Monday 30 November 2009

The Music Man

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat peeped out of the cupboard where he was pretending to be an old packet of Bisto long past its sell by date, stared at me accusingly and roared, "Why does that man want to play the accordion? Are not the air waves choc-a-bloc with music?"
I grabbed the phone and called, Rent A Tickler.
As he got busy with his tickling stick, I laughed and said, "Ah Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. How little you know of the dark, secret world of accordion players. That would-be Jimmy Shand does not want to make music. NO! He wants to be the life and soul of the party. He wants to be the one to whom people say,
"Willie John, strap on your auld accordion and give us a blirt." He wants to be the centre of attention. He wants to stand out in a crowd. That would-be accordionist," I yelled, "wants to ease his insecurities. He suffers from lack of self esteem. He has no interest in music. He probably hates music, especially accordion music, but when he is pointed out in a crowd as the accordion man, all feelings of quiet desperation will disappear and he will be SOMEONE! He will be, 'The Man' He will be-ACCORDION MAN!"
"My, my!"said Tommy. "What an insight you have into human nature.What an incisive mind you have. Why, the saying, "Not just a pretty face" could well have been written about you."
"It was," I said, blushing to the roots of my corns. "A man once said, I was the most ugly thing in God's creation."
"And who am I to disagree," said Tommy. He looked at me slyly and said, "Why don't you strap on your auld accordion and give us your wheezing, asthmatic version of "The Hills Above Drumquin?"
I nearly broke my neck as I spaltered to get my according. For the next hour or two, everyone would be looking at ME. I would be the centre of attention. The spotlight would be on ME!.ME! I tell you-ME!
Tommy lay back in his Lazy Boy chair. He had a smile and, for some strange reason, a fly look on his face.
As I expanded the accordion, like a python, he softly muttered, "If music be the food of love, hand me a sick bag."
I met him at last! Frank Mitchell that is. Hewas standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus to Hollywood.
"Frankie goes to Hollywood," I giggled under my breath.
"Mr Mitchell!" I yelled. "Could I have a moment of your time please?"
Frank looked at his wrist, the place a watch would have been, had he owned one and said- condescendingly, "I'm very busy.
I am a star, you know. A star of stage, screen and my local dole office. What do you want? And make it snappy. And DO take of your hat. You are talking to a celeb."
"Mr Mitchell," I yelled, "could you give me ten reasons why you go around Ulster looking for the ten best this and thats?"
"As a child," said Frank, in a very cultured tone, "my mother used to send me to the forge with a list. I just happen to have one of the lists in my fanny pack. Would you like to hear it?"
"By all means," I replied, gazing in awe and wonder at his puce, fanny pack.
He cleared his throat and began to read, "Dear Mr Blacksmith, this is my son Frank. You will probably notice that he has a donkey with him. Here is a list of the things I want you to do with the donkey.
(1) Shoe the donkey's right front foot.
(2) Shoe the donkey's back left foot.
(3) Shoe the donkey's back right foot.
(4) Shoe the donkey's left front foot.
(5) Check the donkey's teeth.
(6) Comb the donkey's hair."
"Shall I go on?" said Frank.
"No," I said, "you are suffering from heredity listitis. There is no none cure. Go to Hollywood in your endless quest for Ulster's ten best this and thats."
How sad! How terribly, terribly-sad!
All this and more have I seen, as Sarah Travers and I wrote rude things on the tele-prompter and then read them out to much giggling, and high, falsetto girlish laughter.
You should have seen some of the things little Sarah wrote.
OH MATRON! Take them away!

Thursday 26 November 2009

Signs Of Civilisation.

Hi Kid, Tommy my cat and I are waiting for a week of great shows with boundless enthusiasm. We spent the weekend with little Barry Mc Elduff in his mud cabin in the wilderness of Tyrone. The weekend was spent doing Irish things. We hurled a wee steel ball down the country lanes, fracturing the shins of men, women and indeed, children.
We split each other's heads with hurley sticks and chased donkeys, with a thistle tied to a blackthorn stick. "Go on yeh boy yeh!" Barry would yell, as he applied yet more thistle to the donkey's ass. Then Tommy and I bid a fond farewell to Barry and cut our way through the wilderness of Tyrone with matching, maple machetes. We got a brief glimpse of the legendary Tyrone pigmies, the wild wee O'Tooles, but they were too busy texting on their mobile phones to notice Tommy or me.
"CIVILISATION!" yelled Tommy, when he saw the first supermarket bag fluttering from a tree. When we came to the mattress in the middle of the round-a-bout, we knew we had left the rain forest of Tyrone far behind. Tommy wiped his sweating brow with the paper from a discarded fish supper and said, "Co Tyrone, worth seeing, but not worth going to see."
I concurred by diverse winks, nods and frantic contortions of my pelvic region. A region by the way, that no man, not even William Shatner has dared to enter.
When we reached the outskirts of Belfast, we saw Tubby Nolan standing by a milestone. He was carrying his massive dinner in a table cloth tied to a bisum shaft.
Tommy look in the situation at a glance and did what was expected of him.
"Turn again Tubby Nolan," cried Tommy, "and return to Belfast, where you will gain riches beyond your wildest imagination and in time, become the Lord Mayor of Belfast."
"ME?" cried Tubby, "Little old me become Lord Mayor?.Will I ride in a gold coach and wear dainty little glass slippers?"
"Yes you will, my plump friend," I cried. "If you put yourself in my hands, I shall be your mentor, your Svengali. I shall be your Alister Campbell. I shall house train you, show you how to eat with a knife and fork, introduce you to soap, grooming, old spice and toilet roll. With my help, you shall reign as Lord Mayor for ever and ever."
Suddenly, my ear drums were assaulted by a scream of, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" It was little Jim Rodgers, who had pulled himself backwards through a hedge and now stood before us, a bedraggled, dishevelled, unkempt, furious little UU-pee'er
"I am the peoples' Lord Myrrh!" screamed Jim.
"The people of Belfast love me. Thanks to me, the sewage in Belfast goes down the sewers 20% faster that any other city in Europe."
Tubby sighed and said, "Little Jim is right. Politics is not for me. I must remain impartial. I am the peoples' white knight. I right wrongs. I expose the guilty and I get great comfort from telling the people about every little ache and pain I have. See me!" yelled Tubby. "I am the Oprah of Ulster."
Then, in honour of Oprah, the multi billionaire, who has made her riches from misery, rejection, hurt and kiss and tell, Jim, Tubby, Tommy and I burst into tears and hugged each other.
"I love you man," wailed Tommy, as he clasped a sobbing, Steven Nolan by his chubby knee.
All this and more have I seen, as Frank Mitchell stood with an apple on his head! Little Frank was searching for the ten best archers in Ulster.
I know! I know! But Frank doesn't listen to a word I say. I wonder what the ten best reasons are for Frank acting in such a reckless way?
Reason number one. I want to be famous. Yes, we all want to be famous, with the exception of Robbie Williams, who is lying in bed in the foetal position sucking his thumb, dreaming of Norman Wisdom playing footie with his mates and just being an ordinary guy, you know what I mean?

