The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, November 08, 2008

the divine afflatus

Evening at the Chateau.
Uncle Throgmorton is in conference with the mighty Heelers.
"My kids," sez Uncle Throg, "don't go to church."
Uncle Throg's kids are kids in the Irish sense of the word kids.
That is to say their ages range from 38 to 51.
The uncle has been praying that they might have a Christian conversion.
I'm telling you folks I wouldn't bet on it.
And I bet two grand on John McCain to win the US presidency.
Arf arf.
That old gag.
Bear with me gentle travellers of the internet.
I'll be using it again soon.
I intend to get two thousand smackeroos worth out of that joke one way or the other.
Uncle Throg's family of little atheists.
There are four of them.
Cousin Rowena, a brash commercial secretary whose own kids I keep secretly baptising.
My gambling Cousin Benjie, whose exploits in gambling, we should note, have been a good deal more successful than mine. He at least has been able to buy a big house and drives a Jaguar.
Cousin Ronald, known to scholars of my writings as "The Meek That Shall Inherit," because he's heir presumptive to Uncle Throg's electronics business. At least I presume he is.
And Cousin Drusilla, a tough minded corporate career woman with a heart of gold, who works as an accountant and legal adviser for one of Ireland's richest men. It's noble work. She is paid a princely monthly sum for making him coffee, and helping him prise up the floor board where the doubloons are stashed.
I'm serious about her having a heart of gold by the way.
And as well as having a heart of gold she also has lots of the real stuff.
Gold, I mean.
But I digress.
(You're always digressing. Stop it. It's dirty. - Ed note)
None of the cousins appear overtly drawn to spiritual conceptions of the universe.
The Uncle is waiting for my reaction to the great dilemma.
With an air of great benificence, sanctity even, I deign to comment.
"What do you care if they go to church or not?" quoth me brutally.
The uncle looks pained.
"Ah James," he mutters. "You know yourself. They're dealing with life without any of the consolations of faith. Even to have that anchor, that guidance, that consolation, in the little every day challenges. I don't see how anyone can cope without prayer."
I favour him with an austere stare.
"Those aren't reasons to go to church," sez I.
"Why not?"
"There's only one reason why you should ever recommend the Christian faith to another human being."
"What do you mean?"
"You should never recommend to anyone that they pray because it's good for them, or good for their digestion, or because the Catholic mass will give them a sense of belonging, or faith will give them a sense of citizenship."
"Why then?"
"The only reason to believe in Jesus or to ever advocate him as a solution to any of life's problems..."
"... is because Jesus is the truth."

Thursday, November 06, 2008

they saved marie's brain

My sister Marie's brain, showing genetically determined character dispositions, motor functions, balance sensors, thought processes, neural pathways, instinctive pleasure centres, primal fear centres, and erogenous zones.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008


spirit creature storm
smitten into form
by a trick of the dark
accident brings you here
or destiny
your blood is older
than the very history
your eyes hold knowledge
of something beyond knowing
pure soul perhaps
or pure savage

prayer for america

Oh Lord bless America.
Bless all Americans wherever they are at this moment.
I praise you God for the goodness of Americans which is a reflection of your own immeasurable goodness.
I thank you God for the great deeds you have wrought in the world through their nation.
I praise you for the courage, strength and generosity of spirit which are hallmarks of the Americans.
I rejoice in your holy will oh God.
I celebrate your providence.
I give thanks for the great gift you have given the world in the United States of America.
God bless John McCain and his wife and family.
Bless them this night oh Lord and throughout their lives.
Bless Sarah Palin and her husband and family.
Bless them always Lord.
God bless President elect Barack Obama and his wife and family.
Bless President Obama in all the tasks he will face.
Bless him in times of trial as in times of triumph.
Watch over him Lord.
Guide him in your ways.
Bless him in his inmost heart with wisdom, strength and light.
May President Obama be ever guided and upheld by the spirit of eternal truth.
May he walk in the paths of grace.
Long live Jesus Christ the king.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008


McCain will win.

of hamsters and men

Sitting in the front room exploring my inner Catholic with the Eternal Word Television Network.
MC Hamster is doing her Phantom Of The Opera routine.
That is to say she is standing in the middle of her cage half turned towards me, and staring imploringly into my eyes.
The sweep of her furry little body might just as well be the tumbling of a cape.
She is the picture of poignancy.
"No way Hammikins," I tell her. "I'm watching Mother Angelica. If I take you out, you'll just go all Action Hamster. I won't have a moment's peace."
Our discourse is interrupted by an anguished cry.
It has come from the direction of the kitchen.
I turn down the sound on the television.
The Dad's voice, quivering with outrage, reaches my ears.
"Who took my sandwich?" he cries.
Ah yes.
A simple man.
Apparently he'd left a sandwich on the kitchen table and turned away to make tea.
A fatal mistake in our household.
Now the sanger has disappeared.
This sort of thing seems to be happening quite a lot nowadays at the Chateau de Healy.
No doubt, part of the general decline in moral values that so afflicts modern life.
Now I hear the Mammy's voice raised high in mock innocence.
She says: "It mush have been the dog."
Hmmm, gentle readers of the internet.
Paddy Pup is indeed present in the kitchen.
He is indeed a known sandwich thief.
But with the Mammy herself also in the vicinity, no jury in the western world could convict the dog.
I think the Dad suspects this as well.
But there's nothing he can do.
When it comes to sandwiches, possession is nine tenths of the law.
The last thing I hear is the Mammy intoning self righteously: "It's your own fault for leaving it on the table when the dog is about."
After that I know the Mammy is definitely guilty.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

sweet theatre of life

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
Aunty Mary drops in for a visit.
With great gusto and high good humour she informs me that she has just killed Roger and Reggie her two roosters, and served them up for dinner.
I am rather put out by this.
In spite of all my complaining about their early morning cockadoodledooing, I have grown quite fond of the beasts.
"Why did you kill them? " I wonder a tad naively.
Aunty Mary shrugs.
"Arrah," sez she, "they wouldn't give the hens a moment's peace."
So that was it.
Even the animal kingdom isn't safe from the march of feminism.