Birthday Celebrations

What a great birthday show Kid. To mark the occasion, Tommy my cat and I listened to the show in our birthday suits. And poor Mr Coyle, God bless his little rickety legs, dragged himself in to take part in the celebrations. Ah, the wee doat.

"Mr Coyle is done!" said Tommy. "But the lad is going out in style."

I suppose at night Kid, you had a big showbiz party with all your friends, crisps, Maine America cream soda and as many as four, brightly coloured balloons, hanging from the ceiling. Oh how the, "Oh darlings this and oh darlings that" rang out as a Joseph Locke impersonator lustily sang, "The Road To Mandalay."

Then at the unearthly hour of half past nine in the evening, your showbiz chums all threw their legs on their respective bicycles and cycled off with bells ringing. To whom did you sell the rights? OK magazine, Hello, or the entertainment page in the Derry Journal? I bet the city of Derry never saw anything like it. Not since the night Dana came home from the European song contest and in a show of bravado sang, "All things bright and beautiful" as she was dangled out of the Guild Hall window by one leg by Phil Coulter.

Luckily Dana was wearing jeans, or "All things bright and beautiful" could have taken on a whole new meaning. On the night Dana came home, Sean Coyle, terrorist/ freedom fighter, called for a five minute stone throwing cease fire. Mr Coyle, with a lump in his throat said, "Lads, wee Dana has done us proud. Now let us do likewise by throwing these stones with precision and accuracy. Squad, throwing stones at the shins--FIRE!"

"See that Sean Coyle," said a wee woman standing at her door, "that Sean Coyle keeps the whole thing going, so he does. Just because the peelers arrested wee Rip Coyle on a trumped up charge."

"I call for a public inquiry!" yelled Mr Coyle. "A public inquiry that will be called the Rip inquiry."

Then a rubber bullet hit Mr Coyle on the rub-a-dub and he went down like a rubber duck.

"Well done that man!" roared General Ford.

When Wendy and the Pips came on, I yelled, "HITACHI" and changed into something more comfortable, my tangerine strait jacket with the buckles at the front. Lor love a duck, me and that strait jacket have been in some mad situations. As I passed an all night doughnut repair shop, Tubby Nolan leaped out, dressed as Count Dracula. Tubby flourished his long black cloak. Funny I never heard the oval one break wind and said in a sinister, sibilant hiss,

"Hello my dear. I need blood. Hauld out your auld jugular vein while I sink my gnashers into it."

Acting quickly, I whipped out a crucifix, snapped it in two and formed it into a rough approximation of a cross. Tubby leaped back like a scalded catamaran. "Get back you foul, black demon from radio Ulster!" I cried.

"A stake!" I cried. "I need a stake. But where can one get a stake at this time of night?"

Luckily Tubby knew a place and we had a lovely steak, with chips, peas, baby mushrooms and a side dish of prawn cocktail crisps and Mars bars.

All this and more have I seen as Noel Thompson tried again and again to leap the new ladies' fashion styles that had just appeared in, Mary Ann's Boutique.Mary Ann calls her exclusive boutique "The Big Dumplin." It's cash only. Mary Ann has a pathological fear of cards. Ever since the day she got her cards from McKay's industrial welders. She was a hell of a welder and she still carries a torch for her former profession.

Mary Ann didn't work on the Titanic, but she knew a man who did!

A Golden Age

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat had been feeling a little cat melodeon in the morning. His pulse was racing round the room like a clockwork toy and his blood pressure was as high as an elephant's eye. But when Tommy heard Mr Coyle yell, "COOEE, do you know what I watched on TV last night?" he crawled out of bed and dragged himself to the radio. I threw a rug over him. It was an old wig Dickie Rock had given me one night when he ran out of spit. Ah the 60's, when young girls in Dublin were running about covering in Dickie Rock's saliva, but the health authority put a stop to all that in 1972 when a bad outbreak of Dickieitis broke out in many parts of Ireland. The symptoms were baldness and an overwhelming desire to sing ballads very badly, but with great cheek and style.

Suddenly Tommy did a Sean Coyle. He looked at me and said, "Your father,"

"My father-what?" I yelled. "Will you please talk in sentences?"

"Your father," repeated Tommy, "how did he walk?"

"My father walked like an Egyptian," I said. "All you ever saw was his profile. No one ever saw the back of my father's head, or indeed a full frontal shot of his visage. I can still see my father," I said.

"Where? Where?" cried Tommy, looking all around.

"In my mind's eye," I said. "I can still see my father, sitting, legs akimbo, on his favourite chest of drawers, wearing a lovely pair of moleskin trousers and his raunchy, low cut, soup stained simmet. He sits there in-profile, petting a dead seagull and gently humming. "They're coming to take me away, Ha-Ha."

"It was a golden age," said Tommy.

"It sure was Kid," I replied. "You could leave your mouth open all day and no one would steal your teeth or that little dangly thing at the back of of your throat."

Tommy gave a little cough and said, "Did you hear that? Did you hear that? Did you hear me coughing?

"Go to bed Tommy," I said. "You're far from well Kid."

Aliens are out there.

Hi Kid, your great show yesterday- and it grieves me to say this, was marred by Mr Coyle and his vulgar, flamboyant, flagrant and it must be said, vile and repulsive yells of-COOEE!. Who told Mr Coyle he had a licence to cry-COOEE? Did he not know the children were not at school?. Does Mr Coyle want to start a pandemic of-COOEEING.? Perhaps that's how Mr Coyle gets his kicks, corrupting young minds with his hedonistic, libertine cries of-COOEE.

Does Mr Coyle want to let it all hang out and bring the country to its knees? Tommy my cat was so distraught, he had to be laid suppine on a surf board and carried to bed by Jim Rodgers, Lulu and Lynda Byrons.

And I can tell Mr Coyle that Lynda Byrons was most distressed by Mr Coyle's hippy, new age cries of-COOEE! Lynda was VERY angry, as angry as a bag of rusty spanners. Lynda has children you know and could well do without this sort of behaviour. Begone Sir and take your obnoxious-COOEE with you!

Tommy my cat and I watched the Friday Show from behind the sofa. Sure the affable, portly presenter looked and sounded like Eamon Holmes, but Tommy and I knew better. We both knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were looking at Tubby Nolan! Tubby is everywhere! The man is like a virus and there is no known antidote.

"How did he do it?" shrieked Tommy. "How did the oval one take over the body of Eamon Holmes?"

"The truth is out there!" I yelled. "And the truth out there is that Tubby Nolan is an alien!"

"An alien?" screamed Tommy. "By Ghandi's sacred Daz washed nappy, I think you are right."

"You can always tell an alien," I said. "by their boastful bragging. Does not Tubby Nolan keep roaring, "Biggest show in the country!" "I once met an alien," I said, "in a car park in Ballymena. The little green villain tried to sell me a second-hand flying saucer.

"Take a look at her," he said. "Only 600 million light years on the clock and still got the plastic covers on the seats. Go on, give the magnetic pulseater a kick. Take her for a spin round the galaxy."

"Did you buy her?" said Tommy.

"I did NOT!" I said. "I met a man selling a 25 year old Lada for £29. I bargained him up to £5,000 and that Lada took me to the city limits of Ballymena before it fell apart. I then got a bus home and gloated over my good fortune."

"It would take a right fool to put one over on you," said Tommy.

"Right on Bro!" I yelled, giving Tommy a high five, a middling three and a very low one.

All this and more have I seen as Frank Mitchell counted down the ten best commandments.

I thought, Thou shall not covet thy neighbour's ass would have been much higher. I suppose it all depends on your priorities.

Turned out nice again. Think I'll frolic and gambol in the Autumnal bracken and yell-"COOEE" to bald headed cyclists.

Tales of Pathos and Grit

Hi Kid, I am looking forward to great shows this week that will knock my little, cotton socks off my little, dirty feet.

I looked over at Tommy my cat who was reading, "The Rise And Fall Of Phil Coulter."

"Tommy," I said,"How would you describe that book of which you is reading?"

"Gritty!" said Tommy.

"Language Thomas!" I chided.

"I said-gritty!" yelled Tommy. "This book reveals the hard gritty life story of Derry urchin Phil Coulter. Poor Phil had a terrible childhood.

Poor little Phil, sporting an Afro hair style was pushed up chimneys from the age of four and a half. The money he earned was used to buy bread. Little Phil used to run over the cobble-stones wearing ragged, short trousers and cry, "Hi Governor, can I have a Hovis loaf please and a lick of the cheese wire?"

"The poor child," I cried. "No wonder his music is full of sadness and pathos."

"You are so right," said Tommy. "Every time I hear, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" I cry like there's no tomorrow."

"You're not alone Tommy," I said,

"So do music lovers all over the world."

Tommy looked at me slyly and said, "Can we sit on our stools when we listen to the great show?"

I raised my eyebrows and said, "I BEG your pardon!"

"You KNOW what I mean," said Tommy. "Can we sit on our new reproduction Dickensian high stools when we listen to Gerry?"

"Oh lets do!" I shrieked, "Bags I be Scrouge and you can be Bob Cratchet."

Tommy went into character right away.

"Oh it's so cold," moaned Tommy, "and old Scrouge pays me so little spondulects. Oh, what shall I do, at tall, at tall, at tall? How I worry about my little Tiny Tim. Oh, my little Tiny Tim is so tiny. What can I do, begorragh?"

"I looked cross-eyed at Tommy and said, "If you're so worried about your little Tiny Tim, why don't you answer one of those strange emails you keep getting on your computer?"

Tommy happed a two kilo bag of bat guano off my head and shrieked, "Oh you are awful, but I like you!"

I knew Tubby Nolan was in the vicinity. Vultures flew on high and a pack of scavenging hyenas yelped and cried in the undergrowth like Slim Whitman. 'Twas then I spied Tubby. He was standing at a hamburger stall singing, "I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today." which music lovers everywhere will recognise as the massive hit from the film Popeye, starring Robin Williams.

"Oh all right," said the hamburger man,

"but remember now, that's 743 hamburgers you owe me for?"

"A mere bagatelle."said Tubby. "I get my massive monthly cheque from the BBC tomorrow."

I looked at the second biggest thing to come out of Northern Ireland since the Titanic and said, "Just how many shiny shekels do the BBC pay you?"

Steven giggled and said, "The day I signed my contract with the BBC, the head honcho, who seems like a nice boy said to me, "Tubby, you can have your weight in pounds, shillings or pennies."

"They thought I was stupid," gurgled Tubby. "But I was wise to their little game, so I yelled,

"I shall have my salary in pennies, but I stipulate that Walter Love must help me carry my loot home in two wheel barrows."

I looked at Tubby, so famous, so fat, so thick.

"Penny for the Guy Guv," said two dirty street urchins, who were wheeling Noel Thompson about in a rickety old cart.

"See me tomorrow lads!" yelled Tubby. "Tomorrow I will be choc-a-block with pennies!"

All this and more have I seen as Lynda Byrons said.

"Oh all right, you can come in and look at my wood chip wall paper. But do keep your big yapper shut. I've just got the chickens to sleep." RESULT!!!! And they said it couldn't be done!

What float's your boat?

Another week of great shows over," said Tommy my cat, as he removed nits from a wino's hair with a BB gun. I stood there all forlorn. Oh I was forlorn. I was a poster child for forlornness. My mouth was hanging, my arms were hanging and my very tonsils were hanging by a thread.

"No more great shows until Monday," I said-forlornly.

"Bummer Dude," said Tommy. "We will have to sit and watch rubbish like Strictly Come X-Factoring."

"Right on Dude," I said. "You're so right on dude."

Tommy gave himself a shake, sending fleas flying everywhere and cried, "Let's not be down hearted. Let's look back on the great shows and discuss content, mirth and how accessible they were for people on motorized, turbocharged commodes."

"Oh all right," I said, with great forlornness.

"You go first. What single segment from the great shows, stirred your gravy or floated your boat?"

Tommy pondered. His pondering is getting on my nerves.

"OH, I know!" cried Tommy, "Mr Coyle's dreams. I never knew that Mr Coyle slept!"

"Me neither," I cried. "I thought Mr Coyle's family stood him up in a corner with the floor mop until they came down in the morning."

Tommy looked at me and said, "What fluttered your flag or sprinkled your giblets with salt and pepper?"

I leaped out into the middle of the floor and began to sing,
"Oh, Jordie's a lumberjack and he's all right.
He can climb a tree in the bright moon light.

He can drink cooking sherry Be bright and merry
And go to the lav-at-or-ee.
He can dung out a bed

Shoot a fox in the head

And have buttered scones for tea."

"Mark my words," said Tommy, "if that story is not taken up and made into a film by Steven Spielberg, I will eat my dinner."

Now it was my turn to ponder. "But who," I yelled, "or indeed-whom, has the stature to play old Jordie?"

Tommy and I went into a double ponder. A double ponder is very dangerous. It can tear apart the very fabric and structure of the universe, but we were lucky and got away with it.

Suddenly Tommy and I leaped up and yelled, "EUREKA JOHNSON!" We had both come to the same conclusion. Sure, it would not be easy.Rules might have to be broken. But the only person to play Jordie Tuft was the late great Margaret Rutherford!

All this and more have I seen as Daniel O'Donnell stood admiring himself in a mirror and saying, "Even my mammy wouldn't recognise me now!"

"Come to bed, Dan," yelled Majella, "You're worse than auld Oscar Wilde!" OH MATRON!!!

Solving The Mystery

"What a great show that was!" said Tommy my cat, as he pressed the eject button on the radio, took out the tape, kissed it and carried it with reverence to our large, walk- in Wells Fargo safe. Still under the influence of the great show, I kicked madly, rolled my eyes and swiveled my head round and round in a clock-wise direction.

I haven't seen the Exorcist, but who in their right mind, would want to sit for two hours watching a film about a French, heat- seeking missile? Not me buddy. I got too many fires in the iron. I think I need a new fuse in that iron.

In the silence that followed the seconds ticked away, taking us nearer the end of the world in the year 2012, as predicted by the Mayan calender. What a race the Mayans were. They invented the electric hair dryer and then found out there was nowhere to plug it in. The silence stretched like knicker elastic. I could take no more. I leaped to my feet and yelled at the top of my voice. "HOW DID HE GET UP THERE?"

Tommy looked up from the Times crossword puzzle and said-laconically, "How did whom get up where?"

"JORDIE TUFT!" I yelled. "How did Jordie Tuft get up the tree?"

Tommy lit three cigarettes, handed me and Rufus, the budgie, one, put the other one between his feline lips and said, "One would surmise that Mr Tuft climbed up the tree."

I leaped to my feet, donned wig and gown and yelled, "My Lud, I call Tommy cat to the witness box, that I bought from the Jehovah witness, who is over in the corner losing his religion.

Tommy cat!" I yelled, "I put it to you, that Mr Jordie Tuft did not climb a tree."

"Yes he did," said Tommy winking at my Lud.

"My Lud!" I cried. "Imagine the scene. A moonlit night. The scent of jasmine in the air. The cry of the whippoorwill. The hiss of Shane McGowan as he laughs at a joke in a country pub.

Then, from a rural retreat, emerges old Jordie, carrying a fully loaded, double barrel shotgun. And you expect the court to believe, that Jordie Tuft, 70 years old and burdened down with a shotgun, was capable of climbing a tree?"

"I do," said Tommy, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

I put my thumbs in my braces and said, "I put it to you Tommy cat, that Jordie Tuft did not climb that tree on his own. I put it to you, that Jordie Tuft was helped up that tree."

"By whom?" cried Tommy.

"By Gerry Anderson!" I yelled.

"Has not Gerald Michael Anderson been singing for years about a wee boy up a tree?"

"It's a fair cop, Guv," said Tommy.

"Case dismissed!" cried my Lud as he sprinted off for a spanking session.

All this and indeed more have I seen as Frank Mitchell counted down the ten best places in Ulster to get a punctured, inflatable whale mended.

"Nice, it has turned out again!" said the born again christian selling the Jewish Chronicle.

Pipe Dreams

"That's two great shows in the can and another three great shows to come," said Tommy my cat, as he turned off the radio by giving it a lethal injection.

"How I love great shows!" I cried, as I went to the large wooden crate and lovingly unwrapped another radio for tomorrow's great show.

"Gerry talked a lot about ghosts and goolies today," said Tommy.

"Yes he did," I said, "but if you look in the dictionary, I think you will find that ghoulies is spelt ghoulies and not the way you said it".

"I'm only a cat" said Tommy "You must expect the odd mistake."

I threw two small hand-grenades into our beds to air them and said, "What do you think of Mr Coyle and his tedious, interminable dreaming?"

"Tommy took a clay pipe from out his breeches pocket, filled it with Magic Dragon tobacco, which is guaranteed to give a better puff and lit the pipe by rubbing two small Swedish dwarfs together. I don't know what it is, but there is something about a cat smoking a pipe that is SOOO soothing.

Tommy took a puff of Magic Dragon and said with a worried frown, "I am worried about Mr Coyle. The lad is not himself. He is restless. One day he wants to be a little sailor and the next day he wants to be a drummer in a modern day beat combo."

"There is nothing wrong with him!" I yelled.

"Mr Coyle should make like a pair of curtains and pull himself together."

"Tommy lowered his voice and said, "Mr Coyle may be suffering from night starvation."

"Well let him do what I do!" I yelled. "I take a packet of Jacob's cream crackers to bed with me every night. I would be lost without my-Jacob's."

Tommy knocked his pipe out on my head and went out muttering, "Darwin has a lot to answer for."

After a light lunch of poundies and smarties, I covered myself with paste, rolled in wood shavings and went round Belfast as a hobby horse.

"Nay," said the people. "Nay-Nay."

But I declined on the grounds that I was a little horse.

As I passed an all-night rickshaw repair centre. I heard a-hiss. I looked down, but it wasn't me. It was Tubs. Yes, it was Tubby Nolan.

"Over here," hissed Lard Boy. I hurried to Tubby's side, hoping, praying that tonight would lead to-l'amore!

Even a little l'amore is better than no l'amore.

I stuck my false teeth in, smiled and said, "Well hello, big boy. What lucky low-loader brought you here tonight?"

He who is not thin grabbed me by the neck and growled, "Have you been putting it about that I'm fat?"

"Why?" I gasped. "Were you trying to keep it a secret?"

"Never mind that" growled Tubby. "Listen, I want you to do me a solid."

"A bucket!" I yelled. "Why did I leave the house without a bucket?"

"Stop that frivolous, chitter-chatter you ugly flibbertigibbet!" yelled Tubby.

So many F's and all before the watershed.

"I want you to do me a favour," whispered Tubs. "The time has come for me to shed my skin. I want you to hold my clothes while I go behind yon big building and slip out of my skin."

Two hours later the new Tubby emerged. Oh he did look clean, slick and unwrinkled. Tubby was burdened down by two armfuls of his old skin.

"Steven," I said, "what are you going to do with your old skin? Can I have it to pave my driveway?"

"NO, you can not!" growled Tubby.

Then the plump one chucked and said, "I am going to attach a small basket to my skin, put a small boy in the basket and fly my skin over the mountains of Mourne."

"You fiendish fiend!" I cried. "Poor Noel Thompson will jump out of his anorak."

When I left, Tubby was laid out on a rock in the sun warming up his reptilian blood.

All this and more have I seen as the lovely Sarah Travers fed me grapes, forks and spades in a shady nook, chock-a block with babbling brooks.

Turned out nice again. Think I'll go to my bed, get up and do it all over again!

Reading The Future

I looked at Tommy my cat as he marinated in an alabaster tureen full of rough Dorset cider known as scrumpy by winos with a discerning palate.

"Tommy," I said, "Another week of great shows approaches. I wonder what style or format the great shows will take?"

"The future," said Tommy, "is akin to the toes of Steven Nolan. It is something neither of us can see. And YET!" said Tommy, "Going by past great shows, we can hazard a guess as to the content of the forth coming great shows. Bring me the entrails of a chicken," said Tommy, "and I shall endeavour to peer into the future."

I watched as Tommy delved into the entrails, pushing the gizzard here-there and back to-here again.

Tommy wiped his hands on a big girl's blouse. The big girl ran out weeping and gnashing her teeth.

"I see," said Tommy, "but as through a glass darkly."

"That's poetic," I cried. "If that's not poetic, I'm a Dutch man called, Dick Van Bike."

"Oh Tommy!" I cried. "I can't wait for the great shows that are coming down the pike. If only there were some way to look into the future and get a soupcon, a flavour of the great shows."

Tommy yelled, "STALL THE WEDDIN!" and ran upstairs.

When Tommy came back he was dressed as a witch, complete with black cloak, pointy hat and a wart on the end of his chin. A cold feeling came over the room.

"Sit down my dear," cackled Tommy. Yes! Tommy cackled, but alas no egg emerged from under the feline's tail.

"Now my dear," croaked Tommy, "I will delve into the entrails of this chicken, kindly donated by Lynda Byrons and tell you the things that will come to pass on the great Gerry show on Monday. FIRST!-The Handover with Tubby Nolan. Nothing significant will occur, but words like fat, sacked, Hugo Duncan and Oftel will be bandied about. Then Gerry will try and and get the show on the road, only to be interrupted by a corner boy yell of, "HI! How are your levels?"

"Coyle!" I muttered, gritting my teeth in case the roads got slippy.

"THEN!" said Tommy, "Gerry will say, "If you want to get in touch with the show..." ONLY! to be interupted again by a vulgar yell of.

"Do you know what I watched on TV last night?-Nothing. I went for a walk instead."

"Gerry will lose the head," said Tommy, "and inform Mr Coyle in no uncertain manner that he should be in a home.

After a long argument, in which abuse is thrown from both sides, the first CD of the day. This CD may or may not play. If it does play, Mr Coyle will yell,

"That was a horrible song to start the show with. That's an auld get- me- down song. People want to hear a good, get up and go song in the morning." Another fight will follow, which Mr Coyle will cleverly get out of, by diverting Gerry's attention by yelling, "You're looking very thin today." or, "When you were a wee boy did you ever play a five string banjo?"

This will remind Gerry of a story.

Mr Coyle will insist that Gerry told the story before. Gerry will reply, "Well I'm going to tell it again!" Mr Coyle will play his trump card by screaming,

"There's a man on one. Talk to Shughie. Shughie's paying for it."

Gerry will reply, "I never paid for it in my life."

Every one at home will go, "Boom-Boom!"

Then Tommy cried. "KEN! KEN is in the studio. Waving his trusty screwdriver above his head and roaring about stupid gulpins.

It's all gone dark." said Tommy. "I can see no more." And the poor feline fell to the floor in a heap of black cloaks, pointy hats and chin warts.

But Tommy, who has never been a big fan of gravity proved that what goes down must come up again by leaping to his feet like Bruce Lee or the highly athletic-Sarah Travers.

Tommy looked at me and said, "Did you see the balloon boy who took to the skies in America?"

"Listen Tommy," I said,"I have more to do with my time than watch Steven Nolan landing in a wheat field. I told Tubby never to go back to Las Vegas and I especially told him never to fly with Ryanair."

All this and more have I seen as Frank Mitchell counted down the ten best places in Northern Ireland to get a Swedish massage. Cullybaccy surprised me. I was sure the number one spot would go to the catholic quarter in down town Ballymena.

But Frank should know. Frank looks like a man who was been massaged to within an inch of his life. He's Sooo clean! Frank Mitchell is Soooo clean.

I believe they put him back into the box he came in every night! It keeps Frank in pristine condition and will add greatly to the valuation when Pamela Ballentine tries to flog him at the antique roadshow in 2020.

I like Pamela. What a pity she can't stand me!

Hillary's Visit

I looked at Tommy my cat who was pacing the floor. Tommy was literally fuming with anger.

"Tommy," I said. "What did you think of the Hillary Clinton show?"

Tommy kicked the coal bucket, drew his sharp claws down the curtains, leaving them in tatters and shrieked,

"Hillary-Billary! How dare she hi-jack the Gerry show.

How dare she treat us like a fourth world country.

How dare Hillary-Billary Clinton come here and say, you must do this! But you must not do THAT!.

How dare she!" screamed Tommy. "How dare she!

Auld Hillary- Billary Clinton should have stayed at home and boiled her big American head!"

"Tommy," I said, "Little Tommy, this great ire ill becomes you. Hillary Clinton is a stateswoman who came over here to patronize us in the nicest possible way."

