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.