WOMAN WITH CAT'S GRASP OF REALITY

The Gerry Anderson show today was out of this world, complete with alien, in the form of Mr Coyle. What a lad Mr Coyle is, so much to say about so little, Tommy my cat calls Mr Coyle Duracell, because he goes on and on and on. Gerry should muzzle Mr Coyle and take away his squeeky toy. A bit harsh? perhaps, but he should try it and see. The former Undertone could help remove Mr Coyle's trousers. I know, I know, it's a dirty job-but someone has to do it.
After the show Tommy my cat and I played the new reality game, "So You Want To Juggle With Live Hand Grenades?" It's the new craze that is sweeping the country. From John O'Groats to Lands End, digits are flying in the air, as the devotees try and master the art.
It's not as easy as the host of the show, "Five fingers Johnson" makes out.
You need a good eye, concentration, steady hands and a good supply of fingers.
Tommy lost something very dear to him, when a live hand grenade fell down the front of his, Bobo the clown trousers. I think the lad's mouth organ is beyond repair and it was a gift from Tommy's mummy, when the lad was confirmed at Saint Felines. I remember how proud Mrs Cat was. The feathers on her puce hat were actually quivering with pride. Ah, poor Mrs Cat, and then to have a wheelie-bin lid fall on you, as you reached in for the head of a herring. Why does God let these things happen? I must admit it shook my faith and the clump of hair on my ears.
I ran to father O'Flynn and roared, "Why father? Why? in God's name-WHY?
The kindly old priest looked at me and said "How the bleedin' hell would I know. You fink I can read God's mind? Go on, clear off, or you'll feel my clerical brogue up your jacksy"
After that, I felt so much better and fasted for forty days and forty nights, on a dung hill at the back of the Europa hotel.
In the afternoon, the parcel force van arrived, bringing my stunted, half brother Gunner for the weekend. Poor Gunner, can't stand daylight. He spends all his time in a shoe box with holes in it. He uses the holes to take in food and throw faeces out.
I haven't seen Gunner for many years. He doesn't like to be stared at.
Tommy didn't like Gunner at all and actually recoiled and shuddered.
"Tommy, Tommy" I cajoled, "It's only a two foot hairy creature with yellow eyes and teeth like a wolf" But Tommy wasn't having it. He packed his Paris Hilton sleeping bag and went to stay with Iris and Peter Robinson.
Half brother Gunner and I had a rare old time. How I would shriek as Gunner grabbed a sausage roll and grunted like a wolverine. Unfortunately, it all went down hill when Gunner began to throw faeces at me and when I began to throw faeces back--well, I put a black cloth over Gunner's box and ran for a bucket and mop and a big bottle of Dettol.
I felt so ashamed, Gunner had brought out my black side and if the judge heard I was throwing faeces again--well--no more probation.
Steven Nolan took his large face out of the crisp bag and said.
"What do you think about WAGS the new show, where the wives and girlfriends of Ulster sports stars show how they live?" I climbed on a high horse and yelled--"Rubbish, who wants to see those pathetic, orange-faced no bodies being pampered or shopping? Parasites!" I yelled, "lazing about doing nothing, smiling vacantly, pouting, simpering and talking about shoes.
Vacuous, blonde bimbos" I yelled, "When did they ever boil an egg or empty a po?"
"So you don't like the show?" said Steven "Don't go putting words in my mouth" I yelled "It may grow on me, after all, these warts did and the moustache
When I got home, I tip-toed up to Gunner's box and gently removed the black cloth.
A face-full of faeces is what I got. He'll never change now, dear daddy was right, we should have called him, 'Who Flung Dung'.