Tommy gave the coal bucket another kick and roared,

"Did you know that Hillary Clinton was the model for the cabbage patch doll?"

"Keep your voice down Tommy," I pleaded,"or the wrath of America will be turned against you."

"I spit on the wrath of America," yelled Tommy.

"Sure America may well invade Tommy the cat. But I warn America. Before you invade Tommy the cat, make sure you have a good exit strategy, because Tommy the cat could well be your next Vietnam!"

Then Tommy pulled on a pair of Ugg boots and ran out the door.

"Tommy!" I yelled. "Where are you off too?"

"SANDBAGS!" screamed Tommy.

"I'm off to get 14 sandbags. This house in ill prepared for an American invasion."

Day war broke out I remember saying to Tommy,

"Nay Tommy. Nay, Nay, Tommy lad. Thee should have never compared Hillary Clinton to cabbage patch doll. Thee should have thought on lad. Why did thee not think on lad?"

And now wee Tommy is holed up in the bunker!

Eeh! I don't know.

Today's Newsletter headline

"Clinton visits Clampets!"

Full story on page 1 to 56.

DEEP PONDERS

The top of the morning to you Kid. As the people of Tibet say when they walk their yaks in the morning.

For three days Tommy my cat had been in a pondering mood. It was the deepest ponder I have every seen Tommy in. Suddenly a long life light bulb appeared above Tommy's head. Tommy yelled, "SPINNAKERS and SATELLITES!" and shrieked,"If the great shows Gerry puts on this week are as great as the great shows he put on last week, then they will indeed be-great shows."

"Tommy!" I cried. "That three day ponder was worth every penny you paid for it at the ponder shop. The logical statement you have just uttered is right up there with Proust, Voltaire and wee Deirdre Rickerbacker, who lives with her mother, works in the knicker factory and is saving up to buy a whippet."

"I like wee Deirdre," says Tommy. "Wee Deirdre makes exceedingly good gussets."

"Deirdre's gussets are the talk of town and country," I said.

"Wherever woman gather to talk about knickers, you can rest assured that wee Deirdre's gussets will give reason for much oohing and aahing."

Then! as if in answer to a prayer, a lorry load of zinc buckets fell off just outside our house. Tommy and I yelled, " Brian Brue, don't get swine flu!" and we clasped hands and danced the milkmaid from Ballymena.

Ah, Irish dancing! What would we do without it? It's the reason toes were invented!

Next morning, when hiking the highway, I got a flat shoe. I must have trod on a nail or a discarded pioneer pin. "Drat!" I said to a rat. "How am I going to get home NIGH?" But help was at hand. The people of Belfast are all heart. Who pulled up but Lynda Byrons. Lynda was driving a lovely wee blue Massey Ferguson with a link box behind.

Lynda daintily stepped down from the tractor. She was wearing a lovely, gauze, pink, off the shoulder evening dress and a pair of green wellies and said, "Having a wee spot of trouble?"

"Yes I is Lynda," I stammered.

"I often walk this road. I am,- I am, OH, I forget what I am, but I know it starts with a P."

Lynda felt my nose, examined my teeth and said, "You don't look like a protestant."

"I'm not," I said, "I'm a pedestrian."

"Never mind," said Lynda, "We'll soon have you on your way."

Lynda went to the link box behind the wee Fergie and soon she had my left leg jacked up in the air.

"There you are now strange, weird, creature," said Lynda. "You're as good as new. Have a nice wee day."

"Oh Lynda!" I cried. "Oh Lynda, Lynda, Lynda, how can I ever thank you?"

Lynda flashed the lights and a smile at me and replied SO-sweetly..

"Just keep on watching UTV LIVE and tell all your friends that an egg a day helps you work, rest and play."

And then---Lynda was gone, leaving only the scent of Charlie, or was it Shughie?, lingering in the Autumnal air.

On the last day. When God separates the doats from the goats, Lynda Byrons will be standing proudly at the head of the wee doats.

All this and more have I seen as the green knight, Martin McGuinness and the orange knight, Peter Robinson joust at Stormount-The Camelot of Ulster.Fighting day and night over something that everyone else has forgotten about.

Them two boys need to go for a good long walk, or join a youth club to channel their aggression.

Did not the Pope AND James Young BOTH say.

"Stap fightin!'

Saving Coyle

What a great show to start the week Kid. The music was bearable and none of the callers were drunk, but it was plain to see that all had drink taken.

Yesterday was a red letter day. It was a day that people will look back on as a watershed.

It is not often that one has the chance to see a man in the middle of a full blown midlife crisis.

But as Mr Coyle babbled on and on about the call of the sea, I looked at Tommy my cat and said, "This is serious."

"It sure is!" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle is turning into the ancient mariner right before our eyes."

I picked up my mobile phone and called Mr Coyle.

The lad had the cheek to do a Prime Minister James Callaghan on me.

"Crisis?" he roared. "What Crisis?"

It was then I sent for the "Gang".

Soon Lynda Byrons, Jim Rodgers, Tubby Nolan and Michael McGimpsey sat in a circle round my square kitchen table.

