Tommy's Views On Nolan

Tommy my cat and I were sitting on two plastic toadstools, eagerly waiting for another week of great shows. Tubby Nolan droned on and on to a man, who knew a man, who knew a woman, whose grandfather had played the accordion while the Titanic was being built. Tommy looked and me and spoke thus," I saw Tubby Nolan at the zoo at the weekend. He was intently watching the gannets being fed and taking notes on how he could get more into his mouth, without dribbling down the front of his blue shirt, that he bought from "Rent a tent." I threw another chocolate log on the electric fire and said, "Is there no end to the gluttony of Tubby Nolan? Why the man is a veritable swarm of locusts. He lays waste to everything edible that lies in his path." Tommy blew his nose into a b flat trumpet and said, "Tubby was in Portrush last week and when he left, Portrush was devoid of food, except for one stale pan loaf that had eluded Tubby by hiding under the bed.". "Tut, tut, and thrice times-tut!" I cried. "The gigantic, gibberish purver should be toppled and staked to the ground like Gulliver." Tommy looked at me in horror and said, "But he would have to eat. If lard boy was staked to the ground, who would feed him?" "That could be done by relays of ginger haired, Danish dwarfs," I said. "Every 27 minutes, they could pour a mixture of oaten meal, fish oil and Smarties into his gaping mouth.". "But you know what would happen then!" said Tommy. "People would complain that the ginger haired, Danish dwarfs were coming over here and taking our jobs!" "You're right Tommy," I said. "There's always a fly in the ointment." And I brought my fist down-hard on a big plate of ointment that had a fly in it.

Suddenly and without any warning or fore knowledge, a steam engine clanked past the house, pulling a gaggle of tin cans behind it. Tommy and I leapt to our feet, and with arms straight by our sides and wide bulging eyes, danced a frantic version of "The Irish Washer woman." As we danced we emitted a veritable litany of Hibernian yells, shrieks, gulders and screams. Ah, Irish music! Where would we be without it? Sometimes I think that's why God gave us feet, but Paul Clarke, the sole heir to the vast Clarke Shoes empire would probably disagree. As the sun set behind the gas works I said to Tommy "Thomas, I am going to take Henry the vacuum cleaner for his evening walk. How shall you spend the time while we are gone?" "I shall set up my drum kit," said Tommy, "and have a practice. I got a new Jean Kruppa tape and I can't wait to try it out." Little Henry the vacuum cleaner was pulling at his lead, he does love his walkies. As we closed the door, we heard Tommy tap one drumstick against the other and cry, "Ah, one, ah two, ah three, ah four." Henry looked at me and said "Are there many musical cats on this street?" "Not really," I said. "Most of them are into line dancing." "How curious!" said Henry, as he lifted his leg against a lamp post. I listened to the tune Tommy was playing. It was "Red Sails In The Sunset" a lovely tune, beautiful melody, without doubt, one of the best songs Phil Coulter didn't write. BOOM-BANG-A-BANG-went Tommy.

All this and more have I seen, from Tubby Nolan's jacket pocket, where a blackcurrant jam sandwich lies shaking with fear, waiting for the chubby hand to reach in and convey it to the hungry mouth.

