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!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment