Great show yesterday Kid. After the great show Tommy my cat and I leapt to our feet.
MORE!" I yelled.
"ENCORE!" cried Tommy.
"MORE!" I roared. "MORE!"
But Wendy Austin completely blanked Tommy and me and let loose her pips on an unsuspecting public. I looked at Tommy with the use of vision and communicated with the feline by speech.
"Tommy," I said,"is it not convivial in the extreme, to sit with pleasant company in condemned surroundings,eating Danish pastry,drinking Indian tea out of china cups and listening to a top notch impersonator sing like Marty Robbins?"
Tommy gave the fire a poke with an old stick of dynamite we keep for the purpose and responded
"Marty Robbins? Sounded more like "Bug-Eyed" Marty Feldman to me."
"Marty Feldman was a comic genius," I said, "but we never see him on TV anymore,not even on reality shows. Why is that Tommy?"
Tommy went into his Reginald B Hunter routine and said,
"'Cause he dead."
"That's no excuse!" I shouted. "John McCririck and Vanesa Feltz can still make the effort. Why not Marty Feldman?"
"'Cause he be dead longer than other folks,"said Tommy.
As the day wore slowly on,I went to my room to count my secret pile of dust. 34,760,751 specs of dust I have. One spec at a time I built up my hoard.
I lit a penny candle and sat there-gloating,as recommended in Frankie Boyle's new book, "How To Gloat With Glee", one of the best books I ever nicked out of Eason's.
In the afternoon,I went round Belfast dressed as the tooth fairy. I would go up to people,knock out their teeth with a punch and then give them 10 pence. Oh what joy I brought to so many toothless mouths. Later, filled with artistic fervour, I went up to my attic to try and capture the rare, terrible beauty of Tubby Nolan in the nude. Charcoal was my weapon of choice. I stood back to admire my drawing. It was good, but it was not right. The drawing lacked something,but I could not put my finger on it. Just then Tommy called me down for tea. As I speared a cocktail sausage with my fork I cried,
"EUREKA! I HAVE FOUND IT!" And I ran pell mell up the stairs to finish my drawing. NOW! the drawing was complete. And though I say it myself, was on a par with the man who sang like Marty Robbins.
Tubby's drawing is hanging in the John Hewitt bar. Many strange people come to view it. I have called the masterpiece, "NUDE WITH HOTDOG."
Thursday 29 April 2010
Wednesday 28 April 2010
What A Cat!
Great show yesterday Kid. After the great show,I built a brick corner in the middle of the living room,beckoned Tommy my cat into the corner,looked all around and whispered,
"Gerry and Sean are very chipper this week. Would you put that down to the joys of Spring or a legal high?"
Tommy peered all around and whispered,
"The word on the street is, that Mr Coyle was seen coming out of a Head shop, in Stroke City."
"NO!" I yelled.
"YES!" cried Tommy. "Apparently, a member of the PSNI approached Mr Coyle and said,
"Hi you! Yes, you with the rickety legs. Would you mind telling me what you were doing in that head shop?"
And Mr Coyle replied,
"Oh officer. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. I have been led astray by rascals, vagabonds and varmints. I asked some young hoodies where I could purchase a flat cap and they directed me to this vile, and repulsive Head shop."
"A likely story!" I thundered. "Did the old Bill nick Thaddeaus?"
"No," said Tommy. "The officer gave him a riser and sent him on his way."
"Good," I said. "Now, Tommy, be a good boy and demolish this corner before someone trips over it."
Later, after a meal of larks' tongues and poundies,I looked at Tommy and said,
"Tommy,where do you stand on the big issue of the day. Should old Jordie take the newly born foal to the Balmoral show?"
Tommy ruminated, thought, pondered and said,
"The problem is-lactation."
"Expand Tommy," I enthused. "Lay out the pros and cons as only a member of the feline family can."
"A newly born foal," said Tommy, "requires to suckle the mother every few hours. If the young equine sprog was removed from its mother for any length of time, it could be fatal.HOW EVER," Said Tommy,"that situation could be rectified if Jordie were to milk the mare. Fill-say, five or six baby bottles, with milk and bottle feed the little foal at Balmoral."
"SORTED!" I yelled.
"Not quite," said Tommy. "Not only does the mother provide milk. Like good mothers everywhere, she provides love, security, comfort...."
"Lullabies?" I interjected.
"NO!" said Tommy. "I was going to say that the mother provides a feeling of serenity.
And where there is serenity," said Tommy,"there is peace of mind."
"Then Old Jordie is hoist with his own Captain Petard!" I yelled.
"There is a way," said Tommy. "Were old Jordie to don a donkey jacket and roll around in the pee of the mare,there is every chance, that the young foal would accept old Jordie as its mother."
"SORTED" I yelled. "The young foal shall go to the ball."
