A LATE VOCATION

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. You may be falling off your feet, but the way you put yourself out working for your many, many fans is admiral. I have searched the dictionary from A to B and the only word that sums up your show is-Admiral.

So take a bow Kid, but hold on to something while you take it.

"That takes me back to the war," I said, as I looked at Tommy my cat with a gas mask over his face cleaning out our respective litter trays.

"PHEW!" said Tommy, "That was a hard job. We must clean these respective litter trays twice a year from now on."

I made a note of that in my diary under-S. The-S stands for, shoveling out respective litter trays.

"Well Tommy," I said, "apart from the smell, did you enjoy the show?"

Tommy smiled, wiped his little feline brow with the national flag of Lichtenstein and replied,

"Eeh, that show has fair set me up for the day. Eeh by gum I could handle anything now. Even trouble at mill."

I could see that Tommy was in gritty, North of England mode, so I gave him a small riser to bring him out of it and said, "So you would give the show full marks?"

"Not quite my old trout," said Tommy, "There was something missing from the show that has me deeply worried and perplexed."

"And what would that be?" I yelled. "That show had everything, even Lord of The Rings dancing."

Tommy looked all around and whispered, "I am worried about......

"Jim?" I said.

"No, Sean." said Tommy. "At no time in the show did Mr Coyle interupt and say, "I was talking to a man last night."

"Gadzooks and fish hooks!" I yelled. "You're right. Oh, dear what can the matter be, if Coylers ain't talking to men in the lavatory?"

"No, No," said Tommy, "You got me wrong. I think Mr Coyle is staying at home, kneeling in a bare room praying, fasting and meditating."

"Meditating about-what?" I yelled."Interupting?"

"I think," whispered Tommy, "that Mr Coyle has a late vocation."

"Another holiday?" I yelled. "Now someone will have to give Lynda McCauly a she-ite."

"A vocation," said Tommy, "Not a vacation. I think Mr Coyle wants to be a priest. Just think, Father Sean Coyle, it has a ring to it don't you think?"

"So has a cracked bell," I yelled, "but it's still cracked and so are you for coming up with these outlandish notions, stories and-and-tittle-tattle for tittle-tattlers!"

"There were bad words at the end of that sentence," said Tommy.

"So what?" I yelled. "Let the censor take them out. How are you all of a sudden, little Tommy Whitehouse?"

After a three week silence Tommy said,

"Hey rat bag, what's the deal with little Kerry Katona? Why did she get the big heave-ho from Iceland?"

I stuffed cotton wool in the ears that the walls have and whispered,

"Little Kerry Katona was sticking things up her nose."

"Up her nose?" said Tommy. "Surely you mean up..."

"No, up her nose," I said.

"What sort of things was Miss Kerry Katona sticking up her nose?" said Tommy.

"The usual," I said, "You know how children are, marbles, ball bearings, six inch nails, pliers, frying pans, a harpoon gun, a three piece suite, OH-and a big bottle of Coke."

"The last one was probably the final straw for the management," said Tommy, as he walked away with his paws behind his back muttering,

"Kerry Katona, small lady, big hooter."

All this and more have I seen from Sean Coyle's sparse, monk's cell as he whipped the back of himself with a cat called Ginger that had nine tails.

It will all end in tears!

Turned out nice again. I think I will leave the garden gate open to freshen up the garden with sultry breezes from Ballymena.

Hens, ferrets and electricity

Great show yesterday Kid. Who would have thought that hens suffer from skitter? I thought the life of a hen was one huge skitter extravaganza!

And Jordie's answer was-internment! Has the Tufter learned nothing from history? Does the rural oracle want to see the chooks take to the street, led by a bare-footed rooster wearing nothing but a blanket?

I think this foolishness should stop and stop right now!

I looked at Tommy my cat who was curled up sleeping in front of the fire. Tommy was pretending to be an MLA. I attracted his attention by saying his name and dancing a tango with Rose Neill between my teeth. "Tommy!" I yelled. "The country is in peril, slip into your Catman suit like a good boy." In a nano second, Tommy stood before me, in the guise of-"Catman", superhero and amateur classical guitarist.

"Tommy," I cried, "pray tell why some of Gerry's listeners find his levels low and can barely hear him?"

