THE MYSTERY OF TOMMY THE MYSTICAL CAT

At the first cheep of a hungry scaldie, I leapt out of bed yelling, "Morning has broken, time to stop boaking". I gave Henry the vacuum cleaner a map of the floor and told him to get on with it. As Henry's little motor burst into life, I yelled, "By the sacred simmet of Nigel Dodds!" and leapt out of the way, as little Henry set off, with his rubber hose slithering round the floor like a python. I pulled the blinds by yanking them from their rings and found myself face to face with the rising sun. "Shine on!" I yelled. "Shine on, you spinning orb. Shine on you, crazy diamond. Send down your light on we Paddies as you did on the Egyptians, the Mayan's, the Aztecs and old Hughie McPooter, who had his chronic piles cured by your healing warmth!
The sun responded by sending down a beam of radiation which removed the ugly wart from the end of my nose. I grabbed a torch and tried to communicate with the sun by Morse code. The great shining disc told me it was fed up being the sun. It said it would rather be the moon. No one every wrote songs or poems about the sun. It also said that people behaved themselves in the daylight. It was at night, when the moon shone down, that people got up to all sorts of sexual shenanigans and hankie-pankie. The sun asked me what I wanted out of life. I clicked my torch and told the sun that I wanted to bring world peace, help little children and jump naked out of a cake at a DUP convention. The sun wished me well and said it had to go and get Steven "Tubby" Nolan out of his pit. "Imagine!" I said to the coal shovel. "Me!, talking to the sun. Me!, who always thought the eleven plus should be called-twelve." As I swaggered past a large mirror on the wall, which someone must have hung there as it could not get up there itself, I saw my reflection and shrieked, "GERONIMO!" I looked like a red Indian. The crafty knave of a sun, had engaged me in conversation and cruelly and craftily had burned the whole face of me. "You give your affection to easily," I muttered, as I sank my burning visage in a five gallon drum of Wall's vanilla ice cream, which just happened to be sitting between my tuba and a life size cutout of Ossian the legendary Gaelic poet, who had written the ancient saga, "Tadpoles In My Buttermilk."
By now it was time to get Tommy my cat out of bed. This was soon accomplished by hurling five live hand grenades into the feline's room. "Did you have to do that?" yelled Tommy. "Could you not just knock on the door, like most ugly, smelly old bags do?" "Listen Kid," I said, "I didn't get where I am today by knocking at doors. I got where I am today my hurling hand grenades and wearing my drawers back to front every Tuesday." There was no answer to that, so Tommy kept silent. By now it was pretend time so for the next hour and thirty seven and a quarter minutes, Tommy and I lay panting on the floor, with our tongues out, pretending to be two huskies in the Sahara desert who had taken a wrong turn!
Lunch was a simple buffet. I lured the simple buffet into the house, by telling it I had sweets for it, hit it over the head with a bronze bust of Manfred Man and popped it into the micro wave.
As I dozed in my bean bag, sleeping off the simple buffet, Tommy ran in yelling, "Horrible accident. Horrible accident, out in the street! Come on!". I slipped into a mauve strait-jacket and ran out the door. "WHERE?" I yelled. "Where is the horrible accident?" "There!" yelled Tommy, as he pushed me under a bus. With the help of that lovely man, Will Power, I got to my feet, counted my broken bones, added seven, divided by the number I first thought of and said to Tommy. "Tommy, you're a psychic! You said a horrible accident would happen in the street and it-did!" "It's a gift," said Tommy. "My granny could foretell the future. One day she said, "I see great danger in maternal excessive self-esteem." And Granny was right," said Tommy, "Later that day, she was run over by a Mother's Pride lorry." "Tommy!" I yelled, grabbing him by the lapels of his trousers. "With your psychic gift, we can make a mint. We will tour the country. I can see it now, PSYCHIC TOMMY THE MYSTIC MEG OF THE FELINE WORLD. We'll be rich!" Tommy I yelled, "Rich!, I tell you". Tommy kicked a stone, spat in the gutter and said "Nah!" "Why not Tommy?" I shrieked "Why not?" "I have looked into the future," said Tommy "And it is not written in the stars." "Bummer!" I muttered, as I hobbled into the house. Later that night, as I lay in bed, I thought, "How did Tommy know I would have a horrible accident out in the street?" As I slowly climbed out of bed to consult the po, I got a funny feeling that it would pour all day tomorrow. Psychic or psycho? I leave it up to you.

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