The Heelers Diaries

afters

2012-02-03T15:40:00.000Z

Quaffing coffees.
My cousin Georgina says: "Your father was never much into institutionalised religion."
My eyes widen.
"Why Georgina, that's just unholy," I tell her warmly. "Even by your usual high standards of unholiness, what you've said there is unholy. And you know it. My father spent his entire life absolutely committed to the moral, spiritual and intellectual defence of the Catholic Church as the church founded by Christ to serve God in human history. He just wasn't always that interested in going to mass..."

what hath god wrought

2012-02-03T03:28:00.000Z

confucius he say

2012-02-03T01:11:00.001Z

Stephen Hawking finds in atoms the cosmic causalities he has already hidden there.

spiritual healing

2012-02-02T21:51:00.003Z

The solemnest moment.
The entire congregation in the church files past the front pew exchanging condolences with each beareaved family member.
I am in an altered state of deep spirituality.
Lost in a meditation on the ephemeral nature of mortal existence.
Not many good looking women at this funeral, I muse to myself absent mindedly.
A vision materialises in front of me.
Shapely, shiney and with superb blonde special effects.
My handsome jaw drops.
"I'm Shona," she says.
I'll bet you are, thinks me.
"I saw you in a play once," she says shaking my hand.
My handsome jaw stays dropped.
Have to say something.
"Gurgle queep," I managed.
Not my best comment as comments go, but I think I just about carried it off.
"You were very good," she said.
"Woggle," I managed.
Scholars of the work of Lord Baden Powell will be well aware that a woggle is the small leather circlet which cub scouts use to secure their neckerchiefs.
The girl was still standing there.
My jaw was also still firmly dropped.
Abruptly the Chief Executive of Allied Irish Banks appeared beside her.
"This is my daughter James," he said informatively, hustling her away.
He was right too.

lying in state

2012-02-01T18:48:00.002Z

The Dad's coffin was in the hall.
Doctor Barn stood beside it alone, taking a last look at his father's face.
Stillness reigned.
My brother took his time to savour the memories.
The mood was broken by a series of muffled sounds rising apparently from the interior of the coffin.
Scraping, panting and a gasp or two.
Doctor Barn stepped back, ashen faced.
The noble Heelers emerged from beneath the coffin and began brushing himself down.
Doctor Barn stared at his brother.
It was a Kodak moment.
"Jim," said the goodish doctor when the power of speech had returned, "if you don't mind me asking... What were you doing under the coffin?"
A fair question.
"A corrupt cop passed through the hall a minute ago looking to express his sympathies," explained Ireland's dustiest living poet. "And I didn't want to shake hands with him."

death notices

2012-01-31T18:51:00.001Z

Evening at the Chateau.
A handsome poet is quaffing coffee in the kitchen.
Enter my sister Marie stage left.
"Will I put the Dad's death notice in the Irish Independent or the Irish Times?" she asks me.
"I don't have a horse in that race," I answer.
"What do you mean?" sez she.
"They're both anti Catholic newspapers," quoth me. "The Irish Times wishes to impose Bolshevick dicatorship on Ireland, disguised as something it calls atheistic humanism. The Irish Independent seeks to establish the neo feudal worship of its proprietor Tony O'Reilly as the new State religion. If it was up to me the Dad's death notice would go in the Curate's Diary and nowhere else."
"James we need people to know about this," sez she.
"That's why I'm going to trust your judgement, Sister," quoth me. "And if I pop my clogs anytime soon and you get lumbered with organising my funeral, just bear in mind that I don't want any death notice in any anti Catholic rag. I'm including the Daily Mail and RTE in that by the way. I can't for the life of me see why Irish people insist on voluntarily paying a death tax to atheistic abortionist anti Catholic druggie hoor master newspapers every time we die. Why do we still force ourselves to finance the satanic hand that strikes us? I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns."
The sister sighed.
"Never change," sez she.
"I won't,"quoth me agreeably.
Exit the sister to the garden, and enter the lady millionairess stage right.
The lady millionairess was a lifelong friend of the Dad's.
"James I've got the wording of the death notice here," she informs me. "Will you take a look at it?"
"Whatever you've decided is okay with me," says I.
"But I'd like you to check it all the same," insisteth she.
I read the death notice.
It is good of its type.
Only a single phrase gives me pause.
The phrase comes in the final sentence of the notice listing the Dad's nearest and dearest.
We're all there.
His late wife Lilian, his late son John, the living members of the family, cousins, the lady millionairess herself, other friends, neighbours, etc etc.
But the key part right at the end reads: "... and not forgetting his beloved and constant companion Jess."
A poignant pallor comes into my piercing blue eyes.
A casual reader might be forgiven for thinking Jess was a sexy mistress and not a Wicklow collie sheepdog.
I briefly consider warning the lady millionairess of this possible interpretation.
Then I think: Ah what the hell, let it ride.
"That will do nicely," I tell her.
If you had been there, gentle travellers of the internet, you might have noticed a certain famous fleeting grin playing about my magnificent preraphaelite features.
I think the Dad was smiling too.

sympathies

2012-01-29T14:57:00.000Z

Ron Baines, the Fine Gael parliamentary representative for Kildare South, called to the house.
"I'm sorry about your father," he said, shaking my hand.
"Reopen the Vatican embassy," I replied softly.

in the room

2012-01-27T16:27:00.001Z

Now the room was still. A visiting district nurse pottered in the corner. A few family members sat at the bedside. No one else.
The Dad said: "I see trees. Beech trees. On the hill. Mary is there."
Then he added ever so softly and with love: "My sister Mary. My sister."

vigil

2012-01-25T18:07:00.000Z

at half past five in the morning
the ticking clocks and creaking boards
fill the still house with their whispering
and are joined by the voices
of unseen birds in unseen trees
such choruses
praying hope in song
crying darkness now
but before long
dawn

pre dawn

2012-01-25T18:04:00.000Z

Sitting with him in the stillness.
From outside the softest lyrics of the robin's song.
He has not forgotten us.

in the bleak mid winter

2012-01-24T18:13:00.000Z

Holding the Dad.
A most beautiful singing starts.
From the window I see the robin.
He is on the topmost branch of the willow tree.
Pouring forth his soul for us.

confucius he say

2012-01-24T18:11:00.000Z

The pseuderati should not be so dismayed that God demands an act of faith from anyone who would seek the truth about his existence. God is not alone in this exigency. Reality itself, such as it may be conceived of by human beings, makes precisely the same demand.

morning in the world

2012-01-23T17:41:00.001Z

Sitting in the cosy corner of the garden that I call the bower.
From here you can't see the house.
Everything is trees and leaves and earth and sky and memories.
I am on a wooden bench.
There's an old wagon wheel nearby and a rusty plough.
Sunlight is washing through the world.
A robin alights on a branch above me.
He begins an aria.
A moving piece in tribute to a life.
We haven't had a robin in the garden for months.
When they come I regard them as messengers by the grace of God from my mother in heaven.
So I know the hour is close.

a claim to future fame

2012-01-22T21:09:00.000Z

in an age that is yet unborn
will come some student of the written word
to the words that i have written down
he'll look askance at my little hoard
and scratch his head and cough and frown
then in a voice quite ponderous
my god carruthers what was all the fuss

but that night by the light of a lantern moon
he'll toss and turn in fevered swoon
he'll wake with eyes staring wide
and heartbeat pounding terrified
and cry my god i am alive

the menagerie

2012-01-21T21:44:00.000Z

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
I am ensconced in an armchair in the front room.
Various members of the animal kingdom are helping me eat dinner.
Mr Blue the budgie is on my shoulder cheering my every munch with a cacophony of bells and whistles.
Fur Ham the hamster is on the coffee table, alternately chewing and pouching his turnip.
Beaky the parrot is on the couch pecking a piece of mashed potato.
Jess the sheepdog is at my feet eyeballing the budgie.
She's not allowed eat budgies and she knows it.
I munch my pork chops with moderate relish.
Jess occasionally allows herself an absent minded thump of the tail to register her interest in the pork chops.
"Stop staring at the budgie Jess," I murmur between mouthfuls.
"A cat can look at a king," says Jess. "Why can't I look at a budgie? It doesn't mean I'm going to eat him."
"You're upsetting me and the budgie," I tell her.
"You'll both get used to it," woofs Jess.
"You don't like budgies do you?" I ask her.
"They're okay in their place," says Jess.
"Where's that?" sez me.
"In a cage," answers Jess with an air of finality.

explore your cultural sensitivities with uncle jayums and damned be he who mentions my erstwhile attitude to muslims

2012-01-20T22:00:00.003Z

Mrs Ukraine is telling me about Ukrainian nativity plays.
"We have all the traditional elements you have here," she explains. "Joseph, Mary, the birth in a stable. And we have an evil character called Zed. He is a Jew. With you know. The traditional style of hair in ringlets. Do you know what I mean?"
I allow myself a sharp intake of breath.
"Are you telling me that Ukrainian nativity plays feature racist depictions of Jewish people?" I enquire sweetly.
"No, no, it's just the villain," she answers.
"Well why don't you feature Mary the mother of God with her hair in traditional Jewish ringlets, or Joseph, or the baby Jesus? Or Matthew, Mark, Luke and John? Because I've got news for you. They're all Jews."
"I know James. But it's not racist. It's just our tradition."
"So what does Zed do?"
"He tips off Herod as to where the baby Jesus is hiding."
"But this is a complete lie. This never happened. If you pretend you believe in the Bible you must admit this never happened."
"Yes but this is a very old nativity play in Ukraine. It's performed in different versions all over our country. And we always have this character in the play. We can't change it."
I favour her with my famous Paddington Bear stare.
"You've got to stop having this character in your play," I cry. "Have you thought that this single act of evil against the Jewish people might be what is opening the door for Satan to continually enslave Ukraine through the Russian dictatorships? First through communist Russia. Now through Putin. You are opening the door to the devil. You are bringing down hell on your own country. Take it from a sinful man. I'd change that nativity play if I were you."
"James it's two hundred years old."
"Where on earth did this nonsense come from? You people need to read what Jesus said to the woman at the well: Salvation comes from the Jews. And you need to read what Saint Paul wrote: Never look down on the Jews, for by some of them refusing the gospel, the gospel has come to you. You owe them. And if their refusal has meant salvation for all mankind. What will their acceptance mean? Nothing less than life from the dead. That's not me. That's Saint Paul."
"But James this tradition started because in Ukraine everyone was very poor. And in every town in Ukraine there was one person with a shop making money out of us. And that person was always a Jew."
"Are you telling me no Ukrainians were capable of running shops themselves?"
"That is the way it was."
"No it wasn't. And I'll tell you. The Irish are worse than the Ukrainians. We had no Jews. But we resented anyone who owned a shop just as much. So I'm not judging you. I'm just saying: Change your nativity play."
"We can't change a two hundred year old tradition."
"You'd change it in the morning if Jesus came back and told you to."

through a starbucks darkly

2012-01-19T21:47:00.000Z

Starbucks, Dawson Street, at evening.
The plain people of Ireland are quaffing coffees.
Not a single good looking one among them.
I cast an unquiet glance through the salon.
No sign of Miss Boo Tease.
"Yesterday it was the land of milk and honeys," I mutter acerbically. "And today it's the land of farts and shite."

an open letter to judge yvonne murphy

2012-01-19T02:44:00.002Z

Judge Yvonne Murphy.

A report compiled by you into selected child abuse cases involving priests, has been used by the Irish media to force the resignation of a Bishop.

The media, mired in declining sales and moral irrelevancy, are seeking more scalps.

The Bishop of Limerick committed no crime beyond the purely notional crimes contrived in your report, the purely notional crimes of not handling sex abuse cases thirty years ago in the way in which you maintain they should be handled today.

The arbitrary standard by which you impute guilt could of course be used to convict every single human being in the Irish Republic of covering up child abuse.

No family in Ireland is untouched by child abuse.

No institution is untouched by child abuse.

No profession Murphy is untouched by it.

I put it to you that your report is a base attempt to distract public attention from the current break down in law and order sweeping Ireland, a break down which has been caused by liberal members of the Judiciary such as yourself through your repeated release of violent and murderous and psychotisised and drug dealing offenders into the community.

There's just 150 Judges in the Republic of Ireland.

My God you have done a lot of damage, haven't you.

In a few short years.

You have destroyed everything you've touched.

I put it to you that your report is an attempt to distract the general public from the Gerald Barry case, Gerald Barry being the man who various Judge Liberals and Defence Lawyer Liberals kept free no matter how many times he killed, raped or assaulted, kept him free I say, through legalistic manoeuvres, faux humanitarianism, and your own criminal incompetence.

Can you hear me Murphy?

You Judges kept Gerald Barry free to kill, kill, rape, rape, blind a pensioner, kill and rape again.

Congratulations Murphy.

Seriously though.

You're doing a brilliant job.

I put it to you that your report into the church's handling of child sex abuse is an arrant misrepresentation of the reality of child abuse in Ireland and of the methods in which the situation was dealt with in the past.

I put it to you that your failure (and the media's failure) to make clear to the general public that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases do not involve churchmen, amounts to nothing loss than a grotesque concealment of the true situation.

You have committed the worst crime of which you have accused any Bishop.

By failing to make the true extent of sex abuse clear in your report, by contenting yourself with feigned outrage towards Bishops, you have arrogantly, arrantly and malignly concealed sex abuse.

You and your friends in the Irish Times, and Independent Newspapers, and the Daily Mail, and RTE.

You should hang your heads in shame.

I put it to you Murphy, that the motivation of Judges like yourself is not above board and should not be above question.

Murphy.

Are you a feminist?

Are you an atheist?

Are you a communist?

Are you an abortionist?

Are you part of any wide ranging conspiracy within Irish society to dechristianise our country?

Do you regard the Catholic church as the enemy of all women?

I'm fishing here Murphy.

Am I getting close on any of these?

Tell me Murphy.

If I don't think you're fit to be a Judge, is there anything I can do about it?

I mean as a citizen.

It's okay Murphy.

We all know the answer.

Tell me again Murphy.

Is there one standard for child sex abuse relating to the church and another relating to Judges?

You know who I'm talking about Murphy.

You know I'm talking about the Judge whose house was searched after an Interpol tip off that he was accessing child pornography, and whose computer was found to have images of extreme child pornography stored on it, and yet whose trial was rendered impossible because, surprise surprise, a "careless" Irish police officer enacted the search warrant a day late and a "dedicated" Judge decided that the crucial one day of lateness meant the images of child sex abuse violations stored on his computer for his delectation and enjoyment, were not admissable in a court of law.

Amazing wasn't it Murphy?
Do you remember?
His name was Judge Brian Curtin.
You and your fellow Judges and the courts service and the police and the government contrived to conceal his crime and disregard his culpability.
Together and separately you ensured he never faced a court of law for his crimes and was permitted to quietly retire from the bench.
You and your ilk cut him loose and set him free.
I guess we can all take our chances that Judge Brian Curtin will himself personally limit his predilection for seeing children violated to remote viewing.
No role for law enforcement there, eh.
I ask again.

Do you think a Judge who pays to see children raped on the internet is guilty of sexually abusing children?

It's okay Murphy.

Don't bother answering.

Such complicated moral issues might distress you.

You who are so clear thinking when it comes to blaming Bishops for sex abuse committed by priests in their employ.

You know what Murphy.

I don't care what you think.

You've given me no reason to respect any opinion you might hold.

I'll tell you what I think.

I put it to you that anyone viewing child pornography on the internet is financing the violation, enslavement, degradation, kidnapping, rape and murder of children.

Such people are themselves sexually abusing children.

Tell me.

Knowing that a Judge has viewed this material, and knowing which Judge has done so, what steps do you intend to take to protect children from this Judge in the future?

That was your method of imputing guilt to Bishops who had committed no crimes, wasn't it?

You suggested that the Bishops hadn't taken sufficient steps to protect children from their abusing priest colleagues.

Yeah.

One law for the liberals and one law for the Christians who built our country, our nation and our culture.

Murphy you make me sick.

Now how about the case of a police officer who enacts a search warrant a day late on the premises of a Judge who likes to watch videos of children being raped?

What's he guilty of?

Is he guilty of anything Murphy?

What are you going to do about him?

And what about the police officer who was himself accessing child pornography from Police Head Quarters in Dublin?

What about him Murphy?

Was he committing child abuse?

The Deputy of Public Prosecutions dithered for a year and a half before announcing no charges were being pressed.

How very consistent of him.

Tell me Murphy.

Did those police and Judges accessing child pornography websites, did those additional police and Judges who decided to search their premises a day late and then not to charge them with any crime, did any of these people commit child abuse?

I've got news for you Murphy.

All of them did.

All of them committed crimes far worse than the notional crimes you and your liberal friends have devised in order to persecute the Catholic Church.

The children on those computer screens are being raped and murdered right now Murphy.

Tell me Murphy.

Are you accountable to anyone?

Will you ever have to give an explanation for your behaviour and the behaviour of the other bumpkin millionaire child abusing Judges of the Republic of Ireland whose compassion for criminals has given us the violent society and whose misrepresentation of child abuse issues is being used as a Trojan Horse to erase 1500 years of Christianity in this country?

Do you answer to anyone Murphy?

I'll see you in hell.

James Healy

****
(First published December 2009)

uncle jayums shows you how to deal with these harsh recessionary times while retaining your spiritual equilibrium in tense situations

2012-01-17T21:37:00.002Z

I enter the Spar supermarket attached to the Topaz garage on the Sallins road in the town of Naas.
I am loathe to buy fuel at Topaz garages, because the one ten miles up the road on the Dublin dual carriageway, carries porn magazines, and its petrol pumps charge you fifty pence before they give you any petrol.
But up to today, I've been willing to shop in Spar outlets.
I am buying in bulk for the Dad.
Four cartons of orange juice, four vegetable soups, a packet of buns, biscuits, fruit and veg.
A female manager approaches me.
Her manner is polite enough.
"Are you shopping?" she asks.
"I am," sez I.
She indicates the Lidl supermarket bag which I am using to hold my purchases.
"We'd prefer if you'd use one of our own baskets," she tells me.
"Oh," I say.
"I'll get you one," she says.
"No, don't do that," sez I, beginning to replace items on the shelves.
"I will, they're just over here."
"No," I say a bit more firmly, "don't do that."
She desists.
I replace the last item from my Lidl bag and leave the Naas Spar supermarket on the Sallins Road for the last time.

name day

2012-01-16T15:19:00.001Z

people like years in the city streets
throng in the rain it falls like centuries
the fall of man is never so complete
the fall of night never such a certainty
clocks are striking somewhere down the quays

as i am struck my 40th hour done
takes wing like a soul circles and is gone
alone amid the crowd i hear the rain
drum the outright tragedy of man
birth is death divided by a span

heelers confessio

2012-01-16T15:17:00.001Z

I expect the public to come to my work with a critical eye. The most profound achievement for any writer is to so enable his readers with intellectual empowerment, critical insight and moral vocabulary, that if need be, they can not only advocate, but reject, the man who so enabled them.

our television listings

2012-01-15T21:14:00.001Z

RTE1
(The Irish national fraudcaster, financed by compulsory taxation on the citizenry but run by the Marxists for the Marxists of the Marxists.)
09.00 Murder She Wrote. Jessica is arrested after Sheriff Snurdlebaum realises that an average of one murder a week has taken place wherever she's residing for the past ten years.
10.00 Hawaii Five, Oh! Violent remake of the orginal violent cop series from the seventies. The casting is abysmal. Very hard to root for leading characters who look like the guys from my town who get into fights at the local boozer every Friday. Also whoever made the present version doesn't seem to understand that the best thing about Hawaii Five Oh was the music. The original score has been retained but it's much truncated.
11.00 Friends. Trendy sitcom. Chandler gives Monica three hundred grand for a blow job. (To design a website surely - Ed note.) Ross sets up an alternative government and closes down the Irish embassy to the Vatican while purchasing yet another worthless gangster bank for the nation using ten thousand million dollars he borrowed against unborn generations. Joey moves to Boston with a thousand million dollars he stole from the Irish people, and changes his name to David Drumm.
12.00 The News. Read by Mao Tse Tung.
1.00 Cretinously Delicious. Cookery programme. This week: How to cook a steinervorzel in fried zorgabongs.
2.00 Everybody Loves Raymond. A sitcom that's actually entertaining. Particularly when Stefania is in it.
3.00 Farming With Snodgrass. Programme for the mentally unhinged.
4.00 Blockbusters. Islamic edition presented by the Ayatollah Beheshti. Winners get an all expenses paid pilgrimage to Meccah. Losers are beheaded.
6.00 Dusty's Trail. People would watch this if RTE showed it.
7.00 The Mary Tyler Moore Show. See Dusty's Trail.
8.00 News And Weather. Ready by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
10.00 The Late Late Show. Ryan Tubridy's homage to himself.
11.00 States Of Fear. The late Mary Raftery's most famous and most invidious attack on the Catholic Church. Invidious in that I was forced to finance her bigoted propaganda. Yes Mary Raftery's vision was financed to the hilt by Catholic people like me who are forced by legislation to contribute funds to RTE which in turn insists on disbursing our money to dessicated atheistic humanists like Mary Raftery in order to facilitate Mary Raftery's hatred for the Christian faith. Don't get me wrong. Mary Raftery wasn't an atheist in the sense that someone might be called atheist who honestly doesn't believe in the existence of the Deity. Mary Raftery was an atheist in the sense that she was part of an organised political project to eradicate Christianity from the Republic of Ireland. She and her ilk openly vaunt themselves as atheistic humanists which is more or less the rebranding of choice favoured by former advocates of the more murderous forms of international communist dictatorship. Personally I've always quibbled with their hijacking of the word humanist. I don't see what's so humane about denying the dignity and sanctity of human life or the glory of the creator. Atheistic gormlessness would be a more accurate term for this most deluded of ideologies.
12.00 Closedown. I wish they would close the bloody thing down. Or failing that, finance it themselves. I'm tired of atheistic humanists conspiring for the destruction of my nation and the world while dining out on my dime.

great moments in popular discourse volume seven

2012-01-14T19:04:00.001Z

Maisie Baines leaned across the kitchen table breathing fire.
"Well how do you know?" she cried. "How do you know Michael D Higgins was wrong to support communism? How do you know Michael D Higgins was wrong to do any of the things you claim he did? How do you know? Maybe he was right. Maybe those people needed communism. Have you thought of that? Maybe it was the right thing for them at the time. Did you ever consider that possibility?"
There's nothing like an Irish countrywoman of mature years in full flight triumphantly firing questions at you which she thinks are unanswerable, and then firing out a few more questions while you're still trying to come to terms with the sheer delusional gormlessness of the first ones in order to frame some sort of an answer to them, and then firing out a few more like slaps in the face just in case you thought you were about to get a word in edgeways because clearly she considers her questions to be rhetorical and my job is just to sit there looking flustered.
Ah yes.
The great debater in me is never more rattled than when I'm rattled.
When she ran out of How Do You Knows, I deigned to speak.
"I never said anything about Michael D Higgins being right or wrong to support murderous communist dictatorships," I told her. "I said he did it. And I do I think he was profoundly wrong to do it but that wasn't the point I made. My point was that people should have been told he was doing it. These sort of things should have been discussed with him as he was standing for the Presidency of the Irish Republic. People should have been informed of his record on these issues. I was appalled though not surprised that the newspaper, radio and television journalists of Ireland were not even asking him about his ultra leftist record of political atheistic advocacy on such matters. I thought these things should have been out in the open. My problem was that the Irish were going to elect an apologist for atheistic Marxism who had never repudiated any of the psycho regimes he had endorsed over the past fifty years, and that the Irish were going to elect him, without knowing what they were doing, simply because our newspapers and broadcasters didn't think it was worth mentioning."
Maisie left.
When Maisie had gone, I recalled my own brief encounter with Michael D Higgins.
It happened fifteen years ago when he was just another radical atheistic abortionist about town apologist for communist dictators worldwide.
Ireland had, and has, a lot of them.
Though they are rarely exposed outside of this website.
At the time I interviewed him, the Presidency must have been a distant dream for Michael D Higgins.
He was then just a callow youth of 77 years of age.
There or there abouts.
He's older now.
As are we all.
I am still chilled by one of our exchanges.
I had challenged him on his suport for the Sandinista communist dictatorship in Nicaragua. I had asked him what he thought of the Sandinistas closure of newspapers in that country and the arbitary incarceration of journalists there.
And Mick Higgins had answered me matter of factly while taking a bite out of a queen cake: "It's war."

heelers is dee leader of dee anc freeeeee heeler da peeler

2012-01-13T20:54:00.009Z

The White Water shopping centre in the town of Newbridge.
Breaking bread with the Clerk of Works in the Costa Cafe.
A rather fetchingly blonde Polish woman streels by.
"Do you see her?" says the Clerk of Works.
"Do I ever," sez I.
"Mick Baines saw her here one day," sez the Clerk of Works. "She works here as Head of Security. Anyway he was completely bowled over by her. So he went into one of the shops, bought her a card, and wrote a message on it for her with his phone number. He just walked up to her and gave her the card right here in the centre. And afterwards she actually phoned him and they went out a few times. But he had nothing in common with her. When he sat down with her, they had absolutely nothing to talk about. It couldn't last. He wasn't able to find any common ground with her at all."
"I have nothing in common with Mick Baines either," muses the mighty Heelers. "Maybe she'd have something in common with me."
"Mick found the whole experience a bit overwhelming," expostulates the Clerk of Works.
"I'm not surprised," sez I. "If she's head of security in an Irish shopping centre, she's going to be fairly tough. Imagine trying to stare her down in a clash of wills over who's going to pass the salt. I mean you might as well be dating a teacher or a nurse or a corrupt cop. You wouldn't be having the best of many arguments with any of those I can tell you."
My gaze shifts to another of the White Water's much vaunted beauties, a certain Miss South Africa who is selling calendars in the walkway near the cafe.
She has a disquieting beauty.
An ethereal elegiac almost wistful sadness that makes me think of eternal things.
I've bought quite a few calendars off her during the holiday season bold readers.
For one reason or another.
Ah.
She is a honey to behold.
More beautiful than your dreams.
Spirit smitten into form.
All that jazz.
With her mane of dark hair and sylph like etc etcs.
She is, in the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, an Arooga.
You know what folks.
There are things known.
And things unknown.
And in between there are the sexors.
Or as the ghost of Jim Morrisson once assured me: "You know the day divides the night. The night divides the day. You try to run. You try to hide. Buy another calendar from that sexy ride. Buy another calendar from that sexy ride. Buy another calendar, wooooh, from that sexy ride. Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."
He was right too.
A thought strikes me.
"Hold on a moment," I tell the Clerk of Works. "I think I need another new calendar."
I stand up, take a deep breath, and hurry over to Miss South Africa.
I buy a calendar.
One with sheep dogs on it.
I pay for it.
Then I say: "How about a coffee some time?"
Miss South Africa smiles and holds up a Starbucks coffee carton.
"I've already got one," she says sweetly.
I return to the Clerk of Works.
My facial expression combines a number of the rummer emotions.
"How did it go?" sez the Clerk of Works.
"Not as well as I hoped, Clerky," I reply cheerily, "and not as badly as I feared."

