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.