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, October 29, 2011

animal farm

The Irish farm animals crowded up to the windows of the Irish White House.
They peeped in.
A few years before they would have seen Mary McAleese and her coterie of corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail pigs snarfing from the trough.
Now the table was packed with oleaginous Labour Party socialist apparatchiks lionising their new President, a certain wreck of the hesperas styling himself Michael D Higgins.
The Irish farm animals blinked and stared.
For a moment beneath the glittering chandeliers, the Labour Party socialists looked just like Fianna Fail kleptocrats of recent memory.
The Irish farm animals squinted from the darkness pressing against the window panes as the rain waters and storm force winds of a collapsing economy bored through them.
They looked from poverty and penury into the horn of plenty.
And still they could see no difference.
No difference between the Previous President and the Present President.
No difference between the showboating anti Catholic entourages of both Presidents.
No difference between the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Failers  so well remembered and the oleaginous atheistic Labour Party socialists here before our eyes.
No difference at all.
Still the chandeliers glittered.
And still the pigs toasted each other.
And now the Fianna Failers had reappeared, entered the room like old confreres, and were sitting down beside the Labour Party apparatchiks from whom they were indistinguishable.
And they toasted each other with strange high revelry.
And caressed each other.
And gave each other business loans.
And gave the new President Michael D Higgins four, or is it five, pensions.
And bailed out each other's banks.
In the darkness outside with the other Irish farm animals Old Heelers shook his noble head sadly.
"What a shower of c--ts," he murmured.