obitcheries

2012-01-12T19:11:00.002Z

Mary Raftery is dead.
She was in her fifties.
The Irish Times, RTE and Independent Newspapers are currently printing rave reviews of her life, masquerading as obituaries.
Even so their fathers praised the false prophets.
Perhaps a more critical assessment of her accomplishments is in order.
In the interests of balance.
Mary Raftery was a key figure in the orchestration of the current culture war against the Catholic Church.
She accomplished her aim of alienating significant segments of the Irish populace from the faith through the manipulation of public perception on sex abuse cases.
She was a liar.
A grotesque liar.
But she never told a single lie.
Her multifarious lies were predicated simply on ignoring 99.99 percent of the truth.
Mary Raftery pretended to be concerned about sex abuse victims.
She championed, steered and promulgated various televisual documentaries and print journalism pieces investigating the tiny minority of overall sex abuse cases which arise within the Catholic Church.
She ignored the 99.99 percent of cases arising in the general community, among families, in hospitals, in health board care, in sports clubs, and in schools, at the hands of randomly dysfunctioning indiviuals, at the hands of devil worshippers and at the hands of paedophile rings.
Ah yes.
All victims are important.
But some victims are more important than others.
The only victims that mattered to Mary Raftery were the miniscule percentage of victims who were useful to her in propagating an organised societal wide pogrom against the Catholic Church.
Mary Raftery deliberately concealed the truth about the broad nature of the tidal wave of sex abuse engulfing every sector of society in Ireland, and indeed the world.
Mary Raftery deliberately ignored the most extreme cases of child abuse in Ireland which were of no use to her because they had nothing to do with the Catholic Church.
Mary Raftery lived and perpetrated the most malign malicious mendacious falsehoods solely because she despised Christianity more than she cared about the truth.
May her soul rot.

eventide

2012-01-12T19:03:00.000Z

footballers cheer a score
pat carroll shoots rabbits in the gloom
children steal crab apples
and farmer byrne calls the cattle home

perhaps this chaotic place
is not kilcullen in the present time
but a dusty frontier town
at the heart of ancient palestine

the sounds dissolve
into a muted half felt bliss
fluted by fond memory
and a strange provincial holiness

touchable

2012-01-10T18:16:00.004Z

Maisie Brogan, a sixty five year old woman in her prime, entered my kitchen, kissed me, and then let fly with both barrels about this website.
She told me in no uncertain terms that she considered The Heelers Diaries to be nothing but wall to wall hate.
I was astonished.
For the first time in a long time, a citizen criticising my writings gave me pause.
Normally I take criticism as flattery.
If they love me or if they hate me, it's all good.
Indifference is the reaction I can't stand.
But this hit too close to home.
Actually because it was in my own home.
And also because I had heretofore held the woman in some regard.
I ask you, gentle travellers of the internet, to consider a most telling moment in the overly violent, though sometimes effective, Brian De Palma thriller called The Untouchables.
Yes the gangster film with the self parodaical music score by Ennio Morricone.
It works, doesn't it.
The Untouchables are a crime fighting team consisting of Kevin Costner, Sean Connery, Alec Baldwin and Ron Baines.
As soon as I saw that Ron Baines was being teamed in the Untouchables with Kevin Costner, Sean Connery and Alec Baldwin, I thought Mr Baines might as well have been wearing a target on his back.
I felt he was not long for this world.
(cf: The old Star Trek television series. Whenever Captain Kirk ordered Mr Spock, Lieutenant Uhuru, Doctor McCoy and Ensign O'Toole down to check out the planet surface, you knew it was time to say goodbye to Ensign O'Toole.)
So it proved in The Untouchables.
Kevin Costner, Sean Connery, and Alec Baldwin soon found their colleague the unfortunate Mr Baines shot most bloodily to death in a lift.
On the wall of the lift, his murderer had scrawled in blood the word Touchable.
Back to my kitchen.
Maisie Brogan is holding forth about such subjects as: Heelers' inhumanity to O'Brolchains, Heelers' inhumanity to Archbishop Diarmuid Martin, Heelers' inhumanity to the Irish Police Force, Heelers' inhumanity to Irish parliamentarians, Heelers' inhumanity to the banks, Heelers' inhumanity to... but you get the idea.
My jaw had dropped.
I let her speak.
A part of me marvelled at such free expression.
A refined, respectable, charitable, community minded, countrywoman, giving me what for.
She was eloquent, I give you that.
It was a spectacle to behold.
Rum and rummer.
Half of these people are terrified of their own husbands and of their own children but they feel free to speak their minds to me.
There's a compliment for me in there somewhere.
Her words were ringing in my ears.
Now she upped the ante.
"There's no economic collapse," she cried. "The only thing causing an economic collapse is people like you claiming there is one. Look at us. We're all alright. Nothing has collapsed."
And finally I raised an admonishing hand.
"Listen," I said quietly. "A few weeks ago in this very town a man poured petrol over himself and set himself on fire. He self immolated. He burnt himself to death. Do you think he did that because there's nothing wrong with our country? Because there's no corrupt bullying thug police? No recession? Really? You know, they heard his death screams at both ends of the town. But of course it wasn't reported in any of our newspapers. Now, a man burnt himself alive in Tunisia last year after being hassled by a bitch police officer and you know what happened? The government of Tunisia fell. The people tore it down. A man burns himself alive here in Kilcullen and what happens? Our newspapers, our televisions stations, our radio broadcasters, all of them collude to conceal it. Along with nice civilised people like you. All of them deliberately ignore it. All of them pretend it never happens. It only happened a few weeks ago but to this day the people of Ireland don't suspect a thing about it. You think speaking the truth is hateful. But I'm telling you what's genuinely hateful and hate filled is concealing the truth."
She stood up and made for the door at warp speed.
I followed.
"I'm a bit suprised at your attitude," I addressed myself to her fast disappearing form.
From my front garden she called back: "Well James, what did you expect?"
"I expected you to thank me," I stated without rancour.
Back in the kitchen I sat down in a pool of great sadness.
Touchable.

waiter pardon me but there's an irish times in my chateau

2012-01-09T17:09:00.004Z

Wandered into the Chateau late of an evening.
Doctor Barn had been visiting.
When I entered, I found the goodish doctor ensconced in an armchair in the television room.
A copy of the Irish Times was draped over the wing of his armchair.
A copy of the Irish Independent was clutched in Doctor Barn's hand.
This was too much.
A brace of anti Catholic newspapers.
In my own home.
This was too much.
Even for an easy going preraphaelite poet like myself.
The Irish Times is famous as an anodyne atheistic Bolshevick mouthpiece which spent the Cold War rooting for the Russians.
There are not unreasonable postulations that it was being run at one stage by the KGB.
The Irish Independent is a part of Tony O'Reilly's Independent Newspapers group and although far from Bolshevick, it joins the Irish Times in an ad hoc alliance militating for abortion culture, contraceptivist culture, and life in test tubes culture.
In addition Independent Newspapers advocates an idolotrous worship of the O'Reilly family along with a hedonistic sex and drugs lifestyle to keep the citizenry quiescent.
While the Irish Times seeks to hand Ireland over to the rule of Communists or like minded rebranded atheists, or failing that Jihadi's, the Independent Group seeks to establish a return to feudalism, fostering a neo feudal level of influence for the O'Reilly family and reducing the rest of us to farm animals.
In the glorious society envisioned by the Independent group, the citizens of Ireland will have bread and sex, and will be perpetually ruled by Tony's progeny.
Both the Irish Times and Independent Newspapers are waging a kulturkampf war to destroy the Catholic Church in Ireland.
They view the dechristianisation of the nation as an essential prerequisite for the ultimate enslavement of Ireland to their own atheistic barbarisms.
But I digress.
My brother looked up as I entered the room.
I stared at the loathsome objects he was perusing.
Quickly and correctly interpreting my gaze he announced cheerily: "You can't beat the oul anti Catholic propaganda."
I nodded all grim reaperish.
"I will never understand," I told him bitterly, "why you insist on feeding the hand that bites us."

the monica leech bank in

2012-01-08T20:55:00.001Z

Question: What is the difference between Fianna Fail and Fine Gael?
Answer: The famously corrupt and corrupting kleptocratic Fianna Fail party bankrupted the nation in order to bail out Fianna Fail's personal gangster bank, an entity styled Anglo Irish Bank. Anglo Irish Bank had gone bust with world record losses, losses exceeding the losses of the most corrupt American bank Citibank. Anglo Irish Bank went bust because Fianna Fail members, supporters and their allies in the gangster business sector, along with individuals on Anglo's board and in its employ, were giving themselves thousand million dollar loans which they could never hope to repay. Here's how it worked. When a bank official gave a loan of a thousand million dollars to a Fianna Fail supporter, the Fianna Fail supporter would then give the bank official a hundred million for himself under the table. When the bank finally went bust through this institutionalised and systematic thievery by its own Board of Management and employees, and their allies in Fianna Fail, the ultimate coup de main swung into play. Fianna Fail Minister for Finance Brian Lenihan bankrupted the nation and the next fifty generations of Irish people in order to keep this defunct gangster bank in existence. It is interesting to note that Brian Lenihan who died shortly after his treasonous hijacking of the future of our nation, was married to Circuit Court Judge Patricia Ryan. Other Judges we might mention here are Judge Eamon DeValera a direct descendent of Fianna Fail's founder who was also called Eamon DeValera, and Judge Leonie Reynolds in the High Court who is a daughter of former Fianna Fail low life Prime Minister Albert Reynolds. Clearly the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party has attempted to insulate itself from public outrage about its theft of the nation, by colonising the Judiciary. The current parties of government in Ireland, who style themselves Fine Gael and Labour respectively, have also loaded the Judiciary with their supporters. The only difference then between Fianna Fail and Fine Gael is that Fine Gael having been elected to repudiate Fianna Fail's bailout of worthless Fianna Fail gangster banks, immediately compelled the citizenry to bail out a worthless Fine Gael gangster bank called Allied Irish Bank to the tune of virtually immeasurable billion dollar sums of telephone number borrowings. Having bailed out Allied Irish Bank for virtually limitless amounts of comically and cosmically unrepayable money, Fine Gael proceeded to purchase this worthless gangster entity styling itself Allied Irish Bank for an additional ten thousand million Euro which they again borrowed against future generations of Irish people. You gorra larf. Coincidentally, Allied Irish Bank's Board of Management includes an individual styling himself Lochlainn Quinn, who is a brother of the current Irish Minister for Education Ruairi Quinn, a lifelong self confessed atheistic apologist for the most invidious communist regimes worldwide. Lochlainn Quinn is famous for buying a French vineyard a few years ago for thirty million quid. Yes he had thirty million quid in his back pocket for buying vineyards even though there is nothing he can ever have done in his incomptent and corrupt career causing the collapse of Allied Irish Bank, nothing he has done I say, that would entitle him to be paid anything, let alone be paid so much that he has thirty million in loose change to be throwing away on French vineyards. These people should be in jail. Ruairi Quinn's Labour Party is in coalition with Fine Gael. And Fine Gael have proved themselves endlessly generous in bankrupting the citizenry in order to keep Lochlainn Quinn and his brother in the vineyards to which they have become accustomed. So the sole difference between Fianna Fail and Fine Gael is the difference between the word Anglo and Allied. The parties are of course united by the word scum.

the what if column

2012-01-07T22:05:00.000Z

Corrupt Irish Prime Minister Enda Kenny has recently appointed a range of new government advisers to advise him on the handling of the Irish economy.
Enda Kenny is a vacant, vacuous, vapid, hairstyle of a man.
Although as leader of the Fine Gael political party he was clearly elected Prime Minister by the Irish people solely to repudiate the arrant criminal kleptocracy of the previous Fianna Fail government, his first action in office was to borrow ten thousand million dollars in order to purchase a worthless gangster bank styling itself AIB.
Interestingly enough government Minister Ruairi Quinn, a bald lifelong atheistic communist and Lenin impersonator, has a brother called Lochlainn who sits on the Board of AIB.
The wheel is rigged and it's the only game in town.
Enda Kenny is gambling that the Irish people, having repudiated Fianna Fail kleptocracy, will never organise themselves in sufficient numbers to repudiate the worse kleptocracy perpetrated by Enda Kenny and his friends.
His newly appointed economic advisers, none of whom were elected, are all being paid funny money salaries well in excess of a hundred thousand dollars each.
Now.
What if...
What if just one of those advisers was an honest man?
What would his advice to Enda Kenny be?
He would advise:
"Stop paying advisers you don't need, hundred thousand dollars salaries they haven't earned. You don't have any money. The reason you don't have any money is that you are throwing it away paying people like me to tell you the bleedin obvious. You are borrowing the country into Third World penury just to bankroll the champagne lifestyles of a few plush bottomed executives and employees at a bank that no longer exists. You have hung around here too long for any good you have been doing. Get out. In the name of God, go."

koreans behind closed doors

2012-01-07T21:42:00.002Z

MISS KOREA TELLS IT LIKE IT IS
***

Coffee with Miss Korea.
"Are Koreans always so polite when dealing with the Irish?" I ask her.
"Not when we're alone together," she says.
"What do you say about the Irish when you're alone together?" I enquire for my files.
"We say that the reason you're all bald is because the wind in Ireland blows off all your hair," she tells me.
"Oh," I counter soberly.

the rocky heelers picture show

2012-01-05T22:29:00.006Z

The screen is dark.
A disembodied male voice sings as the opening credits appear in the blackness.
The voice is plaintive, poignant and oddly beautiful.

***

The Voice: (singing)
"I remember the chill
The day Newsweek stood still
Claiming US troops flushed Korans down the jax
And Piers Morgan was there
In silver underwear
Cheerleading the Jihadi attacks.
Then something went wrong
For Rupert Murdock and his son
They got caught in a phone tapping jam
And at a deadly pace
It came from outer space
And this is how the message ran.
Science Fiction
Ooh, oooh, oooh
Double feature.
George Bush is a liar
Tony Blair's his creature
See Jihadis fighting
Not terrorists but insurgents
And lots of talk about quagmires
It's all so urgent
Woh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
Woh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
I remember the sorrow
When the New York Times had to borrow
Five hundred million from a Sanchez named Slim
And the Washington Post
Soon gave up the ghost
And told us that Al Qaeda would win
Then something went weirder
For Piers Morgan at the Mirror
He published fake torture photos just to pay his bills
But I really stepped back
When Lukwesa Burak
Got a haircut that spits poison and kills
In a
Science Fiction
Wooh oooh oooh
Double feature
Rupert Murdock
Oooh oooh oooh
We'll build a creature
See lawyers fighting
At the Leveson Enquiry
And Adam Bolton wondering
Why the hell don't they fire me
Woh oh oh oh oh oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture Show
By RKO
Oh oh oh oh oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show

***

(Camera cuts to the interior of a Starbucks cafe in South London. It is the Starbucks where Jannat Jalil from Sky News has her morning espresso. James Healy is at a table eyeing Jannat. She, being a fan of the Heelers Diaries, knows well he is stalking her. He approaches her table tentatively.)

James: Jannat.
Jannat: Yes James.
James: (awkwardly) I really admired the elegant way, you read the evening news on Sky the other day.
Jannat: Yes James.
James: Jannat.
Jannat: Yes James.

(Music starts. Other diners sing the part of the Chorus.)

James: The road was long but I ran it.
Chorus: Jannat!
James: The river was broad but I swam it
Chorus: Jannat!
James: And I've one thing to say And that's dammit Jannat, I love you.
           Here's the ring to prove I've got your back
           I've also got a pot belly and a saggy butt
           My love for you is deeper than for Lukwesa Burak
           She spoilt her chances with that haircut, tut tut
Jannat: This ring is flashier than Kay Burleigh's mind games.
Chorus: Oh James
Jannat: My heart is burning with sultry flames
Chorus: Oh James
Jannat: And I've one thing to say, and that's James, I'm insane for you too.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James: Dammit Jannat.
Jannat: Oh James, I'm insane.
James & Jannat: (together) I love you.

***

(Camera cuts to a country road on a dark night. James and Jannat are driving through the rain. The car runs out of petrol. The two sit for a moment in silence.)

Jannat: What kind of man doesn't fill his car with petrol before a long journey?
James: I never put more than ten Euro's worth in the tank.
Jannat: Why?
James: Well I wanted to punish the government for imposing punitive taxation rates on petrol. And I wanted to punish the garages for failing to organise an effective lobby to stop the government imposing this tax. And I wanted to punish the oil conglomerates for trying to corner the market in oil through forward buying, thereby driving the price of a barrel of oil to 100 dollars when it should be less than ten, and perpetually gambling that the price of oil will rise and then forcing it to do so through their astonomical borrowings from collapsed idiot banks. And I wanted to punish the Arabs and the OPEC organisation for operating an illegal oil cartel against the rest of humanity. All of these corrupt vested interest groups have traded on the notion that we will never respond to their price gouging. They have waxed fat on the idea that oil is not a price sensitive commodity. We have allowed them to believe that we will buy their oil no matter what they charge. This is a very negative delusion to encourage in governments, garages or Arabs. It is apt to confuse them.
Jannat: So you punished them by stranding us.
James: Er yes.
Jannat: Oh James.
James: Oh Jannat.
Jannat: I think I might be Muslim.
James: What's that?
Jannat: Nothing. Let's go search for help.

***

(Camera cuts to the two now walking along the roadside in the rain. They are making their way towards a castle in the distance which has a light shining in a single window. The music kicks in.)

Jannat: (singing)
In the velvet darkness
Of the blackest night
No matter where
There's a guiding light

James & Jannat: (singing together)
There's a light
Over at the Murdock place
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
Burning in the fireplace
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
In the darkness
Of every night

(Camera cuts to the window of the castle. Sky News Overseas foreign affairs correspondent Tim Marshall is sitting at the window watching the rain. Tim Marshall has in the past year been sent to report from Lubya, Egypt, Syria, in fact from every trouble spot in the world where there is even the remotest chance he might get killed. A less charitable observer than I might conclude that someone at Sky is trying to kill him.)

Tim Marshall: (singing)
The darkness must glow
Down the river of my dreaming
Until Kay Burleigh goes
The sun cannot come streaming
Into my life
Into my ligh-igh-igh- ife

(Camera returns to James and Jannat)

James & Jannat:
There's a light
Over at the Murdock place
There's a ligh-igh-igh-ight
It's burning in the fireplace
There's ligh-igh-igh-ight
In the darkness
Of every night

***

(Camera cuts to James and Jannat knocking on the door of Castle Murdock. The door opens to reveal Kevin Murdock (son of Rupert) dressed as the character Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Behind him we can see Rebekkah Wade, formerly Managing Director at News International, dressed as a sexy maid.)

James: Our car broke down.
Riff Raff: You've come on a very important night. The master is having one of his affairs.
James: You mean now he's cheating on Wendy Deng?
Jannat: Shhh.
Riff Raff: I think perhaps you'd better come inside.

***

(Scene: Castle interior. A group of garishly dressed guests have congregated. James and Jannat stare as without warning Riff Raff burst into a most infectious musical number. The other party guests join in at just the right places.)

Riff Raff:
I remember
Doing the Truth Warp
Drinking
Those moments when
People gave us access to their personal bank accounts
To pay for Sky Channel
Let's do the News International warp again.
Let's do the News International warp again.]
It's just a jump to the left
And a step to the righ-igh-igh-ight
You put your hands on your hips
And bring your knees in tigh-igh-ight
But it's tapping people's phones
That really knocks you insa-a-a-a-ane
Let's do the Truth Warp again
Let's do the News Corp again

(Riff Raff and the partygoers collapse in an exhausted heap. James and Jannat don't quite know what to do. Although James has appreciated the verve of the performance.)

Jannat: Let's get out of here.
James: Nonsense. It's just getting good. Let's stay and see what happens next.
Jannat: This is not the Athy Chamber of Commerce James.
James: (With infinitely smug middle class political correctness) They're probably just Muslims with ways different from our own.
Jannat: I'm cold. I'm frightene. And I'm just plain scared. Oh. And I think I'm a Muslim too.
James: (Still infinitely smug and middle class and not really taking anything in.) Don't worry darling. We all are. Now stop being frightened. I'm here. Nothing can possibly go wrong. If we're lucky, in a moment maybe these simple country folk will perform some more shameless parodies from the Rocky Horror Picture Show for our amusement.

***

(As James and Jannat are talking the other party goers and Riff Raff have revived. Suddenly, a door bursts open suddenly behind Jannat's shoulder. Rupert Murdock struts in. Jannat faints. James looks enthused. Rupert launches into his trademark song.)

Rupert:
Not another wordo
I'm Rupert Murdo
And he's my faithful handyman (indicating Riff Raff)
He's a little brought down
Because when you knocked
He thought you were
Sirhan Sirhan
Don't get strung out
But the way I look
Don't judge a company by its corrupt corporate management
I'm may look 86 years old
By the light of day
But at night I look positively indigent
I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly Ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah

James: (rapping and breaking any number of copyrights held by Jim Sharman and Richard O'Brien)
I'm glad we caught you at home
May we use your phone
We're both in a bit of a hurry
We'll just say where we are
And then get back to the car
We don't want to be any worry

Rupert: (singing)
So you got caught with a breakdown
In the middle of my shakedown
Heelers
Don't you panic
Even if Jannat dumps you
I'll find a more exotic broad to jump you
I'll get you a satanic Hispanic
I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly Ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah
Sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah-ah

(Rupert pauses to drink a cup of water. A man emerges from the chorus and throws a pie at him. The pie is neatly deflected by Wendy Deng who quickly hustles the would be assailant away.)

Rupert: (rapping)
Why don't you stay for the night
You could both have a bite
I won't tolerate any... dissension
I've been building a corrupt corporate media monopoly
You know with fake oversight from a board of directors who are all related to me
And they're good to relieve my... tension
Because
I'm your sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah
Whuh
Sweet Chief Executive
From sweetly ineffective
Tasmania-ah-ah

(Rupert changes tack suddenly and incomprehensibly)

Rupert: (singing)
The transducer will seduce ya.
You're a sensual attapensual
When we tapped your phones
Did you hear a bell ring???

(I challenge anyone to discern what those lines about a sensual attapensual were in the original movie)

***
(Rupert's song is brought to a halt by Riff Raff drawing a ray gun and vapourising him. Rebekkah Wade is upset by this turn of events.)

Rebekkah: Why did you do that? I thought you liked him. He liked you.
Riff Raff: (With infantile fury) He never liked me. And it was time. Heelers has clearly run out of steam. He's just lifting lines from the Rocky Horror Show. There aren't even any jokes.

(Riff Raff and Rebekkah turn slowly towards James and Jannat)

Riff Raff: (With preternatural menace) You'd better leave. Rebekkah get ready. We return to Tasmania immediately. Prepare the transit beam.

(James and Jannat, having seen the Rocky Horror Show, know it's time to flee the building.)

***
Scene: Castle exterior. James and Jannat fall in the mud and continue scrambling towards the gate. Behind them a spectacular Truth Warp bathes the News International HQ in mystic. Presently the entire building vanishes. Gone. On a voodoo wind. Back to Tasmania. James and Jannat are left alone in the dirt. A voiceover kicks in. It is Charles Grey reprising his career best performance as the Criminologist in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Charles Grey: (intoning)
And crawling
On the planet face
Some insects
Called the human race
Not members of the Board of News International
And not entitled to any dignity or respect or grace
And subject to having their phones hacked at any time
Because
Basically
They're lost
Lost in time
And lost in space
And meaning

***

The screen goes dark. The plaintive male voice from the opening credits returns to sing over the close. The lyrics are even more poignant than before. If that's possible.

