heelers day

Driving by parliamentarian Martin Heydon's office in Newbridge.

Here's larks.

I stop to vandalise the large posters of him at his gate.

Standing before the chosen poster (there are at least four to choose from) I whip out my black felt tipped marker.

And lo!

Someone beat me to it.

The picture of the parliamentarian has already been festooned with a poorly drawn French moustache and beard in tasteless psychedelic blue marker prior to my arrival.

And the word FAG has been written alongside the face.

Well we all know I didn't write that.

People who call people that name are merely revealing their own fears about their own sexuality.

Forty years ago school kids in Ireland routinely used that term to project their sexual fears onto other children. Then the so called Gay Rights movement came along, hijacking the bullying situation in Irish schools and worldwide as an excuse to promote their preferred lifestyle to children.

Clever.

Anyway.

I didn't write that graffiti on the parliamentarian's poster.

I'm much too repressed a homosexual to ever use such a term.

Even in my graffiti.

And my graffiti is always marked by a certain humorous satirical quality.

It's never mean minded.

Now if I had been permitted to vandalise the poster as promised on this website a few days ago (where the fearful gallic blue marker halfwit who actually did vandalise the poster no doubt got his inspiration) I would have gone for a classic Hitler tache under the sron of the parliamentarian, topped off with a "Fine Gael Nazis Out" slogan.

Subtle is my mot juste.

As well as life affirming.

And humorous.

And satirical of course.

None of your fear projection same gender sex rubbish.

Sigh.

Bold readers we can have a resistance.

We can even have a revolution.

But we can never ever get away from the scruff.

Sheathing my black marker in a manner that was almost sexual, I drive to a nearby Insomnia cafe.

I haven't been in a cafe for two years during the Corona Virus lockdowns except when I cheated.

Arf arf.

But today the government apartheid style ban on non vaccinated people eating in cafes has been lifted.

So in I go and presently you will find me with a cup of tea sitting in a window seat phoning from my mobile to the local office of an organisation styled Enable Ireland who have advertised a vacancy under the national Community Employment Scheme.

A woman called Teresa takes my call and confirms that she has received my Curriculum Vitae and that an interview will be scheduled.

"One other thing," she says, "have you been vaccinated?"

"I would never answer that question," I answer the question.

"Oh but you need to be vaccinated because there's children in the building," quoth she.

"The children have a bigger chance of being shot by Alec Baldwin than of dying from Covid," I tell her. "There's a negligible death rate for Covid among children. And the vaccines are killing them at a rate a good deal higher than negligible. As did the lockdowns. And the facemasks."

"Okay," she says. "Er, we'll still interview you but just so's you know what we expect."

She rang off.

I doubted her word on the interview.

In my heart of hearts I knew (indeed something in my water told me) I would never be a receptionist for the Enable Ireland organisation under the community employment scheme or any other scheme that might be passing.

Community Employment.

They say anyone can get a job under Community Employment.

Except me.

I'm fucking useless.

Stifling this brief moment of false modesty, I finish my tea and return to my car.

It should be noted that while allowing myself the occasional plagiaristic cheap jibes at his expense, I counsel against any rush to judgement on Alec Baldwin's current situation. A brief internet trawl reveals images of the woman armourer on his movie engaging in what looks to me like a satanic invocation. Alec may have been in over his head.

But I digress.

A flight of whimsy carries me to the city of Limerick.

I drive there.

Limerick is sometimes called Stab City because of its gangland connections.

Latterly the term might be more correctly applied to my own town of Kilcullen whose gangland connections currently outrank  those of everywhere else in Ireland.

In fact at the moment Kilcullen probably outranks Chicago for its proliferation of sheer skanky criminal scum if it comes to that.

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

Still I'm a bit cowed driving into Limerick.

Get this.

I'm a terrible driver.

Limerick has some complicated road networks.

And Limerick's drivers are the most patient I've ever encountered.

Not a beep or a fist or a furiously flashing headlight in sight as I weave all over the place.

I think well of them.

I'm met in the city by a local man who shows me some of the historical walls of Limerick and walks me over the battlefield where the armies of King William met their anachronistic Waterloo.

"The Williamites came up here," says the man. "They breached the walls there and poured through."

The Williamites continental militias had poured through the walls right where I stood and had been massacred on the spot by the populace, men, women and children who had turned out to give them a traditional Irish welcome.

Now there is housing built up to and around the site, including parts of the old walls.

The modern and the historical blend.

My host bids me adieu and I wander off through the streets.

I come to a clinic that advises men, women and children on sex change operations.

Of course I do.

You could set your clock by me.

These clinics are springing up all over Ireland.

No one knows who is financing them.

This one is called GSOHH which the small print on the signage informs me stands for Gender, Sexual Orientation, Health and HIV.

Transgenderism became exponentially popular in America after 2012 when Barack Obama included free sex change operations for children in his laws purporting to make health care more afordable.

And President Obama seemed such a nice man.

What could possibly go wrong.

The advent of the Youtube internet corporation effectively allowing kids and manipulators of kids to set up their own limitlessly accessible TV channels, has enabled unscrupulous and or cretinous interest groups to market transgenderism to the young and not so young, along with anorexia nervosa (starving yourself to death) as a desirable lifestyle choice.

The same craze is currently being promoted in Ireland.

As with homosexualism forty years ago, the key to the current propaganda campaign telling kids they might be a man in a woman's body or vice versa, is a feigned concern about bullying in the schools.

Mutilating sex change operations don't work but as long as conscienceless clinicians and Nazi pharmaceutical companies can contrive a pseudo moral pseudo science while providing the transgender drugs and testosterone supplements on which the pseudo science hangs, as long as those guys and the internet media moghuls who enable them, are making a buck, as long as they're okay I tells ee, why the hell should any of us worry about the steenking keeds or adults indeed whom they persuade to self mutilate.

The Limerick Office For The Promotion Of Transgenderism To Children And Adults is one of the finest premises on the street.

Nicely appointed, spacious offices on two floors, clean and expensive looking.

Evil has good cash flow, eh.

I walk away.

Up a maze of streets I come upon a large dramatic bronze statue of Patrick Sarsfield, the greatest Irish general of the Williamite wars, 

The statue depicts Sarsfield leading a battle charge in thigh high leather boots and a fright wig while brandishing what I hope is a sword.

Changing fashions notwithstanding, he looks quite the gayest blade of the Williamite wars.

I kid you not.

I goggle for a bit.

Could it be a joke?

Was the sculptor having a larf?

Did Sarsfield really dress in full tranvestitic regalia to lead battle charges?

Do modern Limerick kids anxious to project their sexual insecurities outwards, call other kids "dirty Sarsfields?"

At least now we know how King William's mercenaries were massacred as they poured through the walls of Limerick.

Obviously they were getting their first close up view of 17th century Irish trannies (not the radios, Ireland didn't have radios until well into the 18th century) and the in those days hard men Dutch being subconsciously so insecure about their own sexualities, they just freaked out and got massacred.

There's always a logical explanation for these things.

You can just see the invading Williamites staggering around Limerick gushing gouts of blood, clutching their temples and exclaiming fervently: "I am freaking out here."

Or maybe they would have taken a more philosophical view of things, groaning ruefully as they died: "So that's why they call it Stab City... Unghhhhh."

Ho hum.

Et tu Sarsfield.

Then falls Heelers.