St Bede’s: The Liars, The Priests, The Sufferers.

Can I refer the reader to Sean Carr’s comments in my posting of 9th June Cameron, St Bede’s, O’Sullivan And Much, Much More.  Sean in his first comment quoted verbatim the note issued to all parents at St Bede’s and dated 10th June 2011 which I included in my posting of 19th July 2011 The Ejection Of Mr Barber.

Sean rightly pointed out the lies told to parents by the florid Quinlan in this note.  Quinlan said that Mr Barber had said that he would like to return to teaching.  In fact Barber was deposed in a Night of the Long Knives with Quinlan, Kearney and Pike, the daggers that had him doomed.  Barber was naturally distraught but the quality of the man was recognised immediately by St Edmond’s, Ware  bringing him into their fold as Deputy Head.  St Edmond’s, with a clutch of martyrs as their alumni, instead of Bede’s wizened collection of faded rock stars, comedians and the odd politician, is, as Sean said, ten times the school that Bede’s could ever dream of being.

This dismissal was followed by more lies from the then triumvirate (Florid, Baldy and Fishface) that Barber was stressed out, not able to cope and he was leading a failing school.  Well, by God, if the College was failing in 2011 with its record A Level results, it has now gone past the point of no return under the trio’s haphazard and woeful management.

This same policy, an absolute unchristian policy of spreading lies and discontent is the same that made Mrs Carr Deed, another excellent educationalist, hand in her resignation letter two weeks ago.  Another fine teacher ruined by lies, innuendo and spiteful gossip.

Why is it in this supposedly Catholic ethos supporting establishment have the senior management had to revert to this barrage of malicious lies to ensure their work, their malevolent policies are carried out.  It is a scene redolent of the lower reaches of the political world than that of a supposedly top class educational institution.

Only a few weeks ago I had a barrage of parents and pupils telling me what a bad man I was for telling the truth.  I understood it from the pupils who had obviously been coached in their wayward attacks on my blog and it did make most people realise the poor quality of the pupils that were doing the slanging.  What was harder to overcome was the attacks by parents or should I say parents stupid enough not to know better when this sinking ship was already listing beyond the point of no return.

But the tide has changed, I am no longer receiving this kind of hate mail in comments and e-mails, people are now realising that what I have been saying for two years is correct.  Florid Quinlan, glabrous Kearney and piscine Pike have been put there to run the school into the ground.

Well that is all very well, let management do what management does but an awful lot of innocent people are caught up in this Machiavellian game of snakes and ladders that the Salford Diocese are determined to play.  I have pity for the pupils or at least those serious enough about their future lives to want to succeed with their examination but they have youth on their side and those that fail will bounce back given an extra year in fresh air.  I pity the parents to the extent that they are paying out lots of hard earned monies to keep this Titanic afloat.  However they should have seen and understood the runic symbols held up by the creepy lot in charge.  They should have started the process of child extraction as soon as Kearney’s name was mentioned in preference to Barber.  Those parents that have not gone this extra mile are nearly now stuck in steerage with no lifeboats left to ease their passage.

However those that I have most pity for are the vast majority of the teachers, those that are still trying to bale  the ship out of trouble, that are still trying to educate pupils in their charge.  It is not their lot to rebel, nor to stand up and be counted but they should before it is too late.  These people can only move on at their own pace, they become mortified, petrified when the pace quickens.  They have to break out of this paradigm and enter a brave new world.  I know that will be difficult but for their own sanity it needs doing.

They, I must admit, have choices.  They can resign and move on: difficult in two ways, their natural inclination to stay put and the difficulty of finding somewhere more suitable for their talents.  They could leave in the correct manner and sue the school for constructive dismissal for those with more than two years service but they have to prove that and it is sometimes difficult in the employment tribunal process.  Or they can soldier on into crassness and morbidity and eventually go for redundancy but by then their mental strength might have been diminished.  It is a sad outlook for able, gifted people.

