Great shows last week kid.
You got the old gritter,Mr Coyle,out early and put on five great, icicle-dangling shows.
All week the burning question was, "Has old Jordie turned into an abominable snowman?"
I am glad to report,that Jordie's wee lum is still reeking,and his under-carriage, while frost-bitten,will not need any amputations. Praise the Lord and pass the doats! This state of affairs is mainly due to external heat from pallets,firewood and a lorryload of wooden legs that some kindly woman was good enough to send him after her husband,Long John passed away. Internal heat was maintained from Bush whiskey, cooking sherry, poteen and the fast downing of sloe gin.
I handed Tommy my cat a big cardboard box and said,
"Christmas is a time for thinking of others who are not as lucky as we are. Take this box to the guys and gals who appear in LOL."
"What's in the box?" said Tommy.
"One liners and punch lines," I said. "Lord knows they need them."
"I'm not going anywhere near the LOL'ers!" yelled Tommy. "They might make me laugh."
"I would like to see them try!" I yelled.
Silence in court, here comes the judge.
"Tubby Nolan," said the judge,"you find yourself in the dock today,NOT because you dressed up a snowman with coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. You do find yourself in the dock for the strategically placed SECOND carrot. How do you plead you rotund rascal?".
"INNOCENT!" roared Tubby. "I am as innocent as the new born snow and the driven baby.
It was not I who placed the second carrot South of the border down Mexico way. It was the work of hoodies, slabbers and bucket bakes. Your honour," yelled Tubby,"it is a well known fact that I haven't seen the area where the carrot was placed for over 20 years! Your honour," roared Tubby,"please release me, let me go!"
"Case dismissed!" cried the old judge, whipping off his syrup of figs.
"Then I can-GO?" cried Tubby.
"NO!" roared the judge. "I want you to take me home in your car, because,my fat, oval friend,I am as drunk as a judge!"
Sunday 19 December 2010
Monday 6 December 2010
Magic Script Writers
Great show yesterday kid. A great show made all the more intriguing when Mr Coyle was heard to whisper in a throaty, husky, Barry White voice,
"Shall I show him Emma?"
And Emma, with a catch in her voice gasped, "NO!"
Tommy my cat and I leaped up from the two crouching Swedish dwarfs we were sitting on and ran around in circles.
"What in the Sam Hill blazes is going on in there?" I yelled.
"Coylers is weaving his magic!" Tommy cried.
"Rubbish!" I roared. "There's no magic left in Mr Coyle's old, bent wand. You need a good wand to weave magic."
"This will be on Wikileaks tonight," said Tommy,"under the heading, Emma says, NO!"
Talking of Wikileaks," I said as I went to the door and gave a polar bear half a pan loaf,"did you see Nigel Dodds still insist that the President is NOT a crook?"
"That dog don't hunt," said Tommy. "Nigel should listen to Seamus Heaney,
"What ever you say, say nothing."
"Tubby Nolan was on Wikileaks," I said. "During his last holiday he floated into North Korean waters and nearly started a third world war. The North Koreans were just ready to yell,
"Geronimo!" and press the red button when they saw Tubby's little periscope and fell about laughing."
"No one can laugh like a North Korean," said Tommy,"which is why the BBC have flown in 100 North Koreans to laugh at,Sketchy and LOL."
"Too little,too late!" I cried. "What the BBC should have done was hire Michael McGimpsey and Edwin Poots as script writers."
"Ah, McGimpsey and Poots," said Tommy. "They wrote for Tommy Cooper and Tony Hancock did they not?"
"Yes," I said, "but only after they were dead."
"A bridge too far," said Tommy. "First said by Phil Coulter when he got writer's block during,BOOM-BANG-A-BANG."
"What is little Phil doing now," I said, "tuning pianos?"
"No," said Tommy,"the little legend is working on an album about the famine. The album contains such smash hits as.
"Eating Grass"
"I'm Starving"
And "Who ate all the pies?"
I fired a double-barrelled shotgun at the middle plaster duck flying up the wall and said,
"If the Prince who turned into a frog, Andrew Lloyd Webber, gets his hands on that he will turn it into a musical."
"He must be stopped at all costs!" yelled Tommy.
"You phone the police and I'll get onto the Taliban."
Thank goodness for the Taliban. They hate anything to do with fun,which begs the question, where were the Taliban when Sketchy and LOL were wrecking havoc all over Ulster?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell under the bundle of old clothes outside the gates of UTV.
P.S. The Emma, Sean exchange was over an email to John Bennet!
A likely story!
"Shall I show him Emma?"
And Emma, with a catch in her voice gasped, "NO!"
Tommy my cat and I leaped up from the two crouching Swedish dwarfs we were sitting on and ran around in circles.
"What in the Sam Hill blazes is going on in there?" I yelled.
"Coylers is weaving his magic!" Tommy cried.
"Rubbish!" I roared. "There's no magic left in Mr Coyle's old, bent wand. You need a good wand to weave magic."
"This will be on Wikileaks tonight," said Tommy,"under the heading, Emma says, NO!"
Talking of Wikileaks," I said as I went to the door and gave a polar bear half a pan loaf,"did you see Nigel Dodds still insist that the President is NOT a crook?"
"That dog don't hunt," said Tommy. "Nigel should listen to Seamus Heaney,
"What ever you say, say nothing."
"Tubby Nolan was on Wikileaks," I said. "During his last holiday he floated into North Korean waters and nearly started a third world war. The North Koreans were just ready to yell,
"Geronimo!" and press the red button when they saw Tubby's little periscope and fell about laughing."
"No one can laugh like a North Korean," said Tommy,"which is why the BBC have flown in 100 North Koreans to laugh at,Sketchy and LOL."
"Too little,too late!" I cried. "What the BBC should have done was hire Michael McGimpsey and Edwin Poots as script writers."
"Ah, McGimpsey and Poots," said Tommy. "They wrote for Tommy Cooper and Tony Hancock did they not?"
"Yes," I said, "but only after they were dead."
"A bridge too far," said Tommy. "First said by Phil Coulter when he got writer's block during,BOOM-BANG-A-BANG."
"What is little Phil doing now," I said, "tuning pianos?"
"No," said Tommy,"the little legend is working on an album about the famine. The album contains such smash hits as.
"Eating Grass"
"I'm Starving"
And "Who ate all the pies?"
I fired a double-barrelled shotgun at the middle plaster duck flying up the wall and said,
"If the Prince who turned into a frog, Andrew Lloyd Webber, gets his hands on that he will turn it into a musical."
"He must be stopped at all costs!" yelled Tommy.
"You phone the police and I'll get onto the Taliban."
Thank goodness for the Taliban. They hate anything to do with fun,which begs the question, where were the Taliban when Sketchy and LOL were wrecking havoc all over Ulster?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell under the bundle of old clothes outside the gates of UTV.
P.S. The Emma, Sean exchange was over an email to John Bennet!
A likely story!
Wednesday 24 November 2010
Perks
Great shows this week kid.
Tommy my cat peeped out at me from the Ann Summer's drawer and said,
"So, Mr Coyle is climbing the corporate ladder with a new extended show. The word in the hood is,that Ken Doherty hammered a steel spike into the ground behind radio Foyle,so Mr Coyle could chain his 1952 Raleigh bicycle to it."
"PERKS!" I cried. "Mr Coyle is receiving perks from the BBC. Today a steel spike, tomorrow, red braces, better known in the Bogside as galluses,and his own special monogrammed toilet paper with a likeness of Charlie Landsborough printed on it."
The lad's on his way up," said Tommy. "Why, he's only a hop, skip and shuffle away from Newsnight or How clean is your Cesspit?"
And so we leave Mr Coyle and move on to Tubby Nolan.
I couldn't believe it! There,in the middle of a circle of Japanese tourists was Tubby Nolan demonstrating,in graphic detail,how elephants pluck leaves from trees with their trunk.
"PUT IT AWAY!" I yelled."PUT IT AWAY!"
Tubby picked up his little Henry the hoover, grabbed the flexible hose and slunk off in a huff.
"AH-SO!" said a Japanese tourist.
"Yes," I said sadly."Ah-so, belly, thighs and face all made from 100% Ulster lard."
"Make velly good sushi," said an old, withered Kamikaze pilot with 627 successful missions behind him.
"Clear off Honda," I yelled,"or I'll book you a one-way ticket home on Ryan Air!"
The old Kamikaze fell to his knees screaming,
"NO! NO! HARI-KARI, BUT NO RYAN AIR!"
Tommy my cat peeped out at me from the Ann Summer's drawer and said,
"So, Mr Coyle is climbing the corporate ladder with a new extended show. The word in the hood is,that Ken Doherty hammered a steel spike into the ground behind radio Foyle,so Mr Coyle could chain his 1952 Raleigh bicycle to it."
"PERKS!" I cried. "Mr Coyle is receiving perks from the BBC. Today a steel spike, tomorrow, red braces, better known in the Bogside as galluses,and his own special monogrammed toilet paper with a likeness of Charlie Landsborough printed on it."
The lad's on his way up," said Tommy. "Why, he's only a hop, skip and shuffle away from Newsnight or How clean is your Cesspit?"
And so we leave Mr Coyle and move on to Tubby Nolan.
I couldn't believe it! There,in the middle of a circle of Japanese tourists was Tubby Nolan demonstrating,in graphic detail,how elephants pluck leaves from trees with their trunk.
"PUT IT AWAY!" I yelled."PUT IT AWAY!"
Tubby picked up his little Henry the hoover, grabbed the flexible hose and slunk off in a huff.
"AH-SO!" said a Japanese tourist.
"Yes," I said sadly."Ah-so, belly, thighs and face all made from 100% Ulster lard."
"Make velly good sushi," said an old, withered Kamikaze pilot with 627 successful missions behind him.
"Clear off Honda," I yelled,"or I'll book you a one-way ticket home on Ryan Air!"
The old Kamikaze fell to his knees screaming,
"NO! NO! HARI-KARI, BUT NO RYAN AIR!"
Monday 22 November 2010
The Caravan Moves On
Great royal show yesterday kid. I am sure Mr Coyle's serf-like, servile grovelling has been noted in the house of Windsor.
"Whom is that brown-nosed toady?" asked Prince Phillip as he waited for old Jordie to appear.
" A mere surly churl," said the Queen,"who sweeps the floors, brings in water and keeps the bathrooms clean in the house of Anderson. His name, for some, quaint reason is, Sean Coyle."
"I don't like him," puffed Prince Phillip."Off with his head AND his feet and any protuberance that may be spoiling the line of his village idiot smock."
Tommy my cat tattooed the image of the battleship Bismark on my back with a Black and Decker drill and said,
"The dogs bark and the caravan moves on."
"Meaning-what?" I cried.
"Meaning," said Tommy,"that the tsunami of royal coverage will greatly diminish now until a week before the marriage."
And a good thing too," said Tommy. "There are other things of great importance to talk about."
"Such as what?" I roared.
"Are you aware," said Tommy,"that the Northern Ireland budget has not yet been passed?"
"Have they tried castor oil?" I asked.
"Litres of it," said Tommy,"and gallons and gallons of Jeyes Fluid. Next week, if there is no movement, Sammy Wilson is going to call in Dyno-Rod."
THEN! there was a timid knock on the door. It was little, clean, tidy Frank Mitchell asking if either of us knew how to tie a bow tie. Tommy came to the rescue and tied a hugh, frilly, scarlet-red McGuffin around wee Frank's neck that made it appear the little man was peering over a massive red petticoat. If little Frank turns up at the royal wedding looking like that,he will turn the big day into a veritable circus.
Perhaps Pammy Ballentine could have a word in his shell-like. I mean you can see the headlines.
"IS HE 'AVING A LAUGH?"
"ULSTER WEATHERMAN GETS ROYAL RISER."
"Mr McCRORY ASKED TO LEAVE!"
"Whom is that brown-nosed toady?" asked Prince Phillip as he waited for old Jordie to appear.
" A mere surly churl," said the Queen,"who sweeps the floors, brings in water and keeps the bathrooms clean in the house of Anderson. His name, for some, quaint reason is, Sean Coyle."
"I don't like him," puffed Prince Phillip."Off with his head AND his feet and any protuberance that may be spoiling the line of his village idiot smock."
Tommy my cat tattooed the image of the battleship Bismark on my back with a Black and Decker drill and said,
"The dogs bark and the caravan moves on."
"Meaning-what?" I cried.
"Meaning," said Tommy,"that the tsunami of royal coverage will greatly diminish now until a week before the marriage."
And a good thing too," said Tommy. "There are other things of great importance to talk about."
"Such as what?" I roared.
"Are you aware," said Tommy,"that the Northern Ireland budget has not yet been passed?"
"Have they tried castor oil?" I asked.
"Litres of it," said Tommy,"and gallons and gallons of Jeyes Fluid. Next week, if there is no movement, Sammy Wilson is going to call in Dyno-Rod."
THEN! there was a timid knock on the door. It was little, clean, tidy Frank Mitchell asking if either of us knew how to tie a bow tie. Tommy came to the rescue and tied a hugh, frilly, scarlet-red McGuffin around wee Frank's neck that made it appear the little man was peering over a massive red petticoat. If little Frank turns up at the royal wedding looking like that,he will turn the big day into a veritable circus.
Perhaps Pammy Ballentine could have a word in his shell-like. I mean you can see the headlines.
"IS HE 'AVING A LAUGH?"
"ULSTER WEATHERMAN GETS ROYAL RISER."
"Mr McCRORY ASKED TO LEAVE!"
Wednesday 17 November 2010
Go West!
A great show yesterday kid for all young school girls who don't like Mondays.
Suddenly Tommy my cat who was suffering from cabin fever began to shriek,
"I gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing I ever do."
Before you could say,"You don't send me flour anymore," Tommy and I set off down Belfast, wearing matching Seamus Heaney heavy,woollen gansyies and kingfisher-blue hot-pants. We looked good and we knew it. We did a sexy little routine from Pan's People as we skipped along. Rounding a corner we found the road was blocked by a line of men. There was an Indian,a motorcycle cop,a construction worker,a cowboy and in the middle, Tubby Nolan roaring at the top of his voice,
"GO WEST, life is peaceful there,
GO WEST, the Londonderry air,
GO WEST, where the culchies dwell,
GO WEST, and watch my ego swell,
GO WEST, to Gerry Anderson's lair,
GO WEST, where I will rule the air."
"Who goes there," yelled Tommy,"rriend or fiend?"
"FIEND!" yelled Tubby."No one can stop me now. Soon I shall rule the universe. I wonder would Hugo Duncan be my Mini-Me?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "Hugo Duncan will fight to the last man in Strabane before he escapes over the camel's hump into Lifford."
"Soon," yelled Tubby, "I and my army of BBC minions will invade the air-space of the North/West! Soon, I will ignite ructions and riots in remote places like Kesh and Plumbridge. I will lay waste the land West of the Bann, with slabbering poison from my big bucket bake. And there is nothing or no one who can stop me."
Tubby then let loose an evil laugh that chilled the marrow in my bones and rippled the water in my bladder.
"Not so fast!" cried Tommy. "Hold hard Everard! The chosen one,Saint Patrick incarnate,Gerry Adams, will stop you at Lough Derg and banish you like the snake you are."
Tubby turned white and mumbled,
"Gerry Adams and I were always the best of friends. I will not encroach on his thiefdom. I shall raise my standard at the camel's hump on the border of Strabane and Lifford until I have consulted the Oracle of Derry, Sean Coyle. Coyle can read the entrails of a chicken, like a cub can read the Beano."
SO! What does the future hold?????
Who knows, who cares? Bring on the chilly pipers with nay breeks so I can have a good gleek!
Suddenly Tommy my cat who was suffering from cabin fever began to shriek,
"I gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing I ever do."
Before you could say,"You don't send me flour anymore," Tommy and I set off down Belfast, wearing matching Seamus Heaney heavy,woollen gansyies and kingfisher-blue hot-pants. We looked good and we knew it. We did a sexy little routine from Pan's People as we skipped along. Rounding a corner we found the road was blocked by a line of men. There was an Indian,a motorcycle cop,a construction worker,a cowboy and in the middle, Tubby Nolan roaring at the top of his voice,
"GO WEST, life is peaceful there,
GO WEST, the Londonderry air,
GO WEST, where the culchies dwell,
GO WEST, and watch my ego swell,
GO WEST, to Gerry Anderson's lair,
GO WEST, where I will rule the air."
"Who goes there," yelled Tommy,"rriend or fiend?"
"FIEND!" yelled Tubby."No one can stop me now. Soon I shall rule the universe. I wonder would Hugo Duncan be my Mini-Me?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "Hugo Duncan will fight to the last man in Strabane before he escapes over the camel's hump into Lifford."
"Soon," yelled Tubby, "I and my army of BBC minions will invade the air-space of the North/West! Soon, I will ignite ructions and riots in remote places like Kesh and Plumbridge. I will lay waste the land West of the Bann, with slabbering poison from my big bucket bake. And there is nothing or no one who can stop me."
Tubby then let loose an evil laugh that chilled the marrow in my bones and rippled the water in my bladder.
"Not so fast!" cried Tommy. "Hold hard Everard! The chosen one,Saint Patrick incarnate,Gerry Adams, will stop you at Lough Derg and banish you like the snake you are."
Tubby turned white and mumbled,
"Gerry Adams and I were always the best of friends. I will not encroach on his thiefdom. I shall raise my standard at the camel's hump on the border of Strabane and Lifford until I have consulted the Oracle of Derry, Sean Coyle. Coyle can read the entrails of a chicken, like a cub can read the Beano."
SO! What does the future hold?????
Who knows, who cares? Bring on the chilly pipers with nay breeks so I can have a good gleek!
Monday 15 November 2010
Rubber ducks
Great shows last week kid,great shows which laid the foundations and set out a road map for peace and prosperity for everyone corralled within the borders of Ulster.
We,the people of Ulster are not like other people. We are dour,sour,hard-headed and,it has to be said, thick. We prefer the stick to the carrot. We have no hesitation in cutting off our nose to spite our face,and by golly, both sides of the house can march up and down ,round and round. No other nation clocks up as many marching miles as the people of Ulster. We will march at the drop of a black bowler hat,or the shrill cry from a jail,
"Nothing matters Mary when you're free!"
But we could be worse, I say we could be worse. We could stand kicking our heels at street corners,picking our nose and smoking Woodbine like the natives of Papua,New Guinea do on a regular basis.
I looked at Tommy my cat lying in a bubble bath squeezing his rubber duck. Tommy gazed through the curtain of steam and said,
"I say old girl,I do declare I could live on bread and water if I had great shows."
I mounted a brindle water buffalo called Rick and yelled,
"Great shows don't just happen. Great shows have to be planned. The greatest exponents of great shows were the Romans and Barnum and Bailey."
"Ah, I know Barnum and Bailey," said Tommy. "Did they not fall in with a chap called Cromwell and form the BBC?"
"Get out of that bubble bath!" I yelled. "Get out of that bath and while we're on the subject,there has been a deal too much rubber duck squeezing going on under the water for my liking."
"How dare you brand me a rubber duck squeezer!" cried Tommy. "I stick to the rules of bubble bathers everywhere. The number of times one can squeeze one's rubber duck in a bubble bath is set at five and I have never, never exceeded that number."
"Liar, liar pants on fire!" I yelled. "I have been watching you my fine,feathered friend and I will swear in any court in the land that you,Tommy cat,squeezed your rubber duck a total of SEVEN times."
"Lies, damn lies and the Stylistics!" roared Tommy.
THEN! Jim Rodgers leaped over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato, landed in the middle of the room and screamed,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! Great news. After an all night sitting in Brussels, British Prime Minister David Cameron has won a history-making concession. From midnight tonight, the price of pan loaves will go through the roof, but the people of Britain can squeeze their wee rubber ducks as many times as they like.
"This will have great political significance in Ulster!" screamed Jim. "What shinner would want to join the Free State if their rubber duck squeezing was curtailed by the bureaucrats in Brussels?"
Tommy and I concurred, grabbed our wee,yellow,rubber ducks and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
What a great day for democracy and the manufacturers of wee,yellow, rubber ducks,who reside,I believe,in China!
We,the people of Ulster are not like other people. We are dour,sour,hard-headed and,it has to be said, thick. We prefer the stick to the carrot. We have no hesitation in cutting off our nose to spite our face,and by golly, both sides of the house can march up and down ,round and round. No other nation clocks up as many marching miles as the people of Ulster. We will march at the drop of a black bowler hat,or the shrill cry from a jail,
"Nothing matters Mary when you're free!"
But we could be worse, I say we could be worse. We could stand kicking our heels at street corners,picking our nose and smoking Woodbine like the natives of Papua,New Guinea do on a regular basis.
I looked at Tommy my cat lying in a bubble bath squeezing his rubber duck. Tommy gazed through the curtain of steam and said,
"I say old girl,I do declare I could live on bread and water if I had great shows."
I mounted a brindle water buffalo called Rick and yelled,
"Great shows don't just happen. Great shows have to be planned. The greatest exponents of great shows were the Romans and Barnum and Bailey."
"Ah, I know Barnum and Bailey," said Tommy. "Did they not fall in with a chap called Cromwell and form the BBC?"
"Get out of that bubble bath!" I yelled. "Get out of that bath and while we're on the subject,there has been a deal too much rubber duck squeezing going on under the water for my liking."
"How dare you brand me a rubber duck squeezer!" cried Tommy. "I stick to the rules of bubble bathers everywhere. The number of times one can squeeze one's rubber duck in a bubble bath is set at five and I have never, never exceeded that number."
"Liar, liar pants on fire!" I yelled. "I have been watching you my fine,feathered friend and I will swear in any court in the land that you,Tommy cat,squeezed your rubber duck a total of SEVEN times."
"Lies, damn lies and the Stylistics!" roared Tommy.
THEN! Jim Rodgers leaped over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato, landed in the middle of the room and screamed,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! Great news. After an all night sitting in Brussels, British Prime Minister David Cameron has won a history-making concession. From midnight tonight, the price of pan loaves will go through the roof, but the people of Britain can squeeze their wee rubber ducks as many times as they like.