Tuesday 24 November 2009

Flies on the wall.

What a great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat had just time to mutter, "For the great show we are about to receive today, may the Lord make us truly thankful."
Then you got stuck into Tubby Nolan and the fly ones were bouncing off the walls like brandy balls, the striped brandy balls, which Tommy and I love with a passion so intense, it's frightening.
Tommy and I giggled, elbowed each other in the ribs and pulled faces that would get any sane man confined to Broad moor. After the show, Tommy wiped the tears from his eyes with a pair of knickers he had found on our garden gnome's head this morning. Probably some sane, sober, woman, had decided to pull a little prank last night on her way home from her house of worship. And why not, I say.?
Did not a singer, or it may have been a kennel maid sing. "Life gets tedious don't it?"
After the show, Tommy dug a hole behind the sofa, lined it with mallard feathers and snuggled into it.
I, on the other hand, tied a rope to my left ankle. The rope was attached to a pulley on the ceiling. I pulled myself up by the left ankle, tied a granny Smith knot and swung gently, while the band played, Waltzing Matilda.
After a period of silence, lasting 18 hours and 19 minutes Tommy said, "I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall."
"A fly on the wall-where?" I yelled from the ceiling.
" A fly on the wall in Saint Elmo's church hall," said Tommy.
"Why?" I said. "What is going on in Saint Elmo's church hall?"
"A meeting," said Tommy, "A great big meeting."
"Who or Whom is holding this meeting?" I yelled.
"The F.G.M.B." said Tommy.
"Who in the name of Edwin Poot's IQ is the F.G.M.B.?" I yelled.
"It's a union," yelled Tommy, "the National Amalgamated Union of Flies, Gnats, Midges and Bluebottles!"
"A very reputable union" I roared.
"What do they want? More pay or shorter hours?"
"Neither!" yelled Tommy. "They want to save the planet. The F.G.M.B. insist that the spray from pest killers destroys the ozone layer and doesn't do them much good either."
In the time it takes to shave a donkey Tommy and I were marching round Stormont, carrying banners which read,
"FLIES IS PEOPLE TOO!"
And, "YOU'RE NEVER ALONE WITH A BLUEBOTTLE!"
Round and round Stormont we marched, until a very red faced, Sammy Wilson, came storming out and sprayed us with DDT.
"Hop it," roared Sammy, "you couple of chancers!"
But Tommy got the last laugh. He stood in the middle of the road and yelled, "Hi, wee Sammy, go and get your hair cut."
"Let's see how he likes them apples," sniggered Tommy.
"You fixed his wagon Tommy," I chortled. "You fixed his wagon, but good!"
All this and more have I seen, as Frank Mitchell crawled out of a rabbit hole. He was testing out the ten best ferrets in Ulster. I will say no more! Frank knows my feelings. On his own head be it, but it's all going to end in tears.

Monday 23 November 2009

What is lilting???

What a great Wednesday show Kid. Tommy, my cat, and I always think that the great show on Wednesday, is the ham between a sandwich of great shows. Other people may disagree but it's that kind of attitude that starts wars.
Tommy was in fine fettle before the show, dancing, singing, telling jokes, but after the great show,he sat atop his spiked, world war two mine, engrossed in meditation and moroseness.
I twisted my lips like an elastic band, released my finger and thumb and speech came pouring out of my vibrating mouth, "Tommy," I utterised, "Tommy old son, what is the matter with you? You appear down. You seem strangely quiet and, if you don't mind me saying so, uncommunicative!. Are you training to be a--loner Tommy? Oh Tommy, don't turn into a-loner. You know the first time something bad happens round here, the police will lift you and Lynda Byrons will describe you as a--loner, a cat who kept to himself."
Tommy seemed to snap out of a trance. I saw fear in his eye and a slight discharge of pus. His tail was oh so limp. I have known him for a long while and the limpness in his tail was unprecedented.
Then Tommy spoke,but as through a glass-darkly. "What was that woman doing?" said Tommy.
"What woman?" I said.
"The woman who came on to talk about, "The maid of the sweet brown NIGH!".What was that strange, unnatural sound she was making?"
I curled my knees up under my chin, by the use of block and tackle and said through a veritable hurricane of laughter, "The woman was-lilting."
"Lilting?" said Tommy. "What, in the name of Michael McGimpsey's familiar, is-lilting?"
"It's a sound some Irish people make," I said.
"So--lilting is not universal?" said Tommy.
"Indeed and begorrah it is not," I replied. "You will only find lilting in the Emerald Isle, so you will, so you will."
"Why do people do it?" said Tommy. "Why do people-lilt?"
"So they can push back the dresser and dance yeh boy yeh," I replied.
"I feel like Mork the alien," said Tommy. "I have so much to learn about you people and your strange customs."
"Ah, get away with you, you wee gobeen!" I cried, as I danced the "Tube of Tyrone" to my own hysterical-lilting.
"That's a Rolex," said Tubby Nolan, pointing to his chubby wrist.
I peered closely at the huge paw and cried, "There's nothing there! I can't see a Rolex watch."
Tubby blushed like a barn on fire and said, "It's hidden. The wild, expensive watch is hidden under the folds of, ah, of-muscle, on my arm."
"Tubby!" I yelled. "If you want to show off your wealth in a vulgar display of jewellery..........."
"I DO! I DO!" yelled Tubby.
"Then what you must do," I said,"is to get a massive, big gold ring, like the ring farmers put in a bull's nose. Heat a poker until it is white hot and ram it through both nostrils of your gigantic honk. Then, snap the ring into place, before the holes have time to heal up, or seek compensation."
"And will people notice me?" said Tubby.
"They will!" I said.
"Will they stop in the street and point at me?" cried Tubby.
"Without a doubt!" I replied. "People will see the glint of your massive, gold, nose ring from afar and cry as one, "Stand in! Mind the children! Here comes Bully Nolan!"
"Steven smiled with delight and said, "Well, I'll be jiggered."
"Not on Radio Ulster," I said, "but I can't speak for radio Five."
All this and more have I seen, as Lynda Byrons raced Frank Mitchell out of UTV with a broom,
yelling, "NO! I will not be included, in your ten best totties in Ulster!"
No matter what I say, Frank just keeps on going! He seems to have a self destruct button. Tears, are what I see, tears and much gnashing of McCrory teeth!

