Looking for a Bog

Great show yesterday Kid. I hooked the radio up to my 6,000 watt pa system so I could hear it better and listened to the show up on the roof, clinging on to the chimney, so none of the jokes would go over my head. Coyle hasn't changed, I say, Coyle hasn't changed. He listens to "A hard Rains Gonna Fall" and then jumps to the conclusion that the album must have a similar title. When they were giving out thickness, I say, when they were giving out thickness, Mr Coyle must have brought a transit van. And his flirting, I say, his flirting with the girls has reached epic preportions. Search him, I say, hold Mr Coyle down and search him and I think you will find Spanish Fly secreted about his person. Don't forget to search the turn ups on his trousers. I never heard anything like it, I say, I never heard anything like it and I've been to Manchester!

Damn those people at the N.I.E. I opened one of their letters addressed to me and got an awful shock, the letter must have been wired up to the mains.

I looked at Tommy my cat, who was posing in front of the mirror and roared, "Tommy lad, slip out of that Christine Dior cocktail dress and slip into your gingham overalls, you and me are going to cut turf!"

"WHY?" yelled Tommy. "Look at-THIS!" I yelled. "An electric bill for £2-78 pence. You may think I'm made of money, but let me tell you lad, I'm made from plastic and micro chips like everyone else."

Tommy and I sped through the countryside, on the 10cc moped, searching, ever searching for a bog. Suddenly Tommy bit my ear and gave a yell, "Bog at three o'clock Skipper." "That's not a bog." I yelled. "That's Ballymena. It may be a dump but it isn't a bog." And-then, we were out in bog country. Everywhere we looked bogs lay before us in abundance. Pea-wheet, snipe and the bog budgie swooped high in the air. The air was full of bog. Rich, brown flower strewn bog, as made by God in a small shed at the back of heaven. "LOOK!" yelled Tommy. I looked and saw a sign outside a small mud hovel. "I own bogs," it stated and was signed, Yousef, Muhammad Doherty. "Hey old timer!" I yelled to the old man who crawled out of the mud hut, "I wish to make a withdrawal." "Round the back," said the old geezer, "but watch out for my cannabis patch." "NO!" I yelled. "I want to make a withdrawal from your turf bank. Where do I sign my name?" "These here turf banks are protected," wheezed the old relic, "just like the blind bat, the otter and the girl with the strawberry curl." "Poots, Dodds and McGuinness," I roared. "Is there anything in this country you can get for free?" "Yes, there is," said the old man, "a knuckle sandwich." And he hit me a punch up the gub, that will set back for months my jews harp lessons.

"Bummer!" said Tommy, giving me a riser, while the balance of my mind was disturbed.

All this and more have I seen from the gift shop of U.T.V. where a pop-up book about Frank Mitchell was being seized by the vice squad. There's a lot more to Frank than meets the eye. A lot more!!! Or as Cilla Black would say, "A lorra' lorra' more." Frank Mitchell? Who would have thought it! No wonder the BBC failed to make any female signings over the Summer transfer season. Frank Mitchell? Well, I'll go to the foot of Lynda Byron's stairs.

PIRATES

Tommy my cat sat in a leather armchair, wearing a lovely vivid pink tank top and a pair of tight hot pants in a striking shade of tangerine and said,

"I'm worried about the two lads out there on their own. I hope they took enough salt pork and toilet roll."

"Don't you worry about Mason and Dixon," I said, "They are out in the USA, drawing a line across America with a pointed stick."

"'Tis not of those two I speak," said Tommy, "I am worried about Gerry and Sean. What if they were eaten by a woman eating shark, or held captive by naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates?"

I stood at the fireplace, with one arm raised in the air and the other two hanging by my side and said,

"If it be their lot to be captured by naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates- I-will cycle pell-mell to the local Credit Union and pay the ransom--MYSELF!!!"

"I wonder what ransom the naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates would demand for the two lads?" said Tommy.

I filed my nails under-N, pushed back my cuticles with a bulldozer and replied,

"I would say they would demand £37.50 for Gerry and another £2.50 for Sean, the interrupter Coyle."

"Making a grand total of-what?" said Tommy.

"£40.00 for the two," I said.

"YIKES!" screamed Tommy. "That's a bit steep isn't it?"

"It is!" I said. "But if we want more great shows, we will have to grin and bear it."

"I thought the naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates were only in it for the money," said Tommy.

"Don't worry, Tommy lad," I said "I shall bargain with the pirates and I may get both of the lads back for £38.00."

"A sort of buy one, get one free?" said Tommy.

"Exactly!" I yelled. "Now pick up that kettle, pop over to Iceland and put kettle on top of a hot steam gusher. I could murder a nice cup of tea." LATER, or was it SOONER?

Tommy thoughtfully began to stuff a briar pipe with Fairy liquid, blew a cascade of bubbles and said, "Bye the bye old dear, Whatever happened to that lovely boy Julian Symons and his driving lessons?" I leapt like a salmon for a passing bubble and replied, "The last I heard, the hysterical one was seen reversing into the Lagan.""Oh dear!" said Tommy. "The ignominy and infamy of ending one's career among discarded shopping market trolleys and bagged and weighed down family pets." "It's Julian's own fault," I said. "I distinctly heard Pamela Ballentine say to him in the UTV canteen, "Nay Julian lad, thee can't drive a car lad, thee is too thick. Stick to bicycle lad. Aye, stick to bicycle. Bosses might think thee doesn't know thy place. Stick to Bicycle Julian lad. Aye, stick to bicycle. Now would thee like a nice piece of bread and dripping?"