"This will have great political significance in Ulster!" screamed Jim. "What shinner would want to join the Free State if their rubber duck squeezing was curtailed by the bureaucrats in Brussels?"
Tommy and I concurred, grabbed our wee,yellow,rubber ducks and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
What a great day for democracy and the manufacturers of wee,yellow, rubber ducks,who reside,I believe,in China!
Thursday 11 November 2010
No Cure For Surliness.
Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat turned the radio off by yelling,
"You were good, but not right!"
A radio taker-away ran in, bound and gagged the radio and made his escape on a Honda 900cc Widow Maker motorcycle. Tommy plucked a lute, tooted a flute, pressed his suit and said,
"Mr Coyle was very surly today."
"I grabbed my Chamber's pot dictionary and yelled,
"SURLY, Morose, Gruff, Grumpy, Gloomy, Made famous by Shakespeare when he said in his famous play The mercenary of Ennis,
"Gadzooks, the knave in tattered hose was a surly churl."
"Well, bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of Titbits!" cried Tommy."That's Mr Coyle to a T. Is there no cure? Is there no remedy that will cure Mr Coyle from his morose, gruff, gloomy, grumpy surliness?"
"RISERS!" I yelled."RISERS, administered by a man wearing Italian shoes and sporting a crop of newly sown hair."
"Where is Silvino Berlussconi when you need him?" yelled Tommy.
"Probably playing away from home," I cried.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" screamed Tommy, for no apparent reason that I could see.
As I skipped by Eason's book shop on the Donegall Road, I saw the most amazing sight. It was Tubby Nolan clambering out of the back of a bin lorry.
"What did I tell you?" I yelled. "Did I not say to you, Steve don't appear on the street wearing a black suit when the bin lorry is making its rounds?"
Tubby flicked a fish head from his hair and said,
"That's the third time that has happened to me this week. On Tuesday I had to walk back from the landfill site AND pay a fine for dumping an item stuffed with flammable material,ie curry."
"Steve," I said,"Steve,you've got to take yourself in hand. Look at you, standing there like Patrick Moore's down-at-heel love child."
"Perhaps I should get a make-over," said Tubby.
"Make-over?" I scoffed. "You need land-scaping. Oh,if only Capability Brown could have got his hands on you. I can see you now. A wide avenue leading up to a water feature at the fork of your trousers. Neatly clipped privet hedge eyebrows. Shoes with decking soles to keep you from sinking into the mire and your hair topiaried into cute,little bunny rabbits."
"Push off bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "I'm no namby-pamby like Hugh Grant. I'm tough, like James Colburn, Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine and Babara Stanwych who scared the pants of Sean Coyle with her Rift (Pardon me)valley."
"Cats," I mused, "pigeons, Barbara Stanwyck, could there be a link? I decided to fly to America, dig up Barbara Stanwyck, get a sample of her DLA--sorry-DNA and compare it with Tommy's. Then and only then, could we work on Mr Coyle's peculiar phobia.
As I walked away I heard a bull-like roar. Once again Tubby Nolan was in the back of the bin lorry. Seems like water and rubbish always find their own level!
It's the kids I feel sorry for, having to witness such a degrading spectacle on their way to the off-licence.
Tommy my cat turned the radio off by yelling,
"You were good, but not right!"
A radio taker-away ran in, bound and gagged the radio and made his escape on a Honda 900cc Widow Maker motorcycle. Tommy plucked a lute, tooted a flute, pressed his suit and said,
"Mr Coyle was very surly today."
"I grabbed my Chamber's pot dictionary and yelled,
"SURLY, Morose, Gruff, Grumpy, Gloomy, Made famous by Shakespeare when he said in his famous play The mercenary of Ennis,
"Gadzooks, the knave in tattered hose was a surly churl."
"Well, bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of Titbits!" cried Tommy."That's Mr Coyle to a T. Is there no cure? Is there no remedy that will cure Mr Coyle from his morose, gruff, gloomy, grumpy surliness?"
"RISERS!" I yelled."RISERS, administered by a man wearing Italian shoes and sporting a crop of newly sown hair."
"Where is Silvino Berlussconi when you need him?" yelled Tommy.
"Probably playing away from home," I cried.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" screamed Tommy, for no apparent reason that I could see.
As I skipped by Eason's book shop on the Donegall Road, I saw the most amazing sight. It was Tubby Nolan clambering out of the back of a bin lorry.
"What did I tell you?" I yelled. "Did I not say to you, Steve don't appear on the street wearing a black suit when the bin lorry is making its rounds?"
Tubby flicked a fish head from his hair and said,
"That's the third time that has happened to me this week. On Tuesday I had to walk back from the landfill site AND pay a fine for dumping an item stuffed with flammable material,ie curry."
"Steve," I said,"Steve,you've got to take yourself in hand. Look at you, standing there like Patrick Moore's down-at-heel love child."
"Perhaps I should get a make-over," said Tubby.
"Make-over?" I scoffed. "You need land-scaping. Oh,if only Capability Brown could have got his hands on you. I can see you now. A wide avenue leading up to a water feature at the fork of your trousers. Neatly clipped privet hedge eyebrows. Shoes with decking soles to keep you from sinking into the mire and your hair topiaried into cute,little bunny rabbits."
"Push off bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "I'm no namby-pamby like Hugh Grant. I'm tough, like James Colburn, Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine and Babara Stanwych who scared the pants of Sean Coyle with her Rift (Pardon me)valley."
"Cats," I mused, "pigeons, Barbara Stanwyck, could there be a link? I decided to fly to America, dig up Barbara Stanwyck, get a sample of her DLA--sorry-DNA and compare it with Tommy's. Then and only then, could we work on Mr Coyle's peculiar phobia.
As I walked away I heard a bull-like roar. Once again Tubby Nolan was in the back of the bin lorry. Seems like water and rubbish always find their own level!
It's the kids I feel sorry for, having to witness such a degrading spectacle on their way to the off-licence.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
S.O.C. Nigh!
Four great shows last week kid.
Tommy my cat drew YET another outline of a body with chalk on the floor and said,
"I am worried about dear Christine Bleakley. Her early morning show has only got 600,000 viewers."
I stopped wall-papering the wheelie-bin and yelled,
"Well shiver my timbers and call me Rhonda. That works out at 300,000 viewers for Christine and 300,000 viewers for Mr Personality, Adrian Chiles."
"Indeed," said Tommy. "And when you further share out the over-all viewing figures with the tea lady and the production staff, you are nearly down to single digits."
"Something must be done!" I cried. "We can't let Christine go down like the Titanic!
We must take to the streets. We must protest.
SOC!" I roared.
"SOC. Save our Christine!"
"CMBS!" yelled Tommy.
"CMBS! Christine must be saved!"
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers.
"CIFUAMBGPT!"
"CIFUAMBGPT! Christine is from Ulster and must be given preferential treatment!"
If you are looking for a snappy slogan Jim Rodgers is your man. He went to school you know. There are witnesses who saw him going AND coming back.
No wonder the people of North Belfast never worry about an over-flowing toilet. They just make a cup of tea and say, "JIM WILL FIX IT!"
Tommy assembled an Ikea flat-pack court and said,
"Was Mr Coyle a SCAB for working last Friday?"
"YES!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle faced cats and pigeons to turn up for work on Friday, proving,if proof were needed, that the blood of Arthur Scargill does not run in his veins."
Tommy brought his gravel down on my head and yelled,
"I find Mr Coyle GUILTY of working and the sentence of this court is, that Mr Coyle be ostracized from decent, doing the double, income support, DLA society."
"Hauld on!" I yelled. "Hauld on! Ostracization is a bit hard. Why not give him 50 lashes instead of making him dress up in an ostrich costume like Bernie Clifton?"
"Clear the court," yelled Tommy,"before you find yourself up for obstruction!"
"Since when has constipation been a crime?" I yelled. I was dragged out by four members of the Vatican Swiss Guard.
They kept that one quiet,I say, they kept that one quiet.
Members of the Vatican Swiss Guard coming over here and taking our jobs.
ARE THE DUP ASLEEP???
Tommy my cat drew YET another outline of a body with chalk on the floor and said,
"I am worried about dear Christine Bleakley. Her early morning show has only got 600,000 viewers."
I stopped wall-papering the wheelie-bin and yelled,
"Well shiver my timbers and call me Rhonda. That works out at 300,000 viewers for Christine and 300,000 viewers for Mr Personality, Adrian Chiles."
"Indeed," said Tommy. "And when you further share out the over-all viewing figures with the tea lady and the production staff, you are nearly down to single digits."
"Something must be done!" I cried. "We can't let Christine go down like the Titanic!
We must take to the streets. We must protest.
SOC!" I roared.
"SOC. Save our Christine!"
"CMBS!" yelled Tommy.
"CMBS! Christine must be saved!"
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers.
"CIFUAMBGPT!"
"CIFUAMBGPT! Christine is from Ulster and must be given preferential treatment!"
If you are looking for a snappy slogan Jim Rodgers is your man. He went to school you know. There are witnesses who saw him going AND coming back.
No wonder the people of North Belfast never worry about an over-flowing toilet. They just make a cup of tea and say, "JIM WILL FIX IT!"
Tommy assembled an Ikea flat-pack court and said,
"Was Mr Coyle a SCAB for working last Friday?"
"YES!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle faced cats and pigeons to turn up for work on Friday, proving,if proof were needed, that the blood of Arthur Scargill does not run in his veins."
Tommy brought his gravel down on my head and yelled,
"I find Mr Coyle GUILTY of working and the sentence of this court is, that Mr Coyle be ostracized from decent, doing the double, income support, DLA society."
"Hauld on!" I yelled. "Hauld on! Ostracization is a bit hard. Why not give him 50 lashes instead of making him dress up in an ostrich costume like Bernie Clifton?"
"Clear the court," yelled Tommy,"before you find yourself up for obstruction!"
"Since when has constipation been a crime?" I yelled. I was dragged out by four members of the Vatican Swiss Guard.
They kept that one quiet,I say, they kept that one quiet.
Members of the Vatican Swiss Guard coming over here and taking our jobs.
ARE THE DUP ASLEEP???
Monday 8 November 2010
The Ugly Face Of U.T.V.
"What a great show that was" said Tommy my cat,as he took the radio by the hand and walked it out to the wheelie-bin. That radio, unlike Mary Bell's pussy would never see the light of day again.
"That great show today," I cried,mounting a dung heap and crowing like a rooster, "that great show today could mean the difference between life and death to some poor, depressed, miserable excuse for a human being who gambled his granny's hip replacement money on the last race at Haydock Park."
"You tell it like it is sister," yelled Tommy,"'cause you is one proud, butt-ugly woman!"
"You don't know me!" I yelled to the empty room. "You don't know me,so don't be booing and cat-calling 'till you walk a mile in my drawers. If I is ugly and I sure am ugly,it was MEN that made me ugly. So don't you go blaming me 'cause I is ugly. Blame the MAN who looks at me and says,
"Every day is Halloween with her."
"You tell it like it IS girl!" yelled Tommy. "Women ain't to blame for anything. Men is to blame for EVERYTHING. You got beauty inside girl. You hold that big, ugly head high. If men don't like you, they is missing a mess of ugliness. Ugliness that conceals your inner beauty."
"TO HELL WITH-MEN!" I roared, attacking a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea with my claws, teeth and the curved bit at the end of my nose.
"And what have you got in YOUR handbag?" I asked.
"Oh just some moist wipes and a gallon of Jaffa tan," said a beaming Julian Symmons.
"Here," says Julian, "there was a wild hanlin' at UTV this morning. Paul Clarke and Pamela Ballentine fell out over the last chocolate eclair. Hur was flying. Hur, you know-hur, the stuff that grows on your head, was flying. Pammy's wee eyes were flashing an' Paul Clarke slammed the dour and said,
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Then, come 'ere hi, didn't Royal Correspondent,Frank Mitchell, walk in and eat the wee eclair. Oh you should have heard the names Pammy called him.
Brown nose. auld ten things and for some, strange reason I don't understand, Mr McCrory. I hid in the girls' loo, so I did. I hid in the loo with May McFedridge who was slapping poly-filler on thon big gub of hers.
Here! I must be off. Frank has another list for the people tonight, so he has.
"Name 10 things Tubby Nolan hasn't seen in the last twenty years."
OH! that was my first guess too, but I don't think it will get past Of Com.
Must fly-Bye-Bye-Bye."
"That great show today," I cried,mounting a dung heap and crowing like a rooster, "that great show today could mean the difference between life and death to some poor, depressed, miserable excuse for a human being who gambled his granny's hip replacement money on the last race at Haydock Park."
"You tell it like it is sister," yelled Tommy,"'cause you is one proud, butt-ugly woman!"
"You don't know me!" I yelled to the empty room. "You don't know me,so don't be booing and cat-calling 'till you walk a mile in my drawers. If I is ugly and I sure am ugly,it was MEN that made me ugly. So don't you go blaming me 'cause I is ugly. Blame the MAN who looks at me and says,
"Every day is Halloween with her."
"You tell it like it IS girl!" yelled Tommy. "Women ain't to blame for anything. Men is to blame for EVERYTHING. You got beauty inside girl. You hold that big, ugly head high. If men don't like you, they is missing a mess of ugliness. Ugliness that conceals your inner beauty."
"TO HELL WITH-MEN!" I roared, attacking a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea with my claws, teeth and the curved bit at the end of my nose.
"And what have you got in YOUR handbag?" I asked.
"Oh just some moist wipes and a gallon of Jaffa tan," said a beaming Julian Symmons.
"Here," says Julian, "there was a wild hanlin' at UTV this morning. Paul Clarke and Pamela Ballentine fell out over the last chocolate eclair. Hur was flying. Hur, you know-hur, the stuff that grows on your head, was flying. Pammy's wee eyes were flashing an' Paul Clarke slammed the dour and said,
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Then, come 'ere hi, didn't Royal Correspondent,Frank Mitchell, walk in and eat the wee eclair. Oh you should have heard the names Pammy called him.
Brown nose. auld ten things and for some, strange reason I don't understand, Mr McCrory. I hid in the girls' loo, so I did. I hid in the loo with May McFedridge who was slapping poly-filler on thon big gub of hers.
Here! I must be off. Frank has another list for the people tonight, so he has.
"Name 10 things Tubby Nolan hasn't seen in the last twenty years."
OH! that was my first guess too, but I don't think it will get past Of Com.
Must fly-Bye-Bye-Bye."
Friday 5 November 2010
Irrational Fears and Flak Jackets
Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat crawled out from under the floor boards,where he had been timing death watch beetles run the 100 metres and said,
"It is truly amazing the amount of hate mail Mr Coyle receives on the Gerry show."
"And not undeserved!" I yelled. "Not undeserved. Any man,no matter how many eye brows he has, who thinks a pigeon is about to attack him as he makes his way to work, deserves hate mail by the sack load."
"Cats, pigeons," said Tommy,"what will Mr Coyle fear next?--mothers who breast feed?"
"He already does!" I cried."Only last week as Mr Coyle waited in a doctor's surgery to get Maine sarsaparilla dropped into his eye, a young mother began to unbutton her blouse prior to giving liquid nourishment to her young sprog. Mr Coyle leaped to his feet, yelled, "AIR BAGS!" and ran from the surgery pursued by angry villagers with torches and pitch forks."
"Outrage!" yelled Tommy, throwing down the Bangor Bugle. "The Ministry of Defence can't find a flak-jacket big enough to fit Lord Ken McGuinness!"
"Nor can they find a tank big enough to hold him!" I cried. "If there is one thing Afghanistan is crying out for now, it is a visit from Ken McGuinness. How Ken would have raised the morale of the troops by telling tales of daring-do in the UDR."
"We heard a fissle coming from behind a hedge," said Ken. "I yelled, "FIRE, AIM, RAISE!" and we shot two cows that were acting suspiciously behind the hedge."
"Could not Tubby Nolan lend Ken a body-warmer?" said Tommy.
"He could," I said, "but Tubby's mother, big Audrey,doesn't want Tubby's body-warmer coming home full of holes."
"Snipers?" said Tommy.
"Moths," I answered. "Great big buggers of Afghanistan moths."
"My-My", said Tommy, "The things you learn when you're talking to a complete tube."
I held my piece, Mother's Pride bread and plum jam. YUM-YUM!
Tommy my cat crawled out from under the floor boards,where he had been timing death watch beetles run the 100 metres and said,
"It is truly amazing the amount of hate mail Mr Coyle receives on the Gerry show."
"And not undeserved!" I yelled. "Not undeserved. Any man,no matter how many eye brows he has, who thinks a pigeon is about to attack him as he makes his way to work, deserves hate mail by the sack load."
"Cats, pigeons," said Tommy,"what will Mr Coyle fear next?--mothers who breast feed?"
"He already does!" I cried."Only last week as Mr Coyle waited in a doctor's surgery to get Maine sarsaparilla dropped into his eye, a young mother began to unbutton her blouse prior to giving liquid nourishment to her young sprog. Mr Coyle leaped to his feet, yelled, "AIR BAGS!" and ran from the surgery pursued by angry villagers with torches and pitch forks."
"Outrage!" yelled Tommy, throwing down the Bangor Bugle. "The Ministry of Defence can't find a flak-jacket big enough to fit Lord Ken McGuinness!"
"Nor can they find a tank big enough to hold him!" I cried. "If there is one thing Afghanistan is crying out for now, it is a visit from Ken McGuinness. How Ken would have raised the morale of the troops by telling tales of daring-do in the UDR."
"We heard a fissle coming from behind a hedge," said Ken. "I yelled, "FIRE, AIM, RAISE!" and we shot two cows that were acting suspiciously behind the hedge."
"Could not Tubby Nolan lend Ken a body-warmer?" said Tommy.
"He could," I said, "but Tubby's mother, big Audrey,doesn't want Tubby's body-warmer coming home full of holes."
"Snipers?" said Tommy.
"Moths," I answered. "Great big buggers of Afghanistan moths."
"My-My", said Tommy, "The things you learn when you're talking to a complete tube."
I held my piece, Mother's Pride bread and plum jam. YUM-YUM!
Monday 1 November 2010
Fiscal News
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly aided the Pound in its unfair fight with the Euro and the Dollar.
"The Pound has rallied!" yelled Tommy my cat. "The dollar is just holding its own. Brian Cowan, Angela Merkel, Nicolas Sarzozy, Silvio Berlusconi, your Euro is taking a hell of a beating. Your Euro is taking a hell of a beating!"
I clapped my Hans, two Dutch lodgers I had recently taken in, and cried,
My drawers are shaking! This great fiscal news has affected the pound in my pocket."
Tommy my cat looked at me with a gormless look on his face like Adrian Chiles and said,
"Britain owes a shed load of money doesn't it?"
"It sure does," I said. "Billions and billions and even more billions."
"To who or whom does Britain own this money?" asked Tommy.
"The banks," I said.
"That can not be!" said Tommy. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did this fiscal hanlin' not come about because the banks went bust as a result of greed and gross stupidity.
So how can we own money to the people who got us into this mess in the first place?"
Once again, it had taken a simple lump of a cat to reveal that the Emperor wore no clothes and was naked as a jaybird.
"Ah, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I said,"there is no sense or logic in the hanlin' we are in. One way or another we are going back to Dickensian times. There will be small boys up chimneys. Once again we shall hear the cry of the knife grinder and the rag and bone man and many shall languish in debtors' prisons."
"It could be worse," said Tommy. "Had we gone back to the 1970s everyone would be wearing flared trousers."
"Release that fat, obese Guy!" I yelled to the gang of hoodies who were pulling poor Steven Nolan around Belfast in a wee cart.
"Tubby is not a play-thing or a figure of fun. He is a man! Prick him and see how much he bleeds."
"Shut your gub bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "This is my idea. I get 75% of the treats!"
Oh the things a plump man will stoop to, to stuff his pie-hole!
"Penny for the guy! Penny for the BIGGEST guy in the country!"
"The Pound has rallied!" yelled Tommy my cat. "The dollar is just holding its own. Brian Cowan, Angela Merkel, Nicolas Sarzozy, Silvio Berlusconi, your Euro is taking a hell of a beating. Your Euro is taking a hell of a beating!"
I clapped my Hans, two Dutch lodgers I had recently taken in, and cried,
My drawers are shaking! This great fiscal news has affected the pound in my pocket."
Tommy my cat looked at me with a gormless look on his face like Adrian Chiles and said,
"Britain owes a shed load of money doesn't it?"
"It sure does," I said. "Billions and billions and even more billions."
"To who or whom does Britain own this money?" asked Tommy.
"The banks," I said.
"That can not be!" said Tommy. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did this fiscal hanlin' not come about because the banks went bust as a result of greed and gross stupidity.
So how can we own money to the people who got us into this mess in the first place?"
Once again, it had taken a simple lump of a cat to reveal that the Emperor wore no clothes and was naked as a jaybird.
"Ah, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I said,"there is no sense or logic in the hanlin' we are in. One way or another we are going back to Dickensian times. There will be small boys up chimneys. Once again we shall hear the cry of the knife grinder and the rag and bone man and many shall languish in debtors' prisons."
"It could be worse," said Tommy. "Had we gone back to the 1970s everyone would be wearing flared trousers."
"Release that fat, obese Guy!" I yelled to the gang of hoodies who were pulling poor Steven Nolan around Belfast in a wee cart.
"Tubby is not a play-thing or a figure of fun. He is a man! Prick him and see how much he bleeds."
"Shut your gub bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "This is my idea. I get 75% of the treats!"
Oh the things a plump man will stoop to, to stuff his pie-hole!
"Penny for the guy! Penny for the BIGGEST guy in the country!"
Thursday 28 October 2010
Coping With Austerity
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which ticked all the right boxes, touched all the bases and tickled the fancy of the great unwashed man who sits, legs akimbo on the abandoned mattress on the Ballymena round-a-bout.
Tommy my cat, with a look of austerity on his thin,sensitive, feline face, wiped his brow and said,
"I have emptied all the oil out of the oil tank and used the tank to make 750 gallons of home made gruel. That should be enough to see you and me through the next four years of poverty and penuary."