Thursday 19 November 2009

Siberian Sighs and Steven's sorrow.

Great show yesterday Kid. To hear Mr Coyle tell the harrowing tale of Eamon Mc Cann kicking sand in his face brought tears and funny green stuff to the eyes of Tommy my cat. Tommy is sending Mr Coyle his bullworker, so Mr Coyle can muscle up and knock the revolutionary zeal out of Comrade Mc Cann.
When the man came on looking for an 18 inch wrap round boiler, Tommy and I yelled, "GIDDY UP!" and leaped up from our unplugged Sing Sing electric chairs and ransacked the house. We found many strange, weird and bizarre things, but, alas, no 18 inch wrap round boilers. As a consolation, Tommy and I are sending the poor man, the ejector seat from a Russian Mig jet fighter plane. Tommy found the ejector seat in the grounds of Stormont castle. There was a Russian sitting in the seat, but Tommy, who is fluent in Russian and Ulster/Scots, pushed the Russian off the seat, yelled, "Bugger-off comrade!" and ran merrily home with the ejector seat clutched under his oxter. As he ran, little Tommy was singing the big Russian hit from the 80's.
"I sigh when I see Siberia.
Frost bite in the Urals, I fear-E-A.
Brass monkeys don't appear-E-A
For things fall off in Siberia.
I hope I've made it clear-E-A
I sigh when I see Siberia."
(Copywrite Lenin and Stalin)
I was standing at a street corner with Lynda Byrons. We were talking about girlie things, like twin-sets, rows of pearls and how difficult it is to put an oily chain on a bicycle. SuddenlyLynda yelled. "Hunk alert at two o'clock!"
I followed her blue eyed gaze and saw-Jackie Fullerton. Oh he did look cute, in his little grey suit. The dapper, debonair, little crooner was singing, "Fly Me To The Moon" and kicking wheelie-bins as he walked to pick up the beat, just like the big swing bands used to do.
Lynda and I screamed and hid behind a wino to change into our bobby socks.
Then, a cloud blocked out the sun and Tubby Nolan lumbered out of an entry. He stood there in a fury. Jam rolled through his chubby clenched fists, as he squeezed two buns to death. Tubby opened his gigantic mouth and roared, "FULLERTON! Why do you always run away when you see me coming?"
"It's not you Steven," drawled Jackie, "But every time I see you, you remind me of Giant Haystacks and I run away."
Tubby calmed down and said, "I wish I were like you, dapper, slim, a hit with the ladies. Why is it that Haystacks like me never get the girls?"
"But they do Steven," said Jackie. "Believe me auld son-they do."
"Name one!" roared Tubby.
"Well," said Jackie, "there was Orson Wells,Burl Ives, Jackie Gleeson, Rod Steiger and, of course, Marlon Brando. Brando could pull the chicks, even when he couldn't pull his socks up."
"What about Alfred Hitchcock?" roared Tubby.
Jackie laughed and said, "Ah, you're pushing it a bit there auld son. Alfred Hitchcock walked about with his gub pursed out. He always looked like he was just after kissing the red arse of a baboon."
Then Lynda Byrons rushed forward screaming,
"May I have your autograph?"
Tubby smiled, pulled out a well bitten Bic pen and said, "Of course you can Lynda. Shall I sign it with-love?"
Lynda elbowed Tubby aside and cried, "Not YOU, fat boy! I want little cuddly Jackie's autograph."
Poor Steven sighed and went into a doughnut shop to drown his sorrow.
All this and more have I seen, as a very blackened and charred Frank Mitchell was carried down a ladder by a burly fireman. Poor Frank had been in bed, working frantically on the ten best cigarette lighters in Ulster to set fire to your duvet.
It's getting serious now. It really is. I think he should stop before something awful happens.
I remember the time that Frank Mitchell had a future. People said he would, given time, be Ulster's answer to Al Pacino! Looks more like Al Murray now!

