law where witnesses have to stand over their testimony particularly when the reputation of another human being is being dragged through the mud.
And that's the problem with this book.
Can we sincerely believe Jim Gallagher is on the side of the angels, genuinely trying to shut down a fraudulent visionary in order to protect the elderly and vulnerable who according to him would otherwise be ripped off by her?
Or is it more likely that the Sunday World having come to the conclusion that Christina Gallagher was not quite oxo, decided to label her as a fraud in order to sell a few newspapers, at a time when their title was running up hundreds of millions of dollars in debt, soon to be written off by collapsed gangster banks?
I'm asking the question.
Even if Christina is doing a fakey poohs with her visions, who is the bigger criminal here? Consider it! Independent Newspapers which owns the Sunday World has just had at least five hundred million dollars of its loan debts cancelled by banks recently nationalised by Prime Minister Enda Kenny. (Yes the same Enda Kenny who closed the Vatican Embassy and legalised abortion and spent at least a further 30 billion dollars of public money bailing out the drug dealing, people trafficking, child abusing, terrorist IRA mafia controlled Anglo Irish Bank since renamed Irish Bank Resolution Corporation.) Independent Newspapers which owns the Sunday World is itself owned by three billionaires, Tony O'Reilly, Denis O'Brien and Dermot Desmond who are political patrons of Enda Kenny.
And through the cancellation of Independent Newspapers debts by banks that Enda Kenny has decided you and I now must own, you and I are effectively paying the three billionaires gruff's debts to the newly nationalised banks! Yes. The impoverished citizenry of the Republic of Ireland are paying the newspaper business debts of the three billionaires gruff who are themselves political supporters of Prime Minister Enda Kenny and his Fine Gael party. You couldn't make it up. But it ain't no fairy tale.
If Christina Gallagher was the Fakiest Fake from Fakeville, Illinois, going door to door for the rest of her life ripping off pensioners, she still wouldn't have cost the elderly and vulnerable gulpens of Ireland even one tenth of what the ageing brilliantine billionaire playboy proprietors of the Sunday World and their government puppet Prime Minister Enda Kenny have just cost all of us.
Whaddayathink folks?
The problem is that the Sunday World needed her to be guilty more than they needed to get at the truth. I'm suggesting that the pillorying of Christina Gallagher was corporate strategy and not a hunt for the truth.
In his book, Jim Gallagher adroitly describes the mounting tide of what he calls evidence against her. At one stage the Tax Authorities began to investigate her. Then the cops. Then Catholic Church Primate of all Ireland, Cardinal Brady himself.
Each new investigation is trumpeted in Jim Gallagher's book as evidence of mounting public concern about Christina's bona fides.
What he does not make absolutely clear as far as I am concerned, is that each of the three supposed investigations took place solely on foot of allegations made by the Sunday World itself to the three separate investigating bodies. It's as though the Sunday World was trying to use the Tax Authorities, the police and finally Cardinal Brady as proxy armies in their vendetta against Christina. Let's be clear. The Tax Authorities only investigated Christina because the Sunday World had forwarded them a dossier about her, alleging wrong doing. The police only investigated Christina because the Sunday World forwarded them a dossier about her, alleging wrong doing. Cardinal Brady only investigated Christina because the Sunday World directly lobbied him about her, alleging wrong doing.
Three investigations sure. But all the wrong doing was being alleged by the same low rent tabloid near bankrupt newspaper.
The banner headlines with which the Sunday World announced each new investigation, (never quite making it clear enough for my taste that these were investigations launched solely in response to Sunday World dossiers, fabrications and allegations), these banner headlines were never matched afterwards, mind you, with follow up banner headlines announcing that the investigations had led to no charges, no fines, no imprisonment and no sustained connotation or finding of wrong doing against Christina whatsoever by any of the three investigating entities, the police, the tax men, and the Cardinal.
All decided that there was no legal case to answer.
Alone among the tillermen of these three investigations, cops, revenue commissioners and Cardinal, only Cardinal Brady incurred the Sunday World's wrath for not going after Christina hard enough.
But of course Cardinals rarely issue rulings in such matters, preferring over the thousands of years of Church history, to let such visionaries stand or fall on their merits.
When the Sunday World labels Cardinal Brady as Cardinal Sin for not doing what the Sunday World wanted him to do in the Christina case, ie for not fighting the Sunday World's battles for them, it starts to become clear that the motivation of the journalists and editors concerned may not be of the purest.
JIm Gallagher's book covers the Sunday World campaign against Christina without ever specifying or revealing that there was a campaign.
In my view most of Jim Gallagher's thesis is based on guilt by innuendo. This book and his newspaper articles which preceded it, were fishing expeditions, designed to provoke Christina into a courtroom encounter.
References to her as a "roly poly housewife," and to her spiritual advisor Father Gerard McGinnity as "seeming effeminate," are not as convincing (or classy) as the Sunday World might think. Here is the news. Through that accident of life we call Journalism School, I briefly knew several people who went on to become Sunday World contributors and Sunday World editors. (Hi Nickie. Hi Neil.) Everybody made it big except me. For the record, they weren't that good looking and they weren't that macho. I'm just saying is all.

