TOMMY MY CAT IS FELINE FINE

"Cut me down Tommy," I yelled to Tommy the cat, "Cut me down!""Keep your drawers on!" yelled Tommy, as he flicked frantically through the Argos catalogue looking for a Swiss Army knife. When Tommy found a picture of a Swiss Army knife, he cut carefully around it with a small brass chainsaw, and then used the Swiss Army knife to cut through the rope that kept me suspended from the ceiling. As the last fibre parted, I yelled, "GERONIMO!" and hurtled towards the floor, with my face out in front of me, so I wouldn't hurt my hands. I tell you my friends, no matter what they say in the house of Lords, floors are not getting any softer. When I hit the floor with a THUD, my old paratrooper training kicked in and I bent my knees before I passed out. Tommy brought me round by pulling my hair and sprinkling two litres of cranberry juice over my feet. When I was as right as I'm ever likely to be, Tommy looked at me and said, "It's not as easy as it looks, is it?" I concurred with Tommy by saying, "No, it's not," and looked up at the hook in the ceiling. For three months I had swung from that hook, wearing nothing but green ankle socks and a strait-jacket. Tommy had bound me with chains and ropes and then hired four Egyptian dwarfs to hoist me up to the hook in the ceiling. I was trying to emulate my hero Houdini. Harry Houdini was an escapologist. He could escape from anything, except the horrible christian name his mother gave him. For three long months I had swung from that hook, kicking and flinging, flinging and kicking, trying desperately to escape from the ropes, the chains and finally-the strait-jacket. Three long months, trying everything, anything to escape my confinement and baffle Tommy my cat with my skill as a escapologist. But alas, it was not to be. No amount of kicking or flinging could loosen the ropes, chains or straight-jacket that bound me. I don't know how Houdini did it, but it was certainly not by kicking and flinging. "There must be a knack to it!" I yelled, looking hard at the key in the front door, "but what ever the knack is, only Houdini knows and he can't tell us now, because he is-dead. Ah, Harry, Harry, you got into one box too many!"Tommy looked at me with concern and said, "Three months hanging from a hook in the ceiling? Eeh, I don't know. You must be fair done in. Sit down and I'll make you a nice bit of toad in the hole. You like toad in the hole don't you? I know you like toad, so if I put toad in a hole, you'll like it even more, won't you?" I leapt to my feet, both of them and yelled, "I am neither hungry or thirsty. During the three months that I hung from that ceiling, like a 40 watt bulb, I existed on-will power, I ate and drank-will power.". "Eeh," said Tommy, "poor wee Will Power and him such a nice lad, what will I tell his mum?" "Tell her to--tell her to-eat cake!" I yelled with a dramatic flourish, that sent my beret flying from my head and my drawers falling around my ankles. After order had been restored, Tommy sidled over to me and whispered, "Look, after three months hanging from a hook from the ceiling, you must at least want a-pee, shall I go and fetch the...
"HALT!" I cried, "Do you not know that times are bad, banks are closing, the pound in your pocket, isn't even in your pocket any more. All over the country, people are going, "Ooh!" as belts are being tightened and galluses hitched higher and higher. The worst financial disaster in living memory and you have the gall to stand there and ask me if I want a-pee? It would be the height of irresponsibility and fiscal madness for you to go and open a tin, so that I could have one-pea." "I'm sorry," said Tommy. "So you should be," I thundered. "I won't do it again," muttered Tommy. "See that you don't" I yelled, "And another thing, in a climate such as this, you have to, think on.". "I am, thinking on," muttered Tommy. "It doesn't look like it to me," I yelled, "Let me see your face." Tommy came closer and stuck out his face. "That doesn't look like a face that is-thinking on," I cried. "Well, I am," said Tommy, "I'm thinking on." "Well, continue thinking on," I said, "and when you've done that, think on some more." "I will," said Tommy, "I promise to-think on." So we left it at that, then we joined hands and danced the Mason's apron to the sound of a threshing machine going past the house. Irish culture? You couldn't beat it with a big stick. Next morning it was all forgotten and Tommy and I spent a lovely time looking over the roof spouting, pretending to be two big clumps of grass. As I looked down the street, I saw a lot of people were doing the same. To those who say that little Ulster is finished, I say, "Have you not seen the number of people who peer over roof spoutings pretending to be big clumps of grass? With people like that, Ulster will never be finished. So, think on!"
After three hours with a Dyson, I had the crumbs in the pleats of Steven Nolan's massive fork all hoovered up. I lay in the long grass and nettles, gazing up at my Phoenician Adonis. What a sight, as he stood there, silhouetted against the Belfast sky with the two giant cranes. The Tubby one, flicked back a wisp of hair and sank his BBC gnashers into a suckling pig on a stick. What poise, what grace, what-beauty. I grabbed him by his chubby ankles and cried,
"THE BOY STOOD IN THE TAKE-A-WAY
TEARS RUNNING FROM HIS EYES
HE HAD JUST BEEN TOLD, TO HIS CHAGRIN
STEVEN NOLAN, ATE ALL THE PIES."
The sun sank in the West, and Tubby just stood there, mean, moody, magnificent and-FAT!
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