Great solo show yesterday Kid. No co-pilot,your plane shot full of holes from flak from the general public, but just like Biggles,you stepped into the old crate, clutching your beloved teddy bear and put the red arrows to shame. Well done Kid. Get some chalk and go write your name in big letters on the John Hume bridge.
I looked out the window, yelled-YIKES! and ran out to the street, where Tommy my cat was asking everyone for money. I cooled down, when Tommy explained he was just pretending to be a Labour MP. Tommy spread a slice of bread on some Marmite and said,
"Gerry was flying solo today. I wonder where old 'hang 'em and flog 'em' was?"
"Don't be a precocious pussy," I said.
"It doesn't become you. Mr Coyle was probably indisposed."
Tommy gave a hateful giggle and said,
"Perhaps Mr Coyle was-deposed." And then the hard hearted feline began to sing,
"Mr Coyle regrets, he's unable to lunch today--Gerry."
"Listen, Tommy cat," I yelled,"if you don't stop your old cornerboy scoffing,you will get THIS!" and I punched myself right up the hooter to show Tommy what could well lie in store for him.
ACT TWO
"HERE!" I said. "HERE, is a five gallon drum of lard. Go round to Tubby Nolan's house and rub the lard into his massive, chaffed thighs. The oval one is crippled after the six mile charity run."
"That's not fair," cried Tommy. "Tubby Nolan's thighs start down at his ankles."
"I know they do," I cried. "Start at Tubby's ankles and work your way up until you hear him give a funny, high pitched giggle and put a collar on him to stop him licking the lard off."
Tommy glared and me and yelled,
"I'm taking umbrage. You are turning me into a sex worker. Well, listen to me vile features, I may very soon be working for Gerry. YES! Gerry! How do you like them apples, you repulsive old hag."
"YOU work for-Gerry," I scoffed.
"What could you do for Gerry that Mr Coyle doesn't already not bother to do?"
"Do you know Jonathan Simms?" asked Tommy.
"Never heard of him," I said. "Who is he? Some kind of ne'r-do-well?"
"NO, he is not!" yelled Tommy. "Jonathan Simms, the dear boy, has come up with a suggestion that I get my own slot on the Gerry show. I would be Gerry's feline expert and answer all questions relating to the feline of the species. I have vast knowledge relating to cats, kittens, fur balls, balls of wool, mice, kittling and I could inform the general public on how to groom a pussy without getting scratched."
"And just what would this slot be called?" I said.
"Gerry and I are discussing various names," said Tommy. "Tea time with Tommy,is the obvious choice, but Gerry and I are giving consideration to, "Ask the pussy, Tommy answers back, Feline Fine, Phone a pussy and my personal favourite,Thin or fat, phone Tommy cat."
I glanced slyly at Tommy and said,
"I have a title for your new radio slot."
"Oh do tell," gushed Tommy. "One is always so glad for input, even from wrinkly old bags like yourself. Do tell. What name have you come up with?"
"CATASTROPHE" I yelled and I grabbed the starstruck feline by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out to the back yard, where I gave myself a hell of a beating, just to show Tommy what could be in store for him.
A cat on radio? Who does Tommy think he is? Kat Deeley? Even Cat Stevens had the good sense to change his name.
"Ask the-pussy?" The mind boggles!
Sunday 28 March 2010
Friday 26 March 2010
Six MIles for Charity
Great show to start the week Kid. Mr Coyle's dream, which is to be made into a film called,"Coatless In Warrenpoint", had myself and Tommy my cat on the edge of our rusty, antique commodes.
"YET ANOTHER DREAM!" screamed Tommy my cat. What is Coylers on? Crack? Crystal meths? Angel dust? Mrs McVittie's headache powders?"
"Neither!" I yelled, as I leaped to my feet, scaring Rufus the donkey, who was sleeping behind the sofa.
"FRUIT!" I yelled. "Five pieces of fruit each day, is the reason Mr Coyle dreams so much. The lad's brain is awash with vitamin C. Mr Coyle's brain, such as it is, is unable to shut down at night. When he is asleep, his brain, high as a kite on vitamin C, takes Mr Coyle to strange places where strange things happen."
"Is there any cure?" screamed Tommy, whipping out his mobile phone and calling the RSPCA.
"NONE!" I yelled. "The writing is on the wall for Mr Coyle. The moving finger has written. The caravan has moved on. The Oracle of Delphi has spoken. Soon Mr Coyle will be talking to Derek Acorah. The game is over. It's time to pick up the ball and take the teams off the pitch. Listen! Listen! Do you not hear the eerie sound of clogs a-popping?"
Tommy screamed, tore his hair and cried,
"So Mr Coyle is-BANDJAXED?"
"No, No," I said. "I was merely painting the worst scenario that ever won the Turner prize. Mr Coyle could well live for another hundred years and could see capital punishment brought back in his life time."
"That would make Mr Coyle smile," said Tommy. "Eh? Eh? That would make old, "Just give me one eyebrow God" smile. Eh? Eh?"
I never answered Tommy. I pulled down another backdrop and yelled,
"And now for something completely repulsive."
"Did you see Tubby Nolan breast the tape with his big, fat belly?" said Tommy. "Six miles. Six miles the quivering blancmange ran. Today," cried Tommy, "I take off my hat to the Lord of lard, the father of fat, the mother of invention, the Baron of blubber, Mr Tubby Nolan. Today," yelled Tommy, "I am reminded of the old hymn, "What a friend we have in Tubby." Against all the odds," yelled Tommy, "the big, round thing that is Tubby Nolan,lumbered six miles for charity. Let's hear it for Lard Boy!" yelled Tommy. "He raised thousands of pounds for charity. Money, which Michael McGimpsey will use to inoculate the people of Ulster against yellow fever and purple people eaters. Come on!" yelled Tommy. "Let's hear it. Let's hear it for the fat man."
I looked at Tommy, through the cross hairs of my rifle and said,
"Tommy cat,I have only one thing to say to you."
"What is it?" said Tommy.
"POT HOLES!" I thundered.
"How dare you!" yelled Tommy. "I have been called many things in my life, mangy, smelly, putrid, a breeding ground for fleas, old swish the tail and slit eyes, but I have never, NEVER! been called-Pot Holes."
"Ah," I said, "You see as through a glass-darkly. I speak not of you. I speak of he-it, who is called, Tubby Nolan. Have you any idea of the harm done to six miles of hard road by the thundering hooves of tubby Nolan? POT HOLES!" I yelled. "Pot holes abound! It will take an army of men and thousands of pounds, to fill in the pot holes left by the lumbering, fat man in the simmet."
Tommy lit his pipe and said in a Huddersfield accent,
"And how will this affect the pound in my pocket?"
"Higher taxes," I yelled, "and lower taxis!"
"Drat!" cried Tommy. "I now hate Tubby Nolan."
"No! No!" I yelled. "When I saw the fat one breast the tape, covered in swea,t I said to my imaginary enemy,
"REJOICE! Today you have seen what can only be described as, true grit. Big Audrey's cub done us proud. Hats off to Tubby Nolan, the Arkle of Ulster."
"By the by," said Tommy, "who is going to play Mr Coyle in the film, "Coatless In Warrenpoint?"
"Danny Devito," I answered.
"Ah!" said Tommy. "But Danny Devito is much more handsome than old red neck."
There was no answer to that,so I made none.
"YET ANOTHER DREAM!" screamed Tommy my cat. What is Coylers on? Crack? Crystal meths? Angel dust? Mrs McVittie's headache powders?"
"Neither!" I yelled, as I leaped to my feet, scaring Rufus the donkey, who was sleeping behind the sofa.
"FRUIT!" I yelled. "Five pieces of fruit each day, is the reason Mr Coyle dreams so much. The lad's brain is awash with vitamin C. Mr Coyle's brain, such as it is, is unable to shut down at night. When he is asleep, his brain, high as a kite on vitamin C, takes Mr Coyle to strange places where strange things happen."
"Is there any cure?" screamed Tommy, whipping out his mobile phone and calling the RSPCA.
"NONE!" I yelled. "The writing is on the wall for Mr Coyle. The moving finger has written. The caravan has moved on. The Oracle of Delphi has spoken. Soon Mr Coyle will be talking to Derek Acorah. The game is over. It's time to pick up the ball and take the teams off the pitch. Listen! Listen! Do you not hear the eerie sound of clogs a-popping?"
Tommy screamed, tore his hair and cried,
"So Mr Coyle is-BANDJAXED?"
"No, No," I said. "I was merely painting the worst scenario that ever won the Turner prize. Mr Coyle could well live for another hundred years and could see capital punishment brought back in his life time."
"That would make Mr Coyle smile," said Tommy. "Eh? Eh? That would make old, "Just give me one eyebrow God" smile. Eh? Eh?"
I never answered Tommy. I pulled down another backdrop and yelled,
"And now for something completely repulsive."
"Did you see Tubby Nolan breast the tape with his big, fat belly?" said Tommy. "Six miles. Six miles the quivering blancmange ran. Today," cried Tommy, "I take off my hat to the Lord of lard, the father of fat, the mother of invention, the Baron of blubber, Mr Tubby Nolan. Today," yelled Tommy, "I am reminded of the old hymn, "What a friend we have in Tubby." Against all the odds," yelled Tommy, "the big, round thing that is Tubby Nolan,lumbered six miles for charity. Let's hear it for Lard Boy!" yelled Tommy. "He raised thousands of pounds for charity. Money, which Michael McGimpsey will use to inoculate the people of Ulster against yellow fever and purple people eaters. Come on!" yelled Tommy. "Let's hear it. Let's hear it for the fat man."
I looked at Tommy, through the cross hairs of my rifle and said,
"Tommy cat,I have only one thing to say to you."
"What is it?" said Tommy.
"POT HOLES!" I thundered.
"How dare you!" yelled Tommy. "I have been called many things in my life, mangy, smelly, putrid, a breeding ground for fleas, old swish the tail and slit eyes, but I have never, NEVER! been called-Pot Holes."
"Ah," I said, "You see as through a glass-darkly. I speak not of you. I speak of he-it, who is called, Tubby Nolan. Have you any idea of the harm done to six miles of hard road by the thundering hooves of tubby Nolan? POT HOLES!" I yelled. "Pot holes abound! It will take an army of men and thousands of pounds, to fill in the pot holes left by the lumbering, fat man in the simmet."
Tommy lit his pipe and said in a Huddersfield accent,
"And how will this affect the pound in my pocket?"
"Higher taxes," I yelled, "and lower taxis!"