No Love Lost

"TOMMY!" I shrieked to Tommy my cat, "What a brilliant show Gerry and Sean put on today!" "Smashing!" cried Tommy. "You would never think the two lads hated each other's guts. I was talking recently to Mickey Bradley," said Tommy, "at a flea market. He was buying and I was selling. And Mickey Bradley told me he has to search the two lads every morning before they go into the studio, to keep them from killing each other." "Can that be true?" I cried. "You know what a fibber Mickey Bradley is--He goes round Stroke City telling everyone he was in the Undertones." "Be that as it may," said Tommy, "But Mickey Bradley told me in the past six months, he has confiscated, guns, knives, small hatchets, stun grenades, darts, batons, Acme, anvils, pikes, dirks and catapults from the two amigos." "Gun powder and buttermilk!" I yelled. "What an example to set for the little hoodies, who are suffering terribly with BO during the warm weather." Tommy sprayed a tin of silence around the room. After it began to wear off Tommy said, "Where did that Somalian radio station go? You know the one that used to play country 'n' western music? The Somalians really dig Hugo Duncan and Pio McCann." "That station was shut down," I said. "The Somalian authorities found out that it was a pirate radio station." Tommy looked at me and said, "How many people in Northern Ireland will get that joke?" "Not many," I replied, "But they'll be rolling in the aisle in Cullybackey." "Ah, Cullybackey!" said Tommy, "A hot spot for slap-stick, satire and every niche and nuance of comedy." "Did you know Tommy?" I said, "That in the middle of the square in Cullybackey, there is a life size bronze statue of Billy Dainty. And underneath on the plinth it says, "FOR MAKING US LAUGH." "That must bring a lot of tourists to Cullybackey" said Tommy. "Not really," I replied. "You see the man who made the sculpture was visually challenged and the statue of Billy Dainty is the dead spit of--Mussolini!" "Crikey!" yelled Tommy, "Old Benito El Duce himself." "Got it in one, my fine feathered friend," I said. "And the tourists, especially the American tourists, think that Cullybackey is the last outpost of Fascism left in Europe." Tommy took up the stance of a statesman and said "Yes, say what you like about Mussolini, he made the trains run on time. There he was, every morning brushing leaves off the line with a brush. I wonder what happened to Mussolini?" said Tommy. "I'm not quite sure," I said. "The last I heard he was hanging round Rome at the end of the war." "You can't keep a good man down." said Tommy. "Poor Billy Dainty has passed on," I said. "There he was in his local pub, being his usual jovial self. "Lads" he yelled. "Lads, did you ever hear the one about the.......?" Then he gave a gurgle, shuddered all over and fell down dead." Tommy wiped a tear from his eye with a table tennis bat and said, "We shall never see Billy again." "No, we will not," I replied, "And we will never hear the cracker of a joke he was going to tell either."

All this and more have I seen in the green room of Hearts and Minds, where a shirt-sleeved Noel Thompson was cleaning the blood off the walls with undiluted Jeyes Fluid.

But none of the blood was John Hume's. John only spills his sweat. Sound man Johnnie!.

Tommy's no kitten

Great shows this week Kid. I don't know how you keep piling one great show on top of another, one would think that gravity would intervene. But you seem immune from gravity Kid AND from the Mexican swine flu, which always laughs before it strikes. "Ha-Ha-Ha senor, throw down the guns! Badges? I don't need your stinking badges! BANG, BANG, BANG." When cobra boy, Peter Robinson announced the shake-up in his press-sorry, his cabinet,Tommy my cat gave a WHOOP, clapped his hands and yelled, "Edwin Poots is back in government! Let the good times roll!" And before Sammy Wilson was out of his office, global warming was here with a vengeance. I was up at Stormont yesterday and the MLAs are going around in simmets with knotted hankerchiefs on their head! It looked like a Monty Python sketch, but the MLAs are much funnier. "TOMMY!" I yelled to Tommy my cat, "Get your one piece spandex suit on, you and I are going to the new night club, The Romanian Welcome, to throw some shapes, strut our stuff and boogie on down." Tommy looked at me over his John Lennon glasses and said, "I'm getting too old for such tom foolery. I shall just sit in my chair tonight, read another chapter of Lynda Byron's new book, "How to make friends with a chicken," have a cup of cocoa and toodle off to bed before nine o'clock." "You're no fun anymore Tommy cat!" I yelled. "I remember the time you were always first on the floor, dancing round your handbag!" Tommy looked at me and replied, "When I was a kitten, I thought like a kitten, I walked like a kitten, I chased balls of wool like a kitten, but now that I have grown to be a cat, I have put kittenish things behind me." "I don't understand you Tommy," I said."You speak as through a glass-darkly." "Perhaps I do," said Tommy, "But always remember this, 'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three. but the greatest of these is-charity' Now, go to the night club if you must, you old bag, for your voice is becoming as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal." I was livid. I was as livid as a wet hen, a problem by the way that Lynda Byrons covers in chapter nine. "You--you--cat you! I yelled. "How dare you sit there in a pair of blue dungarees and quote scripture at me? I too can quote scripture. Render on to Caesar!" I roared and I picked up Tommy's good Fiesta red simmet and rendered it into rags with my teeth.

