CAKES, CATS, CRACKERS AND CHRISTMAS

I was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting the top of my egg with a chainsaw when Tommy my cat walked in. I looked at Tommy and yelled.
"Hello, you mangy, old flea-ridden excuse for a cat"
Tommy smiled and yelled back.
"Hello to you, you old hump-backed, duck-arsed old slapper"
I smiled and yelled.
"Hello-again, you foul-breathed, stinking, bleary eyed, knock kneed filthy feline"
Tommy stuck his tongue out and yelled back.
"Shut up, you hairy faced, toothless, cross-eyed, pot-bellied, wart covered, ugly, crazy, old bag".
"Well" I said "That's the pleasantries over, but now, down to the serious business, what do you want for Christmas Tommy?"
"I demur" said Tommy, and he did, right there in front of me and he never even lifted his tail."I demur" said Tommy "I think old ugly bags should go first, so-what do YOU want for-Christmas?" I was caught on the hop, I didn't expect to go first, I mused in my muesli, it dilutes the taste of the nuts and replied. "What I would like this Christmas, what I would really, really like, is to appear younger looking". "No trouble" said Tommy "I'll get you a 90 year old man, then when you take him for a walk, you will look-younger"
"Now, that's what I call thinking with a capital-THI" I yelled. "But Tommy, if you do get me a 90 year old man, please make sure he has all his faculties--and elbows, I like-elbows".
"Faculties I can guarantee" said Tommy "But not teeth".
"Don't worry about teeth" I said "He can use my late daddy's teeth".
"Are you not making a lot of work for yourself?" said Tommy, with a worried frown.
"Not at all" I yelled "It's just a matter of getting two shovels, cycling to the graveyard, digging my dead daddy up, opening the coffin and reaching in to get the false teeth. It's simple, even a child could do it". "I suppose you're right" said Tommy. "The hardest part will be getting on to the bicycle while carrying a shovel. Now" said Tommy, clapping his hands, "That's you sorted, now, do you want a bog standard 90 year old man,or would you like the deluxe model?"
"Bog standard" I said "But I would like him to be small and compact, with working elbows that can carry the morning newspaper, none smoker with flat cap and if at all possible, easy on the juice". "I'll just make a note of that" said Tommy and he dipped his finger in soot and began to scrawl on my newly painted jet black wall.
"RIGHT" I yelled, turning to the left and banging my face against the wall. That's me taken care of, now for you, what would you like for Christmas? What would my little Tommy-Pommy like for-Christmas?". Tommy flushed bright red and began to dance from one paw to the other. "What's wrong?" I said "Need a slash?". "I certainly do NOT" yelled Tommy "and I do wish you would stop going on about-slashing and you know, the-other, number two".
"It's a fact of life Kid" I said "as natural as eating, breathing or sticking two corncrakes under your oxters and pretending to be the Queen of Siam". "I know" said Tommy "It's me, I just don't like talking about things like that, I'm sensitive you know, anything to do with-toilets--well, it turns my stomach". "It's a good job you're not George Michael then" I screeched. "Now, come on Tommy, don't be a big girl's twinset, what do you want for-Christmas?" "Oh, I'm too shy to say" giggled Tommy "can I hide behind the curtain and tell you from there?" "If you must" I yelled "But hurry up, that Greek ship docks at ten o'clock tonight and I must be there to greet the little Greek sailors with a smile on my face and a ripcord on my drawers". I stood for five minutes watching the curtain, then, the curtain began to speak. "This Christmas" mumbled Tommy "I want something I have wanted for a long,long time" I heard the hidden feline-gulp then he went on. I want a--Barbie doll, a-boxed-Barbie doll, with blue eyes, a peaches and cream complexion and long, long-blonde hair". I stood there, open mouthed and-transfixed, my trans had been broken for a long time, but now it was-fixed! I felt a thump on the mouth and realised that I had also been-gobsmacked. Transfixed, open-mouthed and gobsmacked I gazed at the quivering curtain. I found my voice under the blacksmith's anvil and yelled.
"And what colour dress should this Barbie doll have?"
"Pink" whispered the voice from behind the curtain.
"And what colour shoes?" I said
"Pink" whispered the hidden voice.
"And what colour--under-things?" I roared.
"Pink" whispered the voice, in a sibilant, sinister Scots/Irish dialect.
"Come out" I yelled "Come out from behind that curtain, you-you-disappointing, discommodious, discomforting, disembodied-dir'tee,lit'le cat".
"Tommy crept out from behind the curtain, with his tail between his legs. I towered over him and yelled, "I have just one thing to say to you, if I let you play with my 90 year old man on Christmas day, will you let me play with your Barbie doll?" "YES" yelled Tommy "Oh, yes, yes, YES!" Then Tommy and I clasped hands and danced the Walls of Limerick to the sound of police batons thumping off little hoodie heads down at the corner. Irish Culture? sure it's all we have left, along with a million pigs that no one wants to eat! Kay-ME-AH-Fault-Yah! Paddy and after you with the shamrock painted PO.

Get Rosie Ryan's books and poetry books from Eason's or below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go to Rosie Ryan now, don't delay, go to Rosie at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if your cat-or indeed-dog asks for a doll this Christmas, don't worry, it's just a sign of the times.

TOMMY THE CAT USES "MY" LITTER TRAY!

In the run down, condemned hovel I call-home, Christmas was in the air. A Festive extravaganza of coloured crepe paper, bells, bows and tinsel hung from the sagging ceiling. A big Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with twinkling lights and dangling condoms. I had some job getting the fairy up on top of the tree. He said,he had places to go to and people to see, but I slipped some Temazepan into his eggnog and he soon became pliable and less obstreperous. I love everything about Christmas. Santa Claus creeping into your home, followed two months later by the bailiffs. The feeling of-goodwill in the air, "Let go of that teddybear you tube, I saw it first". Carol singers, drunk drivers blowing into tubes, the little children-so excited, parcelling up stones in festive paper, before they throw them at the corners. The magic feeling of hope on Christmas day, the heavy feeling of constipation on Boxing day. But the thing I really love about Christmas is-Santa! Ah, dear old Santa Claus, the white beard, the red rosy cheeks and the massive expanse of red cloth, covering his ding-dong, merrily on high. When I was young, about 27 or 28, some naughty children told me there was NO Santa Claus!, they said it was my daddy.
But I proved them wrong, on Christmas Eve night, I crept softly into my parents' room and nailed both of them to the bed, with six inch nails. And Santa still came to me! On Christmas day I got a ride in a police car and a lovely assessment from the chief cook and bottle washer at the loony bin. No Santa? Kiss my ass, that's what I say! You tell me there's no-Santa, I tell you, "Go kiss my black ass-fool!"
I was softly humming--I really must get a bar of Lifebuoy soap, when Tommy my cat came in with a balloon tied to his feline tail. I looked at Tommy with love in my eyes and fleas in my drawers and said, "Well Tommy, old son, Christmas is coming." Tommy flashed a big, wide smile like Christine Blakely and cried, "And the goose is getting fat." In the awful, terrible silence that followed, you could have heard a jumbo jet crash through the roof. I said-nothing. I grabbed Tommy by the arm, led him outside, out the Lisburn road for seven miles,turned down a narrow, winding lane and stopped under a rare Atlantis fig tree. Under the spreading fig tree, I looked all around and whispered, "Tommy, this is for your own good. The reason I have asked you to meet me here tonight is--well, it's embarrassing, but it's for your own good. I looked all around again, lowered my voice and whispered, "Earlier tonight, I said to you, "Christmas is-coming" and what did you reply?" Poor Tommy, shook, trembled and shivered and whispered, "I don't remember.""Well, let me refresh your memory," I whispered. "When I said-to you, "Christmas is coming, you replied-and I quote, "And the goose is getting fat." "What's wrong with that?" whispered Tommy, "Lot's of people say, "And the goose is getting fat." "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I whispered, "It's such old hat, it's out of fashion. How can you sparkle and be the life and soul at cocktail parties with out of date sayings like, "And the goose is getting fat?""I had no idea," stammered Tommy. "Oh my God, all my fly comebacks are out of date. I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry." "Easy lad," I said, patting his furry head. "It's not a putting down offence--THIS TIME, but you really must work on your add-libs and fly answers.""I will," spluttered Tommy, "I will, I swear I will." "Good boy," I said, "Now let's go home, have a nice cup of Oxo gravy and never talk about this again." As we walked up the long, winding lane, Tommy looked at me and said, "What would you say, if I said to you, Christmas is coming?" Quick as a flash, I replied, "I know, I see the Easter eggs are in the shops." Tommy looked at me with-awe, in fact he said, "I can't help it, I'm looking at you, with-awe." Just then, and not a minute before or after, Jim Rodgers leaped out from behind a whin bush screaming, "Nigh-Nigh-NIGH! Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat""Tommy and I grabbed Jim and headed back towards the fig tree. At half past two in the morning, I had 97 people swarming round the fig tree, as I tried to drill into their thick skulls, that in today's modern world, the fly answers of our fathers and grandfathers, just won't do. Poor, poor Jim Rodgers, the best he could come up with was, "Christmas is coming--I know-Hi, It's coming-NIGH, so it is." How did that man ever become Lord Mayor? He must know wild high up people-NIGH!
And with that I return you to the studio, where Mark Carruthers, has stripped down to his red socks, for Slappers In Need Night.
Get Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at all Eason shops and below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to find out what Rosie is stuffing for Christmas, go to.
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Oh, if you're passing my little house at Christmas, just keep on going!