Tommy roared "SHAZAM!" and replied-merrily,

"The answer, like you, is simple. Electricity, like water finds it difficult to run up hill. I would surmise," said Tommy, "that all the complaints come from people who live on top of hills."

"Is there nothing we can DO?" I shrieked. "Don't tell me this is another Northern Ireland International football problem. Tommy! Is there nothing we can DO?"

Tommy-pondered, yes, right in front of my eyes, on the good carpet that I haven't even paid for. Tommy pondered and said,

"What Gerry needs is an electricity booster that will push the electricity up hills."

"Where can we get one?" I yelled.

Tommy pondered, Yes! again! I couldn't believe it either and said,

"Unfortunately the X500 Super Dooper power booster will not be invented until March the 6th 2013."

"A time machine," I yelled, "my kingdom for a time machine!" Tommy handed me a Micky Mouse alarm clock and said--heroically,

"Like they say in most good thrillers, there may be a way to short cut the circuitry."

"Can we do it Tommy?" I yelled "Time is of the essence and thyme itself is indeed an essence. But we must hurry. Even as we speak, people are sitting atop hills, shrieking, yelling, and Aye lad-screaming, screaming, because they can't hear Gerry or Sean."

"Ferrets!" yelled Tommy.

"You wot?" I cried. "You're 'aving a laugh, ain't yah?"

"NO!" cried Tommy. "What we need is an army of ferrets, wearing rubber crash helmets, who will push the electricity up hill."

I patted Tommy's cheeks and said, "What 'ave I always said Eh?. What 'ave I always said? You're my boy Tommy. You're my boy. Stick with me Kid and you'll go far. But 'ang about. I got to get on the blower to that geezer-Jordie Tuft. "Allo, 'allo, that you Jordie, my old mate? Listen, Jordie old son, I need ferrets. Fousands and Fousands of ferrets. You come through for me Jordie my old son and there's a drink in it for yah. Toodle pip old son, give my best to the menagerie. No Jordie, my old son. Not menage a' trois,-menagerie!. You been too long down on the farm my old son."
And that children is how every one in Northern Ireland was able to hear the Gerry show. Hear it with Clarity, who had just dropped in to see us all, but could only stay a while. He didn't take his coat off, 'cause he ain't stopping.

All this and more have I seen as, yet again, Lynda Byron chased me out of her bedroom ,like a chook out of a hen house. All my entreaties that I was just in there to view the wood chip wall paper, fell on deaf, but very pretty little pink ears. Why does Lynda not understand my passion, my undying passion for wood chip wall paper?

Turned out nice again, think I'll water the self raising flour! Care to join me?

I SPY ON EBAY

Hi Kid. On Monday Tommy my cat and I got up at half past four to await another week of GREAT SHOWS.

To while away the time we played, I SPY. After two hours, the game ended in a nil, nil draw. Tommy couldn't guess that I was looking at him and I couldn't guess that Tommy was looking at me! I know! What are the chances of that happening?

As the wind howled like a banshee, rain drummed on the roof and tumble weeds, caught in a flash flood surged past my window, I put on a video and Tommy and I sang along with Cliff Richard as he crooned, SUMMER HOLIDAY. The big red bus was brilliant in that film.Why it didn't get an oscar nomination I'll never know. As I idly flicked through the Sunday papers, Tommy switched on the computer, turned to me and said, "I say old thing, I haven't had a chance to glance at the Sunday papers yet. What would you say are the main news stories?"

"It's hard to say," I replied. "It was a busy week for news, but if pushed, I suppose the two items that caught my eye were

"KITTENS. FREE TO GOOD HOME" and

"PETROL CAN MAN SEEKS SPOUSE. MUST BE NON SMOKER."

"Good for him," said Tommy. "The petrol can man, must have a full collection of petrol cans and has now decided to settle down."

"I can see them now." I said, "sitting on an orange Harry Corry sofa, staring with pride and satisfaction at display cases of-petrol cans."

"Bliss." said Tommy. "What more could a man want?"

I looked at Tommy and said,

"Anything strange or startling on eBay?"

"Funny you should ask," said Tommy.

