Tuesday, 13 November 2012
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which greatly helped old man Zimmer get over the sad, sudden death of Fergus, his pet ferret. "Fergus was more than a ferret!" cried the the old man. "He was also a friend. What will I stick down the front of my trousers NIGH?" he screamed. A kindly, caring, district nurse made the old man forget his sorrow, by hitting him over the head with a child of Prague statue. "The power of religion," croaked old Maggie, who was sitting in the corner teaching crickets how to sit, beg and roll over and play dead. Tommy my cat, sporting a tattoo of Jim Allister on his right buttock, opened a packet of rich tea biscuits with a controlled explosion and said, "We should go to the city of culture at the weekend and see the amazing, "Nitro Five" dancing troupe from Salford, put on a display of clog dancing which will leave you bewitched, bothered, bewildered and breathless." "Listen, Tommy lad," I said, "if thee thinks I want to see clog dancing, then thee must be barmy, so, think on lad, think on!" "Eeh by gum!" said Tommy. "Thee has changed. Ever since Mr Hardcastle made thee foreman at mill, thee has come over all laddy-dah. Thee makes me sick," said Tommy. "It's an awful thing to say, but sometimes I pray for, trouble at mill." "Trouble at mill!" I yelled. "Wash thee mouth out with carbolic soap. Another outburst like that, and thee will hit cobble stones, with thee flat cap, moleskin trousers and clogs. I won't have thee bad mouthing mill. If it wern't for mill, our gruel wouldn't have little bits of pigs' whiskers floating it it. So, think on lad. Pigs' whiskers, Aye! Aye! and bread and dripping don't grow on trees." At twelve o'clock Wendy Austin nearly burst my ear drums when she guldered, "Well folks, it's The BIG day in America. Bronco Obama and Mike Roomy will be battling it out to become the next President of America. Tell us what you think. Later I shall be talking to Jim Allister about his strange, secret hobby of running after butterflies, with a big net shouting, "Come back you wily varmints!" The door opened and Jim Rodgers screamed, "Nigh Nigh, a thousand times, Nigh! to yous all." Tommy looked up and drawled, "Well, if it ain't the old tomato jumper! What brings you round these here parts stranger?" Jim stood there, steely eyed, hands on hips and replied, "I've come for my toy." "You been eating loco weed?" said Tommy. "Let me explain," screamed Jim. "I was playing with my remote control, toy helicopter and it went in to your back yard. Can I have it back--please?" "Sure partner," said Tommy. "Just moosey on out there and get it." When Jim was in the back yard, Tubby Nolan burst in roaring. "Did you see it? Did you see the UFO? It seemed to disappear into your back yard." In came Jim, with a low-hanging sheet from the clothes' line tangled round his head. "ALIENS!" Guldered Tubby. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "It's trying to communicate!" yelled Tubby. "Yous keep it talking, while I run for a camera crew." "I'm sure most of you saw it on the news. Jim Rodgers, with a sheet over his head, waving his arms like crazy and screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" Mark Carruthers, ever the professional, looked into the camera and said, "Well folks, it seems an alien invasion is imminent. I for one am looking forward to it!" "Never nothing worth watching on TV," said Tommy, as he put on a CD of Hugo Duncan's Christmas Hits. NOW! that was scary!!!