All this and more have I seen in Sean Coyle's golf locker, where Hustler and the Messenger both abide in harmony. "And the lion shall lie down with the lamb."

Aliens

At twelve o'clock I turned off the radio by hitting it 69 times with a hammer, then I looked at Tommy my cat and said, "Well, my fine feathered friend, what did you think of the Gerry show today?" "Great! cried Tommy. "The show was fresh as a mountain stream, full of zest and brimful of energy."Suddenly, a cloud passed over my face and I said, "But there was something eerie about the show, something strange and peculiar." "And what would that be my old duck?" said Tommy. "The phones," I said. "None of the mobile phones were working." Tommy pursed his lips and muttered, "Oh dear." "Oh dear-what!" I yelled. "Come on, you know something, spit it out or I'll get Steven Nolan to sit on you." "I think you had better sit down," said Tommy, "while I tell you a story. Long, long ago," said Tommy, "Aliens landed in Northern Ireland." "Lor love a duck!" I cried. "YES!" cried Tommy. "Long, long ago, twelve aliens were left here, to observe the habits of the Northern Ireland man and woman. And yesterday!" cried Tommy, with a dramatic gesture, "The mother ship returned and picked them up again. Which explains why the mobile phones were not working. Even as we speak, the aliens are reporting on, marches, football, smoking, drinking and the great pleasure that is to be had, hanging round a street corner with the butt of a woodbine in your mouth." "Crikey!" I cried "Be-jeckers and now, now, now,how's about that then? Tommy!" I yelled "Who were the twelve aliens who were left here?" "Well!" said Tommy "You can cross John Daly off your Christmas card list for a start." "I should have known," I cried. "The crystal ball head was a dead give-a-way. Who else Tommy?" I yelled. "Who else?" "Peter and Iris Robinson." said Tommy "Abominable!" I yelled, "Who else?" "Phil Coulter." said Tommy. "James Galway, Mitchell McLaughlin, Dan Gordon, Roisin Gorman, Jon Toal, Bob McCartney and Michael McGimpsy." "The swine!" I yelled. "McGimpsy was always going on about swine flu, even though he knew he was immune to it. Who was the twelfth alien Tommy?" I cried. "Come on! Out him, drag him out of the closet!" Tommy walked thoughtfully to the window with his hands behind his back, turned and said. "We don't know the twelfth alien. What we do know is that the twelfth alien is the leader and a very nasty piece of work. Now," said Tommy, "if you will excuse me, I must hit the sack for a cat nap." When Tommy had gone, I looked into the mirror, pulled off my flexible rubber human face and marvelled at my green, scaly,alien reptilian beauty.

All this and more have I seen at the sex change clinic, where men are men until they come out of the anaesthetic! Turned out nice again! Think I'll take Henry the hoover for a walk!.

WORDS

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. First we had some new poets, wordsmiths, who painted scenes and images using only brain power and steroids. How I wish I was a poet, starving in a garret and yelling to the postman, "Hi Micky, what rhymes with methoxamine hydrochloride?" What are words, the building blocks of language, or the downfall of civilisation? I suppose a word is like--well, it's like a-fart, once uttered it can not be taken back. Words can charm, words can cajole and words can hurt. How many would gladly take back the words, "I DO!" uttered in haste in the midst of a forest of flowers and a bevy of creaking taffeta bridesmaids. They say words uttered in haste are repented at leisure. And anyone who has ever been rash enough to order a spicy curry will concur with that. So today I take off my bonnet, my simmet and one ankle sock to the new poets, who opened our eyes to the unseen vista of beauty out there, with words, honed, crafted and polished to a lustre that can only be found in the virgin, fallow mind of the amateur poet.

And I mean every word of that!