But why were terms like roly poly and effeminate being spitefully and self indulgently applied by an otherwise professional journalist like Jim Gallagher and his employers at the Sunday World, to Christina and her entourage?
These were deliberate provocations because when it came down to it, they couldn't demonstrate or prove malfeasance against her.
And when she didn't jump through the hoop they were holding up and try to sue them, the Sunday World was left floundering.

At that stage if their campaign of vilification wasn't to peter out, as it manifestly was petering out, they needed her in court, one way or the other.

Since the cops, the revenue commissioners and the Cardinal wouldn't play ball as Sunday World proxies in initiating proceedings against her, the Sunday World was trying to lure her into a court room by provoking her into litigation against themselves.

Their plan failed.
Over the course of his book Jim Gallagher produces four main witnesses who do set their names to their accusations and so in my view provide the closest he gets to courtroom standard accusers.
Two of them are an elderly couple who signed over a large sum of money to Christina's charity. Another witness is the man who as an employee of Christina persuaded the elderly couple to give their money to her.
So the star witness for the Sunday World is the guy who actually committed the crime that Jim Gallagher in this book is trying to pin on Christina. And the two best supporting witnesses are the couple that the star witness admits to cheating. These are the best witnesses. You couldn't make it up.
In any event, no charges have resulted from the elderly couple's claims and their money has been repaid to them in full by Christina Gallagher's organisation.
The fourth of Jim Gallagher's witnesses whom I found credible enough, because again at least she was willing to publish her name, was a disgruntled former associate of Christina's who had been on holiday with her and who suggested that Christina had indulged in less than visionary like behaviour while overseas. Her testimony, bitter and vindictive, is in my opinion another fishing expedition laced with innuendo.
It makes Christina look bad. But it doesn't really quite reach the standard of evidence demanded in a court of law to connote fraud. And by now the Sunday World is clearly desperate for Christina to sue them. It's their last play. But she never does.
There is another fascinating side to the Christina story that Jim Gallagher touches upon obliquely. He mentions that in 1998 while in prayer she performed a physical manoeuvre that seemed impossible. This incident was supposedly witnessed by a large number of people. He is very coy in not specifying what manoeuvre she performed while supposedly undergoing some form of spiritual experience.
I have met with a retired senior Irish army officer (at one time the fourth highest in the State) from County Kildare who has insisted to me that on at least one occasion he personally saw Christina levitate several feet into the air. My army source claims he does not however accept Christina as a genuine visionary and says he is of the belief that Christina was able to levitate only through the power of an evil spirit. I write this in cautionary language because if I was to nominate my own scoundrels du jour, I would have difficulty in the moral sense separating some of the entourage clustered around this army officer (they are certainly debased and evil but perhaps without his knowledge) from Christine Gallagher or indeed from the heroes of the Sunday World investigations team. The issue of who exactly you trust arises time and again in any consideration of testimony regarding supposed visionaries. The retired army officer was either lying to me, or else he's mad, or else he genuinely saw Christina Gallagher levitate. In any case if the Sunday World has evidence that she really has levitated, I think we should be told. I've never entirely believed levitation is real and if it's going on I'd like to know. I'd like to know even if it does make the Sunday World's sources seem kind of kooky. For me, the author Jim Gallagher is remiss in not saying exactly what physical manoeuvre "which looked impossible," his own sources say she actually performed. Nor does he explain adequately how certain strongly attested healings attributed to Chrisina's intercession with God, actually took place or were faked or (the third possibility re the supposed healings which Jim Gallagher doesn't touch with a forty foot barge pole) were engineered through the power of evil.
Jim Gallagher's book is going to always be a vital piece of source material on Christina Gallagher but it will never amount to a fair assessment of her.
For all the mud thrown, for all the spying, for all the inducements paid to former associates to give negative testimony, I reiterate, I don't think the Sunday World found the smoking gun.
But yes it looks bad.
I interviewed Christina myself on Achill Island in 1993. I was a student journalist at the time. By coincidence I was attending Journalism School contemporaneously with one Neil Leslie the guy who twenty years later has risen to high things as editor in chief of the Investigations Department at the Sunday World. He has overseen and originated some of the more lurid, and not all that clever, headlines about Christina including the Cardinal Sin one. Incidentally Neil also won the Young Journalist Of The Year Award for our graduating class back in the 1990's. I always maintained that the school gave him the Award more for his working class Dublin accent than for anything else. The irony being that if I'd known they were going to hand out the Young Journalist of the Year award to the guy with the Best Dublin Accent, I would have spoken with a Dublin accent for the year. My fake Dublin accent was a good bit better than Neil's real one. Anyhoo. When I met Christina Gallagher as a student way back then, I had given her a pattycake interview. Much too soft and respectful. I frankly liked her and indeed have never quite managed to bring myself to decisively repudiate her. I'd have to look her in the eyes before I could call her fake now. It wasn't a great interview even if I did raise all the salient issues twenty years ahead of the Sunday World. Ah memories.
Oh.
My blushes.
There was perhaps one item of merit in the pattycake interrogation I gave Christina Gallagher two decades ago. I had put it to her that the Bible warns that many false ones will come making all sorts of claims in the name of the Lord.
And Christina Gallagher had held my gaze and answered: "It becomes clear over time who is true and who is false."