Wednesday 18 November 2009

The chosen One

Great show to start the week Kid and what a master stroke it was to have Charlie Landsborough as a guest. I like Charlie. Always have done, ever since the night, he rescued Tommy, my cat, from a tree on Guy Fawkes night. Charlie stopped in his big car, took the situation in at a glance and yelled out of the car window, "Will one of you tubes stop your gawking and send for the fire brigade to rescue that wee pussy?"
Then, like the true hero he is,he sped away into the darkness of the night, leaving just the scent of red diesel and Lynx for men, lingering in the cool night air.
When the show was over Tommy my cat sidled up to me and whispered, "Hi, see that Charlie Landsborough?"
"Yes," I said. "What about him?"
"He's the-one," whispered Tommy.
"What-one?" I said.
"The chosen-one," whispered Tommy.
"Chosen by whom?" I asked.
"Him," said Tommy, pointing up the stairs.
"The little sailor sleeping in my bed!" I exclaimed.
"No," said Tommy, "not him. God! God has chosen Charlie Landsbury to make the people repent before God goes into a fit of smiting. The smites that God will do will terrify the people and make all other smiting look tame in comparison."
"Sling your hook!" I yelled, which Tommy duly did and pulled in a cage full of red crab from the Bering sea round Alaska that would have the fishermen from Deadliest Catch, the hit show from the Discovery channel, green with envy and hopping with anger.
Tommy and I sat at the kitchen table going over our dire financial situation. I put my Bic pen in someone's pocket and got to my feet to make a statement to the house. I put one hand in my waistcoat and another in a waistcoat hanging up behind the door, took a sip of Lourdes holy water, muttered, "It looks good, tastes good and by golly it does you good." I looked all around the house, coughed, spat, blew my nose with someone's fingers and yelled, "Honourable members of this small, condemned terraced house,"
"Here. Here!" cried Tommy.
"The situation is grim but not hopeless. We are at a financial crossroads."
"You tell it like it is girl!" cried Tommy, getting stuck into a plate of grits and black eyed peas.
"Our backs are to the wall!" I yelled. "We are on our knees. Our shoulders are to the wheel. Our noses are to the grindstone and our elbows are hanging half way down our arms.
Our guts are in turmoil. Our eyes are leaping out of our head. Our backs are stooped. Our legs have buckled and our feet want to do a runner.
And YET," I cried, "we still have hearts, hearts of oak. If you prick us do we not scream, "Stop It?" Here is a nut shell!" I cried, holding it up so the house could see,"I will now sum up our situation in this nut shell. Our outgoings," I cried, "are in conflict with our incomings. There is only one thing to do and we must do it NIGH!
We must tighten our belts. Is the house agreed?"
"NO!" yelled Tommy, leaping to his feet. "I have a proposition to put to the house. I propose we go out and buy smaller trousers."
And that's what we did and it only put another £65 pounds on our credit card. So, people of Ulster and surrounding districts, I say onto you,
Why tighten your belts, when you can buy smaller trousers? You can now find small trousers in a myriad of colours ranging from tangerine to puce.
But a word of WARNING. Because of their snug size, it takes five minutes longer to undo the zip. So factor that into the equation when you go for a long walk, because heftedness, like the poor, is always with us.
All this and more have I seen, as a frantic Frank Mitchell lay in bed, thinking up the ten best places in Ulster to hide, if attacked by an albino rhino with attitude.
Turned out nice again. Think I'll take some sweeties round to Wendy Austin and the pips. Boy, them pips are growing bigger day by day.
I wonder if Wendy breast feeds them?
(Hey Kid, does that last line pass the Russell Brand test?)

Tuesday 17 November 2009

Search for New Characters

Tommy my cat sat atop a plastic replica of an Easter island statue. He held his breath until his face turned purple. Tommy was pretending to be a Catawba,which even the winos in the street know, is an American variety of grape. Any fool will tell you that the Latin name for Catawba is Vitis labrusca.
The Catawba grape, as any child will inform you, is found growing around the river Catawba in Carolina.
Tommy took a deep breath, which removed all resemblance to the catawba grape and said, "I wonder what great shows Gerry has in store for us this week?"
I climbed out of the 60 foot hole I had been squatting in and replied-merrily, "I heard from Marvin Gaye on the grapevine, that Gerry is holding auditions for new characters for the show."
"Well, bend me over and spank me!" cried Tommy.
"Sit down on that burlap sack of razor blades lad," I said, "and I will tell you a story. Once upon a time, the Gerry show had THREE characters."
"Eeeh!" cried Tommy. "I'm gonna lay down my burden,down by the riverside, by gum."
"One character sadly passed away," I said. "And another character, by the name of Michael, got too big for his gutties. He thought he was bigger than the show and was thrown into eternal darkness. ETERNAL DARKNESS!" I yelled. "Where the weeping and gnashing of teeth is tarra."
"Well don't that make my brown eyes blue," said Tommy.
"We are left with but ONE character!" I yelled. "And that character goes by the name of Jordie Tuft Esquire."
"A hard rain's gonna fall," said Tommy. "Frank Mitchell said so."
"ONE character to do the job of three!" I yelled. "Down at the Bricklands, Old Jordie is working day and night, forcing birds, mammals and animal to breed, so he can come on the Gerry show and announce, YET AGAIN! another birth."
"Well, fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars," said Tommy.
"We must ease old Jordie's burden!" I shrieked.
"Eeeh, by gum, if you see your brother standing by the road, with a heavy load," said Tommy.
"Exactly!" I yelled. "We need new characters before Jordie burns out."
"What about the petrol can man?" cried Tommy.
"Will you give over about the petrol can man!" I yelled.
"Where's our Eli?" said Tommy.
"I beg your pardon," I replied.
"Where's our Eli?" repeated Tommy.
"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out and never show your cats' whiskers in this house again."
"I can't find our Eli," said Tommy.
I grabbed my Basil Brush and raced the frivolous feline down the garden path.
As Tommy sprinted down the street, he broke wind with fierce ferocity and yelled back to me,
"Can you hear me mother?"
Listen Kid, I think the day of the amateur is gone. You need professional characters. May I suggest, Lynda Byrons, Sarah Travers and Maggie Taggart. They could be known as the Supremes and in time could form a very feminine quango.
Do I sense a little smile on Mr Coyle's unshaven face, as he daydreams about Maggie Taggart sitting on his ricket twisted, cotton picking knee?
All this and more have I seen as Frank Mitchell was carried from his home strapped to a stretcher, foaming at the mouth and yelling,
"The ten best darkened rooms in Ulster to lie down in!"
I knew it would end in tears!