I watched in awe as Tommy, head high and back as straight as a ram rod, went out the door,like a Greek envoy who had been sent to settle a dispute in a Cullybaccyish village, North/West of Athens.
What a cat! And he never went to school you know. Tommy never set paw in any seat of learning.
"Gerry and Sean are very chipper this week. Would you put that down to the joys of Spring or a legal high?"
Tommy peered all around and whispered,
"The word on the street is, that Mr Coyle was seen coming out of a Head shop, in Stroke City."
"NO!" I yelled.
"YES!" cried Tommy. "Apparently, a member of the PSNI approached Mr Coyle and said,
"Hi you! Yes, you with the rickety legs. Would you mind telling me what you were doing in that head shop?"
And Mr Coyle replied,
"Oh officer. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. I have been led astray by rascals, vagabonds and varmints. I asked some young hoodies where I could purchase a flat cap and they directed me to this vile, and repulsive Head shop."
"A likely story!" I thundered. "Did the old Bill nick Thaddeaus?"
"No," said Tommy. "The officer gave him a riser and sent him on his way."
"Good," I said. "Now, Tommy, be a good boy and demolish this corner before someone trips over it."
Later, after a meal of larks' tongues and poundies,I looked at Tommy and said,
"Tommy,where do you stand on the big issue of the day. Should old Jordie take the newly born foal to the Balmoral show?"
Tommy ruminated, thought, pondered and said,
"The problem is-lactation."
"Expand Tommy," I enthused. "Lay out the pros and cons as only a member of the feline family can."
"A newly born foal," said Tommy, "requires to suckle the mother every few hours. If the young equine sprog was removed from its mother for any length of time, it could be fatal.HOW EVER," Said Tommy,"that situation could be rectified if Jordie were to milk the mare. Fill-say, five or six baby bottles, with milk and bottle feed the little foal at Balmoral."
"SORTED!" I yelled.
"Not quite," said Tommy. "Not only does the mother provide milk. Like good mothers everywhere, she provides love, security, comfort...."
"Lullabies?" I interjected.
"NO!" said Tommy. "I was going to say that the mother provides a feeling of serenity.
And where there is serenity," said Tommy,"there is peace of mind."
"Then Old Jordie is hoist with his own Captain Petard!" I yelled.
"There is a way," said Tommy. "Were old Jordie to don a donkey jacket and roll around in the pee of the mare,there is every chance, that the young foal would accept old Jordie as its mother."
"SORTED" I yelled. "The young foal shall go to the ball."
I watched in awe as Tommy, head high and back as straight as a ram rod, went out the door,like a Greek envoy who had been sent to settle a dispute in a Cullybaccyish village, North/West of Athens.
What a cat! And he never went to school you know. Tommy never set paw in any seat of learning.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Politicians looking for votes.
Great show yesterday Kid. When the great show was over,thousands of people flocked on to the street,to skip,dance,gambol and build a large Wicker man for Mr Coyle. Mr Coyle's support for the cult of Thunder Thighs is causing great concern from both Taigs and Prods.
The other night,or was it back in medieval times,I was sitting, reading the Dead Sea Scrolls by candle light and fighting an over-whelming desire, to turn to the last page to see who done it. Suddenly,YES!it was that quick,Tommy my cat rode in on a hobby horse dressed as Sir Prance-a-lot.
"Man the barricades!" yelled Tommy. "An ugly mob is heading this way."
"Aardvarks and abbreviations!" I cried,as I grabbed my Swiss army knife and prepared to defend my condemned hovel. I faced the ugly mob. Oh, their ugliness knew no bounds. I averted my eyes. Their awful ugliness was burning the retinas out of my eyes.
"Who are you," I yelled,"and what do you want?"
"We are politicians," they roared, "and we want votes!"
Then,little Jeffrey Donaldson climbed up on a wheelie bin and yelled,
"What do votes bring?"
"MONEY!" cried the ugly mob.
"Tommy," I yelled,"is Mike Nesbitt among this nasty gaggle of gasbags?"
"NO!" cried Tommy.
"DARN!" I yelled to the small blonde dwarf who was mending my socks.
"I wanted to send a knitting pattern to Lynda Byrons,for a heavy, hessian swimsuit as worn by Woody Harrelson and the Dali Lama's younger brother Eugene.
What do you have to offer?" I roared.
"CHANGE!" they bleated like sheep.
"My pockets are full of change," I cried. "What else is on offer?"
"Free air miles!" cried Jeffrey Donaldson. "If you are a Catholic,the DUP will pay for a one way ticket to Dublin."
I looked at the Alliance candidate,who was standing in the middle of the road and said,
"And what have you to offer by proud beauty?"
The alliance candidate stood there in his hair shirt and yelled,
"I can offer you nothing but blood, sweat and tears!"
