today they said

 

Simon Harris (incoming Prime Minister of Ireland): "Ireland is repulsed (by the actions of Israel in Gaza.)"

James Healy: "Simon Harris does not speak for me. Nor  can he be said by any stretch of the imagination to speak for Ireland, since just 12 percent of the population voted for his party in 2020, our most recent election. In that election his fast evaporating Fine Gael won just 35 seats in a 160 seat parliament, a loss of twelve seats on their previous total, and fully forty percent of the population expressed their opposition at the time to the entire poltical class by not voting at all, He has become Prime Minister this week because the outgoing leader of his party the newly resigned Leo Varadkar fears Fine Gael will be wiped out the next time Ireland  has a vote. Ten of Fine Gael's 35 parliamentarians have announced they will not stand at the next election. I am suggesting that like other posturing showboaters in Irish politics Simon Harris is afraid of Jihadis but sees the Israelis as an easy mark."

the youngest farmer

 

the lambs are in the fields

the youngest farmer rubs hands

chapped like dry leaves

in a life that never ends

you will not find his tale

in any tract of erudition

but in the dull trochaic verses of the bible

is found the course of his living

he stands and does not hear

the echo from Mount Zion

resound through Cnoc An Oirthir

by the shores of Old Kilcullen

and perhaps it's for the best

it would plague him at his rest

eastertide

 

The tough man had recounted to me a few of the sensation scenes from his life.

He obviously wanted me to say something.

My face was Shakespearian grim.

What on earth could I say without wandering into cliches?

I have long laboured under the awareness that people who come to me, even people who hate me, expect me to come out with something good.

It wouldn't matter so much bold readers, only at odd moments, I have the unsettling feeling that the Deity expects the same thing.

I said: "Some of the mystics claim to have seen Jesus. They say he still has the wounds of the crucifixion. He is in glory. He  has conquered death. But he still has the wounds. His wounds are no longer what they were. They are no longer the signs of a murderous violation. They are a sign of his triumph. The evil that led to the infliction of those wounds has been entirely washed away in victory. So yes some of the mystics who claim to have seen him say the risen Christ who is all powerful still has the wounds from his earthly torture. And I'm saying the wounds have been transformed into a part of his glory.  He doesn't have to have them. They are there to tell us something about suffering and the cosmic battle and the true nature of things. My testimony to you is this. You've told me some things. I cannot make those things okay. But I know that no matter what you've suffered if you turn to God your wounds will become a part of your glory."

kilcullen easter

 

the lambing time

evanescent leaves

provincial poets stitching worn out rhymes

into patchwork quilted semaphores of praise

all of these

mist like matting on muddy fields

old men rejoicing in campaniles

all of these

everything that breathes is on its knees

for the coming of the lord

peace

everybody wants to get into the act

 

A news report informs me that Judge Sheilah Martin of the Supreme Court of Canada has ruled that the term "woman" is inappropriate and should be replaced with the term "person with a vagina."

Later tonight I am visited in my chamber by three ghosts.

The first is the ghost of Barbra Streisand who serenades me soulfully thus:

"I am a person with a vagina in love

And I'd do anything

To get you into my life

And hold you within,

Is that all?

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Over and over again."

When she's gone there is a clumping of bovver boots as John Lennon troops in with a few Archangels who apparantly comprise whatever band he's using now in the afterlife.

He sings with strange high elegaic magnificence:

"Person with a vagina

I must confess

Your love and tenderness

Has truly shown me

The meaning of success

And person with a vagina

I thank you again

For showing me the boy

Inside the man

It must be part

Of some eternal plan

I l-o-o-o-o-ve you

Dodin doo doo doo."

John Lennon and the angels eventually leave.

They are replaced by the ghost of Jim Morrison and a backing group that seems to be composed of Frank Sinatra, Michael Jackson and Prince Rogers Nelson.

Jim Morrison and company caterwaul as follows:

"I got into town about an hour ago.

Ner ner nerdle ner ner nerdle nerdle

Took a look around see which way the wind blow

Ner ner nerdle ner ner nerdle nerdle

With a little girl in a Hollywood bungalow.

Oh she was like a little lady in the city of light

City of light

Ner nern

City of night

LA person with a vagina

Nerdle ner

LA person with a vagina Sunday afternoon

Drive through your suburbs

Into your blues

Into your blues, blues, blues,

Into your blues.

I see your hair is burning

Hills are filled with fire

If they say I never loved you

You know they are a liar.

Druing down your freeways

Midnight alleys roam,

The cops in cars

The topless bars

I've never seen a person with a vagina

So alone

So alone, lone, lone,

So alone.

LA person with a vagina

Nerdle ner

LA person with a vagina

Nerdle Ner

You're my person with a vagina

Nerdle ner."

Then Jim Morrison and friends also departed and I was left alone.

I found the whole experience most quaint.

from the heelers mystical experiences

 

An angel of light appeared beside my bed.

