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!.