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!