Paul Malpas

My parable today concerns the world’s three great religions.  The veiled faith of Islam, nurtured in the hills of the Hindu Kush, the all embracing but not fully believed English catholicism and the modern arm’s length view of its Irish cousin and the hot sweating enthusiasm of the Reformed Free Swingers sect of the Dutch Secular Church.

In the early morning of the 6th December 2011, I awoke to a steady and painful feeling in my nether regions.  It was a new fresh pain altogether different from the run of the mill aching joints that one grows accustomed to in old age and emanating as it was from this new area which had remained trouble free for all my remembered life, it caused me a little concern.

Over the next few days I continued with my various tasks thinking it was just some muscular pain caused by an exuberant manoeuvre whilst lying between the sheets but gradually I realised that this pain was not muscular but something more complicated.  I ferreted around in this painful area for some seconds and swiftly realised that my right testicle was three times larger than my left one, almost reaching gobstopper proportions and the pain stretched from that swollen gonad through the middle of my body to my right kidney causing at times severe back ache.

I decided that I would have to see my doctor although my all embracing disbelief of all things Catholic made me think that this area was still taboo.  I plucked up courage, had a shower and whizzed down to the surgery to be first there that morning.  I was, with 30 minutes to spare and the standing in the cold awaiting his arrival made me wilt with the pain.  He arrived and brought me in, unzipped my trouser and with a wink and a leer, he squeezed the first one he came to whilst at the same time asking which was the affected one.  As I pulled myself off the ceiling I stuttered “the right one”.  He apologised at his oafishness and did agree that the right one was definitely out of place next to its more sedate and beansized left brother.

He suggested immediately that I sign myself in at Sligo hospital while they did some ultrasound treatment on my painful appendage.  I explained that I was on my way to Manchester for the Christmas holidays and my treatment in Sligo would have to wait.  He accepted my plans but booked me in for ultrasound in the New Year when I returned and prescribed anti-biotics and pain killers.

After a few days in Manchester with Christmas approaching and the anti-biotics seemingly not working but the pain killers were when I took them but I was loath to over a long period for fear of dependance, I asked my wife to drive me down to Stepping Hill Hospital in Stockport.  It was the day before Christmas Eve, one of their medical staff was upstairs murdering patients by booby trapping saline solutions ( I think five by then had met their maker), I was downstairs in A&E in front of a very nice triage nurse feeling slightly embarrassed as I related my tale of woe.  She agreed my pain must be immense when she saw the strength of the painkillers I was taking.  “They are the next thing to morphine” she said.

Within five minutes of my triage interview I was talking to a doctor and I felt more relaxed.  He was a nice young chap, not long out of medical school, built like an international wing forward and from Pakistan.  Not a man to blush at my plight I thought but he was unsure how to approach this indecent area of the body.  His Islamic upbringing suggested that it was a sacred area and his medical training made him ask for a chaperone even though Helen, my dear wife of nearly 40 years, could be heard tittering in the corner of the room.

He called in a nurse, a young good looking girl, who he presumed would not be used to this situation.  I apologised for what she was about to endure but he gave her a towel which she had to hold at arms length so that it obstructed her view of my manly credentials, has he carefully removed my garments.  He saw for himself that things were not right or at least not as right as they should be bearing in mind it was the right one that was now approachin golf ball status.  He zipped me up, shooed away the nurse who had in no way improved her education and suggested I needed to see a Urologist which he would organise.  While we waited he took some blood samples and I gave him a sample of my urine which he then took to the laboratory.

I was ushered into a curtained cubicle, backstage of where I had been initially examined and a nurse told me to lie on a bench and await this Urologist chap.  A few minutes later the curtains parted and this vision of loveliness drifted through the drapes.  ”Ello, my name is Adelberta van der Kerkoff and I am the Registrar in the Urology Department” she said in a slightly but interestingly flawed local accent.  She was in her late 20s with long blonde hair and a figure to match.  She was clad in a white coat and judging by its shape and cut was obviously made up in some Parisian house of haute couture.  Her whole ensemble was set off beautifully with a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos giving grace and definition to her splendidly profiled legs which were encased in a pair of gossamer thin fully fashioned nylon stockings.