"Have you piped the gruel into the house?" I asked.
"Yes!" replied Tommy. "When you turn on the cold tap you get gruel and when you turn on the hot tap you get cold water."
"Well done good and faithful feline," I said. "Now go round the house and blast all the light bulbs with this double-barrelled shotgun. It will greatly cut down on the money we send to NIE."
"I hate loathe and despise NIE!" screamed Tommy. "They add 5% VAT to the bill. Why should I send my hard earned money to the Vatican?"
"Shut up Tommy!" I yelled. "It's money well spent. If there was no Pope, who would we kick on the 12th of July?"
"The Reverend Willie McCrea," suggested Tommy.
I grabbed a Zulu spear and chased him round and round the garden like a teddy bear.
"Ah, it's BBC education correspondent little Maggie Taggart," I said.
"Is it true Maggie, that our school children are-grand?"
"Far from it," said Maggie. "They can't spell, do sums or speak English like what it should be spoken. Our young girls are aspiring Millies and our young boys can't even pull their trousers up over their underpants."
"By the beard of Socrates," I yelled, "something must be done! Someone should get on the blower to Jamie Oliver or Doctor Poo, Gillian McKeith."
"Worry not," said little Maggie. "Paul Gascoigne has promised to come over here and teach the kids English if he gets community service."
"Crisis averted!" I cried. "Saved by the Bell's whiskey. By the time Gaza is finished,the children will be talking English like what it has never been talked before."
Maggie and I linked arms and sang,
"The fog on the Tyne is mine, all mine.
The fog on the Tyne is mine."
I gave Maggie an A plus. She gave me a riser and we parted on the best of terms.
Suddenly, to my surprise and horror,little Maggie fell into an open manhole.
I ran frantically towards it yelling
"MAGGIE! MAGGIE! MAGGIE! OUT! OUT! OUT!"
Tommy my cat, with a look of austerity on his thin,sensitive, feline face, wiped his brow and said,
"I have emptied all the oil out of the oil tank and used the tank to make 750 gallons of home made gruel. That should be enough to see you and me through the next four years of poverty and penuary."
"Have you piped the gruel into the house?" I asked.
"Yes!" replied Tommy. "When you turn on the cold tap you get gruel and when you turn on the hot tap you get cold water."
"Well done good and faithful feline," I said. "Now go round the house and blast all the light bulbs with this double-barrelled shotgun. It will greatly cut down on the money we send to NIE."
"I hate loathe and despise NIE!" screamed Tommy. "They add 5% VAT to the bill. Why should I send my hard earned money to the Vatican?"
"Shut up Tommy!" I yelled. "It's money well spent. If there was no Pope, who would we kick on the 12th of July?"
"The Reverend Willie McCrea," suggested Tommy.
I grabbed a Zulu spear and chased him round and round the garden like a teddy bear.
"Ah, it's BBC education correspondent little Maggie Taggart," I said.
"Is it true Maggie, that our school children are-grand?"
"Far from it," said Maggie. "They can't spell, do sums or speak English like what it should be spoken. Our young girls are aspiring Millies and our young boys can't even pull their trousers up over their underpants."
"By the beard of Socrates," I yelled, "something must be done! Someone should get on the blower to Jamie Oliver or Doctor Poo, Gillian McKeith."
"Worry not," said little Maggie. "Paul Gascoigne has promised to come over here and teach the kids English if he gets community service."
"Crisis averted!" I cried. "Saved by the Bell's whiskey. By the time Gaza is finished,the children will be talking English like what it has never been talked before."
Maggie and I linked arms and sang,
"The fog on the Tyne is mine, all mine.
The fog on the Tyne is mine."
I gave Maggie an A plus. She gave me a riser and we parted on the best of terms.
Suddenly, to my surprise and horror,little Maggie fell into an open manhole.
I ran frantically towards it yelling
"MAGGIE! MAGGIE! MAGGIE! OUT! OUT! OUT!"
Tuesday 26 October 2010
Cats, Cuts and Queen.
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought meaning and clarity to the down-trodden, blighted lives of Paul Gascoigne, Sir Alan Sugar and our own royal correspondent Frank Mitchell.
Did you see Frank and the Queen on UTV? Wee Frank hauled and pushed her Majesty around like a bag of spuds. How proud the Queen's family must be to see her in a photograph with Frank Mitchell. In her royal diary the Queen described Frank as humorless, erratic,ruthless, tidy and very, very clean.
Tommy my cat found out the hard way that a cat can not look at a Queen. When a lady in waiting, big Bertha, hit Tommy a thump up the gub with her handbag. Tommy is now plotting the downfall of the house of Windsor. Keep it under your hat, but Tommy had a hand in the fall of the house of Usher. It was Tommy who put the Edgar Allen under Vincent Price's bed.
Tommy hit me over the head with a hammer like he does every morning to test my reflexes and said,
"What a bummer to see arts and culture cut by 15%"
"Shocking!" I yelled. "This Christmas poor May McFeteridge had to slash......."
"I wonder how she does that?" said Tommy.
"Probably standing up, or sitting down according to what moods she's in," I replied thoughtfully. This year, because of the cuts, poor May's Pantomime is called, "Snow White and the three dwarfs. And not only that, Seamus Heaney has only one snug pen to hold twixt finger and thumb!"
"When great civilizations fall," said Tommy, "the first thing to go is arts and culture, followed by meals on wheels and lolly-pop men. I saw the writing on the wall when jovial George Jones and The hole in the Wall Gang were axed. The next step," screamed Tommy,"is debauchery! The people of Ulster will lie around the filthy, dirty streets in Hogarthian poses, drunk as newts and twice as vicious.
Morality will go to the wall and "How's your father, is your mother still working?" will emerge from the sinister shadows and stalk the land like a foul, evil pestilence."
"Great balls of DUPers!" I cried. "Does this mean.......?"
"YES!" cried Tommy. "Ulster will never say, NO again!"
I gave a hop, skip and jump like the Sion Mill's kangaroo and ran out to buy a copy of Debauchery for beginners."
Did you see Frank and the Queen on UTV? Wee Frank hauled and pushed her Majesty around like a bag of spuds. How proud the Queen's family must be to see her in a photograph with Frank Mitchell. In her royal diary the Queen described Frank as humorless, erratic,ruthless, tidy and very, very clean.
Tommy my cat found out the hard way that a cat can not look at a Queen. When a lady in waiting, big Bertha, hit Tommy a thump up the gub with her handbag. Tommy is now plotting the downfall of the house of Windsor. Keep it under your hat, but Tommy had a hand in the fall of the house of Usher. It was Tommy who put the Edgar Allen under Vincent Price's bed.
Tommy hit me over the head with a hammer like he does every morning to test my reflexes and said,
"What a bummer to see arts and culture cut by 15%"
"Shocking!" I yelled. "This Christmas poor May McFeteridge had to slash......."
"I wonder how she does that?" said Tommy.
"Probably standing up, or sitting down according to what moods she's in," I replied thoughtfully. This year, because of the cuts, poor May's Pantomime is called, "Snow White and the three dwarfs. And not only that, Seamus Heaney has only one snug pen to hold twixt finger and thumb!"
"When great civilizations fall," said Tommy, "the first thing to go is arts and culture, followed by meals on wheels and lolly-pop men. I saw the writing on the wall when jovial George Jones and The hole in the Wall Gang were axed. The next step," screamed Tommy,"is debauchery! The people of Ulster will lie around the filthy, dirty streets in Hogarthian poses, drunk as newts and twice as vicious.
Morality will go to the wall and "How's your father, is your mother still working?" will emerge from the sinister shadows and stalk the land like a foul, evil pestilence."
"Great balls of DUPers!" I cried. "Does this mean.......?"
"YES!" cried Tommy. "Ulster will never say, NO again!"
I gave a hop, skip and jump like the Sion Mill's kangaroo and ran out to buy a copy of Debauchery for beginners."
Saturday 23 October 2010
Stray cats and greeedy footballers.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which promised much and delivered much-oh pleasure and feelings of great joy. Mr Coyle's fable about being attacked by a feral pussy in an industrial estate had Tommy, my cat's, ire metre in the red zone.
After Mr Coyle had cut a short story long Tommy yelled,
"J'accuse Mr Coyle of knowingly and willingly slandering the good name of pussies everywhere. That so called story was a fabrication built with untruths, and fibs and laid on a foundation of LIES! Let's examine the facts. An industrial estate late at night. A lonely pussy and Mr Coyle. That poor cat had been abandoned, strayed, given the great heave-oh by its cruel, nasty owners. When that happens to a feline, our instinct is to try and curry favour from the first human we meet,hoping and praying, in our own little pussy way,to be taken home and adopted. And how did Herr Coyle react? Mr Coyle reverted to type. He threw stones at the poor little pussy,as if it were a soldier in the Green Howards. Oh cruel, blighted,solitary man. You don't deserve a little pussy purring on your pillow and gazing with wide,slitted,yellow eyes at your huge, parasitic eye-brow. WRETCH!" screamed Tommy. "May all your golf balls bounce off trees and come back and hit you right up the kisser. May your toes curl into talons and your golfing gansies unravel into mouldy, mounds of wool and thread. Apart from that, mind how you go and have a nice day."
"Never mind all that!" I yelled. "Have you seen the headline in the paper?
SPUD MAY MOVE TO SPAIN! Speaking from his home in Chester, Spudman, and granny-groper Wayne Rooney said,
"Yeh, da thing is-like,I ain't getting no respect-like. I is thinking of taking my talents to Spain or if not Spain-like, some club in Europe-like. I ain't in football for da money-like. I is da man and I deserve respect-like."
"You whinging, whining, King Edward-faced tube!" yelled Tommy. "Go to Real Madrid and see how you get on. In the name of Peter Doherty and the heavy leather ball, modern day footballers get right up my hooter. Sir Alex Ferguson can always call on Jackie Fullerton and after the blunder Van Der-Sar made at the weekend, Tubby Nolan is ready to wrestle on the green jersey and step into goal."
"What a line-up!" I cried. "And its Giggs to Fullerton. Fullerton stops to tell a long story about growing up in Ballymena. Fullerton is robbed by an old man with a zimmer frame. The ball trundles slowly towards the goal and through the fat,flabby, Giant of Rhodes, legs of United keeper Tubby Nolan."
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" yelled Tommy.
Tommy looked at me and said,
"No time for Jim Rodgers this week?"
"I have neither the time nor the inclination!" I yelled. "Let sleeping, leaping Lord Mayors lie."
After Mr Coyle had cut a short story long Tommy yelled,
"J'accuse Mr Coyle of knowingly and willingly slandering the good name of pussies everywhere. That so called story was a fabrication built with untruths, and fibs and laid on a foundation of LIES! Let's examine the facts. An industrial estate late at night. A lonely pussy and Mr Coyle. That poor cat had been abandoned, strayed, given the great heave-oh by its cruel, nasty owners. When that happens to a feline, our instinct is to try and curry favour from the first human we meet,hoping and praying, in our own little pussy way,to be taken home and adopted. And how did Herr Coyle react? Mr Coyle reverted to type. He threw stones at the poor little pussy,as if it were a soldier in the Green Howards. Oh cruel, blighted,solitary man. You don't deserve a little pussy purring on your pillow and gazing with wide,slitted,yellow eyes at your huge, parasitic eye-brow. WRETCH!" screamed Tommy. "May all your golf balls bounce off trees and come back and hit you right up the kisser. May your toes curl into talons and your golfing gansies unravel into mouldy, mounds of wool and thread. Apart from that, mind how you go and have a nice day."
"Never mind all that!" I yelled. "Have you seen the headline in the paper?
SPUD MAY MOVE TO SPAIN! Speaking from his home in Chester, Spudman, and granny-groper Wayne Rooney said,
"Yeh, da thing is-like,I ain't getting no respect-like. I is thinking of taking my talents to Spain or if not Spain-like, some club in Europe-like. I ain't in football for da money-like. I is da man and I deserve respect-like."
"You whinging, whining, King Edward-faced tube!" yelled Tommy. "Go to Real Madrid and see how you get on. In the name of Peter Doherty and the heavy leather ball, modern day footballers get right up my hooter. Sir Alex Ferguson can always call on Jackie Fullerton and after the blunder Van Der-Sar made at the weekend, Tubby Nolan is ready to wrestle on the green jersey and step into goal."
"What a line-up!" I cried. "And its Giggs to Fullerton. Fullerton stops to tell a long story about growing up in Ballymena. Fullerton is robbed by an old man with a zimmer frame. The ball trundles slowly towards the goal and through the fat,flabby, Giant of Rhodes, legs of United keeper Tubby Nolan."
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" yelled Tommy.
Tommy looked at me and said,
"No time for Jim Rodgers this week?"
"I have neither the time nor the inclination!" I yelled. "Let sleeping, leaping Lord Mayors lie."
Thursday 21 October 2010
Is He Having A Laugh?
Great shows last week kid. Great, great shows which made one tingle all over with strange, weird feelings of apathy. After Friday's great show Queen Elizabeth turned to loving, Greek hubby Phillip and said,
"I know him you know. I know Gerry Anderson. We had him here as a guest when you finally assembled the Ikea flat-pack Bloody Mary commode. What a jolly nice person he was. He had the impunity to tell me that Jordie Tuft was one of my subjects. I always thought, hoped and prayed that old Jordie fell under the bailiwick of Biffo Cowan."
"Gerry eh?" grunted the prince. "Sounds like a Hun to me, must be from your side of the family."
"Oh shut up Stavros!" shrieked the queen,"and stop tempting the corgies with your horrid, greasy kebab. Put it away! Put it away! Footman, make Stavros put his horrid Greek kebab away."
And so we leave Buckingham palace with all its history and junk-cluttered back yard and get back on the coach.
I couldn't believe it when I heard it on the news. Surely Noel Thompson was,'aving a laugh.
"He's 'aving a laugh!" I yelled.
THEN! a grim faced Paul Clarke broke the same story. I glared at Tommy my cat who was making egg cartons from expensive, antique music boxes as instructed by Blue Peter and yelled,
"Take away the head of Alfredo Garcia and bring me the head, body and nigh, nigh, NIGH of Jim Rodgers!"
I just had time to flash before Jim Rodgers stood before me.
"WELL," I said, "this is a right howdy do. This is a right kettle of fish. This is a right pickle and no mistake. What were you thinking of?" I yelled. "Who gave you carte blanche to leap over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato?"
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "As I explained to the judge it was just a bit of fun. All my life I have wanted to leap over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato. When I happened to come across one, I screamed, "GERONIMO!" and sprinted towards her. Legs akimbo I tried to clear her, but I gave the poor woman a dunt with my knee."
"Your knee my ass!" I yelled. "I saw the photographs. You hit that poor, red, furry tomato woman a dunt on the head with your fork."
"KNEE!" screamed Jim.
"FORK!" I yelled.
"And now the tax-payers of Ulster have to stump out 28 grand in compensation because of your wayward fork."
"KNEE!" screamed Jim.
"FORK!" I yelled.
Tommy laid Jim down on a dirty, filthy, yellow, leather couch and said,
"Tell me Jim, when was the first time you felt an over-whelming compulsion to jump over a woman dressed as a red,furry tomato?"
"It's all coming back!" screamed Jim. "I remember the midwife wore a red, furry gansy and as the doctor slapped my wee Unionist arse, I felt a wild desire to scream, "BUMMER!" and leap over the midwife."
"Take up your head and walk!" cried Tommy. "Your faith has made you whole."
As Jim raced down the street screaming, "Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" Tommy wrote on the wall with HP sauce,
"Legs akimbo, there goes Jimbo."
"FORK!" I yelled after Jim.
"KNEE!" screamed Jim as he leapt a red letterbox and galloped down the Donegall road looking for women dressed as red, furry tomatoes to leap over!
"I know him you know. I know Gerry Anderson. We had him here as a guest when you finally assembled the Ikea flat-pack Bloody Mary commode. What a jolly nice person he was. He had the impunity to tell me that Jordie Tuft was one of my subjects. I always thought, hoped and prayed that old Jordie fell under the bailiwick of Biffo Cowan."
"Gerry eh?" grunted the prince. "Sounds like a Hun to me, must be from your side of the family."
"Oh shut up Stavros!" shrieked the queen,"and stop tempting the corgies with your horrid, greasy kebab. Put it away! Put it away! Footman, make Stavros put his horrid Greek kebab away."
And so we leave Buckingham palace with all its history and junk-cluttered back yard and get back on the coach.
I couldn't believe it when I heard it on the news. Surely Noel Thompson was,'aving a laugh.
"He's 'aving a laugh!" I yelled.
THEN! a grim faced Paul Clarke broke the same story. I glared at Tommy my cat who was making egg cartons from expensive, antique music boxes as instructed by Blue Peter and yelled,
"Take away the head of Alfredo Garcia and bring me the head, body and nigh, nigh, NIGH of Jim Rodgers!"
I just had time to flash before Jim Rodgers stood before me.
"WELL," I said, "this is a right howdy do. This is a right kettle of fish. This is a right pickle and no mistake. What were you thinking of?" I yelled. "Who gave you carte blanche to leap over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato?"
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "As I explained to the judge it was just a bit of fun. All my life I have wanted to leap over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato. When I happened to come across one, I screamed, "GERONIMO!" and sprinted towards her. Legs akimbo I tried to clear her, but I gave the poor woman a dunt with my knee."
"Your knee my ass!" I yelled. "I saw the photographs. You hit that poor, red, furry tomato woman a dunt on the head with your fork."
"KNEE!" screamed Jim.
"FORK!" I yelled.
"And now the tax-payers of Ulster have to stump out 28 grand in compensation because of your wayward fork."
"KNEE!" screamed Jim.
"FORK!" I yelled.
Tommy laid Jim down on a dirty, filthy, yellow, leather couch and said,
"Tell me Jim, when was the first time you felt an over-whelming compulsion to jump over a woman dressed as a red,furry tomato?"
"It's all coming back!" screamed Jim. "I remember the midwife wore a red, furry gansy and as the doctor slapped my wee Unionist arse, I felt a wild desire to scream, "BUMMER!" and leap over the midwife."
"Take up your head and walk!" cried Tommy. "Your faith has made you whole."
As Jim raced down the street screaming, "Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" Tommy wrote on the wall with HP sauce,
"Legs akimbo, there goes Jimbo."
"FORK!" I yelled after Jim.
"KNEE!" screamed Jim as he leapt a red letterbox and galloped down the Donegall road looking for women dressed as red, furry tomatoes to leap over!
Tuesday 19 October 2010
A wolf in sheep's clothing
Great show yesterday kid. The highlight of the show was Mr Coyle yelling,
"I don't know what to drink with pizza."
Tommy my cat threw The Chilean Chronicle from him and yelled,
"Let him drink cake!"
I cooled Tommy down by running him in a circle while giving him risers from a pair of pristine, Northern Ireland, football boots.
GOOOOOOOOOOAL!" I yelled, while Tommy whistled frantically for full time.
After applying a liberal application of E45 cream to Tommy's rear the feline spoke thus,
"I have been keeping a word check on Gerry's great show. The results are in and are are truly staggering. In today's great show Gerry spoke for 49% of the time and Mr Coyle spoke for 50% of the time. Which means in essence, Mr Coyle owns a controlling interest in the Gerry show."
"Great balls of high octane fuel!" I cried. "How did this tarra situation come about? Mr Coyle was only taken on by Radio Foyle as tea-boy and gopher at the bequest of Bishop Daly. He must be up to his ears in insider trading."
"That is the feeling in the city," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle has been buying short and selling long, while also trading on the margins."
"Gadzooks!" I cried. "Mr Coyle will probably pick up a three or four pound bonus this Christmas."
"He's a fat cat!" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle is one fat pussy."
"Hold the weddin' and change the beddin'" I cried. "You said Gerry spoke 49% of the time and Mr Coyle spoke 50% of the time, what happened to the other 1%?"
"Oh that was Janet," said Tommy. "You may remember at one point Janet screamed,
"HI! Get off me Batman, you're messing up my hair!"
"By jingo!" I cried. "That explains why Emma moved lock, stock and two smoking barrels upstairs."
"SEXUAL HARASSMENT!" screamed Tommy. "Sexual harassment from a man who wears a Matt Talbot badge on his lapel."
"A wolf in sheep's clothing!" I cried. "A Rottweiler posing as a shit-sue."
"To the stocks with him!" shrieked Tommy. "To the stocks with giggling, gigolo, Thaddeaus Coyle!"
"I don't know what to drink with pizza."
Tommy my cat threw The Chilean Chronicle from him and yelled,
"Let him drink cake!"
I cooled Tommy down by running him in a circle while giving him risers from a pair of pristine, Northern Ireland, football boots.
GOOOOOOOOOOAL!" I yelled, while Tommy whistled frantically for full time.
After applying a liberal application of E45 cream to Tommy's rear the feline spoke thus,
"I have been keeping a word check on Gerry's great show. The results are in and are are truly staggering. In today's great show Gerry spoke for 49% of the time and Mr Coyle spoke for 50% of the time. Which means in essence, Mr Coyle owns a controlling interest in the Gerry show."
"Great balls of high octane fuel!" I cried. "How did this tarra situation come about? Mr Coyle was only taken on by Radio Foyle as tea-boy and gopher at the bequest of Bishop Daly. He must be up to his ears in insider trading."
"That is the feeling in the city," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle has been buying short and selling long, while also trading on the margins."
"Gadzooks!" I cried. "Mr Coyle will probably pick up a three or four pound bonus this Christmas."
"He's a fat cat!" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle is one fat pussy."
"Hold the weddin' and change the beddin'" I cried. "You said Gerry spoke 49% of the time and Mr Coyle spoke 50% of the time, what happened to the other 1%?"
"Oh that was Janet," said Tommy. "You may remember at one point Janet screamed,
"HI! Get off me Batman, you're messing up my hair!"
"By jingo!" I cried. "That explains why Emma moved lock, stock and two smoking barrels upstairs."
"SEXUAL HARASSMENT!" screamed Tommy. "Sexual harassment from a man who wears a Matt Talbot badge on his lapel."
"A wolf in sheep's clothing!" I cried. "A Rottweiler posing as a shit-sue."
"To the stocks with him!" shrieked Tommy. "To the stocks with giggling, gigolo, Thaddeaus Coyle!"
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Tubby no more.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show, which for an hour and a half took everyone's mind off the burning issue of the day.
Could Tubby Nolan weigh in at 17 stone on Thursday and be crowned, "The slimmest fat man" in Ulster.
Candles are being lit, vigils held, bets placed and fireworks hoarded for the great night.
President Clinton has been invited. Seamus Heaney has composed a new poem called,
"Thin as a bogland snipe" and the Undertones, with dancing dervish Micky Bradly on bass guitar, will play all their back catalogue,which should take six or seven minutes. Old Jordie will dance a jig and give a talk on the destructive effect on the body from drinking too much cooking sherry. The evening will end with Tubby Nolan in a thong dancing and bopping to,
"Shake-a-dat-ass. Shake-a-dat ass."
Tommy stood there in his new Winter Ugg boots and said,
"Well, well, well. So old hang 'em and flog 'em was caught in drag at the docks running away from a little sailor?"
"He was!" I cried. "The eyebrow was caught red stilettoed. There go his free bus runs to Knock and the Christmas card from the Pope and the concave of Cardinals."
"Hoist by his own petard," said Tommy. "Not so much, "Our man at the Vatican" as "Our woman at the docks."
"Oh Tommy", I giggled,"you are so funny. You really should hang around with Tim McGarry and William Caulfield."
"Just for the record," said Tommy,"what would, "MAGGIE MAY" have been charged with if picked up by the fuzz?"
"HIGH TREASON!" I screamed. "And trying to sell a member of her Majesty's forces a poke in a wig."
"Devil's Island is too good for him!" yelled Tommy."Send him to Ballymena for a month. That should settle any hash that is still bubbling and gurgling in his little, "Fanny by gaslight" tummy."
"I've said it before and I'll say it again!" I cried. "Madame X was the ruination of Mr Coyle....."
"If only he had stuck with Loony-Tunes," said Tommy,"and not moved onto the hard stuff."
"Loony-Tunes is a gate-way film," I said,as I slipped a well worn DVD of, "Tubby Nolan, wild and uncensored" into the DVD player.
I sat there leering and drooling with my thumb on the pause button.
Could Tubby Nolan weigh in at 17 stone on Thursday and be crowned, "The slimmest fat man" in Ulster.
Candles are being lit, vigils held, bets placed and fireworks hoarded for the great night.
President Clinton has been invited. Seamus Heaney has composed a new poem called,
"Thin as a bogland snipe" and the Undertones, with dancing dervish Micky Bradly on bass guitar, will play all their back catalogue,which should take six or seven minutes. Old Jordie will dance a jig and give a talk on the destructive effect on the body from drinking too much cooking sherry. The evening will end with Tubby Nolan in a thong dancing and bopping to,
"Shake-a-dat-ass. Shake-a-dat ass."
Tommy stood there in his new Winter Ugg boots and said,
"Well, well, well. So old hang 'em and flog 'em was caught in drag at the docks running away from a little sailor?"
"He was!" I cried. "The eyebrow was caught red stilettoed. There go his free bus runs to Knock and the Christmas card from the Pope and the concave of Cardinals."
"Hoist by his own petard," said Tommy. "Not so much, "Our man at the Vatican" as "Our woman at the docks."
"Oh Tommy", I giggled,"you are so funny. You really should hang around with Tim McGarry and William Caulfield."
"Just for the record," said Tommy,"what would, "MAGGIE MAY" have been charged with if picked up by the fuzz?"
"HIGH TREASON!" I screamed. "And trying to sell a member of her Majesty's forces a poke in a wig."
"Devil's Island is too good for him!" yelled Tommy."Send him to Ballymena for a month. That should settle any hash that is still bubbling and gurgling in his little, "Fanny by gaslight" tummy."
"I've said it before and I'll say it again!" I cried. "Madame X was the ruination of Mr Coyle....."
"If only he had stuck with Loony-Tunes," said Tommy,"and not moved onto the hard stuff."
"Loony-Tunes is a gate-way film," I said,as I slipped a well worn DVD of, "Tubby Nolan, wild and uncensored" into the DVD player.
I sat there leering and drooling with my thumb on the pause button.
Tuesday 12 October 2010
DOCTOR OR COMEDIAN
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which gave hope to the trapped Chilean miners and doddering 97 year old Matlock McGrinder who is going into hospital to have his vasectomy reversed. When asked why he was going to such extreme lengths at his age
old Matlock leered, drooled and gasped,
"I want to stand beside a NO SMOKING sign in an hospital waiting room,light up a big cigar and yell,
"WHO'S THE DADDY? WHO'S THE DADDY NOW THEN?"
Old Matlock was dragged away for a psychiatric report and a good wash with a scrubbing brush and vast quantities of Lifebuoy soap.
Tommy my cat crawled out of the cutlery drawer. He had been pretending to be a fork with a bent prong. Tommy hitched up his little lavender trousers and said,
"I see Harry Hill is back on TV."
"So what?" I yelled."So what? My world does not revolve around Harry Hill and his bald-headed shenanigans."
"Harry Hill is a qualified doctor," said Tommy."As is Jonathan Miller of Beyond The Fringe fame and Graham Gardner from the rib-tickling trio the Goodies."
WHY?" yelled Tommy,adapting the stance of Lloyd George, "WHY would three qualified doctors turn their backs on the most noble of callings to become-comedians? And another thing," yelled Tommy,"why has no comedian ever become a-DOCTOR?"
"By the Fruit of the loom!" I cried,"you've hit upon a reet conundrum there lad.
It's all one way traffic. Doctor to comedian, but no comedian to doctor. Eeh, it's a reet puzzle lad and no mistake."
"Perhaps 'tis best that way," said Tommy. "Would you like to be lying helpless in a hospital bed and see doctor May McFetridge approach your nether region with a shaving brush and a cut-throat razor?"
Suddenly Jim Rodgers burst in screaming,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! there will be no double jobbing, not on my watch.
ONE MAN, ONE JOB!" screamed Jim.
"ONE WOMAN, NO JOB and that goes double for Caitriona Ruane. We are not GRAND." screamed Jim. "We are a long way from GRAND. We have never been less GRAND. We are NOT GRAND! GRAND, we are NOT!"
So, what does that make Jim Rodgers? Doctor fix-it, or comedian?
Answers on a postcard to, Frank Mitchell, The Cardboard box, outside the gates of UTV.
old Matlock leered, drooled and gasped,
"I want to stand beside a NO SMOKING sign in an hospital waiting room,light up a big cigar and yell,
"WHO'S THE DADDY? WHO'S THE DADDY NOW THEN?"
Old Matlock was dragged away for a psychiatric report and a good wash with a scrubbing brush and vast quantities of Lifebuoy soap.
Tommy my cat crawled out of the cutlery drawer. He had been pretending to be a fork with a bent prong. Tommy hitched up his little lavender trousers and said,
"I see Harry Hill is back on TV."
"So what?" I yelled."So what? My world does not revolve around Harry Hill and his bald-headed shenanigans."
"Harry Hill is a qualified doctor," said Tommy."As is Jonathan Miller of Beyond The Fringe fame and Graham Gardner from the rib-tickling trio the Goodies."
WHY?" yelled Tommy,adapting the stance of Lloyd George, "WHY would three qualified doctors turn their backs on the most noble of callings to become-comedians? And another thing," yelled Tommy,"why has no comedian ever become a-DOCTOR?"
"By the Fruit of the loom!" I cried,"you've hit upon a reet conundrum there lad.
It's all one way traffic. Doctor to comedian, but no comedian to doctor. Eeh, it's a reet puzzle lad and no mistake."
"Perhaps 'tis best that way," said Tommy. "Would you like to be lying helpless in a hospital bed and see doctor May McFetridge approach your nether region with a shaving brush and a cut-throat razor?"
Suddenly Jim Rodgers burst in screaming,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! there will be no double jobbing, not on my watch.
ONE MAN, ONE JOB!" screamed Jim.
"ONE WOMAN, NO JOB and that goes double for Caitriona Ruane. We are not GRAND." screamed Jim. "We are a long way from GRAND. We have never been less GRAND. We are NOT GRAND! GRAND, we are NOT!"
So, what does that make Jim Rodgers? Doctor fix-it, or comedian?
Answers on a postcard to, Frank Mitchell, The Cardboard box, outside the gates of UTV.
Tuesday 5 October 2010
Duping the DUP
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which were used to induce the sacred cows of India into a feeling of peace and tranquility.
"Smashing! Brilliant! Amazing!" enthused sacred cow herdsman, Bosco Patrick Patel.
Suddenly Tommy my cat threw down, Brain surgery for dummies, grabbed me by the throat and screamed into my face,
"What unnatural, indecipherable, undetectable power does Martin "Svengali" McGuinness have over the DUP?"
I fired Hudson our old butler and faithful family retainer out of a cannon I bought on eBay and said,
"Explain yourself feline. I know not of what you speak."
"I speak of seditious seducement," said Tommy. "I speak of seduction on a grand and epic scale. First, "Svengali" McGuinness uses his charm to turn the "Big Man" Ian Paisley into a chuckle brother, and now he has first Minister Peter Robinson tittering like a love sick school girl. What strange, terrible, alien power has McGuinness got? Why, if the man so desired, he could charm the birds from the veritable trees."
I threw a herring at Jimmy Spratt and replied,
"There are two cities in the British Isles where everyone thinks they are a comedian and those two cities are, Liverpool and Stroke City."
"AH-HAA!" yelled Tommy,as he lined the mantlepiece with a regiment of Child of Prague statues.
"So, Martin McGuinness is using a charm offensive on the DUP?"
"Give that cat a cigar," I cried. "Martin McGuinness is using his quick, inimitable Derry wit to lure the DUP into his web. He keeps the DUP'ers giggling and tittering with stories about the little sailor, Gerry Anderson's shed and Sean Coyle's strange, weird penchant for blind bats."
"Machiavellian", whispered Tommy. "The Shinner's plan is Machiavellian in its simplicity. A ballot box in one hand and a tickling stick in the other."
"Let's go and build a gable wall and write that on it!" I yelled.
"Good idea," cried Tommy."It will enlighten the people and give a much needed boost to the building industry."
That's where Brian Cowan got it wrong. He didn't have the capability to think laterally!
"Another drink Brian?"
"I don't mind if I do, but no ice this time. Things are getting cold enough around here!"
It's all over Brian.Time to get your coat!
"Smashing! Brilliant! Amazing!" enthused sacred cow herdsman, Bosco Patrick Patel.
Suddenly Tommy my cat threw down, Brain surgery for dummies, grabbed me by the throat and screamed into my face,
"What unnatural, indecipherable, undetectable power does Martin "Svengali" McGuinness have over the DUP?"
I fired Hudson our old butler and faithful family retainer out of a cannon I bought on eBay and said,
"Explain yourself feline. I know not of what you speak."
"I speak of seditious seducement," said Tommy. "I speak of seduction on a grand and epic scale. First, "Svengali" McGuinness uses his charm to turn the "Big Man" Ian Paisley into a chuckle brother, and now he has first Minister Peter Robinson tittering like a love sick school girl. What strange, terrible, alien power has McGuinness got? Why, if the man so desired, he could charm the birds from the veritable trees."
I threw a herring at Jimmy Spratt and replied,
"There are two cities in the British Isles where everyone thinks they are a comedian and those two cities are, Liverpool and Stroke City."
"AH-HAA!" yelled Tommy,as he lined the mantlepiece with a regiment of Child of Prague statues.
"So, Martin McGuinness is using a charm offensive on the DUP?"
"Give that cat a cigar," I cried. "Martin McGuinness is using his quick, inimitable Derry wit to lure the DUP into his web. He keeps the DUP'ers giggling and tittering with stories about the little sailor, Gerry Anderson's shed and Sean Coyle's strange, weird penchant for blind bats."
"Machiavellian", whispered Tommy. "The Shinner's plan is Machiavellian in its simplicity. A ballot box in one hand and a tickling stick in the other."
"Let's go and build a gable wall and write that on it!" I yelled.
"Good idea," cried Tommy."It will enlighten the people and give a much needed boost to the building industry."
That's where Brian Cowan got it wrong. He didn't have the capability to think laterally!
"Another drink Brian?"
"I don't mind if I do, but no ice this time. Things are getting cold enough around here!"
It's all over Brian.Time to get your coat!
Friday 1 October 2010
Pretending to be Presenters
Great shows last week kid. Great shows powered by the best, illegal, red diesel you can buy in Donegall.
Tommy my cat put his prized Malachi Cush smile back into its velvet lined box and said,
"Things are so bad in Stroke City, people have been reduced to stealing manhole covers."
"Big YIKES!" I yelled. "But what do the little cloth-cappers use the manhole covers for, fuel?"
"Big coins for slot machines and telephone boxes," said Tommy. "One old couple who run a Ma' and Pa' store on Phil Coulter street,opened up the coin box on the pay phone and were flattened by five heavy manhole covers."
"What are the police doing?" I yelled. "What are Matt Baggott's lassies and lads doing about this horrible and dastardly crime?"
"Everything they can," said Tommy. "Every time the police come upon an open manhole, they look into it."
"BOOM-BOOM!" said the Russian Mig fighter plane flying overhead.
"Pull me by my feet," said Tommy. "Let's pretend I'm Gaza and you're taking me home."
"I have a better idea," I cried."Lock me in a small, steel cell with a po and I'll pretend to be Lyndsay Lohan."
But after much discussion, we both decided to sit much too close to each other on the sofa muttering, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb," as we pretended to host the "One Show." But Tommy ruined the game by running upstairs to change into a very tight skirt and blond wig. Then the perverted,little pussy showed far too much leg as he pretended to be Emily Maitland presenting Newsnight.
I slipped on a wrinkled, rubber Jeremy Paxman mask and yelled,
"I think we've had enough of that, don't you?" And I gave Tommy a fierce riser right up the pencil skirt.
After a lunch of tuna, caught and killed with tender love and affection,Tommy and I set out to find Tubby Nolan. We found the oval one at a soup kitchen for down and outs.
"Just topping up," slabbered Tubby,as he got stuck into a big bowl of ferret and lentil soup.
"Tubby!" Yelled Tommy. "Could you explain why you earn more than Dafydd Cameroon the Prime Minister?"
Tubby whipped out a portable soapbox, mounted it and roared,
"Judge me not by my station, personality or appearance! Judge me rather by my deeds.
The Prime Minister has just one thing to do and that is get a smile out of Jim Allister. Has he done that? NO! Jim Allister is still as glum as a bag of wet chooks. Now look what I have accomplished. Only last week I got a new wheelie-bin for an old biddy so she could throw her husband's ashes into it and use the urn as a receptacle for small change. The week before I got a white stick for an old codger with failing eyesight so he could find his wife in the dark. So "Amen, Amen I say onto to you. Who is more worthy to enter McDonalds?"
Tommy and I fell to our knees and answered,
"Verily you are Saint Tubby, the patron saint of slabberers and bucket bakes.
Here end'th the first lesson.
Now stand and sing,
"Why was he born so beautiful,why was he born at all?"
Tommy my cat put his prized Malachi Cush smile back into its velvet lined box and said,
"Things are so bad in Stroke City, people have been reduced to stealing manhole covers."
"Big YIKES!" I yelled. "But what do the little cloth-cappers use the manhole covers for, fuel?"
"Big coins for slot machines and telephone boxes," said Tommy. "One old couple who run a Ma' and Pa' store on Phil Coulter street,opened up the coin box on the pay phone and were flattened by five heavy manhole covers."
"What are the police doing?" I yelled. "What are Matt Baggott's lassies and lads doing about this horrible and dastardly crime?"
"Everything they can," said Tommy. "Every time the police come upon an open manhole, they look into it."
"BOOM-BOOM!" said the Russian Mig fighter plane flying overhead.
"Pull me by my feet," said Tommy. "Let's pretend I'm Gaza and you're taking me home."
"I have a better idea," I cried."Lock me in a small, steel cell with a po and I'll pretend to be Lyndsay Lohan."
But after much discussion, we both decided to sit much too close to each other on the sofa muttering, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb," as we pretended to host the "One Show." But Tommy ruined the game by running upstairs to change into a very tight skirt and blond wig. Then the perverted,little pussy showed far too much leg as he pretended to be Emily Maitland presenting Newsnight.
I slipped on a wrinkled, rubber Jeremy Paxman mask and yelled,
"I think we've had enough of that, don't you?" And I gave Tommy a fierce riser right up the pencil skirt.
After a lunch of tuna, caught and killed with tender love and affection,Tommy and I set out to find Tubby Nolan. We found the oval one at a soup kitchen for down and outs.
"Just topping up," slabbered Tubby,as he got stuck into a big bowl of ferret and lentil soup.
"Tubby!" Yelled Tommy. "Could you explain why you earn more than Dafydd Cameroon the Prime Minister?"
Tubby whipped out a portable soapbox, mounted it and roared,
"Judge me not by my station, personality or appearance! Judge me rather by my deeds.
The Prime Minister has just one thing to do and that is get a smile out of Jim Allister. Has he done that? NO! Jim Allister is still as glum as a bag of wet chooks. Now look what I have accomplished. Only last week I got a new wheelie-bin for an old biddy so she could throw her husband's ashes into it and use the urn as a receptacle for small change. The week before I got a white stick for an old codger with failing eyesight so he could find his wife in the dark. So "Amen, Amen I say onto to you. Who is more worthy to enter McDonalds?"
Tommy and I fell to our knees and answered,
"Verily you are Saint Tubby, the patron saint of slabberers and bucket bakes.
Here end'th the first lesson.
Now stand and sing,
"Why was he born so beautiful,why was he born at all?"
Tuesday 28 September 2010
PRODIGIOUS PROGRAMMES
Great show yesterday kid.
"He hasn't lost it," said Tommy my cat,as he held up a hulu-hoop for Henry the hoover to jump through.
"Gerry still has the old magic. That great show we heard today could only be described as-prodigious."
"The very word I was looking for under the bed this morning," I cried.
"Alas and alac," I said to the very dusty, yet attentive mantlepiece,"the world of enterainment is in a sorry and dire state.The X-factor has ruined more cubs and cutties than rickets. So-called "Stars" travel great distances at fantastic expence only to grin into a camera and say,
"My name is Rob Brydon and this is "ME" in Russia." or "I used to be in Eastenders, now here I am in China."
"And they always come BACK!" yelled Tommy."That's what yanks up my simmet,they always come-BACK!"
"COOKING!" I screamed,throwing an Ulster/ Swedish turnip at the wall.
"Did we not all grow up watching our mothers cook? And now, the tubes who run TV, think we should all sit round and watch a leering Anthony Wirrel Thompson stuff a mongoose."
"There's a new cooking programme starting on Channel 4," said Tommy."The powers that be describe it as-ground-breaking. It's called,"Who ordered the salmonella?"
"Apparently the programme is full of graphic, full frontal boking and fatalities."
"Tut-Tut," I said,as I chased the young Egyptian Boy-King who was selling papyrus from door to door."
"They come over here and take our jobs," mumbled Tommy.
"SILENCE!" I cried."If old Vince Cable gets his way, you and I shall be doing the same round the old bazaar in Cairo."
"We live," said Tommy,adding the final,deft touch to a painting of Edwin Poots riding a yellow ostrich,"we live in a world of want and waste. Last week I ordered half a ton of bubble wrap and when it arrived,it was wrapped in-bubble wrap.
"Satire noted and acknowledged, I replied.
"What we need, screamed Tommy,"is the SMACK of firm government. We all need short sharp shocks. Prison works!" yelled Tommy."As does the bacon slicer at Murphy's the grocer. Bring back Mussolini!" yelled Tommy."Bring back little Benito,he will settle their hash."
I brought Tommy's rightwing tirade to an end with a riser, which could only be described as-prodigious!
"He hasn't lost it," said Tommy my cat,as he held up a hulu-hoop for Henry the hoover to jump through.
"Gerry still has the old magic. That great show we heard today could only be described as-prodigious."
"The very word I was looking for under the bed this morning," I cried.
"Alas and alac," I said to the very dusty, yet attentive mantlepiece,"the world of enterainment is in a sorry and dire state.The X-factor has ruined more cubs and cutties than rickets. So-called "Stars" travel great distances at fantastic expence only to grin into a camera and say,
"My name is Rob Brydon and this is "ME" in Russia." or "I used to be in Eastenders, now here I am in China."
"And they always come BACK!" yelled Tommy."That's what yanks up my simmet,they always come-BACK!"
"COOKING!" I screamed,throwing an Ulster/ Swedish turnip at the wall.
"Did we not all grow up watching our mothers cook? And now, the tubes who run TV, think we should all sit round and watch a leering Anthony Wirrel Thompson stuff a mongoose."
"There's a new cooking programme starting on Channel 4," said Tommy."The powers that be describe it as-ground-breaking. It's called,"Who ordered the salmonella?"
"Apparently the programme is full of graphic, full frontal boking and fatalities."
"Tut-Tut," I said,as I chased the young Egyptian Boy-King who was selling papyrus from door to door."
"They come over here and take our jobs," mumbled Tommy.
"SILENCE!" I cried."If old Vince Cable gets his way, you and I shall be doing the same round the old bazaar in Cairo."
"We live," said Tommy,adding the final,deft touch to a painting of Edwin Poots riding a yellow ostrich,"we live in a world of want and waste. Last week I ordered half a ton of bubble wrap and when it arrived,it was wrapped in-bubble wrap.
"Satire noted and acknowledged, I replied.
"What we need, screamed Tommy,"is the SMACK of firm government. We all need short sharp shocks. Prison works!" yelled Tommy."As does the bacon slicer at Murphy's the grocer. Bring back Mussolini!" yelled Tommy."Bring back little Benito,he will settle their hash."
I brought Tommy's rightwing tirade to an end with a riser, which could only be described as-prodigious!
