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, August 06, 2011


A prayer group in an Irish country town.
The gentle faced citizenry are making their prayers of intercession.
Each in turn offers up a person or cause to be prayed for, and then says: "Lord hear us."
The group responds: "Lord graciously hear us."
Ron Baines is praying now.
He says: "Lord pray for all the victims of sex abuse. Lord help them to heal. Lord hear us."
The group, excepting me, answers: "Lord graciously hear us."
I never pray for sex abuse victims just because RTE, or Independent Newspapers, or The Irish Times, tells me to.
When I do pray for sex abuse victims I pray for all of them, not just the tiny minority who have been abused by a Catholic priest.
It is my turn to offer an intercessory prayer.
I rap out: "And Lord have mercy on all those in the Media, the Judiciary and our parliament who are using the tiny minority of sex abuse victims who were assaulted by priests as a tool in the media's attempts to destroy the Catholic Church while ignoring the vast majority of sex abuse victims who were raped in the family home, or in schools, or in Health Board care by non Christians employed by our atheistic goverment. Lord have mercy on these scoundrels who have ignored 99.99 percent of victims simply because those victims were no use in their war against the Catholic Church. Lord hear us."
The response came back without a pause: "Lord graciously hear us."
Barbara Frinton spoke up.
"And Lord have pity on the abusers," she said softly. "We do not know why they do what they do. Have pity on them Lord. Bless them Lord. Lord hear us."
The response came as per usual from the group.
But again I said nothing.
For alone among those present, I knew that Barbara Frinton had been raped by her own father for many years of her childhood.
And suddenly I felt very old and very broken and very small.

Friday, August 05, 2011

top five greatest hypocrites of the irish sex wars

The liberal leftist atheistic pseudo elites of the Republic of Ireland are pressing home their attempts to eradicate Catholicism from our nation by falsely labelling the Church an abusing institution. This latest persecution has thrown up some rare hypocrites indeed. Here are my five favourites.

1. Michael D Higgins. Famous lying sneerer about the Catholic Church. Presidential candidate for the Labour Party. Personal friend of Nicaraguan President Danilo Ortega. Mr Ortega's own adopted daughter says Mr Ortega raped her throughout her childhood. Higgins has yet to repudiate his old friend President Danilo Ortega of Nicaragua whose child rapes he apparently finds acceptable.
2. Senator David Norris. Another consummate sneerer at Catholicism. Has recently withdrawn from Irish presidential race over scandal about a letter he wrote to an Israeli court asking for leniency for one of his male sex partners who had been convicted of raping a fifteen year old boy.
3. Enda Kenny. Prime Minister, currently trying to make a name for himself by out sneering all the other anti Catholic sneerers. A weak man.
4. The Irish Chief of Police, Fachtna O'Looball. Spoke eloquently, piously and with sublime invidiousness about how he would never allow churchmen to evade his own particular conception of justice. It would be more in his line to prevent his police officers from beating the living s--t out of citizens in the streets as happened in Cork recently, or beating the living s--t out of citizens in their own homes as happened in Dublin. (A tainted Jury acquitted the Dublin thug cops, one of whom had responded to the allegations with the inculpatory phrase: "I'm sorry. Things got out of hand." I call it a tainted Jury by the way because after hearing that statement and still acquitting the police officers, the Jury had to be either tainted with cretinism or tainted with outright malignant treasonous dishonesty. A police spokesman told reporters that it was unlikely even with the acquittals that any of the Dublin officers would be returning to the Force. I am telling you all here and now that every one of those thug police officers will be returning to the Force.) But I digress. Ongoing assaults by police on the broader community are not the reason I call Superintendant Fachtna O'Looball a hypocrite. The reason is this. He refused to take action in the Cynthia Owens case. A case in which the sex abuse, tortures and murders dwarf anything ever laid at the door of paedophiles infiltrating the Catholic Church. Cynthia Owens you will remember was prostituted by her parents as an eleven year old girl to a devil worship ring in Dalkey in 1973. Two babies born to Cynthia were murdered, the first baby by Celine's own mother with a knitting needle. The identies of six members of the devil worship ring are known. Fachtna O'Looball and his predecessors have for years simply refused to open the case. Three of Celine's siblings have committed suicide (or were murdered).
5. The Irish Judiciary. Have contrived to invent criminality for Catholic Bishops simply by retrospectively devising guilt for any attempt to handle sex abuse cases discretely in the past. Ironically enough, in the present day the Judiciary have colluded with the Irish police force to give Judge Brian Curtin a get out of jail free card after the discovery of his predilection for paying to watch children being raped by remote viewing over the internet. Interpol had informed the Irish police force that Judge Brian Curtin was getting his jollies by paying to watch children being raped. And the Irish police force promptly and typically and deliberately enacted their search warrant on Judge Brian Curtin a day late. This allowed the Irish Judiciary the excuse they were looking for to dismiss the charges. The Irish people are being compelled to pay Judge Brian Curtin's legal bills which are currently estimated as being between one and two million dollars. Judge Brian Curtin has been allowed to quietly retire. And these are the people standing in judgement on our ancient Church.
6. Gerry Adams. The head of the Sinn Fein political party and also formerly commander of the IRA terrorist army. Now holds an Irish parliamentary seat for the constituency of Cavan Monaghan. Think of The Hills Have Eyes and you're imagining Cavan Monaghan perfectly. Gerry Adams famously called for Cardinal Sean Brady to resign when the media were seeking to falsely label Cardinal Brady a concealer of child abuse. The arrant hypocrasy of Gerry Adams becomes apparent when you remember that Gerry Adams' niece accused him of failing to take action against his brother (her own father) who had raped her repeatedly in childhood. She had gone to Gerry Adams to tell him about what had happened to her. Gerry Adams had done nothing. And now Gerry Adams was calling on Cardinal Brady to resign. The sum total of the cover ups of child abuse laid at the door of Cardinal Brady is that he is alleged while a young priest to have been a clerk at a meeting where two sex abuse victims, who were no longer being abused, took an oath, the administration of which could be interpreted as swearing them to secrecy. I think we can safely say that Gerry Adams failure to take any action to help his niece while she was being raped by his brother (her father), and his failure to prevent his brother taking jobs with children after Gerry Adams had been informed of his brother's rapes, and finally his failure to alert the police forces in either Ireland or Britain to his brother's predilection for child rape, far exceeds any contrived cover up the media might lay at the door of Cardinal Brady.