Friday, October 28, 2011

the majesty of democracy

Media reports in the Republic of Ireland are already suggesting that Michael D Higgins is to be our new President.
I am frankly stunned.
This afternoon a lady millionairess Fianna Fail financier approached me in Quigleys Cafe, Newbridge, and announced: "Michael D is a good man. He'll be a good President."
I asked her what was good about him.
She said he had a long career and a solid track record.
I told her he was an atheistic, abortionist, Maoist who had spent his entire life supporting communist dictatorships around the world and that the only reason Irish people aren't generally aware of this is because our leftist anti Catholic media groups don't consider it's news.
I added that the only time his support for such dictatorships had wavered, was when those dictatorships occasionally showed signs of wishing to improve their relationships with the United States of America and the Free World.
The lady millionairess stared.
"Is Michael D really an atheist?" quoth she.
"He's an atheist, abortionist Maoist lifelong supporter of tyrannical communist regimes worldwide," I reminded her.
"But I'd say he's still a spiritual man," she inisted musingly.
"Would you?" I smiled. "Would you really? A spiritual atheist abortionist communist. And he's about to be our President. Well, I suppose we could consider self worship as a form of spirituality. Maybe we should register Michael D Higgins' worship of himself as a new religion. As a practicing Higginsist, he'll be entitled to tax exempt status of course. And extra holidays from his new job as President of Ireland in recognition of his religion's official feast days. Presumably his birthday would be one. The anniversary of his first dramatic proclamation at Galway University in favour of the extermination of unborn children might be another. The formal commemoration of his early denouncements of America and the State of Israel and democratic countries in general would be a third. And then a magnificent month long fast to mark his lifelong excoriation and detestation of Christianity. That'll be the Michael D Higgins religion version of Ramadan. And he'll have his own Christmas. Only it'll be called Marxmas. And his Easter will be Mao-ster. Oh this should be a hoot. Spirituality indeed. Come back Mary Kenny, all is forgiven."
"But he was good for the arts," proclaimed the lady millionairess Fianna Failer with a look of modest confusion on her finely moneyed features.
(Chiseled surely. - Ed note.)
"Listen," sez me. "In government Michael D Higgins did indeed lavish public money on various arts projects. He set up an Irish language television station using State funds and gave it to his friends in the Galway Irish language movement to run. They haven't stopped worshipping him since. And he established a film production company using State funds. Of course true to form, he established it in his political heartland of Galway and gave it to his friends to run. He used State funds to produce dozens of films. None of which ever made money. None of them. And all of which were publicly funded. And on all of which he was remunerated as Executive Producer. And hoo baby he provided generous funding to the Arts Council, did he ever, from State funds of course. And the Arts Council used that generous funding to publish a plethora of woeful turgid sub prime poetry books written by none other than Michael D Higgins. That was good for the arts alright. Then there was the woeful unreadable sub pornographic homsexualist Hot Press magazine which was edited by Michael D's friend Niall Stokes. Michael D ensured that there was any amount of State money available to keep Hot Press going without readers. And Michael D's friend ensured Michael D was a highly valued nay remunerated contributor to Hot Press, famous for his platitudinous hate speech against the Catholic Church. Sure we were all priveleged to finance Michael D's journalistic career through State money that Michael D was awarding to Hot Press to pay himself to write for Hot Press. Who on earth could cavil about such a noble sponsorship of the arts? And Michael D also ensured there was even more money to help Michael D's friend Niall Stokes and Hot Press establish an unvisited pop music museum which haemhorraged public cash right up until the moment it ceased to exist. And then Michael D established something he styled an Independent Radio and Television Commission, through which anyone wishing to set up a radio station would have to get official permission and governmental approval. And of course Michael D Higgins put Michael D's best friend Niall Stokes in charge of that commission. Safe pair of hands you understand. We couldn't risk any evil Catholics setting up radio or television stations. A good solid atheistic abortionist friend of Michael D Higgins like Niall Stokes could be trusted to never let that happen. And that was his sole qualification for the job. He was a friend of Michael D Higgins and he shared Michael D Higgins' contempt for the Catholic Church. A few good men indeed. Michael D and co. They've rode us rigid. We are farm animals to them. Oh Michael D Higgins was good for the arts alright. In the sense that he had absolutely no shame in rerouting limitless sums of public money to his friends and to himself whenever one or other or all of them wished to pose as artists."
The lady millionairess Fianna Failer looked a bit nonplussed.
It's hard for members of the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party to pretend they cannot abide corruption or kleptocracy.
She bid me adieu and beetled off.
She was polite enough about it.
But she had heard enough.
I was left alone to contemplate what my country had become.
A report on the satelite screen overlooking the cafe drew my attention.
A member of the Labour Party was eulogsing Michael D Higgins.
"Michael D didn't engage in negative campaigning," said the preening socialist atheist abortionist Labour Party apparatchik. "He didn't smear his fellow candidates. The Irish people have recognised this and rewarded him for it with the Presidency."
A wry smile coursed across my handsome features.
Michael D Higgins might be said to have absented himself from negative campaigning.
For whatever reasons.
But he had benefitted from it nonetheless.
For there can be no doubt, that if the Sinn Fein candidate Martin McGuinness hadn't exposed the then front runner fake Independent Sean Gallagher as a ringer for Fianna Fail, Michael D Higgins would have continued to languish down the polls.
There would have been no President Michael D Higgins.
I sat in the cafe contemplating the vicissitudes of fate.
It seemed to me that my countrymen had most shamefully traduced our country.
And there's more.
Michael D Higgins while championing Communist regimes around the world, had in the 1990's pronounced himself particularly close to the dictator of Nicaragua Danilo Ortega.
Danilo has recently reinvented himself as a democrat, winning an apparently fair election in his toilet of a nation.
But Danilo is more famous for having been denounced by his daughter in law, who claims he raped her throughout her childhood.
Michael D, for all his Mini Mouse sneering and malicious vilification in attempting to label the Catholic Church an abusing institution, has never quite been able to bring himself to repudiate his old pal child rapist Danilo.
And there's more.
The Irish people have just elected a President against whom allegations of personal sex abuse exist.
Incredibly the preponderance of Irish voters remain unaware of any such allegations.
How can this be?
I'll tell you.
The citizenry are unaware of the allegations because again these things aren't relevant to our atheistic anti Catholic media.
That is to say our atheistic anti Catholic media doesn't consider it relevant to report and question and analyse and pursue allegations of sex abuse against an atheistic abortionist anti Catholic Presidential candidate.
But the allegations were made and should have been answered by the candidate himself.
We all should know what they are.
In the past two weeks a radio presenter went to the police with allegations of sex abuse against Michael D Higgins.
One division of police refused to investigate the allegations since the allegations were what the police called "third hand."
This division of police maintained that since the radio presenter had not been abused himself by Michael D Higgins, and since his source had not been abused, that the allegations themselves were not worth investigation.
The radio presenter took the allegations to another police division.
This division went through the motions of listening to the complaint, recorded the allegation, and announced that there was nothing to it.
Their rationale for holding no further investigation, was again that the complaint had come to them "third hand."
The subject merited scanty paragraphs in the atheistic newspapers of our country.
It was barely mentioned on radio and television.
But the allegation should have been specified and the motivation of the radio presenter should have been clarified.
Was he running pass defence for Fianna Fail's ringer(s)?
Was he simply passing on a nonsense story he'd heard at the office bash?
What the hell is going on here?
The radio presenter's attempts to have Michael D Higgins investigated over sex abuse allegations foundered at the first frivolous hurdles presented by the police ten days ago.
Would Michael D be suing the radio presenter?
Would Michael D be suing the radio presenter's source?
Would Michael D care to clarify the origin of these allegations of sex abuse against him?
Like hell he would.
Oh sure folks, Michael D Higgins didn't get his hands dirty by fighting a negative campaign.
Give him credit for that if you think he deserves credit.
And the media, as is their wont, have failed to follow up in even the most cursory manner on the sex abuse allegations against him or even to question Michael D Higgins about the specifics involved.
And tonight Michael D Higgins is President of Ireland.