The big downside to all of this is that the Salford Diocese now totally control  the school.  The Board of Governors is bereft of lay people who had some say in the past.  The scary hands of ancient priests have a grip on everything and as the Church fails it will drag institutions like St Bede’s College down with it.  I have it in my power to quicken that process but for legal reasons I am hamstrung.  If we all knew as much about Bede’s as I do we would all be trampled underfoot by stampeding parents, teachers and children but one day and it might not be far off, I might throw off my shackles, shout “bugger it” and let fly with both barrels.  The College is one stinking, putrefying corpse and needs something or somebody to make a Lazarus out of it.

Ireland Then and Now

As regular readers of my blog will know, I had the absolute privilege of helping to put on a couple of live performances of a play From the Shannon to the Somme written by Neil Richardson which in a quiet way showed the changing face of Ireland in the years 1914-1918.  The play tells the story of a couple of Connaught Rangers, a great regiment of the British Army since 1790, stuck in a war they hated but worried about the Ireland they had to return to.  The heroes of 1914 becoming mainly enemies of 1918.  Men who had fought for England, who by 1918 had become a hated controller of Ireland, were not welcome back on their own soil.

Many writers recently have written about this volte-face, notably Sebastian Barry and Alan Monaghan but the nationalist movement from 1920 onwards propagated this feeling until in the minds of the people of Ireland, the First War was forgotten about and the people who fought in it were ignored.  This led to families who had heroes in their midst, keeping their heads down and burying the evidence of their families military past.

However has history has proved time and again you cannot bury the truth forever and from about 1990 their has been a gradual renaissance of interest in these old men, all now gone.  Their present families more and more interested in that great sacrifice of 100 years ago.  The Mayo   Peace Park in Castlebar in Mayo being a great example of this reawakening brought about by a committee of earnest historians.

I am General Secretary of the Connaught Rangers Association, an organisation with members living all over the world, formed 11 years ago to remember those soldiers who served with such distinction for their regiment, their country and for their fellow soldiers.  It is our absolute pleasure to help these enquiring relatives relive the lives of their forgotten ancestors by delving into the massive data base, the product of one man’s determination to bring the Connaught Rangers regiment to the fore of people’s minds.  Oliver Fallon, our archivist has built up this massive piece of work over the last ten years and it must now be the largest private collection of military records of one regiment in the British Isles and Ireland.  There are two lifetimes work in it, with another two lifetimes to go and his conundrum is, what happens to it when he dies.  It is too important a work for it to be buried with him, but that’s for another day.

I would now like to enclose the text of my introductory address prior to the plays performance, which tries to take you back those 100 years to enable one to feel for these men that we need to remember..

We in the Connaught Rangers Association are committed to remembering the thousands of men from the proud Connaught Rangers regiment who died nearly 100 years ago.  We are realising with each successive day how the people of Ireland and the present day relatives of these soldiers scattered all over the world, are becoming more and more aware of the sacrifices and brave deeds of their great grandfathers, grandfathers, fathers and grand uncles and all who served during the Great War of 1914-1918.  We as an Association spend much of our time helping people who contact us, to trace relatives that history, both national and familial, for one reason or another, has chosen to forget.

The play tonight opens in 1913 more or less 100 years ago tonight and Ireland 100 years ago was part of England, as much part of England, as Lancashire and Yorkshire are today.  The Land Wars forgotten, the Irish tenant farmer owned his own land at last, there was an air of well-being throughout the country and except for the bigoted Carson in Belfast, peace and calm ruled.  But there was still unmitigated poverty, not always but especially in the populated cities still recovering from the devastating general strikes that racked their existences in 1913 and continued into the early part of 1914.

However there was hope in the air, the 4th Home Rule Bill was a certainty.  Ireland was going to be Irish for the first time in 700 years and their was a whiff of nationalism in the air.  Unfortunately war broke out in August 1914 and to soften the political process and also has a route out of abject poverty, Irishmen in their hundreds of thousands enlisted in the British Army

Our town of Boyle, traditionally a military town, was no different than any town in Ireland.   Young men who were not already in the Army enlisted; there was no conscription.  You have to remember that the British Army had been the biggest single employer of men, certainly in the West of Ireland, for over 100 years and the Army in the form of the Connaught Rangers had had an imposing barracks in the town, at King House here, which gave the local merchants a raison d’etre.  Boyle was not a big town, you could walk around it in five minutes and it has hardly changed since then.  It had a population of about 2000 but 120 men plus from Boyle were killed in this conflict.  Going off military statistics that suggested that there were at least 500 seriously wounded.  Think what that burden must have had on the remaining population of this small town of ours.  20% of the males in the 20-40 age group killed and most of the rest injured or in need of long term care.  The responsibility that was put on the old folk, women and children was enormous and is not generally realised.