"I am just looking at an ankle sock that belonged to-Donna Trainor."

"What does it say Tommy!" I yelled. "Don't just sit there! What does it say!"

Tommy slipped his reading glasses over his sticky-up ears and read,

"Ankle sock. Can be worn on either foot. Once belonged to one of Newsline's premier newscasters, Donna Trainor. Starting bid, 99pence, no bids yet, five days to run."

"It's too good to be true!" I yelled. "It must be a fake."

"NO, it's not," said Tommy. "Listen to this,

"This ankle sock is the genuine article. Comes with certificate stating that DNA from the hand of Noel Thompson was found on the ankle sock that once clung like a limpet to the slender, shapely shin of, Donna Trainor."

"What are you waiting for?" I yelled. "Slap a bid of £100 pounds on it.
It will go lovely with my framed mink thong as worn by Julian Symmons."

Tommy, mused, pondered and said,

"I wonder if the DNA from the hand of Pamela Ballentine was found on the thong of Jul......"

"Don't go there!" I yelled. "Bad Tommy. Bad, bad Tommy. Go to your bed. I'll give you a call when Gerry comes on." But it does make you think!-- NO! NO! It's not possible.

"Bad, bad Tommy. Go to your bed, before I skelp the backs of your legs."

All this and more have I seen as the mountains of Mourne sweep down to see Noel Thompson leap stiles with the grace, agility and animalistic splendor of a mountain goat. As Noel cantered off to butt heads with other mountain goats, I was left sad and lonely. Only the heavy scent of musk in the air to remind me of Noel Thompson and his amazing,unnatural ability to leap stiles.

Multi-talented, that's what Noel Thompson is, multi-talented!

TROUBLE IN HOUSE

The house was packed as I got to my feet clutching my speech in my nervous hand.
Tommy my cat, wearing a lovely steel grey suit sat on the government bench.
Norbert the maverick outspoken budgie sat on the opposition perch. Norbert had often been thrown out of the house for old buck and conduct not becoming a gentleman.
I looked at the stereo in the corner and yelled, "Mr Speaker".
"Here, here" cried Tommy.
"Resign" yelled Norbert.
"Mr Speaker" I yelled "I come to this house today, to expose North Korea as a tyrant and bully and to offer my support to brave little South Korea in their battle for freedom".
"Here, here" yelled Tommy.
"Rubbish!" cried Norbert.
"Honourabe members of this house" I roared.
"I second that!" yelled Tommy.
"Go home" yelled Norbert.
"Honourabe members" I yelled "Somewhere on the map, if you care to search, you will find a small country called-Korea".
"Jolly good show" cried Tommy.
"Too little too late" yelled Norbert.
"Poor wee Korea is split in two" I roared.
"Shame!" cried Tommy.
"Sit down" yelled Norbert.
"In the North you have North Korea" I yelled "And in the South you have South Korea".
"Talk about stating the bleeding obvious" yelled Norbert.
"Go on" yelled Tommy "Don't be put off by a communist budgie who would raise taxes on the rich and allow the birds of the air to settle here and poo on our cars".
"Mr Speaker" I yelled "I wish today, in this house to pledge my undying support for poor wee South Korea and condemn-utterly the bully boy tactics of North Korea".
"You tell it like it is" yelled Tommy
"Blah, blah, blah" cried Norbert.
"Today" I yelled "I plan to make a gesture".
"Here's a gesture" laughed Norbert, sticking two claws up in the air.
"Unconstitutional Mr Speaker" roared Tommy.
"Leave him" I yelled "We all know what he stands for. If he had his way, Russian tanks would be on every street in Northern Ireland".
"I object" yelled Norbert.
"The right honourable budgie doesn't like it" I yelled. "He doesn't like it when the bright spotlight of truth shows up his dark, dishonourabe black intentions".
"I'm enjoying myself" I yelled "I'm enjoying myself"
"Knickers!" yelled Norbert.
"And knickers to you too" cried Tommy.
"Mr Speaker" I yelled "I have something in my hand. I wonder if any of the honourabe gentlemen can guess what I hold in my hand".
"A turd" cried Norbert.
"A brown envelope" roared Tommy.
"Mr Speaker" I cried "I hold in my hand a-stone".
"Here, here, here" cried Tommy.
"Shame!" yelled Norbert "Resign you old bag".
"Mr Speaker" I thundered "I plan now to leave this house...
"About time" yelled Norbert.
"Shut up" roared Tommy.
"I plan to leave this house Mr Speaker and in a gesture of solidarity with my brothers and sisters in South Korea, cast his stone, this rock, this fragment of breeze block, this missile, towards the black evil heart of North Korea".
"There's going to be a fight" yelled Tommy.
"Peace in our time" roared Norbert.
I then left the house of democracy and free speech and took up my stance in the middle of the road. I drew back my arm, yelled, "LET FREEDOM RING" and cast the stone towards North Korea. I heard a scream, the clatter of a bicycle and when I looked, I was horrified to see I had knocked a non-singing nun of her Raleigh chopper.
"Sister, Sister" I cried "I am so sorry. I did not see you. The stone that drew blood from your sainted head, was meant for the evil war mongers in-North Korea".
"The amount of effing and blinding directed in my direction was lewd, crude and extensive.
Really, I expected more from the Poor Claire's!!!
They must be taking any one these days.

