FATWAHS,FAT BOYS, AND CONVERSATIONS WITH CATS

I was crouched in a darkened corner of my living room, I had my knees above my head. Every time I rubbed my knees together, I let little-chirps out of me. I was of course pretending to be a cricket. As my high pitched-chirps reverberated round the room a tear came to my eye as I remembered the late, great Buddy Holly. What a sad loss Buddy was to the cricket community. No cricket worth his salt will ever forget Buddy Holly and his stuttering, stammering, "Oh Boy." Buddy Holly did more for crickets than Sting ever did for the PSNI or Cliff Richard ever did for shadows. I sighed, sobbed, rubbed my knees together again and emitted a sad, forlorn, melancholy-chirp. My golly it was a melancholy-chirp.
I was just considering selling my honour and buying a melodian when I heard the scrape of a key in the lock of the front door. I scuttled behind a pale blue pouffeeand peeped over the pouffee by raising my eyes higher than the pouffee. The door opened on two hinges--I didn't know it could do that! I always left and came in by climbing up the chimney and down a rope ladder made from-rope. It was Tommy my cat. I watched as Tommy took off his little camel hair coat and hung it up carefully on a coat hook. What a prissy little pussy he is. Why could he not just throw the coat on the floor and walk over it? Tommy adjusted his little grey cardigan with the one pocket in the front, gave a little-prissy cough and sat down in an armchair to read the morning papers. I leaped up from behind the pouffee and yelled, "BOO!"Tommy never flinched, he just sat there and said, "Boo-Who?". I yelled, "Boo-Who! I'm sad because Buddy Holly is dead." Tommy looked at me over the paper and drawled, "That's not much of a Knock-Knock is it? It's not funny, it makes no sense and you ruined the timing. If I were you I would not give up the day job and Belfast does need a village idiot."Was that an insult or praise? Being stupid I had no way of knowing. I spun round like Wonder Woman to get my brain in gear and said. "Tommy, what's the headline in today's paper?" "The same as it has been for the last 50 years," said Tommy, holding up the paper with a banner headline that screamed. "ULSTER AT THE CROSSROADS!" "Still at the crossroads," I said. "When are we going to move on? When are we going to put our differences behind us? When are we going to spill our sweat and not our blood? When are we going to stop eating flags? And when are we going to help the old age pensioners and lift that stupid ban about, No Zimmer Frames On The Motorway?
Suddenly Tommy gave an effete, feline chuckle and cried, "Listen to this. "Fatwa Taken Out On Fat Boy Nolan.""In the name of all that's holey, torn and shredded," I yelled. "Read the article Tommy, read the article." "Late last night," read Tommy, "A fatwa was issued on one of Ulster's best known and hated radio presenters-Tubby Nolan. Speaking from a very thin house on the Malone Road, the Grand Thinee of Weight Watchers, Mr Orvile McDoodle said, "As from midnight tonight, all members of Weight Watchers are honour bound to rid the world of the biggest glutton that ever lumbered on two feet, Steven "Tubby" Nolan. We are sick sore and tired of Tubby thumbing his nose at us, with a cake in one hand and a fish supper in the other. In my capacity as the Grand Thin'ee of Weight Watchers, I have therefore issued a Fatwa on Tubby Nolan for persistent gloating, gobbling, munching, crunching, slabbering, babbling and I accuse Mr Steven "Tubby" Nolan of grand gluttony on a scale not seen since the good ship S.S. Moderation, carrying 500 vegetarians was washed up on a cannibal island just off the port of Cork. My dear wife Winnie should be standing with me tonight, but unfortunately, dear Winnie slipped down between a crack in the floor boards in our bed room. Even as I speak, the pest control officers are trying to get Winnie out by using metal coat hangers and dangling little pieces of sausage on the end of a stick. To all members of Weight Watchers I say, "The dragon of gluttony must be slain and to Tubby Nolan I say, remember the words of Brutus in the Senate when he stood up, pulled down his toga and screamed, Julius Caesar, do you here me? We're gonna hunt you down and smoke you out!"
Tommy looked at me with a trembling lip he found in a packet of Cornflakes and whispered, "Old jelly belly is in for it this time.". "Yes," I said. "The very name--Weight Watchers fills the stoutest heart with fear. Weight Watchers are worse than the Mafia, worse than Al Qaeda and nearly as bad as the Legion of Mary and you can't keep them out. They are so thin they can slither in of the least crack.""Poor old Tubby," said Tommy, "I wonder where he's hiding his obese body tonight?" "There is no hiding from,--Weight Watchers," I yelled. "They have spies everywhere."
Suddenly, there was a fierce pounding at the door, "Help me!" yelled a fat voice. "Help me, it's your little friend-Tubby, for God's sake let me in!"Tommy ran to switch off the light. We lay there in the darkness, listening to the frantic pounding of the Goodyear Blimp. Then, we heard his large shoes clump away, followed by the sinister pitter-patter of thin shoes, that could only belong to--Weight Watchers. Soon, they would be all over him, like ants on a big, fat grub. What a way to go-and he still has so little to give.

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