Political Deadlock

What great shows you put on last week Kid. When Ulster was in a political gridlock, Gordon Brown and Brian Cowan arrived to shovel grit. -YES, I said-grit, but so far no grip. The wheels are still spinning. The engine is revved to max, blue smoke is billowing from the exhaust, but still no movement.
Tommy my cat came into the room wearing a lovely, paisley sweater which matched his little, tartan trousers and yelled, "WELL! Where are we at NIGH?"
"Still at the crossroads," I replied.
"Hot biscuits and dynamite!" yelled Tommy. "That means Tubby Nolan will have yet another week to slabber on about peace and justice."
"Tubby thrives on crisis," I said. "If a lasting peace were to break out, Tubby Nolan would be restricted to talking about wheelie bins and dog poo."
Tommy took a pink yo-yo out off his pocket, scrutinised it closely, put it back in his pocket again and said, "How right you are, my dear. Tubby Nolan is old madam guillotine, sitting knitting a blood-splashed gansy, as the severed heads fall into the basket like veritable turnips."
"Tommy," I chided, "are you not being a little harsh on lard for brains?"
"Harsh?" cried Tommy. "I despise Tubby Nolan. I loathe Tubby Nolan. I hate Tubby Nolan and the very ground he lumbers over."
"He's going on another diet," I said.
"Who is?" said Tommy, looking once again at his yo-yo.
"Tubby," I said. "Tubby Nolan is going on yet another diet."
"Balderdash and gerkins!" yelled Tommy. "Why must you addle my brain with chit-chat about Tubby Nolan? I care not for what Tubby Nolan does. Ne'r a fig do I care for the gross shenanigans of the jolly green giant. Let Tubby Nolan eat cake!" screamed Tommy and he stormed out of the room, once AGAIN, inspecting his yo-yo. I wonder if all is well with Tommy's yo-yo. Women talk about these things and see about them in time, but the male of the species, just hide their heads in the sand and hope the trouble will go away. I don't like to do it, but when Tommy is asleep tonight I will creep into his room and have a good look at his yo-yo. Prevention is better than cure.
In the afternoon Tommy and I set up a Red Bull stall outside Hillsborough.
"GET YOUR RED BULL HERE!" I roared.
"DON'T BE DULL, DRINK RED BULL!" yelled Tommy.
Soon we were surrounded by hordes of sleepy eyed MLA's. They stood there yawning and scratching themselves, knocking back the Red Bull like there was no tomorrow.
I sat down on a fallen log and lifted little Sammy Wilson up on my knee.
"Gottle of gear," said Sammy.
"No Sammy," I said. "This time I want you to be serious. I want you to tell me why you can not reach accommodation with Sinn Fein."
Little Sammy looked all around and whispered, "It's our own fault. In the past the DUP demonised Sinn Fein. How can we face our electorate if we turn round now and work with the demons?"
"Easy-Peasy!" I yelled. "What you must do now is de-demonise Sinn Fein."
"But how can we do that?" cried Sammy.
"You must show Sinn Fein in a new light," I said. "I happen to know that Gerry Adams takes a walk by the river Lagan every night. What you must do is watch from a high bridge. When you see Gerry coming, you grab the first wee Protestant woman you see and throw her over the bridge. Gerry will hear the splash and leap into the river and rescue the wee Protestant woman. Headlines next day."SHINNER SAVES DEPRESSED PROD."
And so the plan was hatched.
You probably saw the headlines.
"SHINNER ATTACKS SWIMMING PROD"
I blame the media. I blame the likes of big Jim McDowell and Walter Love.
How many wee Protestant women must we throw into the Lagan before we have peace?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell, 27 Primrose Dell, Belfast.
HEY KID. How many blue tits did YOU save this Winter? And putting your coat round Janet or Emma doesn't count. Is that Mr Coyle I see, coming into the studio with the bible under one arm and Mein Kamp under the other?