TROUBLE SPOTS AND MEDIATION

Great show yesterday Kid, but it was a strange show,no insults, no put downs, no acts of bodily harm. It almost seemed that you and Mr Coyle were getting along and horror of horrors, actually "liking" each other!

Tommy my cat picked up on it right away. The sensitive feline who was sitting on a bundle of Northern bank £20 notes, softly strumming a lyre, looked up at me and said, "That's odd!"

"It is odd," I muttered, "and I detest oddness of any description. I wonder what is going on?"

Tommy, still softly strumming on the lyre said,

"The word in the hood is, that Senator George Mitchell was seen leaving Gerry's house at four o'clock in the morning!"

"Mediation!" I yelled.

"You wot?" said Tommy.

"Mediation!" I cried. "The feud between Gerry and Sean has now taken on the importance of the Middle East and President Obama has sent Senator Mitchell to mediate between the waring factions."

"Do any of the two lads have access to nuclear weapons?" said Tommy.

"Only after a surfeit of baked beans," I said.

"But it's as plain as the wart on my nose, Gerry and Sean have now become a "Trouble Spot!"

"YIKES!" screamed Tommy.

"Yikes indeed my fine feathered friend," I replied.

"The roads will be packed with envoys, rushing from one to the other to-mediate. School buses will be late for school. Dung spreaders will crowd the lay-bys and Baggott's boys, with blues and twos flashing will clear a path for the all important peace envoys."

"Chaos!" screamed Tommy. "Thunder ball and lightening, very, very frightening!"

I went to sleep and yelled,"I have a dream. A dream where wee Ulster will return to the Stone Age, due to over mediation, reflection and looking back."

"Tommy strummed the riff from, Smoke On The Water, on the electric lyre and said,

"But what can we do? Oh Lord, you made my head so big and my brain so small."

"The only way to fight mediation," I yelled "is WITH mediation! I want you, Tommy cat, to go to Stroke City and go on a whispering campaign. Creep up on Gerry and whisper.

"Don't trust Coyle, he is nothing but a propagandist and a procrastinator." Then go to wee Sean's lug hole and whisper,

"Gerry says you have a big head and play golf more like Eli Wood than Tiger Woods."

Tommy saluted and said, "You can depend on me, my cap-i-tan."

That should fix their wagon. Let's see how they like them apples.

All this and more have I seen as I went through Angie the weather girl's drawers. Hidden away in a secret drawer I found many hot Summers that little Angie had stamped "TOO GOOD FOR THE GULPINS" and had instead paid good money on the black market for cold, rainy Summers. Why does she hate us so?

Answers on a postcard to Frank McCrory care off-UTV-LIVE.

Barnacles and muffins

What a great show to start the week Kid. After a four day orgy of tall ships, it was good to hear Lazarus, aka-Jordie speaking from the tomb where he grows his mushrooms.