"Drat!" cried Tommy. "I now hate Tubby Nolan."
"No! No!" I yelled. "When I saw the fat one breast the tape, covered in swea,t I said to my imaginary enemy,
"REJOICE! Today you have seen what can only be described as, true grit. Big Audrey's cub done us proud. Hats off to Tubby Nolan, the Arkle of Ulster."
"By the by," said Tommy, "who is going to play Mr Coyle in the film, "Coatless In Warrenpoint?"
"Danny Devito," I answered.
"Ah!" said Tommy. "But Danny Devito is much more handsome than old red neck."
There was no answer to that,so I made none.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Talking gibberish
Great shows last week Kid, in fact I said so to Tommy my cat, who was just putting the final touches to a floor mosaic, featuring the glory days of Edwin Poots.
In the mosaic, Tommy had depicted Edwin wearing a laurel leaf and toga astride a bicycle. You could see straight up Edwin's toga, but Tommy, ever the artist, had thought of that and had carefully manufactured a wee pair of drawers out of a broken cider bottle. Underneath the mosaic was a Latin inscription which read,
"Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit."
A phrase which when translated means,
"He is gone, he is off, he has escaped, he has broken away."
Apparently, Cicero said that, when he came home from the pictures and found Bunty, his wee Jack Russell dog, had escaped out of the garden and was chasing chariots up and down the street. After that, Bunty was kept on a chain to stop him roaming.(tee-hee)
"Tommy!" I cried. "Gerry is putting on some great shows this year."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Absolutely."
I went on, "The great shows Gerry is putting on this year, are some of the best shows Gerry has ever put on. Would you agree?"
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Absolutely."
"WHOA. WHOA!" I yelled. "Stall the wedding. Back her up. What's all this-absolutely malarkey about?"
Tommy looked up from tying a Windsor knot on Andy the budgie's burgundy tie and said,
"Absolutely is a word I have taken a great hankering to. Absolutely can be used on any occasion. It answers every question and makes others believe that one is from the Malone Road."
"I absolutely forbid you to use that word-absolutely!" I yelled.
"Absolutely not!" roared Tommy.
"I will say, 'absolutely' from morning until night. How dare you absolutely forbid me to use the word-'absolutely'. You don't own the word-'absolutely'. 'Absolutely' belongs to everyone and I will absolutely use the word, 'absolutely' until I am absolutely fed up saying-'absolutely'."
I glowered at the ferocious feline and yelled,
"And is that your last word?"
Tommy glared back and said,
"Absolutely!"
On Friday night, who should drop in with a carry out of haggis, neaps and tatties from the Ulster/Scots McDonald's, than bonny wee Lord Laird. As we got stuck into the Scottish grub, washed down with flowing pitchers of Iron Brue, Bonnie wee Lord Laird laughed, threw his feet up in the air, showing he was commando beneath his kilt and said,
"So I said to Martin McGuinness,"Gang a-wah yeh wee scunner. Straddle yer coulter an' stick yer wee pook in yon stirabout."
"Oh Lord Laird," gushed Tommy. "What a wit you are to be sure? Of all the gentlemen who talk gibberish,you, Lord Laird, stand head and shoulders above all others."
Lord Laird leaped to his feet, sending haggis, neaps, tatties and Iron Brue flying. The peer of the realm glowered at poor Tommy and roared,
"Wheest yer bleather, yeh wee, timmering pussy. Day yeh nay ken the language oh yer fore fathers? Gang a-wah, yeh wee, milk-lappin' scunner and stick yer wee heid in a burn."
I intervened by yelling,
"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, wee Lord Laird. Dinny lose the heid. The feline knows not what he says. Here, take my hand and you and I shall dance The Bonny Wee Maid From Fife."
Which we did,with much yelling,roaring and guldering from me and strange, guttural snorts, yelps and grunts from bonny wee Lord Laird.
After the dance which left me and Lord Laird panting like two old lurcher dogs, Lord Laird gave his kilt a hike, showing YET again his commando status, glowered at Tommy and said.
"He who steals my purse steals trash. 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches my language,robs me of this which enriches not him and makes me poor indeed."
A bit dramatic I thought!
In the mosaic, Tommy had depicted Edwin wearing a laurel leaf and toga astride a bicycle. You could see straight up Edwin's toga, but Tommy, ever the artist, had thought of that and had carefully manufactured a wee pair of drawers out of a broken cider bottle. Underneath the mosaic was a Latin inscription which read,
"Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit."
A phrase which when translated means,
"He is gone, he is off, he has escaped, he has broken away."
Apparently, Cicero said that, when he came home from the pictures and found Bunty, his wee Jack Russell dog, had escaped out of the garden and was chasing chariots up and down the street. After that, Bunty was kept on a chain to stop him roaming.(tee-hee)
"Tommy!" I cried. "Gerry is putting on some great shows this year."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Absolutely."
I went on, "The great shows Gerry is putting on this year, are some of the best shows Gerry has ever put on. Would you agree?"
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Absolutely."
"WHOA. WHOA!" I yelled. "Stall the wedding. Back her up. What's all this-absolutely malarkey about?"
Tommy looked up from tying a Windsor knot on Andy the budgie's burgundy tie and said,
"Absolutely is a word I have taken a great hankering to. Absolutely can be used on any occasion. It answers every question and makes others believe that one is from the Malone Road."
"I absolutely forbid you to use that word-absolutely!" I yelled.
"Absolutely not!" roared Tommy.
"I will say, 'absolutely' from morning until night. How dare you absolutely forbid me to use the word-'absolutely'. You don't own the word-'absolutely'. 'Absolutely' belongs to everyone and I will absolutely use the word, 'absolutely' until I am absolutely fed up saying-'absolutely'."
I glowered at the ferocious feline and yelled,
"And is that your last word?"
Tommy glared back and said,
"Absolutely!"
On Friday night, who should drop in with a carry out of haggis, neaps and tatties from the Ulster/Scots McDonald's, than bonny wee Lord Laird. As we got stuck into the Scottish grub, washed down with flowing pitchers of Iron Brue, Bonnie wee Lord Laird laughed, threw his feet up in the air, showing he was commando beneath his kilt and said,
"So I said to Martin McGuinness,"Gang a-wah yeh wee scunner. Straddle yer coulter an' stick yer wee pook in yon stirabout."
"Oh Lord Laird," gushed Tommy. "What a wit you are to be sure? Of all the gentlemen who talk gibberish,you, Lord Laird, stand head and shoulders above all others."
Lord Laird leaped to his feet, sending haggis, neaps, tatties and Iron Brue flying. The peer of the realm glowered at poor Tommy and roared,
"Wheest yer bleather, yeh wee, timmering pussy. Day yeh nay ken the language oh yer fore fathers? Gang a-wah, yeh wee, milk-lappin' scunner and stick yer wee heid in a burn."
I intervened by yelling,
"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, wee Lord Laird. Dinny lose the heid. The feline knows not what he says. Here, take my hand and you and I shall dance The Bonny Wee Maid From Fife."
Which we did,with much yelling,roaring and guldering from me and strange, guttural snorts, yelps and grunts from bonny wee Lord Laird.
After the dance which left me and Lord Laird panting like two old lurcher dogs, Lord Laird gave his kilt a hike, showing YET again his commando status, glowered at Tommy and said.
"He who steals my purse steals trash. 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches my language,robs me of this which enriches not him and makes me poor indeed."
A bit dramatic I thought!
Tuesday 23 March 2010
No Beckham, No Fuss.
What a great saint Patrick's day show Kid. Tommy my cat and I listened to the show while eating shamrock sandwiches and downing pints of the black stuff. I never knew treacle could taste so-refreshing! And little Ken, God bless his little torn socks was popping up here, there, and everywhere, like a little leprechaun. Keep your eye on little Ken kid. Someday he may lead you to his crock of gold. After the show Tommy got a treacle high. The wild eyed feline leaped up and yelled,
"I gotta dance! I gotta dance!
And for the next five hours and sixty five minutes, Tommy, wearing a saffron kilt with green embroidery, danced like a dervish in the corner.
"Rock on Tommy!" I yelled. "Rock on, you little belter!" as I raised yet another pint of treacle to my Hibernian, Irish lips.
No David Beckham at the world cup? What a shock that was! David was defending when he tore his Achilles tendon. Tommy and I immediately sent for a grief counsellor, but apparently the grief counsellor had just been to a Jimmy Cricket concert and would not be able to work for two weeks! So,rather than let the Beckham injury fester, Tommy and I decided to sit down and talk it out. Sure it would be painful, open old wounds, but Tommy and I gritted each others' teeth and sat down for a Beckham pow-wow.
I got to my feet, cleared my throat from off the table and said,
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to find out what lasting damage has been done to our mental health by the omission of David Beckham from the world cup. Tommy cat, would you like to start? Will you tell the assembled gathering, how the David Beckham injury will affect your life?"
Tommy got slowly to his feet and said,
"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking. I would just like to say, I love David Beckham. He is a dear boy. I am sad golden---I mean David, will not be at the world cup. How will it affect me? Well,--Ah--you know--what can I say?---I mean. You go first," said Tommy. "How does the David Beckham injury affect you? Come on, let it out. Vent! Vent! Don't keep it bottled up inside. VENT! In the name of God-VENT!"
I leaped to my feet and cried,
"Well---Ah--you know---what can I say?---I mean,"
After a heated discussion, lasting nine hours and four minutes, Tommy and I came to the conclusion, that the absence of David Beckham from the world cup, will have no discernible effect on our way of life.
SO, WHAT'S ALL THE BIG FUSS ABOUT? EH?
"I gotta dance! I gotta dance!
And for the next five hours and sixty five minutes, Tommy, wearing a saffron kilt with green embroidery, danced like a dervish in the corner.
"Rock on Tommy!" I yelled. "Rock on, you little belter!" as I raised yet another pint of treacle to my Hibernian, Irish lips.
No David Beckham at the world cup? What a shock that was! David was defending when he tore his Achilles tendon. Tommy and I immediately sent for a grief counsellor, but apparently the grief counsellor had just been to a Jimmy Cricket concert and would not be able to work for two weeks! So,rather than let the Beckham injury fester, Tommy and I decided to sit down and talk it out. Sure it would be painful, open old wounds, but Tommy and I gritted each others' teeth and sat down for a Beckham pow-wow.
I got to my feet, cleared my throat from off the table and said,
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to find out what lasting damage has been done to our mental health by the omission of David Beckham from the world cup. Tommy cat, would you like to start? Will you tell the assembled gathering, how the David Beckham injury will affect your life?"
