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, January 02, 2016


Bishop Dermot O'Mahony is dead.
He is most famous for having confirmed me into the ancient faith.
He was murdered in his old age by Archbishop Diarmuid Martin, in conjunction with the Irish Times, Independent Newspapers, the broadcaster RTE, and a feminist atheist air hostess called Yvonne Murphy whom the Labour Party had appointed a Judge in the Republic of Ireland with a specific remit to stampede the peasantry away from the Catholic Church any which way she could.
This confederacy of offal murdered Bishop Mahony in his old age by inventing retrospective culpability for him through their false, tendentious and maliciously contrived suggestion that he mishandled sex abuse cases that arose in his diocese forty years ago, and through their equally false, tendentious, maliciously contrived, and frankly evil attempts to deny him a fair hearing once they'd slandered him in the public space.
Remember Archbishop Diarmuid Martin's rabble rousing call at the time: "Anyone mentioned in Judge Yvonne Murphy's report should resign."
Ah yes.
Who needs the rule of law when we've got Archie.
To commit their murder, Archbishop Diarmuid Martin, Air Hostess Murphy, the Irish Times, Independent Newspapers and RTE replaced the presumption of innocence with an assumption of guilt.
Do any of you remember when murder was a crime?

father niall's sermon at midnight mass

Father M said: "A friend of my niece was overseas at Christmas working in a big hotel. It was her first time away from home and she thought she could handle everything. On Christmas day one of the hotel guests asked her how she was and she started to cry. She was missing home so much. The guest took her to one side, sat her down at a piano in the foyer, and sang to her the song Bridge Over Troubled Water which was a song he had performed with Paul Simon years ago. The guest was Art Garfunkel."

Sunday, December 27, 2015

christmas in the heartland

At Phenagh Bermingham's charity fundraiser my local nemesis the author broadcaster Brian Byrne meets me in the corridor.
"Hello James," he says affably.
I am somewhat surprised and do my best to babble a congenial reply.
I search my mind for a bon mot.
Or even a moderately okay mot.
People, even nemesises, expect me to come out with witty ripostes in the most everyday circumstances.
"Hello Brian," I manage finally.
It's not Maupassant or Thurber, but it'll have to do.
I'm still amazed he greeted me at all.
Later I'm sitting in the Tearman Cafe on Main Street.
Ron Bryce, my old teacher from Primary School enters the cafe.
He's another occasional nemesis.
The first nemesis mentioned above, normally outs me on his website every time I slander the second nemesis on this blog.
It's a sort of nemesis dynamic thing which gilds the small town harmony of Kilcullen with occasional paroxyms of indifference, I mean controversy.
Ron Bryce is a civilised fellow but scratch the surface and he thinks, as do all good atheistic liberals, that I'm some kind of a monster.
We go through periods of politeness.
But Ron hasn't been able to look at me without a shudder for the past six months.
Presumably it's because he's read something I wrote about immigration.
Or about Muslims.
Or about Donald Trump.
Or maybe it was when I wrote that the only thing that would turn me against Donald Trump would be if Donald Trump converted to Islam and tried to in-migrate.
Might have been that one.
Today he sits at my table and eats his lunch with me.
We talk about Irish culture and the destiny of the Irish language.
Both of us are struggling manfully to avoid any topic which might hurt the other.
Presently he gets up to go, bidding me a happy Christmas without any sign of underlying socialist rancour subtext as he exits stage left.
It is a seasonally chuffed Heelers that wanders down to the riverside walk which the Camphill Community have opened to the public.
A woman with a handicap approaches me.
I don't think I've heard her speak in a decade.
Today she is singing: "Deck the halls with boughs of holly, tra, la, la, la, la, la, la."
She's singing it quite well.
Now I'm alone again.
I shake my head in some bemusement.
"I've got to hand it to you Jesus," I muse aloud. "You really know how to create a party in the universe."