Tonight two medals will be presented to our chairman, Mr Gary Egan, two original medals, donated by Mr Alan Deane of Boyle and a Kildare man, Mr Chris Nolan of Athy, which will be displayed in our museum here in King House.  These medals were awarded to two Boyle men, a grand uncle of Mr Deane’s, Private Patrick Sharkey who fought from Day 1 and survived the war and Private John Daly, the first man from Boyle To be killed in the war, he survived for five days.  Both men lived on Green Street in Boyle only 100 yards from where we are tonight, a street that lost at least 12 men in this terrible conflict.

So as I have explained before, the play went off perfectly, great acting, great direction, great writing and a great response from the audience who travelled from all over Ireland to watch this historic performance of a play about Connaught Rangers performed in the historic home of the Connaught Rangers.  90% of the audience travelled more than 50 miles to attend  What did surprise me was the poor response in attendance from the people of Boyle.  This renaissance I spoke of does not seem to have arrived in Boyle, the burghers of the town do not yet seem to have  confronted the truth.   Except for a handful of locals, Boyle was not represented at all but our thanks go out to Frank Feighan, our TD and The Mayor of Roscommon, Tom Crosby and two town councillors who gave up their time to attend. Local County Councillors were indeed apparent by their absence but they were probably down the county on important business.  Seeing as most families in the town could trace in their ancestry a lost soldier, I can only presume theatre going is not the forte of most and perhaps it is a little early for some, still swaddled with twaddle from De Valera’s management of the country.

Cameron, St Bede’s, O’Sullivan And Much, Much More.

Just back from a rhapsodic week in rural France, ensconced in a 300 year old, three storey mill, surrounded by sun, sheep, donkeys, cattle, birds (including large woodpeckers), flies, ants, snakes, mice, the odd rat, a turgid stream, unlimited supplies of wine, champagne, delicious bread and andouillettes, which you all know is a appetising sausage made from the small intestine of pigs and which, if it does not smell strongly of shite, is not worth eating.

The news which I am about to relate is all over the front pages of French, Italian and German newspapers and will make your toes curl with delight.  This tit-bit, so I am told is also in the Russian and Israeli press but that is only hearsay as I could not translate their stuff.  So wait for it…..

The reason for the urgent government meeting a week ago, that had been called by our lovely, fluffy David Cameron, was because his best mate and Cambridge buddy BoJo, Boris Johnson the Lord Mayor of London, has been waving, prodding and yes, inserting his magic and over-used wand into David’s beloved Samantha.  Not once during a coke-filled weekend at a country house party, not twice in a fit of exuberance after a satanic ritual they had both attended but on and off for about five years and according to the continental papers it has been more on than off.  Samantha has been a busy girl, working overtime because it is well known that Dave likes his bit of nooky as often as possible.  In the foreign press there is talk of a love child and they seem certain that their is film footage of the two non-contracted lovelies going hell for leather for the whole world to watch and judge on style and technique.  They say the Mossad and the KGB both have copies and are urging Dave to come to heel instead of thinking the odd independent thought he is known to have occasionally.

It has been known for years about Samantha and her liking for coke and S & M sessions and obviously when she flashed those long slender legs at poor Boris, he had no option but to suffer the whip and the lash and offer his large, oversized phallic digit for Samantha’s devourment.  So be it, it seems some kind of D Notice has been slapped on the whole scene in England and we decent underbaked Brits will never read of it, while the whole world quakes with mirth at the happiness of it all, the chatter of cafe society from Moscow to Messina, from Vancouver to Volvograd.