THE CAT WHO DIDN'T BARK IN THE NIGHT

Tommy my cat and I sat at each side of the fire on elephant stools. We were crouched over, drooling, dribbling, gurning and wetting ourselves. We were pretending to be an old couple who had celebrated their 100th wedding anniversary last Saturday. Tommy looked at me, through red, watery eyes and croaked, "Wasn't it nice dear to see our 452 grandchildren, great grandchildren and great, great grandchildren on Saturday?" I broke wind-weakly and croaked, "452 grandchildren, great grandchildren and great, great grandchildren. That's a lot of-children. I bet if you laid all the umbilical cords end to end, they would stretch from here to somewhere else." "Where did all those children come from?" croaked Tommy. "I don't know," I croaked. "Long, long and even longer ago, I remember someone shouting-PUSH, but I don't know if I was giving birth or pushing a fat wombat up a narrow chimney." "My money would be on the wombat," croaked Tommy. "Everyone was pushing wombats up chimneys in the good old days." "I remember," I croaked. "What do you remember dear?" croaked Tommy. "I remember that I can't remember anything," I croaked. "I remember the first time I saw you," leered Tommy. "You were coming out of the outhouse at the bottom of the garden. I remember the sun glinting off your bonny, bonny big fat blazer of a face. You smiled at me like an angel, yes, like an angel and guldered, "If you're going in there, don't light your pipe or you'll be gathering up your arse in a bucket." "I was known for my charm," I croaked. "I was known for my charm and the tapeworm that lived in my large intestine.""We have seen some changes," croaked Tommy. "We have," I croaked, "the first motorcar, the second motorcar and if I'm not mistaken, the third-motorcar."
"Cha-Cha-changes," croaked Tommy, "the like of what I never thought I would see. Aeroplanes, lollies on sticks, open heart surgery and ointment for the pesky piles." "Yes," I croaked, "but not all changes were for the better. Take toilet roll. When toilet roll came in, people stopped reading and became illiterate." "True," croaked Tommy, "But who thought we would ever live to see, Kerry Katona making commercials for Iceland?" "It beats Bannager" I croaked. "It beats Bannager up down and sideways," croaked Tommy. "What's left for us to do?" I croaked, "We have lived through some rare auld times, but what's left for us to-do?" Tommy broke wind, but very-weakly and croaked, "The only thing left for us to do now, is-die." "Well, if that doesn't beat Bannager again!" I croaked ."Only yesterday, or was it five years ago, I scrawled in my diary, "Things to do tomorrow. Get up--with a lot of help, sit on armchair, drool, grunt, sleep, wet myself, drool some more and then-die." "It's a good thing you wrote it down," croaked Tommy, "otherwise we could have been sitting here for all eternity, like two right eejits."
Next morning, after Tommy and I had spent two hours hanging from a tramp's nose, pretending to be snotters, I skipped down Belfast dressed as, a zebra crossing. Its a mistake I won't make again. People walked all over me! I hailed a taxi to take me to a corner. As I walked round the corner, who did I meet but dapper little Mark Carruthers, he of the red socks, don't you know and all that malarkey. "Greetings little Marcus," I yelled, "Whence are you off to, perchance to visit your loyal garrisons in Gaul or Galway?""Neither," sniffed the little man who says, "Lets Talk." "If you must know, I am just out for a spot of lunch." "A spot of-lunch?" I yelled, "A big boy like you? Come, come Markus, you need more that a-spot of lunch. You must keep your strength up, to ward off Donna Trainor. "A spot of lunch is no good for a big man like you. You need to get your snout into a good trough of Irish Stew. Get your snout right in there and root about for mince, carrots, spuds and turnips. But you need to get right into it, put your hands in your pockets and sink your visage into a hot, steaming pile of Irish Stew." "The very thought!" sniffed Marcus. "You must be mistaking me for the tubby person, Steven Nolan." "Nolan gets his grub," I yelled,"but you, Marcus, need building up.What you should do, is hang a bucket of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth around your neck and get right into it. You have to get right into it," I yelled. "Excuse me," said Marcus, "One is in rather a hurry. May I get past? I have a salad waiting for me and I don't want it getting cold. "Oh, so hoity-toity," I sneered. "A salad waiting-no less. You were not so hoity-toity on Monday night, when you were dancing the hokey cokey-ALONE in the corner of Big Bertha's bar and slash house." "That was NOT me!" yelled Marcus. "It was my half brother-Yasmin. We never talk about-him. Mummy said he is a bad boy.. I spread my legs, folded my arms, knitted my brows, clenched my buttocks and roared, "And I suppose it was half brother-Yasmin who cut me dead at the-Vatican?" "It was certainty not me," cried Marcus."I have never laid an expensive shoe at the Vatican. Noel Thompson gets all the good jobs." I ruminated, shook my leg and said-grudgingly, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. It may have been the Pope. All I saw were the-red socks.

Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson are available for Christmas, Passover and Pancake Tuesday at all Eason shops or from below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie herself is up to, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
OH, Mark never got his salad, Pat Rabbit from the Free State government got there first!
I don't know about you, but I would call that an-incursion!!!