WOMAN WITH CAT TELLS IT LIKE IT IS

What a great show Gerry Anderson put on today, much better that the show that Hitler put on at Nuremberg. Hitler could talk but his taste in music was pathetic. And yet, the shadow of Hitler still lives on, in the shape of Sean Coyle. What a little fuhrer he is, you can hear the good people of Derry yell after him as he struts through the Bogside. "COYLE, you're nothing but a little fuhrer!". I think that's what they said, neither Tommy my cat or I are au fait with the Derry accent.
I was curled up in a lush, green, grassy field, pretending to be the pink snooker ball, when a man put his head over the ditch and said, "David Beckham, the overpaid so and so has just bought his wife, Victoria a barrel of crude oil. What do you think of that, you ugly old rat bag?"
I found my feet and leaped to them, "That" I yelled "is the height of ostentatiousness, they should be ostracized for their osmosis into oscillsating ostentatiousness"
The man on the ditch, spat out a small woodland creature and roared.
"Hey you, leather arse, what do you think the fair Victoria will do with the barrel of crude oil?"
"Get it mounted and wear it on her finger" I yelled. "If you have a barrel of crude oil, you want to flaunt it" "I suppose so" said the man on the ditch, "But hold hard arse face, he may buy her another barrel of crude oil and she could wear them as ear-rings".
"It's something we must take into consideration" I bawled "but my guess is that the barrel of crude oil, will be turned into a ring". "You could be right, you old shit bag" yelled the man on the ditch. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, cheerio, you old slapper" yelled the man on the ditch. I turned to an earwig, who was playing the blues on a small harmonica and said.
"What a nice man! Who said Tyrone people were typically thick?" The earwig gave a Gallic shrug and wandered off into the long grass. Sometimes an earwig will talk the hindlegs of a donkey, other days--they just walk off into the long grass.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was carefully writing, "This is my bomb" onto a large, home made nuclear device. The long sensitive, feline face, the slitted eyes, the way his tail formed a question mark, the neat crease on his tuxedo, suddenly, orbs of tears sprang from my occulars and I felt so proud--so doggone proud.
"Tommy" I blurted out "You sure are one good looking cat" "I know" mumbled Tommy, with a paint brush cleanched in his teeth. All my litter were very good looking, but as the old song says,
I was the best of them all, OOOH, I was the best of them all".
"All my litter-sorry -family, were very ugly" I said "Dear Daddy, wanted to put us in a bag and drown us but darling mummy said, "No, let's keep them and throw stones at them in our old age".
"A wise mummy" said Tommy "so many parents don't provide for their old age".
Tommy drew a little smiley face on the bomb and said, "Well, that's that, I'm going over to Peter and Iris Robinsons for some cow and gate toffee and a game of Arabaic scrabble".
"Don't show me up Tommy" I yelled "don't make any bad words like, bum, rectum or Sinn Fein".
With Tommy gone, I tried to amuse myself by running at the wall with my head, but the wall just stood there, I could see it didn't want to play.
Then I tried to see how many light bulbs I could get into my mouth, but I ran out of bulbs--now we'll never know.
I put on a CD of Willie McCrea, singing, "I'll walk with God" I began to boogie and get on down, but I just couldn't get in the groove-man.
In desperation, I unlocked the trap-door and let Steven Nolan out of the dirty, dark cellar. We sat down to tea and hobnobs and discussed the finer points of industrial welding. Well--it was that, or Give My Head Peace.