The playwright Hugh Leonard is dead.
He's been dead for years but I've only just noticed.
He was a somewhat talented fellow.
I didn't hold him in high regard.
Through four decades I found his conformist sneers at the Catholic Church to be without courage or insight.
It came as a surprise to me to discover an old book of his humour columns a few months ago and to realise that I'd spent my entire adult life trying to capture what he'd got.
I admit this in tandem with confessing I never liked him.
An adopted child, born to parents who were not married, he as much as any of us in Ireland owed his life to the Catholic Church's insistence on the sanctity of life in all circumstances.
Nowadays people abort such babies with barely a second glance.
Or contrareceive them ahead of schedule.
Because of Hugh Leonard's promotion of anti Catholic anti Life ideas through half a century of public discourse, a Hugh Leonard would not get born in Ireland today.
God always sends the best in inconvenient circumstances.
Hugh Leonard should have known that.
Abortion and contraception are denuding us of genius.
He should have know that too.
I think he did.
The accolades of the pseud media class in Ireland never felt like love to him.
Late in life he tracked down the woman who gave birth to him.
She didn't want to know him.
I cannot help thinking that Hugh Leonard had as much duty as I had to defend the ancient church and to advocate the sanctity of life.
But he rejected the commission.
He could have accomplished more than loose canons like me, as a somewhat credible somewhat talented figure.
As it is, he accomplished nothing.
To his credit, for most of his adult life he despised the IRA mafia and their parliamentary proxies in the Sinn Fein political party.
Yet as a young man, when Ireland's national broadcaster RTE, commissioned him to write a television series glorifying Ireland's 1916 bloodletting cum revolution, Hugh Leonard wrote a formulaic shoneen bigoted pro IRA style incitement to hatred of Britain, which is now credited with revitalising the terrorist movement across the Republic of Ireland.
This is not hyperbole.
Television was a mightily powerful medium in those days.
Up to that point in the Ireland of 1966, people had generally despised the IRA as murdering gangland scum.
In the slums of Dublin the IRA could barely show its face where its members were looked on with loathing by the people who remembered the frivolous murderousness of the Rah's 1916 revolution and dismissed Rah men with the peculiar Dublin epithet of "diehards."
It was not meant as a compliment.
After Hugh Leonard's romantic depiction of the mayhem of 1916, things changed.
Hugh Leonard's hackneyed television drama glamourised the RAH and gave it a new lease of life, allowing its members to pose as freedom fighters even while extending their rackateering subversion of Irish trade unions, media and Judiciary, their drug dealing, people trafficking, and paedophile ring activities across the nation, and their Cosa Nostra style forays into Europe and North America.
Hugh Leonard took the money and ran.
He did spend the rest of his life honorably opposing the IRA.
But it was too late.
He more than anyone else created the modern IRA and the pool of moral excrement in which it swims.
Let that be his epitaph.

no more secret societies reducing irish people to the level of farm animals

The bankrupt anti Catholic Sunday Independent newspaper has an article today splashed across their centre page with the banner headline: "IRA MAFIA."
The sub heading reads: "Who Controls Sinn Fein."
I say it here.
It comes out there.
Remember where you read it first bold readers.
The tide turns at low water as well as at high.

traditional gangland christmas celebrations in ireland

Gangland took over the centre of Dublin city on Christmas day for their customary riot, torching of vehicles and property, and systemic terrorisation of the citizenry.
The Christmas day gangland riots in Dublin have been all but unreported by Ireland's bankrupt leftist media groups who are more concerned to falsely convince Irish people that it's raining because of climate change rather than to focus on the final collapse of the rule of law in the Republic.
But riots there were.
A member of skangland was later involved in some sort of vehicular incident between his motor bike and a cop car.
It is not clear what happened because details of the incident are being kept out of the public domain.
The skanger is in hospital. We do know his brother died several years ago when he came up against armed police while engaged in an attempted robbery.
So skanger he is.
On Christmas day, the gang bangers of Dublin city used the hospitalisation of their fellow skang as an excuse to up the tempo of their riots.
Irish fire brigade crews had to be escorted by police to attend to the various incidents of arson around the inner city.
But none of this is news as far as the climate change faking, IRA infiltrated, national broadcaster RTE is concerned.
All an unnecessary distraction from the winter rain, eh RTE?
In other news, Judge Tony Hunt allowed continuing anonymity to members of a paedophile ring even after two of their victims, now adults, waived the right to anonymity in order for the man who had raped them as children to be identified.
I kid you not.
Judge Tony Hunt forbid newspapers from identifying the man anyway.
I think Judge Tony Hunt, and any other IRA mafia and/or Paedophile Ring controlled Judges, should be removed from office immediately.
We should elect our Judges from now on.
It's time to take out the trash.
And finally Esther...
A character called Diarmuid Ferriter writing, perhaps humorously, in the Irish Times has called for the jailing of people who deny the existence of man made climate change.
I am looking forward to writing the new year's edition of The Heelers Diaries from cell block number nine.
Ho, ho, ho.