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Great show yesterday kid. Jim Allister, not to be confused with any person living or dead, leaped to his feet up at Stormont to make YET another point of order. "Mr Speaker!" he roared. "Are you aware that Gerry Anderson's great shows have been hi-jacked by Sinn Fein and the DUP? I have tried, on many occasions, to get a request played. Mr Coyle, who I am reliably informed is an unrepentant Rossville flats' stone thrower, has steadfastly refused to play, "Hello, hello, who's your lady friend" for me and my dog Victoria. YET! the same Mr Coyle, this very morning, passed on requests to Gerald Michael Anderson, from Sammy Wilson and John O'Dowd. Mr Anderson then played, "When I'm cleaning windows" for Mr Wilson and, "Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes" for Mr O'Dowd. This is a clear breach of the Good Friday Agreement (which I don't recognise) and proof, if proof were needed, that Ulster, is a cold house for Jim Allister." The speaker, in no uncertain terms, told Mr Allister to sit down, dry his eyes and stop his old incessant intrangience. Mr Allister refused and was carried from the chamber and dumped beside the wheelie bins. Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Herman's hermit, pulled up his polka dot, ankle socks and said, "AT LAST! The gridlock has been broken up at Stormont. Alex" It's my party and I'll cry if I want to" Attwood, will soon present a new bill to the house and attached garage.". "Expand Tommy!" I cried. "In the name of Aunt Jane, expand and tell what bill little Alex will bring forth." "A marine bill!" yelled Tommy. "Let me quote an article from the Poleglass Chronicle. "Mr Alex Attwood, minister for the environment, told our reporter yesterday at a car boot sale, "I plan to deliver policy and legislation to promote, protect AND sustain Northern Ireland's coastal waters." "About time!" I cried. "Our coastal waters are out there at the mercy of the elements." Tommy coughed and said, "Mr Attwood, who had just bought 12 CDs of Big Tom at the car boot sale, continued, "When I think of our coastal waters, I think of the wealth of resources, the splendour of its biodiversity, the simple fact of it being a HUGE natural resources to be engaged. This means, it is vital that we concentrate our efforts to protect AND sustain it." "What a speech!" I cried. "It's up there with Churchill's, "We will fight them on the beaches" speech, or General De Gaulle's, "We surrender" oratory. But, what does it mean?" I cried. "What does it mean for the man, woman, child and dog in the street? "Rationing!" Yelled Tommy. "When the bill is made law, the average family will be rationed to building only two and a half sand castles when they go to the seaside." "About time!" I yelled. "Did you know, there are as many grains of sand as there are stars in the sky. Last night, I looked up at the sky and saw only seven stars. So, to Mr Attwood, I say, "Good, but no cigar. Too little, too late! The sands of time are disappearing from our coasts. Ration by all means, but also import sand from Belgium, Switzerland and other countries with a thriving marine coast policy!" Tommy concurred, filthy little feline!
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
Great show yesterday kid. In the hills above Drumquin, the lime kiln men listened to the great show before hibernating for the Winter. To the shouts and yells of, "Goodnight, Jim Bob, Goodnight Pio McSpalter, Goodnight John boy!" the lime kiln men climbed into tea chests, pulled straw over them and went to sleep. When they awake, on the 20th of March, they will be spoonfed royal jelly and the soft flesh of American pumpkins. May the good Lord protect them from hungry bears and frustrated spinsters. Tommy my cat, poster boy for Lyles' granulated sugar, hung his little, blue blazer up on the hook of a song that was playing on the radio and said, "Rambling Joe Mahon must know every road, lane and short cut in Ulster." "Rubbish!" I roared. "The wandering Joe lies sleeping in the back of a UTV, people carrier, after a feed of hotdogs, Muller yogurt and jelly babies. Joe has no idea where he is! He is hauled out of the back seat, plopped down in the middle of rushy ground, handed a microphone and told to get on with it." "The fake, sham, shennigans behind television programmes," said Tommy,"leads me to believe that Jedward may well be cartoon characters." "Of course they are!" I cried. "No human twins could look like THAT!" "I was listening to the lovely Karen Patterson read the six o'clock news. Karen was reporting on Jim Allister's shambolic attempt to jump over the river Boyne dressed as Lord Carson. Suddenly, Tommy my cat rushed in, grabbed the radio, held it high above his head and smashed it on the floor. "I interrupt this programme," yelled Tommy, "to bring you some, breaking news! A weather warning, just issued, has warned the public about fierce turbulence round the back of Tubby Nolan's massive trousers. Motorists, are advised to avoid the area, BUT, if caught in the turbulence, stay in the