The BBC coverage of the tall ships was first class and no injuries or cases of scurvy to report. The only casualty was the little land lubber from Strabane,Hugo Duncan, who was taken into dry dock to have the barnacles scraped from his bottom. No man, or indeed woman, suffering from duck's disease should be allowed near tall ships. It's an open invitation to any barnacle who may be lurking in the deep. "LOOK!" the barnacles scream. "A little short ass, let's go and attach ourselves to his bottom."

I looked at Tommy my cat who was pretending to be Nero. Tommy, dressed in imperial purple, was fiddling frantically as he watched a sofa he had just set alight, flash back over the ceiling and set fire to my prized collection of shrunken heads.

I drew Tommy's attention by saying his name, "Tommy," I said ,"did you hear Gerry allude to the fact that all Italian women over the age of 25 turn into muffins?"

"I did." said Tommy. "but when the Mafia call later tonight, tell Gerry not to worry, they only ever hurt their own."

"I think Gerry's right," I said, as I filled a blow pipe with poisoned darts and took potshots out of the window. Jim Rodgers gave a scream of, "Nigh-Nigh-NIGH!" as a dart hit him in the rear. Three of Baggott's best, that's policeman to you and me, rushed up and began to throw dice to see who would suck the poison out. They need not have bothered. Gary Lineker ran up and applied his lips to Jim's rear. Gary Lineker is SO sickening and nice. He's always sucking up to someone.

But back to the story. "Yes Tommy," I said. "Italian girls do turn into muffins after the age of 25 and I know-WHY!"

"And WHY exactly is that?" said Tommy, coming in right on cue.

"SALAMI!" I yelled. "When Italian girls get married, they have a bambino and then they get stuck into the vino and salami, which brings on acute-muffiness."

"There must be something we can DO!" yelled Tommy.

"There IS!" I yelled.

"What is IT!" yelled Tommy.

"We must," I yelled. "We must, hide the-SALAMI!"

Tommy looked at me puzzled and said, "Is that not an analogy for........

"DON'T GO THERE!" I screamed. "Don't you dare go there. Do you want Gerry to lose his job? Have you learned nothing after the Jonathon Ross and Russel Brand affair?"

"Crumbs," muttered Tommy.

"Crumbs indeed, my fine feathered friend," I said, as I kicked the be-jesus out of the zinc alloy coal bucket with my bare feet. I do that sometimes to relieve stress!

All this and more have I seen from Lynda Byron's refurbished hen house. You should see it. It's state of the art, concealed lighting, lovely inlaid wooden floor, central heating, soothing piped music, a 48 inch plasma TV, private cubicles where the hens can change into their white terry towel dressing gowns and Rodney the rooster has a reclining chair, complete with tray for his spectacles and briar pipe!

Gerry, what chook wouldn't want to live in a house like-THAT????

A THING OF BEAUTY

What great shows you put out last week Kid, as good, if not better, than Tommy Trinder at his best! What lucky people we are! Tommy my cat came in, oh he was in a state. "Tommy!" I cried. "What is the cause of this-this horrible, tarra, indescribable state you have got yourself into?"

Tommy gulped, a little trick he picked up from Norbert the goldfish and yelled,

"They have gone!"

"Who have gone?" I cried. "The dreaded piles or the people next door who refuse to have late night parties and play loud music?"

"The ships!" yelled Tommy. "The tall ships have-gone!"

"Thank goodness for that!" I yelled. "Those tall ships were a blight, a blot on the landscape. Now I have a clear view of the gasworks and the rat infested landfill site."

Tommy bristled, oh yes,Tommy bristled and screamed,

"Philistine! That's what you are, a Philistine.

You have no eye for beauty, no ear for music and no knees for playing the spoons on!"

"I know what I like!" I yelled. "I love the dribblings of Jackson Pollock. And you can stop giggling and clean out your ears you filthy feline, you know fine well I said-Pollock. Formaldehyde shark," I yelled, "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever! The unmade bed of Tracey Emin, complete with crumpled knickers, poetry in motion! None of the old masters had the nerve to show THEIR knickers, but Tracey said, "Here I am, a dirty slapper, a strumpet, who could drink any newt under the table. What you see is what you get."

"Filth!" said Tommy. "Nothing but filth, con artists and people proving just how thick and stupid the artistic world is. It's the Emperor's new clothes all over again!" screamed Tommy. "But in reality, the Emperor is completely-naked."

