Tommy Has One Too Many

Great show on Wednesday Kid. That's three in a row, things are fairly rattling along. Do you ever feel that maybe things are going too well? Do you ever feel, as the song says, "There may be trouble ahead?" Mr Coyle could throw a wobbly, a wobbly so perverse and disgusting, that all other wobblies would be put in the shade. Watch him Kid, watch that giggling man who sits behind the glass. Is he planning some horrid Pol Pot plans with the girls. He has them eating out of his hand. That's why Emma said it was very important to wash the webbed V between thumb and index finger. Be aware Kid, be aware of Mr Coyle and his inexhaustible supply of--wobblies!

Tommy, my cat, came home very drunk. He lay against the door jamb with a stupid smile on his feline face and slurred, "Hic, there she is! There's the bestest wee woman in the world." Go to your bed Tommy," I said "You're drunk." "No," slurred Tommy. "No, not-hic-drunk, but I have drink taken." "Go to your bed now Tommy," I said, "You'll have a hangover in the morning." "She speaks!" yelled Tommy with a flourish, "The angel in human form speaks. Listen" said Tommy. "Come here, I love you, I do, I love you, what would I be without you? You are the wind beneath my wings and the-hic, the, the furnace in my boiler." "Go to bed," Tommy I said, "Before you fall down." "I shall go to bed!" said Tommy with a yell, "But before I do, I must put in on record, that I, Tommy cat, love you, woman with cat with all my heart and with all my soul"
Next morning Tommy staggered down the stairs as white as a ghost. I said nothing. Tommy lowered himself on to a gooseberry green bean bag and croaked, "Did I--ah--say anything last night?"

I gazed at the feline wretch and replied, "No, you just came in and went straight to bed." "Good," muttered Tommy. "Now listen, you ugly old rat bag, keep your big yapper shut today, because I have a tarra headache."
All this and more have I seen, as Lynda Byrons put my arm up my back and marched me out of her bedroom. I was only in there to admire the woodchip wall paper!

Two pennies to rub together.

What a great show the Tuesday show was Kid and, coming so soon after the Monday show, one could be forgiven for getting the cock-a-many idea that you were trying to put the shows out in sequence! As if you would! Anyone who knows your wild child, rebel, cock a snook at the world attitude, would know that conformity is not a trait of Gerald Michael Anderson.

Tommy my cat and I listened to the show, peeping out of a giant bubbling saucepan. We were pretending to be two old boilers. After the show, I turned the radio off, by placing it behind the back wheel of a reversing juggernaut. I looked at Tommy the cat, who as luck would have it was looking at me and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle start the show with a long monologue about marrying for money?" "I did," said Tommy,"And I was disgusted, repulsed, outraged and filled with vile repugnance." "Not so fast young Thomas," I said. "Take my late daddy now." "Not in broad day light," said Tommy. "I'll creep down to the cemetery later tonight and dig him up." "NO!" I yelled, "Take my late daddy as a model. My late daddy!" I sobbed, with eyes in my tears. "My late daddy never had two pennies to rub together. Then he read a self help book called, "NIGH is the hour." That book changed his life. He ran out and got six jobs. Then two years later, my late daddy skipped into the house yelling, "Wife, children, gather round, at last I've go two pennies to rub together!" My late daddy, skipped-gaily over to a lime green bean bag and began to rub the two pennies together." "How happy he must have bean," said Tommy. "By sheer hard work and the fact that no buses had run over him, he could sit like a King in his castle and rub two pennies together. Did your late daddy have a big smile on his face?" said Tommy. "Did he? I bet he had, Did your late daddy have a big self satisfied smile on his face, when he rubbed the two pennies together?" "Not really," I replied. "The friction caused by rubbing the two pennies together, caused a spark, setting fire to the lime green bean bag and before you could say, "Silly old sod!" the house had burned to the ground."

"Bummer!" said Tommy. "Tell me about it," I said, "And we were only insured for elephant stampedes or external damage done by frivolous fairyies."

"Double bummer!" said Tommy, "and add three!"

All this and more have I seen from behind the creaking, groaning waistband of Tubby Nolan's Kelvin Klein's.

All Songs Are Lies.

What a great Monday show Kid. Tommy my cat and I listened to the show sitting on the sofa with pliers, hammers, knives knuckle-dusters and an electric drill. We were pretending to be the Kray brothers, but we only ever hurt each other. Tommy is a diamond geezer, a diamond geezer, you won't find a better cat in the East End of West Belfast. When the woman came on looking for a bath to put flowers in, Tommy and I looked at each other and yelled-in unison, "YOU-REEK-AH!" So today Kid I want you to find me an old toilet that no one is sitting on. I plan to put the toilet in the garden and fill it to over-flowing with sweet peas. On a more serious note, Tommy and I were sorry to hear that you were--heckled in Omagh. Tommy looked at me and said, "Was this a consensual--heckling?" I shook my head. Tommy drummed his fingers on the small Costa-Rica dwarf we keep by the fire and said. "This is bad. Who knows what will come from this? What did the pretty little girl from Omagh have to say about it?" "Not a lot," I said. "She was looking for her false teeth. She's 94 you know and walks with the aid of a zimmer frame." Tommy yelled, "But Brian Coll said..." "Brian Coll my Aunt Eugene!" I yelled. "It was lies, nothing but lies. All songs are-lies! No one ever took Kathleen home, Maud never set foot in the garden and Chuck Berry never yelled, "Nadine, it that you?" because Nadine Coyle was not even born at the time." "Hey," yelled Tommy, "This is bigger that Watergate, or Steven Nolan." "And there's more!" I yelled. "I was talking to Jennie, light brown hair my Londonderry air, she's as bald as a coot. She got a bad dose of mange from a Doberman Pincher called Rasputin the second." Tommy's lip began to tremble and he whispered, "And--Rhonda?" "Rhonda never needed any help!" I yelled. "Rhonda is 24 stone, arms like a navvy, built like a brick lighthouse and works as a bouncer for Janet Summers." "We wuz sold a bill of goods," said Tommy "We cert-ainly were," I replied. "We wuz took to the cleaners," said Tommy "We cert-ainly were," I said. "We wuz led up the garden path," said Tommy. "Listen Tommy cat!" I exploded, "There's no need to labour the point." "You swine!" roared Tommy. "How dare you bring politics into a friendly argument." Tommy and I ran to the sofa, picked up the pliers, the hammer, the knife, the knuckle-dusters and the Black and Decker drill and in true Kray brothers' tradition did some serious hurting. But, only to each other. Tommy's a diamond geezer, Tommy is my bruvver."