"How jolly nice it was," said Tommy, "To see Gary Lineker and his latest bit of stuff come over here to Northern Ireland to patronise the common people." "We pulled out all the stops," I said. "We dusted off the baps and soda bread and told thrilling stories about the Titanic." "We always do that for visiting stars," said Tommy. "It is what is known as a friendly Northern Ireland welcome."I replied. "Why do we do that?" said Tommy. "Simple lad," I said. "We feel inferior, so we resort to the past." "I wonder," said Tommy. "I wonder would Jimmy Cricket and his wife get the same welcome in the Shires of England?" "Not a chance," I said. "They would be chased by baying packs of beagles to the cry of, "Go home Paddy!" "Thought as much," said Tommy, going back to blowing bubbles.

All this and more have I seen, as I stood on a wheelie bin peeping through the bedroom window of Sarah Travers. What a lot of Teddy bears Sarah has! But not one doll to be seen! Teddy bears, no dolls? I think questions should be asked in the house, or at least at the haggard.

Come on Arlene.

Great show yesterday Kid. The crack was indeed mighty. Or as Hugo Duncan says during every outside broadcast he has ever done "It's all happening here folks, come on down and join in the fun."An Invitation, by the way, that no one has ever accepted. Tommy my cat was walking round the room, wailing and crying. Tommy was carrying a hangman's noose and looking frantically for a rafter. He was pretending to be Arlene Phillips the caustic female judge in Strictly Come Dancing. "What shall I do now??" screamed Tommy. "To dig I am not able, to beg I am too proud.". "Cheer up Arlene," I said, "There's always Celebrity Big Brother and many appearances on the One Show." My advice did not help matters. "Tommy emitted shriek after shriek and screamed, "Why, oh why, did old age ravage my face and turn me into an old bag?" I could see things were getting out of hand, so I lifted my toe and gave Tommy a riser that brought him back from his pretend state.

Tommy reached into the pocket of his navy blue cardigan for a valium and whispered, "Did you see the rioting on TV?" "STOP!" I yelled. "We don't want any of that talk in this house." Tommy reached into his pocket for another valium and whispered, "I hope Mr. Coyle was not involved." "Stop and cease that old talk," I said. "There was NO rioting, simply a bit of horse play. We live in a peaceful society, where ALL can celebrate their differences 24 hours a day." "Pretending it didn't happen won't make it go away," said Tommy. "Yes it will," I said. "We live in a pretend society. If we believe we can some day live in peace, we may wake up one day and see Martin Mc Guiness leading an orange parade down the Garvaghy Road."

"Not my idea of Chuckie-ar-la," said Tommy. At which point I lost the bap and whammelled Tommy behind the spin drier.

All this and more have I seen on the Ardoyne Road, where gangs of youths were throwing flowers at the police and the police were Morris-dancing to the sound of the Kinks singing, "Lazy, crazy, hazy days of Summer." It could happen. It could! I must throw a young pig up in the air to see if it flies!!!

NAME DROPPING

Great show yesterday Kid. All those people name dropping had Tommy my cat and me on the edge of our stolen Patrick Kavanagh Royal canal seat. We're going back next week for the statue.

The game started off simply enough with Mr Coyle informing us that he met his wife that morning making breakfast in the kitchen. "YIKES!" yelled Tommy, "That will be hard to beat." "Then out came Jimmy Cricket, Paddy Kielty, John Paul Sarte, Hitler, The Lone Ranger, the man on the moon and finally-Muhammad Ali. "Mabel!" yelled Tommy. "Give her the money." I hate to say it Kid, but you played a lousy game. Why did you not play your Queen? Remember, Buckingham Palace and how delighted the Queen was when you admired her wood-chip wall paper? Then Prince Phillip came over with someone's hands behind his back, it could have been his own, and gutturally growled, "Don't mention the war." No, what he said was, Mein Gott, what do you do then?" And you replied, "I keep an eye on Sean Coyle." and the Prince said, "Someone has to, it may as well be you."

The only famous people Tommy and I have met are Jim Rodgers and Tubby Nolan or Little and Large as they are affectionately known to the good people of Belfast and surrounding districts. Tommy looked at me, I mean he really looked at me and said. "You look awful, here, take my arm and we'll toddle down to Bob McCartney's office and you can make your will." "No way, Tom-Ay!" I yelled. "The only way you will get your greedy paws on this condemned hovel, is over my dead body." Tommy grabbed me in a loving headlock and said, "But did you not see June Whitfield and all the other out of work actors, imploring the old, the elderly, the knackered, to leave something to their loved ones?" "I'm as fit as a flea!" I yelled and to prove it, I came second to a flea in a 5 yard dash across the room. "Begone Rackman!" I yelled. "How dare you try and win me round with your honeyed Dr Shipman words." "I'm only thinking of you," said Tommy. "If you died and did not make provision for me, well--I might have to-eat you." "TAXI!" I yelled and soon I was sitting in the legal office of the silver fox signing all my debt away to Tommy my cat. On the way back, Tommy made numerous attempts to throw me under a bus. I clung on to the pebble-dash wall like lichen, until I once more was ensconced in my lime green bean bag with my legs resting comfortably on a poof. But Tommy is a good lad really. He hasn't been to the library for years, but today he went there and came back with six books all about poison. It's good to see the lad take an interest, I have always said that every cat should have a hobby, it keeps them out of mischief. And with that, we will stand and sing hymn 67, "Nearer My God To Thee."