******


Glossary
Gulpen: Someone who signs over their house to someone else who claims she's received a message from the Virgin Mary instructing them to do so.



Review first published: 2013.

guests at home not wearing face masks

 

Heelers with a scrubbing brush standing at the kitchen sink in the old family chateau.

I am cleaning the dry household waste, meat packaging and such like, prior to putting it in the bin.

The wet waste, ie anything that can rot, goes in the garden.

So this is what I'm reduced to.

I'm literally washing the rubbish.

I kid you not.

Cleaning rubbish.

Even I.

Even I have not come unscathed through all the pseudo environmental societal neuroses of the past three decades.

Truly civilisation has fallen.

Do you remember the days when we could put rubbish in a bin without cleaning it first?

As I muse thusly, a head pops through the door.

It is Rowena Braithwaite and thankfully the head is attached to her body.

The Jihadis ain't got her yet.

"I think you were prayed for at mass," she announces.

"Really?"

"Well during the prayers of the faithful the priest said: Let us pray for all those who oppose the vaccines, that their hearts may be softened. I immediately thought of you. And I wasn't the only one. People were saying afterwards: I bet he means James. Have you been talking to the priest about the vaccine?"

"It might have come up once or twice."

"Well you're being prayed for."

"It's tough for the Padres. We've got a false Pope, and an abortionist government, and the media have terrorised the priests themselves through slander into mute complaisance to every aberration that comes along. Whatever they say or do, they're going to get attacked for it. If they resist the Flu virus kabookie, the Health Boards will shut them down. Or some skanger will come along and say:  I'm suing you because I got Covid 19 in your church. Still there are priests who have made the call in spite of all that and spoken out against the vaccines. And  against the pointless lockdowns. And against the nonsensical face masks. I'm not alone."

"But the Pope says it's okay."

"He's not the Pope."

"He is the Pope."

"Well he's not a great Pope," I said and somewhere the ghost of cocaine advocating sports pundit Eamon Dunphy was smiling.

"Oh you really are in a binder," Rowena rejoins delightedly, "what with the Pope making vaccines mandatory in the Vatican and local priests praying that your heart will be softened."

"Not at all. Prayers are good for me. I've no complaints about being prayed for. A soft heart won't hurt either if the Almighty decides I need one. But the fact that many of the clergy have been stampeded into this flu panic is not an overwhelming determinant for me as to right and wrong in the matter. No Catholic is born an orphan. We're adults. Spiritually I'm saying. The church guides us and we guide each other. Tradition guides us too. And intellect. And we have the witness of history and of heaven and of the saints. I've got news for you. We all know in our hearts that using pharmaceutical products made out of murdered children is beyond wrong. It's an abomination. Disagreeing with a Pope isn't such a big deal for Catholics, even a false Pope. We think for ourselves and we have been well taught by the heroes who came before including not a few real Popes. Anyway, every Irishman carries the crozier of the Pope of Rome in his own breast pocket. The amazing thing is how we fit it there."

