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'.