The Voice: (singing)
There was once something rare
About Lukwesa Burak's hair
It made me want to grab her and kiss
I dreamed that we might
Run away in the night
But now I think I'll give it a miss
And Lisa Holland drove around
Old Tripoli town
With Saif Gadaffi sitting on her knee
And Rebekkah Wade
Was a sexy maid
She was
At least she worked for me
In a
Science Fiction
Double Feature
Doctor X
We'll build a creature
See Alistair Campbell fighting
With Adam Bolton
Who's turning puce
And then quite molten
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
I really was there
For Adam Bolton's live melt down on air
When Alistair Campbell straightened his tie
And young Wendy Deng
Had developed a yen
For an 86 year old man
A girl has got to make a living or die
Then something went wrong
For Osama Bin Laden
He got caught in a special forces commando raid
And at a deadly pace
He left the human race
And this is what his last message said
Science fiction
The Leveson Enquiry
Corrupt policeman
Massive bribery
See androids fighting
James and Jannat
And the Murdock Family stars in
Forbidden planet
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
At the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
I wanna go
Woh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
To the late night
Sky News feature
Picture show
By RKO
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
To the late night
Double feature
Sky News movie
Picture show

triumph of a man called piers

2012-01-04T18:56:00.002Z

A few years ago, Mr Piers Morgan of 12 Snurdlingham Villas, engaged in a series of fascinatingly corrupt practices while editor of the British newspaper styling itself The Daily Mirror.
He used the business pages of his newspaper to advise the public to buy shares in companies quoted on the Brit stock exchange which he himself had already bought shares in.
He then sold his own shares in those same companies as the public lemmings pushed up the price for him on the strength of the stock tips he himself had placed in his own paper.
This was the most minor of Piers Morgan's serial corruptions.
Perhaps his most egregious and invidious action occurred at the height of the War On Terror, when he published photos he knew to be fake, depicting fakers posing as British soldiers urinating on other fakers posing as Iraqi prisoners.
These photos helped Al Qaeda no end in motivating the slavish Jihadi masses towards ever greater barbarity.
It doesn't end there.
Slowly but surely the full truth about Piers Morgan's arrant criminality is leaking out.
Now a British parliamentarian is claiming that Piers Morgan encouraged journalists at the Daily Mirror to hack into the phones of private citizens on a routine basis.
Piers Morgan's reward for all of this?
His reward for Economic Fraud, High Treason, and Spying on the Citizenry?
CNN has made him a prime time presenter on one of their anodyne viewerless flagshit programmes.
They shoot horses don't they.
These people really look after each other.
You gorra larf.

the take the biscuit column

2012-01-03T18:56:00.001Z

Titles in the Independent Newspapers Group, along with the Irish Times, have spent the holiday period each printing an average of one picture per day of Irish Prime Minister Enda Kenny.
Today's Irish Independent actually has two.
In case you forgot what he looked like between page four and page nine.
This is in keeping with Independent Newspapers' strategy of labelling Enda Kenny a statesman following his closure of Ireland's embassy to the Vatican.
It's funny.
No matter how often liberal atheistic hedonist abortionists seek to present him as a statesman he still looks just like what he is.
A weak vascillatory, vacant, vapid, hairstyle of a man.
However the Order of the Biscuit is not awarded this week either to Independent Newspapers or to the Irish Times.
It goes instead to the hindtit newspaper styling itself The Daily Mail.
The Irish edition of the Daily Mail has accumulated losses in excess of a hundred million dollars.
It brings in revenues around the million a year mark.
So in a hundred years it might break even.
Until then we're all forced to prop it up through idiot loans from State owned idiot banks.
Hilarious no.
By the way the English edition of the Daily Mail has debts in excess of a thousand million dollars.
But I digress.
The Order of the Biscuit goes to the Daily Mail for its photograph today of Enda Kenny and Enda Kenny's wife Scroticia, standing beside the Archbishop of Dublin Diarmuid Martin, posing outside a church.
It is a study in mendaciousness.
And fools no one.
In it we see a vacant vapid hairstyle of a man posing as a Prime Minister.
We see a shleeveen trophy wife posing as a married woman.
And we see a leftist Soviet era infiltrator posing as a Catholic Archbishop.
They all seem curiously at ease with one another.
I give this photograph the Order of the Biscuit for the sheer mundane faussness of the subject matter.
My suggested title for the pic would be: Three People Pretending To Be Catholic.
But to achieve the proper resonance we should also put in a shared speech baloon coming from the mouths of Enda, Scroticia and Archie.
The photo would then aptly depict the three proclaiming in unison:
"Oleaginous, moi?"

this just in

2012-01-02T17:03:00.001Z

Good to see Rupert Murdock's Sky Channel dropping its earnestly insincere "We Believe In Better" advertising slogan.
From now on Sky's continuous self promotional voiceovers will announce:
"We've updated all our services because... we believe in you giving us permanent access to your personal bank accounts through direct debits so that 86 year old Rupert Murdock can continue to keep his Chinese hoor in the style to which she has become accustomed. And also so that the young Murdocks can keep all their hoors in the style to which they've become accstomed. And also so that the next generation of Murdocks the grandchildren and great grandchildren will one day be able to keep their own hoors in the styles made famous by their parents and grand parents. Sky! We believe in hoors."
Well, it's honest anyway.

J'accuse

2012-01-02T01:00:00.000Z

A children's home called Haut La Garenne on the island of Jersey is under investigation.
Allegations have emerged of serial sexual abuse, ritual violations, rapes and murders, taking place at the home.
The large number of allegations along with several other items of evidentiary information which have come into the public domain, point to many decades of violation, abuse, rape and murder of children at Haut La Garenne.
My analysis is that Haut La Garenne was used by a satanic cult for the ritual abuse of children.
My analysis is that this cult involves many levels of society on the island of Jersey, including political and law enforcement figures as well as prominent members of the business community.
I am disquieted by the manner in which the investigation is being handled.
I am disquieted that all members of staff who have at any time worked at Haut La Garenne have not been arrested, detained and interrogated.
I am disquieted that the senior officer investigating the case has been removed from the investigation.
I am disquieted at the manner in which the new senior officer investigating the case has dismissed many of the more serious allegations.
I do not believe the current investigators are seeking the truth.
I call on all men and women of good will to boycott the island of Jersey.
I call on all men and women of good will to boycott the products, people, industries, and holday resorts of the island of Jersey.
I call on David Cameron Prime Minister of Great Britain to take personal responsibility for the investigation.
I call on Queen Elizabeth the Second to intervene directly in this case, so that the murdered, raped, violated and ritually sacrificed children of Haut La Garenne will at last receive some form of justice.
There is no excuse for acquiescing in the child murders, rapes, ritual satanic sacrifices and sundry other tortures and violations, which have taken place at Haut La Garenne on the island of Jersey before the eyes of the world.
End this.
Bring the murderers to account.
Do it England.

fantome

2012-01-01T18:09:00.000Z

rose scent night takes the house
i sit in the front room
the world was made for the shroud
i am alone
but being alone know not peace
nor loneliness if such you call
for tonight is a night of ghosts
familial phantoms fill the hall
peter hayes with an outsize pig
best of breed at the county fair
middle of summer 1896
great great grandfather
john healy pale and gaunt
staring down a charging horse
bringing the wayward animal to a halt
fifty years before my birth
granny berney of the floury hands
mixing up chicken slops
here's tuppence for being good
now run down to the shops
all night i've sat with the ghosts
while time and tide flowed soft
knowing not where i'll go
whence i came is good enough

worst argument of the holiday season

2012-01-01T01:36:00.000Z

The budgies rushed me while I was changing their water. For the next half hour they flew from room to room all over the house, shrieking triumphant profanities in fluent Australian at the panting poet in hot pursuit. It was a full two days before I could bring myself to forgive them.

avalon

2011-12-31T16:51:00.000Z

special guest blogger albert einstein

2011-12-30T19:40:00.000Z

Being a lover of freedom, when the Nazi revolution came to Germany, I looked to the universities to defend it, knowing that they had always boasted of their devotion to the cause of truth; but, no, the universities immediately were silenced. Then I looked to the editors of the newspapers, whose flaming editorials in days gone by had proclaimed their love of freedom; but they like the universities, were silenced in a few short weeks. Only the Catholic Church stood squarely across the path of Hitler's campaign for suppressing the truth. I never had any special interest in the Church before, but now I feel a great affection and admiration because the Church alone has had the courage and persistence to stand for intellectual truth and moral freedom. I am forced to confess that what I once despised, I now praise unreservedly.
- Albert Einstein (Speaking in Time Magazine, 23rd December 1940)

ring out wild bells

2011-12-30T02:23:00.000Z

(Special guest blogger Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out the pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

on first looking into lukwesa burak's new haircut

2011-12-29T00:34:00.000Z

Say it ain't so, Lukwesa, say it ain't so.

tempered steel

2011-12-28T23:00:00.005Z

Coffee with Drusilla.
Her and her regal features and fake classy British accent.
We break bread together about once every five years.
It's too often.
I have no idea what I'm playing at by meeting her.
Today she is Catholic Churching out of her to beat the band.
That is to say, she is accusing the Catholic Church of all manner of crimes.
Obviously she's spent the five year period since our last meeting meditating on the Gospel according to the Irish Times.
Her memories of me seem to have dimmed with the years also.
For she cannot believe I might dare to speak in opposition to the nonsense she is spouting.
Presently I grow weary of hearing this gulpen accusing our ancient and beautiful religion of unspeakable crimes drawn from the imagination of the liberal atheists currently seeking to our enslave our country to abortion culture, atheistic hedonism, the pleasure ethic, drugs and a new religion which involves the idolotrous worship of one Tony O'Reilly.
(Two Tony O'Reillys would be an extravagance. - Ed note.)
"What do you do for a living?" I ask Drusilla as she pauses for a muffin.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what are you working at?"
"James, you know what I work at."
"I want to hear you say it."
"F--k off James."
She pronounces it focque.
"You're a bank manager, aren't you Drusilla?"
"What's your point?"
"Well you accuse the Catholic Church of all sorts of crimes. And you pretend to care about sex abuse. But you ignore the 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases, the most serious ones, which arise outside the Church as part of the tidal wave of sex abuse engulfing every segment of our society."
"I wonder where you got those statistics, and I still don't see your point."
"But you're a bank manager Drusilla. Do you not see the irony here?"
"No."
"Well whatever number of child abuse crimes you can falsely construe to lay at the door of the Catholic Church, perhaps we can agree that those crimes surely pale, at least in numerical comparison, when placed alongside the number of children you have criminally bankrupted through your fake job at the Irish Bank Of Corruption And Thievery Ltd. I mean you and your bank and the other banks have bankrupted every child in the country. And having bankrupted every child in the country, that wasn't enough for you. You've gone on, and bankrupted every child for the next fifty generations. Just by giving yourselves and your gangster friends loans you could never repay, paying yourselves salaries you never earned, and then compelling the citizenry to foot the bill when the reality check kicked in. You've thrown the Irish nation lock stock and one hundred billion smoking barrels, permanently into the Third World. Some of us think what you people have done in the banks ranks right up there with child abuse. Maybe it's worse. There's certainly infinitely more victims. And those victims will live with the consequences of what you people did infinitely longer, ie for the entire foreseeable future. And you and your banking friends did it just so you could all drive around in silly shiney new cars that you never earned the money to pay for. And so that you could live in silly shiney houses bigger than your neighbours. And so that you could take silly shiney holidays five times a year and style yourselves professionals. Plus your sick leave. And your maternity leave. It's all a con, isn't it Drusilla? You and your generation's jobs, your lifestyles, your atheistic values, and your attempted criminalisation of the Catholic Church. It's all a balls. Hoo baby. All your money comes from money borrowed by the Irish government to keep your fake Banks afloat on fake rationales and fake work practices. You've got no customers and you've got no business model beyond forcing ordinary citizens to pay your every gambling debt. You people should be in jail. Instead you have the gall to designate yourselves judges over previous generations of Irish people. People who actually worked for a living, aborted no one, didn't borrow the unborn generations into unpayable debts, and never surrendered their children to the whoredom culture you so cherish. You're standing in judgement on them and on the faith that sustained them through twenty centuries as a nation. Bloody hell."
A distant look came over Drusilla's finely wrought features.
"Go f--k yourself James," she said with much more conviction than before.
"How did you get your job in the bank?" I pressed her.
"Why do you ask?"
"I just want to know."
"I've worked for fifteen years to get where I am."
"Ah you didn't really. Not for fifteen. You spent most of it on maternity leave and sick leave and doing part time work, didn't you?"
"F--k off James." Stronger.
"But what I was asking was how you got into the bank in the first place. And I know how. Your Daddy rang up the bank one fine day and said: Give my daughter a job. That's how it happened, isn't it? Now for some of us who refuse to use pull to get jobs, that sort of behaviour amounts to an egregious abuse. Maybe not quite up there with child abuse. But you know. Fairly serious. In the societal sense. I mean for the hyndreds of thousands of people going to job interviews who know in their heart of hearts that the job is already gone to someone whose Daddy rang up that morning and got it for them. It's abuse alright. And the consequences can be as serious as child abuse. Oh they can. If there are enough people getting jobs the way you got yours, and if we're not all Catholic believers, then there's no longer any reason for us to resist the temptations of communism and shoot you people, you who have condemned us to live as farm animals. The Catholicism you despise Drusilla, is all that protects you and your ilk from conflagration. Ironic, eh?"
"F--k off James." Real vehemence now.
She had stood up and was disappearing due west at a rate of knots.
I called after her.
Heads turned in the cafe.
"Hey. Hey you. Yeah you. There she goes. The great arbiter of wrongdoing. You've bankrupted the nation. You've cheated a generation out of a decent livelihood. You've sentenced the unborn millions to live their lives as serfs in an impoverished hell hole. And worst of all you've alienated the poetic, noble, soulful, Irish people from our beautiful, ancient and true religion. You've alienated young people from the one truth that could have saved them from the inferno you have unleashed. And you tell me to f--k off? You... you focque off."

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-28T21:54:00.003Z

Snow White is in bed feeling a corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government minister's bawls. So the Fianna Fail government minister gives her three hundred grand of public money to design an unnecessary website, the contract for which will never be opened to public tender and the pages of which no member of the public will ever visit.

statue in the cold night air

2011-12-28T07:08:00.000Z

while liberal atheists watched their flocks at night

2011-12-28T05:20:00.002Z

THE FIRST EVER GOOD NEWS REPORT ON CNN
Last night CNN ran a report on the psychotic devil worshiping tortures and violations which had been habitually inflicted by Colonel Gadaffi and his family on the Gadaffis' personal servants and staff prior to the recent Western backed removal of the Gadaffi dictatorship. The story was the first ever qualitative piece of journalism in the entire history of CNN. Of course CNN ran the story only to bolster the Libyan intervention policy of President Barak Obama. CNN ignored and continues to ignore similar and worse devil worshiping tortures which were routinely inflicted by Saddam Hussein's family in Iraq and by Al Qaeda in Afghanistan prior to the American liberation of those countries. Never a whiff of retrospective analysis there, eh CNN? I suppose you couldn't afford the risk that you might have to attribute colateral credit to the policies of President Bush. One's gorra larf.

let us speak of grenadiers

2011-12-27T18:57:00.002Z

"Do you admit that the Catholic Church has ever done anything wrong?" enquired Rowena over tiffin.
Of all the variegated pseuds and trendies who occasionally deign to discuss such things with me, she is the most respectful of my own position.
She will ask.
She will listen.
And she will give it to me with both barrels.
I respect her more than any other who has debated these matters with me.
My respect is realistic and without a trace of sentiment.
As is hers for me.
She is a driven, career woman atheist by the way, but as I'm hinting, not without kindness.
In her past life she worked as an accountant for one of Ireland's most notorious white collar criminals Denis O'Brien.
He's the one who a decade ago bribed a corrupt Fine Gael government Minister called Michael Lowry to give him a mobile phone licence for a fee of five million dollars when the licence should have cost him a thousand million.
Still.
Only the nation was getting impoverished.
So why worry.
Rowena used to help Denis O'Brien count the billion dollars he got when he finally sold the mobile phone licence himself, oh at least a full five minutes after he corruptly acquired it from the corrupt Lowry.
And today she's asking me with a pitying look in her eye, if I accept that the Catholic Church has ever done anything wrong.
Presumably she means with regard to the Church's handling of sex abuse cases.
Ah yes.
All the young conformist thieves are much agitated by the Church's handling of the tiny minority of sex abuse cases which have arisen within the Church while the rest of the country is being engulfed with a tidal wave of child murder, child rape, child abuse and child sacrifice to satan, that none of them so much as notice never mind deign to question.
As they stoop down from Mount Olympus to ask me with a pitying look in their eyes if I accept the Catholic Church has ever done anything wrong.
"I accept the Church has done four things wrong," I answer warmly. "Firstly the Church, ie the Bishops, listened to their lawyers. Yes, they took advice from the leading legal professionals in Ireland. They listened to that advice. And that was the first wrong thing they did. Listening to lawyers. Their lawyers were advising the Bishops to say nothing, that each case was a legal matter, and that the burden of proof was on those wishing to prove any allegation. So yes the Bishops made a big mistake in listening to their lawyers. And anyone involved in a case where people are being accused of sex abuse or involved in the much more trivial cases that most of you will face at some stage, and who has ignored their lawyers' advice in the handling of those cases, is perfectly entitled to judge the Bishops harshly for doing the same thing. The rest of us aren't. Interestingly the Bishops were being advised to say nothing by many of the same lawyers from many of the same legal firms which have grown fat in recent years trading, on and profiting from, frivolous sex abuse claims and inflated court awards to supposed victims. I always say a victim who helps the Nazi's is still a Nazi. Secondly the Bishops took advice from the most eminent psychiatrists in the world. And they listened to that advice. That was the second wrong thing the Bishops did. Now I could have told them that psychiatrists haven't a clue. But the establishment societal consensus was that psychiatrists were the people to go to when dealing with child abuse. So the second wrong thing the Bishops did was to believe psychiatrists who were telling them that abusing priests had been cured. If you're in a position to judge them for that, go right ahead. I can't. Even though I'm the only one here who's spent the past thirty years telling people that psychiatry and the pharmaceutical industry have monstrously falsified the nature of mental challenges in order to sell billions of dollars worth of mind altering drugs. Thirdly, the Bishops were a little too thrilled to get invites to tea with anti Catholic press baron pornographer Tony O'Reilly. I call him a pornographer because I consider the sex, drugs and hedonistic atheism advocated in his newspapers the Evening Herald, the Sunday World, the Irish Indpendent and the Sunday Indpendent, to amount to pornography. I would also note that Tony O'Reilly still has a publishing deal with British porn baron Richard Desmond to produce the Daily Star. Richard Desmond's other edifying titles include Asian Babes, Big Boobs, and Explicit Readers Wives. He should be most ashamed of the Daily Star though. Yes, the third wrong thing that the Bishops did was to sup tea with Tony O'Reilly, long after it had become clear that his titles were attempting to subvert Christianity in Ireland. One Bishop even consecrated a church for O'Reilly's personal use on the grounds of O'Reilly's horrendously tawdry mansion. That one raised a few eyebrows among believing Catholics. It was plain to see that some of the Bishies just loved mixing with the rich and famous. When they should have been excoriating O'Reilly they were currying favour with him. They relished the plush surrounds of his manion rather than calling for it to be torn down. If you can judge em for it, go ahead. I won't. The fourth wrong thing the Bishops did was to apologise for crimes they hadn't committed. I never apologise Rowena. Because the right sort of people don't want an apology. And the wrong sort will misuse one. The Bishops in their human frailty accepted the public pronouncements of scoundrel liberal atheists who wished to destroy the Church by interpreting every attempt to handle child abuse discreetly as concealment. The Bishops were frightened by the unfolding persecution of the Church through the Media, the Judiciary and Parliament. It's not a crime to be frightened. The persecution seemed unstoppable. The Media, the Judiciary and Parliament colluded to conceal the vast preponderance of the most serious sex abuse cases arising in Irish society outside of the Church and at the same time, the same atheistic Medica, Judiciary and Parliament were pressing ahead with repeated Public Enquiries expressly devised to convince the public that the majority of sex abuse cases actually arose within the Church. A black lie. An utter falsehood. A complete inversion of the truth. And the terrified Bishops just couldn't bring themselves to point it out. The honorable Bishops hid while the Media onslaught continued and the more suggestible proles among our citizenry, the very ones who had bankrupted the nation in perpetuity, these kleptocrats, druggies, abortionists, contraceptivists, atheistic life in test tube generating, Marxists and whore masters, the gangster bankers, the usoriously overpaid middle class teachers, nursies, thug cops and indolent soldiers, all of these thieves, these white washed Civil Service supulchres, all of them I say, presumed, nay dared, to stand in judgement on the faith of our fathers, and on the generations of Irishmen and women who came before us and through hardship, famine and rapine, never bankrupted anyone, the abortionists judged the best among and the best who came before, and from thence it was a short step to find Catholicism guilty of every crime they chose to devise for it. The Bishops didn't fight them. They had grown too comfortable in their palaces and were afraid to lose everything by standing up to the oppressors. Let anyone who's ever faced losing their home in old age stand in judgement on them. That was the fourth and last mistake the Bishops made. You might judge them Rowena. I never will."

a miktam of james

2011-12-27T18:04:00.000Z

and the numbers we give years
are flung like chaff from the plough
and i am allowed to see
hence and thence and now
people past or passing or to be
come streaming from the fields
i believe

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-27T05:27:00.000Z

Snow White was in bed feeling Sleepy. So Sleepy got out of the bed.

saint stephens day

2011-12-26T17:36:00.000Z

Nephews John and Tom conducting ferocious sword fights in close proximity to my good self.
A wooden sword inadvertently strikes my gentle preraphaelite features.
"Johhhhhhhn," I cry. "What are you doing?"
"Sorry," sez the nephew.
"You two are like the green and blue budgies," I moan. "If I have one of you alone, I can control him. But when you're together I've no control at all."
John thinks for a moment.
"Well sometimes you do," he tells me kindly.

deck the halls with budgies and sheepdogs

2011-12-26T00:14:00.000Z

Merry Christmas gentle travellers of the internet

the first pressies

2011-12-24T16:05:00.003Z

Christmas Eve at the Chateau.
A rampaging Doctor Barn emerges from the hall.
"Who took the bags off the presents I left under the tree?" he enquires no nonsensally.
Ireland's greatest living poet stirs like Churchill in his armchair.
"They were Easons bags," I announce without looking up from my Shroud Of Turin.
"What did you do with them?" quoth the goodish doctor.
"I threw them out," sez me.
"Why?" wondereth he.
"You will remember my paranoid delusions a few years ago about being hassled by some of Easons book shop Dudes Where's My Car Low Rent Scruff Management And Staff off the premises," sez ,me. "You will remember my fulminous rage about the scruff in the pirate bandana and the bespectacled scruff in the little BMW. You know full well I will not abide Easons employees on the planet nor Easons logos in this house. Yet you left them under the tree in plain view as if Easons was somehow an acceptable part of human experience. So I shot them. I shot them down. The bags I mean."
Doctor Barn sighed with all the heartfelt sorrow of a man in the grip of an extreme pression.
"I was worried when you thought the Arab guys on Grafton Street were an Al Qaeda gang out to get you," he stated reproachfully. "And I'll admit I was concerned when you started saying that Vladimir Putin was sending Russian honeys to seduce you. But Jim this is the limit. Book sellers? Easons book sellers? Trying to take over the world with mind control devices in their books, are they?"
"I don't like em Barn," I expostulated loonily.
"You threw out my Easons bags," he muttered to himself again somewhat unnecessarily.
"I did," I affirmed. "I consigned them to the eternal fire. You see Barn, Easons book shop no longer exists. It is an ex book shop. It is a former book shop. It is a derelict bomb site. Easons book shop has left the building. Easons books shop has gone bust. Easons book shop is propped up by idiot banks but has no life of its own. It is past its sell by date. It is defunct. It is a null book shop. It is closed for the winter. And by that I mean eternity. Easons book shop is a book shop that once was. In the Heelers Universe, Easons book shop is extinct."
"What did you do with the books I gave you?" enquired Doctor Barn suspiciously.
"I binned them."
"You did whaaaaaaaaaat?"
"I told you not to buy me presents from Easons book shop."
"Do you realise I left you 200 quid in the pages of the George Bush book?"
I smiled indulgently at my brother.
"Noble and honorable Doctor Barn," I said softly. "How little you know me after all these years. I never destroy useless gifts from you without first checking that you haven't left some worthwhile gift secreted between the pages. Thank you very much. It was the best present I've received so far. And you even picked out my favourite denominations. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord."

glad tidings

2011-12-23T21:09:00.000Z

Afternoon at the Chateau De Healy.
Christmas tree lights wink in the hall.
Ireland's greatest living poet thrones in an armchair reading an Ian Wilson book about the Shroud Of Turin.
Jess is lying at his feet swaying her tail.
A hamster sits at his elbow washing her face the way hamsters do with vigorous circular hand motions.
Hamsters have hands.
Perfectly crafted.
Beaky the parrot occupies the other armchair.
I'm hoping he won't get the urge to pooh in it.
He's a parrot who believes in giving in to his urges.
The Dad is pottering around in the kitchen.
Winter light blesses us from the windows.
Outside frosted fields and hedgerows stretch away towards eternity.
Creatures and the creation pause.
All existence draws breath.

the twelve days of Christmas

2011-12-23T20:48:00.001Z

(The new chart sensation from MC Heelers. Available from Parlophone Records and EMI.)
******
On the first day of Christmas internet spammers sent to me... an online casino link courtesy of some snurd styling himself Ashley May.
On the second day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... another casino link and a bogus offer of free software from Milton Scherbitzky.
On the third day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... another worthless casino link, more bogus software and a fake job offer from Elsa Svitborg.
On the fourth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... May's silly casino, Scherb's useless software, Svitborg's daft job offer and a brochure from some idiot called Johnny Testone undertaking to enhance the size of my manhood.
On the fifth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... five truly cretinous attempts to gain my bank account details which they pretended had originated with Barclays Bank, also four fake casinos, three free software ads, two futile job offers and yet another unnecessary offer of assistance for my unnameable part from Johnny Testone. (Actually it has been named. I call it Rodney.)
On the sixth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... sundry fake casinos, worthless jobs and software, Testone's testimonial, the mind numbing banking, and a partridge in a pear tree. No not really the partridge. Actually something from a young scrote signing himself Kenyan Prince and purporting to offer pharmaceutical products which look like viagra, act like viagra, but aren't viagra, at low low prices. That's what came in the pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... rubbish casinos, jobs and software, Testone's testicle booster, the invidious banking tricksters, Kenyan Prince's Pharmaceuticals, and the offer of an absolutely sublime three week university degree.
On the eighth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... seven casinos a cashing, six jobs a paying, five software downloads, four huge testes, three bankers scamming, two invidious pharmaceuticals, one fake degree... and a stock tip from Denny Toney.
On the ninth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... casinos, jobs and software, massive membranes growing, banking scams a glowing, plus numerous chemicals, stock tips, five makey uppy degrees, four french hens, and a turtle dove, along with a most improbable appeal for help transferring bearer bonds worth 10 million quid from Nigeria which seemed to be offering me the lion's share of the ten million if I would only be so gormless as to pass on my own personal bank account information.
On the tenth day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... nine casinos jingling, eight jobs a bobbing, seven software programmes, six big mickeys, five banking scams, four chemists chemming, three fake degrees, two useless stock tips (and a turtledove), and an invitation to sponsor an expedition to the South Pole led by Maxwell Zint.
On the eleventh day of Christmas the spammers sent to me... all of the above and an offer of ten thousand genuine viagra pills for free.
On the twelfth day of Christmas... they rested.