Tommy got slowly to his feet and said,
"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking. I would just like to say, I love David Beckham. He is a dear boy. I am sad golden---I mean David, will not be at the world cup. How will it affect me? Well,--Ah--you know--what can I say?---I mean. You go first," said Tommy. "How does the David Beckham injury affect you? Come on, let it out. Vent! Vent! Don't keep it bottled up inside. VENT! In the name of God-VENT!"
I leaped to my feet and cried,
"Well---Ah--you know---what can I say?---I mean,"
After a heated discussion, lasting nine hours and four minutes, Tommy and I came to the conclusion, that the absence of David Beckham from the world cup, will have no discernible effect on our way of life.
SO, WHAT'S ALL THE BIG FUSS ABOUT? EH?
Saturday 20 March 2010
Shoes, Donkeys or Piles
Great show yesterday Kid. But what a lot of callers Mr Coyle threw at you. Tommy my cat, tied two pork pies to a homing pigeon's legs and released the bird towards the abode of Tubby Nolan. As Tommy washed his hands at the sink he said,
"Poor Gerry must feel like he is working in an Indian call centre."
"Hello. Hello. What can I do for you on this brilliant morning? Your husband won't work? Have you tried kicking him out of the house and then letting him in again? Brilliant! Amazing! Keep her lit!"
Suddenly, like the weather over the Mournes,Tommy's mood changed. His ears lay flat on his head and his tail was swishing from side to side. I let the hare sit. I knew he would speak in his own good time. Suddenly,Tommy spoke. He spun round, with the speed of a tracked digger and yelled,
"Why did that old tartar of a woman give Gerry such a hard time?"
"I frantically flipped through,"How To Answer A Question" by Nigel Dodds,but before I found the right page Tommy went on,
"What gives a woman like that the right to come on and vent her spleen at Gerry? I know behind your walrus moustache, lies the face of a woman. So come on. Tell me. Why would a woman act like that?"
"There are many reasons," I said. "Shoes that are too tight, the loss of a beloved donkey, or it may just be the pesky piles."
"Shoes, donkeys or piles," yelled Tommy. "It's no excuse for coming on the radio and acting the corner girl, the bully, the Jeremy Paxman. Who does she think she is, Nellie Pol Pot?"
"Gerry can take care of himself," I yelled. "Why don't you make like an ass and butt out."
"How dare you patronize me,".screamed Tommy. "If there's one think I hate more than patronizing, it's placation. So don't you dare try and placate me."
"I never touched your teeth," I yelled.
There then followed the usual fight between woman and cat, with lots of roaring, yelling and guldering, followed by a high speed dash through Belfast in a screaming ambulance.
One thing I will say about Tommy. The lad has a great left hook. You should see my battered and bent hooter!
"Poor Gerry must feel like he is working in an Indian call centre."
"Hello. Hello. What can I do for you on this brilliant morning? Your husband won't work? Have you tried kicking him out of the house and then letting him in again? Brilliant! Amazing! Keep her lit!"
Suddenly, like the weather over the Mournes,Tommy's mood changed. His ears lay flat on his head and his tail was swishing from side to side. I let the hare sit. I knew he would speak in his own good time. Suddenly,Tommy spoke. He spun round, with the speed of a tracked digger and yelled,
"Why did that old tartar of a woman give Gerry such a hard time?"
"I frantically flipped through,"How To Answer A Question" by Nigel Dodds,but before I found the right page Tommy went on,
"What gives a woman like that the right to come on and vent her spleen at Gerry? I know behind your walrus moustache, lies the face of a woman. So come on. Tell me. Why would a woman act like that?"
"There are many reasons," I said. "Shoes that are too tight, the loss of a beloved donkey, or it may just be the pesky piles."
"Shoes, donkeys or piles," yelled Tommy. "It's no excuse for coming on the radio and acting the corner girl, the bully, the Jeremy Paxman. Who does she think she is, Nellie Pol Pot?"
"Gerry can take care of himself," I yelled. "Why don't you make like an ass and butt out."
"How dare you patronize me,".screamed Tommy. "If there's one think I hate more than patronizing, it's placation. So don't you dare try and placate me."
"I never touched your teeth," I yelled.
There then followed the usual fight between woman and cat, with lots of roaring, yelling and guldering, followed by a high speed dash through Belfast in a screaming ambulance.
One thing I will say about Tommy. The lad has a great left hook. You should see my battered and bent hooter!
Friday 19 March 2010
Sure Aren't We Grand
Welcome back Kid. On the sad day you left, which for ever more shall be known as the day of mourning, I grabbed Tommy my cat, bound and gagged him and handcuffed him to a water pipe under the sink. Then I unbound Tommy, so he could bind and gag me and for the next two weeks, Tommy and I lay bound and gagged under the sink.
There we languished, as Mr Coyle, hobbling on ricket legs with the aid of three blackthorn walking sticks, slowly made his way to your chair. It took the combined efforts of Janet, Emma, the Undertone and Ken to lift him onto the seat.
"Are you all right wee pet?" said Emma, as she wiped the drool from Mr Coyle's gaping mouth. "Would you like a wee blanket?" And the angel that is Emma, threw an old, dirty, horse blanket over the ancient, gnarled and twisted golfer.
Then, aging hippy Coyle, took the people of Ulster on a 60's, drug induced, psychedelic, magical, mystery tour. It was a bad trip-man, a real bad trip.
For eleven, LONG, LONG days, Mr Coyle ended each show by picking up the ball and taking the teams off the pitch. So many teams. Such a load of balls!
But Tommy and I survived and are now looking forward to many great shows, during the Spring and Summer.
I was standing in the back yard wearing a leather apron beside an anvil, when Tommy rushed out full of Irish ire.
"Before you shoe that ostrich," yelled Tommy, "answer me one question. What the blankety-blank is Sir Reg Empry up too?"
I laid down my hammer and said,
"I have no knowledge of Sir Reg, the little knight of the realm. I thought he was dead. What has the little comb-over been up to?"
"Erecting roadblocks, that's what," yelled Tommy. "It's a little late in the day for Sir Reg to find his cajones. For years, not a dickie bird and now the wild, bad knight is thwarting Hillary Clinton,George Bush and David Cameron!"
"Sir Reg probably found his cajones when he was rummaging down the sofa looking for the remote control," I said.
"Who does the little alien think he is?" screamed Tommy. "Mr Delmonte? Sir Reg, he say-NO!"
"'Tis a ruse," I said, as I put the ostrich's right foot between my legs. "'Tis only a ruse, to grab headlines and prove he's still alive."
"Sir Reg wants changes in education," yelled Tommy. "Did you ever hear the like of it? Changes in education! Sure aren't we grand? The children don't need any education. They should be out kicking a ball and thinking about lifting the Sam Maguire cup."
"Of course we're-grand," I said. "When it comes to education, we've never been grander. Aye, we're-grand. Sir Reg should reflect on the words of Pink Floyd and, leave the kids alone."
"Leave education alone," said Tommy. "Sure aren't we-grand?"
"We are," I said. "We're-grand."
The ostrich looked round and said,
"We're grand so we are. Now hurry up and hammer them shoes on me. I have places to go and people to see."
Sir Reg should pull his neck in. We're-grand. There's no need for change. We're grand. We're-grand!
I dug up an old Saxon tea pot, threw in a tee-hee bag, the tea that puts a smile on your face and buttered three, Paris Hilton buns. And there we sat, Tommy, me and the newly shoed ostrich.
"Sure, we're-grand," said the ostrich.
"Sure, we're-grand," said Tommy.
"Sure, we're-grand," I said, as Steven Nolan cycled by on a butcher's boy's bicycle. playing Waltzing Matilda on the paper and comb.
It was good, but Tubby didn't nail it. He didn't make it his own.
There we languished, as Mr Coyle, hobbling on ricket legs with the aid of three blackthorn walking sticks, slowly made his way to your chair. It took the combined efforts of Janet, Emma, the Undertone and Ken to lift him onto the seat.
"Are you all right wee pet?" said Emma, as she wiped the drool from Mr Coyle's gaping mouth. "Would you like a wee blanket?" And the angel that is Emma, threw an old, dirty, horse blanket over the ancient, gnarled and twisted golfer.
Then, aging hippy Coyle, took the people of Ulster on a 60's, drug induced, psychedelic, magical, mystery tour. It was a bad trip-man, a real bad trip.
For eleven, LONG, LONG days, Mr Coyle ended each show by picking up the ball and taking the teams off the pitch. So many teams. Such a load of balls!
But Tommy and I survived and are now looking forward to many great shows, during the Spring and Summer.
I was standing in the back yard wearing a leather apron beside an anvil, when Tommy rushed out full of Irish ire.
"Before you shoe that ostrich," yelled Tommy, "answer me one question. What the blankety-blank is Sir Reg Empry up too?"
I laid down my hammer and said,
"I have no knowledge of Sir Reg, the little knight of the realm. I thought he was dead. What has the little comb-over been up to?"
"Erecting roadblocks, that's what," yelled Tommy. "It's a little late in the day for Sir Reg to find his cajones. For years, not a dickie bird and now the wild, bad knight is thwarting Hillary Clinton,George Bush and David Cameron!"
"Sir Reg probably found his cajones when he was rummaging down the sofa looking for the remote control," I said.
"Who does the little alien think he is?" screamed Tommy. "Mr Delmonte? Sir Reg, he say-NO!"
"'Tis a ruse," I said, as I put the ostrich's right foot between my legs. "'Tis only a ruse, to grab headlines and prove he's still alive."
"Sir Reg wants changes in education," yelled Tommy. "Did you ever hear the like of it? Changes in education! Sure aren't we grand? The children don't need any education. They should be out kicking a ball and thinking about lifting the Sam Maguire cup."
"Of course we're-grand," I said. "When it comes to education, we've never been grander. Aye, we're-grand. Sir Reg should reflect on the words of Pink Floyd and, leave the kids alone."
"Leave education alone," said Tommy. "Sure aren't we-grand?"
"We are," I said. "We're-grand."
The ostrich looked round and said,
"We're grand so we are. Now hurry up and hammer them shoes on me. I have places to go and people to see."
Sir Reg should pull his neck in. We're-grand. There's no need for change. We're grand. We're-grand!
I dug up an old Saxon tea pot, threw in a tee-hee bag, the tea that puts a smile on your face and buttered three, Paris Hilton buns. And there we sat, Tommy, me and the newly shoed ostrich.
"Sure, we're-grand," said the ostrich.
"Sure, we're-grand," said Tommy.