"DONE!" I yelled,spitting on my hand and rubbing it on Sir Reg Empry's golden locks.
With the blood I shall make a black pudding. With the sweat I shall lubricate Tubby Nolan's oxters. And with the tears I shall cry when Ashley Peacock is turfed out of Coronation Street.
ASHLEY! Do you hear me? I say, do you hear me?
It's your dead uncle Fred. I say, it's your dead uncle Fred.
The other night,or was it back in medieval times,I was sitting, reading the Dead Sea Scrolls by candle light and fighting an over-whelming desire, to turn to the last page to see who done it. Suddenly,YES!it was that quick,Tommy my cat rode in on a hobby horse dressed as Sir Prance-a-lot.
"Man the barricades!" yelled Tommy. "An ugly mob is heading this way."
"Aardvarks and abbreviations!" I cried,as I grabbed my Swiss army knife and prepared to defend my condemned hovel. I faced the ugly mob. Oh, their ugliness knew no bounds. I averted my eyes. Their awful ugliness was burning the retinas out of my eyes.
"Who are you," I yelled,"and what do you want?"
"We are politicians," they roared, "and we want votes!"
Then,little Jeffrey Donaldson climbed up on a wheelie bin and yelled,
"What do votes bring?"
"MONEY!" cried the ugly mob.
"Tommy," I yelled,"is Mike Nesbitt among this nasty gaggle of gasbags?"
"NO!" cried Tommy.
"DARN!" I yelled to the small blonde dwarf who was mending my socks.
"I wanted to send a knitting pattern to Lynda Byrons,for a heavy, hessian swimsuit as worn by Woody Harrelson and the Dali Lama's younger brother Eugene.
What do you have to offer?" I roared.
"CHANGE!" they bleated like sheep.
"My pockets are full of change," I cried. "What else is on offer?"
"Free air miles!" cried Jeffrey Donaldson. "If you are a Catholic,the DUP will pay for a one way ticket to Dublin."
I looked at the Alliance candidate,who was standing in the middle of the road and said,
"And what have you to offer by proud beauty?"
The alliance candidate stood there in his hair shirt and yelled,
"I can offer you nothing but blood, sweat and tears!"
"DONE!" I yelled,spitting on my hand and rubbing it on Sir Reg Empry's golden locks.
With the blood I shall make a black pudding. With the sweat I shall lubricate Tubby Nolan's oxters. And with the tears I shall cry when Ashley Peacock is turfed out of Coronation Street.
ASHLEY! Do you hear me? I say, do you hear me?
It's your dead uncle Fred. I say, it's your dead uncle Fred.
Monday 26 April 2010
Tommy The Seer
Great shows last week Kid. Great shows which made people forget about elections, volcanic ash and the Adrian Chiles' malarkey. As I thought of the great shows,I was seized suddenly, by an overwhelming desire to see the place where the great shows originated from. I looked into the kitchen. Tommy my cat was sitting in the sink putting on a low budget production of The Ancient Mariner,
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "You have a name round these here parts as a seer, a revelator, a visualizer. I want you to get in touch with your Indian spirit guide, Andy Gandhi and conjure up a picture of Radio Foyle for me."
Tommy gave a horrible groan and said,
"Dilapidation! I see dilapidation on a grand scale. Radio Foyle is an old abandoned railway carriage. A condemned sign has been slapped on it. The Y has fallen off and the sign now reads, "Radio Fole."
I see a rusty bicycle rack. Janet has a blue bicycle with a carrier on the back. Emma has a pink bicycle with a basket on the front, to carry pounds of special mince and copies of "Heat" magazine. Mr Coyle's old black bike is locked up with three sturdy locks."
"Trust old Cromwell!" I cried. "Take me inside Tommy," I yelled, "take me inside Radio Fole!"
"Its so cold," said Tommy. "I sense evil. Evil spirits and Ken stalk the corridors of Radio Fole. I am now in the darkened room where Mr Coyle and the girls sit," said Tommy. "All is in disarray. Tights and cardigans hang over chairs. The floor is littered with crisp packets. The smell of Mr Coyle's medicinal marijuana, hangs heavily in the air. On Mr Coyle's desk I see an array of Bong pipes and the April edition of the Messenger. The dirty walls are plastered with old, yellowed newspapers, showing a slender,athletic, hooded figure,throwing stones at the army."
"Take me into the inner sanctum!" I yelled. "Take me into Gerry's studio."
"An oasis of sanity and hygiene in a desert of filth," said Tommy.
The walls are painted a delicate, egg shell white. A large Persian rug on the floor and three puce ducks flying in formation up the wall."
