TOMMY THE CAT,WHAT A LITTLE BELTER

I looked at Tommy my cat, sitting on an exercise bicycle in the middle of the room. He was wearing a yellow jersey with, "Tour De France" written on the back and black lycra pants.
Tommy was peddling furiously with his little furry legs, and was bent over the handlebars, staring straight ahead through a pair of dark shades. I watched with love in my eyes and wax in my ears, as Tommy indicated right and turned into some imaginary French street in his little feline brain. Ah, there he was, my little Tommy, my "raison d'etre", my life long friend, my little feline chum. Who brought me tea in bed? little Tommy!. Who left out clean knickers for me every morning? little Tommy! Who gave me first chance to catch a scurrying mouse? Yes, little-Tommy. There is nothing I wouldn't do for little Tommy. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, walk over broken glass,--NO, but I would do other things for little Tommy, such as, tying a tin can to his tail, so he could go faster when I send him to the corner shop for lollipops and buckets for diggers. I felt a tear enter my eye, I tore its ticket in half, got my torch and showed it to a seat. I began to-whimper, I gathered the whimpers in a bowl and put them in the fridge, they go very well with new potatoes and ice cream. I looked at Tommy, still peddling furiously and yelling, "Monsieur, how far to the, how you say? slash house?"
With no one to talk with, I found myself at a loose end. I looked at the clock, the clock stared back with it's big, round white face. I tried to out stare the clock, but after two minutes, my face got red and I averted my eyes. Damn that clock, with it's big white face, it had won again, but someday I will out stare the time-piece and make IT turn away first. I sat on a hard chair and pretended to be First Minister Peter Robinson. I spat venom from between my teeth and yelled, "NO, Mr Mc Guinness, you can not take the police home with you and play with them." "Jeffery, come in here you lackey and clean the dog muck off my shoes". "Iris-Iris, my little dumpling, wear the red dress tonight and I'll have roast duck, bamboo shoots and the raw heads from two herring, but none of them carrots that grow into obscene shapes, I find them an Abomination! Ester Ranzen, the buck-toothed Shinner may find them funny, but I-DON'T!" Then I got up, gave myself a pay raise and went to my bed for a nap.
As I skipped around Belfast, dressed as, the lady with the lamp, old Maggie Titanic from No 7 Rodent Street, who has just got her electricity cut off, I gazed in wonder at the gaggle of black Goths hanging round the city hall. "Greetings little Gothics" I yelled, "Why the long faces?"
A young man approached me, by walking towards me, he was dressed all in black, the only splash of colour was his green teeth. "Hi dude" he moaned, "What's the use man? we're all going to die anyway." "Come, come," I cried. "Where? where?" said the little Gothie. I sat the little Goth on my knee and began to croon.
"Climb up on my knee, wee black man
Think of a Christmas tree and hold my hand
When there are grey skies, get drunk and eat pies
You should be out joy riding,-black man
Friends may forsake you, never mind, sniff glue
But I still love you, wee, black-man".
The little Goth jumped of my knee and yelled, "I'm cured, I'm cured, I feel so-HAPPY!
The last I saw of him, he was skipping down the street, wearing a rainbow suit and singing.
"The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip- hip hooray
I'm going home to mammy for a lovely cup of tay".
"Well, well, well, has it come to this?" said a voice. "I know that smell," I cried and spun round to behold the massive face and figure of-Steven Nolan. "Push off Tubby," I yelled. "Do you not see I am about my granny's business, converting-Goths?" Suddenly, the fat boy fell to his chubby knees and roared. "I am a sinner, a dirty, low down sinner, I have sinned against pies by thought, word and deed. Convert me, I want to be--born again!" "It's going to take some pair of forceps" I muttered. "Come with me my son" I said. "Come with me to the holy river Lagan and I will baptise you" "Will I have to strip off?" said Tubby, fumbling with the mighty zip on the fork of his trousers. "No, No" I said "we don't want to frighten the fish". And low, it came to pass. I led the Tubby one to the river and verily did nearly drown him. But now, everyone is blaming ME for the giant tsunami that flooded most of Belfast! It's not easy doing the Lord's work. You make a lot of enemies. I get hate mail from Nelson Mandela AND the Samaritans!
But as I watched Tubby lumbering off rejoicing, with gallons of water spewing from the gigantic fork on his trousers, I knew, I had at last, found my vocation. From now on, you will find me at the side of the Lagan, plunging fat men into the water, giving them a holy riser with my toe and crying, "Go now, and eat no more!"
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson for Christmas? Go to any Eason book store or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie is up too, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
There will be a mass baptism of Tubbies at the Lagan on Saturday. Everyone welcome. A silent collection in plastic buckets will be taken up later. Give generously, 5% of the collection goes towards the conversion of Tubbies! 'Tis the Lord's work I do.