Tommy my cat slithered down the chimney. Tommy had been up there for nine days, pretending to be an African child hiding from Madonna. "Madge very bad woman," said Tommy in an Indian accent, which somehow ruined the whole premise of the pretend. I clipped Tommy's ears. I used to work on the buses and the skill never leaves you. Then! we heard a horrible bellow. "Let me in or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down!" It was Tubby Nolan, wearing a puce gansey, a trilby hat and a tattered ragged kilt. Tommy and I opened the door and widened it on both sides by five feet. Tubby lumbered in yelling, "I want a bag, Give me a bag. I want a bag and I want it NIGH!" "How dare you Jumbo," I said, "This is not a house of ill repute, well, not until 10 o'clock when I switch on the red light." "I'm having a panic attack!" yelled Tubby," "And I need a bag to blow into.My high flying life style has caught up with me. Wendy Austin warned me I was getting too big for my britches, but what did I do? I went out and bought bigger britches.""Eeh Lad," said Tommy, "Thee should be in Priory clinic. Aye, that's where thee should be, in Priory clinic, by gum." "NO!" yelled Tubby. "I refuse to share a room with Pete Doherty or Susan Boyle." "The hairy angel?" I said. "The hairy expletive deleted!" screamed Tubby. "Give me shelter!" cried Tubby. "In the name of all that's holy, give me-shelter!" What could Tommy and I do? The sight of Tubby in the ragged kilt would take tears from a stone. So Tommy took one arm, I took the other and we led him to the door, gave him a riser and slammed the door in his moon-like face.

All this and more have I seen from outside Sean Coyle's house, where gin traps and landmines wait for the nocturnal burglar. But his lupins are coming along well. I like-lupins. Very-lupinious.

The Birds!!!!

Great shows this week Kid. All dealing with important community issues and lost dogs. What is the greatest danger to society today? YES!, you're so right, crows scratching at windows early in the morning. That poor man. That poor, poor man. I could hardly sleep last night thinking about him. I could see him, sitting grey faced on the edge of the bed at four o'clock in the morning. Listening, ever-listening. THEN! the scratch, scratch, scratch, of crows claws on glass. He nudges his wife with a broken stick and screams. "Mildred, Mildred, the crows, THE CROWS!!!" A crying, talking, sleeping, walking nightmare with Hitchcockian overtones. (Not undertones-overtones) Mildred hits the quivering wretch over the head, with the empty po and yells, "Mien Gott, it's always crows with you! Go back to sleep or I'll kaput you!" What is the poor man to do? Faced on one side by the ever scratching crows and on the either side by a German wife with Nazi tendencies? "Tommy," I said to my cat, "Why do the crows scratch and scratch at that poor man's window?" "It's his own fault," said Tommy. "He built his house right slap dab in the middle of the crows' flight path. What he must do, is open the front windows to let the crows into his house and then open the back windows so they can continue on their flight path." "Simple!" I cried, pointing to myself in the mirror. "Simple and-sorted!" Tommy looked all around and whispered, "That man is lucky it's only crows that are bothering him, it could be--OWLS!" "What would the-OWLS do Tommy?" I said. "Never you mind," said Tommy. "I have seen men, aye-and indeed-women when the OWLS were finished with them and it was not a pretty sight. It was not a pretty sight," I tell you. "Beware of the--OWLS!"

Later that day, Tommy, I and Tubby Nolan were skipping with a high voltage cable in front of the house. Before Tubby got electrocuted in the fork, Tommy said to me, "Do you want to know something about-hair?" I pondered, ruminated and replied, "Yes Tommy, I would like to know something about-hair."

Tommy looked at me-straight in the eye and said, "It's never too young to go grey and it's never too old to go-blonde" "A Universal truth," I muttered. "All my life I have been searching for a Universal truth, not knowing that a Universal truth was under my nose all the time." "Tommy," I said "How do you know if a girl is a natural blonde?" Tommy smiled and said "Easy, what you do is........"

The sound of a giant lorry drowned out the rest of Tommy's reply so I guess I'll never know. Maybe it's better not to know. In my life I have had too many dreams shattered. I think I'll go to my grave, believing that all blondes are natural blondes. For the life of me, I can't think of any way that would separate the natural blondes from the bleached blondes, unless you were to... No, you couldn't do that! The police would be round before you could say, "Evening all, mind how you go."

