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."