"Sure, we're-grand," I said, as Steven Nolan cycled by on a butcher's boy's bicycle. playing Waltzing Matilda on the paper and comb.
It was good, but Tubby didn't nail it. He didn't make it his own.
Wednesday 17 March 2010
Lost and Gone
Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy and I listened to the great show wearing sack cloth and ashes, because we knew Friday was hurtling towards us like an asteroid from darkest space. Tommy my cat bit my nails and cried,
"What shall we do when Gerry goes away? Who shall give us refuge? No one else shares our sense of humour, which is warped, twisted and zany in the extreme."
I broke a bottle of Iron Brue over my head and yelled,
"I name this tube sad, forlorn and pathetic."
"And we don't even have a saying to comfort us," said Tommy. "When other people lose a loved one they say,
"Well, he had a good life. He didn't suffer or, that's the end of that!"
"I saw a film once," I said.
"Did you by jingo?" said Tommy.
"Yes, I did by jingo," I said. "And in that film was a saying that may help you and me get over our great loss. At one point in the film, all God's children fell into the pit of hell and God looked straight into the camera, like Michael Caine does in Alfie, and God said,
"Lost and-gone."
Tommy slapped his scrawny thigh and cried,
"I like it. We shall make that saying our own."
"Lost and-gone," I said sadly.
"Lost and-gone," said Tommy with a tear in his eye.
"Lost and-gone," I said with a trembling lip.
"LOST AND-GONE!" screamed Tommy and I together and we both fell down in a sodden, blubbering heap.
Not one crumb of bread was eaten in our house yesterday. Tommy and I rent our garments, paced the floor and yelled, shrieked and guldered,
"LOST AND-GONE!"
Later that night as we lay beside our hammocks Tommy said,
"So, he who shall not be named is standing in for two weeks?"
"I threw a rat at my shoe which was sitting squeaking beside the door and replied,
"Two weeks and ONE DAY!!!!"
"GOTT in Himmel!" screamed Tommy."Sacre Bleu and that's tarra. How shall we pass the time?"
I sat up in my filthy scratcher and yelled,
"WE GO TO--LONDON!"
"LONDON?" cried Tommy."Home of Big Ben and little Amy Winehouse?"
"YES!" I cried. We shall have some fun in London. I know a man who lives in number 10Downing Street. This man is the Mr Doherty of London. He is a very angry man. If we knock on the door of number 10 every night, this angry man will chase us all through London."
"Brilliant!" yelled Tommy. "Second only to the Gerry show, my favourite thing to do is to knock on the doors of angry men and then run away. Are you sure the man who lives in number 10 Downing Street is a very angry man?"
"Oh yes," I said. "The man who lives in number 10 Downing Street is a VERY angry man. He will race us through Cheapside bellowing,
"Gang a wah, yeh wee scunners. If I catch you I will pull doon yer bonny, wee breeks and spank your bonny, wee backsides."
AH!" said Tommy. "The angry man is a cockney!"
LOST AND-GONE.
LOST AND-GONE.
LOST AND-GONE!
But he who is lost shall be found and shall reign for all eternity. And the people will sing as they dance to the vineyards. "Amen, Amen, I say onto you, He who was lost has been found. And the wicked angel who reigned for two weeks and ONE day has been banished into eternal darkness to sport and play with the foul, black blind bat!"
Come on people, give Sean a chance. Don't greet him on Friday with, "GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!"
"What shall we do when Gerry goes away? Who shall give us refuge? No one else shares our sense of humour, which is warped, twisted and zany in the extreme."
I broke a bottle of Iron Brue over my head and yelled,
"I name this tube sad, forlorn and pathetic."
"And we don't even have a saying to comfort us," said Tommy. "When other people lose a loved one they say,
"Well, he had a good life. He didn't suffer or, that's the end of that!"
"I saw a film once," I said.
"Did you by jingo?" said Tommy.
"Yes, I did by jingo," I said. "And in that film was a saying that may help you and me get over our great loss. At one point in the film, all God's children fell into the pit of hell and God looked straight into the camera, like Michael Caine does in Alfie, and God said,
"Lost and-gone."
Tommy slapped his scrawny thigh and cried,
"I like it. We shall make that saying our own."
"Lost and-gone," I said sadly.
"Lost and-gone," said Tommy with a tear in his eye.
"Lost and-gone," I said with a trembling lip.
"LOST AND-GONE!" screamed Tommy and I together and we both fell down in a sodden, blubbering heap.
Not one crumb of bread was eaten in our house yesterday. Tommy and I rent our garments, paced the floor and yelled, shrieked and guldered,
"LOST AND-GONE!"
Later that night as we lay beside our hammocks Tommy said,
"So, he who shall not be named is standing in for two weeks?"
"I threw a rat at my shoe which was sitting squeaking beside the door and replied,
"Two weeks and ONE DAY!!!!"
"GOTT in Himmel!" screamed Tommy."Sacre Bleu and that's tarra. How shall we pass the time?"
I sat up in my filthy scratcher and yelled,
"WE GO TO--LONDON!"
"LONDON?" cried Tommy."Home of Big Ben and little Amy Winehouse?"
"YES!" I cried. We shall have some fun in London. I know a man who lives in number 10Downing Street. This man is the Mr Doherty of London. He is a very angry man. If we knock on the door of number 10 every night, this angry man will chase us all through London."
"Brilliant!" yelled Tommy. "Second only to the Gerry show, my favourite thing to do is to knock on the doors of angry men and then run away. Are you sure the man who lives in number 10 Downing Street is a very angry man?"
"Oh yes," I said. "The man who lives in number 10 Downing Street is a VERY angry man. He will race us through Cheapside bellowing,
"Gang a wah, yeh wee scunners. If I catch you I will pull doon yer bonny, wee breeks and spank your bonny, wee backsides."
AH!" said Tommy. "The angry man is a cockney!"
LOST AND-GONE.
LOST AND-GONE.
LOST AND-GONE!
But he who is lost shall be found and shall reign for all eternity. And the people will sing as they dance to the vineyards. "Amen, Amen, I say onto you, He who was lost has been found. And the wicked angel who reigned for two weeks and ONE day has been banished into eternal darkness to sport and play with the foul, black blind bat!"
Come on people, give Sean a chance. Don't greet him on Friday with, "GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!"
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Old News Is No News.
Great show to start the week Kid. The news on the political grapevine is that Gordon Brown loved the show. "One less to hit," he growled, as he cuffed an aide round the ear. I watched as Tommy my cat gathered up the pikes and flint-lock pistols we use to repel borders during the great show. Tommy looked and me and said,
"What would Gerry do without Mr Coyle? It is Mr Coyle who keeps the show topical, up to date and forward looking."
"How right you are Tommy," I said, as I released a homing pigeon, which flew round the house and in the back door.
"Did you hear the story Mr Coyle broke today," said Tommy, "about the four just men way back in the 50's?"
"Mr Coyle is on the ball," I said. "Any day now I expect Mr Coyle to yell,
"COOEE! Breaking News. Big ship hits iceberg and sinks."
"I was cycling past Mr Coyle's home the other week," said Tommy. "I was taking part in a charity run to collect money that would go towards a new pair of tangerine Y-fronts for Tubby Nolan. As I cycled past Mr Coyle's home, I happened to glance in and there was Mr Coyle sitting on a three-legged stool, with a wild fierce look on his face. He was eating Crosse and Blackwell processed peas out of the tin with a tea spoon. On his wall was a 1947 colander, with a big red cross to mark his birthday."
"How the other half live," I said, as I fired a salvo of union jacks towards the market's area.
Listen Kid, in all the time I have written to you, I have never asked for a favour. Well, now I am. Tommy my cat has written a song for the Eurovision song contest. Tubby Nolan has thrown his massive weight behind it and I hope you will do the same.
The song is called, "I LIKE" and it goes like this.
"I like bicycles, icicles and tricycles
And I like chasing missiles, when I've had my tea."
What do you think Kid. Has Tommy "Nailed" it, made it his own? Tommy said, when you are singing the song to your family tonight after tea, give it plenty of the old Ricky Martin snake hips.
Tommy sings the song in the key of G, but you may want to take it up to H or even I. It all depends on how tight your trousers are.
Tommy is still working on the bridge. When he comes home tonight after working on the Queen's bridge, he will sit down at the piano and get stuck into the middle eight.
"COOEE! News is coming in that the Wright brothers have just invented the aeroplane. This could well spell the end of the Zeppelin.".
This has been a Coyle production for BBC Radio Ulster.
Bringing the news to YOU, 50 years after it happens.
I feel tired. I must find a clean spot to lie down! Get back yeh boy yeh!
"What would Gerry do without Mr Coyle? It is Mr Coyle who keeps the show topical, up to date and forward looking."
"How right you are Tommy," I said, as I released a homing pigeon, which flew round the house and in the back door.
"Did you hear the story Mr Coyle broke today," said Tommy, "about the four just men way back in the 50's?"
"Mr Coyle is on the ball," I said. "Any day now I expect Mr Coyle to yell,
"COOEE! Breaking News. Big ship hits iceberg and sinks."
"I was cycling past Mr Coyle's home the other week," said Tommy. "I was taking part in a charity run to collect money that would go towards a new pair of tangerine Y-fronts for Tubby Nolan. As I cycled past Mr Coyle's home, I happened to glance in and there was Mr Coyle sitting on a three-legged stool, with a wild fierce look on his face. He was eating Crosse and Blackwell processed peas out of the tin with a tea spoon. On his wall was a 1947 colander, with a big red cross to mark his birthday."
"How the other half live," I said, as I fired a salvo of union jacks towards the market's area.
Listen Kid, in all the time I have written to you, I have never asked for a favour. Well, now I am. Tommy my cat has written a song for the Eurovision song contest. Tubby Nolan has thrown his massive weight behind it and I hope you will do the same.
The song is called, "I LIKE" and it goes like this.
"I like bicycles, icicles and tricycles
And I like chasing missiles, when I've had my tea."
What do you think Kid. Has Tommy "Nailed" it, made it his own? Tommy said, when you are singing the song to your family tonight after tea, give it plenty of the old Ricky Martin snake hips.
Tommy sings the song in the key of G, but you may want to take it up to H or even I. It all depends on how tight your trousers are.
Tommy is still working on the bridge. When he comes home tonight after working on the Queen's bridge, he will sit down at the piano and get stuck into the middle eight.
"COOEE! News is coming in that the Wright brothers have just invented the aeroplane. This could well spell the end of the Zeppelin.".