"Where is this naked Emperor hanging?" I yelled. "I must go there and inspect his credentials."

As I bent over to change into my shell suit, Tommy gave me a feline riser that sent me flying out into the street, which, fortunately for me, ran by my front door. Ah, I love the smell of tar, but eventually I got to my feet and froze as I encountered the massive, terrible bulk of-Tubby Nolan.

"21 stone, not skin and bone," I sang, as I ran counter clockwise round his huge mass. I ducked and weaved to avoid small moons and asteroids who were orbiting in a clockwise direction, trapped for all eternity by the massive gravitational pull of Ulster's super nova. "I wonder if Patrick Moore is watching Tubby tonight through a telescope?" I said to the new Chief Constable Matt Baggott. "Move along," growled Chief Constable Baggot. "There's nothing to see here, just a phenomenon of time, fat, space, and reality.

"Baggott!" I yelled, "Sir Hugh Orde was a gentleman, but you Sir,are a cad and a bounder."

Boy, Baggott can sure use a baton. I didn't think my head was big enough to hold the number of bumps that Baggott's baton put on it.

Tommy dragged me indoors by one leg and applied a poultice of tadpole giblets, crushed earwigs and the adam's apple from a mature, male newt to my throbbing noggin and six months later-the pain had gone!

All this and more have I seen from the pillion of Noel Batty's huge 2,000 cc Harley Davidson motor bike.

Down the M1 we sped singing, "Nearer My God To Thee," and "The Highway To Hell." The title of the song was dictated by the danger of the corner and how long Noel delayed the application of brakes.

Turned out nice again! Think I'll pack a picnic hamper and take it to bed.

TOO MANY LETTERS

Great shows this week Kid. What a lot we learned about Mr Coyle this week. Apparently Thaddeaus hates, sperm whales, swash buckling, Russel Crow and the house of the rising sun! Then he had the brass neck to try and rewrite history, by stating he was never on the roof of Rossville flats. Well, who was the black clad ninja figure who leaped from roof to roof, Joseph Locke? I think not. It was Mr Coyle, urging his fellow rioters to aim the stones at the security forces' shins. Mr Coyle was a folk hero in Stroke city. He was known as, "Raging Tiger" to his many followers. Now, he wants to deny his involvement because he was not made Minister for litter and dog poo up in Stormont. Shame I say. Shame on a man who would betray his past, to ensure he does not get thrown out of the golf club. Some may call him Sean, others Mr Coyle or Coylers, but to me, he will always be, "Raging Tiger", the scourge of the Bogside and surrounding districts.

There were five of us round the table, me, Tommy my cat, Jim Rodgers, Tubby Nolan and Lynda Byrons. Tommy banged a wooden spoon on the table and roared, "Order! Order! I now call this meeting to order. There is just one item on the agenda, and that is, what do we think of the new Chief constable of police, Matt Baggott?"

The lovely Lynda Byrons raised her little hand and said, "Mike and I would like to know what his policy will be regarding hens, roosters and free range eggs?"

"Hear! Hear!" screamed Jim Rodgers.

"Where? Where?" roared Tubby Nolan.

"ORDER! ORDER!" yelled Tommy. "The chair recognises woman with cat."

I got to my feet, raised an arm that was hanging by my side in the air and roared, "Three score years and ten make seventy, but that has nothing to do with what we are discussing tonight. I have a dream," I roared, "when the people will eat cake, go the extra mile and yell from the barricades, I too am a bell ringer. The lights," I yelled, "the lights are going out all over Europe as people go to bed! The dogs of war have been unleashed and all I can offer you is blood, sweat and tears. Give us the tools," I yelled, "and we will finish the job and men, not yet born will say, this was their finest hour."

I sat down to a stunned silence. I thought I heard Lynda Byrons mutter-"Bird brain."

"Nigh-Nigh-NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers, "what I want to know is why the new chief Constable is named after a street in-DUBLIN!"

It was Tubby Nolan who put his finger on it. Lynda looked away disgusted as Tubby yelled,

"Why does the new peeler have two G's and two T's in his name?"

"Good point," screamed Jim Rodgers. "On behalf of the Unionist people, I demand we strip him of one G, because that G could very well stand for-GREEN!"