Sunday 15 November 2009

Marches and Minutiae

Great show yesterday Kid. When the great show was over, I pointed dramatically at the radio and yelled, "You're Fired!" As I unwrapped a new radio for tomorrow's great show, I turned to Tommy my cat, who was waddling-slowly across the floor, pretending to be Mark Durkin, the lame duck, leader of the SDLP. Ah, remember the SDLP. Brian Faulkner. Paddy Devlin. Gerry (The Simmet) Fitt and a young vibrant, black haired Ian Paisley.
It was a golden age. Why did we let it slip away? It was a great time to be a cobbler. Everyone was out on the street, marching, marching, ever marching about something or other. Protest marches, legal marches, illegal marches and my favourite,-the spontaneous march. People would stop what they were doing and suddenly start marching up and down. And yet-we let it all slip away. A good march put clean fresh air in the lungs, a skip in your step, a glow to the cheeks and of course, it gave the people something to do and kept them off the street. Can you see the young hoodies and scum bags marching today? NO!. They haven't got the stamina. They haven't got the time and worst of all, they haven't got the inclination. Wasters! that's what they are. I wouldn't waste a stone on any of them.
The big question now of course is, will Mark Durkin tell us what the reality is, before he leaves office? If he does not,the reality is, that we may never know what the reality was.
As Tommy and I sat in the gloom, leading, as all of you are, lives of quite desperation, we watched a large cobweb slowly detach itself from the ceiling and softly flutter to the floor.
Tommy looked at me, giving me the distinct impression that he had looked at people before.
"Have you ever noticed," said Tommy,
"how Mr Coyle is interested in the minutiae of life?" The rest of us take a broad view of life, but Mr Coyle seems to be irrepressibly drawn to the-minutiae. I have come to the conclusion," said Tommy, "that Mr Coyle is a--Minutiose!"
I slapped a knee that was near me and yelled,
"Expand Tommy, go on Tommy,-expand!"
"When Gerry is telling a story," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle always interrupts, seeking, always seeking to find the minutiae behind the story.
"For instance, Gerry might say, "I was talking to a man last night" and Mr Coyle will yell, "What side does he part his hair on? Was he wearing a duffel coat or does his granny have a black cat? The minutiae," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle is always searching for the minutiae."
"If Mr Coyle is always looking for the minutiae," I yelled, "let him look no further than his pay packet."
Tommy smiled, but did not laugh. He is a very serious cat.
All this and more have I seen, as the lovely Lynda Byrons helped me across a busy street, by pressing a long, sharp, pointy stick into the small of my back. And to look at her you would think McCowan's toffee, wouldn't melt in her mouth!
Turned out nice again. I think I'll hang my drawers on the line, but the big question is,... should I take them off first? Decisions! Decisions! Decisions!.

Vampires and Fly Fishing

Great show yesterday Kid, in the tradition of all great shows. The great show was a many faceted, highly polished gem. "What a great show!" said Tommy my cat, as he climbed out of the sink, where he had been pretending to be a dirty spoon.
I grabbed him by the neck and yelled, "Why does Mr Coyle get his blood checked so often?"
"Rabies," said Tommy, "because of Mr Coyle's close association, some might even say, special relationship, with blind bats. He has to get his blood checked regularly and report to the police every Monday and Wednesday."
"Is Mr Coyle a-vampire?" I screamed.
"Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "stands on the threshold of vampirism. He stands, legs akimbo, one foot in the land of the living and the other foot in the land of the undead."
"Which foot does Mr Coyle dig with?" I cried.
"Neither," said Tommy, "He hokes in the dirt like a wild boar. It's very sore on the finger nails, but the truffles come in handy."
"Poor Mr Coyle," I sobbed. "How does his condition affect his everyday life?"
"Well," said Tommy, "He sleeps most of the day and at night, his radar is so good, he never bumps into anything."
"The poor wee man," I sobbed "and him so.........so...so...."
I was still searching for the right word, when Jim Rodgers rushed in and put Tommy and me to bed.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "Go to bed, or Peter Robinson won't sign the new policing and justice bill."
I looked at Lynda Byrons as she stood in the Lagan wearing a pair of waders. She was casting a fly with the expertise of a professional fly fisher.
"COOEE Lynda!" I shrieked. "COOEE, did you catch anything?"
She looked down at her feet and replied, "Yes, I caught two shopping trolleys, a pram, a garden gate and a very large Sumo nappy which, I suspect, belongs to Tubby Nolan."
"Will you return the nappy to dear Steven?" I yelled.
"No way!" said Lynda. "I drive a large four by four, Toyota, Pedestrian Grinder. There's no room for that huge "Thing" in my car! Let Tubby wear a thong," cried Lynda. "If a thong is good enough for Paul Clarke, it's good enough for Tubby Nolan."
"And yourself, Dear Lynda?" I leered.
"Never you mind," laughed Lynda, as she pulled a piece of flesh from my cheek with a very large trout fly.
"What a little doat," I muttered,
as I ran crying, to casualty, to get my face stitched up.
All this and more have I seen as a frantic Frank Mitchell tried to think of the ten best places in Ulster to stumble upon a saber toothed tiger.
Belfast will win again! The whole thing is fixed!.

Saturday 14 November 2009

Trouble At Pass

Hey Kid, the absence of great shows on Monday and Tuesday called much consternation to myself and Tommy my cat. How would we pass the time? Would we, could we, listen to Mr Coyle? Aye, there was the rub a-dub-dub. We decided to flip a coin, but coins of the realm, we had none. Then Tommy decided to flip a pancake, but it stuck to the ceiling. I tried to flip a wardrobe but it was too heavy. Tommy flipped a small, Norwegian dwarf with a comb-over, but, as he flew up in the air, we suddenly discovered he had no tails! After flipping armchairs, washing machines and a 42 inch plasma TV, we were knackered. Tommy staggered over to the radio and switched on Sean Coyle just in time to hear, "Well, that's all from me. It only remains for me to pick up the ball and take the teams of the pitch."
In a fury, I picked up Tommy and flipped him out the door and into the path of a non singing nun on a pogo stick. The cutbacks at the Vatican are really beginning to bite.
As I walked by the abode of Tubby Nolan, I was seized with an irrepressible desire to feast my eyes on the Fat Boy. Acting on impulse, which I had sprayed under both oxters, I tip-toed up to the large bay window. And there was Tubby, down on his knees at the bottom of the stairs. The oval one was wearing jeans and a soup stained T-shirt. He looked like an inflated Marlon Brando. Tubby looked up the stairs, threw back his head and roared, "STENNA! STENNA!. STENNA!"
Then I heard his mum, big Audrey, say, "Send down that chair lift for God's sake, or our Steven will never get to the bathroom."
Before making my way home, I lay in the lupins and laughed.
Later that night as I lay in my hammock watching, "Strictly Newsnight", I heard a knock on the door. It was Matt Baggott. It was the first time I'd seen him, but he seems like a nice boy. "Come in Matt lad," I said. "I've just put kettle on. Would you like a nice cup of boiling hot water?"
"NAY," said Matt, "I won't take my coat off, 'cause I ain't stopping. Eeeh by gum, I'm run off my feet. I haven't had time to stick ferret down front of trousers."
"What emergency bring you out at this time of night Matt" I said. "Is Sean Coyle on the roofs again?"
"Nay, Nay." said Matt. "There's trouble at pass. Aye, trouble at Sydenham by-pass. Tubby Nolan and Eamon Holmes have caused a traffic jam. The two lads are standing in middle of road, by gum, arguing about how much jam should be in a jam roly-poly. But don't thee worry chuck, two low-loaders are on the way and traffic will soon be flowing again."
"Nolan needs locking up!" I yelled. "Do you hear me mother--I mean-Matt. Nolan needs locking up."
"Aye, I know chuck," said Matt. "But we haven't got a cell big enough."
"Well, I'll go to foot of our stairs!" I yelled.
"Don't bother pet," said Matt. "I've just came from there!"
All this and more have I seen, as Mark Carruthers and a representative of the Pope fought over the last pair of red socks in Willie McCrea's clerical supply stores.
"Tut-tut!" said a crowd of hoodies at the corner. "What an example to the young and socially deprived!"