This has been a Coyle production for BBC Radio Ulster.
Bringing the news to YOU, 50 years after it happens.
I feel tired. I must find a clean spot to lie down! Get back yeh boy yeh!
Sunday 14 March 2010
A maverick walking on the wild side.
Great shows last week Kid. After the Friday great show,Tommy my cat came out of our first-class sitting room. He had been listening to the great show while smoking Cuban cigars and drinking brandy. Even the dogs in the street knew that Tommy was pretending to be Sir Nicholas Winterton.
"I say old thing," said Tommy,"what a jolly good show that was. It was top hole old bean."
He sauntered over to the radio and turned it off by scoffing at its working class accent. The radio burst into tears and ran out the door crying,
"Cor blimey Gov, you upper class toffs is all the same. I know's my place and I ain't stopping where I ain't wanted. I'm going 'ome to 'ackney."
I brought Tommy down to earth with an uppercut and said,
"Did you put your little, frilly, pink knickers into the washing machine with my baggy grey bloomers?"
"YES! I did!" yelled Tommy. "And I will do it again because I am a maverick, a rebel, a loose cannon,a loner. I walk on the wild side. I am trouble. I will NOT conform to the norms of society. YES! I will put pink knickers in with grey drawers. I will WALK on the grass and I will cross when the green man is not flashing."
"Have you been consorting with David Ford and the Alliance party again?" I yelled.
"What if I have?" cried Tommy. "Sure, David Ford is a rough diamond. He eats peas with his knife and drops his H's. David Ford is a free spirit, a hippy. Does David Ford wear flowers in his hair? YES! but that doesn't make him a bad person."
I grabbed Tommy and myself by the scruff of the neck and sat both of us down on two swivel chairs rescued from Henry the 8th's prized coracle, the Mary Rose.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "What have you been up too? I command you to spit it out!"
Tommy spat a big blob of phlegm right up my kisser.
"Not that!" I yelled. "I command you to tell me what goes on at these hedonistic, Alliance party meetings."
Tommy tittered and said,
"Well, after tea and buttered scones, we all strip off and get into the jacuzzi."
"Men and women?" I screamed.
Tommy leered most horribly and said,
"I have every reason to believe so. Then!" said Tommy. "David Ford gets to his feet and leads us all, as we sing in unison, that old folk favourite,"Kumbaya"."
"This is worse than I thought," I said to Henry the hoover. "Why, this David Ford person, is another Timothy Leary. The old folkie wants everyone to drop out, get high and let it all hang out in the jacuzzi. TOMMY!" I yelled. "Does there ever come a time at these Alliance meetings, when the men and women drop their car keys into a fruit bowl?"
Tommy smirked and replied,
"YOU, may very well say that, but I couldn't possibly comment."
"Oh Tommy," I screamed, "little, innocent, thick, Tommy. Please tell me you did not put the key to the lock of your bicycle into the fruit bowl?"
Tommy leered at me and went out the door singing,
"Lets get it on. WOW! Lets get it on."
If I had a piece of my mind to give, I woud give it to old Pete Seeger-David Ford.
A corruptor of cats, that's what David Ford is and a potentate of the common or garden household pussy!
I see Tubby Nolan and Sir Nicholas Winterton are wrestling at the King's hall on Saturday night. That should be quite a draw. Tubby should have the support of the home crowd.
Ah-One, Ah-Two, Ah-THREE!
Only for the pies, Tubby could have been a contender.
Tommy my cat has really gone to pot. I wonder if he was bullied by Gordon Brown?
A lot of people were!
"I say old thing," said Tommy,"what a jolly good show that was. It was top hole old bean."
He sauntered over to the radio and turned it off by scoffing at its working class accent. The radio burst into tears and ran out the door crying,
"Cor blimey Gov, you upper class toffs is all the same. I know's my place and I ain't stopping where I ain't wanted. I'm going 'ome to 'ackney."
I brought Tommy down to earth with an uppercut and said,
"Did you put your little, frilly, pink knickers into the washing machine with my baggy grey bloomers?"
"YES! I did!" yelled Tommy. "And I will do it again because I am a maverick, a rebel, a loose cannon,a loner. I walk on the wild side. I am trouble. I will NOT conform to the norms of society. YES! I will put pink knickers in with grey drawers. I will WALK on the grass and I will cross when the green man is not flashing."
"Have you been consorting with David Ford and the Alliance party again?" I yelled.
"What if I have?" cried Tommy. "Sure, David Ford is a rough diamond. He eats peas with his knife and drops his H's. David Ford is a free spirit, a hippy. Does David Ford wear flowers in his hair? YES! but that doesn't make him a bad person."
I grabbed Tommy and myself by the scruff of the neck and sat both of us down on two swivel chairs rescued from Henry the 8th's prized coracle, the Mary Rose.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "What have you been up too? I command you to spit it out!"
Tommy spat a big blob of phlegm right up my kisser.
"Not that!" I yelled. "I command you to tell me what goes on at these hedonistic, Alliance party meetings."
Tommy tittered and said,
"Well, after tea and buttered scones, we all strip off and get into the jacuzzi."
"Men and women?" I screamed.
Tommy leered most horribly and said,
"I have every reason to believe so. Then!" said Tommy. "David Ford gets to his feet and leads us all, as we sing in unison, that old folk favourite,"Kumbaya"."
"This is worse than I thought," I said to Henry the hoover. "Why, this David Ford person, is another Timothy Leary. The old folkie wants everyone to drop out, get high and let it all hang out in the jacuzzi. TOMMY!" I yelled. "Does there ever come a time at these Alliance meetings, when the men and women drop their car keys into a fruit bowl?"
Tommy smirked and replied,
"YOU, may very well say that, but I couldn't possibly comment."
"Oh Tommy," I screamed, "little, innocent, thick, Tommy. Please tell me you did not put the key to the lock of your bicycle into the fruit bowl?"
Tommy leered at me and went out the door singing,
"Lets get it on. WOW! Lets get it on."
If I had a piece of my mind to give, I woud give it to old Pete Seeger-David Ford.
A corruptor of cats, that's what David Ford is and a potentate of the common or garden household pussy!
I see Tubby Nolan and Sir Nicholas Winterton are wrestling at the King's hall on Saturday night. That should be quite a draw. Tubby should have the support of the home crowd.
Ah-One, Ah-Two, Ah-THREE!
Only for the pies, Tubby could have been a contender.
Tommy my cat has really gone to pot. I wonder if he was bullied by Gordon Brown?
A lot of people were!
Saturday 13 March 2010
To sleep perchance to dream.
Great show yesterday Kid. When doctor Zhivago, or Mr Coyle as he is known to the staff of early morning Casualty, went into his never-ending Russian dream story,
the temperature in my home dropped. It began to snow and icicles hung from the window. Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"Comrade, we have no bread."
I looked out the window. All was rubble and devastation. (Had the cease fire broken down?) NO, it was Stalingrad. Jim Rodgers went by on a Russian motorcycle and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! Comrade, NIGH! is the Winter of our discontent. The people have no bread and are eating the dead horses. Tubby Nolan was seen running home with a hobby horse on his back."
"Comrade Rodgers," I yelled, "we will fight to the last man for mother Russia."
"Are you off your bap?" screamed Jim. "What we need here in Russia, is one man one vote."
"Good luck with that," I muttered, as I turned away from the window.
When Mr Coyle finished the great Russian dream saga Tommy landed at my side with a hop, skip and jump and said,
"That dream of Mr Coyle, Eh? Know what I mean? Say no more. Say no more. That dream of Mr Coyle. Did you notice anything odd about it? Eh? Say no more. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Nudge, nudge. Wink-wink."
I fired a World War Two shell through the ceiling, just to see if the mortar was working, (You get some dodgy stuff on ebay) and said,
"What are you getting at Tommy cat? Come on. Spit it out. Don't stand there like Fagin nodding and leering."
"In Mr Coyle's dream," said Tommy, "and remember Mr Coyle was asleep when he had the dream, there came a point in the story when Mr Coyle went to sleep standing behind Gerry."
"I see nothing strange in that," I said. "You must remember that Mr Coyle was very tired, waiting for Gerry to get his book, so Mr Coyle went to sleep! What's so odd about that!"
"Don't you SEE?" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle was already asleep. How could he go to sleep AGAIN in a dream?"
"By the sacred, green, boxer shorts of Mark Durkin," I yelled, "that stands reality on its head. Mr Coyle has taken us into the Twilight Zone."
"Come 'ere," said Tommy. "There's more." We have established that Mr Coyle went to sleep in a dream, which means that Mr Coyle went to sleep twice, once in reality and once in the dream. What we are talking of here, is sleep within-sleep."
"Don't Tommy!" I yelled. "STOP, you're scaring me. I have lost all sense of reality. Could we be in a dream now?"
"Who knows," said Tommy. "And who ain't talking. But come 'ere, there's still more. Mr Coyle is in his bed in Derry. Mr Coyle goes to sleep and dreams he is in Russia. In the dream Mr Coyle goes to sleep, but my question is, did Mr Coyle dream in the second sleep, the Russian dream sleep. Because if he did, not only would we have sleep within sleep but also a dream within a dream."
"ITS THE RUSSIAN DOLLS!" I screamed. "Every time you open a Russian doll you find a smaller doll and so on and so on,ad infinitum!"
Then a strange, weird thing happened. The radio came on by itself and Roy Orbison began to sing,
"In dreams I walk with you. In dreams I talk with you. But it's only in-dreams."
If you were passed on the fast lane on the M1 yesterday by a running woman and cat. It was Tommy and I. Many people flashed the lights at-ME! Why can Mr Coyle not go to sleep and just lie there, like the rest of us do??
Answers on a postcard to Lynda Byrons, UTV L-I-V-E.
the temperature in my home dropped. It began to snow and icicles hung from the window. Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"Comrade, we have no bread."
I looked out the window. All was rubble and devastation. (Had the cease fire broken down?) NO, it was Stalingrad. Jim Rodgers went by on a Russian motorcycle and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! Comrade, NIGH! is the Winter of our discontent. The people have no bread and are eating the dead horses. Tubby Nolan was seen running home with a hobby horse on his back."
"Comrade Rodgers," I yelled, "we will fight to the last man for mother Russia."
"Are you off your bap?" screamed Jim. "What we need here in Russia, is one man one vote."
"Good luck with that," I muttered, as I turned away from the window.
When Mr Coyle finished the great Russian dream saga Tommy landed at my side with a hop, skip and jump and said,
"That dream of Mr Coyle, Eh? Know what I mean? Say no more. Say no more. That dream of Mr Coyle. Did you notice anything odd about it? Eh? Say no more. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Nudge, nudge. Wink-wink."