heelers predictions for the irish presidential elections

David Norris (advocate of abandonment of minimum age of consent for sex) 2%; Mary Davis (ringer for Fianna Fail posing Independent) 9%; Dana (Independent) 12%; Gay Mitchell (Fine Gael) 15%; Sean Gallagher (another ringer for Fianna Fail posing Independent) 19%; Michael D Higgins (Labour) 20%; Martin McGuinness (Sinn Fein) 23%.

the monica leech laugh in

Question: What four words are guaranteed to make James Healy barf up a lung? Answer: President Michael D Higgins.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

election day

Wandered into Uncle Scutch's pharmacy this afternoon.
John Coleman saluted me from behind the counter.
Left ham of the devil.
I knew him once Horatio.
(Heelers is referring to Mr Coleman's acting abilities. There is a subtle play here both on words and on genres and also a randomised reference to Hamlet which is part of Heelers' current delusions. The phrase Left Ham Of The Devil calls to mind old cowboy films in which a left handed gunfighter who was super quick on the draw might be referred to as left hand of the devil. Note HAND. Hand as opposed to ham. Hilarious no! The ghost of Evelyn Waugh informs me that if a joke needs this much explanation, it's better to let it lie. - Ed note.)
Colers elbowed his way past the noisy and demonstrative mix of counter assistants and customers who seemed anxious to vie with him for my attention.
"I'm in a play," quoth he.
"I've heard," sez me.
"It's going to be a good un," quoth he.
"I doubt it," sez me.
"Why?" quoth he.
"Alan Ayckbourn is dead," sez me. "Dead, dead, dead. It's impossible to make him live. There's not an ounce of joy in what he writes. It's dead depressing British drawing room humour. No one in his plays believes in God. God doesn't even believe in God in Alan Ayckbourn plays. The stuff is inert. Humourless. Dead, dead, dead. It can't work. It doesn't even work for Brit audiences. You're doomed I tells ee. Your play is going down. You're gonna dieeee. You're doooooooooomed."
The pharmacy had fallen silent as it occasionally does when I hold forth thusly.
"I'll bet you a pound it works," quoth Colers with quiet dignity.
"I'll take that bet," I replied, shaking his hand.
I left the shop without collecting the items I was looking for.
The great poet always knows when to make his exit.
On Main Street the bright clear air of winter kissed me.
I spoke aloud briefly and musingly to myself: "Another nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine bets like that and I'm going to break even on the Irish Presidential elections."
I strolled up the street towards my feminist cousin Pauline's health food shop.
The ghost of Dionne Warwick appeared beside me.
As is her wont, she began to sing.
She was singing a parody of Do You Know The Way To San Jose, her hugely evocative 1960's collaboration with Burt Bacharach.
Pure poetry.
John Keats himself would have been proud to have written that thing.
Or sung it.
Well, so he's told me.
Dionne Warwick sang as follows:
"Kilcullen town has a lovely face
With windy roads and a coffee place
You can put a hundred down
And rent a bike
And join the drama group
If you like
Just grab the mike
It's not a sin
Ask John Coleman
They let anyone in
Do you know the way to Kilcullen?
Ner ner ner ner ner ner
There is nowhere quite like Kilcullen,
Ner ner ner ner ner ner.
You can offer ten grand
To charity
In the hope of beating
Michael D
For the Presidency
And all the stars
Who never were
Are writing blogs
Or feeding hamsters
Do you know the way to Kilcullen
Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner
There is really nowhere quite like Kilcullen
Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner."