CATTY REMARKS FROM A CRUEL CRAFTY-CAT

I looked at Tommy my cat, there he sat, the GREAT Tommy, eating larks' tongues and ice cream with an Edwardian silver spoon. Oh how I hated him, sitting there, with his wee furry paws, yellow slitted eyes and long curled tail. Little Lord Tommy, not a care in the world. He never did any work around the house. He never brought in coal or took out the ashes, apart from the time he threw my granny's urn into the dustbin. I had to dig through a mountain of rubbish at Belfast dump to get her again, and by the time I got there, the rats had made off with one of her legs. I felt my gorge rise. I got a shoehorn and pushed it back down again, giving myself a good dunt in the gizzard as I did so. I watched with mounting anger as Tommy picked up a glass of red wine, took a sip and said, "Aah, the fruit of the vine, simply-divine." I was shaking all over, with pent up anger. Blood was throbbing in my temples and my toes were curling and uncurling in my vivid pink Ugg boots. I could stand it no more. I put my brain into gear, pressed my foot on the pedal and roared.
"Tommy?"
"Yes, old girl?" said Tommy.
Did you hear that? The filthy feline said, "Yes, old girl?" What kind of cat goes round saying, "Yes, old girl?"
"Tommy," I said, "I hate you."
"I detest you," replied Tommy.
"I loath you," I yelled.
"I despise you," said Tommy.
"I dislike you," I roared.
"I execrate you," said Tommy.
" I-ah-I-ah-I contempt you," I yelled.
"No, no, old girl." said Tommy "It really won't do at tall, You have run out of verbs, leaving me the winner. If you want verbs, run up to my room and you will find a big cardboard box of verbs under my bed."
"Damn you, Tommy cat," I roared ,"You have beaten me again, but someday, someday, I will shove verbs down your throat until you end up as fat as Steven Nolan." Tommy just sniggered, picked up his banjo and began to play, "My Dixie Darling."
Next morning I got up with the crow, poured some liquid dog faeces into all four of Tommy's socks and set off round Belfast, dressed as John Daly's bald head. As I rounded a corner on one Ugg boot, who did I run into but little Hugo Duncan. The wee man from Strabane was bopping along singing, "Oh Lord, but it's hard to be humble, when you fall on your ass from a tumble." I put the warbling out of the wee man. I grabbed him by the throat, shoved him up against a wall and growled. "Listen punk, I ain't got a lot of time-see? I just want the facts-see?" "See-see," gasped Hugo ,"What do you want to know?" "I want the answer to one question," I hissed. Hugo leaped back, but too late, his little Ugg boots were splattered. "Listen Punk," I said, "and listen good, just who was Martha the flower of sweet Strabane?" A look of fear appeared on Uncle Hugo's face. His new gnashers began to tremble. The little man looked all around and whispered "All right, I'll tell you, but you didn't hear it from me-right?" "Spit it out punk,"I growled, "and it better be good."
"What I'm about to tell you," whispered Hugo, "is a secret that Strabane has kept for many, many years. Strabane has a name as a tough town, a lot of hard men live there, and if this secret got out, it would make Strabane a laughing stock. The truth is--and remember you didn't hear this from me, the truth is, Martha the flower of sweet Strabane was a--MAN!"
"Get away," I yelled.
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
The petite Hugo looked all around and whispered, "Martha was really--Willie John McGarrigle, Strabane's first--transsexual!"
"Get away!" I yelled
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
"No wonder the citizens of Strabane want to keep that a secret" I said.
"You're not wrong," said Hugo, "but it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Wonder about what?" I said.
"Mary from Dungloe" said Hugo. "The pretty little girl from Omagh, Eileen, the girl who was taken home, Molly Malone, the pride of the old county Down, Kathleen, Kitty, and Maude, who was taken into the garden".
"You don't mean?" I shrieked.
"If I let you into a little secret," said Hugo, "Do you promise to keep it to yourself?"
"Sure Hugo, sure Hugo, sure, sure, sure," I yelled.
"All-MEN." said Hugo. "Every song in Ireland that is written about a woman--all transsexuals, transsexuals to a-man!"
"In the name of the ragged beard of David Ford," I yelled. "So no woman in Ireland, has ever had a song written about her?"
"Not one." said Hugo. "All the famous Irish love songs, were written about-MEN!"
"HUGO," I yelled grasping him by the toggles of his duffel coat. "We must remedy that! Someone must write a song about an Irish woman"
"But-WHO?" cried Hugo.
"YOU!" I yelled.
"ME?" said Hugo.
Yes-YOU!" I cried.
"But who, or indeed-Whom shall I write about?" screamed Hugo.
"Lynda Byrons!" I yelled. "I know for a fact that Lynda is a woman. I saw her reverse down a one way street."
"Lynda is a nice wee doat," agreed Hugo,"but no words rhyme with Lynda-or-Byrons."
"There must be someone." I yelled ."All famous Irish songs can not be the sole property of-transsexuals--not that I have anything against them."
Hugo clapped his little chubby hands and cried, "I know, Donna Trainor, I will write an Irish love song about-Donna Trainor."
"You wee cracker!" I yelled, planting a kiss on Hugo's chubby nose. "You wait here and I will run into this music shop for a quarter of, diddly-dees."
Hugo Duncan is no song-writer, four hours later, the best he could come up with was....

THE NICE WEE GIRL CALLED DONNA.

OH, BEAUTIFUL AND FAIR IS DONNA TRAINOR
MANY GIRLS ARE FAR MORE PLAINER
I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER SLENDER HAND
AND THANK THE LORD SHE AIN'T A-MAN.

I picked up my bag of diddly-dees and went home for supper, consisting of, home made bread, home made cheese and home make sausages. Don't ask about the sausages, believe me, you don't want to know!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to any Eason's or the guy below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And get Rosie's blog at. www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Wee Hugo never did finish the song, he was nicked by the police for busking and deported to-STRABANE!

TOMMY THE CAT,WHAT A LITTLE BELTER

I looked at Tommy my cat, sitting on an exercise bicycle in the middle of the room. He was wearing a yellow jersey with, "Tour De France" written on the back and black lycra pants.
Tommy was peddling furiously with his little furry legs, and was bent over the handlebars, staring straight ahead through a pair of dark shades. I watched with love in my eyes and wax in my ears, as Tommy indicated right and turned into some imaginary French street in his little feline brain. Ah, there he was, my little Tommy, my "raison d'etre", my life long friend, my little feline chum. Who brought me tea in bed? little Tommy!. Who left out clean knickers for me every morning? little Tommy! Who gave me first chance to catch a scurrying mouse? Yes, little-Tommy. There is nothing I wouldn't do for little Tommy. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, walk over broken glass,--NO, but I would do other things for little Tommy, such as, tying a tin can to his tail, so he could go faster when I send him to the corner shop for lollipops and buckets for diggers. I felt a tear enter my eye, I tore its ticket in half, got my torch and showed it to a seat. I began to-whimper, I gathered the whimpers in a bowl and put them in the fridge, they go very well with new potatoes and ice cream. I looked at Tommy, still peddling furiously and yelling, "Monsieur, how far to the, how you say? slash house?"
With no one to talk with, I found myself at a loose end. I looked at the clock, the clock stared back with it's big, round white face. I tried to out stare the clock, but after two minutes, my face got red and I averted my eyes. Damn that clock, with it's big white face, it had won again, but someday I will out stare the time-piece and make IT turn away first. I sat on a hard chair and pretended to be First Minister Peter Robinson. I spat venom from between my teeth and yelled, "NO, Mr Mc Guinness, you can not take the police home with you and play with them." "Jeffery, come in here you lackey and clean the dog muck off my shoes". "Iris-Iris, my little dumpling, wear the red dress tonight and I'll have roast duck, bamboo shoots and the raw heads from two herring, but none of them carrots that grow into obscene shapes, I find them an Abomination! Ester Ranzen, the buck-toothed Shinner may find them funny, but I-DON'T!" Then I got up, gave myself a pay raise and went to my bed for a nap.
As I skipped around Belfast, dressed as, the lady with the lamp, old Maggie Titanic from No 7 Rodent Street, who has just got her electricity cut off, I gazed in wonder at the gaggle of black Goths hanging round the city hall. "Greetings little Gothics" I yelled, "Why the long faces?"
A young man approached me, by walking towards me, he was dressed all in black, the only splash of colour was his green teeth. "Hi dude" he moaned, "What's the use man? we're all going to die anyway." "Come, come," I cried. "Where? where?" said the little Gothie. I sat the little Goth on my knee and began to croon.
"Climb up on my knee, wee black man
Think of a Christmas tree and hold my hand
When there are grey skies, get drunk and eat pies
You should be out joy riding,-black man
Friends may forsake you, never mind, sniff glue
But I still love you, wee, black-man".
The little Goth jumped of my knee and yelled, "I'm cured, I'm cured, I feel so-HAPPY!
The last I saw of him, he was skipping down the street, wearing a rainbow suit and singing.
"The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip- hip hooray
I'm going home to mammy for a lovely cup of tay".
"Well, well, well, has it come to this?" said a voice. "I know that smell," I cried and spun round to behold the massive face and figure of-Steven Nolan. "Push off Tubby," I yelled. "Do you not see I am about my granny's business, converting-Goths?" Suddenly, the fat boy fell to his chubby knees and roared. "I am a sinner, a dirty, low down sinner, I have sinned against pies by thought, word and deed. Convert me, I want to be--born again!" "It's going to take some pair of forceps" I muttered. "Come with me my son" I said. "Come with me to the holy river Lagan and I will baptise you" "Will I have to strip off?" said Tubby, fumbling with the mighty zip on the fork of his trousers. "No, No" I said "we don't want to frighten the fish". And low, it came to pass. I led the Tubby one to the river and verily did nearly drown him. But now, everyone is blaming ME for the giant tsunami that flooded most of Belfast! It's not easy doing the Lord's work. You make a lot of enemies. I get hate mail from Nelson Mandela AND the Samaritans!
But as I watched Tubby lumbering off rejoicing, with gallons of water spewing from the gigantic fork on his trousers, I knew, I had at last, found my vocation. From now on, you will find me at the side of the Lagan, plunging fat men into the water, giving them a holy riser with my toe and crying, "Go now, and eat no more!"
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson for Christmas? Go to any Eason book store or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie is up too, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
There will be a mass baptism of Tubbies at the Lagan on Saturday. Everyone welcome. A silent collection in plastic buckets will be taken up later. Give generously, 5% of the collection goes towards the conversion of Tubbies! 'Tis the Lord's work I do.