Thursday 23 September 2010
A Salute To Belfast
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which ignited a riot on a Malone road interface and had the residents of the Shankill and the Falls tut-tutting,
"Why don't those lazy, common people get off their backside and get a job?"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Biffo the bear, fixed me with a piercing, slit-eyed, yellow stare and said,
"I see Brian Cowan came over all tired and emotional."
"Leave Biffo alone," I yelled. "It's difficult to gather your thoughts when you've been huckle-bucking the night away."
Tommy gave a snigger and said,
"Perhaps dear Brian should restrict himself to Maine lemonade and minute waltzes."
"Brian has a difficult job," I said. "There are not many Prime Ministers who could take a thriving, buoyant economy and plunge it into penury and third world poverty."
"I'll drink to that!" said Tommy.
I settled back in my mortuary attendant's chair and began to embalm my face. Outside I could hear the little children playing street games,the hoarse yell of the herring man,the clatter of the knife-grinder's cart,the stealthy pitter-patter of the Tom-Kat missile salesman hawking his wares from door to door.
"BELFAST," I eulogised,"built near water so people could discard old shopping trolleys and drown sacks of pups and kittens."
"Hey, steady on," said Tommy.
"They don't do it now," I said. "Now that every home has a micro-wave."
Tommy peered at me and said,
"What are we? Belfasters or Belfastians?"
I rose to my feet, saluted a picture frame that is waiting for a picture of bonny, wee Lord Laird and yelled,
"WE ARE THE-PEOPLE!"
"What people?" said Tommy.
"The people who will not be hood-winked!" I yelled. "The people who will not have the wool pulled over their eyes.The people who once used to say-NO! and "part and parcel." We are the people who will not be sold a pig in a poke, or worship at the altar of the leprechaun. We are the people who know a crossroad when we see it and by thunder, we have seen many crossroads in our time."
"So we are-"special" people?" said Tommy.
"Indeed we are kid," I said. "Just go out and look at the big, high wall that separates the two "Special" schools the government put us into."
As I went outside to gloat, Tommy was on line trying to immigrate to Sudan or Afghanistan. Sometimes I think little Tommy is not hard enough, or gritty enough for-Belfast. You need-grit to live in Belfast. Belfast, is a-gritty town!
"Ring-a ring-a-rosy, snuff gets up your nosey
There comes Tubby Nolan, so we all fall down."
(Now get Thaddeus to tell us about his skipping rhymes with the girls)
"Why don't those lazy, common people get off their backside and get a job?"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Biffo the bear, fixed me with a piercing, slit-eyed, yellow stare and said,
"I see Brian Cowan came over all tired and emotional."
"Leave Biffo alone," I yelled. "It's difficult to gather your thoughts when you've been huckle-bucking the night away."
Tommy gave a snigger and said,
"Perhaps dear Brian should restrict himself to Maine lemonade and minute waltzes."
"Brian has a difficult job," I said. "There are not many Prime Ministers who could take a thriving, buoyant economy and plunge it into penury and third world poverty."
"I'll drink to that!" said Tommy.
I settled back in my mortuary attendant's chair and began to embalm my face. Outside I could hear the little children playing street games,the hoarse yell of the herring man,the clatter of the knife-grinder's cart,the stealthy pitter-patter of the Tom-Kat missile salesman hawking his wares from door to door.
"BELFAST," I eulogised,"built near water so people could discard old shopping trolleys and drown sacks of pups and kittens."
"Hey, steady on," said Tommy.
"They don't do it now," I said. "Now that every home has a micro-wave."
Tommy peered at me and said,
"What are we? Belfasters or Belfastians?"
I rose to my feet, saluted a picture frame that is waiting for a picture of bonny, wee Lord Laird and yelled,
"WE ARE THE-PEOPLE!"
"What people?" said Tommy.
"The people who will not be hood-winked!" I yelled. "The people who will not have the wool pulled over their eyes.The people who once used to say-NO! and "part and parcel." We are the people who will not be sold a pig in a poke, or worship at the altar of the leprechaun. We are the people who know a crossroad when we see it and by thunder, we have seen many crossroads in our time."
"So we are-"special" people?" said Tommy.
"Indeed we are kid," I said. "Just go out and look at the big, high wall that separates the two "Special" schools the government put us into."
As I went outside to gloat, Tommy was on line trying to immigrate to Sudan or Afghanistan. Sometimes I think little Tommy is not hard enough, or gritty enough for-Belfast. You need-grit to live in Belfast. Belfast, is a-gritty town!
"Ring-a ring-a-rosy, snuff gets up your nosey
There comes Tubby Nolan, so we all fall down."
(Now get Thaddeus to tell us about his skipping rhymes with the girls)
Tuesday 21 September 2010
Running For Gerry
Great show yesterday Kid. A great show which made a lasting impression on Tommy my cat. After the great show Tommy gathered me, Henry the hoover and Wilbur the budgie into the living room and addressed us thus,
"Friends," Said Tommy,"dear, darling friends, I have called you here today to inform you that I have applied for the job of runner, on the Gerry Anderson show."
Well, that caused some commotion I can tell you. Wilbur the budgie began to caw like a crow while dancing from foot to foot. Henry the hoover switched himself on and ran round in circles with his flexible hose twisting and swaying like a hungry python.
It was left to me to bring a little sanity to the proceedings.
"YOU TUBE!" I yelled. "You poor, deluded, stupid, thick, ugly, hump-backed, vile-featured tube."
"I will now take questions from the floor," said Tommy.
I raised my leg and yelled,
"Ken Reid from UTV LIVE. Could you tell our viewers just what you would run for, if you were appointed runner on the Gerry Anderson show?"
"Thank you Ken," said Tommy. "I'm glad you asked that question. I would run upstairs for records,run to the shop for Mr Coyle's hotdogs. I would run to purchase tights for Emma and Janet. I would run to put on bets for Ken "Screwdriver" Doherty and last of all,I would run outside to tell the naughty wind not to ruffle Mr Anderson's lovely, lovely hair."
"TOADY!" cried Henry the hoover.
"You go for it kid!" squawked Wilbur the budgie.
"Now hold on thar a cotton picking moment!" I roared. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"It's true" said Tommy. "I did not pass the eleven plus, but I see no reason why that small omission, should hinder me from being a runner at Radio Foyle."
"YOU'RE A CAT!" I yelled. "A feline, a moggy, a pussy, a tabby, a milk lapper. Who in their right mind would give a job to a cat?"
"Gerry Anderson would!" roared Tommy. "I have been in communication with Herr Anderson and he assures me the job is mine if I do well at the interview."
What a sad crowd gathered at the bus station to see Tommy off. He was wrapped in the skin of a yak to withstand the cold of Stroke City, Ulster's Alaska.
Wilbur the budgie tried to be chipper but his feathers hung sadly around his knees.
Henry the hoover was inconsolable. Never have I see so many tears from an inanimate object. He cried like a baby and wrapped his flexible hose around himself for solace and comfort. As the bus pulled away, Tommy leaned out the window and sang,
"Think of me when you're lonely. Think of me when you're blue. Think of me when I'm far away and I'll be thinking of you."
The empty chair. Ah dear God, the empty chair at the dinner table. It was as much as I could do to force down two fish suppers, five packets of crisps, three large bars of Mars and a two litre bottle of Coca Cola.
HARK! The knock on the door in the night!
I glanced bleary-eyed at my bedside sun-dial. One o' clock! Who could be knocking at my door at one o'clock?
It was little Tommy. The stupid little feline had made a hayricks of the interview.
Tommy had got on great with Gerry, Sean and the girls, but had greatly displeased Micky Bradly. How many times had I warned Tommy? How many times had I said,
"Don't poo in the Hucklebuck shoes."
Tommy is now wondering if Frank Mitchell is taking on staff to show the listeners how to parcel a gift at Christmas.
Tommy a runner? More like a scunner to me!
"Friends," Said Tommy,"dear, darling friends, I have called you here today to inform you that I have applied for the job of runner, on the Gerry Anderson show."
Well, that caused some commotion I can tell you. Wilbur the budgie began to caw like a crow while dancing from foot to foot. Henry the hoover switched himself on and ran round in circles with his flexible hose twisting and swaying like a hungry python.
It was left to me to bring a little sanity to the proceedings.
"YOU TUBE!" I yelled. "You poor, deluded, stupid, thick, ugly, hump-backed, vile-featured tube."
"I will now take questions from the floor," said Tommy.
I raised my leg and yelled,
"Ken Reid from UTV LIVE. Could you tell our viewers just what you would run for, if you were appointed runner on the Gerry Anderson show?"
"Thank you Ken," said Tommy. "I'm glad you asked that question. I would run upstairs for records,run to the shop for Mr Coyle's hotdogs. I would run to purchase tights for Emma and Janet. I would run to put on bets for Ken "Screwdriver" Doherty and last of all,I would run outside to tell the naughty wind not to ruffle Mr Anderson's lovely, lovely hair."
"TOADY!" cried Henry the hoover.
"You go for it kid!" squawked Wilbur the budgie.
"Now hold on thar a cotton picking moment!" I roared. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"It's true" said Tommy. "I did not pass the eleven plus, but I see no reason why that small omission, should hinder me from being a runner at Radio Foyle."
"YOU'RE A CAT!" I yelled. "A feline, a moggy, a pussy, a tabby, a milk lapper. Who in their right mind would give a job to a cat?"
"Gerry Anderson would!" roared Tommy. "I have been in communication with Herr Anderson and he assures me the job is mine if I do well at the interview."
What a sad crowd gathered at the bus station to see Tommy off. He was wrapped in the skin of a yak to withstand the cold of Stroke City, Ulster's Alaska.
Wilbur the budgie tried to be chipper but his feathers hung sadly around his knees.
Henry the hoover was inconsolable. Never have I see so many tears from an inanimate object. He cried like a baby and wrapped his flexible hose around himself for solace and comfort. As the bus pulled away, Tommy leaned out the window and sang,
"Think of me when you're lonely. Think of me when you're blue. Think of me when I'm far away and I'll be thinking of you."
The empty chair. Ah dear God, the empty chair at the dinner table. It was as much as I could do to force down two fish suppers, five packets of crisps, three large bars of Mars and a two litre bottle of Coca Cola.
HARK! The knock on the door in the night!
I glanced bleary-eyed at my bedside sun-dial. One o' clock! Who could be knocking at my door at one o'clock?
It was little Tommy. The stupid little feline had made a hayricks of the interview.
Tommy had got on great with Gerry, Sean and the girls, but had greatly displeased Micky Bradly. How many times had I warned Tommy? How many times had I said,
"Don't poo in the Hucklebuck shoes."
Tommy is now wondering if Frank Mitchell is taking on staff to show the listeners how to parcel a gift at Christmas.
Tommy a runner? More like a scunner to me!
Monday 20 September 2010
Tommy wants a Biscuit.
Great show yesterday kid. During the great biscuit bonaza in the middle of your show, Tommy my cat stood with his hand out at the radio like Oliver Twist. But alas, no biscuit materialized from either grill or vent. He choked back tears and whispered,
"I'm not angry. I'm not resentful, but I am disappointed. I never thought," said Tommy,staring sadly at the pouring rain,"I never thought Radio Foyle would refuse a biscuit to a lump of a cat. I never thought in my wildest dreams, that Gerry would begrudge a biscuit to a cat, who loves him like a daddy."
"Stall the weddin' and change the beddin'!" I yelled. "It was-COYLE! Coyle is the keeper of the biscuits at Radio Foyle. He is also lavatory attendant, fly catcher, French maid and plumper-upper of cushions."
"I should have known," said Tommy. "I should have known. Gerry would give me biscuits in abundance, but the evil "Eyebrow" would not give you a ricket from his leg."
"Coyle is the Jack Benny of Stroke City," I said. "He has an old penny on a piece of string which he drops into the church collection box and then whips out again. All his trousers still have flares and if he sees a man clipping a privet hedge,he is not adverse to sticking his head through the hedge to get a free hair cut."
"Gerry should make him sit on the naughty step," said Tommy.
I pointed at Tommy and vocalised,
"YOU, Tommy cat, are loved by all who know you. Anyone, even Tubby Nolan would give you a biscuit."
Little Tommy cheered up and said,
"You know the last chocolate eclair in the pantry, may I have it?"
"NO!" I yelled and I grabbed the eclair, ran up the stairs and rolled under my bed like a warthog.
Who does Tommy think I am? Saint Vincent de-Paul???
"I'm not angry. I'm not resentful, but I am disappointed. I never thought," said Tommy,staring sadly at the pouring rain,"I never thought Radio Foyle would refuse a biscuit to a lump of a cat. I never thought in my wildest dreams, that Gerry would begrudge a biscuit to a cat, who loves him like a daddy."
"Stall the weddin' and change the beddin'!" I yelled. "It was-COYLE! Coyle is the keeper of the biscuits at Radio Foyle. He is also lavatory attendant, fly catcher, French maid and plumper-upper of cushions."
"I should have known," said Tommy. "I should have known. Gerry would give me biscuits in abundance, but the evil "Eyebrow" would not give you a ricket from his leg."
"Coyle is the Jack Benny of Stroke City," I said. "He has an old penny on a piece of string which he drops into the church collection box and then whips out again. All his trousers still have flares and if he sees a man clipping a privet hedge,he is not adverse to sticking his head through the hedge to get a free hair cut."
"Gerry should make him sit on the naughty step," said Tommy.
I pointed at Tommy and vocalised,
"YOU, Tommy cat, are loved by all who know you. Anyone, even Tubby Nolan would give you a biscuit."
Little Tommy cheered up and said,
"You know the last chocolate eclair in the pantry, may I have it?"
"NO!" I yelled and I grabbed the eclair, ran up the stairs and rolled under my bed like a warthog.
Who does Tommy think I am? Saint Vincent de-Paul???
Friday 17 September 2010
Oxter Tickling
Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat ticked himself under the oxter, laughed and said,
"So, old Jordie is on the magic mushrooms. I wonder what magical hallucinations will light up the dark side of the brain of our rural, rustic friend?"
"Many strange, weird and wonderful things will happen," I said."Old Jordie will see colourful doats and goats wearing gossamer dresses. His old Fergie tractor will take on the appearance of a golden chariot and with a spurt of unnatural, fungi-induced energy, the Tufter will yell,
"Get back yeh boy yeh!" and dung out his own bed, without any feminine, womanly, estrogen, hormonal assistance. THEN, the drug will wear off and old Jordie will sit with head in hands, at the fire,wondering if he should join fellow pugilist, Ricky Hatton,in the Priory clinic."
"How right Merle Haggard was," said Tommy, "when he wrote, "The going up's not worth the coming down." A song," said Tommy, "which not only applies to winos and druggies, but also people who climb mount Everest."
"It's an all round song," I said."It could even apply to going up and coming down the stairs.".
(And now for something completely similar)
"Eight weeks in jail," said Tommy."Eight weeks in the clink, the slammer, the tig house, the hotel California, the joint, the hoosegow, the hole, the can, the pokey, the jug, the calaboose, the pen, the smallest room in the Hilton, the.........."
"ENOUGH!" I interjected. "Whom is doing eight weeks at the Greybar's Hotel?"
"That nice Greek boy, George Michael," replied Tommy.
He ticked himself under the oxter again and giggled,
"It could be said, the Whammer is in the slammer."
"Praise the Lord and pass the powder puff," I said. "I thought Tubby Nolan's mountain of parking tickets had finally caught up with him."
"Tubby's a tough guy," said Tommy. "He told me there isn't a cell built that could hold him."
"A quick fix," I said,"just knock down the two adjoining walls and you would have a cell that would fit Tubby like a glove."
"Just imagine the headlines in the Sunday World," said Tommy.
"Slabberer sent to the slammer."
I tickled myself under the oxter, shrieked and replied,
"Due to his size, there's no chance of Tubby bending down to pick up the Lifebuoy soap in the showers."
Tommy and I went into a frenzy of oxter tickling and laughed and laughed and laughed!
"So, old Jordie is on the magic mushrooms. I wonder what magical hallucinations will light up the dark side of the brain of our rural, rustic friend?"
"Many strange, weird and wonderful things will happen," I said."Old Jordie will see colourful doats and goats wearing gossamer dresses. His old Fergie tractor will take on the appearance of a golden chariot and with a spurt of unnatural, fungi-induced energy, the Tufter will yell,
"Get back yeh boy yeh!" and dung out his own bed, without any feminine, womanly, estrogen, hormonal assistance. THEN, the drug will wear off and old Jordie will sit with head in hands, at the fire,wondering if he should join fellow pugilist, Ricky Hatton,in the Priory clinic."
"How right Merle Haggard was," said Tommy, "when he wrote, "The going up's not worth the coming down." A song," said Tommy, "which not only applies to winos and druggies, but also people who climb mount Everest."
"It's an all round song," I said."It could even apply to going up and coming down the stairs.".
(And now for something completely similar)
"Eight weeks in jail," said Tommy."Eight weeks in the clink, the slammer, the tig house, the hotel California, the joint, the hoosegow, the hole, the can, the pokey, the jug, the calaboose, the pen, the smallest room in the Hilton, the.........."
"ENOUGH!" I interjected. "Whom is doing eight weeks at the Greybar's Hotel?"
"That nice Greek boy, George Michael," replied Tommy.
He ticked himself under the oxter again and giggled,
"It could be said, the Whammer is in the slammer."
"Praise the Lord and pass the powder puff," I said. "I thought Tubby Nolan's mountain of parking tickets had finally caught up with him."
"Tubby's a tough guy," said Tommy. "He told me there isn't a cell built that could hold him."
"A quick fix," I said,"just knock down the two adjoining walls and you would have a cell that would fit Tubby like a glove."
"Just imagine the headlines in the Sunday World," said Tommy.
"Slabberer sent to the slammer."
I tickled myself under the oxter, shrieked and replied,
"Due to his size, there's no chance of Tubby bending down to pick up the Lifebuoy soap in the showers."
Tommy and I went into a frenzy of oxter tickling and laughed and laughed and laughed!
Tuesday 14 September 2010
It's All Paul's Fault.
Great show to start the week kid.
Tommy my cat turned off the radio by telling it it was Chinese, turned to me and said,
"Great shows like that will greatly ease the stringent cuts that the regime on the mainland will impose on poor, wee Ulster."
"Right on kid!" I cried. "What man, or indeed woman would not give up job and home to listen to a great show?"
Tommy looked at me slyly and said,
"In the cold, bleak Winter when the cuts really start to bite, I may have to eat you."
"Great minds think alike," I said. "How would you like to be cooked,fried,roasted or boiled?"
"Roasted," said Tommy. "There would be a degree of privacy behind the oven door. What about you?" said Tommy. "How would you like to be cooked?"
"The spit will do me fine," I replied.
"No probs," said Tommy and he spat right in my face!
After a lunch of hard boiled eggs and syrup of figs gravy, I looked out my window and saw Tubby Nolan and Jim Rodgers throwing shoes at each other. I dropped the small, Tasmanian dwarf I was nursing and ran out yelling,
"Lads, lads, we are a small divided country, spill your sweat and not your blood! You can't eat a flag! Ask not what Ulster can do for you, ask instead what Ulster can do for ME! The hand of history is on my shoulder and today I am proud to say, I too am a barnacle!"
"Nigh, nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Keep your big nose out of this. Tubby and I are settling a score with the Universal act of shoe throwing."
"Push off!" roared Tubby. "Paul Clarke of UTV told us to throw shoes at each other."
"You fools!" I yelled."You poor, deluded, innocent, ugly fools. Paul Clarke is the sole heir to the vast Clarke's shoes empire. Paul Clarke is behind all the shoe throwing incidents all over the world. It's a ploy to increase the sales of Clarke's shoes."
"I feel-soiled and-used!" screamed Jim.
"I feel-hungry!" roared Tubby.
I took both men in and nursed one on either knee, until the dawn broke over the black mountain.
"Sleep my little ones," I crooned as I shaved both their heads and drew Hitler moustaches under their twitching noses. Jim looked like Hitler. Tubby looked like Oliver Hardy. Another fine mess I got him into.
Tommy my cat turned off the radio by telling it it was Chinese, turned to me and said,
"Great shows like that will greatly ease the stringent cuts that the regime on the mainland will impose on poor, wee Ulster."
"Right on kid!" I cried. "What man, or indeed woman would not give up job and home to listen to a great show?"
Tommy looked at me slyly and said,
"In the cold, bleak Winter when the cuts really start to bite, I may have to eat you."
"Great minds think alike," I said. "How would you like to be cooked,fried,roasted or boiled?"
"Roasted," said Tommy. "There would be a degree of privacy behind the oven door. What about you?" said Tommy. "How would you like to be cooked?"
"The spit will do me fine," I replied.
"No probs," said Tommy and he spat right in my face!
After a lunch of hard boiled eggs and syrup of figs gravy, I looked out my window and saw Tubby Nolan and Jim Rodgers throwing shoes at each other. I dropped the small, Tasmanian dwarf I was nursing and ran out yelling,
"Lads, lads, we are a small divided country, spill your sweat and not your blood! You can't eat a flag! Ask not what Ulster can do for you, ask instead what Ulster can do for ME! The hand of history is on my shoulder and today I am proud to say, I too am a barnacle!"
"Nigh, nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Keep your big nose out of this. Tubby and I are settling a score with the Universal act of shoe throwing."
"Push off!" roared Tubby. "Paul Clarke of UTV told us to throw shoes at each other."
"You fools!" I yelled."You poor, deluded, innocent, ugly fools. Paul Clarke is the sole heir to the vast Clarke's shoes empire. Paul Clarke is behind all the shoe throwing incidents all over the world. It's a ploy to increase the sales of Clarke's shoes."
"I feel-soiled and-used!" screamed Jim.
"I feel-hungry!" roared Tubby.
I took both men in and nursed one on either knee, until the dawn broke over the black mountain.
"Sleep my little ones," I crooned as I shaved both their heads and drew Hitler moustaches under their twitching noses. Jim looked like Hitler. Tubby looked like Oliver Hardy. Another fine mess I got him into.
Monday 13 September 2010
A Golden Age
Great shows last week kid,great shows which brought back fond memories of,Jimmy Young,The McCooeys and Teatime with Tommy James.
"A golden age in broadcasting!" I yelled.
