Child rapists have many collaborators not only in Irish high society but throughout the intelligence services of the Western world as well.
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Máiría Cahill’s account of how, as a vulnerable teenager, she was repeatedly raped by the IRA’s top brass and how both the IRA and Sinn Féin, their political front, not only covered up their sex crimes but unmercifully tormented her in an effort to shut her up, fillets almost every last one of their top guns.
The very first page has her meeting legendary IRA leader, long-term MI6 spook and serial womaniser and child sex abuser Denis Donaldson. By page 4, when we are introduced to former trainee priest Bik McFarlane, who had a number of fortuitous escapes from capital murder charges, we know we are dealing with the utter scum of the earth.
These scum include her own great uncle, alleged Provisional IRA founder Joe Cahill, who beat a capital murder rap brave Tom Williams was hanged for, and who was allowed work undisturbed for decades in Belfast’s Harland and Wolff shipyard, where no Catholic, least of all an IRA scrote who was convicted of murdering a Belfast cop during the Second World War, dare show his face. Little wonder then, as things transpired, that Joe Cahill was exposed as being in the pay of two intelligence agencies (MI6 and Irish Army Intelligence) after and most likely even before this piece of shit was filmed sexually abusing a young girl in the early 1970s.
Although Máiría Cahill goes easy on that avuncular creep, she gives Gerry Adams, the long time guru of this death cult, the full nine yards. Time and again, she exposes him as a narcissistic hypocrite, whose lack of attention to detail snares him and his acolytes in his own lies again and again.
Although Eoin O Broin (what is a woman?), Anne Speed, and other Johnny come latelys, together with Brighton bomber Martina Anderson and long term Adams’ advisors Ted Howell and Richard McAuley only get walk on parts, any IRA rape apologist who gets more than a cameo appearance is thoroughly skewered.
These include her cousin Siobhán O’Hanlon, who was Adams’ private secretary, having first served the mandatory sentence for IRA crimes and IRA member Briege Wright, whose brother Seamas was one of the IRA’s Disappeared, murdered by MI6 agent Stakeknife, allegedly on Adams’ direct orders, and buried like a dog in an unmarked ditch. Máiría Cahill makes the point that the allegiance of all these IRA marionettes, who included “senior Republican” Rita O’Hare who, having been convicted of having explosives hidden up her vagina, had lesbian orgies with English aristocrat Rose Dugdale in Limerick Prison, was to their male IRA puppet masters, rather than to the IRA’s rape victims or to the countless other women and children their handlers abused and traumatised.
Although the IRA had their own kangaroo court enquiry into how their heroes raped Cahill, not only were those illiterate knuckle draggers not trained for any such delicate tasks but, as Cahill shows again and again with every last one of them, their primary objective was to protect the brand name and brand leader of their incestuous little group.
For non-Irish readers, the best comparator is The Sopranos about the New Jersey organised crime family where the common moral benchmarks by which society runs are totally absent at both the macro and micro levels. Mix that with Tony Montana claiming to be a political prisoner and you begin to get a handle on the IRA and their marionettes.
As the book progresses, we hear of scores of other IRA sex crimes, of senior IRA scumbag Marty Morris raping Máiría’s 15 year old cousin and of Ballymurphy’s Pink Pussy bar being “full of underage girls and older republican men.”
Ballymurphy, for those of you unfamiliar with Belfast, was home to the 1st Battalion of the Belfast IRA’s Brigade led by Gerry Adams, who held them in reserve until tempers were boiling after which he unleashed them to cause mayhem. That Gerry Adams and his marionettes did not know about this den of iniquity is incredible until we recall that Gerry covered for his brother Liam, who was a senior IRA and Sinn Féin man and, like their father, a serial child sex rapist.
What is important about their father is he grew up with Joe Cahill and other IRA stalwarts during lean times when secrecy was the name of their game. It was that clannish cult of secrecy, of omertá, together with their initiation rites, that allowed these Belfast IRA perverts rape generations of children, Máiría Cahill included.