All this and more have I seen from behind the false, insincere smile of Jonathan Ross at the BAFTAS.

Tommy's Verdict On The Budget

I yelled, "Karamba!" and turned off the TV by throwing a brick through the screen. I walked over to the fire, put my legs, or was it my hands behind my back and said to Tommy the cat, "Well Tommy, that's another budget over, please give me your feline informed opinion." Tommy took off his eye shade, laid his calculator down and replied, "TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE." I stood there in amazement. Never had I heard a more decorous or debonair summing up of a budget from a cat. I breathed on my nose, polished it with a Brillo pad and said, "And what would you say is bonny wee Gordon Brown's greatest fault?" Tommy took a pinch of snuff from the eight stone bag in the corner of the room and said, "Mr Brown is reactive, but what he really should be is-proactive." "How so?" I said as I counted my feet, divided by two and found to my surprise that the answer was-one. "Mr Brown put up the price of drink," said Tommy, "but I say, too little, too late. The time to put up the price of drink, was on Saint Patrick's day, when the students in the Holy Lands, were lying in gardens like veritable newts. Mr Brown is a follower, not a leader," said Tommy, "He reminds me of the General in the French revolution, who, looking out of the window said, "There go my men, I must follow, because I am their leader." I cut my knuckle so I could pick at the scab and said, "Why are you so smart Tommy?" "I read a lot," said Tommy, "Keep my ear to the ground, my tail in the air and my money in the Post Office. I must go out," said Tommy, "To listen at eves, talk to strangers at street corners and meet Sore Throat in the under ground car park." When Tommy had gone I felt so-alone, so-unwanted. So I set fire to the house and soon was laughing and talking to a group of black-faced firemen. You've got to use your noodle in this life, but you can't use a noodle to set fire to a house. Oh no, that's where a match comes in handy. All this and more have I seen at Nolan Manor, where the cobble stones are made from pastry and the swimming pool is full of ice cream soda. When it comes to using the noodle, Steven Nolan is streets ahead of the common man.

Judgement Day

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It was like a fried egg, with the sunny side up and we all got the yoke. Tommy my cat, was packing a small suitcase and singing "A policeman's lot is not an 'appy lot". |Tommy was pretending to be Sir Hugh Orde. Tommy looked at me and said "See that great show today, that great show would rank in the top five with other great shows I have heard".. Coming from Tommy, that is high praise indeed, Tommy could have been a critic, but he didn't have the Latin or the killer instinct. As Lynda Byrons flew past the window on a bicycle, wearing a bikini, followed by Paul Clarke, Frank Mitchell, Adrian Logue and Julian Symmons, similarly attired, I knew that the end of days was near. First, Sean Coyle had seen strange signs and wonders in the sky, Tubby Nolan had been seen break into a trot and now, the entire staff of UTV Live, were cycling round Belfast in bikinis. The day of judgement was upon us. Tommy and I grabbed our cloaks and staffs and headed for the Black Mountain, to get a good view of the fire and brimstone. "THE END IS--NIGH!" I yelled to Jim Rodgers, as he came round a round-a-bout on a maroon Raleigh bicycle, wearing an itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow polka dot bikini. "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim, "Avert your eyes from the elected official's seals of office." Suddenly, something huge and nude appeared. It was Steven "Tubby" Nolan, as naked as a promiscuous jay bird. "Hey Lard Boy!" I yelled, "Where is your judgement day bikini?" "Under my rolls of fat!" roared the chubby one. Want to feel?" "NO!" I yelled, "Lord Lucan could be hiding in there." Soon the Black Mountain was covered by the population of Belfast and surrounding districts, all wearing judgement day bikinis. As we waited for the end, James Galway, wearing a lovely silk bikini, whipped out his flute and began to play, "We Did It Our Way." Then the news filtered through, that the end was not-NIGH. It was a blink of sun that had driven the people mad and made them change into bikinis. Oh how we laughed, as little Angie the weather girl was chased out of town, leaving a trail of cloud symbols and spits and spots. To see some people in a bikini is a delight, to see others in a bikini, is a prelude to much boking. Nolan tramped back to town like a Sumo wrestler muttering, "If this gets back to Radio 5, what will they think of--STEVE?" All this and more have I seen from a dainty dimple on the right buttock of Madam-X--YES, she was there too!.