Enough of the absurd, I was trying to write this blog last week whilst sunning myself in Ruritanian France but some bastard(s) hacked my blog, for the fourth time no less and by the time I had alerted my technical people and they had righted the wrong, my window on the French computer system had been lost.  So pardon me if what I am about to relate is old hat but it does need saying for the odd eejit connected to St Bede’s College in Manchester who still does not keep his ear to the ground in the present climate.

One of my whistleblowers who I am convinced lives in Danny Kearney’s back-pocket has sent me significant and highly disturbing news of recent events at Bede’s.  The triumvirate of Quinlan, Kearney and Pike have become a quadripartite, the three having co-opted no less a power than Andy Dando, Director of Studies into their midst.  Now Andy Dandy was dead against the bias towards which Bede’s was tending and was offering his obviously very bright young lad for adoption at the local comprehensive.  Now that he has joined the club, having thrown his boy in as a bargaining tool and presumably getting free education for his mite, he is responding mightily to the new Bedian vision of QuinKearnike education.

They made a unilateral four-sided decision to create the middle school without referring to the parents; those bonkers who pay the piper.  They met great resistance from Mrs Carr Deed, who had been working wonders at the Prep in her short time in charge.  Her Prep has been thriving whilst the College is failing.  They have appointed a Head of Middle School and side-lined Mrs CD, who has been left as a nursery manager.  Her position has become untenable and she has resigned.  Kearney, Pike and Dandy Boy are putting out false signals saying the root cause of the College’s failure in attracting new pupils is because of the Prep’s inabilities.  The Prep and Mrs CD are the fall guys.  Shades of Michael Barber’s removal; same instigators, same modus operandi.

The teachers all know of this horrible intrigue but are unable to deal with it.  I have said before and it has happened before, faced with machiavellian opposition teaching staff disintegrate.  It is not in their being to be strong, they are just sheep leading lambs.  The great hope in this scenario is that a strong-minded parent, there must be one or two knocking about, takes up the cudgel and faces this quartet and asks the question WHY?  Why are we paying £9,000 plus per year for sending our kids to an under-achieving institution?  You will have the massive majority of the staff on your side who will then work out ways of removing the total bollocks that are now in charge.  Unfortunately all the half-decent governors have now resigned, they will have no help from that clergy poxed group.  The task for this latter-day Jeanne d’Arc is massive but it desperately needs doing.  The ship has been torpedoed, is listing badly.  It is all down to thee.

My third point to day is even older news, news that happened a week ago and as we know even yesterday’s news is boring but my point has to be made.

Last Sunday as I relaxed in rural France surfing the net, sipping cold dry wine in a balmy 23C which was cooled by a soft westerly breeze, I laughed and chuckled whilst reading the long interviews Barry O’Sullivan, Catholic priest of the Salford Diocese, had given to the national press.  The idiot Bazza sensing his great moment had arrived gave it hook, line and sinker to the assembled hacks of the main stream media.  His whole life story, his experiences with child safeguarding, his depth of understanding as a therapissed, what total rubbish.  A heavy blanket of lies spread over a rickety framework of life.  His best move would have been to say nothing like any self-respecting priest or therapist but he was lured by the golden apple of fame and made a complete balls of it.

I know and Barry himself knows that he had no more concern for victims of clerical child abuse than the man in the moon.  The sole purpose of his job during his 10 year tenure in the Safeguarding Commission was to act as long stop.  Not to let any claim against the Salford Diocese gain legs, except of course when the claim was reported to the police first as with William Green’s case.  I could write a book about his antics and when I think about it I probably have, with all the blog postings I have dedicated to his memory.

His record as a therapissed bears out his utter uselessness.  How could he not spot that the child murderer, Mark Bridger, was not an inveterate liar after 20 odd sessions of therapy.  Barry is one total nincompoop and that is why the press gave him hundreds of column inches so that he could sink his already dirty feet into the midden.  The Mail on Line mischieviously put Bazza’s photo alongside that of the murderer and as my lovely wife of 40 years said “They look like a pair of twins”.

