The Wheels On The Bus

Great show yesterday Kid. A show, if you don't mind me saying so, that bore a striking resemblance to a great show put out in India in the 60's by Andy Gandhi. Andy Gandhi was the Simon Dee of India. His mother came from Delhi and his father came from Derry. Andy Gandhi by the way, dressed to the left like your good self. His career came to an abrupt end on Tuesday the 19 of May 1971 when, against the advice of his mother and an old fakir who lived round the corner, he tried to put on a great show that would knock all other great shows into a cocked flat cap. CALAMITY!!!
When the people heard the great show they panicked and ran towards Mecca where the Royal Showband were playing. The number of people NOT killed in the stampede soared into the millions. Andy Gandhi was a broken man. He gave up radio and now repairs sacred cows in a run down shack by a railway track.
I knew Tommy my cat was not well the minute he came down the stairs. A mother knows. It was the-wanness. Oh Tommy did look-wan. His little face was pale, wan and ashen.
Tommy looked all around with a wild-eyed stare and whispered, "Who am I? And where do I live?"
I ran to the corner shop for 20 fags then I ran to Tommy and cried, "You are Tommy cat and you live in Belfast."
" Bell--Fast?" said Tommy. "That seems to ring a bell."
I took Tommy's pulse, put it in a drawer for safe keeping and yelled, "I know what you need. You need-money!" and I slipped a 5 pound note into his little hand.
Tommy rallied a little but was still far from well. I increased the dose, another 5 pound note, a 10 pound note. By the time I got to £37.50 Tommy was back to his old self. Who says that money can't buy you health?
Tommy and I sat for nine hours watching a Scots man trapped in a spider's web trying to get out. Then Tommy said, "Tomorrow is Gerry's big bus trip. Do you not wish now you had booked a place?"
I counted my fingers and toes, divided by my lungs, added my gizzard and my spleen, took away my kidneys and yelled,
"ELEVEN! Just like it said in the Lancet."
I looked at Tommy and said, "Do you know what bread man Johnson, the younger brother of Doctor Johnson said about bus trips? He said,"Going on a bus trip with Jordie Tuft and Sean Coyle, is like pulling out your innards with hot pinchers, boiling them in newt's urine and serving them up cold on pancake Tuesday."
"That's deep," said Tommy. "Man that's deep. I wonder what bread man Johnson meant?"
"We shall never know," I said. "Thirty seconds after he made that comment, bread man Johnson died of a surfeit of Jacobs Cream Crackers."
"That's the way I would like to go," said Tommy, "hauled up to heaven by the Jacobs."
"As to the bus trip," I said, "I wish them all well, but I fear the groping by old Jordie on the return journey, will be extensive, invasive and prolonged."
Tommy flipped his cigarette butt away, got to his feet and said, "Verily I say onto you. The finger prints of the Tufter will be on many an oxter as the wheels on the bus go round and round."
I concurred, cleaned it up with last week's Sunday World and retired for the night.
To sleep? Perhaps. To dream? Perhaps. But certainly to wet the bed!