I fired a World War Two shell through the ceiling, just to see if the mortar was working, (You get some dodgy stuff on ebay) and said,
"What are you getting at Tommy cat? Come on. Spit it out. Don't stand there like Fagin nodding and leering."
"In Mr Coyle's dream," said Tommy, "and remember Mr Coyle was asleep when he had the dream, there came a point in the story when Mr Coyle went to sleep standing behind Gerry."
"I see nothing strange in that," I said. "You must remember that Mr Coyle was very tired, waiting for Gerry to get his book, so Mr Coyle went to sleep! What's so odd about that!"
"Don't you SEE?" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle was already asleep. How could he go to sleep AGAIN in a dream?"
"By the sacred, green, boxer shorts of Mark Durkin," I yelled, "that stands reality on its head. Mr Coyle has taken us into the Twilight Zone."
"Come 'ere," said Tommy. "There's more." We have established that Mr Coyle went to sleep in a dream, which means that Mr Coyle went to sleep twice, once in reality and once in the dream. What we are talking of here, is sleep within-sleep."
"Don't Tommy!" I yelled. "STOP, you're scaring me. I have lost all sense of reality. Could we be in a dream now?"
"Who knows," said Tommy. "And who ain't talking. But come 'ere, there's still more. Mr Coyle is in his bed in Derry. Mr Coyle goes to sleep and dreams he is in Russia. In the dream Mr Coyle goes to sleep, but my question is, did Mr Coyle dream in the second sleep, the Russian dream sleep. Because if he did, not only would we have sleep within sleep but also a dream within a dream."
"ITS THE RUSSIAN DOLLS!" I screamed. "Every time you open a Russian doll you find a smaller doll and so on and so on,ad infinitum!"
Then a strange, weird thing happened. The radio came on by itself and Roy Orbison began to sing,
"In dreams I walk with you. In dreams I talk with you. But it's only in-dreams."
If you were passed on the fast lane on the M1 yesterday by a running woman and cat. It was Tommy and I. Many people flashed the lights at-ME! Why can Mr Coyle not go to sleep and just lie there, like the rest of us do??
Answers on a postcard to Lynda Byrons, UTV L-I-V-E.
Monday 8 March 2010
A Literary Critique
Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat turned off the radio by framing it for the Great Northern bank robbery and said,
"Eeh, a great show like that fair sets me up for the day.I feel like doing a clog dance or sticking a ferret down the front of my trousers."
"Don't stick Clarence the ferret down the front of your trousers again!" I yelled.
"You know poor Clarence suffers from claustrophobia."
"What's the point of keeping a ferret" Tommy roared, "if you can't stuff it down the front of your trousers?"
"Clarence is NOT a pet!" I yelled. "Clarence is a member of the family. People used to say that my late daddy was a right little weasel."
"I was unaware of that fact," said Tommy. "I now feel it incumbent on me to apologise to Clarence, to your late daddy, your good self and to any vermin who may be listening to the Gerry show."
In the silence that followed, the price of gold soared and the price of pig iron slumped on the Dow Jones. Tommy picked up a double barrelled shotgun and fired both barrels at a tiny fly on the wall, which turned out later to be a speck of soot.
Tommy strolled over to the window, broke a pane of glass with his elbow, took a big sniff of clean fresh air and said,
"I love this time of year. The sap is rising in the trees. You can hear the grass grow and the Spring flowers are immune to any glass ceilings that Nature may impose on them. Soon," said Tommy, "I shall be able to stretch out on top of the dust bin in the back yard. I shall soak up the sun's rays, put my leg high in the air and lick.....2
"STOP!" I yelled. "In the name of all that's holy, STALL THE WEDDING!"
"Please allow me to finish!" thundered Tommy. "I shall put my leg high in the air and lick my PAW, prior to turning the page of the book I was reading."
"And what book would you be reading Tommy?" I said. "Great Expectations by Tubby Nolan or No country for old men by Jackie Fullerton?"
"Neither," said Tommy, "This Summer I shall be reading, or rereading, for I have read it many times before, Ulysses by James Joyce. Even though I say it myself," said Tommy "I am the leading light on the works of Joyce at the Malone Road book club.".
"Is James Joyce a quare good writer Tommy?" I asked.
"Is he Tommy? Is he? Does Joycle tell a good story and rattle along at a good pace sort of thing? Does he Tommy? Does he?"
Tommy inspected his nails and replied,
"James Joyce is not for everyone. Joyce can be hard going. You need to have a good brain, like what I have to appreciate Joyce. I would not recommend Joyce to the first time reader or the buck stupid like yourself."
I sucked a thumb which someone had stuck through the broken window and said,
"A critique Tommy. Come on, give us a critique on James Joyce. Come on Tommy. No one can critique like you Tommy. Come on Tommy. Give us an auld critique on James Joyce."
Tommy smiled and replied,
"Well, as dear Oscar Wilde would have said, if he were here, and just between ourselves you understand, I sometimes find that Joyce is interested more in comma rather than content."
And Tommy went into a fit of giggling, while muttering,
"Oh dear, what a wit I am to be sure."
But I had what I wanted. I raced outside and wrote with chalk on every gamble wall I could find.
"Tommy cat says James Joyce is CRAP!"
Let's see how Tommy gets on at the Malone Road book club NIGH, when he struts in wearing a three quarter length, sheepskin coat and his Gucci gutties!.
Poor Tommy will be raced out of the Malone road, by a baying pack of
Shitzus.
"Eeh, a great show like that fair sets me up for the day.I feel like doing a clog dance or sticking a ferret down the front of my trousers."
"Don't stick Clarence the ferret down the front of your trousers again!" I yelled.
"You know poor Clarence suffers from claustrophobia."
"What's the point of keeping a ferret" Tommy roared, "if you can't stuff it down the front of your trousers?"
"Clarence is NOT a pet!" I yelled. "Clarence is a member of the family. People used to say that my late daddy was a right little weasel."
"I was unaware of that fact," said Tommy. "I now feel it incumbent on me to apologise to Clarence, to your late daddy, your good self and to any vermin who may be listening to the Gerry show."
In the silence that followed, the price of gold soared and the price of pig iron slumped on the Dow Jones. Tommy picked up a double barrelled shotgun and fired both barrels at a tiny fly on the wall, which turned out later to be a speck of soot.
Tommy strolled over to the window, broke a pane of glass with his elbow, took a big sniff of clean fresh air and said,
"I love this time of year. The sap is rising in the trees. You can hear the grass grow and the Spring flowers are immune to any glass ceilings that Nature may impose on them. Soon," said Tommy, "I shall be able to stretch out on top of the dust bin in the back yard. I shall soak up the sun's rays, put my leg high in the air and lick.....2
"STOP!" I yelled. "In the name of all that's holy, STALL THE WEDDING!"
"Please allow me to finish!" thundered Tommy. "I shall put my leg high in the air and lick my PAW, prior to turning the page of the book I was reading."
"And what book would you be reading Tommy?" I said. "Great Expectations by Tubby Nolan or No country for old men by Jackie Fullerton?"
"Neither," said Tommy, "This Summer I shall be reading, or rereading, for I have read it many times before, Ulysses by James Joyce. Even though I say it myself," said Tommy "I am the leading light on the works of Joyce at the Malone Road book club.".
"Is James Joyce a quare good writer Tommy?" I asked.
"Is he Tommy? Is he? Does Joycle tell a good story and rattle along at a good pace sort of thing? Does he Tommy? Does he?"
Tommy inspected his nails and replied,
"James Joyce is not for everyone. Joyce can be hard going. You need to have a good brain, like what I have to appreciate Joyce. I would not recommend Joyce to the first time reader or the buck stupid like yourself."
I sucked a thumb which someone had stuck through the broken window and said,
"A critique Tommy. Come on, give us a critique on James Joyce. Come on Tommy. No one can critique like you Tommy. Come on Tommy. Give us an auld critique on James Joyce."
Tommy smiled and replied,
"Well, as dear Oscar Wilde would have said, if he were here, and just between ourselves you understand, I sometimes find that Joyce is interested more in comma rather than content."
And Tommy went into a fit of giggling, while muttering,
"Oh dear, what a wit I am to be sure."
But I had what I wanted. I raced outside and wrote with chalk on every gamble wall I could find.
"Tommy cat says James Joyce is CRAP!"
Let's see how Tommy gets on at the Malone Road book club NIGH, when he struts in wearing a three quarter length, sheepskin coat and his Gucci gutties!.
Poor Tommy will be raced out of the Malone road, by a baying pack of
Shitzus.
Sunday 7 March 2010
Measuring Intelligence
Great show yesterday Kid. After the soft feminine voice of Tubby Nolan, after his weekend transgender operation, it was good to hear your strong, male voice and the testosterone gulders of Mr Coyle as he chased wee baldy Ken round the the photo copier.
"Run, Ken run, old Red neck's got a gun and he's aiming it at your head," sang Tommy my cat. Tommy threw a boomerang and cut the top off his egg with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Being a bit more--retarded than Tommy, I picked up a ten pound hammer and left my boiled egg looking like a minute Humpty-Dumpty. Tommy looked at me, shook his head and said,
"And they allow YOU to adopt a cat?"
"Yes they DO!" I yelled. "And Jim Rodger's told me, if I study hard, I may get a licence to carry MLAs from their car into Stormont."
Tommy popped a toasted soldier into his mouth and said,
"The cold, hard truth is that you are stupid, stupid, thick and lacking the intelligence of the humble fruit fly."
"Oh is that right?" I yelled. "And would the powers that be, allow a stupid, thick person to carry wee Sammy Wilson in their arms like a baby?"
Tommy wiped his lips with a lace napkin and said,
"Let's have a little test. Let's see just how many lonely marbles are rattling about in that big head."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "Bring it on. Ask me anything, general knowledge, sargent english or private education, bring it on! Bring it on, you smarty cat."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Could you tell me please, what is the capital of China?"
My brain went blank. All I could think of was Arthur Askey singing, "The busy, busy bee."
Tommy drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and said,
"Oh come, come!"
"That's right!" I yelled "The capital of China is, Come-Come. I was just going to say that."
Tommy bent a bronze figurine of typhoid Mary over my head and went out singing Willie Nelson's version of-'CRAZY'. Crazy for being so stupid. CRAZY, crazy for being so thick."
I met Tubby Nolan as prearranged outside an all-night tights,knickers and steel girders' complex. Tubby stood there, clear proof that John Dunn was wrong when he said,
"No man is an island."