All this and more have I seen from the anorak pocket of Lynda Byrons, a crumpled bookie's docket bears testimony to the fact that the wee blonde doat lost a pound each way on a horse called, Gerry's Delight! Gerry's Delight came last and had to be put down!!! But worse things happen at sea and B and D.

But funny enough, not-T-I like T-- and crumpets!

REVELATIONS

"I wonder what new revelations will surface on the Gerry show this week?" said Tommy my cat, as he sat bolt upright in an antique plastic Chippendale chair wearing a Donegall tweed three piece suit and a lovely pair of pink ballerina slippers. I got stuck into a big bowl of porridge, it's the only way I can get my oats these days and replied-merrily, "Don't you wonder about new revelations Kid, in time, Gerry will reveal the new revelations and the new revelations will be revealing and revolutionary." Tommy leaped-gracefully into the air in his Donegall tweed three piece suit, clicked his little pink ballerina slippers together and replied, "What a rhetorical and retrospective answer." In the silence that followed, I translated, "War and peace" into Ulster/Scots and Tommy drew a comprehensive ground plan of the ancient Mayan city of Ballygooglie, complete with round-a-bouts, off licences and public toilets."I wonder how jolly old Tubby is getting on on his hols?" said Tommy. "He hasn't gone for a swim, is all I know," I said. "Ah, you talk about the absence of tsunamis," said Tommy. "Got it in one my fine feathered friend," I replied. Tommy peeped into a mirror and said, "You know, I wouldn't mind a nose job." "Listen lad!" I yelled, "If I find thee wasting thy hard earned brass on cosmetic surgery, I'll give thee a nose job with my fist, so think on lad!" "I was only saying," said Tommy. "And I'm only saying, think on!" I roared. "If thee thinks that I'm going to stand idly by, while some butcher reshapes thee's hooter with a bread knife, then what I say to thee lad, is think on, think on, that's all I'm saying." "I was only saying," said Tommy. "And I was only saying, think on lad!" I yelled. "Eeh by gum lad, if thee gets thy hooter defaced, think on, that's all I'm saying, think on." "I am-thinking on," said Tommy. "Well think on a bit more lad," I roared. Suddenly, the radio burst into life and Lynda McCauley shrieked, "That's all for today, but don't forget to give me a she-ite tomorrow." And Tommy and I gathered round the radio, to find out what new revelations Gerry would reveal on the first show of the week.

All this and more have I seen from the studio of BBC Ulster, where a pale faced Donna Trainor was hiding in the corner and a red faced Noel Thompson was shouting to a white faced Mark Carruthers, "Jump a stile? Eeh thee couldn't jump a stile lad. Thee would be afraid of getting thy lad-de-da red socks dirty. Jump a stile? you lad?Not you, I would advise thee lad to, "Think on," that's what I say to thee young Carruthers, "Think on!"

"I will--think on by gum," whispered Mark. "In fact I'm looking forward to--thinking on."

12th of July on the 13th, can only mean that Christmas falls on Boxing Day this year. Eeh, I don't know.

Old punks

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat said, "If Mr Coyle is looking for old jokes, why not look in the mirror?" Tommy can be quite caustic at times. Tommy claims to be bipolar, but I said to Tommy. "Listen Tommy lad, time enough to be bipolar when you're charged with a serious crime." Tommy concurred, I put that down to all the milk he drinks, it just goes right through him. There were a lot of women callers yesterday, was it Ladies Day on the Gerry show? All those women sitting in their kitchen wearing their Millie dressing gowns and big floppy hats. Tommy my cat peeped out of the oven, where he was pretending to be a scrag end of lamb. Tommy took the cooking apple out of his mouth and said, "What's the deal with Micky Bradly then?" "I know not of what you speak," I said, "But I think Mr Bradly prefers to be called-Michael." "Do you know-Michael Bradly?" asked Tommy. "No, I don't," I said. "But from what I have heard, from talking to friends, barmen and interlocutors he seems to be a nice boy." "He fell on his feet," said Tommy. "Who fell on their feet?" I said. "Michael Bradly," said Tommy. "Michael Bradly fell on his feet. No sooner was punk but a distant memory than he had his feet under a radio Foyle desk." "Michael is a Derry boy," I said."He probably wanted to get home and was lucky to get a job at Radio Foyle." "Or the fix was in," said Tommy. "The fix was in, did you ever think of that-eh? Michael Bradly just happened to know someone, who knew someone and Bob's your Aunt Fanny." In the silence that followed I bent over the old spinning wheel and spun enough yarn to make Gerry Anderson a sheep skin rug,big enough to cover the entire pitch at the Brandywell. "Is he a big cheese at radio Foyle?" asked Tommy "Is who a big cheese? I said. "Michael Bradly," said Tommy. "Is Michael Bradly a big cheese at radio Foyle?" "Dear Michael, lovely boy that he is,"I said, "is but one on the echelon, the hierarchy of power at radio Foyle."In the silence I could hear Tommy sizzle in the oven. Then the roasting feline yelled, "Where's Kevin Sharkey?" "I don't know where Mr Kevin Sharkey is!" I yelled. "The Undertones left poor Kevin behind!" roared Tommy. "They all came back and got good jobs and poor wee thin Kevin Sharkey is probably cleaning a pub toilet in the East End of London." "Come out of that oven!" I yelled. "The heat is making you go funny in the head," "But I want to pretend!" yelled Tommy. "I want to pretend!" "I gave Tommy a toe up the jacksy and shrieked, "Go sit on the chair and pretend you just got a good riser!" Which Tommy did-and he did it very well, even producing real tears. I must apologise for Tommy, I don't know what got into him, but there seems to be bad blood between Tommy and Michael Bradly. Tommy never did like punk music. Tommy used to say, " You could teach a monkey to play punk music,." Then he would point at Johnny Rotten and say, "I told you so!"

