Bring Back The Chuckle Brothers.

Great come back show Kid, after strutting your stuff on the cat walks of Paris. I hear you were modelling the Spring collection for fashion designer, Willie John McClabber from Cullybaccy.

As your melodic, dulcet tones were carried by the breeze, like veritable thistledown all over Norn Iron, people lifted their weary heads and stood up proud, like the tall poppy. Two days of cold. Two days of-Coyle!

"Gott in Himmel!" screamed Edwin Poots. "Is this all there-IS?"

Poots was apprehended on his way to a high bridge, with his pockets full of pre-decimal pennies. And now, he is dancing in the street, laughing, telling jokes and twisting small dogs into the shape of balloons. As the old song says,

"What a difference a day makes!"

"GERRY'S BACK!" shrieked Tommy my cat, as he did a somersault in the middle of the room, arrayed in white, lace blouse, charcoal grey pencil skirt, Doc Martin stillettos and dark brown, support stockings. He banged a wooden spoon against a brass gong and yelled, "Bring on the dancing girls!"

In staggered three old dears from an old folks' home. Oh, it was pathetic to see them try and kick up their old wrinkled legs.

"We are the Follies Bergerac," croaked one, as she made an ineffectual attempt to flash her knickers.

It was- pathetic and hideously repulsive.

To think that someone's dear old mammy would be reduced to-THAT! Thank Goodness my late mammy got a job in Duffy's circus before she popped her clogs. I picked up the bisum and swept the three old crones out into the street.

Suddenly, like the tide, Tommy's mood changed. He put a crash helmet on me and ran at the wall with his head. When he got up he roared, yelled, shrieked and uttered the most high pitched falsetto screams I have ever heard.

"Tommy!" I cried. "Tommy, what ails thee lad?"

"DID YOU SEE THEM?" screamed Tommy.

"Did you see Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson stand and shake their heads behind each others back?"

"I did," I said, "as did most people in Northern Ireland. But no ones cares. We are all sick and tired of the little games."

Tommy eased himself down on a pile of twenty pound notes from the Northern bank and softly said, "Remember the Chuckle Brothers? That was a golden time. Everything was turned into one big joke. Teeth," said Tommy. "all you saw were teeth, when Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness were touring the province to wild acclaim as The Chuckle Brothers. Where did it all go wrong?" sighed Tommy. "Why is everything so grim? No more laughing. No more chuckling. Nothing now but grumpy drawers.

I don't like grumpy drawers!" shrieked Tommy. "I want the Chuckle Brothers and I want them-NIGH!"

Then the poor feline slumped down into a blubbering heap.

I went to the window and stared out.

People were shopping, children playing, dogs doing what dogs do best. I crossed my legs across my chest and softly muttered,

"Christmas? Bah. Humbug!"

Galvanized into action, I gave a skip like old mother Reilly, yelled, "GERONIMO!" and ran at the wall with my head.

Which is why I am writing this letter in intensive care.

Happy-ah-ah-HAPPY LANDINGS.

Maybe it will all turn out nice--soon.