"Gerry always had taste," I said. "Gerry Anderson always had taste. All you have to do is look at his shoes or his silver plated spittoon. Take me to the Undertone!" I yelled. "Take me to the ivory tower where dwells the pride and joy of John Peel,"
"Thirteen rickety stairs led to the lair of the Undertone," said Tommy. "On the large desk sit a bank of coloured telephones, none of them plugged in. All impulse buys on eBay. A light zephyr breeze blows through the broken window and gently rocks the hammock on which the Undertone sleeps."
"I knew it!" I yelled. "I knew it! The only one working at Radio Fole is Gerry Anderson."
"Suddenly Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"I must go! I can tell no more! The "Listener" is here. The evil, evil "Listener." It is Ken. Ken is the "Listener." Always listening for plinks or power surges. Ken has his screwdriver in his hand. He approaches. AAAH! GET BACK. GET BACK!. Get back yeh boy yeh! I can see no more. All is dark. AAAH! 'Tis the "Listener" 'Tis Ken the "Listener" Put that screwdriver down Ken. AAAAH!!! GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!!! GET BACK!!!!!
PS. I think you owe Ken about £175.00 for the use of his name.
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "You have a name round these here parts as a seer, a revelator, a visualizer. I want you to get in touch with your Indian spirit guide, Andy Gandhi and conjure up a picture of Radio Foyle for me."
Tommy gave a horrible groan and said,
"Dilapidation! I see dilapidation on a grand scale. Radio Foyle is an old abandoned railway carriage. A condemned sign has been slapped on it. The Y has fallen off and the sign now reads, "Radio Fole."
I see a rusty bicycle rack. Janet has a blue bicycle with a carrier on the back. Emma has a pink bicycle with a basket on the front, to carry pounds of special mince and copies of "Heat" magazine. Mr Coyle's old black bike is locked up with three sturdy locks."
"Trust old Cromwell!" I cried. "Take me inside Tommy," I yelled, "take me inside Radio Fole!"
"Its so cold," said Tommy. "I sense evil. Evil spirits and Ken stalk the corridors of Radio Fole. I am now in the darkened room where Mr Coyle and the girls sit," said Tommy. "All is in disarray. Tights and cardigans hang over chairs. The floor is littered with crisp packets. The smell of Mr Coyle's medicinal marijuana, hangs heavily in the air. On Mr Coyle's desk I see an array of Bong pipes and the April edition of the Messenger. The dirty walls are plastered with old, yellowed newspapers, showing a slender,athletic, hooded figure,throwing stones at the army."
"Take me into the inner sanctum!" I yelled. "Take me into Gerry's studio."
"An oasis of sanity and hygiene in a desert of filth," said Tommy.
The walls are painted a delicate, egg shell white. A large Persian rug on the floor and three puce ducks flying in formation up the wall."
"Gerry always had taste," I said. "Gerry Anderson always had taste. All you have to do is look at his shoes or his silver plated spittoon. Take me to the Undertone!" I yelled. "Take me to the ivory tower where dwells the pride and joy of John Peel,"
"Thirteen rickety stairs led to the lair of the Undertone," said Tommy. "On the large desk sit a bank of coloured telephones, none of them plugged in. All impulse buys on eBay. A light zephyr breeze blows through the broken window and gently rocks the hammock on which the Undertone sleeps."
"I knew it!" I yelled. "I knew it! The only one working at Radio Fole is Gerry Anderson."
"Suddenly Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"I must go! I can tell no more! The "Listener" is here. The evil, evil "Listener." It is Ken. Ken is the "Listener." Always listening for plinks or power surges. Ken has his screwdriver in his hand. He approaches. AAAH! GET BACK. GET BACK!. Get back yeh boy yeh! I can see no more. All is dark. AAAH! 'Tis the "Listener" 'Tis Ken the "Listener" Put that screwdriver down Ken. AAAAH!!! GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!!! GET BACK!!!!!
PS. I think you owe Ken about £175.00 for the use of his name.
Thursday 22 April 2010
Motivational Speaking
Great shows this week Kid. Using my sat nav I located Tommy my cat in the corner and said,
"Tommy, form a circle around me. I have something of the utmost importance to impart to you. Tommy," I said,"the great shows that Gerry is putting on this week,are shows with a greatness unparalleled in the history of great shows."
Tommy fired both barrels of a double barrelled shotgun up the chimney, to clear out the soot and replied,
"Anyone who sets their moral compass to the Gerry show,can rest assured that their ship will never run aground on the barren coral reef in the Sargasso sea,where weird, slimy, creepy creatures sport and play under a blood-red, gibbousness moon."
"TOMMY!" I yelled,"I like the cut of your jib. Go help yourself to a Jacob's cream cracker out of the biscuit barrell."
"Thank'ee mistress," said Tommy. "I don't mind if I do,though I says it myself. I do have a hankering for the cream cracker biscuit made by Jacobs."