"Mrs Dale was worried about Jim and Jimmy Young was the man from Laramie."
Tommy threw a dartboard at three darts stuck in the wall and said,
"Playwright Sam Thompson broke new ground with his play, "Over the Bridge" and gave a very young Simon and Garfunkel the inspiration for, "Bridge over troubled water."
"A wonderful time to be alive," I cried. "Rationing kept the people slim as whippets. Women dyed their legs with Bisto and there were no Tubby Nolans lumbering about like veritable wheelie-bins."
Tommy looked at my dial and said,
"A quarter past ten. Up at Radio Foyle Gerry and Sean will be at the kitchen sink gargling with honey. The girls will be applying YET more lip gloss. Ken will be twirling his screwdriver like a gun-slinger and Micky Bradly will be whistling. Micky always whistles when he's nervous. One would have thought a man in his position would have a canary to do his whistling for him."
"The canary died," I said.
"May it rest in peace," said Tommy.
"How did the canary die? Did Micky Bradley take it down a coal mine?"
"The canary died of natural causes," I said. "Stress, brought on by the sound of Sean Coyle's voice."
"I hope the little chirper got a decent, shoe-box burial," said Tommy.
"All the Radio Foyle staff were there," I said.. "all dressed in black with the exception of Mr Coyle who was wearing garish, tartan plus-fores. As the little shoe-box was lowered slowly into the ground, Gerry played the last post on his Viking horn."
"A fitting tribute to a loyal friend," said Tommy as he kicked a two-stone haggis through the window.
"Watch where you're throwing your haggis!" yelled Dawn Purvis as she cycled by on a lovely, primrose yellow bicycle, with a carrier on the back and a wee wickerwork basket on the front for transporting pounds, or indeed kilos of "Special" mince.
Tommy swept all my Frank Mitchell memorabilia from the coffee table with his arm and said,
"As you know, my bar mitzvah is coming up, is everything ready?"
"Aye, Aye, sir!" I yelled.
"All the food and drink is ordered and yesterday I took possession of a very sharp Wilkinson sword razor blade and a bullet to bite on."
Tommy winced, crossed his legs and said,
"Good! Now I want you to hire Malachy Cush to sing at my bar mitzvah. But on no condition must he smile. My Jewish grandparents are flying in from Russia and a weird smile from Malachy Cush could finish them off."
"Don't worry Tommy," I said. "Even as we speak, Malachy Cush is at Duffy's circus where Coco, the circus clown is teaching him how to smile."
"What happened to Bobo the circus clown?" said Tommy.
"He died," I said,"from natural causes, stress, brought on by listening to Hugo Duncan and his diddle-dee."
"Bummer," said Tommy walking out the front door to converse with Jim Rodgers.
Jim, The Screamer, was down on his hands and knees singing,
"Little Sir Echo how do you do?" into an open manhole!
I know. I know. But what can you do? Jim used to be the mayor of Belfast!
"A golden age in broadcasting!" I yelled.
"Mrs Dale was worried about Jim and Jimmy Young was the man from Laramie."
Tommy threw a dartboard at three darts stuck in the wall and said,
"Playwright Sam Thompson broke new ground with his play, "Over the Bridge" and gave a very young Simon and Garfunkel the inspiration for, "Bridge over troubled water."
"A wonderful time to be alive," I cried. "Rationing kept the people slim as whippets. Women dyed their legs with Bisto and there were no Tubby Nolans lumbering about like veritable wheelie-bins."
Tommy looked at my dial and said,
"A quarter past ten. Up at Radio Foyle Gerry and Sean will be at the kitchen sink gargling with honey. The girls will be applying YET more lip gloss. Ken will be twirling his screwdriver like a gun-slinger and Micky Bradly will be whistling. Micky always whistles when he's nervous. One would have thought a man in his position would have a canary to do his whistling for him."
"The canary died," I said.
"May it rest in peace," said Tommy.
"How did the canary die? Did Micky Bradley take it down a coal mine?"
"The canary died of natural causes," I said. "Stress, brought on by the sound of Sean Coyle's voice."
"I hope the little chirper got a decent, shoe-box burial," said Tommy.
"All the Radio Foyle staff were there," I said.. "all dressed in black with the exception of Mr Coyle who was wearing garish, tartan plus-fores. As the little shoe-box was lowered slowly into the ground, Gerry played the last post on his Viking horn."
"A fitting tribute to a loyal friend," said Tommy as he kicked a two-stone haggis through the window.
"Watch where you're throwing your haggis!" yelled Dawn Purvis as she cycled by on a lovely, primrose yellow bicycle, with a carrier on the back and a wee wickerwork basket on the front for transporting pounds, or indeed kilos of "Special" mince.
Tommy swept all my Frank Mitchell memorabilia from the coffee table with his arm and said,
"As you know, my bar mitzvah is coming up, is everything ready?"
"Aye, Aye, sir!" I yelled.
"All the food and drink is ordered and yesterday I took possession of a very sharp Wilkinson sword razor blade and a bullet to bite on."
Tommy winced, crossed his legs and said,
"Good! Now I want you to hire Malachy Cush to sing at my bar mitzvah. But on no condition must he smile. My Jewish grandparents are flying in from Russia and a weird smile from Malachy Cush could finish them off."
"Don't worry Tommy," I said. "Even as we speak, Malachy Cush is at Duffy's circus where Coco, the circus clown is teaching him how to smile."
"What happened to Bobo the circus clown?" said Tommy.
"He died," I said,"from natural causes, stress, brought on by listening to Hugo Duncan and his diddle-dee."
"Bummer," said Tommy walking out the front door to converse with Jim Rodgers.
Jim, The Screamer, was down on his hands and knees singing,
"Little Sir Echo how do you do?" into an open manhole!
I know. I know. But what can you do? Jim used to be the mayor of Belfast!
Saturday 11 September 2010
Building Bridges
Great shows this week kid. Where do great shows come from? Do you have an in house "Think Tank" at Radio Foyle? Who came up with the brilliant idea to supply you with sub standard audio equipment? Who decided that Jordie Tuft should be the agony uncle at Radio Foyle? And what a master stroke it was to unleash Mr Coyle on an unsuspecting public. Mr Coyle is an example to all young hoods, who wasted their lives throwing stones at the army. Sure, he has a police record. But many people have a copy of, "Every breath I take."
I looked at Tommy my cat who was playing Belgian bagatelle with Taffy Tumbler. Taffy is quite famous in Belfast. Measuring five foot six inches in his pantyhose, Taffy claims to be the world's tallest dwarf. And I, as a mere head-banger can see no reason as to why that claim should be disputed.
"Better run along home now little fellow," I said to Taffy. "The insurance man has just come out of your house. Your mummy will soon open a tin of something and hand you a spoon."
"I hope it's not another tin of Roncall varnish," said the ungrateful little tyke.
Why is it that little people always seem to have a chip on their shoulder?
Using my hands, I picked up two clocks from the mantelpiece, handed one to Tommy and said,
"Well, Tommy lad, now that we find ourselves with time on our hands, what shall we do? Tommy did not disappoint.
Ten minutes later Tommy and I were in the garden, engaging in fierce, synchronized, projectile vomiting after eating vast quanties of Saxa salt.
Why, Why, Why is synchronized vomiting not included in the Olympic Games? It would produce many gold medals for Northern Ireland!
"And now we have Paddy Murphy and Sammy Smith boking their guts out in London. And both sections of the community in Nor'n Iron are cheering them on!"
BOKING! The best way to build bridges!
I looked at Tommy my cat who was playing Belgian bagatelle with Taffy Tumbler. Taffy is quite famous in Belfast. Measuring five foot six inches in his pantyhose, Taffy claims to be the world's tallest dwarf. And I, as a mere head-banger can see no reason as to why that claim should be disputed.
"Better run along home now little fellow," I said to Taffy. "The insurance man has just come out of your house. Your mummy will soon open a tin of something and hand you a spoon."
"I hope it's not another tin of Roncall varnish," said the ungrateful little tyke.
Why is it that little people always seem to have a chip on their shoulder?
Using my hands, I picked up two clocks from the mantelpiece, handed one to Tommy and said,
"Well, Tommy lad, now that we find ourselves with time on our hands, what shall we do? Tommy did not disappoint.
Ten minutes later Tommy and I were in the garden, engaging in fierce, synchronized, projectile vomiting after eating vast quanties of Saxa salt.
Why, Why, Why is synchronized vomiting not included in the Olympic Games? It would produce many gold medals for Northern Ireland!
"And now we have Paddy Murphy and Sammy Smith boking their guts out in London. And both sections of the community in Nor'n Iron are cheering them on!"
BOKING! The best way to build bridges!
Thursday 9 September 2010
IRRITABLE EYEBROW SYNDROME
Great show yesterday kid. A great show made all the more memorable when investigative journalist, Frank Mitchell, broke the inside story behind the great show. Quoting sources close to Radio Foyle, Frank stunned Ulster to the core when he reported that Mr Coyle had been suffering from irritable eyebrow syndrome during the show. According to Frank, staff at Radio Foyle became alarmed when Mr Coyle's large eyebrow began to curl and uncurl like a giant, hairy caterpillar. Poor Janet and Emma went into hysterics. Only quick thinking by Micky Bradly saved the day,when he left his post to loosen the girls clothing, which he did time and time again.
As the eyebrow became more active and agile Gerry Anderson yelled,
"We need BOTOX and we need it NIGH!"
After fifty injections of high grade Mexican botox, Mr Coyle's eyebrow settled down and the show continued. Radio Foyle doctor Willie John Patel said later,
"Goodness gracious me! It was amazing, brilliant and very, very smashing."
Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"They will make a film about that, THE GIANT EYEBROW FROM THE BLACK LAGOON.
Will you go and see it?"
"Not a chance kid," I said. "I would rather go and see Avatar meets Shreck at Old Mother Reilly's haunted house."
"Throw in the three Stooges," said Tommy, "and you've got a hit there."
I stood back and gazed in wonder at Tommy's prodigious perceptibility. I really must sew some buttons on the fork of his little, leprechaun-green, velveteen trousers!
Having nothing better to do, Tommy and I decided to write a three act play called "Tubby Nolan and the bun fight at the B.O. corral."
Tommy and I staged the play later that night in a run-down boy scouts' tent at the back of the Europa Hotel. We got rave reviews.
"I laughed until I wet myself and others." (The Irish News)
"This is the best play what I have every seen." (The Newsletter)
"If Harold Pinter were alive he would run out in front of a big, yellow, cement lorry." (The Telegraph)
"Laugh? I thought I would never stop." (The Jewish Chronicle)
Jim McDowell of The Sunday World was a bit more scathing.
"Woman, cat and cast involved in drunken, drug fueled orgy after disappointing farce."
Of all the reviews only Jim McDowell hit the nail on the head. And Jimmy Nail ain't too happy about it.
"Crocodile shoes, crocodile shoes."
As the eyebrow became more active and agile Gerry Anderson yelled,
"We need BOTOX and we need it NIGH!"
After fifty injections of high grade Mexican botox, Mr Coyle's eyebrow settled down and the show continued. Radio Foyle doctor Willie John Patel said later,
"Goodness gracious me! It was amazing, brilliant and very, very smashing."
Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"They will make a film about that, THE GIANT EYEBROW FROM THE BLACK LAGOON.
Will you go and see it?"
"Not a chance kid," I said. "I would rather go and see Avatar meets Shreck at Old Mother Reilly's haunted house."
"Throw in the three Stooges," said Tommy, "and you've got a hit there."
I stood back and gazed in wonder at Tommy's prodigious perceptibility. I really must sew some buttons on the fork of his little, leprechaun-green, velveteen trousers!
Having nothing better to do, Tommy and I decided to write a three act play called "Tubby Nolan and the bun fight at the B.O. corral."
Tommy and I staged the play later that night in a run-down boy scouts' tent at the back of the Europa Hotel. We got rave reviews.
"I laughed until I wet myself and others." (The Irish News)
"This is the best play what I have every seen." (The Newsletter)
"If Harold Pinter were alive he would run out in front of a big, yellow, cement lorry." (The Telegraph)
"Laugh? I thought I would never stop." (The Jewish Chronicle)
Jim McDowell of The Sunday World was a bit more scathing.
"Woman, cat and cast involved in drunken, drug fueled orgy after disappointing farce."
Of all the reviews only Jim McDowell hit the nail on the head. And Jimmy Nail ain't too happy about it.
"Crocodile shoes, crocodile shoes."
Wednesday 8 September 2010
GOODBYE CYRIL
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which had the suspicious, hard as granite, from another planet, people of Ulster saying,
"Why is Gerry Anderson giving us all these great shows? What does he want? What's he up to?
I met an old codger and his codgeress probably going to lift their old age pension or write filthy graffiti on gable walls. The old codger stopped me by throwing a police stinger across the road and yelled,
"Hi, you can tell Anderson I'm on to him. I know what he's up to, him and his great shows!"
And the old codgeress said,
"We may be poor, but we have our pride. We don't like to be beholden. So tell Gerry Anderson, when it comes to great shows, "Thanks but NO thanks. We would rather be Ulster and miserable."
The old man waved his stick and yelled,"I fell for Ulster you know. I fell on my way out the front door to join the army in 1939."
"He did!" shrieked his wife. "He's got a plate in his head. Show them the plate in your head Sammy."
Sammy took off his flat cap and cried,
"Have a feel of that then! Solid brass that is. Be worth a bob or two when I die."
On my way to where I was going I had to round a corner otherwise I would have travelled straight on. And as I rounded said corner I ran into Steven Nolan and Tommy my cat. Tubby was wearing a black arm band in honour of big Cyril Smith.
"He was the first," sobbed Tubby. "He was our inspiration and now he's gone to the great tuck shop in the sky."
"Dry your eyes you bucket baked slabberer!" cried Tommy. "At least you don't have to help carry the coffin. Now let's knock at the portal of Jim Rodger's abode and invite the screamer out for a game of hop scotch."
Two hours later, a veritable mound of broken paving slabs bore testimony to the fact, that Tubby Nolan had played hop scotch in Rodent street. A rash act on Tubby's part, which led to the fat boy's inclusion on the DOE's 10 most wanted list. But if you see Tubby, don't approach him. He is armed with lethal, prawn cocktail crisps and could be dangerous. It is thought Tubby is on the run somewhere in the Malone road district, or the-"Badlands" as the rest of Belfast call it. The people living there never pay their milk bill!
"Me drink-milk? My dear we drink nothing but champagne on the Malone road."
There's a bounty on Tubby's head, but don't try and snatch it. It's Sellotaped to his noggin.
Tubby calls it his emergency rations!
"Why is Gerry Anderson giving us all these great shows? What does he want? What's he up to?
I met an old codger and his codgeress probably going to lift their old age pension or write filthy graffiti on gable walls. The old codger stopped me by throwing a police stinger across the road and yelled,
"Hi, you can tell Anderson I'm on to him. I know what he's up to, him and his great shows!"
And the old codgeress said,
"We may be poor, but we have our pride. We don't like to be beholden. So tell Gerry Anderson, when it comes to great shows, "Thanks but NO thanks. We would rather be Ulster and miserable."
The old man waved his stick and yelled,"I fell for Ulster you know. I fell on my way out the front door to join the army in 1939."
"He did!" shrieked his wife. "He's got a plate in his head. Show them the plate in your head Sammy."
Sammy took off his flat cap and cried,
"Have a feel of that then! Solid brass that is. Be worth a bob or two when I die."
On my way to where I was going I had to round a corner otherwise I would have travelled straight on. And as I rounded said corner I ran into Steven Nolan and Tommy my cat. Tubby was wearing a black arm band in honour of big Cyril Smith.
"He was the first," sobbed Tubby. "He was our inspiration and now he's gone to the great tuck shop in the sky."
"Dry your eyes you bucket baked slabberer!" cried Tommy. "At least you don't have to help carry the coffin. Now let's knock at the portal of Jim Rodger's abode and invite the screamer out for a game of hop scotch."
Two hours later, a veritable mound of broken paving slabs bore testimony to the fact, that Tubby Nolan had played hop scotch in Rodent street. A rash act on Tubby's part, which led to the fat boy's inclusion on the DOE's 10 most wanted list. But if you see Tubby, don't approach him. He is armed with lethal, prawn cocktail crisps and could be dangerous. It is thought Tubby is on the run somewhere in the Malone road district, or the-"Badlands" as the rest of Belfast call it. The people living there never pay their milk bill!
"Me drink-milk? My dear we drink nothing but champagne on the Malone road."
There's a bounty on Tubby's head, but don't try and snatch it. It's Sellotaped to his noggin.
Tubby calls it his emergency rations!
Monday 6 September 2010
Short shrift to big pants
Great show yesterday kid.
"That's obscene!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"What's obscene?" I cried.
"The short shift that Gerry gave to Nolan," said Tommy. "If Tubby bends over wearing that, people will see the grand canyon."
"It was a mistake," I said. "Gerry had trouble with his hi-tech thing-a-may-jig.
Gerry loves Tubby like the errant child he never had."
Tommy put on a David Dunseith voice and said,
"And whose under pants are YOU wearing today?"
"Today Matthew," I said, "I will be wearing the sequined underpants of Idi Amin."
"Got room for a little one?" said Tommy.
"Jump in," I said. "Invite a few friends round and we'll have a party."
After four hours of drinking, singing and dancing, the police knocked on the under pants and told us to keep the noise down.
Tommy, who had been on the cider, opened the fork of the underpants and yelled,
"Knickers!"
The police burst into the underpants and arrested everyone, including Jim Rodgers who had only called round to borrow a cup of one pound coins.
"Bummer!" screamed Jim, as he was thrown into the back of a lovely batten burg maria.
After the big pants party, Tommy and I set out looking for Steven Nolan. We finally tracked the fat boy down to an all night complex which sold rare petrol cans and windows for Capri caravans. The place was packed with strange-looking men, wearing straitjackets under their raincoats.
"Tubby!" I yelled. "Tubby, Tubby, Tubby! Looking good my man."
"Steve!" cried Tommy "What are you up to, you old Comanchero?"
Tubby smiled from 'ere to there and said,
"Big things are afoot my friends,"
"Virulent verrucas?" I said.
"No," said Tubby.
"That lovely woman, May McFedridge, has pulled some strings, called in some favours and there's a good chance I will be playing the genie in panto this year."
"They will need the lamp from the statue of liberty to hold you," said Tommy.
"It's all an illusion," laughed Tubby. "It's all done by smoke and mirrors.
But what do you two tubes know about panto? The only genie you know is Jennie with the light brown hair."
"How dare you!" I yelled.
"I will have you know, I was a thespian in my time."
"That's true," said Tommy. "Matt Baggott showed me her police record. Picked up 247 times for thespian at the same lamp post."
Alas 'tis true. Times were hard. There was trouble at mill.
Was it not William Hague who said,
"The past will always came back to haunt you?"
"That's obscene!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"What's obscene?" I cried.
"The short shift that Gerry gave to Nolan," said Tommy. "If Tubby bends over wearing that, people will see the grand canyon."
"It was a mistake," I said. "Gerry had trouble with his hi-tech thing-a-may-jig.
Gerry loves Tubby like the errant child he never had."
Tommy put on a David Dunseith voice and said,
"And whose under pants are YOU wearing today?"
"Today Matthew," I said, "I will be wearing the sequined underpants of Idi Amin."
"Got room for a little one?" said Tommy.
"Jump in," I said. "Invite a few friends round and we'll have a party."
After four hours of drinking, singing and dancing, the police knocked on the under pants and told us to keep the noise down.
Tommy, who had been on the cider, opened the fork of the underpants and yelled,
"Knickers!"
The police burst into the underpants and arrested everyone, including Jim Rodgers who had only called round to borrow a cup of one pound coins.
"Bummer!" screamed Jim, as he was thrown into the back of a lovely batten burg maria.
After the big pants party, Tommy and I set out looking for Steven Nolan. We finally tracked the fat boy down to an all night complex which sold rare petrol cans and windows for Capri caravans. The place was packed with strange-looking men, wearing straitjackets under their raincoats.
"Tubby!" I yelled. "Tubby, Tubby, Tubby! Looking good my man."
"Steve!" cried Tommy "What are you up to, you old Comanchero?"
Tubby smiled from 'ere to there and said,
"Big things are afoot my friends,"
"Virulent verrucas?" I said.
"No," said Tubby.
"That lovely woman, May McFedridge, has pulled some strings, called in some favours and there's a good chance I will be playing the genie in panto this year."
"They will need the lamp from the statue of liberty to hold you," said Tommy.
"It's all an illusion," laughed Tubby. "It's all done by smoke and mirrors.
But what do you two tubes know about panto? The only genie you know is Jennie with the light brown hair."
"How dare you!" I yelled.
"I will have you know, I was a thespian in my time."
"That's true," said Tommy. "Matt Baggott showed me her police record. Picked up 247 times for thespian at the same lamp post."
Alas 'tis true. Times were hard. There was trouble at mill.
Was it not William Hague who said,
"The past will always came back to haunt you?"
Friday 3 September 2010
Watching paint dry
Great show yesterday kid. I watched in awe and wonder as Tommy my cat made an omelet without breaking eggs. Tommy turned to me and said,
"So, Radio Foyle have got the painters in. I would hazard a guess that would be "Rembrandt and Van Gogh, painters and decorators from Sunset Boulevard, Artigarvan."
"A very reputable firm," I said. "They painted my dead daddy to give him the appearance of health and vitality during his wake."
"And a very good job they did," said Tommy. "Did not the undertaker insist on shooting your dead daddy before burying him?"
"He did," I said. "The undertaker looked at dearest mummy and said,
"Missus widow, I am loathe to bury a man who is the picture of health. May I?"
and he pulled out a colt 45.
"By all means," said dear Mummy. "Try and hit him between the eyes. He would have liked that."
"What I don't understand," said Tommy, looking out the window at the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus who were just passing by, "what puzzles and perplexes ME is why Emma, a woman of the greatest sensibilities is upstairs with the painters. Does the adorable doat have a perversity for watching paint dry?"
"Emma is making cups of tea" I said.
