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.