Cats and Dogs are just like us

What a great show to start the week Kid. In a world of doom, debt and dandruff, you shine out like a beacon of hope and enthusiasm. On my way to the red light district to buy a tail light for Tommy, my cat's' bicycle, I happened to pass the abode of Mr Samuel Wilson.

Through the open window I could hear our Sammy trying to work out the financial budget. I listened as Sammy, wearing a lovely 1962 Burton's suit and a convict's haircut said,

"Six and six is twelve. Put down the two and carry the wan." I went on my way, safe in the knowledge that the fiscal future of Norn Iron was safe in the hands of such a brilliant mathematician. So many outstanding mathematicians forget to carry the-wan!

After a lunch of special mince spread on quite ordinary bread, Tommy my cat, wiped his lips on a puce velvet napkin, finished his glass of Blue Nun and said,

"Come out to the back yard."

"Why?" I asked.

"I want to knock your block off," said Tommy.

I picked my teeth out of the new GNASHERS catalogue and said,

"Why would you want to knock my block off little Tommy?"

Tommy glared at me and said,

"After the fall of the Sunningdale agreement, did you, or did you not say to Brian Faulkner

"Brian, I have a little kitten called Tommy at home, who is as thick as two short planks."

"Tommy," I said, "that was so long ago. You were just a little kitten, doing your business everywhere. You were not house trained."

"Come out to the back yard," said Tommy, "and I'll house train you!"

"Tommy," I said, "why are you raking up the past? Let it lie Tommy. Let it lie."

"Come out to the back yard," said Tommy, "And I'll let you lie."

I looked at little Tommy, sitting there fuming, with his little fists tight shut. Then! It hit me! Of course Tommy was brought up in Norn Iron. So it would be quite logical for little Tommy to let things lie, only to bring them up years later and start the whole thing up again! I gasped at the realisation that the cats and the dogs in the street were just like the rest of us. They never forget. I was backed into an historical corner. There was only one thing to do and I did it. I took Tommy out into the back yard and whammled him under the old zinc bath that was hanging on the wall. Now, it could be put behind us, but not forgotten. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in 10 or 20 years time, Tommy would come to me again and say.

"Come out to the back yard. I want to knock your block off."

I lay suppine in the long grass with Tubby Nolan. Tubby, wearing a mask and a striped gansy was peering through binoculars at a busy main road.He was planning a heist. The oval one had a dastardly plan to hijack a prawn cocktail crisp lorry.

"Listen up punk," said Tubby. "Here's the plan. I'll sprint onto the road, drop my trousers and bend over. The driver will stop, and get out to see what the huge obstruction is. That is when you run to the back of the lorry, jemmy the door open and purloin as many boxes of prawn cocktail crisps as you can carry. GO, GO, GO!" yelled Tubby. I watched in horror as Tubby lumbered towards the road, pulling and yanking at the large belt that encircled his mighty circumference. The huge truck hooted like a train, as Tubby stood in the middle of the road, unable to slip his massive trousers over his impressive derriere. As the truck sped off, Tubby yelled, "Bucket-bake and slabberer" after it. Then, due to the pulling and yanking, Tubby's trousers fell round his ankles with a sodden twill plop.

And once AGAIN!, the Sydnam by-pass was caught up in the mother of all traffic jams. I made it back to the hideout but Tubby never showed. He was too busy talking to Matt Baggott, the new sheriff in town. Once again, wily coyote had been beaten by the big truck with Roadrunner written on the grill. When will he ever learn? When will he-ever-learn?

All this and more have I seen from Tubby's massive trouser pocket,where half a stone of brandy balls covered in fluff, lurch and sway as Tubby sprints after an ice cream van,

with a pound coin clutched in his little hot, sweaty, chubby hand.

Turned out nice again. Could be an Indian Summer. Hope it's not, Big Chief Rain In The Face!