A QUICK FLASH FROM WOMAN WITH CAT

After the Gerry Anderson show, Tommy my cat and I crawled out of the oven and unwrapped the tin foil. "What were you pretending to be Tommy?" I shrieked.
"A snipe called Norman,with just one leg" grinned Tommy. "SNAP!" I yelled "so was I. What are the odds on that?" Tommy ran for his tool-kit, built a lovely pearl grey calculator and said.
"Two million and seven to one". "Darn" I said, slapping my thigh for being a naughty boy.
"Why did I not bet 50 pee with Paddy Power". "I don't know," said Tommy, "the calculator just deals with numbers". Oh how we laughed, we were bent over, with tears streaming down our faces. "The calculator just deals with numbers AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-TEE-HEE-HEE."
Still laughing, I went back to my two piece jig-saw of a green field, I don't think I'll ever finish it, but it keeps me off the roof yelling-CUCKOOO.
Tommy bent to tie the lace on his wellington and said, "Oh, bye the bye, old girl, who put the dead cadaver on the kitchen table?"
"Well I never" I said, "eeh by gum, who'd have thought it, well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs our kid. How did a dead man get on kitchen table? Eeh, I don't know what world@s coming too, if it ain't one thing its t'other, mark my words, bad times is coming, all we need now lad, is trouble at-mill".
Tommy gave a shriek and blessed himself with Glenavon Springs water.
Tommy put on a deer-stalker hat and said, "There are only two options, one, someone put the expired cadaver on the kitchen table and two, the pre-cadaver, climbed up there and died, but which is it?" "If only we had a butler" I cried "We could blame it on him. Jeeves!" I yelled, "Jeeves, Jeeves, Jeeves!" No one answered, but it was worth a try.
Just then, or was it slightly later, a very drunk undertaker staggered in and roared.
"Hey up, what are you two doing with my dead body? I know what your game is" he slurred, "you two are Burke and Hare the body-snatchers". He looked at Tommy and yelled, "You must be Hare" Then he fixed me with his blood-shot occulars and roared "and you look like a right Burke" I was outraged, I ran outside, borrowed a hand, ran back indoors and slapped his face That seemed to bring him to hie senses. "Sorry folks" he said "I remember now, I left the dead one on your table, while I went into the pub for a quick 16 pints" Once again, how we laughed. It was a simple mistake that anyone could make. Who among us, can stand with hand on heart and say, "I have never mislaid a dead body?" Yes, very few, very few, and they are all damned liars.
Steven Nolan and I were playing leap-frog down by the gasworks. I looked at Stephen's large rump, bent over waiting for me to jump. The lad was wearing a large pair of orange trousers.In the setting sun, his rear looked like Ayres Rock. I looked for aborigine drawings, but there was none-the council had probably washed them off.
Then,--high up I saw the secret entrance to a sinister looking cave. What could be in there?-gold? Next time we play leap-frog, I will bring a rope ladder and climb up there.Who knows what's in there? scrolls? mummies? gold? diamonds?. I don't know, but I intend to find out. I wonder should I wear a gas-mask because of the altitude? Yes, better to be safe than sorry.
I may bring a Discovery film crew with me.Tthey could call it....
"Now, we really go, where no man has ever gone before."

A QUICK FLASH FROM WOMAN WITH CAT

What a great show Gerry Anderson put on today! It was a show full of pathos,piety,poems and Paddies,spoilt only, by Herr Sean Coyle, stamping about like an SS storm trooper, interrupting Gerry, the callers and sometimes-even himself. What are we going to do with the "Thing" that is Sean Coyle?" Shooting's too good for him,I think he should be dragged down an entry and have his arse well kicked and Tommy my cat concurs. I got a good arse kicking when I was a teenager and never again, did I try to topple the elected government of the United Arab Emerites.
"Oh, bye the bye" said Tommy, putting down Jordan's new book entitled. "I Took Them In, I took Them Out And I Shook Them All About", "I have just bought a little top" said Tommy "Will you tell me what you think of it?" "Oh, all right" I moaned, "I hate looking at little tops, I would rather be with Steven Nolan, looking at big bottoms"
Tommy came out of the bedroom and posed seductively by the door jam. He pouted, simpered,wet his lips and stuck out his little pink tongue.
"Well, what do you think?" said Tommy huskily. I glanced at the feline in horror and blurted out. "It's very effete Tommy". Tommy immediately got on his high horse, that was standing patiently in the corner, eating hay sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
"Effete?" screamed Tommy, "how can you say this top is-effete?"
"It's vivid pink you fool" I yelled "And it's got "I'M A BIG GIRL" written on the front."
"And that makes it-effete?" screamed Tommy. "In my book it does" I shouted "and my book is the-Good Book, does it not say in the book of Gunter "Verily, if you see a cat wearing a pink top, burn him at the stake" "Things have moved on" said Tommy "People are more progressive and open-minded, I shall wear this top tonight with my cream slacks and knock peoples' eyes out"
"Listen lad" I cautioned, if you go past a free presbyterian church wearing that top, you'll be strung up and only by the tail if you're lucky. Desist lad" I said, "desist, stop trying to stretch the envelope, now go to your bedroom and put on those lovely primrose, yellow hot pants and the mandrin, orange boob-tube. PHEW, fashion accident averted. WHY, WHY, WHY, do cats have such awful fashion sense?
As I ran through Belfast, with my arms out-stretched, pretending I was a giant corn-crake coming into land, who did I run into but Loggie, the giggling little sports presenter at UTV.
"Greetings, little sportnic" I yelled, "You are from Tyrone are you not?" "I is" giggled Loggie.
"Pray tell me" I said, lying at his feet and looking up the leg of his trousers, "Could you be described as typically-thick?" Loggie ruminated, yes, right there in the street, the naughty, naughty boy and said, "Well, I am thick, but to say, I was typically thick, would be giving me more credit that I deserve". "Spoken like a true son of Tyrone" I said. "How did you escape from Tyrone?" I enquired, "It is a veritable jungle is it not?"
"It is" yelled Loggie, "Bushes, bushes, nothing but--blooming-bushes. I slipped away from the tribe" said Loggie, "during a monkey hunt. For three weeks, I followed a stream, fighting off pigmies, head-hunters and the dreaded wolverine. Then one day, starved and hlaf naked I staggered into a clearing and there was Paul Clarke in a caravan. Paul looked me over, glanced at his wife and said, "He looks like a nice boy." Paul took me in, he and his wife taught me how to eat with a knife and fork and the rest, like Ulster's troubles, is history. Now I live in a house, know how to use the toilet and I never go on monkey hunts, ever again"
"Never?" I said with a smile. "Well, hardly ever" giggled Loggie. "Some times I look at Frank Mitchell and he looks so like a chimp, I grab my bow and arrow and take after him"
Tyrone people typically thick? nonsense, not with people like Loggie and Jimmy Cricket around.

