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.