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!