"What do you mean you carry the crozier of the Pope of Rome in your pocket?"

"I mean spiritually we're all Popes ready to step into the breach at a moment's notice. The purveyors of evil can't kill us all even though my best guess is that they're going to try."

When she has gone I stand at my sink pondering.

"What the heck is the Catholic Church playing at?" I murmur.

The Criminologist from the Rocky Horror Picture Show appears with his backing group and, dancing around my kitchen, gives a brief explanation.

"It's just a jump to the left.

And a step to the r-r-r-r-r-right

You put your hands on your hips

And bring your knees in t-i-i-i-i-ight

But it's the satanic freemasonic Cosa Nostra subversion of the Vatican

That really knocks you ins-a-a-a-a-a-a-ne

Let's frame Cardinal Pell for child abuse again

Let's inject a useless unnecessary immorally derived vaccine again

Let's force people to stay in their homes and wear silly face masks for no conceivable health gain again

Let's ingest an unborn baby murdererd by abortion again"

You've got to admit bold readers, the Criminologist from the Rocky Horror Picture Show is on to something.

As the Criminologist leaves, the ghost of Winston Churchill enters and begins to quote himself from his June 1940 speech to parliament, the one he made originally after the Nazis conquered France.

Winston declaims with meaningful portent:

"What General Weygand called the battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free, and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of  Perverted Science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say: This was their finest hour."

I nod with less enthusiams than you might expect.

"I know Winnie," I explain wearily. "That's just the sort of thing I used to say when I was trying to get the Irish people to fight the Maloney drug gang, and the thug cop Kinneavey, and the clan gang operating out of the Alke Babish chipper, and the Hutch gang, and the Kinahanes, and the IRA itself, and the satanists Ruari O'Domhnaill and Gwen Healy, and Marian Bruce and Margaret Roche, and all the rest. But people don't listen."

"You must go on to the end," thundered Churchill, quoting himself again I think. "You must fight them in the fields and in the streets. You must fight them on the landing grounds. You must fight them in public discourse. You must fight them when they hijack your police force and your governments and your newspapers. You must fight with growing strength and growing confidence on the internet. You must fight them in your church. You must never surrender."

He left.

Alone once more I thought of the present subversion of our beautiful, ancient and true Catholic church.

My heart was torn.

For I was also thinking of the decent, honorable, hard working Padre on the altar at Kilcullen praying that my heart will be softened.

Lumme.

It is as they say.

The claw of the gawdelpus gets us all in the end.

storms in small town tea cups threaten the world

 

The aunt beetles in.

"Pat Maloney was on the phone," she says. "Do you know what he wanted?"

"He wanted to talk to me aunt," I reply, "but he was afraid I might kick his lily drug dealing ass."

(Maloney's ass is known locally as Eeyore and is a bad egg.  Ah yes. Maloney's ass loves his grass. Moroccan usually.)

"No," says the aunt, "he was wondering where he could get old copies of the Bridge magazine. I decided not to tell him you had a complete edition."

"Good on ye."

"He says Noel Clare has the virus."

"What virus?"

"James, you know what virus."

"Gonhorrhea?"

"No Covid 19."

"Oh, so he's got a virus that can't possibly harm him. **** it."

The aunt issued a strangulated sound, suddenly remembered something she had to do in another room, and left me.

Well, well, well bold readers.

Noel Clare with Covid 19.

Here's larks.

Alas poor Noel Clare, I knew him Horatio.

So top Kilcullen science boff Noel Clare has Covid 19.

I struggle to resist the unworthy thoughts arising in my man boobs. (cf Bosom.)

My thoughts range far and wide.

Bergoglio the apostate who currently occupies the chair of Saint Peter (and I mean occupies) had positively crowed when he heard that Cardinal Raymond Burke had Covid 19.

Raymond opposes the use of vaccines made out of unborn babies murdered by abortion and additionally opposes governments or false Popes forcing people to ingest those vaccines.