After a few introductory remarks I gathered she had learnt her trade in Amsterdam and had come over to Stepping Hill to be finished in her art.  She unzipped me with experienced aplomb.  No need of a chaperone with this lady, she was confident enough to realise that I would not squeal and she quickly delved in to the affected area and for ten minutes she rumbustiously coddled the gifts God gave me, her manipulations were of a degree you could only dream about and with all her prodding and digital discoveries there was not one iota of pain.  She raised her sweating forehead and asked me to turn on my side and bring my knees up to my chin.  I could see she was warming to her task as she slowly unbuttoned her white sheath-like coat, revealing a pastel blue sleeveless blouse that nicely held in what was threatening to burst out.  This was finished off with a little black skirt that stopped short of her knees by more than a few inches.  She carefully hung up her white coat and pulled a  long latex glove from out of a drawer.  This type of glove I had last seen worn by a vet whilst artificially inseminating a cow in a field some months previously.  It reached almost to her shoulder.

“Do not worry” she said in this soft netherlandic inspired Stockport accent “but this might be slightly uncomfortable” and she proceeded to thrust the glove, infilled by her fingers, wrist and elbow, up my back passage.  Uncomfortable was not how I would describe it and I started to think how glad I was to be heterosexual as pain from her internal gropings racked my interns.  However after a few minutes of this intense massage, she withdrew and indicated her pleasure that everything in and up there was perfectly as it should be.

She expertly peeled off the long glove, threw it in a bin and told me to tidy myself up and we would talk.  She clad herself once more in her white coat and carefully did up her buttons before going off to get the lab results from my previous donations.  She returned and sat me down and told me my urine sample was perfect, possibly too much tonic with the gin and my blood held no secrets and showed my kidney function was top class.  She said in her very attractive lisping Hollandaise voice that she would like to admit me into her department to do some ultrasound tests to confirm her thoughts and if correct carry out a little procedure.  She said that she thought I had deddidichimus or a word like that.  The procedure would be simple and would entail slicing into the side of my scrotal sac and nipping off the cyst that was causing the pain and the swelling of my right goolie.  I said would I become monorchid and she smiled, the smile of the knowing and said that there was enough in my right one to make three or four others.

After receiving all this wonderful treatment I had to decline her offer.  Christmas was fast approaching and no way was I allowing myself to be incarcerated.  I had to endure and wait for my return to Ireland.  She sadly shook her blonde tresses and told me to be careful and come back to her at the slightest provocation and she gave me a report to give to my Irish doctor and with much reluctance we shook hands and parted.  I think we both enjoyed our little friendship and I had certainly been looked after better than I could ever expect.  Well done Stepping Hill.

Two weeks later after ultra-sound treatment at Sligo Hospital I reported back to the surgery.  The doctor looked at the report and said “no, you are OK, there is nothing wrong with you”.  Sardonically I said “tell my bollicks that” and disconsolately left the room.

It is now 26th February 2012 some 82 days after my affliction reared its head and although not as bad as it was it still gives me great discomfort.  So I decided to write down my tale of woe and let the nations of the world through my readers offer their diagnosis.  What in the name of everything that is Islamic, Catholic and Secular could be wrong with me.

My darling wife of almost 40 years and myself have been enjoying full time life in Ireland, this land we considered our spiritual home, for the last seven years and before that part time for yonks, going back into the 1960s.  In all that time nothing really has changed, some people got a little uppity when money was flowing like the Niagara Falls in full spate, during the era known as the Celtic Tiger years, but all in all those years of excess passed our little town of Boyle by.  A few profited and lost but most carried on struggling as they have always done.  There was a lot of losers, in the main young married couples who were forced to pay hyper-inflated house prices and are now in hyper-negative equity, to the tune of a couple of hundred thousand euro, which they will spend the rest of their lives recovering from, if indeed they ever do.  I said nothing has changed, but for a few greedy bastards in Dublin who forced the situation in the good days, although they have had some come-uppance, are still left with a nice little pile under the mattress.  This cabal of high ranking politicians, civil servants and bankers have been screwing this state since DeValera learnt to write his signature on Government documents and they are the only winners and always will be if we kowtow.