Thursday 12 November 2009

Petrol Cans and Natural Gas

Five great shows last week Kid, which have greatly enhanced my knowledge about the meaning of life.
"Why are we here?" People ask in Ballymena.
"Why did we not go to Co Tyrone, where 99% of the people are now down from the trees?
Barry McElduff will try and entice the remaining 1% down on Sunday, with balloons, funny hats and Go-Go dancers."
Tommy my cat peered out of a large hole he had dug behind the sofa and yelled, "I wonder what surprises lie before us in the great shows that Gerry will put on this week?"
"Who knows," I said, "And who ain't talking.
"But I have a feeling that the petrol can man is booked for another appearance."
"HOORAY!" yelled Tommy. "I love the petrol can man and his indefatigable quest for rare petrol cans. Men like that, make Ulster, what it is. It was men like the petrol can man, that built the Giant's Causeway, constructed the Titanic and placed Ballymena far away from the rest of civilization. Oh, by the by, I think I have struck a pocket of natural gas in this hole I am digging."
"Natural gas my ass," I yelled. "You would have to dig much further that that, to strike natural gas. Light a match to see what happens."
Later, as we both lay in intensive care, Tommy glared at me and croaked, "I told you so."
But Time is the great healer and after the doctor gave me and Tommy a prescription for Micky Mouse watches we were, in the words of Willie Nelson, "On The Road Again."
Tubby Nolan rose out of a rubbish skip like a plump phoenix and yelled, "No wonder there is so much hunger in the world. People are throwing away half eaten TV dinners!"
"Come out of there Tubster," I scolded. "What would the Sunday World say if they found you in a bin scavenging for food?"
"Print and be damned!" yelled Tubby. "I don't care anymore. I'm fed up being the nice guy. I want to be a bad boy, a hell raiser like Peter O'Toole, Richard Harris and Ronnie Corbet."
"Hell raising is just not in you Steven," I said. "You are and will always be, the Peter Kay of Ulster, a fat, roly-poly who brings joy to both young and old alike."
"I have a plan," said Steven. "I want you to photograph me, with a bottle of stout in my hand, knocking seven bells out of Frank Mitchell. I can see the headline now, "HELL RAISER CLOBBERS RAIN MAN."
"Bad idea Fat Man," I said. "What if Frank Mitchell got up and beat the lard out of YOU? Think of the headline then, "TUBBY TROUNCED BY NON DRINKING, NON SMOKING VEGETARIAN."
"Bummer!" growled Tubby, as he took a huge gulp of air and disappeared into the rubbish skip.
All this and more have I seen, as Frank Mitchell counted down the ten best places in Ulster to buy red flannel drawers. I had a feeling that Clougher would come out on top!
Call it woman's institution. No, that's Holloway. No, that's not right, just call it a guess!

Wednesday 11 November 2009

IT'S THE TWINS!

Great show yesterday Kid, in spite of all the rain. But, as Tommy my cat says, the rain will help bring on the rice harvest round Ballymena and Cullybaccy.
Tommy, my cat,looked at me from the anvil where he was shoeing a small, redhaired, Brazilian dwarf and said, "What the Sam Hill blazes was Mr Coyle playing at yesterday? It took him fifteen minutes to set up a scene between, Joe Mahon, the Dungarvin car salesman and Wendy Austin. Then, thirty seconds into the sketch, Mr Coyle heads off over the hills, leaving Gerry to do the Dungarvin car salesman AND Wendy Austin." I opened a tin of baked beans with a small piece of plastic explosive and said, "No one, not even Gerry, can do Wendy Austin. I don't think there is anybody in the world who could do a good Wendy Austin."
"What about-Wendy Austin?" said Tommy, as he hit the small redhaired Brazilian dwarf a slap on the rump and cantered him round the room to try out his new shoes.
"Wendy Austin?" I cried. "Don't make me laugh. Wendy Austin can do a good Sharon Stone, a very good Sharon Stone, especially when she sits on a chair, but Wendy Austin talk like Wendy Austin? Catch yourself on Kid. You must be going soft in the noggin."
Suitably chastened, Tommy leaped on the small, red haired, Brazilian dwarf's back and took him for a gallop round the block. "Hi-Ho Ginger!" cried Tommy and the small, petite, Brazilian gentleman took off like a scalded catholic.
After a light lunch consisting of fish heads, pony tails and Bird's custard, I donned Jane Austin bonnet, Doc Martin boots and began my search for he who answers to the name of Tubby Nolan. I found Tubby in the park. The portly one was lying on a lilo eating the stale bread that had been thrown to the ducks.
"Steven!" I yelled. "Are you quackers? Come out of there before you get ducks' disease."
Lard Boy waded ashore, with minnows spilling out of the large fork on his massive trousers.
"Steve," I said, "lovely jubbly Steve, the word in the hood is, that you are going to dye your hair."
"Yes I am," growled Tubby, "after what happened yesterday. Eamon Holmes and I were standing outside a doughnut shop, then that slabber from Tyrone, Pio McCann, came round the corner and screamed, "THE TWINS! It's THE TWINS, THE TWINS, THE TWINS!!!"
All this and more have I seen as Wendy Austin strapped the Pips into her Renault people carrier and drove away full of pride, Red Bull and Quakers Oats.