car and pray." "The tail end of Hurricane Sandy?" I cried. "NO!" roared Tommy, "The tail end of Tubby Nolan!" Two hours later Tommy looked at me, as I stood there wearing a sheepfarmer's body warmer and red, sparkling knickers. "So," said Tommy, "you are determined to go to the Halloween party, dressed as the overweight Lady Gaga?" "Yes, I is," I replied as I pulled the phone off the wall and glued it to my head. "You look-awful!" said Tommy. "You look like Tubby Nolan in drag. How did you get your bust so big?" "Turnips!" I cried. "Two huge turnips painted in delicate skin tones." "You'll be rumbled," said Tommy. "This whole Lady Gaga malarky is going to end in tears." "Utter rubbish!" I replied, as I sailed off into the night with my red knickers glinting under the street lights. OH, the disgrace! Brought home by Matt Baggott and two of his, left, but came back coppers. Tommy, wearing a lovely, paisley dressing gown, stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded and said. "Well, well, well! If it isn't Lady big gub! What happened? Come on, spit it out. Don't just stand there like a witch with an itch." "I was-mugged!" I shrieked. "Mugged, by a gang of little hoodies. They stole my turnips and, right in front of my eyes, hollowed them out and made two horrible macabre, diabolical faces." "Go to bed," said Tommy, "and I'll bring you up a nice cup of diluted, foam rubber. It's supposed to be good for shocks." I pulled the phone off my head and screamed, "I shall never sleep-AGAIN! I was, molested. I got a horrible molestation!" "What on earth did they DO?" cried Tommy, turning pale under the brilliant light of a 5 watt light bulb. I wrung my hands. When the sound of the bells had died down I said, "Oh Tommy, one of the little hoodies, took out a trowel and-and-and........" "Yes? Yes?" Said Tommy. "What did the little hoodie do with the trowel?" I stood there, wild eyed, knees knocking, hot flushes running all over my face, mouth agape and screamed, "The little hoodie scraped all the glitter off my red knickers with the trowel!" Then I collapsed in a twisted, ugly heap. Tommy put on a dear stalker hat, put a pipe in his mouth, began to play the fiddle and said, "Now, what would a little hoodie want with red glitter at this time of night? Something is afoot. Something deep and dangerous is going on. I sense the hand of Professor Moriarty in this!" And before I could stop him, Tommy ran out the door, leaped into a hackney coach and disappeared into the fog. I lay crying into the sheepskin rug. Than the rug said, "BAA!" and ran into the scullery.
Monday, 5 November 2012
Great show yesterday kid. The great show was sadly missed by Edwin Poots, who is on a factfinding mission to America, to find out how they deal with the clamour for road signs in Irish. "GEE!" said Hank H. Warmonger. "Better give those guys what they want, before they occupy honest jobs, houses and DUP-exclusive golf courses." "Shinners on the green!" screamed Poots. "Over my grey, stooped, strudel-fed body!" Tommy my cat, masonic mason and Jim Allister's, fashion consultant, hit me on the head with a small, brass, replica of the the Giant's Causeway and said, "I see Stroke City is pulling out all the stops for City of Culture, 2013. Phil Coulter AND Seamus Heaney! That's like having Big Daddy and Giant Hay Stacks on the same team! And ballet," said Tommy. "The Maiden City will be a veritable feast of jumping, leaping, knickers and tights." "Ballet is coming home!" I yelled. "In the 1940's, the Bogside was a hot bed of ballet. Many men were on the dole and spent their time ballet dancing at street corners." "Well bend me over and paddle my rear," said Tommy. "I never knew that! What about opera? Did opera have a big following?" "It did!" I replied. "But opera was confined to the Waterside. The city was divided. The taigs, leaping and jumping, celebrating ballet and the prods, roaring and guldering in praise of opera. Many culture wars broke out at interfaces. The taigs, leaping high in tights and the prods, roaring and shouting with black cloaks flying and Viking horns on their head.". Tommy ruminated and said, "No wonder they built a big wall round it to confine the loonies from normal people." I concurred, muttered, "Pardon!" and retired in confusion to the scullery. Tommy drew a rough sketch of Sammy Wilson's bum on my face with a felt tip pen and said, "Phil Coulter is writing a new song in honour of the occasion. For inspiration, Phil, is drinking numerous mugs of nettle tea and listening to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" on a continuous loop." "Seamus Heaney is writing a new poem," I cried. "There he stands in the bog, a lone solitary figure, a ragged sculpture of the wind, surrounded by snipe and crying out desperately for the muse." "If Seamus wants the muse," said Tommy, "why doesn't he turn on the TV and listen to the lovely, fragrant, Fiona Bruce, read the-news?" NO! NO! Hauld on! Hauld on! Tommy, is not stupid! It was a simple breakdown in communication. Ask the big wigs at the BBC, they know all about THAT!"