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-23T18:51:00.002Z

God summons Barack Obama, President Putin of Russia and Archbishop Diarmuid Martin for a conference in heaven.
"I've called you here," says God, "because you are the three most influential people in existence. I want you to bring a message to humanity. In a day's time I am going to destroy the planet earth and all who live on it."
The three messengers are whisked back to their respective countries in the blink of an eye.
Barack summons Congress for an emergency session.
"I have good news and bad news," announces Barack in his classic declamatory tones. "The good news is that God exists. The bad news is that he is going to destroy the world tomorrow."
Mr Putin for his part immediately orders top Russian officials to the Kremlin.
"Gentlemen, I have two items of very bad news," intones Mr Putin grimly. "The first is that God exists. The second is that he is going to destroy the world tomorrow."
On his return to Ireland, Archbishop Diarmuid Martin initiates an emergency convocation of Bishops at Maynooth with the Pope and the College of Cardinals sitting in on video link from Rome.
"I have two pieces of good news," proclaims Archbishop Diarmuid Martin. "Firstly, I am one of the three most important people on earth. Secondly, you're all fired."

a priest for ever

2011-12-23T18:50:00.001Z

In Dachau concentration camp there were four thousand priests. They were beaten: they were chained: they were knocked down and kicked: they were starved. Battered and exhausted they were offered their freedom if they would deny Christ. In 1942 eight hundred died of hunger, and in that year one of those four thousand gave in. As he left a friend said to him: "You are a priest for all eternity." He answered: "But the hunger!" Yet even in that camp another came forward to take his place.
Karl Leisner, a deacon in the Munster diocese, was arrested at the end of 1939. In December 1940 he was sent to Dachau. This cheerful optimistic young man had always shown in his actions his burning love for God. One of his dearest friends was Saint Stephen, and like him, he was "full of faith and the Holy Ghost." As with Saint Stephen, persecution only increased his love: "I see heaven opening and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God." In the camp he worked from morning to evening, to make this vision true. He gathered others round him and, playing a harmonium, taught them the Catholic Youth Movement songs. A priest wrote, "When I arrived at Dachau on the feast of the Name of Mary, 12 September 1941, Karl was the first to take an interest in me and put me in the way of things. He slipped five Marks into my hand so that I could buy what I needed, at the same time giving me his own piece of bread from his locker."
Karl became very ill with a highly dangerous form of tuberculosis. His greatest desire was to enter eternity a priest for eternity. The others discussed the possibilities of an ordination in that camp at Dachau, so that, where everything to do with Christ and His priests was despised and vilified, a new priest might be born. But Karl was dying and there was no Bishop.
Then, in September 1944, Gabriel Picquet, the French Bishop of Clermont Ferrant, was brought into Dachau as a prisoner. He joyfully agreed to perform a secret ordination, if the Bishop of Karl's diocese would give permission. A petition was sent to the Bishop of Munster in a letter addressed to Karl's parents. The camp thrilled to the answer: "I gladly give you my permission, on condition that the proper ritual is observed and that it can be certified as valid for the future."
They began to organise everything necessary for the ordination. Women acted as secret messengers between the local priest at Dachau and Cardinal Faulhaber at Munich. They brought back the "raw materials" for the prisoner priests to work upon, so that all the details were in order, pontificals, holy oil and so forth. One priest who was from Trier, worked on the mitre; a Benedictine cut a crozier out of oak wood, and carved upon it the episcopal arms with the inscription, "Victor in Vinculis;" the episcopal cross and ring were smithied in the armaments workshop by a Russian; all, of course, in the greatest secrecy for fear of the camp authorities.
The day chosen was Gaudete Sunday in Advent 1944. On the Saturday there was a secret rehearsal in the "chapel" - Room 1 of Block 26. The Bishop wore only a surplice and his mitre. Karl remained seated as he had not the strength to stand. It was the end of his six year retreat - six years learning the virtue of patience. It had indeed been a hard seminary.
The ordination itself was a very moving sight. Because of Karl's physical weakness, only his oldest friends amongst the prisoners had been invited. But there were also present the thirty theological students, so that when they were priests, they might have the memory of this day. The Bishop was wearing his pontifical robes with the trousers of his prison uniform showing underneath. Karl, pale and strained and shivering in his zebra uniform, was beside the altar. Next to him stood the thirty surviving priests from the Munster diocese. All the others stretched out their arms in common prayer. There was complete silence. "Veni sancte spiritus..." For the first time all realised the fullness of the truth that a priest's ordination is a baptism of blood for all eternity. The bound hands were anointed with holy oil so that they could bless the very men who had chained them, and offer sacrifice for those who despised them. "Men revile us and we answer with a blessing, persecute us and we make the best of it, speak ill of us and we fall to entreaty. We are still the world's refuse; everyone thinks himself well rid of us."
When it was all over, the newly ordained priest and the others embraced - his face radiant with thankfulness and joy. Then they went to breakfast, a real love feast provided from the gift parcels of some of the priests, who also served the Bishop and Karl. Both as a testimony and as a memorial of this unique occasion, a Carmelite brother had printed a beautifully designed certificate, which was signed by the Bishop and the senior priest in the Block.
The day of his ordination had been so terribly exhausting for Karl both in mind and body that it was two weeks before he had the strength to offer his first Mass. This he at last did on the feast of his friend Saint Stephen. That first Mass was also his last. By the time of his release on May 4th 1945, he was still alive it is true, but only just. He had to be taken at once to hospital.
The last weeks of his life, which he spent in the Planegg sanatorium in Upper Bavaria, showed how deeply he had grown in love, in happiness, and in his longing for eternity. There, after all those years, he was reunited to his parents and his brothers and sisters. He died in his mother's arms on Sunday August 12th. "I see heaven opening and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God."
His body was taken to Cleeve in his home country. For the people on the Lower Rhine the day of his burial was like the day of his first Mass. The red roses of martyrdom and the green palms of victory were laid on the coffin which held his body wrapped in scarlet Mass vestments. Great crowds flocked to his funeral from every part of the Catholic Lower Rhineland - crowds so deeply moved at this showing of God's power that they could only bow down in silent adoration.

(From: Christ In Dachau, 1952 edition, published in England by the Newman Bookshop, Oxford; and in America by the Newman Press, Maryland. The book consists of translations of German language accounts written by concentration camp survivors. These accounts were taken from Seiger In Fesseln, published by Herder in Germany in 1947, and from Christus in KZ, published by Otto Muller, Salzburg, in 1946.)

Footnote: The British historian Michael Burleigh, himself no friend to the Catholic church, has pointed out that the Nazis when trying to destroy Catholicism, initially sought to foment public distrust for priests by claiming all priests were child abusers. To do this the Nazis recycled old accusations of child abuse, exaggerated current accusations, and invented new ones. I would suggest that in contemporary Ireland, media groups have behaved in a similar manner. Perhaps those who work for The Irish Times, Independent Newspapers, the broadcaster RTE, and The Daily Mail would deign to reflect on this. Remember. I haven't accused the Irish Times, Independent Newspapers, RTE, or the Daily Mail of telling a single lie. I have accused them of colluding in a project to destroy the Catholic church. I have accused them of manipulating the news to attain their own societal agendas. And I have accused them of ignoring 99.99 percent of the truth about sex abuse. The truth being that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases do not occur at the hands of clerical or religious people. Here is the news. This is an age of massive sexual dysfunction. It is an age of massive sexual dysfunction not because people are Christian. It is an age of massive sexual dysfunction because vast numbers of people have been rendered sexually incontinent by a media engendered culture of atheistic hedonism. The truth the media don't want you to hear is that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases occur in the family home behind closed doors. JH

the truth about cats and dogs

2011-12-23T18:40:00.000Z

Strolling past the porno mags in the Topaz garage outside of Naas.
I tut tut epicly.
We'll have to end our relationship with Topaz unless those mags disappear.
You know folks, serial killer Ted Bundy claimed on the night before he was executed that he believed his murderousness had been cultivated by exposure to porno mags.
Topaz can hardly be making enough extra money out of disrupting male and female sexualities in this way, to justify continuing to stock these things if they're actually causing murders.
I reach the end of the aisle and come to the newspaper rack.
A pile of Sunday Independents greets me.
It reaches as high as an elephant's eye.
I look at my watch.
Eleven o'clock at night.
These things aren't selling.
Forty years of claiming to be the most popular newspaper in the country, forty years of kulturkampf against the Catholic Church, and they can't give them away.
"So this is what they mean by calling their rag Ireland's largest circulation weekly," I breathe. "They mean they're leaving hundreds of thousands of them to moulder in garages."

visionant

2011-12-22T19:13:00.003Z

the light of a thousand suns
the figure of a man
casting not the shadow of a man
but the shadow of a doorway
none shall enter into the kingdom of the father
but through the doorway that is the sun
christ died
christ risen
christ come
forever and ever
all men
amen
one

the bitter pill

2011-12-22T19:12:00.004Z

Afternoon at the Chateau.
A newly commissioned Padre who is a relative of mine, is trying to convey the Catholic Church's teaching about the sanctity of life, to some of my trendier more stylish relatives.
He is gently suggesting that contraceptives have no place in God's plan for humanity.
I am a bit surprised because he is a trendy fellow himself.
He was the wildest of us before he had his Christian conversion.
And anyway most Padres tend to stay quiet about the teaching on contraception.
So yes I'm surprised.
The stylish young women are laughing at merrily at the Padre's earnest efforts to reach them.
Then the Padre says:
"Well which members of our family would you prefer not to have existed? Uncle Bernard seems to have made quite a difference to quite a few lives, doesn't he. He was number nine in his family. With contraceptives he's not around and neither are any of you who happen to be his children. And your cousin Doctor Barn is a bit of a living legend isn't he? Nice fellow. Have you noticed? I'm fond of him. I mean I'm glad he's alive. He was number six on our family. The youngest. With contraception neither of those would have been around. Personally, I'd have missed them. Neither would your mother my Aunty Mary. I think she was number eight in her family. Think of the lives she's touched. Not just yours. But the school kids she taught. And the reaching out she did to special needs kids. And all the stuff none of us know about but only suspect..."
And for the first time in thirty years gentle travellers of the internet, I saw a look of confusion course across the vivacious confident features of the young and the restless.

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-22T18:57:00.000Z

Archbishop Diarmuid Martin is looking out the window of a plane at Dublin airport.
"What are you looking at?" asks his personal secretary who is travelling with him.
"I'm looking at that other plane to check if I'm on it," answers Archbishop Martin truthfully.

the 23rd psalm

2011-12-22T18:55:00.001Z

the lord is my shepherd
there is nothing i shall want
he brings me to the most gloriously beautiful fields
and bids me take my rest
he leads me alongside rivers shining bright with peacefulness
to restore my weary spirit
he sets me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake
yea though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death
i will fear no evil
for you are with me lord jesus
your rod and your staff of authority
they comfort me
you have prepared a table for me
in th presence of my enemies
my cup runneth over
surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life
and i will dwell in the house of the lord
forever

Star Wars Ten

2011-12-22T12:24:00.005Z

(REVENGE OF THE SITH HEADS)
Evening at the head office of Independent Newspapers in Dublin.
The galactic emperor Tony O'Reilly is sitting at his plush mahogany desk in a plush mahogany office on the plush mahogany top floor.
It is a bright sunny day in Dublin.
But the prophylactic emperor is brooding.
His black cloak is unfurled about him.
His breath rasps through a black face mask.
"Koh, koh, koh," it says.
It sounds tremendously sinister as breaths go.
Presently there's a light tapping on the door.
"Come in," rasps Darth O'Reilly.
The words too sound tremendously sinister the way he rasps them.
It takes a Dark Lord of the Sith to make the most innocuous remarks sound dangerous.
You wanna hear him say: "Pass the sugar please."
Scaryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Anyhoo.
The door opens and in walks Paedophile Ian O'Doherty, a humorist drone from Sector 7-G.
"Ah," rasps Tony Vader. "My apprentisssssssssss. Sit downnnn."
All this was rasped of course.
Did I mention that?
(You mentioned it sixteen words ago - Ed note.)
And you could cut the tension with a knife.
O'Doherty couldn't be sure if he was being called in for a pay rise or to be executed.
An odd irreverence swept through him.
"Good morning Lord Vader," he said breezily drawing on a canabinoid. "Is that a light sabre in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
Vader shot him a warning glance.
O'Doherty genuflected, sat down and fell silent.
"We have problemssss my young apprentice, koh, koh, koh," rasped Fart O'Reilly. "This James Healy Jedi. He has a sense of humour. He should be working for us. But word on the street, koh, koh, koh, is that Heelers thinks Independent Newspapers in general and the O'Reilly family in particular, are pond scum. Can it really be five years since I first told you to rip off his material? Remember? My instructions were that you must immitate him. You must read his blog. You must write like he writes. Koh, koh, koh. Except for the bits about me of course. Koh, koh, koh."
O'Doherty looked troubled.
"I've been trying Dark Lord," he blustered drawing on another canabinoid. "This week I wrote a vaguely favourable remark about George Bush, to wit that George Bush wasn't the devil. Then I claimed to have friends who were pro life. After that I even cited South Park as part of some interminable pointless anecdote. Nothing seems to work. I still come across as a b-ll-x. Most people wouldn't p--- on me if I was on fire."
Darth Vader's malevolence filled the room.
"It's true," (he rasped), "Nothing seems to work. And you are a bollocks. You steal Heelers' every gentle life affirming insightful idea. But when you write them in your column, you still come across as a mean minded atheistic little shit. Koh, koh, koh."
O'Doherty blanched at the truth, wondering briefly why someone hadn't bothered to edit out the vowels in sh-t.
"We must find a koh, koh, koh, solution," rasssped O'Reilly. "Make yourself charming. Take a lead from those other Heelers immitators currently wandering around Irish journalism in pseudo intellectual drag. Stage a Christian conversion like John Waters. Become a born again conservative like Kevin Myers. Change your dog's name to koh, koh, koh, Paddy Pup. Something. Anything."
There was an awkward silence except for the continuing koh, koh, kohs.
A tap on the window broke the spell.
Darth O'Reilly turned in his swivel chair, rapping his cloak around the axle.
At the window James Healy was peering in at them.
He was dressed as a window cleaner and perched on a window cleaner's crane hoist.
Truly Heelers has been doing some interesting jobs since the Johnston Press fired him from the Leinster Leader three weeks before Christmas 2007.
"Obi Wan," rasped O'Reilly. "You. Here. How? Cleaning my own windows. It's too much."
"Don't worry O'Reilly," shot back Heelers. "I'm not doing a very good job."
(And from somewhere not too far away, the ghost of John Fry, Chief Executive at the Johnston Press, allowed himself a wry chuckle.)
The Dark Lord of the Shits was on his feet. His young apprentice unsheathed a light cabinoid.
"When you left me, I was but a learner," rasped O'Reilly. "Or you were a learner. Well one of us was a learner. But I am the master now. I, Fart Braider."
Heelers just grinned.
"Listen O'Reilly," Ireland's greatest living poet said softly. "I'm gonna use small words so that even you can understand. I've never asked you, or Independent Newspapers, or the Irish Times, or your horrendous little acolyte here, to be nice to me. I've asked you to... go... away."
At which point the crane hoist cable came undone and Heelers plummeted out of sight.
He disappeared singing: "Now I'm washing windows."
(And somewhere the ghost of George Formby had a canniptian.)
The Dark Lord of the Shits and his young apprentice were left standing stunned at the window on the top floor of Independent House. They had no way of knowing if Heelers had survived the fall.
They and you, bold readers, will find out in our next thrilling instalment.

jess with the sheep on christmas day

2011-12-21T22:55:00.000Z

one abyss calls to the other

2011-12-21T22:54:00.001Z

By Nanda Herbermann
(Arrested for Catholic activities and Detained in a Concentration Camp by the Nazis.)
***********************

Putting the word of the Psalmist, "One abyss calls to the other," at the head of this article has its deeper meaning. The concentration camps, the abyss of fiendish wickedness, have become for me and for many of my companions in suffering a blessed pit of divine mercy. In this abyss of wickedness we came to realise the bottomless pit of divine mercy and unbounded grace. We had to bend low under the cross, but we were then permitted to enter wholly into the world of God's love. If Christ called me to this way of the cross as his disciple, he expected something from me. As God's mercy would surely help me not to break under it. And he did this miraculously. In those moments when I had reached the limit of human endurance, God's mercy would support me.
For eight days I was in solitary confinement in a darkened cell. At all hours of the day the supervisor on duty would come, strike me on the head and kick me. My eyes smarted with unwept tears. I heard the sobbing, groaning, the mad screams of demented women being tortured to death, and I thought I could bear it no longer. Then the redeemer, forsaken on the cross, was my hope.
I found strength to carry my cross in Reinshold Schneider's book The Way Of The Cross. Provost Donders of the Cathedral had sent it to me. I kept it hidden in my straw mattress. From there it made its way secretly from inmate to inmate. Surely it brough encouragement to many in their desolation.
At least 70 percent of all German inmates in the women's concentration camp at Ravensbrueck were professional criminals, social outcasts and prostitutes. They no longer knew anything of the cross or the willing cross bearing love which forgets itself, which carries the cross with Christ, and which could still smile even though through tears. But I want to tell here how Christ met those in prison who held fast to him or looked for him, how they experienced again and again his support, his consolation and his love. There was the dear noble Mother Superior from the Sudetenland. She was over 70 years old and delicate. Her refined face bore a saintly glow. She was devoted to all the prisoners and always helpful. Her devout mind was sincerely willing to carry the cross in the imitation of Christ. I see her before me. It was a wet and cold Autumn evening. Barefoot and trembling all over. She asked me: "Pray, pray, that my body will be able to stand it." In consolation I answered that I was willing for three days to offer up all hardships so that she would not break down. She became happy like a child and whispered to me the Magnificat which was her favourite prayer. Often she took one of the weeping prisoners by the hand and tried to comfort her. I venerated her as a saint.
There was Elfriede, the meek little lamb from Cologne, who could be happy and sparkling as is the Rhinelander's way. She worked on the rabbit farm., and she was in her right place with these quiet animals. Her greatest happiness was mediation. In her there were sincere meekness and complete readiness to bear everything. She heroically mastered her way of the cross. But I do not know anything of her fate. She is one of the many untraced ones who had to hold out in the concentration camps until the end of the war.
I remember Angela who was sent to the concentration camp as a hostage for her father whom the Gestapo could not find. She was really like an angel, and deserved her beautiful name well. She spent five years in the camp. Though physically weak, she possessed in her strong soul that faith that moves mountains. Looking at her I was often reminded of the words of the Bible: "God created the weak to put the strong to shame." Often we celebrated our Sunday mass hidden in the furthest corner of the camp in 20 degrees of frost or more. She would put her hands into mine and would rub them first one then the other. Then we sang softly so that the SS guard could not hear us.
When Angela was in the sick bay, Nettchen Alfredine and I went secretly to see her whenever possible, always trying to avoid the SS guard. Nettchen worked in the kitchen. Sometimes she managed to put aside a bit of margarine or some jam for the sick Angela. Then she would have tears in her soft eyes. How homesick she was for her family in Holland. Happily she is reunied with them today.
Here in the concentration camp one found living examples of how to suffer in order to defend the Christian faith, and to die like the great martyrs, nobly and innocently. Among the few Catholic women there were apostles and angels. Conscious of our rock like faith we would recite the Fiat: "If we have to die or be killed here, we shall die praising our lord for choosing us for this sacrifice." In normal life people do not experience so much grace as we did in this hell. Such divine grace and goodness gave us the strength to hold out to the very end. And we knew that in spite of this bitter persecution in Germany, the Catholic church would live.
Often I was inspired by the noble Polish women, who for the most part were deeply religious and trusting in God. On special feast days, in their miserable barracks, they cleverly contrived to hold their communal service after the guard had passed. I once had the opportunity of attending one of their celebrations. Stirred to the depths of my heart I joined them in prayer and song. We all imagined ourselves to be in a church and our Gloria and Credo must surely have reached our lord in heaven. It was bitter for us to have to go without the eucharist. In longing for the Bread of the Angels, our devotion and our love glowed even more brightly.
But those Polish women who were executed! Nowhere else have I seen such composure. This his how martyrs die, I thought. Indeed they were witnesses for their faith, their home, their people. Their suffering and death reminded us to be faithful unto death. "I am going to heaven, Nanda," an elderely Polish woman said to me. She was the mother of four children of whom she had not heard for years. She believed that they had entered heaven long ago. God alone knows what we felt about these shootings. One of these days it might be our turn.
I very much want to tell you about the poor prostitutes and outcasts who were in my care when for more than a year I was their Block Warden. They surely were the poorest of the poor, with no sunshine in their lives. There were young girls and old women. I often thought: "Would it not have been better if you were never born?" They were so difficult to manage, they told lies, were jealous and vindictive. What a miserable lot they were. All one's energy and a great amount of love were required to get along with them. Many of them had contagious diseases, were undisciplined and had grown up in the human underworld, decayed in body and soul, and they bore all the symptoms of their vice. These outcasts displayed an utter indifference and a complete lack of feeling towards themselves and their fellow prisoners. Some behaved without any semblance of decency. The most sensuous experiences were related to the delight of the whole block, and my life was made intolerable by their treacherous and malicious gossip. How well they knew how to steal. Nothing was safe from them. Often they stole my miserable bread ration, even the potatoes from my plate. The camp authorities punished them severely. And sometimes even gave them 25 lashes with the whip. But a few days later they relapsed into their old ways. These should have come into the loving care of understanding people, not to the inferno of the concentration camp. Under the whip, the rubber truncheon, and blood hounds, without faith and without God, they could only become worse.
When I had to take over the exceedingly difficult task of Block Warden in this block, I was horrified. But my requests to the camp authorities to remain in the outdoor labour gang were refused. "You have to take over this job whether you like it or not!" said the supervisor and profoundly unhappy I went to their block. In the evening lying on my bunk, I remembered the words of Saint Paul: "To be everything to everybody." What elasticity, goodness and forbearance, and tolerance of human peculiarities and even of depravity, were necessary here. I was not mature or good enough by far to live according to that principle. A saint was needed such as you were Paul. "With a heart as hard as a diamond but as tender as a mother's," to use the words of the French preacher Lacordaire. I was near to despair when suddenly put into this strange world. But I had no choice except to attempt the task. It was worth it. Many of these lost souls I came to love very much, and they became attached to me with the fullness of their passionate hearts. My proteges were between 17 and 70 years of age. Many of them had celebrated their silver jubilees as prostitutes as they proudly explained to me. And the younger ones? I felt great pity when they told me about their lives and sufferings, their joyless and troubled childhood and youth. They were the children of prostitutes, who had never known their fathers or whose fathers had been living on immoral earnings or had been jailbirds. They had been forced onto the streets when they were only 12 years of age to earn their livings like their mothers. Listening to this, a great love and infinite pity would come over me. Sometimes I could not but wish to draw them to me, these outcasts. I felt the urge to undo some of the wrong that state and society had done to them. I struggled with God for their souls. Many a night I sat by the beds of the sick who writhed and groaned in terrible spasms. I looked into their sorrowful and hardened faces. During their fits I held their hands and comforted them.
There was little Maria. She had lived in the filth of the big cities and her delicate body was worn out though she was only 25 years old. During the day she had to toil out of doors, and nearly every evening she lay on her bunk gripped by severe spasms. I could do no more than give her cold compresses and put my hand on her feverish brow. There were no drugs. When in the evening I used to go to the sick bay to fetch some drugs for at least the worst cases, often enough, I was thrown out with kicks and slaps in my face. "Let them die, those old swine," was the inhuman answer of the SS doctors. Sometimes I was lucky to find the little prisoner nurse Gerda who would give me a sleeping tablet or a tonic on the sly. This Gerda, from Leipzig, did a great deal for the prisoners. But I was talking about Maria. When I was with her during the nights of her attacks, after she had recovered, she would ask me as I sat with my hands folded on her bunk: "Nanda are you praying? Do you think there is still a God who has mercy upon me?" I told her much about God, of his boundless merciful love, told her of Mary Magdalene, of Marguerite of Cortona, whose story had impressed me greatly. I told her of this loving and repenting woman who with purifying penance left sensual love and came to God. Maria listened attentively and after a few weeks she prayed together with me. I taught her many short prayers.
She had to withstand terrible temptations since she had realised how miserable had been her life and what was of real importance in this world. Now she lay dying in the concentration camp, lonely but content and devout, believing firmly in God and her saviour. She died in my arms, lying on the floor, as the doctors and nurses refused to admit her to the hospital. Of this I am sure: She who had repented so sincerely and who had prayed with me so intensely found a merciful judge. I closed her eyes. For the last farewell, before she was fetched to be cremated, I made the sign of the cross on her cold forehead. She lay stretched out on her straw mattress with the sign of deep suffering on her small white face.
There was Lotte, a dark passionate woman of nearly 50 years. More than half her life she had spent in brothels. How often she said to me: "I wish I had your faith." But she learned to believe.
When I came to see her in the sick bay only a few hours before her death - I had to climb through the window - she was hardly able to speak any more. She asked me in a whisper: "Is this really the way to heaven?" I said "Yes," deeply moved, and she shone with happiness and replied: "Thank you." I looked into her face, now quiet and peaceful, but marked by the horrible traces of vice. Sobbing I left the death cell.
I also want to tell you about the fiery Anita. All her life she had lived in fire, earthly fires, that had consumed her heart. It was through the torture in the concentration camp that God's grace had led her to meditation, and shown her the path of heavenly love. One morning she told me with great excitement of a dream which I will try to repeat here literally: "Last night an angel spoke to me. I saw a fire, a very big one. There were many paths through it and there were illuminated signboards To Eternal Love. I jumped into the fire and perished in it." This dream symbolises Anita's life. I thought of it for many weeks, especially when she was deported with a "sick transport," most likely to another concentration camp to be gassed. She had been very unruly and often proved a nuisance to the whole block. Now, purified in the divine fire of God's love, she had become quiet and calm through God's mercy, wrapt in meditation, ready for the last journey. I had to call her at 2 o'clock in the morning for the transport. Surely this meant death, and I was hardly able to speak. It was only now that she realised what was in store for her. She took my hands and said simply: "Don't cry, I am so ready to die now." Yes, sun, moon and stars shone even in Ravensbrueck. But the miracle of God's love came from the ashes of these Magdalenes, stronger and brighter than the lights in the sky.
Finally a few words about poor Else. She had no home in this world, and no friend who cared for her. She never received greetings from home. She had already spent 8 years in the concentration camp. Now she lay ill with an incurable disease in her leg. She would never be able to walk again. I still see her before me lying on her bunk, one leg always lying on top of the other. Prolonged standing - that was one of the penalties here - and marching without shoes or stockings had been fatal for her sick feet. All her joints were badly swollen. In addition she had a serious heart disease. Every evening when the other prisoners were asleep, I went to her stealthily. She had plenty of time, but I had to count the minutes, as the other patients called out for me too. But she was so pleased if I only sat on her bunk for a few minutes. "Tell me about your Christ," she said. "Yesterday you were telling me about his being scourged." So I continued about the crowning with thorns and the way of the cross, his crucifixion and ignominious death. I had to repeat the words of the dying redeemer to the robber on the cross. Then it happened for the first time that I saw tears in her eyes. She too found the way to Christ, seeking and fighting. From now on she bore her cross, her terrible pains, more patiently than anyone. Whenever I renewed her compresses during the day, we would whisper short prayers together. When I was transferred from Block 11, she cried and drew me down to her. I had fight back my tears.
Altogether it was hard for me to leave my prostitutes. I did not like to hand them over to somebody else, because I had tried daily afresh to understand them and help them. I was happy that as God's tool I was permitted to see these people who had been so far away from God, gradually grow into his merciful love. To have fought and suffered together to achieve this is the strongest link in the world.
It was deeply moving when in the depths of the night we would offer up our Te Deum to heaven, in this block of the prostitutes and outcasts. On feast days we would sing at 4 o'clock, before the camp siren broke cruelly into the stillness of the new morning. "Great God we praise thee." We sang not only the first verse, but the second and third too, which I had taught them. In this pitiless misery and horror, we outlaws praised the Lord in his omnipotence and bounty, strong in faith and without faltering. I would not have believed before that people of this kind in their humiliating situation would have been able to perform such an heroic deed. Yes, we joined in the universal Hosannah. Amidst all the horrors of the concentration camp, where all singing, praying and making of the sign of the cross was strictly prohibited.
I am sure that the few prisoners of whom I have told passed straight into God's arms when they died. They would have liked to make a confession to a priest, but this was impossible, as no priest was ever permitted to enter our camp. Surely they, who never had a real home on this earth or real love, entered into their heavenly home. So much good will and such deep contrition will surely have been enough to let these poor erring outcasts find their home in heaven.
Those who had completely despaired were quite beyond consolation. They did not believe in anything any more. They had lost faith in God, fatherland, humanity and home. And many in Block 11 were like that. Their inner state must have been quite heart rending. Man cannot live without hope, especially in such a hell. Thus these pitiable women and girlsoften enough went mad and attempted suicide.
Here everybody bore a heavy cross. The great difference was that some carried it with Christ and others without him. You must possess boundless faith if you do not want to be submerged in despair and bitterness, and sink from one pit to another deeper still. But without this faith something happens to the souls of these hapless wretches which is more cruel more harrowing than all physical maltreatment and material privation.
I can gratefully say that behind barred windows and behind the walls of the camp I met God's limitless grace hourly. These years of imprisonment have for me grown full of life and blessing. For my future life they hold a profound meaning. I hope that for me, and for many others like me, they will be a source of strength for the future. "One abyss calls to the other." The abyss of fiendish wickedness opened up the infinite depths of divine love and mercy.