Suddenly, I felt oratory rise like lava from my churning intestines. I quickly climbed up on a chair and spouted,
"Gerry Anderson could make a good living as a motivational speaker. Gerry Anderson could change lives. Gerry Anderson could give the weak,the down trodden,the no hopers, the Catholics, a reason to exist."
"You tell it like it is girl!" yelled Tommy. "Hit me again! Hit me again with that old time religion,that's good enough for me."
"SEMINARS!" I yelled.
"What you talkin' 'bout Willis?" said Tommy,doing his little Gary Coleman impersonation from Different Strokes, which always cracks me up. I fell off my chair with laughter. When I hit the floor I received multiple fractures,cuts and grazes. I staggered to my feet and cried,
"Gerry should hold motivational seminars. Thousands of people and Edwin Poots, would attend, to find a purpose for their drab,wasted lives."
"Aah!" cried Tommy. "But would Gerry do it? You know Gerry is reticent to the point of taciturness."
"By the swampy oxters of Tubby Nolan, you are right Tommy," I yelped. "How can we unreticent Gerald Michael Anderson?"
"Stall the weddin'" yelled Tommy. "Trip the bride. What we need is a motivational speaker who will motivate Gerry into becoming a motivational speaker."
"You wee belter!" I cried. "Help yourself to another cream cracker. We need Beechy Colclough."
"When was the last time you saw Beechy Colclough?" said Tommy.
"Down at the old Bull and Bush!" I cried. "Beechy was talking down a wino who was standing on a small, three-legged stool, threatening to jump."
"SORTED!" yelled Tommy. "Beechy will motivate Gerry to be a motivational speaker and there will be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover and men, not yet born, will cry with a muffled shriek, "HEY! let me out! It's wild dark in here!"
PS I Googled Beechy Colclough. What a bad boy he has been!
"Beechy, when was the first time you groped a patient?"
IS THERE A MAN ANYWHERE, WHO DOES NOT HAVE FEET OF CLAY?
Jordie??? GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!"
"Tommy, form a circle around me. I have something of the utmost importance to impart to you. Tommy," I said,"the great shows that Gerry is putting on this week,are shows with a greatness unparalleled in the history of great shows."
Tommy fired both barrels of a double barrelled shotgun up the chimney, to clear out the soot and replied,
"Anyone who sets their moral compass to the Gerry show,can rest assured that their ship will never run aground on the barren coral reef in the Sargasso sea,where weird, slimy, creepy creatures sport and play under a blood-red, gibbousness moon."
"TOMMY!" I yelled,"I like the cut of your jib. Go help yourself to a Jacob's cream cracker out of the biscuit barrell."
"Thank'ee mistress," said Tommy. "I don't mind if I do,though I says it myself. I do have a hankering for the cream cracker biscuit made by Jacobs."
Suddenly, I felt oratory rise like lava from my churning intestines. I quickly climbed up on a chair and spouted,
"Gerry Anderson could make a good living as a motivational speaker. Gerry Anderson could change lives. Gerry Anderson could give the weak,the down trodden,the no hopers, the Catholics, a reason to exist."
"You tell it like it is girl!" yelled Tommy. "Hit me again! Hit me again with that old time religion,that's good enough for me."
"SEMINARS!" I yelled.
"What you talkin' 'bout Willis?" said Tommy,doing his little Gary Coleman impersonation from Different Strokes, which always cracks me up. I fell off my chair with laughter. When I hit the floor I received multiple fractures,cuts and grazes. I staggered to my feet and cried,
"Gerry should hold motivational seminars. Thousands of people and Edwin Poots, would attend, to find a purpose for their drab,wasted lives."
"Aah!" cried Tommy. "But would Gerry do it? You know Gerry is reticent to the point of taciturness."
"By the swampy oxters of Tubby Nolan, you are right Tommy," I yelped. "How can we unreticent Gerald Michael Anderson?"
"Stall the weddin'" yelled Tommy. "Trip the bride. What we need is a motivational speaker who will motivate Gerry into becoming a motivational speaker."
"You wee belter!" I cried. "Help yourself to another cream cracker. We need Beechy Colclough."
"When was the last time you saw Beechy Colclough?" said Tommy.
"Down at the old Bull and Bush!" I cried. "Beechy was talking down a wino who was standing on a small, three-legged stool, threatening to jump."
"SORTED!" yelled Tommy. "Beechy will motivate Gerry to be a motivational speaker and there will be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover and men, not yet born, will cry with a muffled shriek, "HEY! let me out! It's wild dark in here!"
PS I Googled Beechy Colclough. What a bad boy he has been!
"Beechy, when was the first time you groped a patient?"
IS THERE A MAN ANYWHERE, WHO DOES NOT HAVE FEET OF CLAY?
Jordie??? GET BACK YEH BOY YEH!"
Monday 19 April 2010
A dinner party with a difference.