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Great shows yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, leaped out of bed, rushed downstairs, grabbed me by the throat and yelled, "Today is the 24th of October. Today, is the day that ALL television transmissions change from analogue to digital. What steps have you taken to ensure continuity in our sphere of television watching?" I grabbed Tommy by the ear and lead him to our, the usual suspect's chair and cried, "Shut your scaldie hole and answer the following relevant, pertinent and wild intelligent questions. Question number one. What happens to a TV screen when the signal changes from analogue to digital?" "The picture disappears," said Tommy. "and is replaced with white noise and the screen takes on the appearance of a foggy day in London town." "Question number two, I cried, " Could you describe the sound of, white noise?" Tommy scratched his head and said, "The sound of white noise, could be described as a sort of cracking, sizzling sound." I glowered at the felonious feline and said, "May I refer you to bundle five now, page 157." Tommy grabbed the bundle of evidence and turned to the relevant page. "Question number three," I roared, "which television programmes are paramount in this house?" "That's an easy question," said Tommy. "Our preference for cooking, takes up 100% of our viewing consumption. We are cooking mad. We would be driven to mad, crazy, insane distraction if we were deprived of cooking programmes. COOKING!" yelled Tommy. "I love it! Boiling, frying, roasting, grilling, is my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning!" I spread a llama skin rug on the floor, looked at Tommy and said, "Sit beside me on this decorous floor covering and hark, as I explain why we don't need a digital TV." Tommy sat with his arms round his knees and said, "Your reasons for not going digital better be good, or I will batter the big turnip, you laughingly refer to, as your head." I laughed merrily at the feline witticism and said, "Tomorrow, when we turn on our TV we will be met with the sound of sizzling, crackling and sparking. What does that remind you off?" "COOKING!" cried Tommy. "EXACTLY!" I yelled. "From tomorrow on, we can sit in front of our TV, listening to the sound of white noise and pretending it is the sound of-cooking!" "Jumping jelly beans!" cried Tommy. "How lucky are we? Thanks to digital television, we will have wall to wall cooking on our analogue TV. Hold on!" said Tommy. "What about the loss of picture?" "Steam," I replied. "Clouds of steam wafting from pots, pans, grills and singed hair." "You crafty old crone," said Tommy. "Just one and a half brain cells and you come up with brilliant suggestions like that!" "I could have been a simpleton," I replied, "but I didn't have the Latin."
