CATTY REMARKS FROM A CRUEL CRAFTY-CAT

I looked at Tommy my cat, there he sat, the GREAT Tommy, eating larks' tongues and ice cream with an Edwardian silver spoon. Oh how I hated him, sitting there, with his wee furry paws, yellow slitted eyes and long curled tail. Little Lord Tommy, not a care in the world. He never did any work around the house. He never brought in coal or took out the ashes, apart from the time he threw my granny's urn into the dustbin. I had to dig through a mountain of rubbish at Belfast dump to get her again, and by the time I got there, the rats had made off with one of her legs. I felt my gorge rise. I got a shoehorn and pushed it back down again, giving myself a good dunt in the gizzard as I did so. I watched with mounting anger as Tommy picked up a glass of red wine, took a sip and said, "Aah, the fruit of the vine, simply-divine." I was shaking all over, with pent up anger. Blood was throbbing in my temples and my toes were curling and uncurling in my vivid pink Ugg boots. I could stand it no more. I put my brain into gear, pressed my foot on the pedal and roared.
"Tommy?"
"Yes, old girl?" said Tommy.
Did you hear that? The filthy feline said, "Yes, old girl?" What kind of cat goes round saying, "Yes, old girl?"
"Tommy," I said, "I hate you."
"I detest you," replied Tommy.
"I loath you," I yelled.
"I despise you," said Tommy.
"I dislike you," I roared.
"I execrate you," said Tommy.
" I-ah-I-ah-I contempt you," I yelled.
"No, no, old girl." said Tommy "It really won't do at tall, You have run out of verbs, leaving me the winner. If you want verbs, run up to my room and you will find a big cardboard box of verbs under my bed."
"Damn you, Tommy cat," I roared ,"You have beaten me again, but someday, someday, I will shove verbs down your throat until you end up as fat as Steven Nolan." Tommy just sniggered, picked up his banjo and began to play, "My Dixie Darling."
Next morning I got up with the crow, poured some liquid dog faeces into all four of Tommy's socks and set off round Belfast, dressed as John Daly's bald head. As I rounded a corner on one Ugg boot, who did I run into but little Hugo Duncan. The wee man from Strabane was bopping along singing, "Oh Lord, but it's hard to be humble, when you fall on your ass from a tumble." I put the warbling out of the wee man. I grabbed him by the throat, shoved him up against a wall and growled. "Listen punk, I ain't got a lot of time-see? I just want the facts-see?" "See-see," gasped Hugo ,"What do you want to know?" "I want the answer to one question," I hissed. Hugo leaped back, but too late, his little Ugg boots were splattered. "Listen Punk," I said, "and listen good, just who was Martha the flower of sweet Strabane?" A look of fear appeared on Uncle Hugo's face. His new gnashers began to tremble. The little man looked all around and whispered "All right, I'll tell you, but you didn't hear it from me-right?" "Spit it out punk,"I growled, "and it better be good."
"What I'm about to tell you," whispered Hugo, "is a secret that Strabane has kept for many, many years. Strabane has a name as a tough town, a lot of hard men live there, and if this secret got out, it would make Strabane a laughing stock. The truth is--and remember you didn't hear this from me, the truth is, Martha the flower of sweet Strabane was a--MAN!"
"Get away," I yelled.
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
The petite Hugo looked all around and whispered, "Martha was really--Willie John McGarrigle, Strabane's first--transsexual!"
"Get away!" I yelled
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
"No wonder the citizens of Strabane want to keep that a secret" I said.
"You're not wrong," said Hugo, "but it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Wonder about what?" I said.
"Mary from Dungloe" said Hugo. "The pretty little girl from Omagh, Eileen, the girl who was taken home, Molly Malone, the pride of the old county Down, Kathleen, Kitty, and Maude, who was taken into the garden".
"You don't mean?" I shrieked.
"If I let you into a little secret," said Hugo, "Do you promise to keep it to yourself?"
"Sure Hugo, sure Hugo, sure, sure, sure," I yelled.
"All-MEN." said Hugo. "Every song in Ireland that is written about a woman--all transsexuals, transsexuals to a-man!"
"In the name of the ragged beard of David Ford," I yelled. "So no woman in Ireland, has ever had a song written about her?"
"Not one." said Hugo. "All the famous Irish love songs, were written about-MEN!"
"HUGO," I yelled grasping him by the toggles of his duffel coat. "We must remedy that! Someone must write a song about an Irish woman"
"But-WHO?" cried Hugo.
"YOU!" I yelled.
"ME?" said Hugo.
Yes-YOU!" I cried.
"But who, or indeed-Whom shall I write about?" screamed Hugo.
"Lynda Byrons!" I yelled. "I know for a fact that Lynda is a woman. I saw her reverse down a one way street."
"Lynda is a nice wee doat," agreed Hugo,"but no words rhyme with Lynda-or-Byrons."
"There must be someone." I yelled ."All famous Irish songs can not be the sole property of-transsexuals--not that I have anything against them."
Hugo clapped his little chubby hands and cried, "I know, Donna Trainor, I will write an Irish love song about-Donna Trainor."
"You wee cracker!" I yelled, planting a kiss on Hugo's chubby nose. "You wait here and I will run into this music shop for a quarter of, diddly-dees."
Hugo Duncan is no song-writer, four hours later, the best he could come up with was....

THE NICE WEE GIRL CALLED DONNA.

OH, BEAUTIFUL AND FAIR IS DONNA TRAINOR
MANY GIRLS ARE FAR MORE PLAINER
I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER SLENDER HAND
AND THANK THE LORD SHE AIN'T A-MAN.

I picked up my bag of diddly-dees and went home for supper, consisting of, home made bread, home made cheese and home make sausages. Don't ask about the sausages, believe me, you don't want to know!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to any Eason's or the guy below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And get Rosie's blog at. www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Wee Hugo never did finish the song, he was nicked by the police for busking and deported to-STRABANE!