SINS and SCAPEGOATS

Great show yesterday Kid! Burning the midnight oil with the second hand CD player the BBC bought on eBay certainly paid off. It never pays to buy complicated electrical goods that come without a manual. On your behalf let me appeal to your listeners.

Listen up you lot. If you have an old CD player gathering dust in the garage, or the attic, for God's sake send it to Gerry.

NOW, you just need to spend a night or two with Mr Coyle and fix the glitches and hitches of that most complicated of men. And once again! No manual. God sent him out without one thinking perhaps, that Mr Coyle like the Bic razor and the Biro pen was disposable.

Catholics are so lucky to have confessions.

This morning I was sitting on a hard chair punching the face of myself for the naughty sins I had committed last night. That's what Prods do.

It's either that, or go through all the trouble of being born again.It's the bit with the placenta that I can't stand. As I spat out a gum shield and wiped the blood from my face, Tommy my cat walked in.

"Not again!" said Tommy. "This is the second time this week!"

"I know," I muttered through a thick lip. "There's a ship in from Papua, New Guinea and some of the little dwarf sailors are SOOO- pretty."

"Why don't you turn and be a Taig?" said Tommy. "It would save a lot of wear and tear on your face."

"NEVER!" I yelled. "Never, never, NEVER! If I became a Taig, mummy and daddy would spin in their urn."

"There is another way to get rid of sin," said Tommy.

"What is it?" I yelled. "WHAT IS IT?"

"It goes by the name of-scapegoat," said Tommy. "What you do, is buy an old buck goat from Jordie, load all your sins on it and send the goat to the barren desert, that is Bellman to die.".

"Do you think I'm made of money?" I yelled.

"I can't afford to buy three or four hundred buck goats every year."

Tommy mused, pondered, thought and said.

"There is another way. In certain parts of America, where the banjo is the instrument of choice and kissing cousins takes on a whole new meaning, there used to be an outcast known as the Sin Eater. For a small fee, this recluse would eat your sins and take the punishment for said sins on Judgement Day."

I ran to the yellow pages and cried, "Stationery, stockings, studs, stocks, saxophones, where are the Sin Eaters?" I yelled. "I can't find the Sin Eater's."

"Alas!" said Tommy, "The Sin Eaters have all died out. BUT! I know one, an oval lardish one, who would willingly eat your sins, if they looked like-chips."

Now when the Taigs go to confession on Saturday night, you may see me on my way to Tubby Nolan's house. And you may see in my hands, a steaming fish supper. But what you don't see are my horrible, naughty sins floating in the grease and vinegar in the bottom of the bag.

Tubby Nolan is my secret Sin Eater and people no longer take me for Rinty Monaghan on the street.

All this and more have I seen from the studio of Talkback, where Wendy "House" Austin has put up frilly little curtains, painted the walls girlie pink and glued the toilet seat down. Men in the throes of heftedness need not knock on the door of Talkback. Wendy will tell them sweetly, tenderly and indeed-gently to-SLING THEIR HOOK!

A new broom certainly does sweep clean.

I remember David Dunseith just had a po in the corner!

Turned out nice again! Must be the weather.

BEDROOM SLIPPERS AND WARTS

I backed slowly out of my bedroom to make sure I still wasn't in my bed. When I got to the landing, I made the sound of feet going down the stairs with my mouth. Then! peeped back into my bedroom. The bed was empty, so, reassured that I was up and about, I made my way down the stairs. I was wearing a lovely pair of kingfisher blue, Persian bedroom slippers. The slippers were hand made by Marcus Spratt, the well known and greatly loved Persian slipper-smith.

I love my Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers. I would not sell them for any amount of money, or indeed any cubic capacity of stewed prunes, which I think, says a lot about me, my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers and the great love, devotion and respect I have for my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers.

£100?--No sir!

A 50 gallon drum of stewed prunes?--No sir!

The Marcus Spratt hand made Persian slippers are not for sale. No sirree.

