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!
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