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.