As I consulted a ground floor map of my house to find the living room, I found Tommy my cat fulfilling a life long dream. He was slowly roasting in the oven with an apple in his mouth. For years little Tommy had wanted to pretend he was a suckling pig. The feline even wrote to Jim Will Fix It. Jimmy Saville wrote back saying "Now, now, now! How's about that-then?" But he never fixed it for little Tommy. Tears came to my eyes as I saw my beloved pussy slowly roasting on a revolving spit. PERSEVERANCE!

That's what sets Tommy above all other common or garden or run of the mill cats. Little Tommy had-persevered and now, he was reaping the rewards for all the years he had spent striving, hoping, praying and going to Lough Derg. As little Tommy waved from the rotary spit, I screamed, "HITACHI!" and fell in a heap behind the door pretendeding to be a poor, wretched creature, waiting for the tumbrel to take me to the guillotine for a short back and sides and manicure.

Tommy and I don't need Strictly Come Dancing or the X- Factor. We make our own fun. We also make our own bread, waste paper baskets and hula hoops. One thing Tommy and I do NOT make is our own bedroom slippers. We leave that to the Persian slipper king, Marcus Spratt.

On the dot 0f 17 minutes past one, Tommy and I sat down to scrunch.

Scrunch comes somewhere between lunch and brunch and is always a jolly, lively affair at the abode of Tommy and I. After scrunch, Tommy and I drew up two twin dwarfs from No 27, Primrose Hill, Bomb Alley, Down Town Basra and sat gazing intently at each other for seven hours.

After a silence of two hours, 39 minutes and 19 seconds, Tommy said,

"Hey, ratbag, that's some wart you have on your hooter."

"That's NOT a wart." I said."It's a beauty spot."

"It's got lots of ugly hair growing out of it," said Tommy.

"That's-beauty hair," I replied.

"It looks like a Japanese bonsai tree," said Tommy.

"It is not a Japanese bonsai tree," I replied,

"It is a beauty spot."

"If that is a beauty spot,

then Chernobyl must be a healing spa," said Tommy.

"Shut your face!" I yelled.

"You shut your face!" roared Tommy.

"I said it first!" I yelled.

"I thought it first!" roared Tommy.

"I'll brust your ugly face!" I screamed.

"I would like to see you try!" yelled Tommy.

"Come outside!" I yelled.

"I will!" roared Tommy.

Tommy and I kicked over the twin dwarfs and rushed out into the street.

Soon Tommy and I were rolling on the ground, biting, scratching and gouging at each other.

Tommy screamed high and loud as I bit him on the tail. I cursed and swore as Tommy hit me a punch right up the beauty spot.

Who knows how it would have ended if the PSNI had not pulled Tommy and me out from under a lorry.

"How's it going? How's it going? How's it going?" said a policeman from Tyrone. "What's going on here then?"

Tommy stood there bloody but not beaten. His lavender simmet hung in tatters and his Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers were bedraggled and not fit for purpose. Tommy panted, gasped and shrieked,

"Officer, what is that monstrosity on the nose of that old ratbag?"

The policeman peered into my bloodied face, recoiled and cried,

"It's a-wart, an ugly hairy-wart!"

Tommy gave a shriek of glee and began to dance like an Irish dancer on speed. As the prancing feline leaped and skipped, I lost the bap and gave Tommy a riser of unparalleled violence and ferocity with my Marcus Spratt hand made Persian slippers.

My case comes up next week.

The case will contain my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers, which will be entered in court as exhibit A.

Once again I shall plead insanity and amaze the court with my brilliant legal mind. But as I await justice, 'tis cold my feet are without the comforting warmth of my Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers.

I think I have chilblains!.

Secrets

I looked at Tommy my cat. Tommy was busy knitting a brillo pad out of steel wool. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to communicate with Tommy. But how to do it? Aye! that was the question. Should I telephone, email, write a letter, tap out morse code on the floor with my blue Belgian clogs? I tried mind control. I gazed hard at Tommy with my mad staring eyes. My mind silently screaming, "Message for Tommy. Come in Tommy." Tommy just sat there intent on his knitting. His little pink tongue was stuck out the side of his mouth and every time the domesticated feline dropped a stitch, he would mutter,

"Oh, beanbags, buttermilk and baboons."