Taken from Christ In Dachau, published in 1952 by the Newman Bookshop, Oxford, England.

heelers interview with irish prime minister enda kenny

2011-12-21T22:54:00.000Z

I met Enda Kenny a few years ago.
I was put sitting beside him at a dinner party in Athy by a Fine Gael Councillor named Richard Daily Press Release.
I took the opportunity to lobby Enda Kenny briefly.
I told him that a serial killer called Larry Murphy was about to be relased from an Irish jail.
I informed him that Larry Murphy and his friends had kidnapped, tortured, violated and murdered Deirdre Jacob, Jo Jo Dollard, Annie McCarrick and others.
I suggested that Larry Murphy and his friends were members of an Irish devil worship ring which kills for sport.
I reminded him that Larry Murphy was currently sitting in jail letting the clock run down on the paltry ten year sentence a certain Judge Liberal had given him for one of his attempted torturing's, rapes, violations and murders which had been interrupted before he got to the murder part.
I pointed out that Larry Murphy had refused to discuss what he and his friends did to Deirdre Jacob, Jo Jo Dollard, Annie McCarrick and others.
I reiterated the fact that Larry Murphy had refused to accept any of what Liberal Judges and Social Workers call treatment, to address his predilection for kidnapping, torturing, violating and murdering innocent women who have never done any harm to him, or indeed to anyone, in their lives.
Enda Kenny listened to me through it all.
"James," he said finally, "we can do something about this."
Since that conversation Enda Kenny has been elected Prime Minister of the Republic of Ireland.
Larry Murphy, having been set free by the Irish Courts, now stalks the land.
He will pick his next victims at leisure.

sesame heelers

2011-12-21T22:26:00.001Z

Kermit the frog is hosting Sesame Street's popular guessing game.
The viewer has to pick the odd one out.
The television screen is divided in four.
In the top left compartment you see Judge Brian Curtin sitting smiling in front of a computer screen.
Judge Brian Curtin is an Irish Judge who was caught by Interpol paying to see children being raped on the internet.
Corrupt Irish Police Officers deliberately enacted a search warrant a day later than the warrant was dated in order to help him beat the rap.
Corrupt Irish Judges played along and let Judge Brian Curtin away scot free.
There has been no follow up media coverage of Judge Brian Curtin's escape from justice.
Hilarious no.
In the top right compartment we see an Irish Times journalist who was recently caught having sex with children in Dublin.
The Irish Times journalist groomed his victims for sex by befriending them through his voluntary work at a Dublin sports club.
As we meet him on Sesame Street, the Irish Times journalist is sitting in a bed playing dead.
The Police and Courts have taken no action against the Irish Times journalist, claiming that every time they go to speak to him he attempts suicide.
There have been at least two claimed suicide attempts so far.
Of course the case against the Irish Times child rapist has been abandoned by the Police, the Courts, and the Media.
Even the football club where he groomed his victims remains unidentified.
There has been no follow up Media coverage of this Irish Times child rapist's continuing evasion of justice.
I kid you not.
In the bottom left hand corner of the Sesame Street television screen, we see Lorcan Bale crucifying a child.
As a 16 year old teenager in 1973 Lorcan Bale slaughtered a young child called John Horgan as part of a Satanic ritual which Lorcan Bale carried out in the attic of the Bale family home.
The Bale family were never detained by the Police.
The Bale family were never exposed to the Irish Public.
The Bale family were permitted to move to a new house without their neighbours being informed of the family history.
Lorcan Bale never faced charges of murder in Open Court.
After a year and a half in minimum security detention, Lorcan Bale was facilitated with a new identity and helped start a new life in England.
Our law enforcement professionals and our Judiciary and our politicians turned him loose in Britain.
Nice isn't it.
Let the Brits take their chances with our teenage devil worshipping child murderers.
I don't consent to this anyway.
The rest of you can make up your minds.
Irish newspapers never reported the murder.
They simply looked the other way.
The cover up was rancid and foul.
A single mendacious reference to the case occurred in the Irish Independent.
Lorcan Bale's crucifixion of little John Horgan in a satanic ritual in the Bale family home was reported in the Irish Independent as follows: "John Horgan is believed to have died in an accident."
For thirty eight years Lorcan Bale's murder of John Horgan has never so much as been mentioned on RTE television.
It is interesting to note that Cathal Goan, former Director General at RTE, was at one stage a colleague of Lorcan Bale's father in the Irish Civil Service.
The inquest into Lorcan Bale's murder of John Horgan was continually adjourned over the past three decades.
Yes.
The Judges, the Courts, the Police, the Media, and the Political elites of Ireland colluded for nearly forty years to prevent the Irish people knowing that Lorcan Bale murdered a little boy called John Horgan in a satanic ritual in the Bale family home in Dublin in 1973.
There has never been a cover up like this in the history of our nation.
Now consider this.
In the bottom right of your TV screen, you see a character called Father D.
Father D is a priest of the Catholic Church.
Father D faced charges in an Irish Court early this Summer, asserting that twenty years ago he attempted to kiss a teenage girl.
That is the sum total of the charges Father D faced.
The girl may have been fifteen or she may have been nineteen.
She was unwilling to state what age she was when she claims the priest tried to kiss her.
She stated that the priest lunged at her.
She said she had not been afraid.
She said she had hit him and told him to f--- off.
She said she had then left the room and had never seen him again.
For this she brought Father D to court twenty years later.
For a full week this Summer, Father D's name and photograph was in every newspaper in Ireland.
Personally I thought he did it.
I thought the press coverage was cruel on his family, and unfair to him, but I still didn't write anything in his favour in my humble little left wing blog.
At the end of a week during which the newspapers of Ireland hyped to the stratosphere the almost cosmically slight accusation against Father D, at the end of a week during which he was exposed to public opprobrium for the crime of being accused of trying to kiss a teenage girl, at the end of that week I say, the Judge threw out the case.
It had emerged in court that the girl, now a woman in her forties, had made approaches to Father D, seeking to blackmail him.
She was looking for cash.
Now.
Kermit the Frog sings.
Kermit sings as follows.
"Three of these guys are into paedophilia.
Three of these guys are kind of insane.
One of these guys was excoriated by the media.
Can you guess his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."

the most shocking thing about the latest cloyne report release

2011-12-21T21:56:00.002Z

The most shocking thing about the latest extracts from the Cloyne Report, released by our government in an attempt to malign the Catholic Church at Christmas, was the fact that the anti Catholic Irish Independent, the most anti Catholic newspaper group in Europe, didn't even feature the rehashed tissue of lies on its cover.
This is a first, gentle readers.
In thirty years of slandering the Faith of our Fathers, Independent Newspapers has never failed to run such a story on its covers.
Can it be that they've started to notice the ongoing consequences of their bigotry?
Could they really be aware that their negligible readership collapses even further every time they smear our ancient, beautiful and true religion?
I've always sought to point out that these bigots are not sensitive to public perceptions.
They have sought the destruction of the Church even as their net indebtedness passed the two billion dollar mark.
We are nothing to them.
They regard us as farm animals to be led into the broad sunlit uplands of feudal service to Tony O'Reilly's moth eaten family.
Yes folks, Independent Newspapers has traded without readers for thirty years.
Their circulation figures and their much less publicised sales figures are equally false.
Independent Newspapers was enabled to continue its war against the Catholic Church for the last three decades without readers only through the most egregious accountancy tricks, oh and through the largesse of our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail and Fine Gael governments giving them limitless sums of tax payers' money for utterly unnecessary Health Board advertising, and of course through the lavish generosity of idiot banks advancing two billion dollars for Independent Newspapers' decrepit faux commercial adventurism in the sure hope that when the idiot banks inevitably collapsed because Independent Newspapers and their ilk will never repay their ridiculous debts, our aforementioned corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail and Fine Gael governments will mortgage the nation and its future, to bail out those self same banks and to keep Tony O'Reilly and his latest trophy wife and their horrendous brood, in BMWs.
F--k.
That's two billion in losses that we know about by the way.
The real figure will be much much higher.
But I digress.
The real news is this.
Today the Irish government released a new trumped up Report designed to malign the Catholic Church at Christmas for its handling of old sex abuse cases.
And the Irish Independent hid it on page nine.
They're scared.
The little b-st--ds are frightened.
At last.

results of the heelers enquiry into the cloyne report

2011-12-20T18:42:00.003Z

1. The Cloyne Report, compiled by Judge Yvonne Murphy and unnamed associates in the Irish Courts Service, purports to be an investigation of the Catholic Church's handling of sex abuse cases in a particular region of Ireland. The report is more correctly understood as a show trial conducted by secret committee with Judge Yvonne Murphy as its figurehead, and no representation or cross examination permitted on behalf of those Judge Yvonne Murphy and her friends are seeking to ruin.

2. Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report focusses on the Church's handling of unproven allegations against 19 priests dating from 1996 to 2009. Only one of these priests has ever been convicted of any crime. Judge Yvonne Murphy crassly seeks to blame the Church for the failure of the Police, the State, the Judiciary and the Courts to secure prosecutions over the other, often tenuous, allegations against the remaining 18. In a spirit of malicious and injudicious vindictiveness she refuses to consider the possibility that any allegation against any Catholic priest could be false. She also refuses to consider the preponderant responsibility of the Police, the State and the Judiciary to secure convictions when such allegations emerge. She utterly fails to extend her scrutiny over those who make such allegations but never trouble themselves to go the Police. In every instance, she concludes that any appearance of inaction over a sex abuse allegation against a priest must be blamed on the Church rather than on traditional law enforcement agencies. This reasoning on the part of Judge Yvonne Murphy is calculatedly malicious.

3. The real targets of Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report are not the 18 priests against whom sex abuse allegations have been made in the Cloyne diocese. The real targets are ordinary Bishops and priests against whom those wishing to destroy the Church have formerly laboured in vain to contrive criminality. Judge Yvonne Murphy uses and abuses her powers as compiler of this Report to devise guilt for any Bishop or priestly colleague of these 18 priests who knew of the allegations against them and did not go straight to the police. She broadens the whole notion of guilt regarding sex abuse so that anyone in the land whom she or her friends wished to destroy, could be labelled a concealer of child abuse. Any of us would be guilty under this standard of judgement. But of course Yvonne Murphy and her friends only wish to destroy those of us who dare to proclaim the truth of the Catholic faith. This casually invidious and utterly unjust ascription of wrongdoing to Bishops and priests who may or may not have known of unproven allegations against the 18, is the key methodology used by Judge Yvonne Murphy in order to criminalise a generation of priests and Bishops out of existence. With godlike mania, she has invented criminality for all of them, and with demonic certitude, she has pronounced them all guilty.

4. I say it again. The real targets of Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report are the vast majority of noble, courageous, holy, honorable and self sacrificing priests and Bishops, the ones who minister tirelessly at our births, our marriages, our funerals, and our prayer services, and against whom no genuine sex abuse allegation has ever exist. Judge Yvonne Murphy has invented a new definition of sex abuse in order to net them. Judge Yvonne Murphy now insists sex abuse has been committed by any person not handling a report of sex abuse the way she arbitrarily and retrospectively claims reports of sex abuse should have been handled. She constructs this notion only so that it may be applied to the Catholic Church. As I've said before, if it was applied to the rest of us, the whole country would be in jail. As would Judge Yvonne Murphy and her friends. Certainly it would mean jail for life for those Judges who refused to convict Judge Brian Curtin when he was caught paying to see children raped on the internet. I would assert gentle readers, that Judge Brian Curtin's crimes alone make negligible anything that is alleged against any priest in the Cloyne Report. Judge Yvonne Murphy has broadened the conception and connotion of guilt vis a vis sex abuse so that literally anyone could be arrested. But she and her friends are only hunting Catholic priests and Bishops. So the rest of us are safe as long as we don't go having Christian conversions. This is the nature of tyranny. It is arbitrary and it is unjust and it is merciless. I tell you she is doing this in order to eviscerate the Catholic Church of its best and brightest. She is doing this in order to feed the pure fiction that sex abuse cases within the Church exceed the level of those outside it. There is no other reason for what she and her friends in the Judiciary and government, are doing.

5. The explicit purpose of Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report is to manufacture guilt for the innocent.

6. Those impugned in the report are given no right to refute the largely nefarious allegations against them.

7. Those impugned in the report have been given no right to cross examine their largely anonymous accusers.

8. Those impugned in the report have been given no right of appeal against the tendentious and injudicious conclusions of Judge Yvonne Murphy.

9. This report has been contrived to get a specific result, ie to ascribe arbitrary criminality to innocent Catholic priests and Bishops, as part of an ongoing anti Catholic kulturkampf in Ireland.

10. Those impugned in the report have not been afforded expert legal representation in order to answer the wrongdoing being contrived against them.

11. The Cloyne report was compiled by Judge Yvonne Murphy, a member of the liberal atheistic pseudo establishment, the same establishment which has delivered the present day society of violent lawlessness to Ireland, and all but plunged us into a new dark ages. It is about as fair a report as I might write were I permitted to stand in judgement on Yvonne Murphy and her fellow conspirators in the judiciary.

12. Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne report takes as its starting point the dysfunctional and opprobrious notion that the Church can be held accountable for failures by the police, the State, and the Judiciary to secure convictions against members of the Church accused of child abuse.

13. Judge Yvonne Murphy further assumes that there can be no responsibility for supposed victims and their relatives who never even troubled to complain to the Police about the supposedl abuse they claimed to have suffered.

14. Judge Yvonne Murphy invents a new standard for the Church. A standard not to be applied to any other institution in Ireland. That is to say she deems the Church guilty of a criminal act if a Bishop to whom an abuse allegation has been made does not himself engage in law enforcement activities. She ignores the responsibility of supposed victims and their advocates to take their own cases to the Police. And she ignores the reality that in many cases victims demand confidentiality from Bishops in whom they confide.

15. Judge Yvonne Murphy takes every allegation against the Church as proven. She creates an assumption of guilt for priests accused of sex abuse. She accords such priests no right to speak for themselves. Her guiding principle is that every allegation is true. Her notion of law is twisted and malign.

16. Judge Yvonne Murphy accords credibility to the most tenuous claims. One person posing as a victim claimed in total that on a single occasion a priest had tried to kiss her. She refused to say what age she was at the time. She admitted she was a teenager. She may have been 19 or 15. She claimed she had not been in fear of the priest. She claimed had told him to f--- off, that she had left the room and that she had never seen him again. Judge Yvonne Murphy considered this claim a genuine example of child abuse. The case ended up in court and this priests name and photograph was published every day for a week in every newspaper in Ireland. At the end of the week a Judge threw out the case, not because of the sheer ridiculous tenuous invidiousness of it, but because before taking her case, the woman had earlier tried to blackmail the priest, approaching him through a third party and demanding money.

17. Judge Yvonne Murphy's report accords credibility as an abuse victim to an adult woman who claimed: "A priest befriended me and I felt so manipulated by him." That's the sum total of what Judge Yvonne Murphy is alleging to be abuse in this case.

18. Claimed sex abuse incidents against a total of 19 priests are investigated in Judge Yvonne Muphy's Cloyne report. Only one of these cases has resulted in a conviction. Some of the cases are clearly manufactured and false. In every case, we encounter the inaction of the Police, the State and the Judiciary, all of whom have the primary role in law enforcement. The inaction, incompetence and arrant corruption of the Police, the State and the Judiciary, is being falsely blamed on the Church.

19. Minister for Justice Alan Shatter has drip fed Yvonne Murphy's contrived and mendacious Cloyne Report into the public domain. He has released it in stages over the past few months. He has done so in order to further contrive as much damage as possible in the public mind for the Catholic Church.

20. Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report is part of an ongoing strategy emanating from shadowy figures hiding within the upper echelons of Irish society and styling themselves atheistic humanists, who wish to destroy the Christian faith in this country.

21. Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report is trumped up, malign, malicious, mendacious, and unjust.

22. Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report is itself a criminal assault upon the person and reputation of the former Bishop of Cloyne Doctor Joseph Magee whom she wishes to destroy for the crime of being a Secretary to Three Popes. His is the scalp du jour for the liberal atheists currently seeking to hijack Ireland.

23.Judge Yvonne Murphy's Cloyne Report is a blatently manipulative attempt to criminalise the Catholic faith.

the cremation of bishop magee

2011-12-20T04:04:00.005Z

(Lines written after liberal atheistic scoundrels in the Judiciary and media with the collaboration of their infiltrator Archbishop Diarmuid Martin, contrived to force the resignation of Bishop Joseph Magee as part of their ongoing persecution of the Catholic Church and their attempts to enslave Ireland to the pleasure ethic.)

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

There are strange things done

Neath the Dublin sun

By the liberals who moil for souls

They prance and they preen

On Stephens Green

And shove copies of the Irish Times up each others' holes

***

Oh the Dublin lights

Have seen queer sights

But the strangest they ever did see

Was that night when the bores

Of Dublin Four

Cremated Bishop Magee

***

For this is the law of the liberal

That only the strong shall thrive

And the only god ye shall worship

Is Tony O'Reilly's latest trophy wife

And the only morality ye shall espouse

Is twisted Maoist jive

Erupting from the mouth of Vincent Brown

And his every other orifize

***

A group of Sunday Independent journos

Were whooping it up

In the Malamute Saloon

Paedophile Ian O'Doherty

Was playing a rag time tune

He plinked and he plonked

On the old honky tonk

And his melody was dire and astray

Like a brain dead moron

He just kept goin

My God how that man could play

***

Bishop Magee wandered into town

And went to the local saloon

And spoke in truth the word of God

Amid that passle of liberal goons

He'd spent a lifetime doing good

But a lifetime don't matter here

For the law of the liberal is the law of the jibe

The inuendo the lie and the sneer

***

Over by the window

A clype from the Indo

Was writing his weekly colyoom

Against Bishops and Priests

And all religious feasts

He was looking to stage a pogroom

***

And over by the door

An Irish Times whore

The lady known as Geradine Kennedy

She looked with an eye

As big as a pie

On the Bishop she wished to defenestrate.

***

Back of the bar

In a solo game

Sat dangerous Archbishop Diarmuid Martin

Whose every expectoration

Brought wild adulation

From the pianist, the clype and the whore

And watching his luck

Was his light of love

The liberal known as John Cooney

***

And as one they all shouted

As one they all chanted

That Bishop Magee must go

And they roared like a throng of Nazis

And they struck him

A coward's blow

And they cheered for the shame they had wrought on the world

And they jeered like a pack of hounds

And they roared for the death of a man who was good

Whose reputation they stomped in the ground

***

Archbishop Diarmuid Martin bought drinks for the house

And O'Doherty continued to play

And John Cooney lingered by the patio

And watched as the mob drank at bay

And Geraldine Kennedy paid herself an annual salary

A little above four hundred grand

And Tony O'Reilly ordered up another trophy wife

One consummately hoorishly bland

And the Irish Times lost a hundred million last year alone

And Independent Newspapers borrowed two billion

And Yvonne Murphy and the liberal Judges

Paid themselves something around a gazillion

Though the country was broke

The liberals betoke

That they ain't never gonna go short

While we're all losin

They're drinkin and boozin

And murdering Bishops for sport

***

Yes there's strange things done

Neath the Dublin sun

By the liberals with the gaping maw

They've hoored away

Our patrimony

But will they like sharia law?

We Enter Dachau

2011-12-20T03:04:00.001Z

When we were standing in rows, waiting to be entered on the camp register, one of the SS guards came up and shouted: "Are there any priests here?" In our draft there were murderers and thieves. These he left, and called out the priests, abusing them savagely, spitefully, and striking them too when he chose. But it was Our Lord whom he wished to abuse, the cornerstone which the architects of the Reich had rejected. And yet, they could not circumvent Him! And in blaspheming Him again, whom they had so often proclaimed dead, they reaffirmed that He lived still - lived and showed Himself in His priests.

(By Albert Reisterer. From the collection Christ In Dachau, published by the Newman Bookshop, Oxford, 1952.)

****

Memo to The Daily Mail: Do you see yourselves at all in the behaviour of the Nazis? I am well aware that uniquely among newspapers in the British Isles, the Daily Mail actually supported Hitler at one stage. But I am not referring to that fact. I am referring to your present day attempts to destroy the Bishop of Cloyne. I am suggesting that your ongoing manipulations of the news are tantamount to what the Nazis were doing at Dachau.

*****
(The above was first published in December of 2008. Hence the reference to the former Bishop of Cloyne Joseph Magee who was the media target du jour that Christmas. It was published again in 2009 when Irish media scoundrels were pursuing a different Bishop. This year Independent Newspapers, RTE and the Irish Times have renewed their attempts to vilify Bishop Magee, who is now in retirement. Their intent is as crass, worong minded, dishonorable and mendacious as it ever was.)

sermon

2011-12-19T18:37:00.000Z

The Padre in Clarendon Street Church spoke quietly from the pulpit.
He remembered working as a missionary in Nigeria.
He recalled meeting a young African who had never seen the sea.
He told us how he had driven that African to the sea shore.
The waves were pounding against the rocks.
It was a splendidly stormy scene.
And the young African got out of the car and began jumping up and down.
"What is it?" said the priest.
"Only God could make this," cried the African joyfully.

rum ironies

2011-12-19T17:55:00.002Z

Today the Irish Times features copious coverage of the death of the former President of Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel.
Mr Havel was a hero of the Czechoslovakian defiance of the attempt by Russian Communists to take over the world during the last century.
As news came through that he had died yesterday, word also broke of the death of another famous ruler of another country which the Communists had more success in targeting for enslavement.
Kim Jung Il, President of North Korea, had died of a heart attack.
Kim Jung Il and his family have run North Korea as a province of Communist China for sixty years.
Be in no doubt.
The people of North Korea are in Communist hell.
Which is where the liberal atheistic pseudo elites of the Free World have consigned them.
The only sense that North Koreans are not in hell, is in the sense that God has not abandoned them.
But the rest of us have.
Now get this.
At the same time as Vaclav Havel was, by the grace of God, defying the atheistic Marxists of Russia and China, in leading his country to freedom, Kim Jong Il was collaborating with the atheistic Marxists of Russia and China in inflicting the most hideous Communist enslavement in human history upon the people of North Korea.
It continues to this day.
Kim Jong Il and his father before him, and his son after him, have ensured that North Koreans live in a hellish miasma of despair that would terrify the damned denizens of Dante's inferno.
Yes.
Today the Irish Times reserves pages for its eulogies of Vaclav Havel.
A man they despised during the Cold War.
And for fifty years during the Cold War, the Irish Times and its reporter from Russia Mr Seamus Martin, a full brother no less of Archbishop Diarmuid whom I have called a Soviet era infiltrator of the Catholic Church, for fifty years I say, Seamus Martin and the Irish Times cheered for the Soviet takeover of Mr Havel's country and the world.
The Irish Times did this through fifty years of infantile warnings about the purely imaginary dangers of American imperialism, through fifty years of malign propaganda against the the noble and just State of Israel, and through fifty years of lying about and deliberately concealing the true evil that was the Soviet Union and Communist China.
And today they eulogise Mr Havel as though they had been his pals all along.
As though they had not sought his death and evisceration through their trumpeting of the joys of Sovietism.
As though the Irish Times itself was not directly implicated in the Russian Communist attempt to subvert humanity.
As though the Irish Times itself was not run from at least the 1970's as an espionage disinformation operation, accountable only to Moscow Centre of the Kah Tset Beh.
Well I'm just saying is all.
But I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
As though, but that's enough as though's.
What a grotesque insult to the memory of Vaclav Havel to be eulogised on his death in the Irish Times.
Of course the insult is also to our own intelligence.
The Irish Times is gambling that Irish citizens will have short memories.
Their insult to us and to Mr Havel today is not complete however.
For the Irish Times which for fifty years championed and apologised for countries run by Russian Communist and Chinese Communist monstrosities all over the world, can today find no space at all to mention the passing of President Kim Jong Il of North Korea.
No eulogy.
No belated condemnation for this cruel deluded atheistic Marxist Chinese Communist proxy.
Nothing at all for this former hero of the Irish Times.
The irony... is screaming.

strange visitors

2011-12-19T17:44:00.000Z

come with me
to the darkest most beautiful night
that the world has ever seen
and ever might
we can sit on the straw
we'll get warm from it
and watch the stillness draw
a cloak of peace
through a time of war
lambs are calling in the fields
that this night is forever
and forever yields
to this night
we are there
caught in the warmth
from things that are old
and things that are rare
look look my friend
gold
frankinsense
and myrrh

the irish times love affair with child abuse

2011-12-18T22:24:00.001Z

SEX AND THE SINGLE SODOMITE
***

The Irish Times ran an article last week naming a missionary priest in Chile against whom allegations of child sexual abuse had been levelled.
The article claimed the priest had sexually abused a 16 year old boy.
The article further claimed that the priest had sexually abused a 23 year old man, himself a relative of the first victim, who along with the first victim was seeking reparations.
Of course, by the Irish Times own code of morality, sex between any individual and a 23 year old man, should be the business of the two people concerned, and not a subject for discussion in the Irish Times.
Ah yes.
Having spent years telling us that same sex relationships were nobody's business, the Irish Times has devised a new standard for same sex relationships involving a Catholic priest, ie that they are everybody's business and should be publicised in a national newspaper.
In any case, from my cursory reading of the available evidence, it looks like the priest did indeed engage in the behaviour that is alleged.
The behaviour with the 16 year old, if it wasn't entrapment, would appear to be criminal activity.
I'm not sure it warrants his name being publicised all over the nation, and his family being shamed in the manner that the Irish Times has chosen to do prior to any legal trial.
I'm not sure of that.
But from his own words, it looks like he did it.
I mention entrapment because the 23 year old supposed sexual partner of the priest was a close relative of the 16 year old.
The relationship with the 23 year is none of any of our business.
Not mine.
Nor the Irish Times.
Hmmm.
You know folks, the double standard at the Irish Times is quite extraordinary.
The Irish Times named this priest in a national newspaper on the strength of a single allegation of criminal behaviour against him.
Yet the Irish Times has chosen for the past six months to ignore a most invidious and ongoing scandal involving one of its own feature writers.
This Irish Times feature writer has been found having sex with teenage girl children in Dublin.
At least two victims have emerged.
The Irish Times feature writer groomed the children for sex by befriending them through his voluntary work as a sports coach at a Gaelic football club in the city.
The failure by the Irish Times and other newspapers to report on this case frankly, means additional victims may not come forward.
Nor has the Irish Times reported on the continuing inaction of the corrupt Irish Police Force with regard to the allegations against the child abusing Irish Times journalist.
The Police claim that on each occasion when this story has been publicised in any way, the child abusing Irish Times journalist has attempted suicide.
The last public Police statements on the matter, some months ago, suggested that the Irish Times journalist was on the verge of death.
So in the interim, the Police have done nothing.
The story has been let die.
And the child abusing Irish Times journalist is to all intents and purposes very much alive.
Now here's the rub.
Personally, I don't think the Irish Times child abuser should be named and shamed with continuous press coverage such as has been heaped on the tiny minority of Catholic priests accused of similar and lesser crimes.
The Irish Times child abuser has a wife and child.
The children he raped, may think they are in love with him and may somehow hold themselves responsible for his repeated staged suicide attempts.
He has a mother and father and other relatives.
For all these reasons I don't think he should be named or persecuted with a public show trial.
I don't want him to kill himself.
Though he should certainly be investigated and held accountable before the law.
Suicide attempts or no suicide attempts.
He should face justice.
Now consider the media treatment of the tiny minority of Catholic priests guilty of child abuse, many of whom committed far lesser crimes than the Irish Times child abuser, and yet who have been named time and time again in the pages of the Irish Times and other national newspapers as soon as the merest allegations emerge, while the Irish Times in house child rapist who without a shadow of doubt was raping young teenagers in Dublin, (oh far younger than 16 years of age) still goes unremarked, unnamed, uninvestigated and unpunished.
The double standard is grotesque.
Nearly as grotesque as the deliberate concealment of child abuse, something the Irish Times and other Irish national newspapers have been guilty of with gay abandon.
But ah.
That's another story.

heelers origin of species

2011-12-18T21:57:00.001Z

Well folks.
I used to think Italians were the most beautiful people God made.
That opinion now needs to be revised.
Clearly God had just got his hand in making Italians, when he decided he owed it to himself (and the universe) to start making Koreans.

enquiring minds

2011-12-17T18:48:00.001Z

In the wake of the publication of yet another contrived and manipulative pseudo investigative report purporting to consider the Catholic Church's handling of old sex abuse cases, it is interesting to consider the sort of enquiries the Irish government does not initiate and has no intention of initiating. The latest attack upon the Church, masquerading as a public enquiry, was timed neatly to distract the citizenry's attention from the egregious guilt of the broadcaster RTE whose employees had just been caught red handed trying to ruin Father Kevin Reynolds and his Church by disseminating false accusations implicating Father Reynolds in the rape of a little girl and further accusing him of fathering children with that little girl. The timing of the release of the new enquiries into the Catholic Church was also sweet for those who contrive such things, coming so close as it did to Christmas. Subtle aren't they? The new enquiry was contrived by a group of liberal leftists who call themselves The National Committee For Safeguarding Children in the Catholic Church. Their unctious and presumptious title says it all. By using a title like this for their committee, these scruff create an assumption of guilt before they contrive any publication or report. I don't consent to this, whether they have been appointed by Bishops or not. By the by, RTE had refused to allow Father Reynolds to take a paternity test prior to broadcasting RTE's attempt to ruin him. I kid you not. At time of writing there are no less than three fake enquiries underway into RTE's attempt to destroy this priest and his church. None of these are genuine enquires. All three are being conducted by RTE insiders. So they're not really enquiries in the sense that they might hold anyone to account for RTE's attempt to destroy Father Reynolds. As per usual, the general public has been required to finance the libel fees which RTE incurred in trying to destroy Father Reynolds. Journalist Aoife Kavanagh who was responsible for contriving and publicising the false accusations which were intended to destroy Father Reynolds and his Church, will not pay a red cent. Enquiries indeed. I say it again. There will be no genuine enquiry into RTE's attempt to murder Father Kevin Reynolds. There will be no enquiry into the legislative financing of RTE which compels Irish Catholics to finance a television station that is overtly attempting to destroy their Church while preventing those Catholics from setting up television stations of their own to compete with it. There will be no enquiry into the decades long manipulation of popular discourse in Ireland by rebranded communists styling themselves atheistic humanists who have subsumed RTE to themselves. There will be no enquiry into RTE's forty year propaganda campaign against the Christian faith in Ireland. There will be no enquiry into RTE's forty year alliance with Independent Newspapers and the Irish Times in seeking to eliminate the Catholic Church from the Republic of Ireland.

heelers conquers the masons

2011-12-17T02:20:00.007Z

It was the dulcet Summer of 1997.
The noble Heelers had moved to the Irish country town of Mullingar.
The people of the town were slightly in awe of me.
To them, I was the quintessential city slicker arriving to take up a deejay's job at Midlands Radio Three.
That old gag.
Michael J Fox played me in the film version.
The show I presented was a mix of current events and music.
It went out every evening at six o'clock.
One afternoon, Noel O'Farrell the station chief stuck his head around the door of my studio.
"Have you room for another guest on your show tonight?" quoth he.
I said yes.
In fact there was room for any number of guests because as usual with four hours to air time, I had no one lined up.
"It's Doctor Fortescue," said Noel. "He's promoting a Free Masons choir from Wales. They'll be performing in the town at Christmas."
"Oh," said I.
My face was a study.
The boss left.
I sat there quietly.
A Free Mason coming on my show.
And he thinks he's going to be talking about music.
Ha, ha, ha.
That evening Doctor Fortescue arrived in the studio, grey haired, dapper, professional, confident and urbane.
A typical Anglo Irish gentleman.
I showed him around and led him to the studio chair where he'd be sitting for the programme.
I told him something of what I'd planned.
"We'll talk," sez I, "and in between times I'll play songs by the choir you're promoting."
"Excellent," proclaimed Doctor Fortescue warmly.
He had a pleasant smile which didn't quite reach his eyes.
His voice was measured and avuncular.
I wondered to myself what he'd make of the interview.
Would he think I was mad?
My show was a half hour current events programme.
It began with a blast of diddly diddly music.
As the introductory music ended, I launched into a list of news items.
Then it was straight to the special guest.
I introduced Doctor Fortescue and told the listeners that he was promoting a forthcoming visit by a Welsh male voice Free Masonic choir.
Doctor Fortescue talked a little bit about the tradition of singing in Wales.
I let him talk.
Then.
I said.
"There has been a whiff of scandal around the Free Masons at times."
Doctor Fortescue looked up.
There was mild surprise writ large on his face.
It didn't quite reach his eyes.
I hastened to explain.
"Some people believe Free Masons are part of a secret society."
Doctor Fortescue chuckled.
"Oh come now," he murmured gently. "We're not that secret. We welcome people to be a part of our organisation. We play a leading role in our communities and are very active in charitable and cultural activities. I hardly think a secret organisation would be promoting choir singing at Christmas."
I nodded.
"So no truth in the suggestion that free masons in the police and the judiciary act corruptly to protect free masons who have broken the law?" wondered I.
Doctor Fortescue didn't hesitate.
"None at all," he replied.
"So no truth in the suggestion by certain senior police officers in Britain that it's impossible to advance in the police force without being a Free Mason?" pressed I.
I heard his intake of breath.
Now he had begun to suspect he was in an ambush.
"These sort of allegations have been around for a long time," he answered cautiously. "There are many thousands of free masons. We are an open organisation. Any organisation with thousands of members may occasionally attract a few bad apples."
"So you can confirm for me that Free Masonry itself is not a conspiracy against democracy, or against Christianity, or simply against everyone who isn't a Free Mason."
"Yes James, I can confirm that."
It was time to play some music.
I introduced the choir and its song.
The music played.
While the song was playing we could have talked. The mikes were no longer broadcasting.
Normally people do talk in these circumstances.
We sat in the studio in silence.
No enmity.
Measured silence.
Assessing each other.
Some part of him was still hoping I was just a country boy with no real knowledge of the dark forces I faced.
The music finished.
"My guest today is Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I reminded the listeners brightly. "He's promoting the visit of the Aberspoon Male Voice Welsh Free Masonic Choir who will be in town over the Christmas period. Doctor Fortescue we've been talking a little about the Free Masons. Can you tell what happened with the P2 scandal in Italy?"
Doctor Fortescue didn't turn a hair.
He allowed himself the ghost of a sigh.
One wary look and then he focussed on his microphone.
His voice was perfectly modulated when he spoke.
"Ah yes," he said. "That was a scandal."
"Mmmm. The Free Masons in Italy were working for Soviet Russia weren't they?"
"I have to tell you James. As soon the international body of Free Masons found out about the P2 we took immediate action to disbar them."
"But it's true that the P2 Free Masonic Lodge in Italy was attempting to subvert Italian democracy," I pressed.
"We expelled the P2 Lodge as soon as we became aware of its activities," shot back Doctor Fortescue.
"Were they trying to subvert Italian democracy for the Russians or for Free Masonry itself?" I challenged.
The interviewee sat back in his chair.
"The P2 was corrupt," he said. "They were caught and brought to account."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Not too many of them went to jail though."
"They were disbarred from freemasonry."
"Do you think that bothered them over much?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
We broke for another song.
Still silence in the studio when the mikes were off.
But the very air crackled with energy.
His earlier suspicions had crystallised.
He knew full well he was in an ambush.
The song ended.
I didn't pause.
No cutesy reminders for the audience either.
Just straight in.
"Were Free Masons involved in the murder of the banker Roberto Calvi under Grey Friars bridge in London?"
"An investigation found that he hanged himself."
"Do you believe that's the truth?"
"There seems to be no real reason to disbelieve it."
"Some police officers and investigators have claimed that it is extremely unlikely Roberto Calvi could have hanged himself."
"Oh there are always conspiracy theorists James. They provide newspaper headlines, that's all. Mostly they are not to be taken seriously. An official enquiry found that Roberto Calvi committed suicide. Why would we disbelieve that and respect the opinions of people trying to sell a story to the newspapers?"
"Did the Free Masons kill him?"
"Oh come now. That's preposterous."
It was time to play some more choir music.
Again we didn't speak to each other during the period our microphones were no longer connected to the broadcast system.
As before we sat in silence waiting for the song to end.
Not a rancorous silence either.
But I could hear the gears turning in his mind.
His intellect was wholly engaged.
He was in a battle he had never dreamed or expected.
And I think in a way he was revelling in it.
The song ended.
"And we're back," I announced lightly.
I glanced at the clock.
In a few minutes the computer would kick in and automatically switch the broadcast system over to the main network for the evening news programme.
I'd be off air, like it or not.
Just two minutes left.
"My guest tonight has been Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I said. "We've been talking about Free Masonry. Doctor Fortescue some people consider Free Masonry to be a secret society intent on undermining our culture, faith and freedoms. Is there any truth in this perception?"
"None at all James. It's a myth."
"So you don't believe any of the allegations in Stephen Knight's book?"
A sharp intake of breath.
The first breath that was clearly audible to the listeners.
"Virtually everything in Stephen Knight's book has been refuted," said Doctor Fortescue evenly. "The thing was a mass of sensationalism from beginning to end. A tissue of lies. Thought quite entertaining in places, I'll admit."
I glanced at the clock again.
Thirty seconds.
Too late for my coup de grace.
Gotta try.
"And Jahbulon?" I enquired.
Doctor Fortescue looked shocked.
His jaw dropped.
Fear came into his eyes.
The first emotion I'd seen there.
He was white as a sheet.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he croaked.
I nodded grimly.
"Jahbulon," I said again. "The secret name which Free Masons use as part of their rituals. Some say Jahbulon is a name for Satan."
"I don't want to talk about the name," mumbled Doctor Fortescue weakly.
Five seconds on the clock.
"Thank you to my guest Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I enunciated. "Thanks for listening folks. Now the news."
The computer blinked a few lights to tell me we were off air.
My guest stood up.
We shook hands.
It was amazing.
He had regained control.
No sign of the haunted phantom figure he had briefly become a moment before.
"That was fascinating," he said pumping my hand like an avuncular uncle. "Really fascinating. I'm sorry I didn't want to talk about the name. It's just quite complicated really."
I told him there was no problem at all.
He left the studio.

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

Postscript: A few days later as I walked through the shopping centre in Mullingar, I felt my spider senses tingling.
I turned.
A man with a large camera and telephoto lens had lined up for a picture of me.
I looked at him plainly.
He took his picture.
Then he turned and walked briskly away through the crowd.
I followed his progress.
He walked down the long corridor and out the back door of the shopping centre.
Who was he?
Four possibilities.
(1). The police in Mullingar might have been watching me. They're a small town unit. The new fancy pants deejay might have been put under surveillance in case he'd steal their women or something. It's not impossible.
(2) I'd made some rather droll remarks on air about Tony O'Reilly's Independent Newspapers group. Tony might have decided he'd like to get a good look at this countrified Don Quixote who had dared to tilt at his liberal atheistic wind mill.
(3). It was just a random photographer taking a random photograph and nothing to do with me.
(4). Everything I'd said about the Free Masons was true.

the story of my argument with alistair mcgrath

2011-12-15T22:17:00.001Z

***
Alistair McGrath (philospher): "The existence of God lies beyond rational proof."
***
James Healy (chancer): "Oh I don't know. What I think is this. There is no rational proof for anything in the universe that any human being must accept as rational proof. No single assertion, no single sentence, in any language, about any proposition, is indisputable. This goes to the nature of reality rather than to the existence of God. What I am saying Alastair old bean, is that from the point of view of human beings, nothing exists without an act of faith."

moment of clarity

2011-12-14T19:17:00.001Z

Reading a religious magazine.
An article catches my eye, supposedly written by a convert to Christianity.
He says of his baptism into the faith: "When the priest blessed me, I felt three demons leave my body. They were Anger, Resentment, and Hatred. No one else saw them. But I saw them and knew what they were."
Bloody hell, bold readers.
Are those demons?
I've got those.
With bells on.

an open letter to father joe

2011-12-13T19:38:00.004Z

Padre.
During your sermon, you told people at mass on Sunday night in the chapel at Newbridge that they were emerging from the shadows of an authoritarian Church.
I was the macho fellow in dark glasses who stood up, whipped off his glasses, glared meaningfully at the congregation, and walked out.
Let me tell you something.
The Church you call authoritarian is the church that endured two thousand years of persecution in order to hand on the faith intact to the present generation.
The Church you call authoritarian saw off the Nazi's, the communists, the Islamists and every two bit dictator of history who sought to hijack our ancient faith.
The Church you call authoritarian never tolerated liberal Judges releasing serial killers into our streets, or exporting serial killers like Larry Murphy to Spain to let Spanish Mammy's and Daddy's worry about where he'll strike next.
The Church you call authoritarian never bowed to the abortionists.
The Church you call authoritarian never colluded with the corrupt Irish Government, Police, Judges, and Media who concealed teenage devil worshipper Lorcan Bales' satanic ritual slaughter of a child called John Horgan in the attic of Bales family home in Dublin in 1973. Nor did the Church you call authoritarian collude with the subesequent abandonment of court proceedings and inquests in the case, nor with the inexplicable decision to release Bale and export Bale to England with a new identity so only English Mammy's and Daddy's would have to worry about who Bale's next sacrifice to satan might be. Nor did the Church you call authoritarian play any role in the nefarious decision by the corrupt Irish Police and Courts Service, not to give hard target interrogations to the Bale family over the actions of young Junior, to wit the failure to ask even the most modest questions as to how a sixteen year old could be so adept at the practice of satanism and as to how that same sixteen year old could be slaughtering children in the Bale family home supposedly unbeknownst to other family members. Nor was the Church involved in the decision to allow the Bale family to move home to another part of Dublin without even the slightest warning being given to their new neighbours. Nor was the Church in any way involved with the invidious decision not to report the cruel slaughter of John Horgan in any Irish newpaper, radio or television station. There is in fact nothing in the entire history of the (what you call authoritarian) Catholic Church worldwide over the past two thousand years to match the cover up of Lorcan Bale's merciless slaughter of John Horgan, this most crass, vile, venal and corrupt cover up perpetrated by the government, liberal Judges, overpaid Police, and pious Media of the Republic Of Ireland from 1973 right up to the present day. And continuing as we speak.
The Church you call authoritarian never acquiesced to the distribution of abortion pills to children, a practice that has been introduced at Irish pharmacies in the past month, with your specific acquiescence.
The Church you call authoritarian and the generations it served, never ran up multi billion dollar debts against the unborn generations merely to finance extortionate payrise for nurses, teachers, lawyers, cops, soldiers and uncivil servants.
The Church you call authoritarian never robbed us of our best and brightest by contrareceiving them.
The Church you call authoritarian never permitted the institutionalisation of murder through abortion.
The Church you call authoritarian isn't the one that failed to speak out as our atheistic political class, and Judiciary, and Media conducted show trials for ageing Bishops, deliberately contriving false criminality for the Bishops' over their attempts to handle sex abuse cases discreetly.
The Church you call authoritarian never looked the other way whilst the atheistic Media pornographied a generation of children through music video, film, advertising and magazines, disrupting their sexualities to such a profound extent that they have been veritably programmed for child abuse, deviancy and promiscuity before they even reached their teens.
The Church you call authoritarian never bowed to atheistic whoremasters in government, the Judiciary and Media, by accepting responsibility for crimes we never committed whilst failing to hold to account the same atheistic whoremaster government, Judiciary and Media for the explosion of sex abuse across our culture and society, and the at least 150 children's deaths in Health Board care over the past decade, which that same atheistic whoremaster government, Judiciary and Media have all but ignored.
The Church you call authoritarian, never handed Newbridge church over to RTE once a year, to allow RTE's atheistic choirs to transform our holy building into a shallow backdrop for their showboating attempts to pose as Christians at precisely they same time as they are engulfing Ireland in a tidal wave anti Catholic propaganda not the least of which is their perpetually false and invidiously recycled accusations against our beautiful, ancient, and true religion.
The Church you call authoritarian never allowed itself to be infiltrated by a Soviet era leftist called Archbishop Diarmuid Martin.
The Church you call authoritarian never allowed an ex nun to stand at the altar in Newbridge Church and proclaim: "There'll be no priests in a few years."
The Church you call authoritarian never tolerated Gerard Moloney's faux religious magazines intended for teenagers being displayed at the back of the church in Newbridge with pictures showing a pop starlet styling herself Rhianna conducting bondage sex acts with male performers in one of her videos.
Need I go on?
Father Joe, I note that you have recently spoken to the defunct Leinster Leader newspaper (defunct because they fired me) about problems relating to the ongoing financing of the local church in Newbridge.
Your comments appeared to be critical of practicing and non practicing Catholics vis a vis their donations to the collection plate.
The Leinster Leader published your comments on the cover of their defunct newspaper with the headline: "Pay Up - Priest."
I believe the defunct Leinster Leader put a spin on your comments which you never intended.
I believe the defunct Leinster Leader betrayed your confidence and deliberately misconstrued what your remarks in a vain attempt to bolster their declining, nay negligible, sales.
Nonetheless.
I would point out that the reason there is a shortfall in parish funding is that you supposedly non authoritarian Catholics have been spending money hand over fist on parish workers who in the past did not feel the necessity of demanding such remuneration from the hands of the evil authoritarian Catholics you so despise.
You will admit those authoritarians at least had some book keeping skills in an Ireland that was poorer, lest inclined towards abortion, devil worship and/or limitless borrowing from idiot banks.
Father Joe, I would also counsel you, should you choose to ever have anything to do with the Leinster Leader again, that the Leinster Leader is not composed of nice people.
They're not like us Joe.
When you sup with the devil, you need to use a long spoon.
Faithfully,
James Healy

on stopping by starbucks on a snowy evening with a golden hamster up my jumper

2011-12-12T10:04:00.003Z

Whose cafe this is I think I know

His corporate headquarters is in seattle though

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his cafe fill up with proles
***

My little hamster must think it queer

To stop without a hamster cage near

Between the grocery and the bookshop with the dude where's my car counter assistants

The darkest evening of the year

***
He gives the spare tyre on my belly a nip

To remind me to leave the russian waitress a tip

The only other sounds the shriek

I unleash at the sight of my own blood

***
This waitress is lovely dark and sexy

But I have a biting hamster in my jersey

And budgies to feed before midnight mass

modern times

2011-12-11T21:50:00.001Z

Wandering down Grafton Street Dublin with Rowena.
Christmas lights everywhere.
Truly it's a winter wonderland.
Rowena is skipping around me in a moderately unrestrained fashion.
Her limber physicality is most cheering, although it serves to highlight the ontological disparities between us.
For she is radiant with physical beauty while my beauty is clearly more of the spiritual kind.
As she cavorts she sings a song that is currently in the pop charts.
She sings: "You've got to move like Jagger, groove like Jagger, oooh oooh oooh, just groove like Jagger.Oh yeah move like Jagger. Wooo wooo wooo, come on James, you gotta move like Jagger."
And then she does some enervatedly teasing dance steps.
Presently I call a halt.
"Look," I say reasonably, "I do move like Jagger."
"James, no you don't."
"Yes I do. Have you seen him lately? He's 78. The man can barely walk... Oh! You meant I've got to move like Jagger when he was twenty?"

things to come

2011-12-11T13:57:00.001Z

Ireland in the year 2020.

A gentle afternoon sun rises above the venerable halls of Saint Tony O'Reilly's Post Modern School For Birls (Boys And Girls).

In the headmaster's office near the top of the clock tower, Principal Ger Colleran reviews his staff duty rosters.

He is a grinning bearded slatternly porcine egg yolk of a man.

Since the Catholic Church was driven out of the schools and then banned two years ago, various leading lights of Ireland's liberal atheistic pseudo establishment have taken on the task of educating the proles.

Colleran heard the call and has not been found wanting.

It is perhaps not so suprising that he would end up running a school.

During his days working as editor of The Daily Star for British porn baron Richard Desmond, Colleran had developed a deep affection for children.

He reckons his experience marshalling alcoholic druggie porn addicted journos has left him more than well equipped to run a school.

Colleran smiles at his rosters.

All present and correct.

One of the maths teachers is dying of syphilis but he has arrived to give his class anyway.

That's real dedication.

Basic Maths is still a vitally important subject in this new enlightened era.

The children need to be numerate so that they can dial the phone sex lines in the Daily Star.

Colleran rises from his plush backed executive chair and takes a proprietorial stroll through his school.

In the prefab overlooking the river, Paedophile Ian O'Doherty (who received his nickname after falsely, maliciously and malignly labelling the Catholic Church a paedophile ring in an article in the Irish Independent) is teaching the infant class.
"I am in my prime," he informs the toddlers. "You too will be in your prime someday and you must know how to recognise it, lest it pass you by. Now children, light up your cannabinoids. That's it. Inhale deeply. You're going to need to develop a good technique if you want to pass your exams. Philmore Bates! What is the meaning of this, Sir! Light up that cannabinoid. No you don't have a choice Philmore. What are you? Some kind of Catholic? Who are you to force your repressed views on everybody else? You're dragging down the class Philmore. Light up your cannabinoid or I'll send you to Headmaster. That's it. Light up. Inhale. There you go. Grooooveeee baaaabeeee."

In the science lab, former Irish President Mary Robinson is giving a Biology class to the twelve year olds.

As she speaks she nods.

She nods constantly.

She nods like... Noddy.

The effect is most curious.

"Now girls and boys," she says in her chaming Noddy-esque school Marm manner. "This is what we call a contraceptive pill. It has freed you from the shackles of outmoded Catholic morality. Eat up. You know you have to have had your first official pregnancy and abortion before the end of the semester. There'll be a test. Oh how silly of me. We don't call them abortions anymore. What do we call them? Come on girls and boys. What's the right word? Terminations. That's it. You get a star for that Maisie Baines. Always use a latinate euphemism when referring to anything involving the taking of life. And remember boys and girls if I catch any of you referring to the foetus as an unborn baby, I'll have you expelled. And what do we call the murder of the elderly? Come on now. That's right. Eutha. Eutha. Say it. Euthanasia. There you go. Never say murder of the elderly. It's euthanasia of the excess baggage. That's right. Very good boys and girls. Now take out your Pederasty Primers."

Over at Senior House, Archbishop Diarmuid Martin is giving a History class to the Fifth Formers.