"You know what painters are like. When Michelangelo was painting the roof of the Sistine chapel. The Pope had to keep the kettle on the boil and a big box of Punjana tea bags behind the papal throne.".
"The things you learn when you're making an omelet," said Tommy. Tommy deftly slid an omelet onto my plate and said,
"Tuck in."
I exploded. My face turned red. My eyes bulged and my blood boiled.
"I am NOT a blanket!" I yelled. "I will NOT tuck in. Only a blanket tucks in. I am a human being with 27 brain cells. I will eat the omelet, but I will NOT tuck into the omelet."
Tommy broke the plate over my head and cried,
"Wear it as a hat then, you thran, twisted, gnarled and ugly, vile, repulsive, old bag!"
I sat there in silence muttering,
"Bless me faddah for I have sinned."
I looked out the back window. The wheelie bin was staring in with its mouth open.
"You're a better man than me wheelie bin!" I yelled, as I ran upstairs to don my hair shirt and flagellate myself.
I like a good flagellation every now and then! A good flagellation is hard to beat!.
"So, Radio Foyle have got the painters in. I would hazard a guess that would be "Rembrandt and Van Gogh, painters and decorators from Sunset Boulevard, Artigarvan."
"A very reputable firm," I said. "They painted my dead daddy to give him the appearance of health and vitality during his wake."
"And a very good job they did," said Tommy. "Did not the undertaker insist on shooting your dead daddy before burying him?"
"He did," I said. "The undertaker looked at dearest mummy and said,
"Missus widow, I am loathe to bury a man who is the picture of health. May I?"
and he pulled out a colt 45.
"By all means," said dear Mummy. "Try and hit him between the eyes. He would have liked that."
"What I don't understand," said Tommy, looking out the window at the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus who were just passing by, "what puzzles and perplexes ME is why Emma, a woman of the greatest sensibilities is upstairs with the painters. Does the adorable doat have a perversity for watching paint dry?"
"Emma is making cups of tea" I said.
"You know what painters are like. When Michelangelo was painting the roof of the Sistine chapel. The Pope had to keep the kettle on the boil and a big box of Punjana tea bags behind the papal throne.".
"The things you learn when you're making an omelet," said Tommy. Tommy deftly slid an omelet onto my plate and said,
"Tuck in."
I exploded. My face turned red. My eyes bulged and my blood boiled.
"I am NOT a blanket!" I yelled. "I will NOT tuck in. Only a blanket tucks in. I am a human being with 27 brain cells. I will eat the omelet, but I will NOT tuck into the omelet."
Tommy broke the plate over my head and cried,
"Wear it as a hat then, you thran, twisted, gnarled and ugly, vile, repulsive, old bag!"
I sat there in silence muttering,
"Bless me faddah for I have sinned."
I looked out the back window. The wheelie bin was staring in with its mouth open.
"You're a better man than me wheelie bin!" I yelled, as I ran upstairs to don my hair shirt and flagellate myself.
I like a good flagellation every now and then! A good flagellation is hard to beat!.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
A Family Dinner
Great show yesterday kid, made all the more memorable when Vanessa Feltz phoned in to ask if her bum looked big in England.
Brian Dowling, Nasty Nick, Chantelle, Preston, Nicky Graham, Ulrikaka Johnson. These are just some of the people you can avoid if you don't watch Big Brother.
A secret, leaked BBC memo said substantial savings could be made if Donna Trainor sat on Noel Thompson's knee during Newsline. Speaking from a sheep pen somewhere in the Mourne mountains, Noel Thompson said,
"My knees are sacrosanct. They are an integral part of my style jumping."
When approached in a tanning booth, where she was making toast, Donna Trainor replied,
"I would rather sit on the spikes of a world war two mine."
Our reporter took this as a No and filed it under-Maybe
There I was, trying to wrestle two pounds of bubble and squeak into a saucepan, when Tommy my cat and Henry the hoover walked through the door laughing and joking.
"Honey I'm home!" yelled Henry, with a big smile plastered all over his cylindrical face.
That Henry is getting too fly for his own good if you ask me.
"Get into your corner," I yelled, "and pull your flexible hose in after you!"
"We never sit down to eat as a family anymore," whined Henry.
"That's right," cried Tommy."Where has the love gone? What are we? Ships that pass in the night? Henry and I want love and nurturing and we want it-NIGH!"
"All you will get from me," I screamed, "is hate and neutering! You two take me for granted. From morning 'till night all I hear is,
"Bring me a saucer of milk, or, empty my dust bag. Well no more! Shirley Valentine made a new life for herself and so shall I. It's still not too late for me to be a model and receive blood diamonds from evil tyranical despots."
"You, a model?" sneered Henry.
"A model head-banger," laughed Tommy.
"A model old slapper!" cried Henry.
It was then the nuclear family fell apart. I grabbed a frozen mackeral and set about Henry. Tommy leaped on my back like a monkey and bit the two ears off me.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Don't you know the family that prays together stays together?"
Jim then led us in three verses of, "YES! we shall gather by the river" and a lovely reading from the Koran.
And that night we did sit down to dinner as a family, complete with place mats and everything.
The bubble tasted quite good, but the squeak was vile and repulsive!
It's so difficult to read the sell-by date on bubble and squeak. It keeps moving about!
Brian Dowling, Nasty Nick, Chantelle, Preston, Nicky Graham, Ulrikaka Johnson. These are just some of the people you can avoid if you don't watch Big Brother.
A secret, leaked BBC memo said substantial savings could be made if Donna Trainor sat on Noel Thompson's knee during Newsline. Speaking from a sheep pen somewhere in the Mourne mountains, Noel Thompson said,
"My knees are sacrosanct. They are an integral part of my style jumping."
When approached in a tanning booth, where she was making toast, Donna Trainor replied,
"I would rather sit on the spikes of a world war two mine."
Our reporter took this as a No and filed it under-Maybe
There I was, trying to wrestle two pounds of bubble and squeak into a saucepan, when Tommy my cat and Henry the hoover walked through the door laughing and joking.
"Honey I'm home!" yelled Henry, with a big smile plastered all over his cylindrical face.
That Henry is getting too fly for his own good if you ask me.
"Get into your corner," I yelled, "and pull your flexible hose in after you!"
"We never sit down to eat as a family anymore," whined Henry.
"That's right," cried Tommy."Where has the love gone? What are we? Ships that pass in the night? Henry and I want love and nurturing and we want it-NIGH!"
"All you will get from me," I screamed, "is hate and neutering! You two take me for granted. From morning 'till night all I hear is,
"Bring me a saucer of milk, or, empty my dust bag. Well no more! Shirley Valentine made a new life for herself and so shall I. It's still not too late for me to be a model and receive blood diamonds from evil tyranical despots."
"You, a model?" sneered Henry.
"A model head-banger," laughed Tommy.
"A model old slapper!" cried Henry.
It was then the nuclear family fell apart. I grabbed a frozen mackeral and set about Henry. Tommy leaped on my back like a monkey and bit the two ears off me.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Don't you know the family that prays together stays together?"
Jim then led us in three verses of, "YES! we shall gather by the river" and a lovely reading from the Koran.
And that night we did sit down to dinner as a family, complete with place mats and everything.
The bubble tasted quite good, but the squeak was vile and repulsive!
It's so difficult to read the sell-by date on bubble and squeak. It keeps moving about!
Monday 30 August 2010
WELCOME HOME
Welcome back kid. Take your coat off for you are stopping. Where to begin? Where to begin?
Well kid, I have good news and bad news for you. The bad news is, your show is ruined and your listeners scattered to the four winds. The good news is, the man who stole my burlap knickers from the washing line brought them back again-washed AND pressed! There are still some good, kind people out there. It was, as Tommy my cat said, a game of two halves. Burke and Hare, or Kelly and Coyle have taken a great show and crushed it underfoot like an earwig.
Gerry Kelly never really got control of the show. There was no balance, no theme. Kelly was lashing out like a blind golfer, Leaping from Lady Gaga to the Dukes of Hazard theme music. He was all over the place. Johnny Cash, followed by Johnny Logan, followed by count John McCormick singing, Come into the garden Maud.
"SEGUE!" yelled Tommy my cat. "In the name of all that's holy-SEGUE! SEGUE!"
The half-time whistle blew and on to the pitch ran Mr Coyle. Coyle had an agenda. Within ten minutes stoned, hippy Coyle, wearing a kaftan and self raising flour in his hair, Transported the now terrified audience to 1960's Hippyville, San Francisco, US of A. I could smell the joss sticks leaking out of the radio and Mr Coyle urging the girls to, "Let It All Hang Out!"
An indication of how bad things were to become was summed up in Mr Coyle's first song. Tommy and I ran for the bunker as the strains of,
"Take your shoes off Lucy, don't you know you're in the city" blasted out of the radio.
The first call of the day sent Mr Coyle off on a nationwide hunt for-Tapioca!
"OFCOM!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's holy. OFCOM! OFCOM!"
All that remains now kid is to round up your audience. I suggest Jordie Tuft form a posse. NO! a posse kid, NOT a pussy! Tommy and I will help. According to UTV Live and the Jewish Chronicle, most of your listeners are hiding in the hills. The PSNI have found gibbering wretches hiding in caves and under whin bushes. Millies have been seen wandering like mindless zombies. One old codger was pulled out of a rabbit hole by the heels.
"Kelly and Coyle" he babbled, as he was taken away to BP, where he is now picking up a six figure salary! Nice work if you can get it and you can get it if you try!
The Good Ship Gerry in on the rocks, kid, holed below the Plimsole line and taking on water. The bilges are full of stowaway Polish squid. Maybe you will learn a lesson from this. NEVER, NEVER leave your great show in the hands of Kelly and Coyle. Better to close up shop and put a note in the window stating.
"CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS!"
Now you are back, perhaps you would be good enough to play, "Happy days are here again" for Tommy and me.
We are burying a dear, dear old friend this afternoon.
His name is Eli "Bango" Bumstead. One of the greatest accordian players I have ever heard!
PS, When it comes to Kelly and Coyle, kid, THINK ON! THINK ON!
Well kid, I have good news and bad news for you. The bad news is, your show is ruined and your listeners scattered to the four winds. The good news is, the man who stole my burlap knickers from the washing line brought them back again-washed AND pressed! There are still some good, kind people out there. It was, as Tommy my cat said, a game of two halves. Burke and Hare, or Kelly and Coyle have taken a great show and crushed it underfoot like an earwig.
Gerry Kelly never really got control of the show. There was no balance, no theme. Kelly was lashing out like a blind golfer, Leaping from Lady Gaga to the Dukes of Hazard theme music. He was all over the place. Johnny Cash, followed by Johnny Logan, followed by count John McCormick singing, Come into the garden Maud.
"SEGUE!" yelled Tommy my cat. "In the name of all that's holy-SEGUE! SEGUE!"
The half-time whistle blew and on to the pitch ran Mr Coyle. Coyle had an agenda. Within ten minutes stoned, hippy Coyle, wearing a kaftan and self raising flour in his hair, Transported the now terrified audience to 1960's Hippyville, San Francisco, US of A. I could smell the joss sticks leaking out of the radio and Mr Coyle urging the girls to, "Let It All Hang Out!"
An indication of how bad things were to become was summed up in Mr Coyle's first song. Tommy and I ran for the bunker as the strains of,
"Take your shoes off Lucy, don't you know you're in the city" blasted out of the radio.
The first call of the day sent Mr Coyle off on a nationwide hunt for-Tapioca!
"OFCOM!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's holy. OFCOM! OFCOM!"
All that remains now kid is to round up your audience. I suggest Jordie Tuft form a posse. NO! a posse kid, NOT a pussy! Tommy and I will help. According to UTV Live and the Jewish Chronicle, most of your listeners are hiding in the hills. The PSNI have found gibbering wretches hiding in caves and under whin bushes. Millies have been seen wandering like mindless zombies. One old codger was pulled out of a rabbit hole by the heels.
"Kelly and Coyle" he babbled, as he was taken away to BP, where he is now picking up a six figure salary! Nice work if you can get it and you can get it if you try!
The Good Ship Gerry in on the rocks, kid, holed below the Plimsole line and taking on water. The bilges are full of stowaway Polish squid. Maybe you will learn a lesson from this. NEVER, NEVER leave your great show in the hands of Kelly and Coyle. Better to close up shop and put a note in the window stating.
"CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS!"
Now you are back, perhaps you would be good enough to play, "Happy days are here again" for Tommy and me.
We are burying a dear, dear old friend this afternoon.
His name is Eli "Bango" Bumstead. One of the greatest accordian players I have ever heard!
PS, When it comes to Kelly and Coyle, kid, THINK ON! THINK ON!
Friday 30 July 2010
A SAD DAY
Great shows this week kid. Tommy my cat sat beside the radio dressed as Lady Godiva and whimpered,
"What a sad day this is! Deary, deary me. What a sad, sad day."
I sat in the corner weeping, surrounded by scores of gnashing false teeth. I was blubbering into a pair of Crisp and Dry adult diapers. I blew my nose-"HONK!" and said,
"Sadness has overcome me like- like a cloud of frogspawn and left me bereft of joy and merriment. Amen, amen I say onto you, I have never felt so sad, since the day my late daddy peed on a high-voltage, electric cable. They never found him. He was incinerated in a blinding, urine-perfumed flash."
"I remember the headline in the Sunday World." said Tommy.
"Flasher hoist by his own pee-tard."
"I still remember dearest mummy's last words," I sighed.
"Put it away Percy!" she screamed. "PUT IT AWAY!"
But put it away, dear daddy did not and soon there was nothing left to put away."
Suddenly Tommy threw himself on the floor, began to kick and fling and screamed,
"Ah Gerry, Gerry, Gerry! Don't go! In the name of all that's holy, DON'T GO! Don't leave this lump of a cat, who loves you like a mother. AAH! 'tis sad my old heart is today, so it is. My darling boy is sailing far, far away from the emerald isle, leaving me grieving and keening like a banshee with toothache. AAAH! AAAH! The pain of parting 'tis breaking my heart, so it is. Musha alana and mother McCree!"
"That's quite enough of the stage Irish cat!" I yelled.
"Pull yourself together! I have hired a caravan in Wales for the month of August. Just think, you and I will be able to see Mary Hopkins and Max Boyce every night."
Tommy leapt to his feet, had a leek in the corner and yelled,
"Barry John at Wembley, boyo and I was there! Cliff Jones at Cardiff Park, boyo and I was there! Wales at Murrayfield, boyo and I wasn't there. Didn't have the money see, didn't have the money see. RAIN!" yelled Tommy, "falling on grey, slate roofs and all the tidy housewives snoring and breaking wind, while their menfolk lumber like beasts of burden towards the dark, cold pit. And I wasn't there either boyo. I went to university see. Do not go gently into that good night!" yelled Tommy.
But I ignored the feline's advice and went out into the garden and watered the lupins and petunias the way nature intended.
"You're a veritable camel," I muttered, as I walked, wide-legged from flower bed to flower bed.
"A veritable camel."
HAPPY TRAILS KID!
"What a sad day this is! Deary, deary me. What a sad, sad day."
I sat in the corner weeping, surrounded by scores of gnashing false teeth. I was blubbering into a pair of Crisp and Dry adult diapers. I blew my nose-"HONK!" and said,
"Sadness has overcome me like- like a cloud of frogspawn and left me bereft of joy and merriment. Amen, amen I say onto you, I have never felt so sad, since the day my late daddy peed on a high-voltage, electric cable. They never found him. He was incinerated in a blinding, urine-perfumed flash."
"I remember the headline in the Sunday World." said Tommy.
"Flasher hoist by his own pee-tard."
"I still remember dearest mummy's last words," I sighed.
"Put it away Percy!" she screamed. "PUT IT AWAY!"
But put it away, dear daddy did not and soon there was nothing left to put away."
Suddenly Tommy threw himself on the floor, began to kick and fling and screamed,
"Ah Gerry, Gerry, Gerry! Don't go! In the name of all that's holy, DON'T GO! Don't leave this lump of a cat, who loves you like a mother. AAH! 'tis sad my old heart is today, so it is. My darling boy is sailing far, far away from the emerald isle, leaving me grieving and keening like a banshee with toothache. AAAH! AAAH! The pain of parting 'tis breaking my heart, so it is. Musha alana and mother McCree!"
"That's quite enough of the stage Irish cat!" I yelled.
"Pull yourself together! I have hired a caravan in Wales for the month of August. Just think, you and I will be able to see Mary Hopkins and Max Boyce every night."
Tommy leapt to his feet, had a leek in the corner and yelled,
"Barry John at Wembley, boyo and I was there! Cliff Jones at Cardiff Park, boyo and I was there! Wales at Murrayfield, boyo and I wasn't there. Didn't have the money see, didn't have the money see. RAIN!" yelled Tommy, "falling on grey, slate roofs and all the tidy housewives snoring and breaking wind, while their menfolk lumber like beasts of burden towards the dark, cold pit. And I wasn't there either boyo. I went to university see. Do not go gently into that good night!" yelled Tommy.
But I ignored the feline's advice and went out into the garden and watered the lupins and petunias the way nature intended.
"You're a veritable camel," I muttered, as I walked, wide-legged from flower bed to flower bed.
"A veritable camel."
HAPPY TRAILS KID!
Thursday 29 July 2010
Are Wedding Bells About to Ring For Tommy?
Great show yesterday kid, even though it clashed with sports day in Cullybaccy, where Fred "The Greyhound" Romano ran the mile in just under two hours.
"I won't sleep a wink tonight," said Tommy my cat. "I shall worry all night about the three, little, orphaned hedgehogs. Poor little mites," sighed Tommy. "No mammy and no daddy, as the song so aptly puts it, they are no body's hedgehogs."
"Worry not!" I yelled. "The little hogs who reside in the hedge will be all right thanks to the kind woman who is supplying them with milk."
"You don't mean!" cried Tommy.
"Of course not!" I yelled. "The kind woman feeds them milk from little bottles."
"Hedgehogs have a great love for apples," said Tommy. "Do you know how the hedgehogs carry the apples home from the orchard?"
"In their pockets?" I ventured.
"No," said Tommy. "The crafty little hedgehogs roll on the fallen apples. The apples stick to their prickly spines and the little hedgehogs run home covered in apples."
"How do they get the apples off their prickly spines?" I asked.
Tommy himed and hawed and spluttered,
"The hedgehogs eat the apples from each other's spines."
"And what happens," I said, "if one, lazy, little, hedgehog comes home with NO apples on his spines?"
"In that case," said Tommy, "he would get a riser and be cast out into eternal darkness."
"Firm but fair," I muttered. "Firm but fair."
As the sun slowly made its towards the East, the silence stretched like pre-war knicker elastic. Tommy began to fidget. I sat with all the composure and ugliness of an Easter island statue.
Suddenly, Tommy sprang to his feet and yelled,
"I may have to get married!"
"ZOINKS!" I cried. "What do you mean, you may have to get married?"
"It's Tiddles, the ginger tabby cat at number 27!" yelled Tommy.
"She is about to kittle and has put me in the frame."
"I told you to be careful!" I roared.
"I was," cried Tommy. "I always looked both ways before I crossed the street to speak to her."
I paced the floor, the walls, the ceiling and said,
"No one in my family has ever fathered a kitten and neither have you. When you were a mere lump of a kitten I got you- NEUTERED!"
"MUTILATION!" screamed Tommy. "How dare you cut, slash, scar and mutilate my nether region!"
"Had I not," I screamed, "you would soon be pushing a pram with six, mewing kittens in it!"
"Who carried out this-this-outrage on my person?" cried Tommy.
"Sweeney Todd the vet," I answered.
"That can not be!" yelled Tommy. "Everytime I meet Sweeney he always says,
"Hello Tommy, how are they hanging?"
"He says that to everyone," I sighed, "even me. But believe me, Tommy cat, I have NEVER lain legs akimbo on a vet's table."
"There's a first time for everything," glowered Tommy, as he went upstairs with a small mirror in his hand.
The scream when it came was loud, long, shrill and piercing!
Such a big fuss about something so little!
"I won't sleep a wink tonight," said Tommy my cat. "I shall worry all night about the three, little, orphaned hedgehogs. Poor little mites," sighed Tommy. "No mammy and no daddy, as the song so aptly puts it, they are no body's hedgehogs."
"Worry not!" I yelled. "The little hogs who reside in the hedge will be all right thanks to the kind woman who is supplying them with milk."
"You don't mean!" cried Tommy.
"Of course not!" I yelled. "The kind woman feeds them milk from little bottles."
"Hedgehogs have a great love for apples," said Tommy. "Do you know how the hedgehogs carry the apples home from the orchard?"
"In their pockets?" I ventured.
"No," said Tommy. "The crafty little hedgehogs roll on the fallen apples. The apples stick to their prickly spines and the little hedgehogs run home covered in apples."
"How do they get the apples off their prickly spines?" I asked.
Tommy himed and hawed and spluttered,
"The hedgehogs eat the apples from each other's spines."
"And what happens," I said, "if one, lazy, little, hedgehog comes home with NO apples on his spines?"
"In that case," said Tommy, "he would get a riser and be cast out into eternal darkness."
"Firm but fair," I muttered. "Firm but fair."
As the sun slowly made its towards the East, the silence stretched like pre-war knicker elastic. Tommy began to fidget. I sat with all the composure and ugliness of an Easter island statue.
Suddenly, Tommy sprang to his feet and yelled,
"I may have to get married!"
"ZOINKS!" I cried. "What do you mean, you may have to get married?"
"It's Tiddles, the ginger tabby cat at number 27!" yelled Tommy.
"She is about to kittle and has put me in the frame."
"I told you to be careful!" I roared.
"I was," cried Tommy. "I always looked both ways before I crossed the street to speak to her."
I paced the floor, the walls, the ceiling and said,
"No one in my family has ever fathered a kitten and neither have you. When you were a mere lump of a kitten I got you- NEUTERED!"
"MUTILATION!" screamed Tommy. "How dare you cut, slash, scar and mutilate my nether region!"
"Had I not," I screamed, "you would soon be pushing a pram with six, mewing kittens in it!"
"Who carried out this-this-outrage on my person?" cried Tommy.
"Sweeney Todd the vet," I answered.