I have no real complaints, if we take the above mentioned filth out of the equation but I was also caught up in this octopus like struggle against ever diminishing financial returns and I know how soul destroying it can be.  However the people are lovely and the countryside is beautiful and I am glad we made the move.

Unfortunately there is one thing I have noticed and which I was not aware of when living in England and that might be because as we get older we have more need to contact government and public sector departments.  My wife certainly has because she decided, shortly after coming here, to devote her life to the needy in our little society and decided to use her talents, carefully honed on the cut and thrust of rearing a family in England.  She became a volunteer information provider at the Boyle branch of the Citizens Information Centre dispensing information and advice to the mass of disadvantaged people trying to work their way round the well wrought maze of social protection, health, taxation and employment legislation that had been succinctly brought together by successive governments to, at the very least, confuse the most able in our society.

All the departments in these government organizations had been filled over a number of years by a class of people who were more interested in collecting their hefty wage packet at the end of each pay period than in giving  sometimes vital help and service to the public.  When times became hard and although they had to take cuts in pay which were nowhere near as bad as those employed in the public sector, they , themselves, hardened their outlook on the deserving outside world.  Their philosophy was, “I’ve got a job, I’m not earning as much as I used to, so fuck everyone else.  Why should I bother my arse helping other people and as for these volunteers, who are doing it for nothing, fuck them.  They are only keeping my mate out of a job”

More and more, every day, this philosophy, this canon, was adopted by every public service in the land.  They became experts at obfuscation, delay, the need for consultation with their seniors, buck-passing and general zombie-like behaviour which has enraged those who look for help.  Now this unresponsive behaviour might well come as a result of policy from the upper echelons of their departments but it does show how these people are willing to embrace this negative atitude to their fellow man.  It is amazing how they can sleep at night with this antisocial mantra praying on their minds.

Examples of this behaviour are numerous in every department, in all taxation departments whether the money is being paid to them or especially when they have to pay rebates this total lack of spontaneity and interest is apparent.  Throughout all departments of the HSE and especially in the department responsible for the issue of medical cards to the old and needy for free medical assistance this philosophy reigns.  Mr James Reilly TD, Minister for Health in Ireland said yesterday “Those who are most vulnerable get looked after” but this is patently not true because Helen has been fighting for the renewal of medical cards for a needy and vulnerable mid-70s couple on limited funds for four months after they had tried unsucessfully themselves for three months prior to asking for help.  Note that this is a renewal not an application and Mr Reilly’s department in Finglas just sit there in dumb isolation offering anything but progress in the matter.

Other departments now just do not bother to answer the phone, thus saving themselves the problem of thinking up an excuse.  The Small Claims court and the Department of Social Protection who deal with the bulk of benefits must sit in an office 200 yards down the road from their previous handsets, they just do not answer enquiries.  If they do this, of course, they do not have to embroil themselves in other people’s problems, but is that not why they are there?

Now even the Citizens Information service is suffering from this same disease.  When my wife first joined this organization whose ethos was to help the disadvantaged of society she found the bottom layers consisted of an admirable bunch of unpaid volunteer information providers doing their best for others but when she had to go upstairs to talk to the paid management level she found the same malaise, the same disinterest as in other branches of the public service.  The management were only there to propagate their own positions, they were not interested in the ethos or the progress of their organization nor did they have the skills to improve or even carry out their departments purpose which is to empower citizens in their rights and entitlements.  These managers could at their best only organise meetings to discuss nothing but just to be there.  Results did not enter the equation.

In all my wife’s four years in this most unenviable of tasks and with every public department she applied to, she was initially  surprised and then desparately worried at the lack of any determination and application in these sectors.  She found the levels of interest and help abysmally low.  There was no enthusiasm, care or willingness from the public face of these departments.  Nobody could  bother their arses when it came to solving a problem or even to consider the sad cases that she put before them.

For Ireland to drag itself out of this morass it finds itself in, something first has to be done to reset the moral compasses of those that languish in the public sector, which I understand is approximately half of the working population of this country.  A stiff task for any body especially that inert body they call the Dail but  hopefully there might be a latter-day Daniel O’Connell in our midst.