"ORDER! ORDER!" yelled Tommy. "In order to preserve parity of esteem, if you take a G for the Unionists, I must give a T to the shinners, because T could stand for-TENSE. As in, The situation was-tense".

So there you have it, Baggott will now be known as Bagot and a ministry of chooks will be set up to please Lynda Byrons.

Now a bit of breaking news.

A pieman carrying 20 hot pies on his head, was mugged just outside Nolan Manors on the Malone Road. Police are looking for a slabberer who yelled, "Give me them pies-bucket bake!"

Police say they do have a suspect, but are waiting for a low-loader before arresting him.

All this and more have I seen in Ann Summers, as Julian Symmons was heard to shriek, "30 quid for them little things darling! Frankly, my dear, I'd rather go commando!"

IT'S A MAN'S LIFE IN THE COMMANDOS. Join NIGH!!!

"Who will be the first to scrawl

Baggott the maggot on a gable wall?

Sheamus

Heaney

Available for weddings, wakes and stag nights.

Missiles and Rockets

I looked at Tommy my cat as he fired a salvo of short range missiles towards Iran and said,

"What great shows Gerry put on last week Kid!"

Tommy stepped away from the Patriot rocket launcher he bought on eBay, removed his goggles and said,

"Yes indeed my old gherkin, but Gerry must be careful.Once Gerry has reached the peak, the zenith of excellence, people will expect the same level of excellence each and ever week. Excellence is difficult to maintain. Everyone, even Gerry and the venerable Jonathon Ross has off days."

"RUBBISH!" I yelled, as the dustbin man peeped in the window, "I know a man whose high state of excellence never falters."

"Tommy reloaded the Patriot rocket launcher and said over his shoulder,

"Ah, you speak of Hugo Duncan, the smallest man in Strabane."

"I DO!" I yelled, "And I don't care who knows it. I knew Hugo Duncan when he didn't have a pair of false teeth to bless himself with and look at him now! Hugo's home in Strabane is literally crammed with false teeth. Why, I have known Hugo Duncan change his false teeth five times a day!"

"It is true," said Tommy, "that fame has brought Hugo Duncan dental treasure beyond his wildest dreams, but with all his vast hoard of gnashers, you must admit, the lad is still a short ass."

"IN COMING!" I yelled and as Iran replied with fury and vengeance,I whammled Tommy under the kitchen table. You're walking on the fighting side of me, when you insult the wee, short ass man from Strabane.

Later, after a light lunch of offal, tripe, sheep's eyes and stewed prunes, Tommy and I hung ourselves on the wall and pretended to be the Hay Wain by Constable and The Laughing Constable by Hay Wain. As people flocked to view us, I winked through the aged varnish at Tommy and gave him the thumbs up. Once again we had shown just how corrupt, thick and stupid the so called experts of art are in this country. Whistler's mother stared at us and said, "Be-da and begorrah now,the painters who painted them two yokes were no dopes." Bonny wee Lord Laird wanted to buy me for £5,000.000 and seven pence, but I told him to sling his haggis. Give some boys a title and they think they know everything.

"QUICK!" yelled Tommy, "Tubby Nolan is zorbing down the street, knocking over old age pensioners and small, petite dwarfs from the Mississippi delta. "We must stop him!" I yelled, as I set fire to a gross of smoke alarms and sent smoke signals to the PSNI by flapping a blanket of fog over the leaping flames. The police, who seemed like nice boys, threw a stinger across the road and burst Tubby's zorb. "Hey Tubster!" I yelled, "I thought you swore you would never zorb again?" "I wasn't zorbing!" roared the amazing blubber man. "I was encapsulated in a giant chewing gum bubble."

"Like a woodlouse in amber," whispered Tommy. The police ran to get an alarm clock from a police car and gave Tubby a good ticking off.

All this and more have I seen, from the canteen of Newsline, where Mark Carruthers and Noel Thompson were fighting over the last heel from a pan loaf. Donna Trainor cheered them on as she sat on a blacksmith's anvil nibbling Ryvita and sipping fresh, spring, sparkling water all the way from Chernobyl. Donna was looking-lovely, she had a glow, a lovely green Hibernian glow!