All this and more have I seen as I sat up with Lynda Byron's rooster. The poor thing was under the weather. Lynda thinks it might be-egg bound!!!

Go now, but remember, beware of the--OWLS!!!

Coyle's Away!

Great show yesterday Kid. And when you told us that Mr Coyle would be away for another week, the nation went into rejoicing. The spitting cobra, first Minister Peter Robinson, announced that from this day onward, Monday the 15th of June would be known as, "Nil Interuptus" day. I looked at Tommy my cat who was washing his false teeth in a glass of high octane jet fuel and said, "What are we going to do with that unsightly hole in the wall of this room?" "Let's try and slide the walls together," said Tommy. But after much straining and pushing the opening was as big as ever. Tommy got on the phone and with the help of 118 118 got through to the Oracle of Delphi. "Have you tried switching the wall on and off?" said the Oracle. "Yes," said Tommy. "Smashing!" said the Oracle. "Have you taken out all the plugs?" said the Oracle. "Yes," said Tommy. "Brilliant!" said the Oracle. Then the Oracle showed why she earns the big bucks. "Have you tried to block the hole with bricks and cement?" said the Oracle. "No," said Tommy. "Nincompoop!" said the Oracle. So Tommy and I set to and blocked up the unsightly hole with plaster and wood chip paper. It was three weeks later, when I tried to go to the toilet, that I discovered Tommy and I had bricked up the only door out of the room. But I'm not worried. They found the boy King Tut, didn't they? "Oh Mr Carter! Mr Howard Carter! Cooee, Mr Carter!"

All this and more have I seen from Sunny Spain, where Mr Coyle has just bought a timeshare for £500.

Don't sign that cheque. Don't sign that cheque. AH, too-late!.

A normal humdrum day.

Great shows last week Kid and it was good to see young Michael, Sean Coyle's replacement putting out such a great show on Thursday. "That lad will go far," said Tommy my cat, as he lay curled up under the bed, pretending to be a lost sock. I looked at Tommy and said, "Do you know something Tommy, I've never lived this long before." "And you probably never will again," said Tommy, "So enjoy each day as it comes." "That's what I like about Tommy, it's not just the mice at the door, the hair balls in the soup, the puke under the bed, what I like about Tommy, is his tenuous grasp of reality. If Tommy was a pen, I would be proud to wear him in the breast pocket of my electric blue simmet. "Tommy," I said, "Run down to the corner shop and get a packet of assorted yells, shrieks and screams. I am going to pluck my eyebrows." "What about a small bag of expletives?" said Tommy. "Oh sugar," I said. "I forgot all about the expletives. Ask Manuel the shop girl if they have any President Nixon expletives, if not, just get the Gordon Ramsey expletives." After Tommy had gone, I did something I have always wanted to do. After I did what I've always wanted to do, I cleaned up, using plenty of hot water,dettol, and jeyes fluid, danced the Walls of Limerick with a trio of cock roaches, sang a verse of Mother McCree and lubricated my oxters with axle grease. Just the normal, humdrum antics that every woman with a cat gets up to. I grew bored waiting for Tommy to come back, so I passed the time by putting a bun in the even and crying, "Oh musha allana, what am I going to do at tall, at tall, at tall? Sorry indeed I am to have a bun in the oven and my Danny far, far over the sea, clubbing baby seals to death!" Tommy rushed in tripped and spilled the President Nixon expletives all over the floor. In the midst of all the effing and blinding Tommy cried, "The police are coming, the police are coming. They have thrown a cordon all over the neighbour hood and every house is going to be searched from top to bottom." "WHY?" I yelled. "Is there a bomb scare?" "NO!" cried Tommy. "It's worse that that. Some one broke into Steven Nolan's house and stole a raisin from his bun!" "This is big!" I cried. "This is-huge! Nolan will wreck Belfast looking for that raisin" "Tubby is standing in the middle of the street," said Tommy, "stripped to the waist. He says he will fight any man who interfered with his bun." "Quick!" I yelled. "I have a bun in the oven. Take it out and give it to Nolan." Soon Tubby was cradling the bun, cooing into its face and the bun was looking up and saying, "Daddy, what a big belly you have." I stood at the door, with my apron over my face, keening like I've never keened before. "As sad indeed it is today, what will my seal clubbing Danny say at tall, at tall, at tall, when he finds out my bun in the oven calls another man-daddy?"