Tubby Nolan IS an island, the Isle of Man.
"Hey my man," I jived, "yo' sure is looking good. Yo' is thriving like a baby on dem ol' pork and beans."
"Cut the slabber bucket bake," growled Tubby. "Up until I was 21, mummy used to waken me every morning by singing, "How's the wee man the day?" I have searched everywhere to find a recording of that song, but no joy. I wonder would Anderson and Coyle come to Belfast every morning and sing that wee song to me?"
"I don't think so Gluttonous," I said. "It's too far to travel and Coyle gets homesick when he leaves Derry city limits. BUT WAIT!" I yelled. "I will be talking to Gerry and Sean tonight at the drag racing."
"Them two tubes go to DRAG racing"? said Tubby.
"In a way," I said. "After dark, both of them change into women's clothing and they race round and round a wee secret pasture at the rear of The Shantallow school for blind bats and moles."
So Kid, if you have ANY regard for your plump chum, I want you and Sean to sing,
"HOW'S THE BIG MAN THE DAY?" For your friend and mine. Ladies and gentlemen in the yella corner it's,
Steven "Fat Boy" Nolan.
Is your friendship real, Or just a cheap, showbiz facade?
My money's on-facade!
"Run, Ken run, old Red neck's got a gun and he's aiming it at your head," sang Tommy my cat. Tommy threw a boomerang and cut the top off his egg with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Being a bit more--retarded than Tommy, I picked up a ten pound hammer and left my boiled egg looking like a minute Humpty-Dumpty. Tommy looked at me, shook his head and said,
"And they allow YOU to adopt a cat?"
"Yes they DO!" I yelled. "And Jim Rodger's told me, if I study hard, I may get a licence to carry MLAs from their car into Stormont."
Tommy popped a toasted soldier into his mouth and said,
"The cold, hard truth is that you are stupid, stupid, thick and lacking the intelligence of the humble fruit fly."
"Oh is that right?" I yelled. "And would the powers that be, allow a stupid, thick person to carry wee Sammy Wilson in their arms like a baby?"
Tommy wiped his lips with a lace napkin and said,
"Let's have a little test. Let's see just how many lonely marbles are rattling about in that big head."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "Bring it on. Ask me anything, general knowledge, sargent english or private education, bring it on! Bring it on, you smarty cat."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Could you tell me please, what is the capital of China?"
My brain went blank. All I could think of was Arthur Askey singing, "The busy, busy bee."
Tommy drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and said,
"Oh come, come!"
"That's right!" I yelled "The capital of China is, Come-Come. I was just going to say that."
Tommy bent a bronze figurine of typhoid Mary over my head and went out singing Willie Nelson's version of-'CRAZY'. Crazy for being so stupid. CRAZY, crazy for being so thick."
I met Tubby Nolan as prearranged outside an all-night tights,knickers and steel girders' complex. Tubby stood there, clear proof that John Dunn was wrong when he said,
"No man is an island."
Tubby Nolan IS an island, the Isle of Man.
"Hey my man," I jived, "yo' sure is looking good. Yo' is thriving like a baby on dem ol' pork and beans."
"Cut the slabber bucket bake," growled Tubby. "Up until I was 21, mummy used to waken me every morning by singing, "How's the wee man the day?" I have searched everywhere to find a recording of that song, but no joy. I wonder would Anderson and Coyle come to Belfast every morning and sing that wee song to me?"
"I don't think so Gluttonous," I said. "It's too far to travel and Coyle gets homesick when he leaves Derry city limits. BUT WAIT!" I yelled. "I will be talking to Gerry and Sean tonight at the drag racing."
"Them two tubes go to DRAG racing"? said Tubby.
"In a way," I said. "After dark, both of them change into women's clothing and they race round and round a wee secret pasture at the rear of The Shantallow school for blind bats and moles."
So Kid, if you have ANY regard for your plump chum, I want you and Sean to sing,
"HOW'S THE BIG MAN THE DAY?" For your friend and mine. Ladies and gentlemen in the yella corner it's,
Steven "Fat Boy" Nolan.
Is your friendship real, Or just a cheap, showbiz facade?
My money's on-facade!
Thursday 4 March 2010
A Faux Pas
Great shows last week Kid, great shows, which even as we speak, are making their way through the vast cold dark Universe to bring joy and comfort to little aliens, who live thousands of light-and in some cases, heavy years from us. How the little aliens will laugh and shake their green tentacles, (I said-tentacles) when they hear old Jordie!
On Monday morning I got up early to prepare the living room for the great show. First, I chased everyone out who thought my home was a public convenience, then I showed the winos the door. The winos slurred, "Nice Door!" and went back to sleep again. AH, to sleep, perchance to shake as the DTs invade their nervous system. On a plain, pine table sat three new radios. One radio to listen to the great show and two for backup. All I could do now was-wait. I hung myself up behind the door and thought of cabbages and kings.
HARK! The pitter-patter of Tommy my cat's little paws coming down the stairs. Tommy appeared dressed all in white.
"And what are you supposed to be," I cried,"an angel?"
"No." said Tommy. "I'm a happy Goth."
Tommy squinted at me and roared,
"HOI!"
"Are you talking to me?" I said.
Tommy yelled, "YES! I am talking to the frizzy, permed, old ratbag hanging behind the door.
I want you," said Tommy, "to cast, what you laughingly call your mind, back to the Gerry show on Friday."
I gave my head four taps with Maxwell's silver hammer and said,
"Done! Now what do you want to know?"
"You may remember," said Tommy,"that I missed part of the show due to being...."
"Hefted," I said. "Yes, I remember you running upstairs, wearing a gold suit and matching fedora hat. You looked like a feline pimp."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "When I was coming back down the stairs, did I hear Gerry and old Jordie play a game of, Deal Or No Deal?"
"Deal Or No Deal," I scoffed. "You must be off your rocking horse. Gerry would never play, Deal Or No Deal with old Jordie."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "I thought I heard old Jordie roaring something about phoning the-banker.".
In the silence that followed, you could have heard a tower block collapse.
"Listen, Tommy," I whispered. "This is all very hush-hush. On the Friday show, old Jordie made, what the residents of the Malone road call, a faux pas."
"Ah!" said Tommy. "A fopas. A rare, exotic very expensive little dog."
"NO" I yelled. "Old Jordie made a mistake. He said something he didn't mean to say.
All weekend the big cheeses at the BBC and Noel Thompson have been busy reeling in the words that went floating off into the ether. When all the words were captured, the BBC put them in a washing machine, turned on the "Soiled washing" programme and washed the words with a soap powder that is both NEW and IMPROVED!"
"I like old Jordie," said Tommy. "Old Jordie calls a spade a spade and a bucket some thing to carry water in."
Listen Kid, if I were you,I would put it all behind me,like Tubby Nolan does with most of his fat. Listen not to Hugo Duncan preaching the gospel of the wheel barrow. It is not all in front of you. It is all behind you. Let it lie Kid. Let it lie.
Do not wake up screaming with the image of Jordie Tuft haunting you like Gasper the ghost.
Gasper is a brother of Casper the ghost, but Gasper likes the odd cigarette. The odd cigarette. Let's not fool ourselves, Gasper the ghost is a chain smoker. Many people hear the clink of Gasper's chains as they lie on their death bed. Smoking can seriously damage your health and it leaves your net curtains looking like the Dead Sea scrolls. I know! Oh boy do I know. I live in a beige house. "Ha' you gotta light boy Ha' you gotta light?"
The singing postman, why does he never appear on Celebrity Big Brother? Being dead could well be the answer.
On Monday morning I got up early to prepare the living room for the great show. First, I chased everyone out who thought my home was a public convenience, then I showed the winos the door. The winos slurred, "Nice Door!" and went back to sleep again. AH, to sleep, perchance to shake as the DTs invade their nervous system. On a plain, pine table sat three new radios. One radio to listen to the great show and two for backup. All I could do now was-wait. I hung myself up behind the door and thought of cabbages and kings.
HARK! The pitter-patter of Tommy my cat's little paws coming down the stairs. Tommy appeared dressed all in white.
"And what are you supposed to be," I cried,"an angel?"
"No." said Tommy. "I'm a happy Goth."
Tommy squinted at me and roared,
"HOI!"
"Are you talking to me?" I said.
Tommy yelled, "YES! I am talking to the frizzy, permed, old ratbag hanging behind the door.
I want you," said Tommy, "to cast, what you laughingly call your mind, back to the Gerry show on Friday."
I gave my head four taps with Maxwell's silver hammer and said,
"Done! Now what do you want to know?"
"You may remember," said Tommy,"that I missed part of the show due to being...."
"Hefted," I said. "Yes, I remember you running upstairs, wearing a gold suit and matching fedora hat. You looked like a feline pimp."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "When I was coming back down the stairs, did I hear Gerry and old Jordie play a game of, Deal Or No Deal?"
"Deal Or No Deal," I scoffed. "You must be off your rocking horse. Gerry would never play, Deal Or No Deal with old Jordie."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "I thought I heard old Jordie roaring something about phoning the-banker.".
In the silence that followed, you could have heard a tower block collapse.
"Listen, Tommy," I whispered. "This is all very hush-hush. On the Friday show, old Jordie made, what the residents of the Malone road call, a faux pas."
"Ah!" said Tommy. "A fopas. A rare, exotic very expensive little dog."
"NO" I yelled. "Old Jordie made a mistake. He said something he didn't mean to say.
All weekend the big cheeses at the BBC and Noel Thompson have been busy reeling in the words that went floating off into the ether. When all the words were captured, the BBC put them in a washing machine, turned on the "Soiled washing" programme and washed the words with a soap powder that is both NEW and IMPROVED!"
"I like old Jordie," said Tommy. "Old Jordie calls a spade a spade and a bucket some thing to carry water in."
Listen Kid, if I were you,I would put it all behind me,like Tubby Nolan does with most of his fat. Listen not to Hugo Duncan preaching the gospel of the wheel barrow. It is not all in front of you. It is all behind you. Let it lie Kid. Let it lie.
Do not wake up screaming with the image of Jordie Tuft haunting you like Gasper the ghost.
Gasper is a brother of Casper the ghost, but Gasper likes the odd cigarette. The odd cigarette. Let's not fool ourselves, Gasper the ghost is a chain smoker. Many people hear the clink of Gasper's chains as they lie on their death bed. Smoking can seriously damage your health and it leaves your net curtains looking like the Dead Sea scrolls. I know! Oh boy do I know. I live in a beige house. "Ha' you gotta light boy Ha' you gotta light?"