There little Tommy sat, just three feet away from me, but as far as communication goes, little Tommy may as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

Then! it hit me. I don't know why it didn't hit me sooner. I would communicate with Tommy by the use of-speech! I formed words in my mind threw them out of the gaping orifice below my nose-AND!-little Tommy stopped knitting and looked at me!

YIPEE!. It worked! Now Tommy and I could communicate with each other until the cows came home or slept rough under a hedge. I was so proud of myself I immediately got on to an escort agency and hired a small, petite, slightly stooped, bald headed dwarf from Bosnia-Herzegovina to come round and give me a pat on the back.

"Tommy," I said.

"Yes," said Tommy.

"Tommy," I repeated.

"Tommy," I thrice said.

"Are you now, or have you every been a member of a secret society that goes by the name of, "The Friars Of Fiddlesticks?"

Tommy gulped, failed to meet my gaze, drew his tail around him protectively and muttered,

"To answer that question in the affirmative would mean the end of Tommy the cat as we know him."

"Tommy cat!" I thundered, "I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down, rolled up in a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls, placed in a Coco tin and hung round the neck of the first abominable snowman who applies for income support on Friday the 29th of January in the year of our Lord 2017."

"You fiend!" screamed Tommy. "You evil, evil fiend."

Tommy reached for a bar of green Lifebuoy soap and cried,

"All right, I'll come clean! For the past four years, I have been a deacon, second class in the grand order of, "The Friars Of Fiddlesticks."

"I knew it!" I yelled.

I looked at you coming up the street one day and I said to myself,

"Something 'bout the way he walks, leads me to believe that yon green-eyed feline is a deacon, second class in the grand order of, The Friars Of Fiddlesticks."

"Damn you and your cunning, scheming, wild big brain!" screamed Tommy. "Now that you know, what are you going to do, turn me in?"

"That remains to be seen," I said.

"First, I want to know everything you know about the grand, ancient order known to a select few as-The Friars Of Fiddlesticks."

Tommy sighed, sat down and spoke thus,

"The grand order of The Friars Of Fiddlesticks, are as old as time itself and-yet, younger than Spring time. As the most secret of secret organizations," said Tommy,"we never meet, we have no leader, we wear no regalia, nor do we indulge in secret rites."

"How many members are in the grand order of The Friars Of Fiddlesticks?" I yelled, "And for what purpose were you formed?"

"I shall answer those two questions in the order they were presented," said Tommy.

"I don't know and I don't know."

"TOMMY!" I shrieked.

"There must be some reason for the existence of the ancient, secret order of The Friars Of Fiddlesticks."

"There is," said Tommy.

"Well what is it?" I yelled.

"Secrecy," said Tommy.

"The grand order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks, keep the secrets of the grand order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks, by strict secrecy and not telling anyone."

"WHAT SECRETS?" I yelled.

"We, in the grand order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks know not what the secrets are," said Tommy.

"To know the secrecy of the secrets, would in effect breech the secrecy code that binds all members of the grand order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks to keep the secrets forever-secret. And the secret way we keep the secrets secret, is by secret secrecy."

"Tommy," I said, "I feel left out. Can I join the secret order of The Friars Of Fiddlesticks?"

Tommy looked me up and down and said,

"Can you keep a secret?"

"YES TOMMY!" I cried. "YES, YES, YES! What happens now Tommy?" I yelled.

"Nothing!" said Tommy.

"For the rest of your life you must keep the secret of not knowing if you are in OR-out of the grand order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks. If you knew the secret of whether or not you were a Friar of Fiddlesticks, it would in effect breech the Friars Of Fiddlesticks secret rules and you would be immediately secretly expelled."