TOMMY MY CAT IS FELINE FINE

"Cut me down Tommy," I yelled to Tommy the cat, "Cut me down!""Keep your drawers on!" yelled Tommy, as he flicked frantically through the Argos catalogue looking for a Swiss Army knife. When Tommy found a picture of a Swiss Army knife, he cut carefully around it with a small brass chainsaw, and then used the Swiss Army knife to cut through the rope that kept me suspended from the ceiling. As the last fibre parted, I yelled, "GERONIMO!" and hurtled towards the floor, with my face out in front of me, so I wouldn't hurt my hands. I tell you my friends, no matter what they say in the house of Lords, floors are not getting any softer. When I hit the floor with a THUD, my old paratrooper training kicked in and I bent my knees before I passed out. Tommy brought me round by pulling my hair and sprinkling two litres of cranberry juice over my feet. When I was as right as I'm ever likely to be, Tommy looked at me and said, "It's not as easy as it looks, is it?" I concurred with Tommy by saying, "No, it's not," and looked up at the hook in the ceiling. For three months I had swung from that hook, wearing nothing but green ankle socks and a strait-jacket. Tommy had bound me with chains and ropes and then hired four Egyptian dwarfs to hoist me up to the hook in the ceiling. I was trying to emulate my hero Houdini. Harry Houdini was an escapologist. He could escape from anything, except the horrible christian name his mother gave him. For three long months I had swung from that hook, kicking and flinging, flinging and kicking, trying desperately to escape from the ropes, the chains and finally-the strait-jacket. Three long months, trying everything, anything to escape my confinement and baffle Tommy my cat with my skill as a escapologist. But alas, it was not to be. No amount of kicking or flinging could loosen the ropes, chains or straight-jacket that bound me. I don't know how Houdini did it, but it was certainly not by kicking and flinging. "There must be a knack to it!" I yelled, looking hard at the key in the front door, "but what ever the knack is, only Houdini knows and he can't tell us now, because he is-dead. Ah, Harry, Harry, you got into one box too many!"Tommy looked at me with concern and said, "Three months hanging from a hook in the ceiling? Eeh, I don't know. You must be fair done in. Sit down and I'll make you a nice bit of toad in the hole. You like toad in the hole don't you? I know you like toad, so if I put toad in a hole, you'll like it even more, won't you?" I leapt to my feet, both of them and yelled, "I am neither hungry or thirsty. During the three months that I hung from that ceiling, like a 40 watt bulb, I existed on-will power, I ate and drank-will power.". "Eeh," said Tommy, "poor wee Will Power and him such a nice lad, what will I tell his mum?" "Tell her to--tell her to-eat cake!" I yelled with a dramatic flourish, that sent my beret flying from my head and my drawers falling around my ankles. After order had been restored, Tommy sidled over to me and whispered, "Look, after three months hanging from a hook from the ceiling, you must at least want a-pee, shall I go and fetch the...
"HALT!" I cried, "Do you not know that times are bad, banks are closing, the pound in your pocket, isn't even in your pocket any more. All over the country, people are going, "Ooh!" as belts are being tightened and galluses hitched higher and higher. The worst financial disaster in living memory and you have the gall to stand there and ask me if I want a-pee? It would be the height of irresponsibility and fiscal madness for you to go and open a tin, so that I could have one-pea." "I'm sorry," said Tommy. "So you should be," I thundered. "I won't do it again," muttered Tommy. "See that you don't" I yelled, "And another thing, in a climate such as this, you have to, think on.". "I am, thinking on," muttered Tommy. "It doesn't look like it to me," I yelled, "Let me see your face." Tommy came closer and stuck out his face. "That doesn't look like a face that is-thinking on," I cried. "Well, I am," said Tommy, "I'm thinking on." "Well, continue thinking on," I said, "and when you've done that, think on some more." "I will," said Tommy, "I promise to-think on." So we left it at that, then we joined hands and danced the Mason's apron to the sound of a threshing machine going past the house. Irish culture? You couldn't beat it with a big stick. Next morning it was all forgotten and Tommy and I spent a lovely time looking over the roof spouting, pretending to be two big clumps of grass. As I looked down the street, I saw a lot of people were doing the same. To those who say that little Ulster is finished, I say, "Have you not seen the number of people who peer over roof spoutings pretending to be big clumps of grass? With people like that, Ulster will never be finished. So, think on!"
After three hours with a Dyson, I had the crumbs in the pleats of Steven Nolan's massive fork all hoovered up. I lay in the long grass and nettles, gazing up at my Phoenician Adonis. What a sight, as he stood there, silhouetted against the Belfast sky with the two giant cranes. The Tubby one, flicked back a wisp of hair and sank his BBC gnashers into a suckling pig on a stick. What poise, what grace, what-beauty. I grabbed him by his chubby ankles and cried,
"THE BOY STOOD IN THE TAKE-A-WAY
TEARS RUNNING FROM HIS EYES
HE HAD JUST BEEN TOLD, TO HIS CHAGRIN
STEVEN NOLAN, ATE ALL THE PIES."
The sun sank in the West, and Tubby just stood there, mean, moody, magnificent and-FAT!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to Eason's or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit Rosie herself at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com