Four great shows last week Kid and then,"Black Friday" with Mr Coyle. Only kidding as the nanny goat said. The lad done good. Mr Coyle delved deep in his core where no man has delved before. He was a resurrectionist. The number of dead people Mr Coyle dug up on Friday was unbelievable. I would describe Mr Coyle's mood on Friday as buoyant and bubbly. This could be the result of five pieces of fruit or a legal high. Mr Coyle made numerous references to your good self. To the trained ear,he seemed to be under-mining you, with snide comments and bawdy, corner boy humour.
Mr Coyle made many veiled attempts to lure the young people of Ulster into his "Big Man" cult. The cult of Kelly is spreading,especially among the residents of the Malone Road and paradoxically-Poleglass. For some strange reason, those with most to lose and those with least to lose, are drawn towards the cult of, "Thunder Thighs". With the church in the state its in, there has never been a better time for a take over. Could Gerry Kelly be the next Pontiff,and will your little chum be known as, The Deacon Coyle?
On Friday night,or was it back in Elizabethan times, Tommy my cat and I invited Lynda Byrons,Donna Trainor and Tubby Nolan round for dinner. Poor Lynda could hardly talk. She had a plaster on her tongue after licking 5,000 envelopes for her husband Mike. Donna Trainor looked very sporty in a pear of puce jogging pants and a white tee-shirt with a photograph of a smiling Noel Thompson, leaping a style, while two sheep stood with mouths agape. Tubby Nolan wore an acre of grey, wrinkled material,which he swore was a-suit. I opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth, let them all look into the tin,put the tin back in the press and served hard, stale, mouldy baps and toby jugs full of steaming hot bisto. The two girls demurred at the Bisto,but Tommy and I held their nose and poured it into them. Tubby Nolan held his big,fat,balloon belly and cried,
"That's the best soup I have never tasted."
Poor Lynda, her tongue was so sore, I felt for her,but she slapped my hand away. Then, Donna Trainor and Tubby Nolan clasped hands and danced,The Bonny Wee Maid From Fife,to the music of Tommy on the tin whistle and myself on the Singer sewing machine. After that, Tubby Nolan did a hand stand. Lynda,Tommy,Donna and I climbed up on chairs and had a good gleek down the legs of Tubby's trousers. We looked at eack other with mouths open and as one shrieked,
"NAY BREEKS!"
Tubby leaped back to his feet and bellowed,
"That's right! NAY BREEKS! Nay breeks today,nay breeks yesterday and nay breeks tomorrow. And I will continue to wear,NAY BREEKS until chips, sweets,crisps, chocolate and wee buns are FREE!"
All too soon,the girls were gone,Lynda, to lick another 5,000 envelopes and Donna to sport and play with Noel Thompson. Tubby followed me into the house. Reluctantly, I gave him another look at the tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth. Tommy, armed with a pitch fork, kept the oval one at bay.
"NO!" I yelled. "I will NOT give you a lick of the lid."
And I gave "Nay Breeks" a riser that caught Tubby in the lowlands AND the highlands!
A further bulletin will be issued at noon today,which may shed more light on the condition of Tubby's caber and bawbees.
Mr Coyle made many veiled attempts to lure the young people of Ulster into his "Big Man" cult. The cult of Kelly is spreading,especially among the residents of the Malone Road and paradoxically-Poleglass. For some strange reason, those with most to lose and those with least to lose, are drawn towards the cult of, "Thunder Thighs". With the church in the state its in, there has never been a better time for a take over. Could Gerry Kelly be the next Pontiff,and will your little chum be known as, The Deacon Coyle?
On Friday night,or was it back in Elizabethan times, Tommy my cat and I invited Lynda Byrons,Donna Trainor and Tubby Nolan round for dinner. Poor Lynda could hardly talk. She had a plaster on her tongue after licking 5,000 envelopes for her husband Mike. Donna Trainor looked very sporty in a pear of puce jogging pants and a white tee-shirt with a photograph of a smiling Noel Thompson, leaping a style, while two sheep stood with mouths agape. Tubby Nolan wore an acre of grey, wrinkled material,which he swore was a-suit. I opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth, let them all look into the tin,put the tin back in the press and served hard, stale, mouldy baps and toby jugs full of steaming hot bisto. The two girls demurred at the Bisto,but Tommy and I held their nose and poured it into them. Tubby Nolan held his big,fat,balloon belly and cried,
"That's the best soup I have never tasted."
Poor Lynda, her tongue was so sore, I felt for her,but she slapped my hand away. Then, Donna Trainor and Tubby Nolan clasped hands and danced,The Bonny Wee Maid From Fife,to the music of Tommy on the tin whistle and myself on the Singer sewing machine. After that, Tubby Nolan did a hand stand. Lynda,Tommy,Donna and I climbed up on chairs and had a good gleek down the legs of Tubby's trousers. We looked at eack other with mouths open and as one shrieked,
"NAY BREEKS!"
