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?)