All this and more have I seen from the glove compartment of Julian Symmon's driving school car. What kind of man takes three clean pair of underpants on a driving lesson?

But one thing I will say about Julian, he does wear exceedingly nice knickers!!! Reinforced gusset! But who can blame him for that? We do live in uncertain times!

Strabane Dole Office

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It had everything bar the kitchen sink. I was surprised Janet gave your kitchen sink away to a man from Gillygoolly on Monday. I remember saying to Tommy my cat, "Gerry is going to miss that kitchen sink." The show galloped along at a good clip, no hurdles were tossed or horses or Mr Coyle put down. I looked at Tommy my cat, who was crouched on all fours behind the door. Tommy was pretending to be a swine flu germ ready to pounce. I know one should not brag about one's pussy, but I have seen Jim Rodgers pretend to be a swine flu germ and Tommy's swine flu germ pretend, would knock Jim's swine flu pretend into a loaded and cocked hat. Jim had the crouching stance all wrong. His knees were too far apart, leading one to believe that he was NOT a swine flu germ, but a lethal viral strain of Delly-Belly!

Tommy looked at me as cats do and said, "HI! what did you think of the man coming on and telling the same Daniel O'Donnell story for THREE times in a row? Does he think that the Gerry show is a round-a-bout, on which you can jump on and off when you feel like it?" "Quiet Tommy," I whispered. "That man has his troubles, he lived in Strabane for two years." "I'm so sorry," whispered Tommy. "I had no idea. Poor man. Poor wee man, imagine, living in Strabane for-two years!" In the silence that followed, I baked a sugar cake and took it out for all the boys to see. "Hi BOYS!" I yelled. "LOOK AT MY SUGAR CAKE!" When I came back, Tommy in the guise of the swine flu bug pounced on me, but I fought him off with an antidote of earwig urine, bog water and diluted Jeyes fluid. Tommy retreated into his corner and said, "Hi! What is Strabane famous for?" "Have you ever seen Strabane dole office?" I said. "It's like one of Saddam Hussein's palaces. High vaulted ceilings, marble floors, old masters hanging on the wall." "School teachers?" asked Tommy. "No, great works of art," I said."There is a full size Olympic swimming pool, bowling alley, snookerhall, ping pong tables and for lunch you can choose from some of the greatest dishes, the French chef can provide.". "Do they have a shooting range?" asked Tommy. "No," I said. "Not in Strabane, it's too near the border."

Six trotting policeman wearing lime green spandex catsuits pulled a small trailer containing a piano and Sir Hugh Orde in front of a ragged crowd of people, which included such luminaries as, Jim Rodgers, Barney Bottle the best dressed wino in Belfast, Frank Mitchell and the man who came up with the, "ULSTER SAYS NO" slogan. Sir Hugh pressed down hard on a C chord and began to sing, "Now is the time to say-goodbye, now is the time to yield a sigh, now is the time to wield away, until we meet again some sunny day." Then Sir Hugh grabbed a Shure 55 skull-head microphone, that seemed to have been modelled on Michael McGimpsey's head and addressed the crowd. "Evening all," said Sir Hugh. "Mind how you go," answered the crowd. "People of Belfast," said Sir Hugh, "It is time to say goodbye. I shall miss you all.But the one I shall miss the most is Tommy the cat. Tommy kept me informed of what was going on in the street. Tommy the cat was my eyes and ears." There were mutters from the crowd of, "Tout" and "Tommy steak-knife." Tommy's feline face was impassive, as he looked up at Sir Hugh with a look of love and adoration in his little yellow slitted eyes. On the way home, I said, "So, that's how you were able to afford a Ferrari bicycle with a carrier and a three speed." Tommy just smiled and said "Looks like the cat is out of the bag!"

All this and more have I seen from Lynda Byron's handbag, as I programmed my number into her mobile phone. You never know! One of these nights. "Beep-Beep, hello. this is-Lynda! Would you like to join Mike and me for soft boiled eggs and toasted soldiers?" RESULT!!!!

IMPERSONATION.

gerry.anderson@bbc.co.uk

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It had everything. The mime artist was a stroke of genius.

I looked at Tommy my cat who was tying my shoelaces together and trilled, "Tommy, my old banana, what a great show that was!" "A cracker! cried Tommy, "One of Gerry's best, it's no wonder all other radio personalities are copying him. In fact, some of them are pretending that they don't know how to use the studio equipment." "I told Gerry to patent that trick," I cried, "But he looked at me with a saintly christian brother's smile and said "Impersonation is the sincerest form of flattery." And tubby Nolan who was lumbering by yelled, "Yes, and fish and chips is the sincerest form of-fattery!"