I have just found out that this morning in Stonehaven Sheriff’s Court, Robert Green, that fine advocate for all that is left of goodness in these British Isles, has been sentenced to 12 months imprisonment for the crime of breach of the peace for which he was convicted last month in the same house of madness that is the Scottish Legal System.  Obviously Robert will appeal this ridiculous sentence but he could get more mileage out of doing his time, which psychologically would be no problem to a man as strong as himself.  He has been lifted to martyr status by those idiots who were agin him.

That stupid ridiculous Scottish establishment have really shot themselves in the foot by allowing this to happen and it has eased the path to justice for poor Hollie Greig.  From Alex Salmond down, the whole Scottish Nationalist movement stinks and their legal system must be the smelliest part of the set up.  Do they really think that they can walk away from this absolute travesty, because if they do, David Cameron should cut them adrift tomorrow morning and let them stew in their own shite.

Like any true liberator, Robert Green, has given the last few years of his life to ensure Hollie Greig, the Downs Syndrome girl who was horribly abused by a ring of paedophiles in Aberdeen including a good slice of that area’s establishment, received the justice that was rightfully hers and would be in any other country in the civilised world.  However Scotland forever under the Masonic yoke thinks it can play willy-nilly with the God given right of freedom of the individual.  This Scotland which has never managed to extricate itself from the 16th century will now find out how hard it is to exist in the 2ist century.

These words of mine have been written quickly having just heard this news but I stand by every one of them.  The outpourings from this event will submerge this Scottish controlling cabal like nothing else in this modern world.  They have now been warned and God help them.

Anne Harris, the Editor of the Irish Sunday Independent calls them the “coping class” and the Irish Times calls them “the squeezed middle”.  They are the ordinary working people of the country who go to work, pay their taxes and vastly increased taxes they are, after the bankers, developers and successive governments have flagrantly ruined the financial basis of our country.  These people are bringing up their families on an ever decreasing income but on the whole behave themselves and just get on with life as best they can.  These are the people any government would expect to bring them out of a crisis.  They do not rebel, they might moan but generally they just get on with it.

Recently however this vast majority, this huge uncomplaining mass of people, have been starting to think and to wonder why it always is, when trouble abounds, they are the first people to get their arses kicked.  The answer is of course that like the family dog, their arses are kicked because they are there and the government and establishment hope they will remain there.  But there are signs, faint signs possibly as yet,  but signs that this tolerant behaviour is being cast aside and the average thinker wonders whether it is because the plutocracy’s chickens are coming home to roost.

Various things have been happening in this big wide world of ours recently  to suggest that the wealthy, the bourgeoisie, the establishment who never suffer in the hardtimes, have had their day after their various antics have come to light and no longer will the coping class just cope, they will rebel with disasterous effect on those who choose to govern.  Even the big prop of our capitalist classes has had its strength eroded mightily.  The Christian Church, that harbinger of decent life and a definite ally of the system so far, has blotted its copybook and dampened its trousers in its headlong pursuit of hedonistic values and can no longer be relied on to capture the imagination of people.

It is well known that the press have had a very powerful grip on the minds of most for a long time and the government and establishment have been using this grip to their advantage.  The popular press have been feeding garbage and titillation to the people for a long time and helping to keep the public’s eye off the bigger picture which is the rape of the many by the few.

However the Tory inspired Leveson Inquiry into media culture and ethics, and its relationship with the police and politicians, is bringing more unexpected worms out of the woodwork than Mr Cameron really wanted when he set it up in the wake of the phone hacking scandal that brought down that superb merchant of trash, twaddle and sleaze, The News Of The World.  An interesting thing here, and it shows the rubbish that this weekly newspaper set out, was when the Murdoch’s, in their zeal to regain lost ground, closed the newspaper down.  Their customers of trite did not switch to another paper but just stopped buying an alternative.  It shows what that group of people wanted with their Sunday breakfast.