"Are you afraid of death?" quoth he.

"Well duhhhhhh," I replied.

immitation is the sincerest form of misspelling

 

As this website enters its twentieth year, perhaps I may be forgiven for a modest reflection on the astonishing impact it has had on the broader culture. Part of my established schtik shtik shtick has been to accuse the great and good of ripping off my work. So today we present...

TOP TEN PLAGIARISTS OF THE HEELERS DIARIES

1. The internet department of Russia's military intelligence apparatus has this week lifted my idea of applying Bony M's Rasputin song to resovietising Russsian dictator Vladimir Putin and published the original song themselves online with a montage of adulatory photos of Mr Putin. Their intent was to head off the delicious seditious satire of my work by twisting it into something laudatory of  Mr Putin. Mr Putin is unique among my plagiarists for the sheer volume of frivolous unlawful killing he has engaged in. Russian intelligence in their wisdom did not use the verses I added to the song which ran: 

"Ro Ro Vlad Putin

Russia's greatest death machine

It was a shame how he carried on.

Ro Ro Razz Putin

Evil, vile or just obscene

He'll invade your country before very long."

2. Rupert Murdoch the billionaire nonagenarian owner of Fox News, was so taken with my series of articles entitled Vladimir Putin's Greatest Hits about Russian President Vladimir Putin's assassinations of rivals and critics that he this week used my title for a similarly themed assessment of Mr Putin's various murders on the Fox News website. Mr Murdock is unique among my pagiarists in that when you misspell his name, no one notices.

3. In 2022 Fox News Commentator Kayleigh Maceneaney used a Heelers Diaries comment on the Ukrainian defenders of Snake Island replying to a Russian warship demanding their surrender: "Russian warship f--- off." Miss Maceneaney repeated my commentary as her own to wit: "The Ukrainians really spoke for the world with that one." She is unique among my plagiarists in being quite good looking.

4. In 2012 American songstress Lana Del Rey had a hit with Born To Die, entitled after a line from one my poems. She is unique among my plagiarists in that the pagiarised title was also plagiarised for song name by the compilers of the pop singer Prince's new posthumous album. The salient part of my poem went:

"What is born to live is born to die

I've been thinking this a long time

In restless and peace

It seems true enough in a certain way

Not true at all if you decry

But in the end finally

True enough for me."

5.The State run Irish national fraudcaster styled RTE, financed through compulsory taxation on the citizenry which they spend giving 75,000 dollar backhanders under the table to already hideously over paid politically connected presenters like Ryan Tubridy, a scion of the Andrews political dynasty who started work at RTE like everyone else on the bottom rung working in the canteen and then the next day was made presenter of radio and television chat shows, I kid you not, I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns, but the Irish government's idea of holding RTE accountable for its malfeasance vis a vis Tubridy et al, particularly Al, I hate him, the Irish government's accountability notion for RTE , I tells ee, involves abolishing the compulsory taxation on the citizenry styled a licence fee and replacing it with direct government funding of RTE from the public purse, so basically RTE can't lose, it gets caught robbing money from public funds to pay Turbridy and its reward is to be given direct access to public money wihtout the necessity of collecting a pesky licence fee from the public, that's some punishment right there, bloody hell mate Mrs Keaveney, but I digress, RTE plagiarsed me directly back in 2016 when their radio presenter Aidin Gormley, a woman of infinite jest mark you, interviewed actress Angela Lansbury and used my joke about Angela's TV sleuth character Jessica Fletcher, to wit: "Sherriff Teasle arrested Jessica when he realised that wherever she's been there's been a murder each week for the last thirty years," only Aidin Gormley tried to apply my joke directly to Angela Lansbury without reference to the character she played stating: "I'm a bit afraid of you. There's been a murder wherever you are once a week for thirty years," and whatever about Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher killing people, Aidin Ephin Gormley as herself definitely throttled the life out of my joke. In fact Aidin Gormley is unique among my plagiarists because she actually managed to kill the joke even while stealing it.

6.In 2009 Broadcaster Mark Steyn lifted my joke referencing the film Sunset Boulevard. On the Heelers Diaries I had proclaimed a la Gloria Swanson's Norma Desmond character: "I'm still big. It's the internet got small." Mark Steyn found this so hilarious that he stole it and attributed it to himself musing:"I'm still big. It's the Islamophobia got small." Mark Steyn is unique among my plagiarists in that he never stopped doing it.

7. The now retired Archbishop of Dublin Diarmuid Martin was so entranced by my accusations deeming him a "Soviet era infiltrator of the Catholic Church who is using sex abuse cases as a Trojan horse to remake the Catholic Church in his image," that he delivered the Trojan horse bit himself and applied it to his critics in a speech given in Italy at a conference in Rome. Archbishop Martin is unique among plagiarists of my work in that he delivered his stolen line in Italian.