Bergoglio remarked with barely concealed glee when Cardinal Burke got the virus: "Even in the College of Cardinals there are some vaccine negationists. But one of them, poor thing, has been hospitalised with the virus. These are the ironies of life."

I don't want to fall as low as Bergoglio the apostate in my heartfelt sideswipe commentaries about my newly sneezing atheistic abortionist pseudo science worshipping townsman.

Suffice it to say, everyone is getting the virus. Cardinal Rayo is a bit of a fatty and was at risk for other reasons too. But we're all getting it. The salient differences arising among those of us getting it, ie all of us, is that some of us, Cardinal Raymond Burke included, didn't sell our souls as Bergoglio did in a futile effort to avoid getting it.

So I'm not going to jeer at Noel Clare as Bergoglio did over Cardinal Burke's health issues.

On the other hand, we owe it to ourselves to live a little.

Noel Clare is a retired secondary school teacher in my home town.

He has ingested more unborn babies marketed as vaccines than I've had hot dinners.

He recently wrote a review for the Bridge magazine of a book advocating essentially atheistic pseudo scientific solutions to societal issues from abortion to euthanasia to pandemics. The title of the book and Noel Clare's review was: Never Mind The Bollox Here's The Science.

Johnny Rotten, not being a conformist ********, would turn in his grave.

More to the point as a teacher at Kilcullen Convent Noel Clare gave a first grounding in his amoral version of currently prevailing  pseudo science to local girl Teresa Lambe who as Professor Teresa Lambe at Oxford University has gone on to put her name to the unborn baby milkshake she concocted for profit on behalf of Astra Zeneca.

By the way, that's the same milkshake that killed BBC broadcaster Lisa Shaw aged 44, wife and mother of a young child, a woman who had no risk of dying from Covid 19 and who pleaded as Teresa Lambe's vaccine metastasised into blood clots throughout her body: "Please don't force people to take this vaccine."

Incidentally, the little girl that Teresa Lambe stuffed into her milkshake was a baby girl styled by the great humanitarians of modern pseudo science as HEK 293 or Human Embryonic Kidney 293, who was murdered by abortion in the Netherlands in 1973, that is to say murdered to order by abortion service profiders on behalf of pharmaceutical companies who required her organs and tissue to be harvested in advance of the murder so that the cells and organs would be alive and cultivable and not in the dreadful condition little girls' cells and organs are reduced to after the girl is murdered by abortion, and which same pharmaceutical companies retained, after pre purchasing the little girls body parts, for their ongoing experiments culminating in the present vaccines for Covid 19.

Cells from the little Dutch girl are still grown off her corpse in laboratories worldwide to this day.

I kid you not.

So Noel Clare ingests the vaccines himself, slugs down the booster shots, wears face masks wherever he goes, stands two metres away from any human being he meets, drenches his hands in anti septic spray at every shopping outlet he visits, trained Teresa Lambe the small town eejit who set her name to Astra Zeneca's vaccine, and has most recently established a bursary for students in honour of Teresa Lambe to propagandise the next generation of small town eejits at Kilcullen Convent prior to their initiation into Astra Zeneca, Pfizer, Johnson and Johnson, et al's satanic vaccine cult.

And Noel Clare has Covid 19.

Of course he does.

The claw of the gawdelpus gets us all in the end.

bolero

 

december light

grey mist

pavements glistening with a touch of frost

shop windows glowing

passersby scurrying in scarves and coats

christmas close

but not yet

poetry in the early onset of evening

little birds with their feathers fluffed for warmth

craggy doubters believing for once

coffee brewed to a froth

allison humming something about love

heaven and earth are closer than they appear

all the promises of god are true

vaccine wars

 

Western governments are once again using the threat of a supposedly new strain of the Covid 19 virus to justify the reinstitution of lockdowns, compulsory face masking, and of course yet more soon to be announced, obligatory mass vaccinations for the citizenry featuring experimental vaccines that don't work and are made out of aborted babies.

The supposed new form of the virus has been named Omicron in an attempt to drive the peasantry spdoodlums, ie into quiescence.

You call the virus whatever you like bold readers. I'm calling it the Ohmygosh variant.

As the hysteria gathers pace, it might be well to reflect soberly on the words of Doctor Angelique Coetzee, Chairperson of the South African Medical Association, who is credited with discovering the supposed new form of Covid 19.

