THE ONE WHERE TOMMY COMES OUT ON TOP--AGAIN

Right, let's set the scene before we do the dialogue. Belfast on a wet Monday morning. Flecks of soot mingle with the falling rain, a sense of-desolation, a sense of-hopelessness.
Small terraced houses huddle together in narrow,dirty streets. On a gable wall, someone has scrawled with chalk, probably a policeman or a priest, NO POPE, NO HOPE AND VERY LITTLE SOAP. In the misty morning gloom, the two big cranes, hold two industrial fingers up to the rest of the world. Off in the distance, the Cave Hill crouches like a sleeping prehistoric monster. Let it sleep or it will waken with a roar and destroy the city of Belfast, Titanic Town, built on shipbuilding, linen and soda bread.
I wonder is that enough scenery? No, let's introduce a typical Belfast Sammy, a hard wee man, a wee hard nut, a man who likes a pint on a Saturday and usually ends up in the gutter yelling, "Let me go, let me go and I'll beat the big head ofo him, so I will!"
Wee Sammy comes out of the newsagents with the Newsletter under his arm. His eyes are closed tight against the driving rain. He has a woodbine in his mouth and a flat cap on his head.
Does that sound all right? It's very formalistic. let's change it a bit to see if it reads any better.
Wee Sammy has a flat cap in his mouth and a woodbine on his head.
No-No, that doesn't work at all. It just makes me look stupid for writing it and you look even more stupid for reading it.Now the scene is set we will progress.
Inside my house, which I am reliably informed is made from bricks and mortar and not recycled cuckoo clocks as I had first thought, sat Tommy my cat and me. It was so comfy, the delph gleamed in the dresser, the budgie was cheerily whistling, "Here we go loopy-loo" and a big fire was roaring up the stairs. Tommy and I were reading. Tommy was reading, The Feline Art's Review and I was reading the Beano. I had my tongue between my teeth, well I think it was my tongue. I found it in my mouth and I was slowly following the adventures of Biffo the Bear, he with the red trousers, don't you know and all that malarkey.
"Tommy!" I whined, "Tommy, I've found a word I don't understand."
Tommy looked over his glasses and said, "What is it? I want to see how this ballet ends. It has gone into extra time and may be decided on a penalty shoot out."
"Tommy!" I whined, "Biffo has just said-Gosh. What does-Gosh mean Tommy?"
Tommy went, "Sacre Bleu!" and said, "Every time you come to the word-Gosh, just substitute,Be-Jeekers and talking about substitutes, one has just come on in the ballet, now leave me alone. I twiddled my toes, flexed my fingers, wiggled my ears and whined,
"Tommy, Biffo has just said, Be-Jeekers, what a super wheeze! What does super wheeze mean Tommy? "Gott in Himmel!" yelled Tommy, "Can I not get any peace to watch the ballet? Super wheeze means--that's some auld carry on". "Thank you Tommy," I said. "You're welcome," said Tommy. "I'm a wild nuisance, aren't I Tommy?" "It's all right," said Tommy. "I hate to bother you Tommy," I said,. "I know how fond you are of the ballet." "That's all right," said Tommy. "Just go back to your Beano now." "Tommy?" I said. "What is IT?" yelled Tommy. "I'm just going to go back to my Beano now Tommy and I'll not bother you no more, no, no more, not ever again."
I picked up the Beano and slowly read what Biffo said, "Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on."
As the humour of the humour hit me, I gave a scream, fell on the floor and rolled about letting shriek after shriek out of me. I rolled to the foot of our stairs and back again. The tears were streaming down my face and I had a fare indication that I had peed myself.
"Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on. How do them boys in Dundee think of them?"
Later, after tea and bikkies, Tommy looked at me and said, "What did you think of the Gerry show this week?" "Great!" I yelled, "Fantastic, over the moon, in the annals of great shows, that show must easily be, in the first five hundred".
"I'm worried, gravely worried about Mr Coyle." said Tommy. "His pauses are getting longer, bordering on Pinteresque." "What would do that Tommy?" I said, "Is the lad going do-lally?"
"Of course not." said Tommy, "It's all to do with the brain. The brain is a hive of electricity. When you want to speak, a nerve end in the brain causes a spark and that tells your mouth to speak."
"Mr Coyle must have a short circuit!" I yelled. "Maybe he washed his hair and water got into his brain." "I think not." said Tommy. "The brain is a very complicated piece of kit. It governs all our movements. I will prove it to you now. I want your brain to send a message to your right leg to jump up in the air". "Be-jeekers, that's some auld carry on!" I yelled. "What do you want me to do?" "Just tell your brain to make your right leg jump up in the air." said Tommy. "I am," I yelled, "but nothing is happening. What's wrong with me Tommy? have I got-Coyleitis?"
Tommy made no reply, he just walked away mumbling, "How can you command something that isn't there?" Tommy and I stayed up very late playing the Peace In The Middle East game. It was after twelve when Tommy threw a 19 and got control of the Gaza Strip. Oh it was late and oh we were tired! I stood at the open door as Tommy left the empty milk bottles out. Suddenly, my right foot shot up in the air, giving Tommy a riser that send him flying into the bed of lupins.
"Tommy!" I yelled, "Tommy, my brain is working, my brain is working!"
Tommy's reply, was short, curt and worthy of Gordon Ramsey, the effing cook.
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