PEEPING TOM FINDS GOD

Nice to see Gerry Anderson and Sean Coyle back again. A month was quite lenient for creeping up behind Sir Hugh Orde, pulling down his trousers and yelling
"Now, that's what I call a copper's nark." But they were soon caught. They left footprints, finger prints and the artist formally known as-Prince behind them. Just goes to show, if you're gonna do a job,wear gloves and leave the petite, diminutive pop star at home. I hear they were model prisoners in Maghaberry. Gerry mopped the corridors, while Sean stood outside the toilets yelling, "MAN ON ONE!".
Have they learned their lesson? Only time will tell. I think Gerry may have, but I saw Sean Coyle yesterday, flying down the road on a bicycle, with 'Born To Raise Cain' written on his yellow fluorescent safety jacket.
As you know, last week was, 'Adopt a Peeping Tom Week'. Tommy, my cat and I were first in line to do our civic duty. It was early when we arrived at the Peeping Tom depot, to pick out a good tom. The peeping toms were lined up in a row, all wearing dirty overcoats and soft footwear. The first thing Tommy and I did was to inspect their teeth, which were lying in a heap in the corner. "Hoi!" I yelled to the keeper of the toms, "Why have you made them remove their false teeth? I am here to tell you that I have been peeped at by peeping toms for many years, but I have never been bitten by one."
"Health and safety," growled the official. "We got the idea from Mario in the Big Brother house, now pick a tom and get out of here, before I set Julian the rottweiller on you."
"Well I never!" I said. It was something I had heard in films, but I had no idea what it meant. We ruled half of them out due to special dietary needs. I'll be damned if I will sit up all night cooking filet mignon. Why can't he eat a small, boneless cut of beef from the underside of a sirloin, like the rest of us? Tommy and I finally narrowed our choice down to two, a long lanky one and a short plump one.
"Well ,Tommy," I said "Which will it be? Pete or Dude?"
Tommy put his hands behind his back and strutted up and down like Hitler's cat.
"Gentlemen" said Tommy "For you zee peeping is over. I will now conduct a word association test and you must shout out the first thing that comes into your head."
"Psychiatric assessment!" yelled the thin one. "I haven't started!" roared Tommy.
"Mastermind!" roared the small one. "Hauld on, hauld on!" screamed Tommy.
"John Hume!" yelled the thin one. "Will you stop?" screamed Tommy.
"Nellie McGroper from number 27!" roared the small one.
We tossed a coin and took the small one home with us in a brown paper parcel. He was no trouble, very quiet, very tidy and he always made me a cup of tea in bed in the morning, when he was coming home after a hard night's peeping.
"Ramone," I said to him on his last day with us, "what are you going to do? What will become of you?" Tears sprang into Ramone's large peeping eye and he sobbed,
"Carry on peeping, I suppose. What else is for me? When I get too old to peep, like the song says--I'll lay myself down in a great big ball and--die."
"NO!" I yelled. "Religion will save you, yes, even a dirty, low down dog like you. You may be a tosspot, a toerag, the scrapings of humanity's shoes, a turd, a piss pot, but repentance is waiting. If you do but go, fall on your knees and confess your terrible, black, slimy, evil, filthy, obscene, shitty sins, God will pardon you".
"Praise be the Lord!" yelled Ramone. "I have seen the light. I will run now to Saint Jethro's. When I return my scarlet sins will be as white as snow. Go prepare the fatted calf. If you haven't got one, just open a tin of corned-beef."
I paced and repaced the floor, cracking my knuckles, waiting for the return of the prodigal peeper. A strange beam of white light followed me round the room. It was Sir Hugh Orde and his merry men checking up on me.
THEN---I saw Father Mc Prayus hurry up the garden path. I ran outside and yelled,
"Praise the Lord, how is the perverted sinner?" "Ramone is in the arms of the Lord" said the priest. I began to speak in tongues, Irish, Ulster/Scots, even Welsh.
"Praise the Lord and pass the buttermilk!" I shrieked, "Where is he? where is the dear peeping boy?" "Back at the church," said the priest. "When he was kneeling to pray, three of Sean Quinn's big, green cement lorries passed the church. The tremors dislodged a statue, causing it to fall on Ramone, crushing his skull like a hazel nut, When I get the statue lifted, I will bring Ramone home to you in two wheel barrows."
I stood at the window, watching Steven Nolan go by, eating a three tier wedding cake. A beam of sunlight hit me in the gub and I solemnly intoned.
"The Lord does work in a mysterious way--his wonders to-perform."

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