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?