"Tommy!" I yelled. "I'm not sure if I can handle all the secret, secrets of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks. These secret secrets weight heavy on my soul and I secretly fear the secrets I secrete will secretly drive me insane."

"Tell me about it," said Tommy.

"I have been a secret member of the secret order of The Friars Of Fiddlesticks for four years and I'm still only a deacon--second class! Sometimes I think that the secret order of the Friars Of Fiddlesticks is worse than the Free Masons. It's not what you know, it's who you know."

"Tommy!" I yelled. "Remember the secret, secrets we must secrete, so whatever you say, say-nothing!.

KETTLES AND FIREGUARDS

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. You sailed through the show, like a stately ocean liner, pulling the rusty, barnacle encrusted anchor that is Mr Coyle behind you.

After Mr Coyle's amazing outburst no one will ever look at their electric kettle in the same light again.

Tommy my cat and I sat Ken Wood our electric kettle down and gave it a right earful for boiling 20 seconds longer than was needed. Ken Wood pleaded that was the way he was manufactured, but, both Tommy and I, warned him if he doesn't change his ways- redundancy looms! Ken Wood burst into tears and ran back into the kitchen.

As for Jordie and his weather forecasts, I think the rural rustic is suffering from selective memory. I remember predictions of drought, hot scorching sun and bikini clad ladies praying, crying and-AYE! even offering favours for popsicles. That's ICE popsicles, Mrs Paisley.

I MADE FIREGUARDS by SEAN COYLE. The gritty tale of a fresh faced Irish youth who came to England seeking fame and fortune.

People in the know say that Mr Coyle's blockbuster novel, "I MADE FIREGUARDS" is to be made into a movie by director Ken Loach. Dame Helen Mirren, Julie Walters, Brian Blessed and Dame Judie Dench have all agreed to appear in the film. Speculation is rife that the young Mr Coyle will be played by Jo Brand in drag. Speaking from a pie shop in Barnsley Jo Brand said. "I don't mind giving it a go," and then added,

"Does my bum look big in this shop?"

Gerry Anderson, Mr Coyle's lifelong friend, is expected to play a cameo role as Nipper Fowler, Mr Coyle's cockney mate.

Speaking from the cracked decking at the front of his house Mr Coyle said.

"Yes darlings, I expect both the book and the film to be HUGE"! Mr Coyle then confessed that he had ordered a pair of shades out of a club book and was prepared to join, Sting, Bono and Bob Geldoff in their effort to save the planet and if need be, the --UNIVERSE!

"You have to give something back," said Mr Coyle, as he picked up two empty bottles and went out to haggle with the Maine lemonade man.

Speaking from his bicycle, with one foot on the footpath Micky Bradley from Radio Foyle said,

"If Mr Coyle leaves, it will be a big blow to radio Foyle, but we shall carry on. I don't look at it as losing a friend. I see it as losing a carbuncle on the face of radio."

Mr Bradley then peddled off, shrilly whistling, "Teenage Dreams."

Tubby Nolan has once AGAIN! stopped traffic on the Sydnam by-pass when he bent down to tie his shoe lace. Chief constable Matt Baggott said, "This was an accident waiting to happen. Why big Audrey, Tubby's mother, ever let him leave home with untied shoelaces--well, it's criminal.. I can tell you from now on, Baggott's boys will be cracking down hard on Mr Tubby Nolan. Even the very dogs in the street know that Tubby Nolan is Mr-BIG!"

Speaking from a down town chip shop Tubby Nolan retorted,

"Baggott the maggot," and then nearly killed himself laughing at his own quick, sparkling, Orcar Wilde wit.

All this and more have I seen from the drawer where Donna Trainor keeps her fruit pastiles. What does that tell us about the doe eyed news regurgitator? Well, it would be premature to mutter, "Priory clinic" but I would hate to see the Sunday World scream, "Another star brought low by class A sweets!"

Turned out nice again. Think I'll rent a burro and go for a canter.