LIFE WITH A FELINE IS PURR-FECT

Welcome to the house of fun. At a time when fun is rationed and gaiety, merriment and jollification can only be procured with a nod and a wink from someone in the know, it is imperative that people know how to make their own-fun. Our parents and grandparents knew how to make their own-fun. Rickets, scabies, boils and two world wars, is historical proof that our ancestors were never at a loose end when it came to-fun. As this is a time of remembrance, let's remember those who have gone before us. Let us dress in black, pack a picnic hamper and make our sad way to the cemetery, partake of a small collation of colcannon and cranberries and as the sun sets in the West, salute, pull your simmet up over your belly button and sing lustily and loudly,
"YOU WENT AWAY AND LEFT ME, LONG TIME AGO
BUT NOW YOU'RE KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, BUT YOU CAN'T COME IN
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG."
The peace and comfort, that will come from this simple act, is unbelievable. You will leave the graveyard with a lilt on your face and a smile in your step.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was peeing into the coal bucket, as he reinacted the relief of Mafeking. I was rolled up in a ball in the corner, pretending to be a hibernating, Hibernian hedgehog dreaming of Jennie with the light brown hair. Time ticked slowly away, soot fell down the chimney, the television chose that moment to explode in shards of glass and there we were, woman and cat, united in the age old practice of making our own fun. Then a butler from Butler street, ran in and rang the dinner gong. Soon it was all go as Tommy and I peeled spuds, diced carrots, cut the hind quarters from a wildebeest, filled a large pan with Crisp and Dry cooking oil and then put on our coats and went out for a fish supper. After dinner, Tommy and I gathered round the old family piano, which was lying in the city dump full of woodworm and death watch beetles. There we stood, surrounded by rats and sang all the old songs. The songs we used to sing, when a wet nappy was a reality and the thought of having teeth--just an unfulfilled-dream. As we walked back home under the twinkling stars, I hooked my arm in Tommy's, looked deep into his little, yellow, slitted eyes and whispered.
"We are mad, aren't we?" "As two loonies in a bin," said Tommy, "as two loonies in a bin." What a great relief it is, to have one's worst fears confirmed by a common or garden-cat.
I met Steven Nolan at our usual place, down the entry behind the wheelie-bins. Lard for Brains was pacing up and down, cracking his knuckles and twitching like a hooker in a nunnery. "Did you get it?" hissed the Tubby one in his trousers. "Yes," I said, "keep your tent on." "Give it here," yelled the terror of weighing machines. I looked furtively up the ally, pulled a family size bottle of HP sauce from under my kilt and handed it to the trembling wretch. He who has mountains as cousins, grabbed the bottle and put it to his delicate, impish, rose-bud lips. "Ah, that's better" gasped Tubby, as he stumbled back into a group of Japanese tourists. "Ah, so" trilled a mandolin playing mandarin. "Listen, Toe-Joe,roared Tubby "any more jokes about the size of my bum and I'll brust you." I watched Tubby put the bottle to his mouth again. "You're hooked Kid," I said. "You have a monkey on your back, a monkey with a red arse and HP written on it." "NEVER," yelled Tubby ,"I could give up the sauce anytime. I just like a little nip every now and again. It makes me spicy and-fruity. I can't talk to girls without the sauce. I get tongue-tied, hog-tied and wide-eyed, but when I have the sauce in me, I turn into a silver tongued devil." "You lack confidence," I said. "You need to build up your self confidence and believe me Kid, the answer you're looking for, don't lie at the bottom of a HP sauce bottle." "But where can I get-confidence?" shrieked Tubby. "Listen Kid," I said, "I know a little trick that will build up your confidence. This little trick was shown to me by the Dali Lama, just after he read the Daily Mail. You stand there with your back to me, then when I yell, JELLY TOTS, you fall backwards and I catch you in my arms." "It's a trick," yelled Tubby, "a dirty rotten trick to see me fall flat on my bum." "No it's not Kid," I said, "You see, this is where the confidence comes in. You must be confident that I will catch you." "And you promise not to let me fall?" said Tubby, "or give me a riser as I topple backwards?" "Cross my heart and hope to lie," I said. "All right," said Tubby, "I'll try it, anything to get off the sauce. Big Audrey, my mammy, thinks I have turned into a vampire."Tubby Nolan stood there, staring at a brick wall, where someone had scrawled, "Nolan is a ball of lard." I braced myself and yelled, "JELLY TOTS." Steven creaked, groaned and then, like a giant redwood toppled towards me. It was four days before they found us. Four long days and nights, lying under the blubberous mass that was-Steven Nolan. I kissed the crane driver who lifted Steven off me. Steven lumbered to his feet, looked all around, smiled and cried, "I'm cured, I'm cured. Four days without even as much as a lick of HP sauce and I feel fine. The addiction for sauce has left me. Oh thank you, strange, weird creature," said Steven and he planted a big, wet, slobbery kiss on my upturned mouth. I watched him lumber off, FREE, free from the terrible addiction of HP sauce that had broken up so many happy families and turned parts of Cullybaccy into no go areas. I reached into my knicker pocket for my purse and skipped off to the Greasy Spoon for an Ulster fry, covered in HP sauce. See me Hi, I can hold my sauce.
Why not go now to
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Also try..
www,jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Turned out nice again, think I'll get a mirror and squeeze my spots, well, you're not going to do it, are you???

BRINGING UP A CAT ON PENUARY AND PEANUTS

Tommy my cat and I sat in front of a lovely fire made up from wellingtons and whirligigs. The cold, wintry rain beat against the window and lashed into our faces, because of lack of glass. The wind howled low, Tommy and I howled high. A little tea pot sat singing on the crossed wellingtons. A heap of bread lay in the coal scuttle, waiting to be toasted. What a sight it was, straight out of Dickens, I was crouched and bent over like Fagin and Tommy was looking at me with big round eyes like Oliver Twist. I was talking, which explained the sound coming from my flapping lips. "There comes a time," I said, "when we must strive, strive, to find the answer to things we know not off. We must seek," I said, "seek out new horizons. When we find those new horizons, we still must strive and seek to find even more horizons, new horizons that are hidden beyond the far off horizons. We must never falter." I said, "We must push on into the unknown, never looking back, always looking forward, striving, always striving, seeking, always seeking, never faltering, always never faltering. Always remember, to strive, to seek, to never falter, all these are good, but the greatest of the three, is to-strive and so Tommy, to answer your question, the bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see." "Gee, Jolly, Gosh" said Tommy, "when you put it like that, it's so easy to understand. I wish I were like you, an ugly old slapper with brains to burn." I smiled and demurred. I like a good demur before my tea. "You're a good boy Tommy," I said, "a good boy, now, wet the tea while I look out of the window and yell-Geronimo." Suddenly I heard a hissing sound behind me, "SNAKE" I yelled, biting deep into my arm and sucking to get the poison out. I spun round like a hobby-horse and there was Tommy standing over the teapot with the fly of his little mauve trousers open.nNot only did he ruin the tea, he extinguished the two wellingtons and left the whirligigs soaked, sodden and saturated. No eleven plus for that lad this year, he's just not ready.
Tuesday being a day which falls conveniently between thingy-may-bob and what-you-call-it, I sprang from my hammock at the first skirl from my tartan, bagpipes alarm clock. I scraped off my pancake make up with a trowel, threw it into the frying pan, added a nob of butter and had a pancake omelet for my breakfast. "AH, that's better," I cried "sets you up for the day," as I vomited the whole lot over the postman. I rifled through the letters.Nnothing but hate mail from the butcher, the baker, the electricity board, the housing executive and sweet Fanny Adams from Florida. I stamped them all ' Paid' and stuffed them into the letterbox with a rare, ebony pygmy bum scratcher that my late daddy brought back from the war in Portrush. I spent the morning lying in the middle of a busy road with my teeth bared, pretending I was a squashed badger. In the afternoon, Tommy and I changed into two flying suits and jumped from tall trees, pretending to be German paratroopers who had forgotten their parachutes. What fun, if more people did that, there would be more people walking around with broken legs. After a late supper of beaten eggs, battered sausages and mentally abused mince it was time for-Love, time for-L'amore. I changed into a little yellow number, a pants-suit with Belfast Council written on the back, just above the two fluorescent white stripes. A little Charlie behind one ear and a little Willie John behind the other and I was ready to toss my brown, knitted bonnet into the ring of-love. Tommy had to come and get me at four o'clock at the police station. "Take the old slapper home, Tommy lad" said Sir Hugh Orde, "up to her old tricks again she was. My boys picked her up on the Donegall Road, they did.She was rolling about in the middle of the street yelling, "Hey boys, I'm a plum and I've just fallen off the tree of life." I tell you Tommy, some of those young men will never be the same again and my officers are sitting in the canteen, drinking hot tea and shaking like leaves on a tree." "Give us a kiss Hughie," I yelled, "to show there is no ill feelings." "Take her home," yelled Sir Hugh, "I've got Steven Nolan in my office, complaining that someone nicked his Christmas cake, but if you ask me, chummy ate it. The pleated fork of his massive trousers are full of crumbs." Tommy drove me through the darkened streets, with a pointy stick. Every now and then the fiery feline would pick up a stone and hap it off my head. "Tommy," I slurred, "Tommy, I'm innocent, I was standing under the street light for heat and the red light was to keep away blind bats." Tommy never spoke, he just happed another piece of breeze block against my napper. "Good night Belfast," I cried, "home of the Titanic, the Ulster fry and the wee flatulent--James Galway."
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And Rosie's blog is www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Perhaps, the sun will shine tomorrow and there'll be buttered scones for tea.

