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, April 25, 2009

the breakfast club

Paddy Pup and the Dad greet the new day.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

beneath the seal of the scimitar

Morning in Iran.
Traffic sighing in the ancient streets of Teheran.
In the ops room beneath the Presidential palace, the buzz of incongruous high technology mingles with excited Persian voices.
"This way Excellency," says Defence Minister Hashemi Snotbosca, ushering his guest to a chair in front of a splendidly arrayed computer console.
His guest is none other than President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, ruler of Iran, keeper of the flame of Jihad, upholder of the spirit of the Mahdi, known to friends and enemies alike as Grinny.
An expectant hush falls on the ops room as the President is seated.
"Now Hashemi," beams President Ahmadinejad, "what's this all about?"
The Defence Minister nods to an aide who twiddles a dial on the concole.
"Our listening devices in the American imperialist prison at Guantanamo Bay are now fully operational," explains Mr Snotbosca. "We are about to receive live transmissions from the new CIA torture sessions specially sanctioned by the infidel dog Barack Obama. We will be able to monitor directly how our men are holding up under the new methods."
There is a crackling of static over the intercom.
President Ahamdinejad cups his hands in his chin and listens intently.
More static over the intercom, then faintly but unmistakeably, the sound of voices.
President Ahmadinejead hears the following exchanges.

American Voice: Tell us the time and location of the next Al Qaeda attack.
Al Qaeda member: Never, you American dog.
American Voice: Tell us.
Al Qaeda member: I will die first.
American Voice: Ah please.
Al Qaeda member: Never.
American Voice: You're no fun.
Al Qaeda member: Never I say.
American Voice: I'll be your friend.
Al Qaeda member: (Sound of groaning.) Ngghhh.
American Voice: I'll make you a cup of tea.
Al Qaeda member: Gnuuuuurgggggggggh.
American Voice: Oh come on. If you don't tell me, I'm going to cry.
Al Qaeda member: Arggggggggh.
American Voice: Please, please, please.

At this point the transmission to the ops room at the Presidential palace broke down.
President Ahmadinejad looked at Defence Minister Snotbosca.
Defence Minister Snotbasca looked at President Ahmadinejad.
It was a Kodak moment.
"What do you think Excellency?" said Mr Snotbosca.
The ruler of Iran shook his head slowly.
His words came but falteringly.
"It's, it's, it's unholy" breathed President Ahmadinejad. "They must know they're breaking the Geneva convention. This is worse than anything the vile infidel imperialist President Bush did. This is beyond vileness. I mean, I'm ten thousand miles away, and I nearly got sick."

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


In a shock statement this morning President Barack Obama announced the immediate unilateral surrender of the United States of America to Al Qaeda.
"We've been fighting these guys for too long," President Obama told reporters. "The War On Terror was a mistake, just like the British Foreign Minister David Milipede told you. The real enemy is the former Administration of President Bush. Muslim warrior superheroes are our friends. From now on I will commit the full resources of the United States to pursuing President Bush. That is, if Al Qaeda will give me permission to do so. I will continue to release classified CIA interrogation records in order to sow the idea in the public mind that President Bush has sanctioned torture. I will do this regardless of the risk of further strengthening Al Qaeda whom I have grown to understand and love. I will do it regardless of the risk of weakening the legal cases against Al Qaeda detainees whom I want released anyway. After all, the Prime Minister of Ireland Brian Cowan has said he will permit Guantanamo bay terrorists to have Irish citizenship. I kid you not. So I'm refocusing our security efforts on calumniating and criminalising the Bush Administration. I have to do it because let's face it, if I don't go after President Bush, people are going to start looking at my own capabilities and capacities. I mean you can get by on flash over substance for only so long. President Bush and his Administration will ultimately be brought to book. I will put them on trial. I will lock them up and throw away the key. The alternative is that my own shortcomings would become common currency. I am a Chicago machine politician, elected on the votes of dead people and fictional people added to the voter rolls by the Acorn group and by the Teamsters mafiosi trade union. These are my people. These are my fellow Americans. These are the ones I serve. That is why you see me shaking hands with Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, the unrepentant thug dictator. Remember Chavez once called President Bush a devil. You gotta like that guy. Why wouldn't I shake hands with him? I don't care if he was up to his neck in the Farc. As for kowtowing to the Islamic Republic of Iran... You ain't seen nuthin yet. I'm a black Jimmy Carter. That's what I am. Wait till you see me abandon the State of Israel and hand over Europe to the Russians. I'm only warming up. But I gotta keep calling President Bush a war criminal. Because otherwise my own crass incompetence might become the story. As Miz Lilian told me last night: Barack you is one good talker but you is a heap o crap for a president."