"You don't need to study a lot of this stuff to understand history," he muses flicking through an old text book. "These books are out of date. All this inconsequential rubbish about World War Two, and Hitler, and the Soviet Union, and the French Revolution, and the penal laws in Ireland, and geopolitics, and Marxism, and the clash of civilisations, and so on. It's all inconsequential rubbish. As soon as our exalted Islamic Government gets round to it. we'll have proper text books. Ones that recognise my role in history. If you really want to understand history you have to understand my role in infiltrating the Catholic Church and undermining it so that you children could be free of all the intellectual and moral repressions that Christianity brings. I was the perfect storm for the faith of our fathers. I was the one thing believers couldn't cope with. A traitor at the top. Almost singlehandedly I was responsible for the subjugation of a faith that had defied all oppressors in Ireland for thousands of years. But you don't need to know the details. You just need to know that I liberated Ireland from the vileness of the Catholic Church. Now that's what I call history."

Principal Colleran strolling through the grounds hears occasional snatches of the lectures from his teachers' classes.

He is proud of them.

They have accomplished much in a short space of time.

There had been those who doubted liberal atheists could run the school system which had been built up by the Catholic Church over fifteen hundred years.

Colleran and company had proved them wrong.

His perambulations take him within the ivy clad facade of the Lord Reilly Of Reillingham Memorial Building.

Here a onetime pop singer called Bono is giving Religious Knowledge instruction to the fifteen year olds.

Bono is a congenial old buffer.

"Now," says Bono peering over his pince nez. "There never was a Jesus. Not really. Jesus is just an archaeon. A gnostic teacher. A zogabong. Yes, he's a zogabong. He's not God and he's not the son of God. He's just a zogabong. An emanation of the eternal zogabong. As you all will be if you ascend to the heights of gnostic zogabong spirituality. Zogabongs. You've just got to imagine it to be it. Glorious groovy zogabongs. There's no need for outmoded religious ideas or philosphies. We have zogabongs. The world is a zogabong. The universe is a zogabong. Have you ever thought that all existence might just be a zogabong in the fingernail of some zogabong? I have. Zogabongs are the key to life. Zogabongs are the key to thought. When you can say zogabong, you have transcended all philosophy and all religions. Zogabong is the mantra. Zogabong is the word. Zobabong is the time, is the place, is the motion. Zogabong is the way we are feeling."

Bono looked owlishly around the class and stroked his droopy grey moustache with whimsical relish.

"You know children, you are a most fortunate generation," he murmured. "You live in an age which has laid aside the enslaving predilections of conventional religion. You do not have to worry about abortion being a holocaust. You do not have to question the atheists who have repudiated and annulled a two thousand year old civilisation built around a slave religion. You do not have to care whether euthanasia is a barbarism. You do not have to worry about life being created and destroyed in test tubes. You do not have to concern yourself with whether female hormones from contraceptive pills have entered the food chain, masculinising women, feminising men and sterilising a generation. You do not have to think for yourselves because we think for you. Do not adjust your minds. We are controlling them. You are fortunate indeed. You do not possess the merest vocabulary to assess such things. You will never feel the slightest need for such a vocabulary. For you, it will all be zogabongs."

There was a tremendous explosion.

For a moment the classroom filled with light.

Bono and the children froze.

The large window to the right of the teacher had smashed inwards in a spectacular miasma of irridescent crystals.

James Healy astride a massive death's head Harley Davidson motorcycle careened through the window onto Bono's desk.

As the gleaming fuel injected machine skidded off the desk and crashed into the wall, James Healy stepped smoothly clear.
Standing on the desk, Healy seemed to tower like a Collossus above the classroom.

Bono was aghast.

The power of speech returned.

"You!" he gasped. "Here! Now! But how?"

Heelers gave Bono a root in the bawls, a punch on the snot and a toe in the hole.

The toe in the hole sent Bono sprawling through the door into the corridor outside.

"Goodbye Mr Dips," snarled Heelers, slamming the door.

Heelers turned to face the gaping teenagers.

"Never mind that bollocks," he breathed. "Here's the Catholic Church."

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-10T17:49:00.002Z

(THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF HOUSE BUILDING)
***

Two frightfully British old buffers are sitting in their club at Saint James.
"Did you hear about Carruthers?" says one stroking his silver tache.
"Yes, yes, all that stuff about moving in with a gorilla," answers his friend, delicately arranging his beard.
"But there's more," avers Silver Tache.
"Oh."
"Carruthers and his gorilla friend were living in a tree on the banks of the Zambezi. And do you know what happened? Out of the blue one fine day this Irish chappie came sailing up the river and quick as a flash built him a house. Jolly good show, what!"
"Well done Carruthers!" agrees the bearded one.

***

(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-09T17:58:00.003Z

(THE HETEROSEXUAL TWILIGHT IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE)
***
The Foreign Secretary Sir Reginald Beet, KSM, DSO, GCMG, was dining at a discreet bistro in Saint James.
His dinner partner, a beautiful Russian blonde in a dangerously short dress which neatly displayed her splendid silken clad legs all the way up to her neck, (but I digress) seemed to be enjoying his company in an inordinately sensuous way.
Sir Reginald felt things were going swimmingly.
"Of course one has to be polite when dealing with the Prime Minister," he mused apropos of nothing at all. "Can't slap the chappie in the face and tell him to buck up. But one has to let him know who's boss all the same. Hur hur."
As he mused thusly, Sir Reginald placed a surreptitious hand on a splendid silken clad thigh.
Yes, things were going swimmingly.
This blonde Russki bimbo was simpering over his every inanity.
There's nothing like the phrase "Oh Sir Reginald" intoned in a Russian accent to give a man's self image a boost.
Hur, hur.
The hand inched higher.
And higher.
And higher.
And now ever higher.
The sexy blonde leaned forward.
"Sir Reginald," she said in a masculine voice. "You can keep going. But just remember when you reach the top, it's Carruthers from M15."

***
(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

the twelve days of christmas

2011-12-09T02:12:00.001Z

On the first day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me

An article by John Cooney calling for a boycott of the sacraments.

On the second day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me one Cooney article, and another by a malign distorted lying jeering paraphrasing drug using plagiaristic schizoid called Ian O'Doherty claiming the entire Catholic church is a paedophile ring.

On the third day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me, one drivelling Cooney, two lying O'Dohertys, and an editorial calling for the resignation of five Catholic Bishops.

On the fourth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me, one Cooney drivelling, one O'Doherty a milking, five resigning Bishops,

And an article by Jason Byrne asserting that a priest who had just been hacked to death in Kenya hadn't died for the faith, but had been killed simply because his killers were poor, the cause of his death according to the great Jason Byrne, being poverty, and not his actual dismemberment, rum one that, and for which idiocy Jason Byrne claimed to be quoting an anonymous source at something called the Irish Missionary Union, not really Catholic is it Jason, but no worries, did you really have a source then, or were you just trying to diminish the man's heroism, killed by poverty indeed, Independent Newspapers, when it commits a real libel, likes to libel big, this time they're libelling the poor, trying to tell us poor people are naturally inclined to hack priests to death with axes, funny how few poor people actually do such things, is it just the teensiest bit possible that Jason Byrne is an anti Catholic Independent Newspapers clype with his head so far up his anus that the expression of a coherent measured opinion about the martyrdom of a Catholic priest is utterly beyond him, and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

One twittish Cooney, a ham head doophus Doherty, five Bishops resigning, four cretinous Jason Byrnes, and a hideously false assertion, even by the usual standards of Independent Newspapers, that the Catholic chuch covered up the murder of a ten year old girl in 1970.

On the sixth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

The usual idiot Cooney, a vomitous Ian O'Doherty, five Bishops resigning, Jason Byrne still a lying, four false accusations that the Catholic Church was covering up murders, and an article in the Irish Times by former Independent Newspapers journalist Miriam Lord saying that religion is the last refuge of a scoundrel published just two days before Miriam Lord's mother Margaret received funeral rites at the Church of our Lady of Consolation followed by burial at Saint Fintan's cemetary, and I wonder was Miriam Lord referring to her own mother and her family when she said religion is the last refuge of a scoundrel.

On the seventh day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

A quote from appeaserish Archbishop Diarmuid Martin admitting all sorts of wrong doing he never committed and is not in a position to admit but doesn't mind admitting if it will save him a little face with his liberal friends as what he's doing is admitting guilt for old men he doesn't know or care about, and whose innocence is a matter of indifference to him, and by saying the church had been arrogant in the past he hopes to curry favour with the sort of Independent Newspapers scoundrels currently persecuting the church, ten idiot Cooneys, nine O'Dohertys a lying, seven Jason Byrnes a milking, five resigning Bishops,

Four attempts at incitement to hatred through false murder accusations, and a turtle dove,

Plus Miriam Lord inviting the wrath of God upon herself.

On the eighth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

Seven Cooneys cooing, six O'Dohertys a leaping, five Bishops resigning, four Jason Byrnes poohing,

Three false murder accusations, two Miriam Lords a mooing, one quote from the appeaserish Archbishop Diarmuid Martin,

And a partridge stuck up Tony O'Reilly's arse.

On the ninth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

Eight golden Cooneys,

Seven porcine Dohertys, six french hens, and a turtle dove,

Five resigning Bishops,

Four false murder accusations,

Along with fifty years of recycled sex abuse cases involving priests, and an absolute failure to make clear to the public that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases arise in the family home and involve no priests or religious people at all, and that for every victim of a priest who generates money for lawyers and publicity for Independent Newspapers anti Catholic pogrom, another 999 victims are simply ignored because they ain't worth any money to Lawyer Liberal, and they ain't been abused by the right sort of abuser, and they ain't any use to Independent Newspapers as a Trojan Horse to destroy the Catholic church,

Four Miriam Lords, Three Jason Byrnes, Two Johnston Press parvenus,

And a partridge stuck up Tony O'Reilly's arse.

On the tenth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

Nine moronic Cooneys, eight dillwad Dohertys, seven Miriam Lords,

Six Jason Byrnes, five resigning Bishops, four false murder charges, three nerds a nerding, Four french hens and a turtle dove,

Five thousand recycled articles about the same sex abuse case with no attempt to inform the general public where the preoponderance of sex abuse cases occur, and absolutely no reportage of the fact that sex abuse levels are at record heights in our anti Christian society today, but never mind,

Six Lord O'Reillys a leaping (because they've got partridges stuck up their arses), seven hypocrites hyping,

And a collection of journalists and editors that Pravda or the Volkischer Zeitung would have been ashamed of.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

Ten clown Cooneys, nine doltish Dohertys, eight Lord Reillys a leaping, seven Jason Byrnes,

Six Miriam Lords weeping, Five Bishops resigning,

One appeaser Archbishop,

Inordinate recycled sex abuse cases going back fifty years so as to deliberately mislead the public into thinking the majority of sex abuse cases occur at the hands of priests,

A hundred shameful staffers that the Russians and the Nazis wouldn't have about the place,

Four french hens and a turtle dove,

And an overt advocacy of atheism, sex culture and drugs culture that has enslaved a generation of our young people to a living death right at the time those young people needed the faith of our fathers the most.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,

Independent Newspapers sent to me,

A statement of their accounts,

They owe 1500 millon dollars.

All these years they were claiming to be making profits,

Their profits only existed as accountancy tricks,

Just like the banks,

And the stock exchange companies,

The true position of Independent Newspapers is 1.5 billion in the red,

Their only revenue stream is from State Sector advertising handed over by our corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail government, and loans dished out by the aforementioned idiot banks who themselves have just gone bust precisely because they insisted on giving free money to newspaper groups like this one.

On the thirteenth day of Christmas,

(That's enough Independent Newspapers. - Ed note.)

an open letter to the nuns and priests of ireland

2011-12-09T01:30:00.000Z

Dear sisters and brothers.
Tony O'Reilly, Ireland's richest man, will be shuffling off this mortal coil soon.
I mean he'll be dying.
He's getting old.
And he's due a rest.
As are we.
When O'Reilly finally goes croakies you will be contacted by your bishop.
Your Bishop will wheeze and blow, and spew a thousand abysmal cliches, before finally coming to his point. He will say something like this:
"Tony O'Reilly has gone to his eternal reward... Captain of industry... Ireland's richest man... Great ambassador for our country... Proprietor of Independent Newspapers... All a myth about him being anti Catholic... We want a big turnout at his funeral... Church must be well represented... I want you all to go along..."
Sisters and brothers when your bishop suggests you attend Tony O'Reilly's funeral I want you to reply to him thusly.
Look him in the eye.
Then gently but firmly, say...
"No."
Your bishop will wheeze and blow some more.
Speak your truth to him.
If you agree with me in my assessment of Tony O'Reilly and his newspaper group, say something akin to the following:

"Bishop, I will not be attending the funeral of Tony O'Reilly. I believe Tony O'Reilly's newspapers, especially the Irish Independent, the Evening Herald, the Sunday World and the Sunday Independent, are responsible for the single greatest coarsening of culture, public life, and private morals, in the history of the Irish nation. I believe Tony O'Reilly and his newspaper group, in conjunction with media groups O'Reilly doesn't own such as the Irish Times and the broadcaster RTE, I believe all of these, all of these cosmic mediocrities, I believe they have one and all colluded in trahaising Ireland and her 1500 year tradition of faith. I believe that Tony O'Reilly's newspapers and journalists are virulently anti Catholic and grotesquely anti Christian. In addition, I have been told that Tony O'Reilly has some sort of involvement with the production of several tabloid papers including the Daily Star whose editor Ger Colleran famously claimed on national television that children had been abused in every Catholic church presbytery in Ireland. What a brave fellow Colleran must be. And by brave I mean scum. Bishop, with all due respect, I am holding Tony O'Reilly accountable for the low rent cowardly sleazoid calumnies of his low rent cowardly sleazoid employees. I am holding him responsible for the phone sex lines published in the Daily Star which I believe contribute to the disruption of adolescent and adult sexualities in general, and the derangement of male sexualities in particular. I am suggesting to you Bishop that the phone sex lines published in the Daily Star are a direct link in the chain of evil which causes sex abuse. Let me be quite clear about my opinions on this point. What has the Catholic church done for Ireland? It is my opinion that for 1500 years the Catholic church has brought enlightenment, spirituality, civilisation and the truth to Ireland. What has the Daily Star done for Ireland? I would contend that the sum total of the Daily Star's contribution to Irish life has been to introduce us to the intellectual delights of Bossy Mistress, Wayward Teen, and Naughty Student. The great Ger Colleran should hang his head in shame... I am holding Tony O'Reilly responsible not just for this crud and Colleran's mendacious cretinism, but also for the arrant anti Catholic manipulation of the news that I believe his newspapers have perpetrated over the past thirty years. I am holding him accountable for everything his newspapers have done to our society. I am holding him responsible for the manner in which his newspapers reported sex abuse. No I'm not suggesting they told a single lie. I'm just suggesting they ignored ninety nine point nine nine percent of the truth. Sex abuse existed throughout modern society. But it seemed as if the cases involving clerical people were always reported while the vast majority of cases occurring in families at the hands of relatives, were simply ignored. It seems to me that an artificial notion was fostered by this style of reportage that sex abuse was caused by a dysfunction in Christian culture. Why on earth would any newspaper knowing full well that most sex abuse cases were happening in the domestic settting of family homes, knowing full well that sex abuse in non Catholic countries such as India and Thailand was off the scale, why I ask you, why would newspapers deliberately create the impression that the preponderence of sex abuse cases happened at the hands of clerical people? Were some sex abuse cases more important than others? Were some sex abuse victims more important than others? Were 0.01 percent of cases in Ireland more important than 99.99 percent of cases? Surely if we talk of more important victims, those would be the victims who suffered the most. The 99.99 percent of victims I mean. Surely the newspapers should have made it clear that the vast majority of cases of sex abuse in Ireland were occurring in the home, that is in the family setting. Surely by allowing the notion to be propagated that sex abuse was mainly carried out by religious people, surely they have committed the most appalling and egregious crime. The precise crime of which they continuously accuse the Bishops. That is to say, they have covered up sex abuse. By not reporting its true nature and extent, they were themselves effectively covering it up. If Tony O'Reilly's newspapers are guilty, as I believe they are, of pursuing a flagrantly anti Catholic agenda at the expense of the truth in these and other matters, then Bishop, I intend, without judging Tony O'Reilly's immortal soul, to nonetheless express my dissent, my distrust and my disdain for what he is and has been in Irish public life. You will understand the depths of my feelings in this matter. I am going to remain true to my own beliefs by not attending his funeral. Your Reverence, I am holding Tony O'Reilly responsible for the atheistic life styles and pornographic behaviours which I believe his hedonistic publications have fostered and promoted among young people. Yes. At a time when those same young people were never more desperately in need of the saving light of Jesus, I believe his newspapers have plunged them into the most appalling darkness. With all due respect to Your Reverence, I say again. I will not be attending this funeral. And no Bishop. Don't talk to me about Tony O'Reilly's ownership of the twee little magazine Ireland's Own. Ireland's Own is not really pro Catholic. In fact I consider its anodyne insincere insipidly inane attempts to pose as a pro Catholic magazine, I consider these impostures I tell you, to be more invidious than the bigoted stylings of his other publications. Thank you Bishop. Would you like a cup of tea?"
That's the way to do it sisters and brothers.
Remind your bishop that Tony O'Reilly's employee Ian O'Doherty falsely malignly and maliciously claimed that the Catholic church was a paedophile ring in an article published in the Irish Independent.
Remind your bishop that Tony O'Reilly is in partnership with British porn baron Richard Desmond to publish The Star.
(Yes the same tabloid newspaper edited by Ger Colleran who crassly, dishonestly, deceitfully and opprobriously claimed on national television that children were screaming for help in every Catholic church presbytery in Ireland. That same Daily Star is half owned by a porn baron. Ger Collaran works for a porn baron. Tony O'Reilly is in partnership with a porn baron. You couldn't make it up.)
Remind your bishop that Tony O'Reilly's employee John Cooney recently called for a boycott of the sacraments.
Remind your bishop that when the numbers of men enrolling for the priesthood shot up in August, Tony O'Reilly's newspapers and the Irish Times suggested people were only joining the priesthood to escape the recession.
Remind your bishop of these things and then ask him does he seriously expect any believing Christian to attend the funeral of this odious anti Catholic bigot.
If your bishop issues you an instruction to attend Tony O'Reilly's funeral, you should then appeal directly to the Pope in Rome.
The Pope is a good man.
He will hear you out. I don't think that under any circumstances the Pope will permit your bishop to force you to attend Tony O'Reilly's funeral.
Hang in there sisters and brothers.
We're winning.
Sincerely.
James Healy
PS: You might politely suggest to your bishop that he himself should consider NOT attending Tony O'Reilly's funeral either. A lot of these bishops are beaten men. But who knows. Maybe an odd one is still a Christian.

archie has a ball

2011-12-08T22:33:00.000Z

Evening at the Archbishop's Palace in Dublin.
Archbishop Diarmuid Martin barks from his office.
"Miss Tessbakker, take a letter."
His secretary enters notepad in hand.
Archie begins dictating.
"For the attention of all journalists working in Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE. From now on I am to be represented as defending priests of the Catholic Church against those wishing to destroy them. The previous strategy of representing me as a firm ally of the media and the only Catholic in Ireland not involved in child abuse, is to be postponed temporarily. It is imperative that we establish the notion in the public mind and in the minds of priests and nuns, that I am on their side in this battle against the atheistic media, ie you. To this end you must focus continuously on my press releases that are critical of media attempts to ruin Father Kevin Reynolds. Continue to ignore the fact that I am forcing priests to take pay cuts in order to finance my network of spies around the Dublin diocese posing as parish workers. Nyah ha ha G-Force. No don't write that Miss Tessbakker. That's just for you and me. Nyah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, heee, haaaaaaaaaa, haaaaaaa, haaaaaaaa."

enter the dragon

2011-12-08T22:28:00.000Z

Coffee with Miss Korea at the Cafe Insomnia near Stephens Green.
She is the best looking girl in Korea.
"Is it difficult adjusting to life in Ireland?" I enquire sympathetically.
"It is," she nods.
"What is the most difficult thing about life here?" I ask, all tenderness and compassion.
"There are no nice clothes in the shops," she answers frankly.

the monica leech laugh in

2011-12-08T22:26:00.000Z

(HOMOPHOBIA AND THE FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE)
***

Two frightfully British old buffers are sitting in plush armchairs at their club in Saint James.
"Have you heard about Carruthers?" wondered one, stroking his silver tache.
"What's about him?" replied the other delicately arranging his beard.
"He's fallen in love with a gorilla in Africa," explained his friend.
"Great Scott," exclaimed Beardy.
"They've moved in together," said the tache man. "They're living in a tree on the banks of the Zambezi."
There was a moment's ruminative silence.
"Is it a female gorilla," asked Beardy at length.
"Of course it is," affirmed the tache man. "There's nothing queer about Carruthers."

***
(from The Carruthers Chronicles)

destiny

2011-12-07T22:03:00.003Z

Miss Arabia told me this afternoon over coffees in the Costa Cafe on Dawson Street that she favoured abortion and that she had helped a young Muslim girl procure one.
Immediately I said: "No, no, no, no."
Miss A said: "Are you against abortion?"
I said: "Yes. Of course I am."
Miss A: "Oh."
I said: "I thought Muslims considered life to be sacred."
Miss A: "In Islam abortion is okay up to four months of pregnancy."
I said: "I think I know more about the peaceloving religion of Islam than you do."
She said: "Only the Taliban and those sort of nutters think all abortion is wrong."
I said: "You're telling me only the Taliban agree with me?"
She said: "Yes. And maybe some people in Iran. Only the extremists."
I said: "I think you're wrong. I think Islam forbids abortion."
She said: "No, actually it doesn't."
I said: "If you thought the unborn child was a human being you would agree with me."
She said: "It's not a child. It's a foetus."
I said: "Foetus is just Latin for unborn child. People who support abortion are more comfortable using a Latin term for the children they kill because Latin sounds medical. But the Latin term foetus means unborn child."
She said: "To you maybe. To me, it's a foetus."
I said: "Can we admit that whatever is aborted is a baby who has not yet been born?"
She said: "It's a foetus and abortion is absolutely a woman's right. Listen. The girl I helped had no choice. She had no other way out."
I said: "She did have a choice. She could have given the child to me."
Miss A said: "She had to have an abortion. Her family would have killed her if they'd seen she was pregnant. You don't understand the sheer terror these girls have to live with."
I said: "If my family threatened to kill me unless I killed someone else, I wouldn't kill for them."
She said: "You don't know what you are talking about. You have no idea what it is like for a young girl in that situation. You cannot even imagine the horror she faced."
I said: "In 1973, an eleven year old girl in Dublin called Celine Owens was prostituted by her father and mother to a devil worshipping ring in Dalkey. She became pregnant. Her unborn baby was the son of a devil worshipper who had raped her. And still she fought for her baby's life. Still she tried to save her baby when the mother who had prostituted her sacrificed her baby to satan by murdering him with a knitting needle. And Celine Owens was eleven. And when she became pregnant a second time by the devil worshippers, she again tried to save her baby, and again her mother murdered the child. No matter what the devil worshippers did to her, they couldn't touch Celine Owens' soul. She cherished each of those babies and sought to save them. Each and every time Celine Owens wanted to save her babies."
Our conversation ranged on for some time.
Then we talked of other things.
Then we went up to Stephens Green where I had an appointment to feed some ducks.
Then we went to a Cafe Insomnia to discuss UFO's and the shroud of Turin and a book Miss A appears in, courtesy of her friend who is an author.
Then we said goodbye.
I wandered back to the Costa Cafe, purchased a beverage and ensconced myself in the corner by the window.
I was in relaxed enough spirits sitting with a hot chocolate and a James Thurber book enjoying the cacophony of the cafe at evening.
Suddenly tears began to pour from eyes.
The oddest tears.
Not great raking sobs.
Just tears.
Streaming down my face.
I sat quite still.
I asked myself, what's going on?
Instantly I knew that I was crying for the little Muslim child I would never know.
I was fullly aware that the tears were a gift from God to me.
Yes.
I knew they were from God and did not fear them.
The booty girl I'd been ogling at an adjoining table a moment before eyed me curiously.
For long moments the tears for the child I would never know continued.
It would be more politically correct, more trendy, to pretend I cried also for his teenage mother.
I did not cry for her.
But when I stopped crying I knew what must be done.
We must establish a network of safe houses across Europe to help any girl in this situation.
And so it begins.