PUSSIES POLLYWOGS AND POLITICAL POLTOONERY

I slid down the banister yelling, "Big Chief Rain In The Face." I have never liked Geronimo since the day he scalped my bald Grandfather and stole his bag of brandy balls. I put the handbrake on the banister and peeped into my living room. Something was-wrong, something just wasn't-right, something was-missing. It was me, so I did a cart wheel and landed in the middle of the room. I looked around by using my eyes and swiveling my neck. Over in the corner, Tommy my cat had a small mouse by the throat and was yelling into its face, "Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist party?" "Unhand that rodent," I yelled "that is Bertie, a lifelong member of the Alliance party. I have often seen Bertie and David Ford together discussing policy." "Sorry mate," said Tommy, putting little Bertie down and dusting him off, "can't be too careful these days. The reds are on the march again, threatening the very fabric of our free, Democratic society." "Shut up, Senator McCarthy," I yelled, "since you became the only other member in Bob McCartney's party, there has been no putting up with you." "Bob's the man." yelled Tommy. "Bob will built this country up again. A vote for Bob, is a vote for--Bob McCartney." "Shut your yapper Tommy," I screamed, "I have lost something, something very dear to me. I had it in my hand a minute ago and-now I can't find it anywhere."
Tommy sauntered over to a poof, shooed him off the chair and sat down.Tommy picked up the Bombay Times, crossed one furry leg over the other and said. "This-thing you have lost, what does it look like?" I ran up stairs for my teeth, bit my lip and stammered, "It's just a little-plaything that's all. It's pink and furry, just a little plaything that I use for relieving stress." "Aa-Ha," said Tommy, "just a little-plaything?" Then Tommy leaped to his feet and screamed, "Do you think I'm stupid? I know what that little furry plaything is. Its the trigger for a HYDROGEN BOMB that you bought on eBay last week for £5.59!" "Is it?" I yelled ."I had no idea, I thought it was just a little, pink, furry thing." "LIAR," screamed Tommy, "and I also know about the gigantic hydrogen bomb that you constructed in the tool shed. What's going on?" yelled Tommy, "come on, spit it out, you old reprobate of a rat bag!" "It's true," I shrieked, "I want a hydrogen bomb. I want to be a super power. Everyone has them, the Americans, the British, the French, the Indians and Pakistans. If Iran gets a hydrogen bomb before me, I'll me mortified. Please let me have a bomb Tommy, please-please, I swear I'll never ask for anything else. Please let me have a bomb Tommy, please-please-please!" Tommy put his hands on his slim hips and looked at me with disgust and puss in his yellow, slitted, feline eyes. "Well, well, well," said Tommy, "so you want to be a -super power? You want to join the arms race? You want to own a nuclear bomb?" "Yes Tommy," I pleaded "that's all. I just want to be-accepted. I want to make new nuclear friends. I never had any friends at school, because of my chronic BO and my habit of biting people."Tommy stood with his hands behind his back and thought. Then he said, "If I do let you have this nuclear bomb-and I haven't said yes yet, do you promise not to let it off?" "YES Tommy, yes, yes." I yelled "I only want the bomb for a deterrent. I mean when you think of it, its just like a girl carrying pepper spray or Mace isn't it?" "Well--all right" said Tommy, "but there are conditions. You must look after the nuclear bomb. You must keep it spick and span. If you don't," said Tommy, "don't expect me to look after it and you must also remember, that a nuclear bomb, like a little puppy, is not just for Christmas, it's for life." "I promise Tommy," I said, "I promise, I'll look after that massive nuclear bomb better than any nuclear bomb was ever looked after." I lowered my voice and whispered, "I have heard in nuclear circles that the Americans never dust their nuclear bombs.""Tut-Tut," said Tommy "that's the Americans for you, they put all the new, shiny stuff in the shop window, but God only knows what their store room is like." Later, after a light supper of pollywogs on toast, Tommy helped me to install the pink, fluffy nuclear trigger. Now, we could sleep content. Tommy and I were a nuclear power. No one would mess with us now. I was leaving very positive feedback on eBay for the man who sold me the little, pink, fluffy, nuclear trigger, when Tommy stuck his head round the door and said. "Oh bye the bye, the clocks go back on Saturday night, so you will have to get up at two o'clock and reset the timing clock on the bomb.". "SIR, yes-SIR," I yelled leaping to my feet. Oh how we laughed. "Tommy," I whispered, "are you awake?" "Yes," whispered Tommy. "I just want to thank you Tommy," I said, "I just want to thank you for letting me keep the nuclear bomb." "No probs," said Tommy "Now go to your bed and get your beauty sleep. We don't want you scaring the milkman again.". "How is Bert?" I whispered. "Still climbing the walls," whispered Tommy, "but his jibbering has greatly reduced in volume.". "Good," I whispered, "I like Bert."
Go now to--www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want to buy Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, go to--
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com

THE ANATOMICAL ANOMALIES OF THE COMMON OR GARDEN-CAT

Tommy my cat and I were sitting at home, pretending to be a woman and cat sitting at home. "This is fun," giggled Tommy, "I mean, sitting at home, pretending to be a woman and cat sitting at-home." "Yes," I said, "thank goodness both of us are at home or we couldn't have played this game". "If you were out" said Tommy "I could still pretend that I was a cat sitting at home." "Its not the same kid" I said "For years I used to sit at home pretending I was a woman sitting at home, but it's not the same. It was round about that time that I decided to get a cat for company." "Bye the bye," said Tommy "where did you get me? in a cat refuge? an advert in the paper? a strange meeting with an old crone in the woods?" "Neither," I said, "I found you in a Camay soap box drifting down the river Lagan." Tommy gulped and turned as pale as a black cat can". "It was a Saturday night," I went on, "around Halloween. I thought the box might contain a set of spanners or a crystal goblet with a rim of gold, so I reached out with my broomstick, I mean a-stick and pulled the box ashore and there you were, a small, wet pathetic kitten crying for your mummy, I was just going to set you adrift again, when I thought, "No, It was fate that made you find this feline, your destinies are intertwined, take the kitten home, nourish him, love him and you will never be alone-again". Tommy looked at me with tears in his slitted, yellow eyes and said "Was I alone in the box?" "Alone all alone," I cried, "except for a small rattle, six nappies and an ivory cameo of Lord Carson." "The same one I still wear round my neck," said Tommy, fingering his 18 carat rolled gold necklace. In the silence that followed, Richard Branson sailed round the world in a supermarket shopping bag, the price of oil fell to 10 pence a barrel and Steven Nolan ate his own weight in Jammy Dodgers. "I wonder where I came from" said Tommy "and why mummy gave me away? Was there-no clue?" "There was a note," I cried, "A note written in Sanskrit, but it gave no clue as to who you are or where you came from". "What did the note say? cried Tommy "What did the note-say?" I went up to the attic and dragged down an old chest, covered in rust and dust. I opened the chest with an ancient creak, not having the key, reached in and withdrew a cigarette. I lit the cigarette by applying flame to one end, took a little puff up to his bed and went on with my story. "The letter" I cried, "That was written in-Sanskrit, with pencil said-and I quote, "To whom it may concern, because it doesn't concern us, in this box is a kitten born out of wedlock. We are a respectable family, with two cars and sprinklers on the lawn. Our eldest daughter has just gone up to university, even though it's only down the road and our son-Orville can walk and talk, and he's just turned 28. As for this kitten, contained in the box, do with him what you like. He will never get a penny of our money, or dance at my daughte'rs wedding. He is an outcast, a homeless feline, we never want to see him again. All the best from Alma and Ernie Barrowfield, 23 the Hawthorns, Ann Street, Belfast, Northern Ireland, Great Britain, The world, the Universe, The Cosmos."
Tommy looked at me and said, "If we only had some clue." "I know lad," I said, "I know, but the man who wrote that wasn't giving anything away. Talk about-obtuse."
"Tommy," I said, over a supper of a little fishie on a dishie, "Can you really see in the dark Tommy?" "Tommy looked all around and muttered, "I'm not really supposed to talk about this, but-yes." "How cool," I said, "can you not see the dark like the rest of us can?" "Of course I can see the dark" said Tommy "If I didn't see the dark, I would never know when to switch on the lights on my bicycle. I can-SEE in the dark. I have special lens in my eyes that allow me to see in the dark." "Did you go to Specsavers?" I said. "No," said Tommy, "nature provided them and I didn't have to fill a form in or anything." "I wish I could see in the dark" I said. "If I could see in the dark, I could sell my flash light and buy a stone of plums." I have another gift," said Tommy with a wink, "I can see the-wind." I broke wind with surprise. "I saw that." said Tommy. "Oh Tommy," I yelled "Oh Tommy Cat, I have always wanted to know the colour of the wind. Tommy, please tell me Tommy, please, what colour is the wind?" "It's hard to describe" said Tommy "It's a sort of silvery colour with tinges of aqua marine and just a hint of canary yellow." "Oh Tommy," I cried "How wonderful it must be to be a cat. To be able to see in the dark, to be able to see the beauty of the wind and to be able to fall from tall buildings and always land on your feet." Tommy burst out laughing and said, "Cats can't fall from tall buildings and land on their feet." "Yes they can." I yelled "Everyone says so.""No, No," said Tommy "It's an urban myth, put about by lucky, contortionist cats." Tommy and I were so happy in our snug, condemned wee home. We both gave a shriek, clasped hands and danced a four hand reel to the sound of Christine Bleakly on TV, whining on and on about global warming and the outrageous price of wee buns with sugar on the top. Then Tommy and I stood out in the cold and rain, pretending to be a woman and cat locked out of their house. I don't know, It's all-go, where does the time go? I mean, it seems only yesterday, I was wondering what would happen today! Life-eh? Cor Blimey! Where's it all going to end? and will there be a man to show us the way out? I don't know. I suppose there's no good carping on about it. Life-eh? it's some handlin', stone the crows, eh missus? I mean, it makes you think. And then you have to contend with monkeys on pogo sticks! What's all that about then-eh? I don't know, cor blimey and stone the bleeding crows--eh?
Go now to www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson, go to
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Yeh, monkeys on pogo sticks? that's what we have to put up with now!