Tubby leaped back to his feet and bellowed,
"That's right! NAY BREEKS! Nay breeks today,nay breeks yesterday and nay breeks tomorrow. And I will continue to wear,NAY BREEKS until chips, sweets,crisps, chocolate and wee buns are FREE!"
All too soon,the girls were gone,Lynda, to lick another 5,000 envelopes and Donna to sport and play with Noel Thompson. Tubby followed me into the house. Reluctantly, I gave him another look at the tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth. Tommy, armed with a pitch fork, kept the oval one at bay.
"NO!" I yelled. "I will NOT give you a lick of the lid."
And I gave "Nay Breeks" a riser that caught Tubby in the lowlands AND the highlands!
A further bulletin will be issued at noon today,which may shed more light on the condition of Tubby's caber and bawbees.
Thursday 15 April 2010
How's the election going?
Great show yesterday Kid. I have a little something to add to the,'does Mr Coyle think Gerry Kelly is God' controversy. When Tommy my cat and I were out late last night,drawing Hitler moustaches and glasses on election posters,we saw Mr Coyle and his idol,Thunderthighs. We watched as Mr Coyle wafted incense over the big man and then knelt and kissed his ring. Tommy claims to have heard Gerry Kelly mutter,
"God bless you my son." I did not hear that,but I saw a look of adoration in the eyes of Mr Coyle, which would have done credit to a knitting, guillotine hag.
Tommy drew up two Alan Wicker chairs and invited me to sit down. It's a little game Tommy plays,ever since he saw Robert De Niro play Rupert Pumpkin in the film,"The King Of Comedy."
Tommy pretended to look at a camera and said,
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to,"How's the election going?" with me Tommy cat. Tonight I have an old bag with me who has, in her time, voted for Pitt the younger, Pitt the older and Pitt the in betweener. Old bag, If I can start with you first,how do you think the election is going? If I may paraphrase the great Indian leader Ghandi,"Who is going to win the whole, amazing, brilliant shebang?"
"Well, Tommy cat" I said,as I flicked invisible cigarette ash from my lungs like Dave Allen,
"Don't rule out the Ulster Unionists. Once upon a time. The Ulster Unionists, thanks to a whole raft of policies and a man called, Mr Gerry Mandering, ruled every part and parcel of this wee, sacred province."
"And tell me old bag," said Tommy,"why did that situation not prevail? In short, old bag, why are the Ulster Unionists led now by a man called Sir Reg Empry? A man, I must say, who bears a striking resemblance to the cartoon character,"Touche Turtle" TOUCHE--AWAY!" yelled Tommy.
"'TWAS THE CROSSROADS!" I yelled,leaping to my feet. "'TWAS THE CROSSROADS! Terence O'Neill took Ulster to the crossroads,the terrible, black crossroads where the devil waits for souls. BEWARE the Crossroads!" I screamed. "The devil waits at the Crossroads. Keep away from the-CROSSROADS! Cross the fields, but don't go near the CROSSROADS!"
I then fell in a heap, with drool running freely and unhindered from my gaping mouth.
Tommy stared into the camera and said,
"We'll be right back,after these messages."
When the big, fat opera singer was roaring and bawling about,"GO COMPARE",Tommy kicked the ribs off me,out of sight of the camera.
Oh and remember folks,a vote is not just for the election,a vote is for-life!
(Historical note. Terence O'Neill, Lousy Prime Minister, great guitar player.)
"God bless you my son." I did not hear that,but I saw a look of adoration in the eyes of Mr Coyle, which would have done credit to a knitting, guillotine hag.
Tommy drew up two Alan Wicker chairs and invited me to sit down. It's a little game Tommy plays,ever since he saw Robert De Niro play Rupert Pumpkin in the film,"The King Of Comedy."
Tommy pretended to look at a camera and said,
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to,"How's the election going?" with me Tommy cat. Tonight I have an old bag with me who has, in her time, voted for Pitt the younger, Pitt the older and Pitt the in betweener. Old bag, If I can start with you first,how do you think the election is going? If I may paraphrase the great Indian leader Ghandi,"Who is going to win the whole, amazing, brilliant shebang?"
"Well, Tommy cat" I said,as I flicked invisible cigarette ash from my lungs like Dave Allen,
"Don't rule out the Ulster Unionists. Once upon a time. The Ulster Unionists, thanks to a whole raft of policies and a man called, Mr Gerry Mandering, ruled every part and parcel of this wee, sacred province."
"And tell me old bag," said Tommy,"why did that situation not prevail? In short, old bag, why are the Ulster Unionists led now by a man called Sir Reg Empry? A man, I must say, who bears a striking resemblance to the cartoon character,"Touche Turtle" TOUCHE--AWAY!" yelled Tommy.
