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?