Not that it was solely a Belfast problem. Donal Lovely, who also joined the IRA (and MI6) in the 1950s, ran a mini empire of Irish language schools and buggered so many of his students that the media referred to him as the Irish Jimmy Savile.
However, Máiría Cahill makes it plain that there were a host of such perverts and, if we broaden out to look at Irish language poet Cathal Ó Searcaigh, whose party piece was to give young Nepalese boys in Katmandhu an ice cream in exchange for a blow job, we see an Irish den of iniquity that would make the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah blush.
Ó Searcaigh’s case is particularly apposite because of all the diverse cultural parasites that came out of the woodwork to defend him, a poet in an esoteric language that could not possibly sustain him in child sex trips to Nepal unless he was getting significant top ups from the usual MI6 related suspects charged with keeping Ireland subservient. For a fuller discussion of Ó Searcaigh, go to this link and also explore the murder of Charles Self, an English homosexual, which involves Ireland’s top TV stars, the Irish Attorney General and the child prostitutes outside the offices of Dublin’s main newspapers during the GUBU scandals.
At the core of all this is secrecy and an undeserved sense of entitlement. Seamus Marley, son of IRA legend Larry who organised the massive H Block escape Adams gorilla Bobby Storey claimed credit for, told (p421) the young boys he raped in IRA safe houses that touts end up on border roads with dustbin bags over their heads, in other words that, if the kids told the authorities the IRA were raping them, the penalty would be death.
Although Adams and his ventriloquist dummies who now sit in the Irish Parliament claim they told Máiría Cahill to go to the cops, that is poppycock. The IRA perpetrated these serious sex crimes at a time they were threatening to shoot each and every member of Belfast Celtic Football Club if they played the police in a football match, causing Belfast Celtic to pull out of the competition before they got their knees blown.
Chapter 21 is given over to the IRA’s female enablers and then to arch manipulator and irredeemable creep Gerry Adams, who is a textbook case of how sex abusers like his brother and father manipulate, intimidate and lie. As the book rolls on, we meet IRA legend Martin Meehan (wife convicted of incest), Eamon Collins (who had every single bone in his body broken for testifying in a libel case), the IRA’s Mary McArdle who shot Mary Travers dead as she was receiving Holy Communion in a Catholic church and who was gifted a plum job by Adams as a reward. Then we have super MI6 tout Martin McGuinness Máiría writes a wind up poem to on pp 391/2 (Martin McGuinness, the Butcher of the Bogside, was a pal of Bill Clinton and Gerry Adams. Martin was not charged when caught red handed with the massive Shipquay Street car bomb and was given a state funeral at which Orgy Island’s Bill Clinton presided). We meet anti Catholic Sinn Féin bigot Senator Fintan Warfield who says that the IRA and INLA H Block hunger strikers died for his right to prance about in drag. And then it is on to Jock Davison, another IRA legend and serial child rapist, who murdered a guy in a pub when all other 50 patrons just happened to be in the toilet and who Máiría overhears in a series of tete a tetes with Gerry Adams.
On and on the book rolls, pinioning Adams and his marionettes one by one. We have, for example, IRA master bomber Dessie Ellis, wheeled out to the media to explain how the IRA’s kangaroo court system worked but then saying he knew nothing about its operations; as Ellis, who has been linked to 50 IRA murders, was caught in his own allegations of terrorising women, he was probably not the best candidate for the Sopranos to use as a fig leaf.
Ellis is far from alone. There is cop killer and wife beater Pearse McAuley, child rapist Vincent McKenna, IRA hitman Seán O’Callaghan (BDSM sessions with male prostitutes), the Ballad of Billy Reid (the 1950s IRA veteran convicted of raping children), and the head of their POW Dept who, in the pattern of serial rapists, specialised in pilfering keepsakes from the mothers of incarcerated IRA prisoners and covertly taping those mothers for his own perverse sexual pleasures.