Tommy drew his cloak round him and said, "It is not of the knave Nolan that I wish to speak. I must ask you a question, that is of the most singular importance to me." You could have cut the air with a knife. I grabbed a big spoon and began to carry air from one room to the other. Tommy peeped out of his dark cloak and hissed. "Try a whisper Tommy," I said, "It doesn't leave a stain on the carpet." Tommy peeped, yet again from his dark cloak and whispered, "Is English Mr Coyle's first language?" I blanched like the old woman in Coronation Street and replied, "I hate to gossip, but they do call Mr Coyle-WOLF BOY!" Outside the window, a street urchin played a discordant chord on a mouth organ. "Of course!" said Tommy, rubbing his paws together. "Of course, little baby reared by wolves, his first language would be growls, yelps, barks and snarls and his second language would be-English!" Once more the urchin put the mouth organ to his chapped and cracked lips.

"Tommy," I said, with a shaking reedy voice I found in Hugo Duncan's glove compartment, "Why do you ask these, never before asked-questions?" We both waited, but the small urchin must have gone home for his dinner. Tommy walked slowly to the window, spun on a sixpence that just happened to be lying there and said, "Have you heard Mr Coyle speak?" "Of course I have," I said, "And far too much for my liking." "Today," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle began a sentence, then he stopped, as if searching for the next word. I half expected him," said Tommy, "To revert to his first language and snarl, bark, or yelp." I laughed and said "Tommy, my fine feathered friend, you are mewing up the wrong tree. Mr Coyle was born in the Bogside and where would one find a Bogside?" Tommy made use of his feline noggin and replied, "Beside a bog?" "Exactly!" I cried. "Now, as a small boy, Mr Coyle used to play in the bog and he discovered that if one was careful, one could cross the bog, using clumps of rushes as stepping stones. So when Mr Coyle stops talking after a few words, mentally, Mr Coyle is seeking the next word, just when, as a boy, he used to seek the next safe clump of rushes." "Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!" said Tommy. "And when you're there!" I yelled, "See if the postman has delivered a postcard from Tubby Nolan. I can't wait to see El-Plumpo spill out of a G-string."

All this and more, more, more have I seen in a darkened cinema where little Jeffrey Donaldson sits with his coat collar up, looking furtively all around him.

He need not have bothered. It was a wholesome family film. A complete waste of money!. When I left the cinema, I kicked an usher!!!

Lynda versus Nolan

"Tommy!" I shouted to my cat "Give me a she-ite when Lynda McCauley comes on. I want to see how she measures up to Tubby Nolan." "I think Tubby is much more gigantic than Lynda," said Tommy. "I think Tubby would have trouble getting into Lynda's bra." "Stop that old corner boy talk!" I yelled. "You've been watching too much channel 4 my lad. From now on you are grounded from watching channel 4." "That's not fair!" screamed Tommy. "That means I won't see Alan Carr.""That's right!" I yelled. "You are not allowed to listen to the rude, vulgar, utterances of a man who looks like the love child of Ken Dodd and Janet Street Porter." "Alan Carr is not vulgar!" screamed Tommy, "he is ground breaking, he pushes the envelope, and any filth is in the mind of the viewers." "Snotters,dumplings and balderdash!" I yelled. "The man is a veritable Lenny Bruce." "Lenny Bruce is a comic legend!" yelled Tommy. "Only because he's dead!" I shouted."When Alan Carr dies, you can watch all his DVDs, safe in the knowledge, that what once was filth is now acceptable and historic." "You old witch!" screamed Tommy. "How do you sleep at night? HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT??" "DIAZEPAM!" I yelled, "Washed down with a big mug of vodka." There was no answer to that, so Tommy made none and kept stum.

After a lunch of religious salad, lettuce pray, I ran pell mell round Belfast emitting the well known cry of the corncrake. I was trying to lure Joe Mahon out of the long grass. But alas, no Joe! I hope the little chap is not extinct! The last I heard, there were just two pair of Joe Mahons breeding in the whole of Ireland. As I rounded a corner, I ran into Michael Leary of Ryan air coming out of the gents' toilet. "It's standing room only in there," said Michael. "As it will soon be on Ryan air!" I yelled. "Have you lost your mind Micky? How is a hijacker supposed to go about his business, if the aisles are blocked by standing passengers?" "I don't know," said Micky, "And what is more, I don't care! It's all money with me, money, money, money!" "You jumped up little Paddy!" I roared. "I remember you as a boy, bringing home turf from the bog in a donkey and cart and now it's all Boeings and Airbuses, where did it all go wrong? When did you lose your charming Hibernian innocence and become a money grabbing little Fagin?" "I remember it well," said Micky. "I was in the Palace cinema in Baggot street. I was just a boy,but when I watched, Fiddler On The Roof, and heard the guy singing, "If I Was A Rich Man," my whole life changed." "You little Celtic up-start!" I yelled. "You're just another Hitler, you blame the Jews for everything." Micky picked my pockets and went off singing, "They say the best things in life are free, but you tell that to the birds and bees, I want money, that's what I want."

All this and more have I seen from the studio of UTV, where Lynda Byrons was giving Frank Mitchell a pink stiletto riser for not warning her about approaching showers.Apparently, Lynda had a big washing out on the line. Frank might have at least have mentioned it!!! It could have saved him much pain in the McCrory derriere!