The singing postman, why does he never appear on Celebrity Big Brother? Being dead could well be the answer.
Wednesday 3 March 2010
The Reality is Changing.
Great show yesterday Kid. Margaret Ritchie the Eva Peron of the SDLP, put CHANGE on the back burner and sat listening to the great show with a cup of coffee in one hand and a packet of custard creams in the other. When the show was over, she turned off the radio by hitting it repeatedly with a bronze bust of Mark Durkin and then got stuck into-CHANGE! Margaret opened a dictionary, looked up the word-CHANGE and said to an aide who was drinking lemonade,
"CHANGE.-- To alter or make different. Well I'll go to the foot of John Hume's Stenna stairlift."
A knock on the door gave me a funny feeling that someone might be standing there wishing to speak with me. Something similar had happened way back in 1969.
I opened the door with a trembling handm clutching a trembling key.
YIKES! Mark Durkan stood there. But what a CHANGE had come over little Marcus. He was distressed, dishevelled and discharged from the SDLP. He stood there in his blue demob suit and said,
"Hello wee woman. My name is Mark Durkin and I am selling reality from door to door. In this battered suitcase I have reality to suit all occasions,a wedding coming up perhaps, the loss of a dear one, passing the driving test, or just a private dinner with a few close friends. Whatever the occasion, let me supply you with-reality and assure you that all my reality-is."
"Mark," I said, "look at you! How did you escape from home? Is there anyone with you to look after you?"
The reality is, that a tear came to Mark's eye and he whispered,
"The reality is, I used to have friends but they all deserted me."
"How are you going to get home Mark?" I asked.
He gave a little bitter smile and replied,,
"The reality is, at one time anywhere I hung my hat was home, but the sad reality is, that Sinn Fein stole my hat and now I am homeless. The Shinners stole my clothes!" screamed Mark. "The Shinners stole all my clothes! The reality is, that you see before you today, a man devoid of political policies, a man without an agenda and a man without a job."
"Margaret Ritchie is going for CHANGE," I said.
"CHANGE my --Arsenal shirt!" yelled Mark. "The reality is, this is Norn Iron and nothing every CHANGES here."
I watched sadly as he trudged slowly away, reduced to hawking reality from door to door. How different from the man who, just 11 years ago, had smiled up into President Clinton's face at a Saint Patrick's day reception in the White House and said of Monica Lewinsky,
"The reality is, Bill, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed either."
As Mark trudged off he was singing,
"The reality is, nobody wants to know you, when you're down and out."
Tommy my cat looked at me, made a face and said,
"Poor Mark, his singing is so out of tune. It pains me to say it, but the reality is, Mark didn't nail it."
AH!-Reality! You are the snipe of life. Always crying. Forever crying. Take it away! Take away-reality. AH! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE OF LIFE! PLEASE RELEASE ME, LET ME-GO!
AAAAAH!. THE SNIPE! THE DREADED-SNIPE!!!!!
"CHANGE.-- To alter or make different. Well I'll go to the foot of John Hume's Stenna stairlift."
A knock on the door gave me a funny feeling that someone might be standing there wishing to speak with me. Something similar had happened way back in 1969.
I opened the door with a trembling handm clutching a trembling key.
YIKES! Mark Durkan stood there. But what a CHANGE had come over little Marcus. He was distressed, dishevelled and discharged from the SDLP. He stood there in his blue demob suit and said,
"Hello wee woman. My name is Mark Durkin and I am selling reality from door to door. In this battered suitcase I have reality to suit all occasions,a wedding coming up perhaps, the loss of a dear one, passing the driving test, or just a private dinner with a few close friends. Whatever the occasion, let me supply you with-reality and assure you that all my reality-is."
"Mark," I said, "look at you! How did you escape from home? Is there anyone with you to look after you?"
The reality is, that a tear came to Mark's eye and he whispered,
"The reality is, I used to have friends but they all deserted me."
"How are you going to get home Mark?" I asked.
He gave a little bitter smile and replied,,
"The reality is, at one time anywhere I hung my hat was home, but the sad reality is, that Sinn Fein stole my hat and now I am homeless. The Shinners stole my clothes!" screamed Mark. "The Shinners stole all my clothes! The reality is, that you see before you today, a man devoid of political policies, a man without an agenda and a man without a job."
"Margaret Ritchie is going for CHANGE," I said.
"CHANGE my --Arsenal shirt!" yelled Mark. "The reality is, this is Norn Iron and nothing every CHANGES here."
I watched sadly as he trudged slowly away, reduced to hawking reality from door to door. How different from the man who, just 11 years ago, had smiled up into President Clinton's face at a Saint Patrick's day reception in the White House and said of Monica Lewinsky,
"The reality is, Bill, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed either."
As Mark trudged off he was singing,
"The reality is, nobody wants to know you, when you're down and out."
Tommy my cat looked at me, made a face and said,
"Poor Mark, his singing is so out of tune. It pains me to say it, but the reality is, Mark didn't nail it."
AH!-Reality! You are the snipe of life. Always crying. Forever crying. Take it away! Take away-reality. AH! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE OF LIFE! PLEASE RELEASE ME, LET ME-GO!
AAAAAH!. THE SNIPE! THE DREADED-SNIPE!!!!!
Monday 1 March 2010
In Search Of Spangles
Great show yesterday Kid. What a pity it was marred by the animalistic,corner boy, saloon bar, guldering and roaring of Mr Coyle. Did the mask slip? Did the people hear, in full volume the real Mr Coyle? Great harm was done to young children, pregnant women and those with a nervous disposition. Mr Coyle may have cause to gulder and roar when the dry cleaning bills come flooding in.
Tommy my cat was disgusted and has written to the BBC. Tommy said if he ever sees Mr Coyle sneaking around an Ann Summer's shop again, he will refuse to speak to him.
Martina Purdy, speaking to a big cheese in the BBC said,
"Hey guy, is it true you're gonna muzzle Coyle the redneck?"
And the big cheese said,
"We are ruling nothing out and ruling nothing in."
Ken Reid said in his report,
"Well Paul, the big question people are asking is,"Is this the end of Mr Coyle?" And the answer is, "It's just too early to know." Oh Paul, ask Lynda Byrons if she took a packet of Polos out of my coat pocket? I was standing like a tube up at Hillsborough and I didn't have a thing to suck."
Is it just me or is Hugo Duncan getting smaller? Yesterday, Strabane's finest, walked right between my legs, and he didn't even ring the bell!
"Hey, Nashville," I drawled, "Where you off to, Hoss, in such a gosh-durned hurry?"
"I'm in a wild hurry, so I am," said Hugo, in fluent Tyrone.
"I'm looking for spangles and I can't find them anywhere."
"You won't find Spangles sweets in this town friend," I drawled. "Spangles up and died and are buried in Boot Hill."
"I don't mean spangles the wee sweeties," said Hugo. "I mean the spangles that you stick to shirts to make them look country 'n' western. I want to look like Hank Williams and the other boy, oh what do you call him?"
"Kenneth Williams?" I drawled. "Listen kid, I took a hankering to you. I happen to know that boss Hogg, or Tubby Nolan as he is better known, used to put spangles round the fork of his gigantic Y-fronts. Let's mosey up to the Nolan ranch, the lazy tube and see how grizzly Adams is doing."
"NO!" yelled Tubby. "I have NO spangles. It is true that I used to decorate the fork of my Y-fronts with spangles. But one night I was taken short and had to relieve myself at the side of the road. It was a very dark night and when on-coming cars saw the reflection of my forkal spangles, they though it was cats' eyes and drove right into a hedge. Sir Hugh Orde at the time was raging and said I could be nicked for decorating a fork without due care and attention."
But I saw little Hugo all right. I took the petit Strabaner to Ann Summers and they fitted him out with some wee sparkly tops. Hugo also bought a pair of green, glow-in- the dark knickers. I don't know how they'll go down in Nashville when the lights go out as Hugo is singing
"The Pretty Little Girl From Omagh"
I suppose, don't ask, don't tell is the best policy.
YEH-HAW!!!
Tommy my cat was disgusted and has written to the BBC. Tommy said if he ever sees Mr Coyle sneaking around an Ann Summer's shop again, he will refuse to speak to him.
Martina Purdy, speaking to a big cheese in the BBC said,
"Hey guy, is it true you're gonna muzzle Coyle the redneck?"
And the big cheese said,
"We are ruling nothing out and ruling nothing in."
Ken Reid said in his report,
"Well Paul, the big question people are asking is,"Is this the end of Mr Coyle?" And the answer is, "It's just too early to know." Oh Paul, ask Lynda Byrons if she took a packet of Polos out of my coat pocket? I was standing like a tube up at Hillsborough and I didn't have a thing to suck."
Is it just me or is Hugo Duncan getting smaller? Yesterday, Strabane's finest, walked right between my legs, and he didn't even ring the bell!
"Hey, Nashville," I drawled, "Where you off to, Hoss, in such a gosh-durned hurry?"
"I'm in a wild hurry, so I am," said Hugo, in fluent Tyrone.
"I'm looking for spangles and I can't find them anywhere."
"You won't find Spangles sweets in this town friend," I drawled. "Spangles up and died and are buried in Boot Hill."
"I don't mean spangles the wee sweeties," said Hugo. "I mean the spangles that you stick to shirts to make them look country 'n' western. I want to look like Hank Williams and the other boy, oh what do you call him?"
"Kenneth Williams?" I drawled. "Listen kid, I took a hankering to you. I happen to know that boss Hogg, or Tubby Nolan as he is better known, used to put spangles round the fork of his gigantic Y-fronts. Let's mosey up to the Nolan ranch, the lazy tube and see how grizzly Adams is doing."
"NO!" yelled Tubby. "I have NO spangles. It is true that I used to decorate the fork of my Y-fronts with spangles. But one night I was taken short and had to relieve myself at the side of the road. It was a very dark night and when on-coming cars saw the reflection of my forkal spangles, they though it was cats' eyes and drove right into a hedge. Sir Hugh Orde at the time was raging and said I could be nicked for decorating a fork without due care and attention."
But I saw little Hugo all right. I took the petit Strabaner to Ann Summers and they fitted him out with some wee sparkly tops. Hugo also bought a pair of green, glow-in- the dark knickers. I don't know how they'll go down in Nashville when the lights go out as Hugo is singing
"The Pretty Little Girl From Omagh"
I suppose, don't ask, don't tell is the best policy.
YEH-HAW!!!
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