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".
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