Boxing manoeuvres

Great shows last week Kid, but now you have to do it all over again. You have to climb into the ring, slip in a gum shield and come out fighting.

When you return to your stool for a rest during the eleven o'clock news, Mr Coyle will wipe your face with a towel, give you a drink of water and pull out the waist band of your shorts. This manoeuvre in sporting circles is known as the boxer's grope.

And there is no better exponent of the boxers grope that Mr Coyle.

Jordie Tuft had an unfortunate experience with the boxer's grope when bare knuckle fighting in Kilburn. Jordie's second, Pug O'Toole, gave old Jordie such a violent boxer's grope, when Jordie got up for the fifth round, his boxing drawers fell round his ankles and he walked into a haymaker from Crazy Julian Grayson. Old Jordie lay on his back, legs akimbo, muttering about Jeyes Fluid. The referee was so transfixed he forgot to count. Many people got a good eyeful before the towel was thrown into the ring. Many women and indeed a few men were treated by St. John ambulance men for severe traumatic shock.

Mad Frankie Frasier told me that story in the Blind Beggar pub. I looked down at him and said,

"Mad Frankie are you really mad?"

He looked up at me with his little, cold, shark eyes and replied softly, "I'm not mad, but I am a little miffed at the decline in moral standards and the startling increase in, How's your father? Is your mother still working?"
Before I left that night, Frankie kindly pulled out two of my teeth, and I didn't even have to ask him! Apparently Mad Frankie had seen signs of decay in my two front teeth and whipped out his pliers before you could say Broadmoor.

A diamond, that's what mad Frankie Frasier is, a diamond geezer.

But this looking back through Rosie Ryan tinted glasses, won't get the turkey stuffed.

"Ram in more," yelled a loud, uncouth voice.

"Ram in more."

I peeped into the butcher's shop and there stood Tubby Nolan overseeing the stuffing of a large nude ostrich.

"Ram in more stuffing," roared Tubby.

"I want that baby stuffed to the gunnel with stuffing!"

"But Mr Tubby," said the sweating, red faced butcher, "I have stuffed 65 pounds of stuffing into that ostrich!"

"Oh, all right," growled Tubby. "Sew her up and throw her on the wheel barrow I brought with me."

As Tubby wheeled the large, stuffed ostrich out of the butcher's, I grabbed him by the jowls and screeched, "Luvely-Jubely Tubby, tell me, oh plump one, when do you have your dinner on Christmas day?"

"Between the hours of nine and eleven," roared giant turf stacks.

"How lovely," I said. "You go to church in the morning, have a light lunch and then sit down to your dinner at night, between the hours of nine and eleven. How civilized."

"Are you mad?" yelled Tubby, "On Christmas Day I eat from nine in the morning until eleven o'clock at night."

As he pushed the ostrich in the wheel barrow down the street, wearing his old Patrick Moore suit, I looked at a small, lazy eyed dwarf from Derrylin and said,

"Now there goes something that would make Charles Darwin scratch his head."

The Derrylin dwarf concurred and we retired to a local hostelry to get as pissed as two Dungannon newts.

Kid, you have probably seen some pissed newts in your time, but until you see a pissed Dungannon newt, you ain't seen nothing yet.

PS. Is Coylers wearing his Santa boxing shorts???

Have one of the girls give him a boxer's grope!.