"There's nothing wrong with Coyle!" roared Tubby Nolan. "A good riser would stop all this going to sea malarkey."

"Poor wee Sean," said Lynda. "Could we not club together and buy him a wee boat to play in the bath with?"

"We're all doomed," said Michael McGimpsey.

"Give Coylers a good riser!" yelled Tubby.

"A hard boiled egg might help," said Lynda.

"Only if it's happed of Coyle's big head!" roared Tubby.

"Man born of woman is doomed to die," said Michael McGimpsey.

It was little Tommy who came up with a solution.

"Listen up you lot," said Tommy. "It is clear to see that Mr Coyle has fallen under the influence of the sea. We must remove the sea from Mr Coyle's life. So on Saturday, I propose that we all go up to Derry. We take our holiday buckets and spades and we divert the Atlantic ocean away from Derry."

"NIGH, NIGH, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "How long would this job take?"

"Oh, about half an hour if we all pitch in," said Tommy.

The resolution was passed by a show of feet. So Kid, why not turn out on Saturday with your bucket and spade. It's for a good cause. If Mr Coyle is to retain his sanity, the Atlantic ocean must be diverted away from Derry. Bring a pair of wellies and a flask of hot nitroglycerin.

Solid Favours

Great shows last week Kid. The shows covered a wide spectrum,ranging from a hell's angel 80 year old granny, who wanted to burn rubber on a tricycle, to the strange, weird, erotic, exotic sexual screams of Jordie Tuft.

When Jordie uttered his ear splitting mating yells, men cowered in their boots and women locked themselves in cupboards all over the province. Thanks to old Jordie, Ulster has a higher percentage of women in the closet than Papua New Guinea or even the more remote parts of McGillycuddy's Reeks! A statistic that I find truly mind boggling.

It will take time and patience to lure these women out of the closet. If you have a woman cowering in the cupboard in fear of old Jordie, do NOT resort to the stick. Try the carrot first. Tie a pair of high heel shoes to a piece of string. When your woman follows the shoes, slam the cupboard door shut and yell, "Ah my proud beauty, you have fallen into my trap!"

For the first few weeks, your woman will probably look under the bed, last thing at night, to make sure old Jordie is not lurking there. This is quite normal. Change all the locks in your house. Erect an anti Jordie electric fence around your home and your wee doat will soon be back to normal. Follow these simple procedures and in no time, your wee honey will be bossing you about like a dog.

I was standing with an onion on my head, pretending to be William Tell's daughter Deirdre, when Tommy, my cat, strolled in. He was wearing an off the shoulder simmet, a lovely pair of bullfinch yellow, high heel shoes and a striking pair of polka dot golfing slacks. Tommy looked good and he knew it. He threw me a Worthington toffee and said,

"Toodle pip old girl, I say, you do look rather common in that drab, grey, soup-stained, strait jacket and the bag apron tied around your pudgy waist."

I looked at Tommy and thundered, "Have you been ordering clothes out of the Kay's catalogue behind my back again?"

Tommy looked down his nose at me and said. "Yah, I have!"

"And have you been using my name to purchase clothes in the Kay's catalogue?" I roared.

Yah, I have," said Tommy.

"Thank goodness," I said. "I thought you had been given those clothes by strange men.

Remember the day you came home with a little pair of tangerine knickers and told me some strange man had given them to you?"

"I don't do that anymore," mumbled Tommy,

"I was going through a Kerry Katona phase. But thanks to Jim Rodgers and all the gang at Dave's cycle and repair shop, I have put those days behind me."

"Good lad," I said, "Remember, if you let a man buy you knickers, you will be beholden to him for the rest of your life."

Tommy picked up his squash racket and walked out with his head held low. After a lunch of spam, spam, spam, and spam substitute made from soya beans, I walked around Belfast dressed as Fanny Craddock's twin sister-Fanny May. I was merrily throwing hard boiled eggs at the heads of old age pensioners and singing, "The Girl Can't Help It."

As I passed an entry, I was just in time to see Tubby Nolan chase two grizzly bears away from the wheelie bins.

"Clear off!" yelled Tubby, "And don't come round here no more or you'll find yourselves in a turf war with me. Perhaps you don't know me. Well, let me introduce myself, the name is Nolan-Tubby Nolan and I have a licence to scavenge in these wheelie bins from Belfast city council."

Then Tubby spied me. His little eyes narrowed and he growled deep in his throat, "Steven!" I cried, "Lovely roly-poly Steven, it's me, your little playmate!"

The red mist left Steven's eyes and he mumbled,

"Oh, it's you. Listen! I want you to do me a solid."

"But, dear Steven," I tittered. "You must have done more-solids than anyone in Belfast."

"You don't understand!" yelled the oval one.

"To do a solid, is American slang for doing a favour. I learned that in Las Vegas-and it only cost me 20 grand."

"What a beautiful expression!" I tittered. What is this-solid you want me to do? Where do I do the-solid and whom do I do the-solid on-or to?"