THE KITTENISH CAPERS OF TOMMY THE CAT

I instructed my brain to peep through my eyes. It was then I saw Tommy my cat, rolled up in a duvet and grunting most horribly next to the baby grand tin whistle I bought on eBay. I got the whistle for a song. All I had to do was go over to England and sing, "I enjoy being a girl" to Herman the hermit, who lives in a forest just outside Southend-On-Sea.
I knew right away what Tommy was up too, Tommy was pretending to be a pig with human flu.
"Tommy!" I yelled "You swine, you stole my idea. Now I will have to pretend to be a pea-wheet with gallstones." And there we lay for the next three days, moaning, groaning and letting high pitched horrible yells and shrieks. Tommy gave a moan and croaked "When is the nurse coming round?" "I don't know" I replied "But I'll tell you one thing, it's too late for the screens."
Time like the hand grenade I swallowed passed and soon Tommy and I were up on our feet ready to face another day with stiff upper lips and bent and twisted knees.
Suddenly! I heard the sound of a cart pushing a donkey. "HARK!" I yelled. Putting my cupped hand to the place my ear used to be, before I painted Van Gogh's sunflowers.
"RAGS AND BONES" yelled a hoarse voice. "RAGS AND BONES. RAGS AND BONES".
I pressed a photocopy of a seven pound note into Tommy's paw and yelled. "Run out and get some rags and bones. QUICK! before they are all gone".
Soon! Tommy and I were staring at a pile of rags and bones. "What are you going to do with this lot?" said Tommy "Tommy" I chided "Use the brain that the good Dr Frankenstein gave you. With the bones we will make some nourishing soup" "And what will we do with the rags?" said Tommy.
"We will use the rags" I said "To clean up the puke after we have eaten the soup".
"DOH!" said Tommy, hitting himself on the forehead. "DOH! indeed my fine feathered friend" I said. "It's not enough to think, you have to keep thinking. Look at me, I thunk, therfore I was".
Just then, the Black Mountain erupted, with a horrible roar. Tommy and I gave a Hibernian yell, clasped hands and danced the Maid From Clare, as a river of molten lava rushed past the window.
Ah, Irish dancing, where would we be without it? Without Irish dancing, one might as well cut off one's feet and use them as bookends, or back scratchers, or-I suppose one could make soup with feet,BUT! how would one fetch the soup from the cooker to the table? Aye! there is the rub. Ah life, so short and yet so problematic!
I lay in the long grass, chewing a cud a cow had spit out and watching a a team of roped together ants trying to scale the North face of Tubby Nolan's gigantic fork. "OXYGEN!" screamed the leader of the ants. "OXYGEN, OXYGEN, in the name of all that's holy-OXYGEN!!!" I watched in horror, as the first ant fell, taking the second with him and soon all the ants were hurtling into the vast crevice that lay between the massive thighs of Ireland's premier glutton.
I looked at the chubby fingers that had launched a thousand chips. The small, red rosebud lips that had served as a portal for chips, Mars, Milky Way and roasted wildebeest and said.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the tubbiest of them all?" "I am!" growled Tubby "And I aim to keep it that way. They say size doesn't matter" growled the oval one "But I say-FIE! I say-Fie. I also say, Rubbish, balderdash and slabber". "Tell me dearest Steven" I said "Did you meet any nice girls on your holiday?" Tubby mused, ruminated, pondered and replied-fatly.
"I did meet a plump, fat Fraulein in Germany. She was roasting a pig on the village green. It was love at first sight. I lumbered over and said, "Can I take you home?" "And did you?" I asked "Did you take her home?" "I sure did" said Tubby, with an evil leer. "And what did you do Steven?" I yelled "What did you do when you took the fat, plump one home?" Tubby looked at me and growled. "I ate her of course". "WHAT!" I yelled "You asked to take a German Fraulein home and then you-ate her?" "Of course not!" yelled Tubby "I never spoke to the German Fraulein, I was talking to the roasted PIG!" "TUBBY, TUBBY, TUBBY" I sighed. "What are we going to do with you?" "Feed me" growled Tubby "Baby HUNGRY!!!"
I held out two of my arms and cried, "COME TO MAMMA!"