8. Conor Wotsisname, a provincial jounralist at the Leinster Leader newspaper (where I'd formerly "worked" though I never met him) was wont to leave derisive comments on this website apparantly attempting to discourage my light hearted critiques of his employer, but became so entranced by one of my Nietzhean replies to his ijmpudence, to wit "When you look into the Heelers Diaries, the Heelers Diaries looks back into you," that he used the original Nietzhe quote in one of his articles about a young criminal in court, an article which became quite highly thought of and was reprinted at least once by the venerable tastless old bankrupt Leinster Leader. I would hazard that before my article Conor Whothehell wouldn't have recognised Nietzhe if Nietzhe had ome up behind him and bit him on the arse. Mr Wotsisname is unique among my plagiarists in that I can't remember his last name.

9. In 2016 when Donald Trump secured the Republican Party nomination to run for President of the United States, my comment published on this website was: "Donald Trump has completed his hostile takeover of the Republican Party." The British Broadcasting Corporation liked it so much that they stole it and passed it off as their own commentary on their flagship news programmes. The Beeb is unique among my plagiarists for having as many atheistic communists in its ranks as it does devil worshipping freemasons.

10. In 2010 I discovered a prize winning poem written by an American academic which had the same title as one of mine which had never won any prizes.The poem title was On FIrst Looking Into Groening's Homer. The American if I remember rightly was Professor Garry M Breland of the University of Mississippi. He was among other things a lecturer in Counselling and Psychology. He may have needed some of his pyschological insights when I, clearly in the grip of a deep seated neurosis, went flop bott and cracker Jim, accusing the prof of stealing my work and threatening him with lawyers. He is unique among those accused of plagiarising my work in that he is entirely innnocent.

**************************

Footnote: Below is the poem I thought was being stolen by Number Ten above.

On First Looking Into Groening's Homer

Much have I wandered in television's realms

Round many detective serials and cowboy shows have I been

So many reruns of Star Trek have I seen

Which the networks in fealty to Desilu Productions hold

But never did I breathe the pure serence

Until Matt Groening began merchandising the Simpsons

Loud and bold

Then felt I like some watcher of Desperate Housewives

When a new salacious plot twist swims into his ken

Or like stout Eastwood when with eagle eyes

He looked at a street punk with a wild surmise

And shot him over and over again.

the soul of man under socialism

 

Strolling in the undulating emerald randoms of the Curragh of Kildare.

Famed to generations of Irish schoolchildren from their geography class as "machaire mor reidh," ie a flat level plain, the Curragh, in keeping with Irish traditions of paradoxical imprecision, is fairly hilly for a plain.

As I walk, I come upon an old British Army graveyard nestling amid the hills.

Above the incongruously ornate arched entrance a carved insignia proclaims a two letter paean and a date,

"VR

1869"

The letters stand for Victoria Regina or more colloquially: "Queen Victoria woz ere."

Just think.

When this was carved the British were the most powerful nation on the planet.

No known empire ever reached the extent theirs did.

But history has moved on.

All the glories of 1869 are, as Rudyard Kipling predicted, one with Nineveh and Tyre.

Nowadays of course the old graveyard hidden in the Curragh hills is managed by the Department of Defence of the Republic of Ireland.

The day is going down.

The sunset rolls old gold along the horizon.

The air is deliciously cold.

Over a low stone wall I can see a lissom enough lady photographer with a tripod angling to get some sort of a shot of the amber light of dusk through the headstones.

I smile fondly.

A few decades ago I was commissioned to film a book cover for Liam Geraghty, a contemporary poet, in this graveyard.

I had found the task quite challenging.

For all the riches of its history, it's a plain enough little graveyard with not much to photograph.

Ditto Liam Geraghty.

My solution was to photograph him from low to the ground jumping over the headstones waving a multi colloured umbrella like a parachute.

Now that's art.

This evening the impulse strikes me to go talk to the present photographer.

I call my dogs to heel.

We walk up to the entrance.

My eyes alight on a modern public information sign.

It is to the left of the entrance and slightly lower down but much more imperious in its way than Good Queen Vickie's logo.

It proclaims:

"DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE.

NO DOGS ALLOWED.

THIS RULE WILL BE ENFORCED BY THE COUNTY COUNCIL DOG WARDEN."

Something crunches under my feet.

I look down.

Even here, even in wilderness, I am standing in a sea of lagar tins, many bearing the elegaic brand name Orchard Thieves.

I stroll along the perimetre of the low stone wall.

It rambles up a hill and down a hill on this flat, level plain.

At the rear of the cemetary I find what I expected.

Five nitrous oxide gas cannisters from last night's drug orgy.

Lying beside the drug paraphenalia is a camisole top, mint green, spattered with an indeterminate substance.

Property of a lady.

Not for the first time the thought occurs to me that the heroes at the Department of Defence, in their obsession with dog poohs, are picking the wrong enemies.