"That can not be!" yelled Tommy. "Everytime I meet Sweeney he always says,
"Hello Tommy, how are they hanging?"
"He says that to everyone," I sighed, "even me. But believe me, Tommy cat, I have NEVER lain legs akimbo on a vet's table."
"There's a first time for everything," glowered Tommy, as he went upstairs with a small mirror in his hand.
The scream when it came was loud, long, shrill and piercing!
Such a big fuss about something so little!
Wednesday 28 July 2010
ROLLING IN THE AISLE
Great show yesterday kid, no matter what the people say. A great show made all the more memorable by Mr Coyle walking like Alex Higgins.
"Look!" yelled Tommy my cat, pointing to the radio. "Did you ever see anything so funny? I bet Mr Coyle could also walk like John Wayne."
"And John Inman too," I said, according to the residents of Saint Crispin's home for lame and crippled, funny walkers."
"I like Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I don't know why. I guess it's just.. something 'bout the way he walks attracts me like no other."
"END OF!" I yelled, before Tommy said something he would regret later.
I looked at Tommy by focusing my eyes on the feline and said,
"Tommy, attend me, have you seen the new comedy show, Stand up for the week? Oh, it's so funny Tommy. I installed an aisle at the back of the house so I could roll in it."
Tommy made a pukey face and replied,
"It's aggressive comedy. I don't like aggressive comedy. Give me Laurel and Hardy, Robinson and McGuinness, Charlie Chaplin-even Edwin Poots. I long for a more-gentle time. A time when a young gentleman would place his hoodie over a puddle hole to let a fair damsel cross the street. A time when a man would say to his wife,
"Verily my dear, I am hefted. But I shall abide in my chamber, while YOU use the chamber pot and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always the urn containg your dear papa's ashes on the mantelpiece."
"POETRY!" I cried. "Pure Mills and Boon."
I crouched low, lowered my voice and whispered,
"Tommy, do you think Daniel O'Donnell has, you know, got some visage reconstruction?"
Tommy sauntered over to a chair so he could put his hands in his pockets. His little, tartan strides were hanging over the back of the chair. Tommy smoothed the pleats over the high, falsetto fork and said,
"I would describe Daniel O'Donnell as a work in progress. He has had a little done, but most of the heavy duty stuff is still to come."
"In the name of Saint Patrick and all his snakes!" I yelled. "What will Danny Boy end up looking like, at tall, at tall, at tall?"
"A NEW MAN!" yelled Tommy. "A man who would not look out of place on Vulcan, or Jupiter, but who would be stoned in most parts of Donegall and surrounding districts."
"DAN, DAN, THE ALIEN MAN," I laughed and I ran to my aisle for a good roll.
I blame Majella! Oh yes missus, I blame-Ma!
"Look!" yelled Tommy my cat, pointing to the radio. "Did you ever see anything so funny? I bet Mr Coyle could also walk like John Wayne."
"And John Inman too," I said, according to the residents of Saint Crispin's home for lame and crippled, funny walkers."
"I like Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I don't know why. I guess it's just.. something 'bout the way he walks attracts me like no other."
"END OF!" I yelled, before Tommy said something he would regret later.
I looked at Tommy by focusing my eyes on the feline and said,
"Tommy, attend me, have you seen the new comedy show, Stand up for the week? Oh, it's so funny Tommy. I installed an aisle at the back of the house so I could roll in it."
Tommy made a pukey face and replied,
"It's aggressive comedy. I don't like aggressive comedy. Give me Laurel and Hardy, Robinson and McGuinness, Charlie Chaplin-even Edwin Poots. I long for a more-gentle time. A time when a young gentleman would place his hoodie over a puddle hole to let a fair damsel cross the street. A time when a man would say to his wife,
"Verily my dear, I am hefted. But I shall abide in my chamber, while YOU use the chamber pot and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always the urn containg your dear papa's ashes on the mantelpiece."
"POETRY!" I cried. "Pure Mills and Boon."
I crouched low, lowered my voice and whispered,
"Tommy, do you think Daniel O'Donnell has, you know, got some visage reconstruction?"
Tommy sauntered over to a chair so he could put his hands in his pockets. His little, tartan strides were hanging over the back of the chair. Tommy smoothed the pleats over the high, falsetto fork and said,
"I would describe Daniel O'Donnell as a work in progress. He has had a little done, but most of the heavy duty stuff is still to come."
"In the name of Saint Patrick and all his snakes!" I yelled. "What will Danny Boy end up looking like, at tall, at tall, at tall?"
"A NEW MAN!" yelled Tommy. "A man who would not look out of place on Vulcan, or Jupiter, but who would be stoned in most parts of Donegall and surrounding districts."
"DAN, DAN, THE ALIEN MAN," I laughed and I ran to my aisle for a good roll.
I blame Majella! Oh yes missus, I blame-Ma!
Monday 26 July 2010
We're all Doomed
"And nigh the end is near and so we face the final curt-tain."
"Five days to go and counting!" yelled Tommy my cat, as he frantically searched the phone book for Dr Kevorkian's phone number.
I threw a bar of soap at a dirty rat and cried,
"Put the phone book down and back away! Spread your legs and put both hands on the retired circus clown. We don't need Dr Death. Michael McGimpsey's health service will finish us off soon enough."
"DOOMED!" yelled Tommy. "We're all-doomed. Soon Mr Coyle will be killing us softly with his song."
I gulped, gasped and spluttered,
"We could always listen to--Frank Mitchell."
"Are you MAD?" screamed Tommy.
"Yes," I said, producing the necessary paper work.
"There's only one thing to do," yelled Tommy. "We must dig two holes and crouch in them for the month of August."
"Could we not both crouch in the same hole?" I asked,
Tommy looked at me like I was mad, which I am, and said.
"If we did that, we would have to dig the hole twice as deep."
I gazed in awe at my feline friend. A genius. That's what Tommy is. A genuine, generic, gentile, gender-bender, 24 caret, 100%-genius. And you don't have to take my word for it. Tommy will tell you the same thing himself!
While Tommy was making five gallon of Bird's Angel Delight in an oil drum, he looked over his shoulder and said,
"I saw a horrible sight on the Donegall road yesterday."
"I saw it too," I yelled. "Tubby Nolan bent over in the canon position."
Tommy stirred the Bird's Angel Delight with a wooden leg and said,
"No. What I saw was a street performer, twisting small dogs into the shape of balloons."
"That's horrible," I squeaked. "Did you phone the RSCPA?"
"I did," said Tommy, "but they told me to keep my nose out, or they would send someone to pee on my geraniums."
"So that's who's been doing it," I yelled. "And all the time I thought it was ME!"
The sun set in the West. Darkness spread its jet black cloak and the little hoodies appeared from the shadows like grey, mindless zombies.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
Please put my false teeth in my bake.
Goodnight Gerry. Goodnight Janet. Goodnight Emma. Goodnight Sean boy!
"Five days to go and counting!" yelled Tommy my cat, as he frantically searched the phone book for Dr Kevorkian's phone number.
I threw a bar of soap at a dirty rat and cried,
"Put the phone book down and back away! Spread your legs and put both hands on the retired circus clown. We don't need Dr Death. Michael McGimpsey's health service will finish us off soon enough."
"DOOMED!" yelled Tommy. "We're all-doomed. Soon Mr Coyle will be killing us softly with his song."
I gulped, gasped and spluttered,
"We could always listen to--Frank Mitchell."
"Are you MAD?" screamed Tommy.
"Yes," I said, producing the necessary paper work.
"There's only one thing to do," yelled Tommy. "We must dig two holes and crouch in them for the month of August."
"Could we not both crouch in the same hole?" I asked,
Tommy looked at me like I was mad, which I am, and said.
"If we did that, we would have to dig the hole twice as deep."
I gazed in awe at my feline friend. A genius. That's what Tommy is. A genuine, generic, gentile, gender-bender, 24 caret, 100%-genius. And you don't have to take my word for it. Tommy will tell you the same thing himself!
While Tommy was making five gallon of Bird's Angel Delight in an oil drum, he looked over his shoulder and said,
"I saw a horrible sight on the Donegall road yesterday."
"I saw it too," I yelled. "Tubby Nolan bent over in the canon position."
Tommy stirred the Bird's Angel Delight with a wooden leg and said,
"No. What I saw was a street performer, twisting small dogs into the shape of balloons."
"That's horrible," I squeaked. "Did you phone the RSCPA?"
"I did," said Tommy, "but they told me to keep my nose out, or they would send someone to pee on my geraniums."
"So that's who's been doing it," I yelled. "And all the time I thought it was ME!"
The sun set in the West. Darkness spread its jet black cloak and the little hoodies appeared from the shadows like grey, mindless zombies.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
Please put my false teeth in my bake.
Goodnight Gerry. Goodnight Janet. Goodnight Emma. Goodnight Sean boy!
Thursday 22 July 2010
CITY OF CULTURE
Great shows last week Kid. Tommy my cat, poet, deep thinker and renowned philosopher is convinced that Stroke City was awarded the City of Culture 2013 for just one reason and that is the highly intellectual, scholarly conversations you have conducted with Jordie Tuft over the years.
"When it comes to culture," said Tommy, "old Jordie is up there with Chas and Dave, Dolly the cloned sheep and Chubby Brown."
"How right you are, my little, scaldie snatcher," I said. "Old Jordie should be cast in brass, marble or, at the very least, papier-mache and to hell with the expense."
Tommy brought his pink stiletto down hard on my foot and said,
"There's a stamp, write to the proper authorities immediately."
That's how we do things at our house. No sending it out for consultation, or setting up special committees. We just get on with it.
Tommy and I were playing hop-scotch outside the house, when Phil Coulter cycled down the street on his Betterware round.
"Hark!" muttered Tommy. "Yon gloomy visaged peddler approaches."
"Verily," I said. "Ne'r have I seen such a gloomy countenance, since the Thane of Cullybaccy caught his doublet and hose in the mangle."
I looked at the little, bearded man who had immortalised the words, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and said,
"Congratulations, little resident from the city of culture."
"Seamus Heaney has stolen my thunder!" screamed the little, tin pan alleyer. "I am a REAL Derry man. Heaney is nothing but a blow-in from the country. Seamus Heaney is a-CULCHIE! A clod hopping, bog tramping, snipe loving Culchie. Yet there he was on Friday night, hogging the limelight and uttering prose poems of ubiquitous banality. Heaney is an impostor!" screamed Phil. "I am the rightful King!"
Then Tommy pipped up with this gem,
"Could you not share the honour like Ant and Dec?"
Wee Phil turned purple and cried,
"Not ever. Not ever. NOT EVER!"
He pulled a crumpled Derry Journal from his pocket and yelled,
"To celebrate Derry's great honour, Heaney and I composed two wee poems. Heaney's poem is on the front page in bold black type. Mine is hidden away on page 17 with births, marriages and deaths. I will now read both poems and ask you which is better.
Heaney's poem is called, "North Star" and goes like this.
Rain washed cobblestones
Greyhound men and spires
Shirt workers huddle round
Little coal fueled fires."
RUBBISH!" screamed Phil.
"Complete rubbish! Where is the essence of Derry in that rubbish?
Now listen to my poem, which is called, "Music City".
"Showband stars, throng the bars
With money, jingle-jangle
Dressed in Burton's best, they take their rest
Wearing ties that dingle-dangle."
"Well!" screamed Phil."Did I not nail it? Did I not make it my own?"
I gazed at Phil like a startled stoat and yelled,
"Give me my lavatory brush!" and I went in and slammed the door.
Jingle-jangle? Dingle-dangle? My granny's, pink, Parisian, store-bought pantaloons.
As little Phil peddled sadly away, Tommy yelled after him,
"BOOM-BANG-A-BANG BANG I LOVE--YOU!"
"When it comes to culture," said Tommy, "old Jordie is up there with Chas and Dave, Dolly the cloned sheep and Chubby Brown."
"How right you are, my little, scaldie snatcher," I said. "Old Jordie should be cast in brass, marble or, at the very least, papier-mache and to hell with the expense."
Tommy brought his pink stiletto down hard on my foot and said,
"There's a stamp, write to the proper authorities immediately."
That's how we do things at our house. No sending it out for consultation, or setting up special committees. We just get on with it.
Tommy and I were playing hop-scotch outside the house, when Phil Coulter cycled down the street on his Betterware round.
"Hark!" muttered Tommy. "Yon gloomy visaged peddler approaches."
"Verily," I said. "Ne'r have I seen such a gloomy countenance, since the Thane of Cullybaccy caught his doublet and hose in the mangle."
I looked at the little, bearded man who had immortalised the words, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and said,
"Congratulations, little resident from the city of culture."
"Seamus Heaney has stolen my thunder!" screamed the little, tin pan alleyer. "I am a REAL Derry man. Heaney is nothing but a blow-in from the country. Seamus Heaney is a-CULCHIE! A clod hopping, bog tramping, snipe loving Culchie. Yet there he was on Friday night, hogging the limelight and uttering prose poems of ubiquitous banality. Heaney is an impostor!" screamed Phil. "I am the rightful King!"
Then Tommy pipped up with this gem,
"Could you not share the honour like Ant and Dec?"
Wee Phil turned purple and cried,
"Not ever. Not ever. NOT EVER!"
He pulled a crumpled Derry Journal from his pocket and yelled,
"To celebrate Derry's great honour, Heaney and I composed two wee poems. Heaney's poem is on the front page in bold black type. Mine is hidden away on page 17 with births, marriages and deaths. I will now read both poems and ask you which is better.
Heaney's poem is called, "North Star" and goes like this.
Rain washed cobblestones
Greyhound men and spires
Shirt workers huddle round
Little coal fueled fires."
RUBBISH!" screamed Phil.
"Complete rubbish! Where is the essence of Derry in that rubbish?
Now listen to my poem, which is called, "Music City".
"Showband stars, throng the bars
With money, jingle-jangle
Dressed in Burton's best, they take their rest
Wearing ties that dingle-dangle."
"Well!" screamed Phil."Did I not nail it? Did I not make it my own?"
I gazed at Phil like a startled stoat and yelled,
"Give me my lavatory brush!" and I went in and slammed the door.
Jingle-jangle? Dingle-dangle? My granny's, pink, Parisian, store-bought pantaloons.
As little Phil peddled sadly away, Tommy yelled after him,
"BOOM-BANG-A-BANG BANG I LOVE--YOU!"
Sunday 18 July 2010
HOW NOT TO CARRY OUT A FACELIFT.
Great show yesterday Kid. It has been said that five minutes into the show a man got up, picked up his bed and walked. But don't ring the Vatican yet until the story is confirmed. Saint Gerry, Patron saint of lost dogs and fallen women.
Now that the world and his wife know that Ken takes a tea break between half past ten and eleven o'clock I bet he gets some ribbing tonight, when he walks into the "Cat's Whiskers" pub in William street for his usual pint and wart hog scratchings.
"AAH! You take a tea break at half past ten!" a booze hound will roar. And wee Ken will stand there, head waxed, screwdriver in hand, blushing like a new bride.
But let's move on.
"Tommy!" I yelled to my cat. "Are you not ready yet? You'll be late for your ballet class with Madame Simpleton."
"I'm looking for my tutu!" yelled Tommy.
"This is no time to conduct an intimate, anatomical examination!" I yelled. "Your wee, pink, ballet dress is hanging over the sleeping wino. Slip into it and come down immediately."
Tommy sprang into the room, legs akimbo and cried,
"Does my bum look fat in these tights?"
"Yes!" I yelled. "Now hurry up and don't stop to talk to any strange men and that includes Steven Nolan."
I watched him skip down the street, then I ran upstairs and came down with a big box.
"Carry out your own face lift" it said on the lid.
I tore open the box and out fell a roll of bandages, a bottle of chloroform and a big knife. With trembling hands I sat down to read the instructions.
(First) Use plenty of Chloroform as anaesthetic.
(Two) When you have fallen asleep, pick up big sharp knife and cut, stab and slash until satisfied with face.
(Three) Use bandages to cover cuts, gashes and horrible damage done to visage.
"Any fool could do that!" I yelled, as I poured Chloroform onto a towel and held it to my twitching hooter. Five times I did that before the penny dropped.
"It's a con!" I yelled. "I can't operate on my face when I'm asleep."
Then Tommy came back from his ballet class. I cornered the feline and soon the cunning plan was hatched.
When I came out of the anaesthetic, the first thing I saw was Tommy, wearing a pink tutu and holding a big knife. My face felt stiff and tight. Tommy had done it. Hehad given me a face lift. I ran to the mirror and fainted. When I was asleep Tommy had super glued a Hitler mask to my face!
There go my callah, gefilte fish and matzah soup tonight. I can't go into Levi Goldstein's delicatessen looking like-THIS!
Now that the world and his wife know that Ken takes a tea break between half past ten and eleven o'clock I bet he gets some ribbing tonight, when he walks into the "Cat's Whiskers" pub in William street for his usual pint and wart hog scratchings.
"AAH! You take a tea break at half past ten!" a booze hound will roar. And wee Ken will stand there, head waxed, screwdriver in hand, blushing like a new bride.
But let's move on.
"Tommy!" I yelled to my cat. "Are you not ready yet? You'll be late for your ballet class with Madame Simpleton."
"I'm looking for my tutu!" yelled Tommy.
"This is no time to conduct an intimate, anatomical examination!" I yelled. "Your wee, pink, ballet dress is hanging over the sleeping wino. Slip into it and come down immediately."
Tommy sprang into the room, legs akimbo and cried,
"Does my bum look fat in these tights?"
"Yes!" I yelled. "Now hurry up and don't stop to talk to any strange men and that includes Steven Nolan."
I watched him skip down the street, then I ran upstairs and came down with a big box.
"Carry out your own face lift" it said on the lid.
I tore open the box and out fell a roll of bandages, a bottle of chloroform and a big knife. With trembling hands I sat down to read the instructions.
(First) Use plenty of Chloroform as anaesthetic.
(Two) When you have fallen asleep, pick up big sharp knife and cut, stab and slash until satisfied with face.
(Three) Use bandages to cover cuts, gashes and horrible damage done to visage.
"Any fool could do that!" I yelled, as I poured Chloroform onto a towel and held it to my twitching hooter. Five times I did that before the penny dropped.
"It's a con!" I yelled. "I can't operate on my face when I'm asleep."
Then Tommy came back from his ballet class. I cornered the feline and soon the cunning plan was hatched.
When I came out of the anaesthetic, the first thing I saw was Tommy, wearing a pink tutu and holding a big knife. My face felt stiff and tight. Tommy had done it. Hehad given me a face lift. I ran to the mirror and fainted. When I was asleep Tommy had super glued a Hitler mask to my face!
There go my callah, gefilte fish and matzah soup tonight. I can't go into Levi Goldstein's delicatessen looking like-THIS!
Thursday 15 July 2010
FALSE TEETH RIOTS
Great show yesterday Kid. A show which greatly eased the tension at the "Last Stop" old folks' home in Belfast. As you know' feelings were running high after the Friday night bingo riots. Social services have stepped in and ruled that all bingo callers must be fitted with a working pair of false gnashers. Little did Paddy, "the Weasel" McFlipper know, the trouble that was to follow, when he picked out ball number 33 and roared out, "dirty pee".
Old biddys went berserk. Old codgers yelled,
"Up with this, I shall not put!"
The police were called and in the melee that followed, four tumblers containing false teeth were smashed and a colostomy bag exploded with great violence. Order has now been restored, thanks to your great show and lots and lots of Diazepam and Temazepam.
Tommy my cat and I found Tubby Nolan sitting in the lotus position in the long grass and weeds behind the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls. Tubby was gnawing at a soup bone and reading a book called. "Things All Fat Boys Should Know."
Tubby looked up, by ceasing to look down and guldered,
"Did you know the human body is 90% water?"
"In that case," quipped Tommy, "that would make you the second biggest reservoir in Belfast.".
"90% water," said Tubby,"no wonder I gurgle when I walk"
"Tubby old chap," said Tommy, "are you aware of the moon's gravitational pull?"
"By jingo" yelled Tubby, lumbering to his feet, "everytime there is a full moon, all the water rushes to my head and I feel like my noggin's going to explode. Help me!" screamed Tubby."How can I reduce the vast amount of water in my body?"
"Simples," said Tommy. "You must utilize the overflow mechanism that nature provided."
"I can't spend all my time in the toilet!" roared Tubby.
I snapped my fingers, which started a bush fire and yelled,
"You don't have to. Tommy and I will help you."
Soon Tubby was on his way, fitted with a length of tubing leading into two Coke bottles taped to his legs. I believe he was kept for three days at Belfast International Airport, trying to convince the police he was not a suicide bomber.
BUMMER!
Old biddys went berserk. Old codgers yelled,
"Up with this, I shall not put!"
The police were called and in the melee that followed, four tumblers containing false teeth were smashed and a colostomy bag exploded with great violence. Order has now been restored, thanks to your great show and lots and lots of Diazepam and Temazepam.
Tommy my cat and I found Tubby Nolan sitting in the lotus position in the long grass and weeds behind the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls. Tubby was gnawing at a soup bone and reading a book called. "Things All Fat Boys Should Know."
Tubby looked up, by ceasing to look down and guldered,
"Did you know the human body is 90% water?"
"In that case," quipped Tommy, "that would make you the second biggest reservoir in Belfast.".
"90% water," said Tubby,"no wonder I gurgle when I walk"
"Tubby old chap," said Tommy, "are you aware of the moon's gravitational pull?"
"By jingo" yelled Tubby, lumbering to his feet, "everytime there is a full moon, all the water rushes to my head and I feel like my noggin's going to explode. Help me!" screamed Tubby."How can I reduce the vast amount of water in my body?"
"Simples," said Tommy. "You must utilize the overflow mechanism that nature provided."
"I can't spend all my time in the toilet!" roared Tubby.
I snapped my fingers, which started a bush fire and yelled,
"You don't have to. Tommy and I will help you."
Soon Tubby was on his way, fitted with a length of tubing leading into two Coke bottles taped to his legs. I believe he was kept for three days at Belfast International Airport, trying to convince the police he was not a suicide bomber.
BUMMER!
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