BREAKING NEWS FROM WOMAN WITH CAT

After another great Gerry Anderson show, in which old Jordie taught us yet ANOTHER novel use for jeyes fluid, who would have thought that a mixture of jeyes fluid and urine would keep ant eaters away from your mother's sisters? "Old Jordie" said Tommy my cat "The salt of the earth". "Yes" I warbled "Yon country yokel is a veritable mushroom, he sprang from dung in a darkened cellar".
For the next hour or two, Tommy and I sat shooting the breeze, with two yellow blunderbusses we bought on Ebay. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, Tommy and I looked at each other in amazement and profuse confusion. Tommy looked at me with trembling lip and whispered, "You know that wooden thing, that covers the entrance between the bricks?" I gulped and replied "Yes, I am aware of such a structure". "Well" whispered Tommy "Someone has only gone and knocked on it". I blanched, recoiled,shook and shuddered, "WHY?" I yelled "Why would someone, knock at our door?" "I don't know" said Tommy "but I know a man who does" and he picked up the immobile phone and called Boris Johnson the new Mayor of London and surrounding districts. I only heard one side of the conversation, Tommy stood with hand on hip saying, "Yes, yes, I know, yes, ah-ha, yes, I know,all right,thank you my blonde, buxom beauty". "What did he say?" I yelled "What did the blonde bomb shell say?"
Tommy moistened his lips with a mixture of jeyes fluid and urine and and stuttered, "Boris said, we should--open the door?". In the silence that followed, I could hear a butterfly flutter its wings in the rain forests of Brazil.
"Open the door?" I mused "What does that mean? open the-door" Suddenly it hit me like a thing that hits you "Tommy" I yelled "The door must-open". "It can not be" yelled Tommy "Who ever heard of a door that--opens?" "What a fool I've been" I shrieked "There was me, crawling in and out of the window, not knowing that the door--opens" "You know what we must do now" said Tommy "We must-open the door. Tommy and I ran for two screwdrivers and in five minutes, we had the door-open.
Jim Rodgers stood there, resplendent in mayoral robes and a lovely pair of cactus green gutties.
Jim opened his first citizen mouth and bagan to scream.
"Here's a wee beg for your dog poo-NIGH" I looked at Tommy and said "What did he say Tommy? Tommy hid a smile, by pushing it down behind the sofa and replied.
"He said, here's a wee bag for your dog poo-now" "Well, why didn't he say that?" I yelled
"How am I to know what-begs and-nigh is, for God's sake, I've only learned how to open a door"
"NIGH_NIGH_NIGH" screamed Jim, "Don't be going making a cod of an elected official. "I have to give out these wee begs and I have to give them out-NIGH"
Tommy and I took the wee begs-sorry-bags and invited Jim in for a cup of tea and a game of strip poker. My luck was in, before the night was over, I saw the royal seal of office and more, much, much,more. Poor Jim, staggered home with a wee beg hiding his minute sceptre.
When he had gone, Tommy and I brewed up a big batch of jeyes fluid and urine, it was Tommy's turn to donate, he hates that, it leaves him with a wet tail but al least our aunts are safe from ant eaters. And you know, at the end of the day, taking everything into consideration, that's all that really matters.