prisoner cell block heelers

Medbh Gillard's classic study of Ireland's greatest living poet, clearly capturing his gentle good humour and irrepressible joie de vivre.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

stephens green

lesser spotted yobs
spreadeagled on the lawn
a long tied businessman
chirps into his phone
golden breasted secretaries
cluster round the fountain
preening at their feathers
and cackling with abandon
whilst an elephantine matron
trumpets for her young
and a herd of student sexalopes
gambol in the sun
each creature happy
in its cacaphonic fate
save a lone wolfen poet
hunting for a mate

more from the united nations conference on racism

President Ahmadinejad stood on the rostrum and smiled benignly at the assembled diplomats.
"Nyah, ha, ha G-Force," he began. "We will destroy those racist Israelis. Nyah, ha, ha. Whoo, woo, woo. Last train to transcentral. Nyah, ha, ha. Wim ping ping Richochet Rabbit. Nyah, ha, ha. Iran will build atomic weapons and use them for peaceful purposes like wiping the State of Israel off the map. And anyone else who gets in our way. You all gonna be Muslims. Yeeeeehaaaaaaaa. Woo, woo, woo, woooooo. Daddy's taking us to the zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow. Daddy's taking us to the zoo tomorrow. We're gonna stay all day. We're goin' to the zoo, zoo, zoo. Fee fie diddledy dum. Mama's gonna get you. Love and peace man. My name is Sue. How do you do? Now you're gonna dieeeeeeeee. Oh and nyah, ha, ha G-Force."
There were walk outs of course.
Some diplomats representing that part of humanity formerly known as the Free World got up and walked out.
The African and Arab dictators didn't budge.
They just sat there.
And when the bigotry was particularly fruity, applauding.
Their plush Armani suits, paid for with western aid, glinted like diamonds in the cool interior of the auditorium.
They were happy dictators.
They liked the cut of President Ahmadinejad's jib.
They like the smell of bigotry in the morning.
James Healy stood up.
"You Arab and African dictators have dined out on free money from the Free World for fifty years," he said. "And still you murder your own populations. And still you enslave your own women and children. And still you want nothing more than to destroy the Free World. No more free money for you. Go home. Go home and acccount to your own people for what you have done. Explain to them what you have lost and why you have lost it. Get out. You are expelled from the UN. All of you. Get out. Get out you miserable racist murdering Islamist bast--ds."
President Ahamdinejad looked nonplussed.
He genuinely hadn't heard that one before.

the ineluctable modality of has beens

The Johnston Press is in slavery
To a habit obscene and unsavoury
With maniacal howls
They deflower young owls
Which they keep in an underground aviary.

Monday, April 20, 2009

day among days

Morning, woken by nephews prodding me with light sabres.
George Lucas has a lot to answer for.
Aunty Mary's cockerel crowing outside.
Sun burgeoning over the heartland.
The loveliest day of the year.
Tempted to stay in bed.
Nephews not encouraging that option.
Got up.
Breakfast with Paddy Pup.
Washed car.
Fed birds.
The full menagerie.
Chaffies, blues, stars, goldies, crowkins and daws.
Also known as chaffinches, blue tits, starlings, gold finches, crows and jackdaws.
Even a ragged scald crow joined the party.
Could he be the same scald crow I rescued from the greyhounds in 1976?
I think he could.
Paddy Pup doesn't like the crows but he'll tolerate the others.
Cherry trees in the garden of my father in full raiment.
Cousin arrives and has coffee with me.
She says: "You're very focussed on the evil in the world. But just by looking at those around us, like Uncle Bernard and Uncle Jim, I can believe more in the good. I am trying to save the world two children at a time."
Nephews entered and brought me back to the garden for a game of football.
Then it was Dublin for a rendezvous with the three amigas.
These are three Spanish au pairs who are teaching me to focus on the forces of good.
Coffee in the Stephens Green centre.
Stroll on Stephen's Green itself where young Dublin was disporting.
Mass at the church of Saint Mary in the Maughans on Clarendon street.
Home by dark.
Heard the Dad negotiating with Miss South Korea on the phone as I arrived.
He was repeating through gritted teeth: "Who are you?"
Hyunjin was having trouble telling him.
"I'd say that's for me Dad," sez I, taking the receiver.
Hyunjin wishes to book another lesson of English for which she will pay me 30 lids.
I bet the Johnston Press are sorry now.
She's sex on legs.
I should be paying her.
Arf, arf.
A little louche English teacher/sexist/Johnston Press humour there.
Hilarious, no!
Email from Bianca Bianco. She's working for Il Mattino, an Italian national newspaper. It's a big job. She's finally pulled it off.
Phoned Hodders and somewhere along the way told her Bianca's news.
"Whitey White," pronounced Hodders grimly and without admiration.
Whitey White being a rough translation of Bianca's name.
Cooked up rashers for dinner.
The Mammy passing the kitchen called out: "I'll have an ould rasher son. And maybe a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea."
Phoned Doctor Barn while cooking.
Went for a night walk with Paddy Pup.
Watched a bit of a British television quiz called A Hundred To One with the Mammy.
Also a less objectionable than usual Southpark.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

a scientist's prayer

bright the sky
the god of miracles
and molecules
sits on his throne tonight
that the humble and the mighty
may rejoice