One of the above worms mentioned by that most unlikely of witnesses called by the inquiry, Mr Paul Staines or his alter ego Guido Fawkes, the archblogger, was in his condemnation of the British press.  He told the story of photographs of Mr Christopher Myers, one time aide to William Hague the Foreign Minister, who had been sharing a room with his boss whilst out on the hustings, which had come into Mr Staines possession and placed Mr Myers in a compromising situation.  Now I am not interested in the ins and outs of Mr Hague and his friends because all that has been mulled over in the press for years, but these photographs are interesting.  Mr Staines sold these photographs to the News of the World for £20,000.  At that time Andy Coulson, one time editor of the paper who had resigned because of pressure from the phone hacking furore and was now David Cameron’s press advisor seems to have used his influence to persuade the paper to spike any story that could come out of the photographs.  The photographs were never published and Mr Hague gave out a press statement about his happy marriage and all the papers covered it, but again the News of the World fought shy.

What also came out of last weeks press runs was the bravery of Richard Ingrams, who has been pushing boundaries for over 50 years, first with Private Eye and now for the last 20 years with his monthly magazine The Oldie.  He tells the story of another man long encumbered by innuendo and gossip about his perverted sex life but who always managed, being a pillar of the establishment, to keep his story out of the newspapers.  Jimmy Savile, that doyen of Tory Party ministers, who told everybody he came into contact with on these matters that if he went down he would bring the upper echelons with him.  The Oldie ran the story of the BBC scoop that never was.  The story of Jimmy Savile and pubescent girls from a remand home in Essex, whom he used to invite into the BBC studios and abuse them during breaks in his television rehersals, was withdrawn at the last minute by BBC senior management because it implicated both the BBC and two living celebrities.  Now everybody needs to be concerned at this facet of his libido because Savile’s whole persona, created from 25 years at the BBC, was in his handling and dealing with children and if this story is true, and I think it is, his whole image would need to be removed from public life. Rumours of this man’s mores have been circulating for years.  Even I ran a story on 23 April 2010 on this topic and Jimmy Savile’s contribution which was backed up for me by a restaurateur in the New Forest who often used to cook for Ted Heath, when Jimmy brought a new batch of boys down for Ted to savour.

The real problem with all this news is that it is getting to close for comfort for those at the top of the tree, those who have been, by doubtful means, controlling your every breath.  Take for example that thorn in the side of the Scottish legal system, Mr Robert Green and his campaign for justice for Hollie Greig, a young Scottish Downs Syndrome girl who was horribly abused for many years by a large ring of top of the range paedophiles in Aberdeen, which included judges, police officers, social workers and teachers. He was recently found guilty of breach of the peace at Stonehaven Sheriff’s Court after undergoing something like 20 court appearances, costing well over £500,000 in public money and involving 64 prosecution witnesses and engaged the services of most of the top brass of the Scottish Justice Department.  All this for a breach of the peace hearing.  The only top dog who did not appear was the former Procurator Fiscal of Scotland, Elish Angiolini, whom Robert wanted to call as a witness but was not allowed by Sheriff Principal Edward Bowen, who at the trial did not declare his relationship with Angiolini.  This was the same Elish Angiolini who resigned in mysterious circumstances last May when supposedly at the height of her powers as Procurator Fiscal.

Robert however has now managed to pin down Miss Angiolini and has had a file opened on her and been granted a crime number by Lothian Police.  Now where does Angiolini live but in Dunblane, scene of terrible circumstances 16 years ago, when a lone gun man, Robert Hamilton, shot and killed 16 children and a teacher.  Hamilton was a suspected paedophile who was implicated with George Robertson, or to give him his full title, Baron Robertson of Port Ellen, one time Labour Defence Secretary and Nato Secretary General, who disappeared off the radar very quickly in 2004.  George also lives in Dunblane, along with, it seems, some very important people.  Not bad for a town of 8,000 inhabitants.  I wrote a blog posting about this particular coven entitled Paedophilia, The Hollie Greig Scandal, The Dunblane Massacre And The Scottish Cabal on 4 April 2010 which proved to be the most popular piece I have ever written.  It is still there in the top 3 most widely read blogs of mine after two years and so are all these people we have spoken about, but there time will come.  Their chickens will eventually come home to roost especially when the coping classes rise up.