"I want you to go to the Greek," said Tubby,

"and tell him I will not be at the gym today, because I have a-groin strain."

"Oh Matron!" I yelped. I blushed as red as Jack The Ripper's knife and said, "OH Steven, how did you strain your massive mighty, lovely groin?"

"Last night," said Steven, "As I lay in my fourteen poster bed. I felt a strange urge come over me.

It was an urge that could not be ignored. So I laid down my book, "The History of Chocolate" leaned out of my bed and made a frantic grab for my....."

"PO!" I yelled, "You made a frantic grab for your po!"

"I did NOT!" yelled Tubby, "I made a frantic grab for my vanity mirror. Before I go to sleep at night, I like to look at my pink, chubby face in a mirror. But in my haste to view my beautiful visage, I leaned over too far and fell out of bed. straining my groin and squashing the lovely po I got from radio 5. I loved that po." said Tubby, "It was a present from Vicky and bore the inscription, "To Steve, who did me a big solid."

All this and more have I seen as Paul Clarke ran like a whippet to fetch Lynda Byrons a rhubarb and ginger ice lolly. Apparently Lynda asked Paul to do her a-solid!

KID! do me a solid and play Lulu singing-"SHAITE!!! For the lovely Linda McCauley.

THE FUTURE IS SILENCE

Great midweek show Kid. Tommy my cat was very taken by the periods of silence. "This is the future!" cried Tommy. "This is ground breaking radio. This is why John Logie Baird pulled out the cat's whiskers to make the first radio. Just think of it." said Tommy, "Radio stations producing nothing but-silence. Peaceful, tranquil-silence."

"By jingo, you're right, Tommy lad," I said. "In a world of hurley-burley and Liz Hurley, people are crying out for-silence."

Tommy leaped up on the mantelpiece and roared, "A great revolution is underway! In the future, radio stations will produce nothing but silence and TV channels will show a blank screen. Silence will spread over the land. I can see it now!" yelled Tommy. "Mum, dad and the children sitting down for a night of good, wholesome-silence."

"This is BIG!" I yelled. "The man who takes out a patent on silence will make a fortune."

"We must get in on the ground floor!" yelled Tommy. "Slip into something ugly and go out and buy a big bag of silence."

I grabbed my purse by the scruff of the neck and cried, "But where would a creature such as I find silence?"

"That's easy," said Tommy. "Just go up to Tubby Nolan and ask him how he's getting on with his diet."

"Brilliant!" I yelled. "I may hire a van and fill it full of silence. But what should I do if Baggott's boys search the van and discover the silence?"

"Simple!" cried Tommy. "Take your old mother with you and when questioned by Baggott's band of merry men, throw your old mother at them and tell them to keep mum!"

"Tommy," I said, "You are a genius. An evil, twisted, wicked, depraved mad genius."

"I know," grinned Tommy. And I have a certificate to prove it from the Oscar Peterson academy of music and evilness."

Something happens on your show, Kid, which grates on my teeth, as they lie soaking in a glass. Every morning, on the dot of seven minutes to eleven, someone will call, or text, asking what was the name of the song you opened the show with. I have a sneaking suspicion, that the calls and texts are coming from one man. We must find that man and silence him. He is ruining the flow and fluidity of the show. I would concentrate your search in the down town, latin quarter of Plumbridge. I know a lot of people in Plumbridge who get their kicks, by pulling strangers off bicycles and interrogating them about the names of obscure songs. Only last week, the ruffians resorted to water-boarding an 84 year old woman, while trying to get her to name a song ,sung way back in the 1920's by Cheeky Charlie Crumpet. Geneva convention? Don't make me laugh. The people of Plumbridge spit in the face of the Geneva convention. Plumbridge really is the axe in the axis of evil. But you can buy great baps there!. A fact which says an awful lot about the twisted logic of Plumbridgers.

After a light lunch of Christmas stuffing, hard boiled eggs and McCowan's toffee, I left the house in the guise of an angel with a dirty face, leaving Tommy alone in the house. Tommy was sitting on the kitchen window pretending to be a nearly full bottle of Fairy liquid. If product placement is good enough for Coronation Street it's good enough for me and Tommy.

I found Steven Nolan where I expected to find him, prowling round the wheelie-bins like a grizzly bear.

Steven hissed, right beside the wheelie-bin and said. "Hi Bucketbake, hold my ankles while I bend into the recess of this bin and retrieve a half eaten swiss roll."

As I clutched the oval one's chubby ankles, the wind blew and I got a clear view up Tubby's trouser leg.

"AAAAAG!" I yelled. "AAAAAAAG!"

Leaving Tubby in the bin, I ran away singing, "I'd Rather Go Blind."

All this and more have I seen as Donna Trainor led a doddering Noel Thompson out to his chair on Newsline. Donna gently put a blanket round Noel's shoulders and shouted, "Are you warm enough now wee pet? Would you like a wee cup of sweet tea? Just nod your head once pet and I'll understand."

SAD!, SAD!, SAD!. But not unexpected, when you think of all the stiles Noel has leaped. We'll never see his like-again!