the bus at five o'clock

the engine tingles
the seated nation breathes
joe and michael argue politics
whilest a couple of rural misfits mingle
with some servants of the hebrew god
and not a few atheists
tom and jackie on a lovers tryst
giggle only the if and why is yet unknown to them
whilest i
scrawl words
on a journey to kildare
through a dark forgotten corner
of an exploding world
scrawl words
on the flyleaf of a book
for in the coming tempest
such frail things may endure
and monuments of bronze
be rendered dust

last minute campaigning

At ten to midnight I sent a message to every number stored on my mobile phone. It read: 'Vote McGuinness or you are a clodpoll.' And somewhere the ghost of Anthony Buckeridge was smiling.


A meeting of the Swans For McGuinness lobby group.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

from hell

The bookie phoned. 'Heelers you glorious bastard, you were right. Gallagher's tanking.' 'Huzza! Who's in front? McGuinness?' 'Nah. Michael D Higgins.' And a cold and clammy hand crept forth all the way from Labour Party HQ to fasten round my gentle preraphaelite poet's heart.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

the monica leech laugh in

Soon we in the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party will rule Ireland again. Soon ze Presidency vill be oursss. Vee vill reduce ze Irish to farm animals once more through our fake independent candidates Sean Gallagher and Mary Doophus. Ha ha ha ho hee hee heeeee ha ho ho ho chortle ha ha haaa...

Monday, October 24, 2011

life's dilemmas

But what if i want to have a pooh? (Photo taken in Starbucks, Dawson St, Dublin.)

Sunday, October 23, 2011

in the eye of the storm

Rain falling through the universe and Stephens Green.
I am feeding the ducks.
Pigeons are scrambling over my shoes for a few crumbs.
About a hundred sea gulls are screaming around me attempting to intimidate the ducks.
The sea gulls are pushy and aggressive to the other birds but I still love them.
They've learnt to come right up to me. Before they would observe a safe perimeter and wait for me to throw them some bread.
Now they fairly bowl over the pigeons for the more closely contested scraps.
Some stalwart pigeons scout between my legs for safer crumbs.
It's hard for them to get their share since the sea gulls figured out the way things work.
And the rain is gusting through my frame.
And joy is gusting with it.
The Lord once told some of his hangers on that "the kingdom of heaven is among you."
He seemed to be saying that it's awful close.
Right here if we'll only see it.
I saw a shadow of it today and liked it lots.
Oh gentle readers.
If you've ever been oppressed by evil spirits, by demons of the mind, by the world, by the vicissitudes of life, by persistent nuisance emails from the Irish Labour Party, or by fears your countrymen may vote for atheistic abortionist establishment fakes in a presidential election, if any of these things have ever gotten you down, go to the park and feed the ducks I tells ee.
The God of the Hebrews will meet you there.
And he'll show you the heaven that is.