WHERE HAS ALL THE MONEY GONE?

"COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-NO!" I yelled, pulling the blankets over my head. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO-NIGH!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-your-ass!" I yelled. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. It was no good, I had to get up, but I got up with bad grace. How Grace got into my bed last night, I'll never know. She said she had an invite, but when pressed, couldn't produce it. Maybe she did. I remember sending out a bunch of invitations, inviting people to join me in bed. I searched under the blankets and the pillows, but no sign of Hugo Duncan. I suppose he thinks he's better that me now he's got the new false teeth. I sang as I dressed. "Giddy-up, giddy-up a ding dong!" I yelled as I stepped into my little black number. I just love that bin liner. I found it in a wheelie-bin on the Malone Road, so it's got class. Shoes, shoes, shoes, the same decision every morning, what shoes should I wear? I decided to compromise and slipped into a pink, 8 inch heel stiletto and a lime green wellington with the top rolled down. I stood at an angle, admiring myself in the mirror. "You got it girl!" I yelled to my reflection. "You don't need Trinny and Suzanna to tell you what to wear."I clamped a brown bonnet on my head, wrapped a West Ham football scarf round my gullet and I was ready. I tripped down the stairs like Maggie Poppins, the half sister of Mary singing merrily, "Hit me, hit me, hit me with your rhythm stick." I leapt over the banister yelling, "GERONIMO!" and burst into the living room and found my cat Tommy in a state of confusion, delusion, but devoid of any conclusion. Tommy was down on the floor on his hands and knees, shaking the money out of his piggy bank. There was a look of-madness in the feline, slitted eyes. "Tommy, Tommy!" I yelled. "What are you up too lad? Are you compos mentis? or are you in a state of do-lalliness, bordering on full blown, 24 caret, 100%-madness?" Tommy looked up, his eyes filled with horror and hissed,( he'll clean that up later), "I must get my life savings out of this bank," screamed Tommy. "Why Tommy?" I said. "Because this bank could go bust at anytime," shrieked Tommy. "Surely not," I said, "It looks like a good, strong substantial bank to me, made out of the strongest plastic." "You don't understand," screamed Tommy, "banks are falling like wino's on a Saturday night. American banks, UK banks, German banks and the last bank in Iceland fell during the night. Bank robbers, with guns are walking the streets, dazed and confused." "The poor wee doats," I said "I didn't know things were that bad. What can I do Tommy?" I shrieked. "What can I do to help? Tommy didn't answer, he pulled his hair out by the roots, rent his garments, kicked a poof and yelled, "Damn Freddie and Fanny, damn them I say." "Have Freddie and Fanny hurt my little Tommy?" I yelled. "Tell me where this Freddie and Fanny live and I'll go round there and punch them up the gub." "Freddie and Fanny are American banks," yelled Tommy. "They were the first banks to go bust and the rest followed like sheep." "But where did the money go Tommy?" I asked. "It-it-just disappeared," yelled Tommy. "No one knows where the money went. It went into a computer and never came out again." ""What is President Georgie Bush doing about all this?" I yelled, striking a Nelson pose. "George Bush, is acting like-George Bush," said Tommy. "What's the maverick doing," I cried. "What is old John McCain doing? He's a maverick, you know, surely he must be doing some mavericky things." "The maverick," yelled Tommy "is walking around in a daze, with a moose hunter from Alaska, calling everybody--my friend.". "Durn blast the hoggle-swoggle son of a gun from Arizona" I yelled. Tommy sat down and began to count his money, starting like every good mathematician with--"ONE." I paced the floor, banging one fist into the other. My eyes had a steely glint and my nose had a reddish hue. "It's all here" screamed Tommy, "its all here, every penny. I haven't been wiped out by the big crash." "How much did you have in the bank Tommy?" I said. "One pound and 87 pence," said Tommy and his little feline cheeks were glowing like apples. "Well done Tommy," I cried. "If you had another 13 pence, you would have even more money." "Put the TV on," yelled Tommy "put the TV on,.I want to laugh at the suckers who lost their shirts." Steven Nolan's great big face filled the plasma screen and the speakers vibrated as Tubby roared into the camera. "I lost it all, every penny I had. I lost my shirt, underpants and three pair of socks. I'm wiped out, I haven't even the price of a hamburger. And it's all down to Freddie and Fanny. I'm sorry for Freddie, but I should have known that tramp Fanny was a money grabbing harlot the way she pulled me up the stairs in Las Vegas." "Tommy killed himself laughing and chortled, "Fat boy not happy." "No indeedee" I said, "Fat boy not happy. Fat boy wiped out. Fat boy loose many spondulecks." Tommy and I sat watching as Steven "Tubby" Nolan sang into the camera with tears streaming down his massive face.
"No body know, da trouble I've seen
No body know my sorrow
No body know da trouble I've seen
By jeekers and begorragh."

As Fred Dibnah would say, "Did you like that?"
Go now, right away, don't delay to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And you can order Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com

