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.