Tuesday 10 November 2009

Tommy Likes Bouncers

Great show yesterday Kid. It reminded me of a great show back in July 2004. I remember saying to Tommy my cat at the time, "Tommy, will we ever see a great show like that again?" and low and behold, yesterday's great show answered my question. After just five minutes, I liked the cut of yesterday's great show's jib, and I said to Tommy my cat, "Hold on to your hat Kid. We're in for another great show."
After the great show I turned the radio off by calling it horrid names. 'Twas then I saw Tommy my cat. He was answering a call of nature on the telephone. Bill Oddie wanted to know if the blue tits in our garden seemed dejected, gloomy or depressed.
Tommy yelled, "I don't talk to the old Bill!" and hung up.
"Thomas," I said, "Pull up a milk churn, sit down and attend to me. Did you know that the people in Derry yawn differently than the other people in Ulster?"
Tommy pondered not but replied right away, "Yes, I did. One night I had the great misfortune to find myself at a Phil Coulter concert. As the tranquility spread like ether over the audience, little Phil raised his little arms in the air and said, "Oh Hi Oh, I'm wild tired, so I am. I wish I was going up the wooden stairs to my wee bed, but I suppose you are all waiting for me to sing, "The Town I Love So Well."
"Oh no we're not!" yelled the audience.
"Oh yes you are!" cried Phil.
"It was a pantomime," said Tommy, "a complete pantomime."
I drop kicked a turnip through the open window, knocking Tubby Nolan off his high horse and said, "I wonder what ever happened to wee Phil Coulter?"
"Little Phil works for Betterware" said Tommy,
"He has a Betterware run that takes in not only Derry BUT surrounding districts. And Phil's customers all know his knock, because Phil goes, "BOOM-BANG-A-BANG!"
Oh how we laughed and may be still laughing yet, for all I know.
In the evening Tommy wrote a concerto for cat, kitten and out of tune violin. After Tommy had run through it on the paper and comb he looked and me and said, "Gerry was talking about bouncers today. May I tell you an odd circumstance about bouncers that happened to me?"
"By all means," I said. "The floor is yours."
"Thank you," said Tommy. "I shall take it up to my room later. Yesterday," said Tommy, "or was it the day before, I was going past the big building where the bouncers hang out and do you know something? There were NO bouncers on the door! I could have strolled right in and stole as many bouncers as I pleased."
"It doesn't surprise me," I said.
"Bouncers are as thick as breeze blocks."
I looked at Tommy with a suspicious mind and said, "I hope you didn't nip into the building and steal a bouncer or two. I don't want Matt Baggott knocking at my door looking for knocked off bouncers."
Tommy blushed bright red, hung his head and muttered, "I stashed three bouncers in the coal shed, but I'll run out now and let them go."
"Good boy Tommy" I said "And if you're a very good cat, Santa may bring you a bouncer at Christmas."
All this and more have I seen, as David Dunseith read the six o'clock news, with gritted teeth and a gun in his back. Who would have thought that Lynda Byrons packed heat???

Saturday 7 November 2009

Where Have All The Plate spinners Gone

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat and I listened to the great show curled up in two soup tureens made from recycled, NASA, urine bags, as used on the space shuttle. We were pretending to be two ox tails prior to cooking. A little water, a sprinkling of salt and bobs your carbuncle. More people should try that, especially on a Sunday evening. Pretending to be things in soup tureens is dying out, because of the recession and the large number of people who ended up in homes for the bewildered and confused. I blame the steep rise in full moons we've been having recently. Suddenly Tommy went and did a Sean Coyle on me.
"Plate spinners!" yelled Tommy, looking at me with malice in his little, slitted, green eyes.
"I beg your pardon," I said, looking down my nose at the unpredictable feline.
"Where did they all GO?" shouted Tommy.
"Where did whom all go?" I yelled.
"Plate spinners!" roared Tommy. "Where did they all GO? Ah, I remember the Sunday night variety shows on television," said Tommy, as he sat in his soup tureen, splashing salty water round his scrawny oxters. "So many plates," said Tommy, "all spinning merrily on bamboo poles. Then a plate would begin to waver. It was barely spinning. The plate spinner ignored the plate in peril. But not the audience. NO, the audience would LEAP to their feet and cry as one, "Hoi, Mr Plate spinner. one of your plates is about to fall!" "Then!" said Tommy, "the plate spinner would make a mad dash, tickle the plate and soon it was spinning like a mad thing, kicking up its little plate legs. Plate spinners," said Tommy, "where did they GO?"
I blew my nose up in the air, caught it as it came down and said, "Blame Simon Cowell. Simon Cowell carried out an act of mass genocide on plate spinners, jugglers, ventriloquists, magicians, dog acts and the man who used to keep one big block between two other big blocks."
"That was a dangerous act," said Tommy.
"It sure was," I said. "You had to hold the blocks well away from the body."
"Otherwise?" said Tommy.
"Good night Vienna," I replied.
Tommy peered at me with a crafty look and said slyly, "Gerry was going on about-witches today."
"You couldn't let it lie!" I yelled. "You just couldn't let it lie. YES! I admit it. An ancestor of mine was burned as a witch."
"What was her name?" said Tommy.
"Winnie," I replied.
"Winnie the witch," sniggered Tommy. "That's straight out of the Dandy or the Beano."
"Winnie was neither in the Dandy or the Beano," I yelled. "She came from Ballymena and was accused of sticking her big, long nose through the silver tops on milk bottles during the night. Winnie said it was the birds, but the people just laughed. They stripped poor Winnie, looking for the mark of the devil. On the small of her back, just above her hips they found a tattoo like the one David Beckham has. The fire was lit, but spits and spots turned to heavy rain and Winnie went on to live a long life.
"Was she badly burned?" said Tommy.
I sighed and said, "Winnie's under-carriage suffered from charring and smoke damage, but her little, white, ankle socks and gutties were reduced to ashes."
"Holy smoke!" said Tommy.
All this and more have I seen as Frank Mitchell mumbled in his sleep. "Ten best places in Ulster to get a bus out of it".