A New Week

Ten o'clock found me and Tommy my cat sitting on two burros, rented from Agnew's Mercedes Ltd.waiting for another week of great shows. Both burros had been offered the option of carrot or stick and both had opted for the carrot. So I can say in all honesty that there was no friction or disagreement in the quartet of woman, cat and two burros. It was a harmonious group of eccentric creations of God that waited the start of the Gerry Anderson show. I took off my cowboy hat, wiped the sweat from my brow, squinted into the far horizon of the scullery door and said to Tommy my cat, "Tommy my old compadre, what hopes, wishes and indeed desires do you have for the great shows we are about to partake of this week?" Tommy spit a glob of tobacco juice between the burro's ears and replied--laconically, "I have a hunch, a feeling in my water, a premonition, call it what you will, that the petrol can man will make another appearance today." I showed my surprise by emitting a yell of. "YIKES! Tommy!" I cried, "Don't tease me, don't play with me. Oh if only the petrol can man came on again, it would be like all my Christmases, birthdays and Pan-Cake Tuesdays rolled into one." "The petrol can man has been keeping a low profile," said Tommy. "He is probably a loner, yet gives no outward sign to the public about his secret abnormal perversions for-petrol cans." "He could be as normal looking as any man on the street!" I yelled. "Exactly!" said Tommy. "But I feel this Summer heat will make him try again. He can't help himself. He is addicted to petrol cans and-today, he could break cover and enlist Gerry in his never-ending quest for petrol cans.""We must block the airports, the railway stations, the roads, the-chimneys!" I yelled. "Sir Hugh Orde is on to it," said Tommy. "I was talking to him last night at an all night Ann Summer's knicker bonanza and he looked me straight in my slitted eye and said, "Evening Tommy. Mind how you go. If chummy tries anything tomorrow, my officers will nab him before you can say, " It's a fair cop Guv." Mind you, I could do with a helicopter."

At lunch time, Tommy and I went out into the searing heat and fried two eggs on a man's bald head. The alluring taste of dandruff, greatly added to the over all taste of the fried ova. In the afternoon I went round to Tubby Nolan's house to feed his giant, flesh eating Venus fly trap. The gluttonous plant nearly took the hand off me as I rammed 6 pounds of special mince down its hungry gullet. I could imagine Tubby and the fly trap arguing about the last packet of prawn cocktail crisps. They say men get to look like their dogs, well tubby is the dead spit of the Venus fly trap--all mouth! I had a little peep in Tubby's drawers. I found a "To Do" list which read thus, Get hair cut. Get all forks on trousers reinforced with sheets of corrugated iron. Hire man to put my shoes and socks on. Ask for--NO! demand raise from BBC, or threaten to go to UTV. Go on internet and try to find a po with a 60 inch circumference. And finally, think up fly things to say to Anderson during hand over.

All this and more have I seen as Lynda Byrons grabbed me in a headlock and threw me out of her bedroom AGAIN! But like I told Lynda before, I was just in there to see the woodchip wall paper. Did she believe me? Did she heck as like!!!

NEVER HURRY A MURRAY

I was busy dissecting a prehistoric man I had found behind the sofa, when there was a horrible scream from the living room. "TOMMY!" I yelled to my cat, "Are you all right? You haven't gone and accidentally hung yourself from the ceiling again?" Tommy rushed into the kitchen. Oh he did look pale. I swear I've never seen little Tommy so pale. His little face was ashen. "Tommy!" I yelled. "Speak to me lad, has the pound took a tumble, or is there trouble at mill?" Tommy looked at me, wide-eyed, oh I've never seen little Tommy's eyes so wide before, they were bulging out of his head, like two wide eyes. "He's-OUT!" yelled Tommy. "Who's out?" I said "Ronnie Briggs, or the Count of Monte Christo?" "Andy Murray!" yelled Tommy. "Andy Murray's-OUT!" "Out where? I said "Outside? Or out there! like in the X-files?" "Andy Murray is out of-Wimbledon!" screamed Tommy. "Serves him right," I said. "That's what he gets for going in." "You don't understand!" screamed Tommy. "The whole of Britain was depending on Andy Murray to win Wimbleton and now-he's OUT!" "Sit down lad," I said. "Have a nice cup of tea and a hobnob. Eeh Tommy lad," I said, "I don't know why you get yourself into such a state. Look at you! You're trembling and all because of a tennis match. For shame Tommy, for shame." Tommy put his head in his feline paws and whispered, "I don't understand. This was supposed to be Andy Murray's year and now he's-out! He was 30 love at one stage." "Don't call me love Tommy lad." I said "I don't mind, but people may not understand and point at me in the street, when I cart-wheel down the road dressed as Lloyd George." "Poor Andy," said Tommy. "Imagine how he's feeling tonight. He must be gutted." "No Tommy lad," I said. "It's only the tennis rackets that are gutted. Listen Tommy lad," I said, "Andy Murray may be over the moon. Now he won't have to walk about with a pocket full of tennis balls in the pocket of his bonny, wee, tight shorts." Tommy leapt to his feet and threw a rare Ming vase out of the window, knocking a singing nun off her bicycle. The tumbled sister got to her feet, let loose a litany of expletives and threw the holy grail through the hole in the window, knocking a rare Michelangelo charcoal drawing of a piece of charcoal out of its George the 5th silver frame. Tommy grabbed a Picasso drawing of a dog on a bicycle and happed it off the nun's habit. It's a bad habit to get into, but I don't think Tommy will do it again. The nun, who was by now full of the wrath of God and Red Bull, made a lassoo out of a Lourdes rosary, snagged a, by now furious, Tommy round the neck and dragged him out to the street. I ran to Tommy's aide, holding above my head a large granite Egyptian sculpture of the sun God Ra playing a bango and yelled, "Freeze Sister! Just put the rosary down and step away from it." Then, Jim Rodgers, wearing half a pair of knickers because of the heat rushed up and screamed, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH! What will people think when they see this on CNN? A nun and a cat, brawling in the street, like two politicians." "She started it!" yelled Tommy, pointing to the nun. "And indeed and be-dammit, I did not!" said the sister. "Jim," I cooed. "Dear little Jim Rodgers. The reason for this affray, lies square at the door of Andy Murray, who goes round the country, impersonating a tennis player." "A serious offencem" said Jim. "I had a cousin who got six months for impersonating a duck." "What was the lad's name?" I said. "Daffy," said Jim. "Daffy McParland." It all ended on a happy note, I took Tommy, the nun and Jim Rodgers indoors and we all sat and watched Andy Murray get beaten again. "The best man won," whispered Tommy. "Murray did his best!" screamed Jim. "Dat boy was hampered by da auld net," said the nun. "Some one should have taken da net away, Sure there's no need for dat yoke, at tall, at tall, at tall." Wiser words I have never heard. Why don't they take the net out of tennis? It would make the game so much easier to play. And who knows, Andy Murray could end up the winner!. Just kidding, Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. AH, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

