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!
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