Thursday 5 November 2009

Recompense for the troubles.

And so we say a sad farewell to last week's great shows and look forward to this week's great shows.
Who knows what this weeks great shows will bring? One thing I do know, as long as your great shows are heard by headbangers, weirdos, care in the community and - Jordie, anything could happen. Tommy my cat came into the room, wearing a lovely, sheer, nylon, big girl's blouse over a dirty, grey simmet and said,
"I see the security reserves are being well recompensed for the part they played during the troubles."
"Fine, well and dandy!" I yelled. "But when are the ordinary people going to be recompensed for the psychological damage done to them by the troubles? I found the troubles-harrowing," I said. "I found the troubles very harrowing. When am I going to be paid for all the harrowing done to me?"
"Never!" said Tommy. "You were not a combatant like comrade Coyle. You were a civilian, a mere onlooker."
"The troubles aged me!" I yelled. "I aged thirty years during the troubles and I want spondulects to repair the thirty years' wear and tear done to my visage."
"You were born old," said Tommy. "You are as old as time itself and as ugly as sin."
"That may well be," I said, "but do you know how many times I was stopped and questioned by the army? 856,931 times!" I yelled. "And always the same question, "animal, vegetable or mineral?" The number of times I have responded, "Vegetable," to the Royal Anglican regiment is beyond recall."
Tommy sniggered and said, "Be off with you, you old rat bag. For you, zee war is over."
Then Tommy began to pull his sheer, nylon, big girls' blouse over his head. I averted my eyes and walked out of the room. Even in the close relationship between woman and cat there are boundaries.
It was a quarter to seven in the evening. Tommy and I were sitting on two cast iron commodes from the first world war.Noel Thompson was walking and TALKING on BBC Newsline. Suddenly, we heard the bang of a wheelie bin lid close. Tommy looked at me and whispered, "Nolan!"
The back door burst open and Tubby Nolan lumbered in. Lard Boy pulled up three chairs and sat down. I looked at Tubby sitting there in all his pink, plump glory. Tubby held a prehistoric bone he had purloined out of the natural history museum and began to gnaw at it.
"Steven!" I said.
"Yes?" said the oval one.
I giggled and said, "Are they filming a remake of the Maltese Falcon?"
"Not that I know off," said Steven. "Why?"
"Then why are you going around in Sydney Greenstreet's big baggy suit?" I cried. Laughter erupted from me like like projectile vomiting and I fell to the floor in a giggling heap.
But Tommy took umbrage. Yes, little Tommy took umbrage. He leaped to his feet and cried,
"Who do you think you are?. Jeremy Clarkson? Andrew Neil? Carol Thatcher? Prince Phillip?"
"It was only a joke," I mumbled.
"Yes, it's always 'only a joke' with your kind," stormed Tommy.
"Steven," said Tommy, "come away into the kitchen I want to talk to you."
Five minutes later, the two appeared, tight lipped and serious.
Tommy looked at me and said, "Steven and I have decided to ostracize you."
I clamped my legs tight shut and yelled, "If one of you dare approach me with a sharp knife, I'll scream and scream and scream."
All this and more have I seen as Lynda Byrons pushed nine eggs into the pockets of a protesting Paul Clarke.
"It's nothing Paul," said Lynda huskily. "I know you would do the same for me." On my way out of UTV, I saw Frank Mitchell sitting in a skip thinking up another 'ten best in Ulster'.
It may be time again, for Ulster to say "NO!".

Tuesday 3 November 2009

Tommy solves the case.

Great show yesterday Kid. It will go down in radio history as the show with the longest and most revealing story ever to be broadcast in the history of radio. The story was of course told by Derry's premier Seannachie, Mr Sean Coyle.
It was a lurid story, a story one might well see in the seedy pages of the News of The World, or indeed, The Sunday Sport. It was a story of love, betrayal and unimaginable 'how's your father. It was a story only a gulpin would tell. A tale fit for a gulpin, told by a gulpin.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was filleting a deceased mackerel with a Swiss army knife.
"Tommy!" I said, in fluent speech, "pray tell what you thought of the knave Coyle's story."
"Tommy put down knife and mackerel, got slowly to his feet and walked, hands behind back to the window. I looked at Tommy, as he stood at the window, slim, elegant, debonair with a sardonic look on his pale, sensitive feline face. "Tommy looked like Sherlock Holmes! He looked just like Sherlock Holmes as he stood at the window-pondering.
"Ah yes," said Tommy, "the strange case of the vibrating man. Let us examine the facts. Mr Coyle's wife has gone out to visit a friend. THEN, for some strange, inexplicable reason, Mr Coyle suddenly decides to go to bed. WHY?" said Tommy. "WHY would a man who was just married decide to go to bed? Surely he would want to stay up and welcome his homecoming wife with a cup of tea or cocoa. But-NO!. Mr Coyle decides to go to bed. The next thing he would have us believe, was that he was woken by a MAN, a vibrating man lying on top of him. The next thing Mr Coyle would have us believe was that he was helpless,unable to move, at the mercy of the strange, vibrating man. To the untrained eye," said Tommy, "this story would lead us to believe that Mr Coyle was one of the first swingers in Derry. And yet," said Tommy, "I stand at this window today and declare, there is no way Mr Coyle is, or indeed was a swinger."
"Prove it Tommy!" I yelled, "Go on and prove it, just like Sherlock Holmes."
Tommy spun round from the window,raised his paw on high and cried, "The reason Mr Coyle is not a swinger is because he doesn't have the swingers to BE a swinger."
"Another case solved!" I cried, as I ran to fetch Tommy pipe, slippers and fiddle.
The Friday show is on tonight.OOH-Scary! What an excuse to seek out a vibrating man, or indeed-vibrating woman.
Happy Halloween to all in Derry City. There will be a big crowd so hold on to your ghoulies.
Matt Baggott said that. He said,
"HOLD ON TO YOUR GHOULIES!"