To say yesterday's show was a great show would be the under statement of the Millennium. From the word-GO! the excitement just kept building. To say that yesterday's show was a-great show, would be like saying Sinatra was a singer, or Dracula was partial to the odd bloody mary. From the get go, Tommy my cat and I were on the edge of our seats. I have never seen Tommy so excited. "Gerry can't keep this level of excitement up!" yelled Tommy. "The show must hit a slump, this level of excitement is unsustainable." And still the excitement barometer kept rising. Old vintage tractors! A special machine for cutting long grass! By now, both Tommy and I had slipped off the edge of our chairs, but were still listening intently from a prone position on the floor. THEN! the peak, the pinnacle,the holy grail, HORSE SHOES!!! I gave a yell and rolled on the floor like a pot-bellied pig. Tommy LEAPT! to his feet, pulled clumps of hair out of his tail and screamed, "VALIUM! IN THE NAME OF GOD, VALIUM!" And come 'ere, there was more. Doctors Coyle and Janet then gave a full account of your physical and mental state which left some of us wondering if you were as stable as you look. Ken threw a wobbly and began to roar in your headphones. The front wheels were lifting off the ground, but the Undertone pulled back on the stick and kept the show on the road. What a great show.! That great show, knocked all other great shows into a cocked flat cap. After the show, I had to sedate Tommy, by hitting him over the head, with a non-stick frying pan. He'll thank me for it later.

In the afternoon, after a heated discussion with a highly educated and intellectual earwig about the preponderance of dark matter in the Universe, I skipped round to help Tubby Nolan pack for his holidays. "How many pairs of drawers are you taking with you?" I asked. "Six!" yelled the huge one. "They go into the six giant suitcases out in the hall." Even after rolling the drawers up tight, like parachutes, we still had to sit on the cases to get them locked. "Where's my teddy?" roared Lard Boy. "I can't go on holiday without my teddy." I seductively stuck my false teeth out, simpered and said, "I didn't think a big boy like you would wear a teddy in bed. I thought you would wear pyjamas, made from a striped shop awning." "My teddy bear," growled El-Plumpo. "I can't sleep without little Maraduke my teddy bear."We eventually found Marmaduke, buried under a mound of empty prawn cocktail crisp packets. "Well Steven," I said, "This is it. When you get to Atlantic City, keep away from Burt Lancaster. The last I heard, he was pushing drugs. What is it with drugs? You would think people were addicted to them or something! Steven," I said "Darling, chubby, tubby Steven, may I kiss you before you depart?" The oval one looked down his nose at me and said, "You may kiss my ring." "Here! that's enough of that auld chat." I said. "My mammy warned me about dirty auld brutes like you!"

All this and more I have seen through the window of Ken's house, where Ken was viciously sticking pins into an effigy of Gerry Anderson and pulling out what little hair he had left. Play an auld "come-all-yeh" Kid, just for little Ken.Think of his hair!!!

Oh, ask little Ken if he every heard this little ditty.

MY GRANNY WAS DOHERTY

SHE WAS THE BLOOD

SHE DROVE A STEAM ENGINE

THE TIME OF THE FLOOD

(Traditional)

SEAN'S SHORTS

Great show yesterday Kid. Full of wit and humour that Norman Wisdom or Jimmy Carr could only aspire to. "Tommy," I said to my cat. "Did my eyes deceive me, or did Sean Coyle say that he did not have any trousers on yesterday?" "That's what the man said!" said Tommy. "Do you mean to tell me," I said "that Mr Coyle was sitting among the girls, wearing his-knickers?" "That's the word on the street," said Tommy. "That's what he gets for going on foreign holidays!" I yelled. "The lad has gone native. Coyle has gone all-Latin. He'll be growing a wee Errol Flynn moustache next, just you wait and see." Tommy launched a long range missile towards North Korea and said, "I thought appearing in his knickers would be against Mr Coyle's strict Catholic upbringing. Does it not say in Leviticus, "Woe to he who throws off his strides and cavorts in public places, wearing only a smile and a pair of knickers?" "Of course it does!" I cried. "It's an-abomination! That's what it is, an abomination and for two pins I would jump on my bike and go tell Iris Robinson." Tommy sniggered and said, "I wonder what colour Mr Coyle's knickers are?" "I don't know," I replied, "But I'm sure at one time, they were white."

