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.