god does not play dice

2011-12-07T01:01:00.000Z

Evening at the church in Kilcullen.
The pews are filling up with a steady trickle of citizenry.
The mighty Heelers is ensconced alone posing prayerfully as is his wont in the central seating area.
As many of you know, I am a showbiz personality and it's necessary to project a certain image.
So there I am.
Presently I glance to my left.
I groan inwardly.
Barbara Baines has just sat herself into the seat beside me.
Oh heavens no.
Not Barbara Baines.
Quietly I address myself in formal fashion to the Deity.
"Lord," I hiss internally, "what are you playing at?"
You should know noble readers that one of the few things I regret in life is a temperamental clash with Miss Baines sometime in the dulcet Summer of 1983.
I was a callow youth of 17.
By callow of course, I mean I was a handsome, roguish, devil may care sort of lad, with a buccaneering grin that used to drive women wild.
"Stop grinning at us," they would say, "you're driving us wild."
But I digress.
I had spent that Summer with my grandfather fencing a field whose ownership was disputed by a neighbouring farmer.
The neighbour's tenants had been periodically breaking down the fences. Breaking them down as quick as Grandad and I put them up.
Now on this particular evening in ye aforementioned Summer of 1985, Barbara Baines, university educated daughter of the neighbouring landowner, had arrived in the field to challenge myself and Grandad.
I had met her with one of my rare soliloquies, a dramatic peroration, against the iniquities of those who tear down other people's fences.
My voice as per usual had all the strange high dignity of Mini Mouse.
It was a tantrum of rare beauty, gentle readers.
My frustration about the wasted Summer, the ruined fences, my unhappy school life, boiled over and I vituperatively and vindictively insulted the newly arrived daughter who was studying law at university and well equipped to give as good as she got.
But she didn't deserve me in this form.
I let the side down.
Which side?
Oh the Judaeo Christian tradition, my family, Ireland, Manchester United, all of them really.
And I spent the next two decades feeling guilty about it.
So we're up to the present.
Here we are in Kilcullen Church.
Enter Barbara Baines.
And as you can see, I'm complaining to God for putting her sitting beside me.
"I know what this is about Lord," I prayed. "You're putting me beside someone I've had a 20 year feud with to make a point. The whole idea is I've got to shake her hand at the sign of peace. Well listen God. I'm just here to pray. You don't have to prove to me you exist by staging any cutesy life lessons. I'm not going along with that."
By the way, in Catholic churches at a particular juncture in our ceremony the priest asks us to exchange a sign of peace with those sitting near us.
We are normally expected to shake hands with people to our right, and left, and behind, and in front of us.
The process is exhausting.
It was this that was really bothering me.
How could I look Barbara Baines in the eye and shake her hand, with both of us no doubt remembering clearly our unresolved conflict of so many years ago?
The whole idea was unthinkable.
I was going to spend the entire mass worrying about the approaching moment.
I lowered my head into my hands.
In my heart of hearts I knew Barbara Baines had sat in the seat beside me by chance. I knew it wasn't really God giving me a hint that I was to make an effort at reconciliation.
I raised my head again. Something made me glance around.
I took a sharp intake of breath.
In the pew directly behind me, the entire O'Brolchain family were seated. Teenage daughters, mother and father.
The bloody bifurcating O'Brolchains.
A family of loony Irish language activists.
Committed left wingers.
And yes.
Named parties in another of my 20 year feuds.
At least the parents are.
David and Judy O'Brolchain.
When they'd started fighting with me, they'd been a good looking couple of 1960's style liberals.
They're a bit more weathered now.
The years have not been kind.
Our original conflict arose when they took particular umbrage at an article I wrote for The Bridge magazine in the dulcet Summer of 1986.
The article had urged people not to support the revolution in the Phillipines.
Yup folks.
I was doing my best to save the Marcos regime.
Hoo boy.
I could really pick em.
David O'Brolchain wrote a letter at the time criticising my article and I'd dismantled his argument in the same issue.
But the real O'Brolchain action of 1986 was to come.
Darkly statuesque Judy O'Brolchain approached me that Summer while I was playing tennis with my cousin Mycroft in the sports grounds near Logstown.
Judy had walked up to me and delivered some mildly well observed objections to my points of view.
Her exact words were: "You're a lonely sad man who never socialises. You know nothing about the Phillipines."
It was like a gypsy curse.
Ring of truth and all that.
My exact reply began: "You... monumental... fish wife."
My reply then became a monumental discourse on Fish Wife's Inhumanity To Man.
It went on for a long time.
I was screaming at the end.
Doors in genteel suburban Logstown, which adjoins the tennis courts, had begun to open.
People had looked out warily and then decided this was too good to miss.
They stood in their doorways watching.
As though in a dream I was aware of the audience though in no way impeded by it in my excoriation of Fish Wife.
At some stage I paused.
Judy O'Brolchain unleashed an absolutely adorable withering glance and stalked away.
I turned to cousin Mycroft.
A part of me was beginning to suspect that my epic peroration might not have been as magnificent in reality as it had seemed in my head.
I needed affirmation.
Maybe I hadn't quite managed to evoke the splendour of the Gettysburg Address.
But I might have gotten close, mightn't I.
Already I had a nagging feeling that Mini Mouse had once more taken charge.
Mycroft would be a good judge.
Mycroft would know.
"Did that sound bad?" I asked Mycroft.
Mycroft favoured me with a stunned expression.
Then she allowed herself a seditious little laugh.
Then she said: "Oh James, that sounded terrible."
Well folks it was 20 years ago.
And here we are.
I'm mortified still.
Barbara Baines to the right of me.
David and Judy O'Brolchain to the rear of me.
I cupped my handsome preraphaelite head in my swordsman's hands.
Once more I presented myself to God.
"Good one God," I said frankly. "You got me there. Do I really have to shake hands with Barbara Baines and the O'Brolchains? On the same day? I'm beginning to believe you really are assembling in this church a congregation of people I can't abide. Abide not with me, ye O'Brolchains. But this is most impressive Father. Impressive in an insufferable way. One mortal enemy could be coincidence. Two is beginning to look like you're up there enjoying yourself. Ah, Lord what are you playing at? I just want to pray. I'm in church. I want to pray. I don't want to learn anything new about myself. I don't want to encounter my own lack of forgiveness towards others. I don't want to explore any deep seated unresolved issues at the core of my psyche or my soul. I just want to say a few prayers. Is it too much to ask Lord? And have you get any more surprises for me? I mean I don't see what else you can pull. There are no other bitter internecine 20 year feuds in my life. What have you got left God?"
I stayed in the stillness for a moment.
I looked up.
This bit is true.
I expect you to know bold readers when I'm joshing.
A pretty woman of middle years was stepping into the pew in front of me.
She was expensively dressed, coiffed and perfumed.
I recognised her as Cristina Goulandros the Greek shipping heiress.
Cristina Goulandros the Greek shipping heiress is nothing to me.
I do not care if she lives or dies.
I feel no urge to apologise to her about anything.
I have no feud with her.
But she is married to Sir Anthony O'Reilly, owner of Independent Newspapers, proprietor of The Sunday World, The Sunday Independent, The Irish Independent, The Evening Herald, and sundry other dreadful entities of their ilk.
Ireland's richest man.
At this moment Tony O'Reilly stepped into the pew directly in front of me and sat beside his wife.
Tony O'Reilly.
Bloody ephin Tony O'Reilly.
For 20 years I've despised him above all other human beings for what I perceived to be the deculturing effect of his newspapers on the Irish people and nation. I have detested him for what I believed to be the blatent anti Catholic agenda his titles shamelessly pursued. I have abhorred him for what I believed was the part his newspapers played in the theft of God from a culture, no, from a generation, crying out for divine mercy.
Have I a feud with Bloody Reilly?
I'm telling you folks.
From hells' black heart I stab at him.
On a lighter note, my feud with the great O'Reilly can also be precisely dated, to the dulcet Summer of 1981.
Before all the others.
The other feuds, I mean.
Not dulcet Summers.
I was about 15 years old.
I remember, his newspapers focussed a lot on life style. Advocating hedonism I called it. At the time they were reporting attempts to legalise abortion in Ireland.
I was not satisfied with their reportage and presentation of the Catholic position on this matter.
I... never... forgave... them... for... it...
Or him.
Back to the present.
Here he is sitting in front of me.
Baines to the left of me.
O'Brolchains behind.
Tony Bloody O'Reilly in front.
I was absolutely staggered.
What to do?
Three of my life long enemies, self chosen by me I admit, sitting right beside me in church.
It was the most extraordinary demonstration I've ever had of the subtle yet absolute reality of God.
The subtle absolute glorious unfathomable truth of the Creator of the Universe.
I knew this was a wonderful moment.
Yet I was truly mortified.
What, I repeat, what was I going to do at the sign of peace?
I thought of the mystery unfolding and prayed without words.
Time passed.
At the sign of peace I shook hands with Barbara Baines.
I held her hands gently in mine.
I looked into her eyes and she looked back.
I let her see all the way to the soul.
By the time I broke our handclasp, the sign of peace was over and there was no opportunity or requirement to shake hands with anyone else.

sesame heelers

2011-12-06T19:14:00.003Z

The American children's show Sesame Street is getting more controversial every episode.
One of Sesame Street's most famous features is a weekly Guessing Game where the television screen is divided into four compartments and you see four people going about their business, one in each compartment, and you've to guess the odd one out.
While you're trying to guess the answer, a Muppet sings:
"Three of these guys have something in common.
Three of these guys are kinda the same.
One of these guys is doing his own thing.
Can you tall me his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."
It's very catchy.
Last week's edition of Sesame Street had the usual Guessing Game segment but with topical Irish characters instead of the usual generic American mailmen, police, bakers, etc etc.
In the top left compartment you had Monica Leech.
Monica Leech famously sued Independent Newspapers for libel after Independent Newspapers attempted to report the circumstances in which Monica Leech had been awarded a two hundred thousand dollar contract to design a pissant little website which no one every visited, by a corrupt government Minister in Ireland's now defunct kleptocratic Fianna Fail party.
A trial presided over by Judge Eamon DeValera, (yes a direct descendent of the founder of Ireland's now defunct kleptocratic Fianna Fail party also called Eamon De Valera) awarded her two million dollars when she claimed that she felt the Independent Newspapers coverage had implied she might have been having an affair with the corrupt kleptocratic goverment Minister concerned.
On Sesame Street, Monica Leech can be sign beavering away in her office.
Right across from her, in the top right hand compartment on the television screen, we see Donal Kinsella, known in Ireland as the naked ape.
Several years ago Donal Kinsella, a senior employee of a particular company, was caught trying to gain access to one of the same company's lady employee's hotel bedrooms at an overseas company conference in Africa.
Donal Kinsella was found outside this particular lady's bedroom on three occasions in one night demanding entry.
She was his subordinate in the company.
Stinks, doesn't it!
He knew where this particular lady's bedroom was because he had originally been booked into it himself but had earlier suggested she use it instead, purportedly so that she could have some privacy.
On each of the three occasions when Donal Kinsella arrived at the lady's bedroom door demanding entry that fateful night, he was stark buck naked.
Donal Kinsella claimed that he was drunk on the night in question, suffered from somnambulism (ie sleep walking), and hadn't brought any pyjamas to the company conference in Africa.
Shortly afterwards, the company that employed him released a damage limitation press release about his attempts to gain access to the hotel bedroom of a junior company employee on three occasions in one night while stark buck naked.
The naked ape promptly sued the company that employed him for libel claiming to have been deeply hurt by the damage limitation press release.
In a trial presided over by (wait for it) Judge Eamon De Valera, direct descendant of the founder of Fianna Fail also called Eamon De Valera, Donal Kinsella the naked ape was awarded nothing less than fifteen million dollars.
In the bottom left of the television screen, directly below Monica Leech, we see Rosanna Davidson, the haggish anti Catholic daughter of twee pop singer Chris De Burgh. (I quite like Chris De Burgh - Ed note.)
Some months ago Rosanna Davidson was supposedly called racist by a manager at Ryanair on a website no one reads.
She sued for libel and was awarded sixty grand in a court case presided over by (yawn) Judge Eamon De Valera, the direct descendent of the founder of Fianna Fail also called Eamon De Valera.
On Sesame Street she can be seen miming to a medley of her father's hit, while counting her sixty grand.
On the bottom right of your screen, you see Father Kevin Reynolds.
The Irish national broadcaster RTE recently attempted to ruin him and his family and his Church by falsely maliciously and malignly claiming live on television, that Father Reynolds had raped a child in Africa and then fathered a child with that child.
RTE repeated its malicious attempt to destroy Father Reynolds, his family and his Church, on subsequent radio programmes.
Father Reynolds received an undisclosed payment from RTE in compensation.
His case never came to trial.
He probably got a couple of hundred grand.
I will be paying the bill for RTE's vicious attempt to vitiate Father Kevin Reynolds reputation.
RTE is funded from compulsory taxation on any member of the general public who dares to own a television set.
I kid you not.
There are no consequences for these people.
They're caught trying to destroy a human being, and we all pick up the tab.
The wheel is rigged and it's the only game in town.
The journalist responsible for libelling Father Kevin Reynolds, Miss Aoife Kavanagh will not pay a cent.
Anyhoo.
Sesame Street neatly juxtaposes these four "victims" of libel on screen while Kermit the frog sings most engagingly in front of them.
Kermit sings:
"Three of these guys claim they were libelled.
Three of these guys have really no shame.
One of these guys was genuinely slandered.
Can you guess his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner.
Three of these guys are fraudulent b------ds.
Three of these guys are truly a pain.
One of these guys is a victim of RTE bigots.
Can you tell me his name?
It's time to play our game.
Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner."

come back john milton all is forgiven

2011-12-04T22:09:00.002Z

(Paradise By The Couscous Counter Light)
***

Ireland's greatest living poet wanders into the Manna Health Food emporium.
It's situated just off main street in the idyllic Celtic hamlet of Kilcullen.
(I thought you were the Celtic Hamlet - Ed note)
Manna is run by my feminist cousin Pauline.
She is there today.
"How is your play going?" quoth she.
"The Brezzer's turing it into a recital," I respond not without warmth.
"Oh," sez Pauline.
"She's still doing that Italian aria right at the end. Everything in the play is an homage to Ireland. Suddenly this daft bint starts singing Nessun Dorma or something."
"I thought she sang Con Te Partiro."
"Whatever."
"Does anyone complain?" enquires Pauline sweetly. "I mean aside from yourself."
"Two people over the last ten years," I tell her soberly. "And if you can guess who they were, both of them mind, I'll give you a hundred quid right here, right now."
"Fiona McGloughers and Mugs Martin," shot back Pauline.
Her two guesses were a television personality and one of Pauline's own former paramours.
A look of transfixing pain coursed through the finely wrought visage of the noble Heelers.
Right on both counts.
What were the odds of that?
Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make bankrupt.
I reached into my pocket.
Stunned, I placed a hundred lids on the table.
"I can't take that," said Pauline.
"Don't worry," I told her. "No don't get upset. I'm telling you I'll get mileage out of this for the rest of my life. It'll be a conversation piece. I may even write about it on my progressive little left wing blog. There hasn't been a squeak out of Archbishop Diarmuid Martin for the last twenty four hours and I'm desperate for material."
"I don't think I've ever won anything in my life," murmured Pauline, eyes wide and round, pocketing the hundred.
"It is edifying to see that the feminist movement can so quickly overcome its scruples about accepting money from strange men," I murmured.
Irelands greatest living poet exited without another word.
Back in the street, the power of speech returned.
"The horror, the horror," I proclaimed bitterly to the wind.

of mice and atheists

2011-12-04T21:59:00.000Z

"You're being a bit judgemental about atheists," ventured Montgomery. "Do you mean to say you've never doubted the existence of God yourself?"
I shook my regal head.
"I'm not saying that at all," I replied warmly. "I've doubted the existence of God six times already this morning. Seven if you count right this moment. But you're missing something. In my more trenchant criticisms of atheists, I have judged no one. I have restricted myself to commenting on those who are surreptitiously pursuing a ruthless and malign atheistic political project. That is to say, I have only commented on those atheists who have unbeknownst to the Irish people pursued a crassly and vilely manipulative atheistic agenda and sought to impose it on the nation. I got tired of people saying to me: "Oh Michael D Higgins couldn't be an atheist," or "Ruairi Quinn surely he isn't an atheist," or "Mary Robinson isn't an atheist, how could she be, she's got such nice hair and comes from a nice rich family," or "Eamon Gilmore is such a nice man, he can't be a former bankrobber or an atheist" or "Alan Dukes," or "Garret Fitzgerald," or so on ad infinitum. The only reason people didn't know the political affiliations of these scoundrels was because our atheistic media hadn't troubled to make it an issue. Know this. I haven't criticised people who doubt the existence of God. I have criticised solely those communists and Nazis who have reinvented themselves as atheistic humanists, and who are projecting atheism into our institutions of State as well as into the public policy sphere. They are the ones seeking to criminalise the Catholic Church so that they can remove the liberating spirit of Catholicism and all the more readily enslave Ireland to their own vapid, vacuous, ideology of despair. And they have done all this mark you while concealing their ulterior motives from the people who elect them. The atheists I've criticised are specifically those lurking in the shadowy recesses of the upper echolons of Irish society. Those unelected manipulating power brokers hiding in the Civil Service, the Judiciary and elsewhere. The same scoundrels being cheerled by the media. The same ones who are attempting to enslave our country to their own visionless religion of death. With abortions for all, you might say. And you know what. I've noticed that an awful lot of what I'm saying about these scoundrels has been reproduced in the national media. Even though the media is itself anti Catholic and functionally atheistic and implicitly involved in the atheistic conspiracy against the Church, even so, it can't allow a lowly genius like me to be continually pointing out to the citizenry that there are atheistic Marxian Maoist elephants in our drawing rooms. And in our parliament and Judiciary and Civil Service and Police. Last week even the running dog atheist Daily Mail was calling Ruairi Quinn an atheist. As were the deeply spiritual whoremasters at Independent Newspapers. Hilarious no. I say it here. It comes out there. You gorra laugh."

apologia pro atheismus mea

2011-12-04T21:33:00.000Z

me and the ghost of charlie darwin
staring from the windows of mount carmel
on a day of rain and high wind
at the gulls riding high in ecstacy

now says i to charlie darwin
look at that creature rejoice
riding high on rain and wild wind
and tell me there's no majesty in existence

says he to me
there isn't

the way we live now

2011-12-03T21:48:00.001Z

Wandered into the Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus in the Newbridge Silverware building.
The place was packed.
Glancing to my left I espied Pheonicia Lincolnshire sitting with some friends at a table near the aisle.
Our eyes met.
Being a pleasant open hearted youth, I went over and said hello.
"Oh hello James," she said airily. "Now off with you. We've finished all the food. There's nothing for you here."
It was said jovially but with intent.
I smiled and moved on.
That was rum, I thought to myself. Why on earth did she say that?
I'm telling you folks.
I'm likeable.
That woman normally loves me.
A thought struck me.
Recently Pheonicia Lincolnshire had emailed me inviting me to a fundraiser for the homeless.
And knowing that she was a local party organiser for Ireland's governing party Fine Gael, the most virulently anti Catholic political organisation in Europe, I had emailed back in high good humour the single sentence:
"Get your f--king hands off my f--king Church you fart filled f--king Fine Gael Nazi cee words."
Surely she couldn't have held that against me?
If you had been in the Newbridge Silverware cafe on this fine wintery afternoon you might have seen an exceptionally handsome poet picking his way between the tables.
Not for the first time his gentle pre-raphaelite features bore an expression of mild bemusement.

sov staat irl

2011-12-01T22:43:00.002Z

Coffee with Baines.
"But James," he says, "when all this is over the Catholic Church will have the best child protection procedures in the world."
"When this is over?" I exclaim incredulously. "But don't you see? This doesn't end. This doesn't end until the Church is gone. That's the game that's being played here. These people aren't reformers. They're usurpers. The people attacking the church from the shadows of the Civil Service, the Judiciary, and Parliament, the people using the Media to conduct their showtrials, these people don't care about sex abuse. It's only a tool for them. This is about power. While aping to care about sex abuse victims they deliberately ignore any victims who are of no use to them in their culture war against Christianity. They ignore the 99.99 percent of victims of the most serious abuse who are abused, tortured, debased and often murdered in the wider community, in the schools, hospitals, sports clubs, family homes, and health boards by non Catholic people, and at the same time they wantonly, despicably, mendaciously and maliciously insist that the worst cases of sex abuse occur in the Church. Their investigations into the Church are a massive fraud. They are a pretext. Those who despise the Church are seeking to remove it as a platform for public influence in the Republic of Ireland. Then there will be no one to oppose their own power brokerage. Oh at the moment, the media and the judges pretend that if we only surrendered a few ageing Bishops to them, then the Church would be left alone. I gotta tell you. No tyrant in history ever stopped a persecution because people gave in to him. With the Church gone, our democracy will be gone. This is a persecution. Mark my words. At the moment they're still by and large only murdering reputations. Soon the real murders will follow. And then more. And more. And more. Ireland will be a dictatorship. And no communist or atheist or leftist dictator has ever ruled without unleashing mass murder. This will be a Soviet Republic of Ireland as barbarous as anything Stalin ever dreamed. It's happening before our eyes. It's happening now."

to a wild rabbit

2011-12-01T22:28:00.001Z

(prince of the fields)
***

words are mine
no words take from his eyes
the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands
nor the silver scented sight of evening glories

manhood mine
a prince of the fields is he
even in the terror of flight
a strange high ecstacy spirits to delight

age is mine
he will not grow old
nor fear the passing of his world
the bitterness of friends becoming foes

durance vile

2011-11-30T19:55:00.001Z

As the anti Catholic media groups of the Republic of Ireland struggled to feign outrage over the false child rape and paternity accusations levelled by the broadcaster RTE against an innocent priest, only the Daily Mail had the sleazoid temerity to break ranks, show its true colours, and blatently attempt to diminish RTE's crime by suggesting the Catholic Church had done worse.
The Daily Mail responded to the exposure of RTE's criminal vilification of an innocent man by running the following headline:
"RTE MADE A MISTAKE BUT AT LEAST RTE NEVER RAPED CHILDREN OR CONCEALED CHILD ABUSE."
Ahem.
Where to begin.
This one really is a doozy.
The sheer scale of the lie which the Daily Mail is telling, almost beggars the possibility of the Daily Mail being justly held to account.
For the Daily Mail has compressed multiple mendacities into just one crass, manipulative, vilificatory headline.
Let me try.
Three points.
(1) The Daily Mail's headline begins by attempting to reduce RTE's deliberate assault upon an aged priest to the level of a mistake. A mistake. There was no mistake. RTE deliberately gave the priest no chance to refute the lies RTE were about to broadcast to the nation. His denials were disregarded. Urgent communications from his lawyer were deflected. He was informed of the broadcast only shortly before air time so that he had nearly no opportunity to prevent RTE's assault upon his character, his career, his life and his person. Oh, this was no mistake. RTE's camera crew ambushing him at a church ceremony involving children was no mistake. RTE refusing to allow him to take a paternity test prior to their broadcast was no mistake. RTE's failure to take account of the refutation of RTE's deliberate lies by the innocent priest's Bishop and colleagues was no mistake. RTE's failure to notify the priest or his lawyers that the girl RTE was alleging he'd abused was now refusing to take a paternity test, was no mistake. RTE's leak of the results of the paternity test which RTE claims the girl eventually took twice, and which RTE says exonerated the priest, RTE's leak of this supposed paternity test to the Sunday Independent, yes they leaked it rather than informing the priest or his lawyers, this policy by RTE of leaking information to anti Catholic media allies, can never be construed as a mistake. RTE's subsequent and continuing leaks to the Daily Mail wherein, without attribution, RTE attempted to sow in the public mind via the Daily Mail, the still unsubstantiated claim that the innocent priest's accuser was another priest, these leaks, egregious as the others and still going on, can in no way or by any stretch of the imagination be characterised a mistake. All these leaks, all these attempts to ruin an innocent man, all these trahesions of due process, all of them were deliberate. And all of them amounted to criminal behaviour of the most disgraceful sort.
(2) The reference to a "mistake" is only the first part of the Daily Mail's malicious falsehood laden headline. The Daily Mail compounds its hate speech lie by claiming that RTE never raped any children. The intended implication by the Daily Mail is that the Catholic Church itself may be deemed a child rapist. This lie is too invidious for words. The Daily Mail published it anonymously of course. Of course they did. We'll know who wrote it on Judgement Day. So let me tell you all one thing gentle readers. One thing I do know. RTE has indeed raped children. RTE has raped children in the sense that RTE employees have committed child abuse and RTE has failed to report that child abuse to the general public. Here is the news. No organisation, institution, no newspaper, no government department, no sports club, no hospital, no school, no family, in the land has been untouched by child abuse. This is an age of massive sexual dysfunction. The Daily Mail and its ilk wish to pretend that only the Catholic Church has been affected. Worse. The Daily Mail wishes to pretend that RTE employees are completely untouched by the scourge of paedophilia. Worse still, the Daily Mail apes to believe that the causality for sex abuse stems from Christian culture rather than from the atheistic pornographic sleaze culture which through the Daily Mail and its ilk and its putative ally RTE, has disrupted and debauched a generation. I'm telling you folks. RTE has raped children in exactly the same sense that any other organisation may be said by the Dail Mail to have raped children. The only difference is that RTE employees committing child abuse have of course received negligible reportage. As has the Irish Times journalist recently discovered raping children whom he'd groomed through his work as a volunteer coach at Dublin sports clubs. The Irish Times journalist's child abuse activities remain largely unreported. They also remain largely uninvestigated. The excuse being that every time the police so much as look at him, he attempts suicide. Clever, eh? One police officer dismissed public concerns about the matter by asserting: "It looks like the sex was consensual." This in spite of the fact that in Irish law, any sexual activity with minors is considered rape. Still one law for Irish Times child rapists and another for members of the Catholic Church accused of the same crime. Those of us who know about the existence of child rapists in RTE, know about them only through what you might call back channels. Most of us wouldn't claim that RTE itself is responsbile when one of its presenters or producers or programme contributors, rapes a child. But the Daily Mail has invented a new standard solely to be used for slandering the Catholic Church. According to the Daily Mail's reasoning, if one of your employees rapes a child, then your entire organisation raped the child. That is if you're the Catholic Church. Otherwise don't worry about it. I say it again. By the Daily Mail's own lights, RTE has indeed raped children. But believe you me, the Daily Mail has no intention of applying this standard to the child abusers within RTE. It is a standard and a sneer solely devised with the intention of fostering public hatred against the Catholic Church. Listen. No institution rapes children. Children are raped by individuals who commit child rape. The Daily Mail is attempting in its headline to suggest that the Catholic Church as an institution is responsible for any rapes that are carried out by any person calling themselves Catholic. Yet the Daily Mail's incitement to hatred hinges on perpetrating a different standard for RTE, the Health Boards, the Irish Times, the hospitals, etc, than for the Catholic Church. The Daily Mail asserts that abuse committed by a churchman makes the whole church guilty. In the same breath the Daily Mail insists that abuse committed by RTE employees, health board employees, teachers, nurses, doctors, lawyers, judges, et al, is to be deemed individual abuse without any guilt accruing to the friends of the Daily Mail who run those organisations which the Daily Mail wishes to protect. The wheel is rigged and it's the only game in town.
(3) The final part of the Daily Mail's classically invidious agit prop headline asserts that RTE has never concealed sex abuse. Again the deliberate and false implication is that RTE's behaviour has been impeccable while the Catholic Church by trying to handle such cases discreetly or through lawyers, was somehow concealing them. By the Daily Mail standard everybody in the land who has been confided in by a sex abuse victim with the express instruction that no further action was to be taken, every one of us I say, would be guilty of concealing sex abuse. But of course the Daily Mail and its allies aren't seeking to destroy every one of us. They only wish to destroy the Catholic Church. I'll have to ask for a reality check on this one. RTE has given negligible reportage to the broad mass of sex abuse cases arising among general public. RTE has certainly never focussed on the cases arising within the journalistic and media fraternities. RTE has never pointed out that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases, including the most serious ones, the ones involving ritual torture and murder, arise outside the Catholic Church. RTE has never so much as dropped a hint that the vast preponderance of sex abuse cases occur primarily in the family home at the hands of near relatives. RTE's failure to communicate the true nature and extent of sex abuse is surely tantamount to the most grotesque concealment of it. The Daily Mail's pretence that RTE has never concealed sex abuse is utterly false.