TOMMY THE CAT USES "MY" LITTER TRAY!

In the run down, condemned hovel I call-home, Christmas was in the air. A Festive extravaganza of coloured crepe paper, bells, bows and tinsel hung from the sagging ceiling. A big Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with twinkling lights and dangling condoms. I had some job getting the fairy up on top of the tree. He said,he had places to go to and people to see, but I slipped some Temazepan into his eggnog and he soon became pliable and less obstreperous. I love everything about Christmas. Santa Claus creeping into your home, followed two months later by the bailiffs. The feeling of-goodwill in the air, "Let go of that teddybear you tube, I saw it first". Carol singers, drunk drivers blowing into tubes, the little children-so excited, parcelling up stones in festive paper, before they throw them at the corners. The magic feeling of hope on Christmas day, the heavy feeling of constipation on Boxing day. But the thing I really love about Christmas is-Santa! Ah, dear old Santa Claus, the white beard, the red rosy cheeks and the massive expanse of red cloth, covering his ding-dong, merrily on high. When I was young, about 27 or 28, some naughty children told me there was NO Santa Claus!, they said it was my daddy.
But I proved them wrong, on Christmas Eve night, I crept softly into my parents' room and nailed both of them to the bed, with six inch nails. And Santa still came to me! On Christmas day I got a ride in a police car and a lovely assessment from the chief cook and bottle washer at the loony bin. No Santa? Kiss my ass, that's what I say! You tell me there's no-Santa, I tell you, "Go kiss my black ass-fool!"
I was softly humming--I really must get a bar of Lifebuoy soap, when Tommy my cat came in with a balloon tied to his feline tail. I looked at Tommy with love in my eyes and fleas in my drawers and said, "Well Tommy, old son, Christmas is coming." Tommy flashed a big, wide smile like Christine Blakely and cried, "And the goose is getting fat." In the awful, terrible silence that followed, you could have heard a jumbo jet crash through the roof. I said-nothing. I grabbed Tommy by the arm, led him outside, out the Lisburn road for seven miles,turned down a narrow, winding lane and stopped under a rare Atlantis fig tree. Under the spreading fig tree, I looked all around and whispered, "Tommy, this is for your own good. The reason I have asked you to meet me here tonight is--well, it's embarrassing, but it's for your own good. I looked all around again, lowered my voice and whispered, "Earlier tonight, I said to you, "Christmas is-coming" and what did you reply?" Poor Tommy, shook, trembled and shivered and whispered, "I don't remember.""Well, let me refresh your memory," I whispered. "When I said-to you, "Christmas is coming, you replied-and I quote, "And the goose is getting fat." "What's wrong with that?" whispered Tommy, "Lot's of people say, "And the goose is getting fat." "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I whispered, "It's such old hat, it's out of fashion. How can you sparkle and be the life and soul at cocktail parties with out of date sayings like, "And the goose is getting fat?""I had no idea," stammered Tommy. "Oh my God, all my fly comebacks are out of date. I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry." "Easy lad," I said, patting his furry head. "It's not a putting down offence--THIS TIME, but you really must work on your add-libs and fly answers.""I will," spluttered Tommy, "I will, I swear I will." "Good boy," I said, "Now let's go home, have a nice cup of Oxo gravy and never talk about this again." As we walked up the long, winding lane, Tommy looked at me and said, "What would you say, if I said to you, Christmas is coming?" Quick as a flash, I replied, "I know, I see the Easter eggs are in the shops." Tommy looked at me with-awe, in fact he said, "I can't help it, I'm looking at you, with-awe." Just then, and not a minute before or after, Jim Rodgers leaped out from behind a whin bush screaming, "Nigh-Nigh-NIGH! Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat""Tommy and I grabbed Jim and headed back towards the fig tree. At half past two in the morning, I had 97 people swarming round the fig tree, as I tried to drill into their thick skulls, that in today's modern world, the fly answers of our fathers and grandfathers, just won't do. Poor, poor Jim Rodgers, the best he could come up with was, "Christmas is coming--I know-Hi, It's coming-NIGH, so it is." How did that man ever become Lord Mayor? He must know wild high up people-NIGH!
And with that I return you to the studio, where Mark Carruthers, has stripped down to his red socks, for Slappers In Need Night.
Get Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at all Eason shops and below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to find out what Rosie is stuffing for Christmas, go to.
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Oh, if you're passing my little house at Christmas, just keep on going!