WOMAN WITH CAT--REPORTING

What a great show Gerry Anderson put on today,the show had everything, style,beauty, bonny wee bon mots and 12% off for people with piles, I saved a packet.
After the show, I was squatting on a spiky, World War two bomb, filing my nails, I filed them under N, it makes them so easy to find, if you want a good scratch or are attacked by a gang of International chicken bone wielding bicycle thiefs. They really should crack down on those little guys, I blame the parents and the cross border tension in Cullybaccy.
I looked at Tommy my cat, as he sat at his writing desk, penning another fruitless letter to the home secretary, begging for a pardon for Herr Hitler, Tommy is the Lord Longford of the feline world. "How do you spell, ratbag?" said Tommy. I ruminated religiously and pondered properly and perniciously, as the minutes turned to hours, iIpaniced and yelled,
"Just write down Jordan, he'll know what you mean". "Yours affectionately,Tommy the cat" muttered Tommy and he put the letter in an envelope and stuck on a 2,ooo,ooo Italian peso stamp. "Tommy" I said "Tommy cat, what will you do if Herr Hitler is cleared of all crimes because he was bullied at school and is bipolar?" "Well" said Tommy cupping his chin in a tea cup "After I appear on Heart's and Minds,I will have a victory parade down the Donegall Road, led by the first citizen, Mr Jim Rodgers. The vast crowd will yell "What do we want? HITLER, when do we want him...? and Jim will scream-NIGH". Is Tommy a poor pathetic, Walter Mitty living in a self delusional mad, mad, world? Perhaps, but by God I admire his pluck, the lad has a purpose in life, you won't find Tommy hanging round street corners, he is too busy writing letters to world leaders and building a bunker in the back garden where the bones of Hitler will be on display 24/7 except for Christmas day and pancake Tuesday.
I walked into the Newsline office yelling, "Right you lot, let's be 'aving you" It was just as I expected, they were all lying in a corner, covered with coats sound asleep. "Thompson" I yelled, "Come 'ere you 'orrible little man. You're a disgrace Thompson" I roared "A disgrace to the elite Newsline team. "As for you Carruthers" I screamed, "Come out 'ere you 'orrible little maggot, you can't hide from me, I can see your red socks". Donna Trainor crawled out from under an anorack, pouting her lips and fluttering her eye lashes. "Don't try that girlie stuff on me girlie" I roared. "Over at UTV, Paul Clarke has Lynda Byrons, Tina Cambell, Frank Mitchell and Loggie out on a 30 mile hike wearing full battle dress" "Permission to speak Sir" piped Carruthers. "I have a cunning plan, why don't we go over there and steal their microphones?"
"Do you think that's wise Sir?" drawled laddy-de-dah Thompson. " I could be a spy" simpered Donna, "I could be a Matty Harry or what ever they call it, I could seduce Frank Mitchell and get him to give me the news headlines". "Trainor, you're a better man that me Gunga Din" I said,
with tears in my eyes. "Go over there and get Mitchell to spill his guts and Trainor" I said.
"Yes Sir" said Trainor. "If you can find out why Mitchell, changed his name from McCrory I'll see that you get the VC" "A VC, just for me?" cried Donna. "Yes" I said, "You get the goods on Mitchell and you my girl will be the proud owner of a virile chimp"