Wednesday, August 03, 2011

heelers celebrates ramadan

Sitting in the Starbucks on Dawson Street watching the sexors go by.
Muslim music plays in the background.
You know.
The whiney sort they use for Tom Hanks films blaming the Free World for the War On Terror.
Neeerdly nir nir neerdly nirrr.
And so on ad infinitum.
I pause briefly to consider.
Why has Starbucks of Dawson Street been playing this unlistenable Arab drivel for the past five days?
And come to think of it, I was in another Starbucks on Grafton Street earlier today, and the same drivel was playing.
Neeerdly nir nir neeerdly nirrrrrrrrrrrr.
The sort of stuff that makes Michael D Higgins' poetry sound epic.
A thought strikes me.
Is it possible that Starbucks has capitulated to the Jihad boys?
This is after all the Muslim self designated holy month of Ramadan.
Mussies aren't supposed to drink coffee during daylight hours for the next thirty days.
Some of the Mussies in European cities have been quite forward in their attempts to compel non Muslims to buy into their fast, even going so far as to order certain coffee shops to shut down until Ramadan is over.
Shut down on pain of death, as they do say in the Jihad trade.
Ram it up your arse would be the standard recommended reply to that piece of Islamist aggression.
But Starbucks might be trying another method.
Nir nir nirdly nir neeeerdly neeedly nir nir.
Finally I can take no more.
Taking a furtive look around to make sure none of the Arab staff are present, I approach the counter.
Sexy Miss Romania is on duty.
"Miss Romania, what the hell is this music!" I cry.
"You don't like it?" quoth she.
"It's awful," sez me.
"It's our new tape," explaineth she.
I goggle briefly.
"But what is it?" I expectorate. "Osama's Greatest Hits? His intriguing 1975 cross over album I'm not a transvestite, I'm Only Wearing This Burka To Blow You Up Baby. His 1980s flirtation with German electro funk We Fade To Shiite. I mean what the hell is it?"
"I'll change it if you like," proffers Miss Romania.
Over her shoulder one of the Arab waiters hoves into view.
His name tag reads Abu Bin Ahmed Al Mohammed Al Boom Boom Al Slash Yer Throat or something like that.
"That's okay," I fumble hastily. "I'm only trying to be funny."
My courage is never inadvertent.
It's always, gentle travellers of the internet, strictly vertent.
Happy Ramadan, y'all.

Monday, August 01, 2011

night and the city

Stephens Green at evening.
There's magic in the park tonight.
A light mist of rain has fallen and the park is nearly deserted.
I'm ogling two leggy girls on an adjoining bench.
They're not afraid of the rain.
They're not afraid of anything.
A guy in a wheelchair erupts out of the dusk.
He cruises smoothly amid the flowerbeds and fountains.
He has three Jack Russell terriers running free in his wake.
The dogs scatter happily about the park, occasionally returning to their master to trot for a few seconds beneath the seat of his chair just behind the wheel axle.
They seem to consider this the pole position and compete for it merrily.
At times they are queueing behind the chair for a turn under the seat.
Their master, no doubt realising how appealing the scene he represents, pauses for a brief attempt at chatting up my leggy girls.
Getting nowhere, he whizzes off through the trees, doggies jostling behind him for the position of honour beneath his chair.
Yes it is a night of magic in the park.
I've just realised the ducks on the pond are mooning me.
A rough hewn tramp in a long coat emerges from the bushes and begins rooting in a trash bin.
I stand up and walk over to him.
"Holy God told me to give you this," I announce, handing him a twenty.
"Oh right," he shrugs, pocketing the cash and returning to his bin.
I wander off through the mists of time and fantasy.
If you had seen me this evening, gentle readers of the internet, you might have thought me a faintly shabby, faintly heroic figure, moving like a ghost through the park, unrecognised in a city that will one rejoice, nay clamour, to acclaim me.
Each man must be a legend to himself.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

how mick sneeran got his groove back

This in my inbox:

"Let's get one thing straight. The reason you were fired is because you wouldn't even come in to work."

It was unsigned.
But it was him alright.
The whole thing oozed class.
His class that is.
The bottom of the heap.
Mick Sneeran, former editor of a now defunct newspaper called the Leinster Lootheramawn, doing a little reaching out from the mouldiest dunny in Western Australia or wherever he's hiding now.

In short order and with no real ill will, I dashed off a reply:

How would you know why they fired me?
They dumped you six months before they got rid of me.

And somewhere the god of bankrupt newspapers was smiling.