a week in the wars

 

Monday:

"Mrs Rogerson has had a stroke," says the aunt. "They've put her in a nursing home."

"The lazy bar stewards," quoth me.

"Who?" said the aunt.

"Her family," quoth me.

"What do you mean bar stewards?" says the aunt.

"I mean bastards Aunt," says me warmly.

"I went to visit her this afternoon," went the aunt as though she hadn't heard my reply. "The staff at the nursing home weren't all that nice. One of them barked at me: Put on your mask. I had a mask on but I had lowered it to talk to the old woman."

"They're still at that Covid shenanigans?" I wondered incredulously enough. "They're still using it as an excuse for their vile inhumanity."

"They're still insisting on masks anyway," said the aunt.

"Evil aren't they aunt."

"Not evil. A bit officious maybe."

"I'd say it's evil alright."

*************

Tuesday

"Mrs Braithwaite got a stroke," remarks the Aunt."

I am nonplussed.

"She's a healthy woman. I wonder what could have caused her to stroke."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking old Ant old pal, that the vaccines for that completely made up mass psychosis styled a pandemic are giving people strokes."

********

Wednesday:

"Nessa got Covid again."

"Whaaaaaat?"

"Why are you so surprised?"

"Well she's had more vaccines than I've had hot dinners. I wonder could the vaccines aside from causing strokes and sudden death, be actually inducing the flu in people."

"She got it in Paris."

"Formidable."

*********

Thursday.

"Your neighbour Mark got Covid."

"Of course he got it," answers me wearily.

"Why of course?"

"Because he's spent a year at the behest of a debased and debasing government Health Board performing precisely whatever random aberrancy they tell him to perform, that is to say ingesting poisons styled vaccines which are made out of unborn babies murdered by abortion and which have not in any case been properly tested if one can speak of proper testing for products made out of murdered children. Are the gulpen peasantry even noticing? Everyone who takes the poisons is getting Covid. By which I mean the flu."

Friday

A phone call from Farmer Jones.

"Celine is back in hospital. It looks bad. The cancer is back."

"Has she got long?"

"They think she's on her way out."

"Can I visit her?"

"The hospital won't let anyone in."

"Why not?"

"It's the Covid thing."

"They're not letting her family visit her when she's dying because of this Covid nonsense. Pure madness," sez me starting to emote.

"Her 93 year old father tried to visit her twice this week and they turned him away."

"And she's dying?"

"She is dying James."

***********

Saturday

Driving from Naas.

I see a comely enough woman thumbing a lift.

I pull over.

She doesn't have much English.

It emerges she's Ukrainian.

I speak Russian to her and we can communicate a bit.

I wonder to myself whether I should warn her against hitching in this area.

This is where Larry Murphy and his friends used to lift people off the roadside and torture murder them.

It's also the stomping ground for the Maloney drug dealing gang, the Alke Babish chipper clan gang, the Hutch gang and the Kinahan gang and various other nefarious entities including the corrupt thug ex cop Steven Kinneavey.

Policing is neglibible.

What all this means is that from a certain point of view any woman refugee fleeing a war zone in Ukraine might be safer hitching lifts from Putin's death columns currently ravaging Ukraine than thumbing a ride in this part of Ireland.

It seems a very dubious practice morally to let young women and indeed men and children, come here from war zones and not warn them about the gangs and thugs who currently dominate the region with police acquiescence and or complicity.

But I decide not to say anything.

"My bus is two hours late," she told me.

"I know, "I agreed."The Irish bus company is terrible."

I resisted the urge to tell her that the Irish State controlled CIE bus company is itself run by a drug dealing, people trafficking, child abusing IRA mafia controlled trade union.

No point in scaring the girl further than I would have scared her if I'd told her about Larry Murphy, and the Maloneys and Kinneavey and the Alke Babish and the Hutches and the Kinahans et al. (Particularly Al. He's a real louser.)

So in a world gone mad, Irish buses are still running late.

It's kind of reassuring in a way.

"It wouldn't happen in Ukraine, " sniffed the refugee, "Our buses run on time."

And for the first time in a long time gentle travellers of the internet, I laughed and laughed and laughed.