Although Sinn Féin has promoted a battery of freshly scrubbed-up women to put a sheen on their crimes, this book makes it plain that overcoat is easily washed off and those women shown up for the wooden-hearted marionettes that they are with just a little scrubbing. The fear for Ireland’s Sopranos is that Cahill would open the door for others who literally know where the bodies are buried to air their dirty linen and much more in public. And, if Sinn Féin cannot resort to Seamus Marley’s solution of putting a bullet into the heads of the IRA’s child rape victims, they know they are in trouble on all fronts.
Although Sinn Féin retains a battery of lawyers, they come across, in this book at least, as the type of heartless monsters who browbeat rape victims into submission which, given the calibre of their clients, might not be all that far off the mark.
Although Adams is Cahill’s primary target, smarmy Mary Lou McDonald, Sinn Féin’s current nominal boss, gets lots of well-deserved incoming. As does The Guardian’s Fishy Ron Greenslade, who was either compromised by Pat Doherty, the head of IRA’s Intelligence and a brother of Balcombe St bomber Hugh Doherty, or who was just another MI6 field agent running an IRA Fred.
Although there is a huge cast of IRA characters and their hangers on, none compete with chief puppeteer (or is it chief MI6/CIA marionette?) Gerry Adams who, after his brother was convicted of raping children and he was forced to admit to having sheltered him and helped move him from one youth club to another, tweeted “Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?”
What kind of depraved individual would give such a one-fingered salute to the world after such a conviction and what can one say about Mary Lou McDonald and the other marionettes who rushed to defend Adams’ “good name”?
All these battles spilled over into the mainstream British and Irish media and, as these Parliamentary debates show, into the Irish Parliament as well. Although the IRA and their Sinn Féin and other apologists would say that their opponents were only point scoring, when you are in a secret organisation that systematically gang rapes children, one would hope your opponents would point score and more against you.
Although Máiría Cahill’s 447 page book occasionally wanders, it lands so many punches on Gerry Adams and Ireland’s Sopranos that it should be their requiem. Because Irish politics is rotten from top to toe, it will do no such thing. Since at least the time of the 1981 H Block hunger strike, the Irish have shown themselves to be more than happy to vote time and again for criminals, paedophiles and gangsters and not just for those from the unemployable ranks of Sinn Féin and the IRA, which had planned to assassinate Dr Joe Hendron when he won the West Belfast seat from top puppeteer (or is it marionette?) Gerry Adams.
Near to the end of the book, on p 424, referring to her own case and that of hundreds of other victims of the IRA’s child rape gangs, Máiría Cahill rhetorically asks, “What’s a little child abuse, if they can turn a blind eye to murder?” The answer, in Ireland, at least, is pack raping children is fine if those like Larry Marley, Liam Adams, Marty Morris, Briege Meehan et al committing it or colluding in it have the higher ideals of Fintan Warfield, Gerry Adams, the Meehan family and Mary Lou McDonald to guide them.
Systematic child rape and cover ups are, as former Irish Prime Minister Micheál Martin said in those debates, “standard operating procedure” for this crew directed, as ever in their case, from the top and enforced at every level. Although it is shameful, it is not as shameful as the Irish voters colluding in it by voting these litigious imposters into power.
Although Máiría Cahill has gone far and above the call of duty in exposing this snake-pit, unfortunately as the Ó Searcaigh and Orgy island cases show, child rapists have many collaborators not only in Irish high society but throughout the intelligence services of the Western world as well.
All in all, this book was, despite its occasional diversions into what gratingly passes for Belfast humour and sideways glances into her own domestic life, well worth reading. Because one swallow does not make a summer and one major expose is not enough, the hope has to be that, as with the Boston College tapes, a university or some similar corporation, will carry on and expand on Máiría Cahill’s work and that all the IRA’s puppeteers and marionettes will, along with Bill Clinton’s Orgy Island crew, get the comeuppances they, their enablers and their apologists so richly deserve.