All this and more have I seen from behind Sammy Wilson's bowl of porridge. Sammy's porridge is very temperate, not too hot, not too cold. It's just right.

Tommy and the election.

What great shows Gerry is putting out this week!" I said to Tommy my cat. "You're so right," said Tommy, as he arose daintily from his bubble bath in front of a roaring fire. "Ah, the luxury of a bubble bath!" said Tommy. "I feel pretty and witty and....."

"Hold on there Kid," I said. "All these bubble baths you've been having, the new cravat and the tangerine shorts. Do you not think it's a bit, you know--fey?"

"Not at tall," said Tommy, wrapping himself in a primrose yellow bathrobe. "You may think it's perfectly natural to go about smelling like an old sheep, but I don't. Mummy always said to us kittens, "Cleanliness is next to godliness and Paul Daniels is next to the lovely Debbie McGee. By the bye," said Tommy, "Did you do anything with that radio? It's so clear, no background noise of any kind." "That's because Mr Coyle is away on holiday," I said. "Yes, Coylers is walking around Spain wearing a pair of World war two desert rats khaki shorts down to his knees and a knotted handkerchief on his head." "A real babe magnet," said Tommy with a giggle. "Yes," I laughed "The only thing Thaddeus will pick up in Spain is sweetie papers and chewing gum from the pavements." Oh how we laughed. Tommy cleaned out his ears with a blue Bic pen and said, "The DUP got a bit of a mauling at the recent election." "Indeed they did," I answered. "Their share of the vote, like Sammy Wilson's trousers was down." "Could Sir Reg Empty be on the way up?" said Tommy, as he blew the fluff out of his navel with Henry the hoover." "Don't write off little Reg," I said. "Little Reg is a stayer, a battler. Little Reg is an old dog and it takes an old dog for the hard road. People used to call little Reg, Joe Ninety and the Milky Bar Kid, well, they don't call him that now. Now they call Sir Reg the come back kid." Tommy looked all around and whispered, "Sinn Fein topped the poll for the first time." "They did," I said, "And it's all the fault of Mark Durkin. You remember Mark Durkin? He was the SDLP guy who kept going on about the reality-is, instead of telling the people want they want to hear."

"How would you describe Jim Allister said Tommy?" "Jim Allister," I said, "Has all the qualities of a bulldog or a pitbull, but he doesn't foul in the street."

"Which is always an advantage," said Tommy, "When you're running for high office." "Tommy," I said, "I have never asked you before, who is your favourite politician in Great Britain?" "Easy," said Tommy. "Little dumpy Hazel Blears. She's like one of those little dolls that you knock down and they always jump up again. Who is your favourite politician?" said Tommy. I mounted my soap box and cried, "Lemsip Opec, he's the man for me. He believes in flying saucers, Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. He also believes that the world is flat and often goes round the country yelling, "ONE MAN ONE CHEEKY GIRL and of course Lemsip is-Liberal." "I wonder if Lemsip is liberal in the sack," said Tommy with a loathsome horrible leer.

"GET OUT!" I roared. "You may well smell of lavender and primroses, but your heart is as black as pitch. GET OUT! and wash your mouth out with lifebuoy soap, you filthy little feline."

All this and more have I seen from a beach in sunny Spain, as Mr Coyle walks among bikini clad girls, wearing a long trench coat and singing lustily. "Nearer my God to thee."

A wife for Steven

As the sound of "Flowers on the wall" faded away, Tommy my cat sighed and said. "Ah, the Statler brothers, named after a well known American tissue. If they lived over here, they would be known as the Kleenex Brothers." "Yes," I said, "Or even the coat sleeve brothers." Tommy began to carefully pick between his little feline toes with a silver plated crowbar and said, "I saw Steven Nolan today. He was coming down a hill. He looked like an avalanche in a suit."