HIGH FINANCE AND LOW FINESSE

As the sun broke over Belfast, it found the city exactly where it had been last night. It hadn't moved an inch, had not tried to make an escape during the hours of darkness. I think that says a lot about Belfast and the people of Belfast. Citizens of Belfast, stand up and take a bow. If you haven't got a bow, get on to eBay immediately. If you can't find a bow in your size, you could always buy a curtsy or a snappy salute. It's up to you, good people of Belfast, how you show pride in the populace. Far be it for me to dictate how you should celebrate your bravery. But, good people of Belfast, don't squander this glorious moment. Take a bow, pat yourself on the back and the next time you meet yourself, invite yourself in for a wee dram. Och-Aye.
I groaned wearily as I crawled out off the toilet bowl, I had been in there for two weeks, pretending I was the American economy. Tommy my cat was sprawled on the carpet, pretending to be the fallen dollar. Suddenly, Jim Rodgers stuck his nose through the letter box and screamed, "HI-big bail out for the American economy-NIGH!" Seven hundred billion. I could feel it doing me good already. Tommy jumped up, grabbed for a Cockney accent and began to sing in the oddest voice, "What do you want, if you don't want money?" I twirled myself round the room, then I grabbed my hand and danced The Walls of Limerick to the sound of the slapper with the hoover next door. What a relief! At one point I thought I was going down the pan and poor Tommy was so weak, the Japanese yen was battering the face of him. And now!-now we had got a transfusion of money from the American tax payer. I whipped out my wok, found it was a stone that Jonathan Ross had given me for my birthday, and grabbed the frying pan instead. In no time I had whipped up a celebratory banquet of cardboard, string and dust mites. As Tommy and I sat, toasting the financial bail -out with goblets of Fairy washing up liquid. I looked at Tommy and said. "Tommykins, you're a smart Cookie. What was the reason for the collapse of the American economy?" Tommy took a sip of Fairy liquid, boaked into his dinner and said, "GREED" "Greed?" I yelled, running to the foot of our stairs, bolting the door and drawing the blinds with a pencil. "GREED," said Tommy. "That's the cause of all the caffuffle. Nothing but good old fashioned-greed!" "It can't be!" I yelled to Pansy the parrot. "Oh yes it can," squawked Pansy. "I don't understand," I cried to the light bulb. "Hey man," said the light bulb, "Don't drag me into it. I'm just hanging around, minding my own business." "GREED?" I shrieked to the whispering grass, who tried to tell the trees, but the trees didn't want to know. "Tommy1" I yelled, "what can we do to make sure this, this-ah meltdown, this horlicks doesn't happen again?" Tommy wiped his feline lips with a sleeping kin, no, sorry, a napkin, got to his feet, stood at the fireplace, lit a cigar, put one thumb into the pocket of his canary yellow waistcoat and said. "Fiscal responsibility." "You what?" I yelled. Tommy sauntered over to the piano, tinkled on the ivories, filthy habit and said, "We must tighten our belts, cut our cloth to suit our means, knuckle down on credit, tie a knot in our galluses, always carry a clean hankie, keep our powder dry, never look a gift horse in the mouth and flush the toilet after using it." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe. What a smart little cat, what a cute little feline. Then Tommy's cigar exploded with a BANG, blew off his bow tie and left his little face all black. I just laughed like the gulpin I am, as I looked at Tommy, searching frantically for a banjo while singing, "MAMMY-MAMMY."
Two stone of biscuit crumbs had accumulated in the fork of Steven Nolan's huge trousers. There we lay, beside the landfill site, swatting flies and yelling-"Shoosh" to the hungry rats. I gazed at Tubby with my eyes full of passion and pus. Dear Steven gazed back and fluttered his eyelashes. My beret flew off my head and my wig slid over one ear. Steven eased up on one gigantic hip, broke wind so romantically and said, "Lie down Toots, I've got something for you." I shrieked like a rat in a trap, as dear Steven picked up a hurdy-gurdy and began to croon.
"I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
I'm so full I'm brustin, I'm gonna need some pos
So If you really love me
Have them lined up in neat rows."
As the haunting love song drifted up with the smoke from the landfill site, the sun slowly sank in the West, leaving the city of Belfast in darkness. But would Belfast be there in the morning when the sun rose in the East? I sighed and threw myself on Tubby, grabbing and groping at his little hurdy-gurdy.
You will find Rosie Ryan at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And you can buy Rosie's book at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And remember, be good and if you can't be good--be bad.

THROW ANOTHER FAGGOT ON THE FIRE FANNY

As Dawn broke wind, sunlight streamed through the broken window of our house. Tommy my cat and I built a dam with sandbags but we couldn't keep it out. Soon my living room was up to the oxters in-sunlight. I stood with hands on hips and said, "Well, this is a right howdy-do."
Howdy-do to you too," said Tommy, surveying the damage. "How are we going to get this sunlight out of the house?" "Grab some brooms" I yelled "and sweep the sunlight out to the street!" "Good idea!" cried Tommy, grabbing a broom in his feline paws and sweeping furiously.
"It's no good," gasped Tommy, "the more I sweep the sunlight out, the more it streams back in again.""Shut up and keep sweeping," I yelled, "before the sunlight ruins my one piece suite and damages my daddy's nick-nacks!" "Those nick-nacks should be in the coffin along with your dead daddy," cried Tommy. "What kind of monster are you, to send a man to meet his maker nick-nackless?" "He was my daddy," I yelled, "not your daddy. When my alive daddy died, I was heartbroken. I wanted something to remind me of dear daddy, so I took his nick-nacks."
"Could you not have cut off his tie instead?" roared Tommy, up to the waist in sunlight.
"My daddy loved that tie!" I yelled "It was the regimental tie of the Irish Guards and my late daddy would have joined the guards if his height and his IQ had been bigger."
"It's no good!" cried Tommy "The sunlight is streaming in. It's a deluge, a deluge of sunlight. Why did Frank Mitchell not warn people about a flood of sunlight on TV last night?"
"Frank Mitchell, my aunt Fanny!" I screamed, "Frank Mitchell was too busy trying to convince people that wet bag was Coleraine on the 'Name That Town' teaser last night." "I saw that," said Tommy. "Frank certainly fooled me. I thought wet bag was-Cullybaccy. Even the dogs in the street know that cully is Arabic for-wet and Baccy is Ulster/Mongolian for-BAG." "Shut up Tommy!" I screamed, as I grabbed a signed photograph of Steven Nolan before it was washed away by the sunlight. "It's hopeless," I yelled, "the sunlight is half way up the stairs now! There's only one thing to do." Tommy gasped and said, "You don't mean?..."
"YES!" I cried, "It's time to send for super hero--JIM RODGERS. Then Tommy and I sang the Jim Rodger's song, which goes after this fashion. Ah one, ah two, an three, ah four.....
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Jim Rodgers arrived on a bicycle, ringing the bell, his purple cape fluttering behind him.
"NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh Jim," I screeched, "thank goodness you're here! My house is flooded by pesky-sunlight."
"Stand back," screamed Jim "this is a job for super hero--JIM RODGERS!"
Tommy and I clapped, cheered and broke once more into the Jim Rodger's theme tune.
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, Jim Rodgers, super hero ran into the sunlit house and banished the sunlight by--pulling the curtains.
"MY HERO!" I cried as Jim rode off on his bicycle screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!"
Tommy began to sing, "IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF IN TROUBLE." I took the cuff off my sleeve and let Tommy have it round the ear. Tommy and I clasped hands, danced the Mason's Apron to the sound of a stone sliding down a corrugated tin roof and then skipped-gaily into our sunless abode. But for months after, I kept finding little bits of sunlight stuck down the back of the sofa. I cupped them carefully in my hands, ran to the door and threw them up into the sunlit sky. "Fly my little one!" I yelled. " Fly to the shinning orb up in the sky, that is made up from 72% hydrogen, 28% helium and just a little, teeny-weenie smidgen of carbon."a
Later that night, or was it tomorrow night? Tommy my cat looked on with disapproval as I went to bed with cocoa. "I don't care, I don't care what people think, let them talk. Sure Coco is a clown but when he takes off his big shoes and baggy trousers, he knows how to make a girl happy--and he makes me laugh. And do all women, not put at the top of their list for the ideal man--a good sense of humour? So ladies, if you want a man who makes you laugh, go out and grab a-clown. You will find lots of clowns in the circus--and up at Stormont.
Rosie Ryan is looking for you, you will find her waiting at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot,com and if you want to buy her book, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com

FLOGGING A DEAD CAT

Monday morning found Tommy my cat and I up to our old tricks. Tommy had me in a box and the wily feline was sawing me in half with a saw. Tommy stopped sawing after my 21st shriek and rushed me to casualty on the back of a Mexican burro called Anthony. The doctor patched me up, patched me down, rolled me over, took my temperature and said. "Goodness gracious me, what a crazy lady!" gave me a Bombay riser with his toe and yelled, "NEXT!" "Damn you doctor, Ali Murphy!" I yelled. "I'll bring down the Indian economy. I'll never eat curry again." "You fixed his wagon," said Tommy. "Let's see how he likes them apples." I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of the neck, found a darkened corner and gave him an enema he'll remember for the rest of his life. All that from one small cat? Amazing, truly-amazing.
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!