Speaking of the Ohmygosh virus which she had supposedly just identified, Angelique said: "Most patients have very mild symptoms. None them have been admitted to hospital. We've been able to treat these patients conservatively at home. The most prominent clinical complaint is severe fatigue for one or two days and a headache, body ache and pain. There have been no deaths."

Well call the Feds Ma Kettle.

The fatigue is gonna get you sucker.

Oh the humanity.

That's their excuse for the present panic.

Meanwhile in the United States of America, Senator Rand Paul, who is also a doctor, today noted: "A hundred million Americans have had Covid. They have natural immunity."

So we've all had it.

Like I said.

It's a respiratory virus.

Like the regular flu.

Like the common cold.

We can't control respiratory viruses.

We have never found a way to control them.

But in the present instance, they give governments and supranational bodies like the World Health Organisation a great excuse for dictatorship and the collapse of national sovereignties, don't they.

Get this.

In Sweden schoolchildren have not been forced to wear face masks at any time during the past two years of supposed pandemic.

The death toll?

Nought Swedish schoolchildren have died.

Not even one.

And their teachers?

According to Senator Rand Paul, the Covid infection rate for Swedish teachers is the same as for the general population.

Senator Doctor Paul cites a current study in Denmark which involved 6000 members of the public wearing face masks and 6000 not wearing face masks.

The infection rates in both groups were the same.

Here is the news.

The masks were never necessary and do absolutely no good.

Also today, another American Senator Ted Cruz called for a formal public investigation into Doctor Anthony Fauci who as head of America's National Institute of Health created the Covid 19 virus through his sponsorship of a Chinese Communist Party laboratory at Wuhan.

The money quotes from Senator Cruz: "Anthony Fauci is the most dangerous bureaucrat in the history of the country... He is dishonest, political and partisan... I do not think anyone has hurt science more than Doctor Fauci..."

He's hurt a lot of human beings too.

And animals.

But ah.

That's another story.

harassment watch

 

Incident date: Friday 29th October 2021 and multiple previous.

Time: 5.30pm.

Location: Hospital Road, Naas.

Type: Vehicular harassment.

Perpetrator: Male, middle age, short hair, well built.

Vehicle Reg: 12 MO 333.

Perpetrator often resident at: 68 Lakelands, Naas.

irish graffiti

(Battle for the Soul of the Planet of the Jackanapes.)

 "What do you mean Tony Fauci approaching on a hawkman rocket cycle? Open fire. All weapons... Despatch war rocket Ajax to bring back his body."

My mild intellectual distaste for Doctor Anthony Fauci the head of the American National Institute of Health, famous for sponsoring frivolous torture experiments on animals in the name of his own perverse pseudo science and for creating the Covid 19 outbreak by sponsoring with similar pervisity the human race threatening adventurism of a renegade Chinese Communist Party laboratory at Wuhan, emerges at the oddest times.

This time it has emerged as I pick my way down a stairwell at the rear of a Castledermot Protestant Church preparatory to sloshing paint on the vulgarisms coating the door at the bottom of the stairwell.

The lines about opening fire are from the 1982 Flash Gordon movie except that in the movie it was Flash Gordon approaching on a hawkman rocket cycle not Tony Fauci.

I am reciting these movie lines with a contemporary twist as I pick my way through debris which I don't want to know about, towards the graffitied door. I am trying through inanity to keep my mind off the crackling of hard materials and glass beneath my feet in the stairwell which may just be drug paraphenalia. I think I saw a needle and a broken phial.

One thing is sure.

I ain't looking down again.

I pause to examine the vandalised door.

There are full names of people on it. Phone numbers. Promises of sexual activity for anyone ringing the numbers. Certain vague homages to penises generally. The name of a girl and pejorative remarks about her. Further generalised vulgarisms.

Well not any more.

If the demi monde of Castledermot wish to demean anyone from now on, they'll just have to use the internet like everyone else.

I start sloshing on the paint.

The work progresses rapidly.

I gauge what has been achieved.

It doesn't look great.

The curse words, the references to penises and fellatio. and the personal names and phone numbers are gone but frankly it's still not much to be proud of.

Picasso might have liked it because he couldn't paint either.

Otherwise I stand alone.

I am anxious to be off.

I can imagine a Protestant Vicar looking at me from some vantage point at the Manse nearby, possibly through binoculars, and murmuring with delicate disdain: "Oh. Oh. Oh good heavens. It's... it's... it's a Catholic."

