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.