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Great show yesterday kid. With unrestrained gusto, Mr Coyle got stuck into, "Dellaware" like a man who was searching frantically for his lost childhood. "THAT!" said Tommy my cat, is the sound of a flower child, trying to return to Strawberry Fields." "Take me home country roads!" I yelled. Tommy roared, "Down with hip-hop, rap, garage, grunge and house music! Bring back, Melody!" screamed Tommy. "Give me something I can whistle. Phrasing!" yelled Tommy. "A nice chord progression, a restrained drummer and a horn section, wearing snappy suits and giving off the whiff of grade A cannabis. Beautiful ladies, wearing evening dresses, men in tuxedoes and an absence of trainers, jeans and tattooed faces." "No slappers wearing mini skirts," I cried "which fail to hide thongs, many of which have disappeared up the great divide!" Tommy and I have an unusual way of watching TV. We place the TV in the centre of the room and Tommy watches the screen, while I sit on a milkmaid's stool watching the back. It's a brilliant system I came up with myself, after hearing that strange things happen at the back of TVs. While I watched a scart socket Tommy said, "Look who's on the Tubby Nolan show! Old Edwina Curry. I thought that old bag was dead, buried and forgotten." "What's she saying Tommy?" I yelled from the back of the TV. "She's telling us, the people of Northern Ireland, that we've never had it so good. She says, stop whinging. Start up small businesses. Get on your bike and stop complaining. OH, IT'S ALL KICKING OFF NOW!" yelled Tommy. "Some union members are on their feet. They are not pleased. They are yelling at old John Major's bit on the side, "GO HOME!" they roar. "Shut your big mouth!" "Do you want a riser?" yells another one. NOW, Tubby has intervened. "Shut up, or GET OUT!" he bellows. Oh dear! Oh, dear! Tubby Nolan has shown his true colours. He has denied free speech to the workers and taken sides with old Edwina, who is painted up like a new cart and smirking something horribly." "I KNEW IT!" I cried. "Tubby is a Tory. He has no time for the working man. Tubby Nolan has turned into Ulster's version of Boris Johnson. I bet Tubby hopes to run for parliament in a safe seat in the shires." "BOO!" yelled Tommy, from the front of the screen. "LACKEY!" I screamed at the scart socket. Tommy smirked and said, "One thing is sure, the police will open the big gate for Tubby and his bicycle. The oval one, would never get through the side gate outside, number 10.". Never taking my eyes of the scart socket, I laughed like a drain. Ha-Ha, gurgle-gurgle ha-ha.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped old man Rooney, climb the three steps to the door of the transgender clinic. "Make me a woman" yelled old Rooney. "Woman live longer that men". After a full examination, a doctor informed the old codger that he had left it too late. "Ah, hoots mon" said the Scottish doctor. "Sure, you dinny leave us anything to work with". Tommy my cat, blood donor and close friend of Jim Allister said, "Where do you stand with regard to creationism versus evolution?" Knowing full well that my thinking cap was at the laundry, Tommy, had cleverly backed me into a corner. I strode about, with my hands not behind my back, looked out the window, coughed, blew my nose, cracked my knuckles and said, "With regard to creationism or evolution, I find myself in disagreement with both camps. Why limit our existence to just two choices? I am a fervent believer in the, Third Way." "What third way?" yelled Tommy. "You were either created by God, or evolved from, in your case, pond scum." "It ain't necessarily so," I replied. "Doctor Carl Junket from Geneva has written a book called, "The Third Way" In that book, written on the pages, Carl Junket, puts forward a theory that, nothing exists. You are a figment of my imagination and I am a figment of your imagination. In reality, neither of us exists. There is no planet called Earth. No time, no space, no gravity, no Titanic Quarter. All that exists is, nothing and in a state of nothingness, imagination runs riot. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. You, don't exist. Neither do I. So what I say to you is, "GO HOME and prepare for reality." "Hauld on! Hauld ON!" yelled Mark Durkin. "The reality-IS. Can you hold reality? Smell reality? See reality? NO, but if reality stands for anything, it stands for reality and the reality-IS, the reality always was-IS and always will be-IS." "Nigh! nigh! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "You boys are talking about, creationism, evolution, the third way and reality. Let me, as a simple ex mayor and life long Glentoran supporter, put forward another theory." Jim, sat on the floor in the lotus position and said, "Consider this Hi. Northern Ireland is at the crossroads between two parallel universes. That's why we never get on. Wan universe says this and the other universe says that. We are lost in space!" screamed Jim. "Our only solution is to find a wormhole in space and wriggle through it like wee blind mice. Time, is of the essence!" screamed Jim. "We must find a wormhole and we must find it-NIGH" "Evolution!" yelled Tommy "Creationism and the reality-IS! Roared Mark Durkin. "The Third Way!" I shrieked. "Wormholes!" screamed Jim. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" That was when the men in white coats arrived. It was pretty cramped in the back of the van.