I bit my lip with a pair of false teeth I keep for the purpose and said, "I'm worried about Steve. He's in his 30's now, both years and stones. It's time the lad settled down and stopped all his high living and partying outside all night fish and chip shops." "Nolan is a wild child," said Tommy. "A hell raising son of a gun like Richard Burton, Peter O'Toole, Richard Harris and Olivia Newton John." "Nolan needs a wife," I said, "And when I finish knitting this goldfish bowl, I will dedicate my life to finding a wife for Steven "Tubby" Nolan." "What kind of girl will you look for?" said Tommy, as he blew the TV apart with a bazooka he got on eBay. The funny thing is, he was really looking for a balalaika after seeing Donal Lunny in concert. "The perfect wife for Steven Nolan," I said, "Would be a girl like Davina McCall." "You mean a cheeky hussy," said Tommy, "That roars and screams in the dark of the night?" "You've got Davina wrong," I said. "Actually Davina McCall is a patron of the arts and has an extensive library of Laurel and Hardy films." "What about Lisa Reilly formerly of Emmerdale?" said Tommy. "No, No," I said. "If they wanted to kiss, they would have to do it through a third party." "Kirsty Wark?" said Tommy. "No," I said, "Too bossy." "Kirsty Young?" said Tommy. "No," I said "Too saucy." "Then who?" cried Tommy. "Is there a woman in the world who will say, "I might" to Steven Nolan?" "There is--one," I said. "Who?" cried Tommy. "Who-Who-Who?" I smiled and said, "There's a girl who works in a chip shop that looks like Elvis!"

"Sorted!" yelled Tommy, "With a capital-SOR."

All this and more have I seen from the beach towel of Sean Coyle in the Costa Packet. There little Sean lay, reading the Derry Journal, eating an ice cream and checking for the 100th time that the 20 pesos note was still secure in his dark blue gutties.

"Gargon, Gargon" cried Sean "Another slider for my wife, myself and my best pal-Joe".

Northern Ireland Nil Italy Three.

Monday morning found me in the coal bunker, curled up in the foetal position, whimpering like a baby with my thumb in my mouth. I was pretending to be Gordon Brown, a dour Scots man, who labours under the misconception that he is the Prime Minister!

Suddenly Tommy my cat banged a dustbin lid on the wall and yelled. "CARAMBA!. He's back! Gerry Anderson is back!" "I knew Gerry would come back for D- day," I said. "A lot of Andersons fell at Normandy" "Clumsy!" said Tommy. "Listen you feline fiend!" I roared, "Only for the brave men who fought at Normandy, we would all be Germans now. Can you imagine how horrible that would be?" "Of course I can," said Tommy. "We would win the World cup on a regular basis. Our car industry would be the envy of the world and we would drive on super high speed autobahns." "Just you remember that," I said, "when you eat your gruel tonight and thank Winston Churchill that you live in Northern Ireland where losing three nil to Italy is a reason for national rejoicing." "At least we got nil," said Tommy. "We had nil before the game and managed to hold on to nil. I call that a result."

"You're so right," I said, "But we must build on that result. We can't always expect to get-nil." "The team is in transition and has been for the last 100 years." "We were at a disadvantage," said Tommy. "The game was played with a round ball. We are more used to the long ball or the short ball."

"The boys did good," I said. "We were able to contain Italy in our half for most of the game." "We were unlucky," said Tommy, "If the ball had crossed the Italian goal line, we would have been well within our rights in claiming a goal." "It was a game of two halves," I said, "and ifs, buts and maybes." "We must not be down hearted," said Tommy. "Nil Desperandum. We can bank that nil, safe in the knowledge that F.I.F.A can not take it away from us." "I would like to see them try!" I yelled. "If they did, the Andersons would be on the beaches of Normandy before you could say, "One, two and you're in!"

All this and more have I seen in the Priory clinic, where Susan Boyle is busy sticking pins into an effigy of Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan, the slimy refugee from the world of tabloid journalism. "I don't know how he can look at himself in the mirror each morning," said Tommy, with a self righteous look on his little feline face. Welcome back Kid, time to dust off Mr Coyle and put out some great shows.