True, my heart is in the right place. I have covered the graffiti. But from every aesthetic and professional standpoint, really in the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, it's a shite job.

I've never heard of anyone being arrested for vandalising graffiti on a church but in this beknighted country anything is possible and I am not keen to be the first.

I flee the scene.

Back in Kilcullen I pop into another church where a passing Padre calls me over.

"I've just received a forty page document from the Health Board telling us to insitute new protocols for the latest virus outbreak," quoth he.

"You should tell them to... Well, by jumping through hoops for them you're giving them an awful lot of power, that's all," quoth me.

"We have to do what we're told."

"Ah you don't really. We'll all have to stand up to them eventually. Why not start now?"

"Did you get the vaccine?"

"Have I been with you so long Reverend, and still you do not know me?"

"You did get it."

"No. As it happens I couldn't quite bring myself to ingest the aborted baby milk shake which the Health Board gauleiters call a vaccine. Nor will I be ingesting it now or in the future."

"That's all rubbish about aborted babies in the vaccines."

"I don't say it unless it's true. The pharmaceutical companies aren't even denying it. Oh they've tried to obscure it a bit by making a point of insisting that in some of the vaccines there are no actual cells from the aborted baby but if you enquire further you find out that the vaccine was tested against cells from the aborted baby whatever that means, or they'll say there's no cells from the aborted baby in the final form of the vaccine but when you enquire further you discover that the viral cultures for the vaccine initially were grown in cells from the aborted baby. Nuances. These are all abortion tainted vaccines. The baby swirling around in your innards by the way, is known to science as HEK 293, that's Human Embryonic Kidney 293. She was a little girl murdered by abortion in the Netherlands in 1973."

"I don't believe any of that. That's all rubbish."

"Okay... Oh. Do you know what happened on Monday? I came back to the church for the first time in ages for morning Mass. And some woman in a side aisle calls out to me: James, put on your mask. I was scarlet. I mean the nerve of some people. And I couldn't debate her here. And the masks don't even work. It's all madness Rev. No virus alive is stopped by something that doesn't stop air. And incidentally some of the scientists are saying that the vaccines are titrating the virus into deadlier forms."

"You shouldn't be in the church if you aren't wearing a mask."

"Et tu Padre? Then falls Heelers."

"Eh?"

"The claw of the gawdelpus gets us all in the end."

Well pleased with this life affirming badinage I drove to Naas.

There's an adoration chapel there.

Sitting in the real presence I realised rather happily that three out of the five people there were not wearing face masks.

As I savoured the moment, a woman with tied back promisingly lustrous looking black hair reached up and took off her mask.

Her hair kind of cascaded around her face. The promise was fulfilled. It was lustrous. It made me lust anyway.

I didn't know whether to be more thrilled by the way her hair suddenly framed her features in that shining, undulating mist, or by the fact that now four of us weren't wearing face masks.

Somewhat wryly I addressed the creator of the universe: "There is no way I can pray with your one sitting there looking like that."

I didn't leave or anything.

I just didn't want God to be wondering why I'd gone so quiet.

Back home that night an aunt accosted me.

"Have you heard there's a new Corona Virus variant."

"Of course there is."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean people were starting to stand up to the tyrants, and their lockdown face mask shenanigans, and their false statistics, and their artificially induced virus panic. Protests in Australia, the Netherlands, Austria. The police beating the tar out of peaceful protestors in Western countries and people still turning out to protest. Beautiful women taking off their face masks in adoration chapels. The Health Board gauleiters need a new virus to wrongfoot the citizenry back into quiescence."

Bidding the aunt adieu, I betook myself to a neighbour's computer to see what I could find out about the supposed new virus variant.

My brief researches reveal that a Doctor Angelique Coatzee who is styled Chairperson of the South African Medical Association claims to have discovered a new form of the flu virus formerly known to panic mongers, ie the governments of the Western world, as Covid 19.

So she's the front man for the latest fooboonery.

Some genius has named the supposed new form Omicron.

Ah.

Obviously trying to calm people down with that name,

For ****'s sake.

Doctor Coatzee's money quote is as follows: "So far all suspected cases are mild. We'll know more in two weeks... It's extremely mild... There is no reason to panic..."

No reason to panic.

I turn on the neighbour's TV and scan the major news stations of the planet earth.

A full scale panic inducement operation is underway on every channel.

Of course it is.