Poor old Barry he has completely lost his way, not that he knew he had a way to lose in the first place.  What is it about the Catholic Church and especially the Salford Diocese and St Bede’s College, that they cannot see the utter balls they make of every action they take.  Nero and his fiddle and Rome come to mind.

Fr Barry O’Sullivan, Therapist Duped By A Duper.

I think I will set myself up as a personnel consultant specialising in the priests of the Salford Diocese.  I more than anyone know the abilities and more the inabilities of this august body of venerable old men, having researched their every foible for the last three years.  Take for example the police force, if they wanted to know the qualities of a potential witness, victim or criminal residing within the diocesan ranks, all they need to do is come to me and I would be able to tell them in very short sentences, the various shortcomings of the cleric being investigated.

Take the case of Barry O’Sullivan, once the man who gave the Safeguarding Commission of the Salford Diocese a bad name after shuffling paedophiles around for 10 years whilst acting as Coordinator of the Commission and giving out lies and general obfuscation to deny the many complainants who reported clerical abuse in the diocese.  I have written about him often in the past relating his many un-sacerdotal actions, I know Barry like I know the back of my hand.

However two years ago his lack of talent was eventually realised by our dingbat bishop, Terence Brain and he was moved off the paedophile prairie and now grazes in more mundane pastures as the prison chaplain at HMP Manchester, Strangeways to me and you.  Here using his unbelievable skills as part time therapist come psychoanalyst, learnt from his hours training his two little lovable terriers, he sits and chats to housebreakers and lads who cannot pay fines about their straying partners and the general detritus of life you collect when you are not there to deal with it personally.  It was banal, boring work with only the odd GBH case to brighten Barry’s day.  He was slowly sinking into the morass that is ideal for people of Barry’s abilities but he always felt he was a super star and wanted better.

The day arrived, our learned therapissed cum part-time psychoanalyst once protector of vulnerable people in the Salford Diocese got himself a real life, honest to goodness, fully depraved child murderer.  Everything was up Bazza’s street as he dived into Mark Bridger’s cell on his first evening in detention.

Bridger, from mid-Wales had been arrested for the abduction, possible sexual assault and murder of a five year old girl in Machynlleth, a Welsh coastal town, a lovely spot for such a dark deed.  The problem was the police could not find the poor girl’s body, so Barry jumped in with two booted feet and using all his voodoo skills broke the offending murderer, Bridger, in minutes, without realising that Bridger was a lying deceitful rogue.  Barry was delighted when Bridger under intense O’Sullivan interrogation broke down and said “fair cop Barry, old son, I threw the body in the river but I cannot remember where”.  Barry, fired up with his god given ability, ran off and told PC Plod of the body’s whereabouts and this valuable tit-bit sparked off the biggest body hunt known to British policing, up and down the Dyfi River for months.  Police now know using their own sleuthing powers which were put on hold with Barry’s revelations, that Bridger cut up the body into minute pieces and dispersed of them over a wide area.

Now my point is that if the police had come to me in the first instance and said “hey Paul, what do you think of this O’Sullivan shrink, is he kosher or what?” and I would have, within seconds, without looking at my files, been able to tell them that old Bazza was the biggest blithering idiot that I had ever met.  Not only illiterate but not really part of this world.  He cannot remember even where he parks his car, reporting it stolen and then letting the police find it for him.

Let the police and any other interested party beware, Fr Barry O’Sullivan is a danger to the living and the dead.  He is in the best place for a man of his ilk, HMP Manchester.  But before I finish what about this vow of secrecy between priest and confessee, therapist and patient.  It seems to have been forgotten about fairly easily in this instant when Barry’s only thoughts were for his name in the papers and instant glory.  It must put the fear of God into prisoner and confessee alike when he knows Old Barry will be telling the parish of his confessional secrets within minutes of learning of them.

Not a nice man, not a good man but one disgusting, deceitful, stupid priest is Fr Barry O’Sullivan.

Having written this article my thoughts go out to the poor parents of the murdered girl.  In no way do I want to belittle their own grevious loss.  Hopefully Bridger will go down for life and a short life it could well be when the prison laws of justice come into play.

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