Tommy went to the window to see if there was any reply from North Korea and said, "Gerry has a lot to put up with. Did you hear the woman who came on and blamed Gerry because she found out that Tom Jones was 69 years old?" "I did," I said. "That's what you get for sitting in a darkened room, surrounded by cats, playing Delilah over and over again. You lose touch with reality." Oh, that reminds me," said Tommy, pulling out his mobile phone and punching in a number. "Hello, Hello, could I speak to Mr Mark Durkin please?-Thank you. Yes Mark, yes Mark, I understand Mark." Tommy snapped shut his mobile phone and said, "You will be glad to know that the reality still-is." "Thank goodness!" I cried. "I was afraid that the warm weather and the drop in the pound might make the reality-it! or horror of horrors--dumplings!" "Heaven preserve us!" said Tommy. "No, Mark Durkin assures me that the reality still-is and will remain-is as long as he is leader of the SDLP.""Who are the-SDLP?" I asked. "I'm not quite sure," said Tommy. "I think it stands for "Sausage Dinners Lead to Plumpness." "Of course," I cried, slapping a thigh that just happened to be passing. "I remember the SDLP, Their leader was Gerry Fitt. It was he who brought the simmet back from obscurity to the height of fashion.". "Lynda Byrons wears a simmet," said Tommy. "And Donna Trainor, but they don't call it a simmet, they call it a-wee top." "The intellectual ostentatiousness of our leading female newscasters make countless thousands weep," I said. "I've been saying that for years," said Tommy, "but the only one who listened to me was Micky Bradley!"

All this and more have I seen from a dark nook in Ann Summers, as Sean Coyle sneaks in and whispers, "A pair of knickers in lime green please, with plenty of room round the fork."

Oh, the rascal! Did that saintly man Leviticus die in vain???

COOL CAT

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. In spite of the heat, your good self, Senor Coyle and the girls sat sweltering on blocks of ice, attired in short simmets bearing the radio Foyle logo, two crossed ricket legs, and put out a show that had chipmunks clapping and the rare bald-headed corncrake rolling in the isles. Go to the front of the class and take out a photograph of a lollypop from the big glass jar. I looked at Tommy my cat, who was playing poker with Henry the hoover in the corner and said, "Put that poker down Tommy, I want to ask you a question. What did you think of the comical genius we sent to Scotland to represent Northern Ireland?" Tommy, screwed up his eyes and mused, Jeyes Fluid will soon clean that up, and replied, "Well, speaking for myself, I found him hysterically funny. He comes with a good pedigree, that particular lad of whom you speak, studied for 5 years at the comedic feet of none other than-Edwin Poots!" I staggered back until I came to a wall that someone had thoughtfully built there and exclaimed, "Not THE Edwin Poots who runs on stage yelling, "Hey missus, hey missus, did you know that I'm an MLA? That's right missus, I'm an MLA, Mad, Loony and Assine. Eh, I don't know, sometimes I make myself laugh." The very same!" said Tommy. "Edwin Poots! Ulster's premier comic, appearing every day at the Stormont Fun Palace, standing room only." The length of time Tommy and I spent at the foot of our stairs, was indeterminate and incalcuable, but you must remember we were paying humble homage to--Edwin Poots!

I watched Tommy prepare dinner, by throwing spuds up in the air and hitting them into a saucepan with a cricket bat and said, "Tommy, you never sweat. not even on the hottest day, do you drop one bead of sweat.. Why Tommy-why?" Tommy winked, which made him look, vile, rude, vulgar and repulsive and replied, "Every cat has a small built in fan. In the Winter the fan blows hot air, and on a warm day, like today the fan blows ice cold air, ergo, cats never sweat." "Where is it?" I yelled. "I want to see this feline fan. Where is it?" "You can't see the fan," said Tommy. "It's internal. But come over here and listen. What do you hear?" "Why Tommy!" I cried. "You're purring, you must be very happy and content." Tommy laughed and said, "That's not me purring, that's the sound of the little fan whirling round and round." "But for years," I cried ,"For years, people have thought...."

"I know!" cried Tommy, going into fits of mad feline laughter. For years people thought that cats showed pleasure by purring, but we don't, it's our little fans, whirling round and round." And the hysterical feline lay on his back, kicking his thin, scrawny legs in the air. I felt--cheated. All that petting, all the rubbing of ears and all I got in return was the whirr of a little feline fan. I glared at Tommy and said, "I hope your little internal fan is nowhere near your tail." "Why?" said Tommy and I gave him a riser with my toe which is still talked about yet, whenever cats gather round a campfire to tell scary stories to each other.

All this and more have I seen from behind Tubby Nolan's four poster bed. The Tubby one has notches cut in the headboard, one for each hundred-weight of Mars he has scoffed. And I saw his po, delicate pink with a picture of Chris Moyles on the bottom.