"'TWAS THE CROSSROADS!" I yelled,leaping to my feet. "'TWAS THE CROSSROADS! Terence O'Neill took Ulster to the crossroads,the terrible, black crossroads where the devil waits for souls. BEWARE the Crossroads!" I screamed. "The devil waits at the Crossroads. Keep away from the-CROSSROADS! Cross the fields, but don't go near the CROSSROADS!"
I then fell in a heap, with drool running freely and unhindered from my gaping mouth.
Tommy stared into the camera and said,
"We'll be right back,after these messages."
When the big, fat opera singer was roaring and bawling about,"GO COMPARE",Tommy kicked the ribs off me,out of sight of the camera.
Oh and remember folks,a vote is not just for the election,a vote is for-life!
(Historical note. Terence O'Neill, Lousy Prime Minister, great guitar player.)
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Paying Homage To All The Greats.
Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat spat a brandy ball out of his mouth which decapitated the Child of Prague statue and said,
"That great show was not put on willy-nilly or indeed, nilly-willy. There was structure in that show. That great show showed fore-sight, fore-thought and a vast knowledge of the works of Bruce Forsyth."
I stood there with a cage full of canaries clutched between my knees and said,
"Did you notice the homage Gerry paid to all the greats of radio, TV and film?"
"Does a bear perspire in the woods?" said Tommy. "Of course I noticed. The cliff hanger before the eleven o'clock news was pure Hitchcockian. People were on the edge of their seats, wondering if Gerry would return. Then there was the Orson Welles tribute when Mr Coyle yelled,
"Shut that big ornate gate!"
I pulled a blue-bellied, Egyptian earwig from out of my ear,changed its little nappy,stuck it back in my lug hole and said,
"Ah yes!--No--No! - don't-missus. But did you pick up on the David Lean moment?"
Tommy sat there, shovelling wax out of his ear with the coal shovel and said,
"David Lean? No. I missed that. Please explain, in graphic detail the David Lean homage."
I grabbed Tommy under my oxter and ran for the shipyard. Once there I put Tommy in the dock and said,
"Tommy cat,I wish you to cast your mind back to exactly twenty seven and a half minutes past eleven o'clock this morning."
"Tommy shut his eyes and yelled-"Done!"
"Now Tommy cat," I thundered, "I want you to tell my Lud what you were doing at exactly twenty seven and a half minutes past eleven this morning."
Tommy blushed bright red and cried,
"My Lud, I was listening to the Gerry Anderson show."
"And what did you hear Tommy cat?" I yelled. "What did you hear, as you gave full rein to your unspeakable perversions, by listening to the Gerry Anderson show?"
"I heard-music, my Lud," said Tommy. "I heard-banter."
"Tommy cat!" I roared. "I put it to you. What else did you hear?"
"Cor, stone the crows my Lud," said Tommy. "I heard a patter. I heard the patter of rickety feet."
"My Lud!" I yelled. "My lovely, lovely Lud. What the feline heard, was Mr Coyle running through the studio,with his fur-lined anorak billowing out behind him, like Lawrence of Arabia, which was directed by David Lean."
"Clear the court!" roared my Lud. "Sue Barker and I are going to play tennis."
"CURSE YOU!" yelled Tommy. "You think you have beaten me,but I have an elbow up my sleeve. My father knew a man, who knew a man, who yelled,
"Ready when you are Mr De-Mille!".
"Cobblers! I said. "That would be the greatest story ever told."
"That great show was not put on willy-nilly or indeed, nilly-willy. There was structure in that show. That great show showed fore-sight, fore-thought and a vast knowledge of the works of Bruce Forsyth."
I stood there with a cage full of canaries clutched between my knees and said,
"Did you notice the homage Gerry paid to all the greats of radio, TV and film?"
"Does a bear perspire in the woods?" said Tommy. "Of course I noticed. The cliff hanger before the eleven o'clock news was pure Hitchcockian. People were on the edge of their seats, wondering if Gerry would return. Then there was the Orson Welles tribute when Mr Coyle yelled,
"Shut that big ornate gate!"
I pulled a blue-bellied, Egyptian earwig from out of my ear,changed its little nappy,stuck it back in my lug hole and said,
"Ah yes!--No--No! - don't-missus. But did you pick up on the David Lean moment?"
Tommy sat there, shovelling wax out of his ear with the coal shovel and said,
"David Lean? No. I missed that. Please explain, in graphic detail the David Lean homage."
I grabbed Tommy under my oxter and ran for the shipyard. Once there I put Tommy in the dock and said,
"Tommy cat,I wish you to cast your mind back to exactly twenty seven and a half minutes past eleven o'clock this morning."
"Tommy shut his eyes and yelled-"Done!"
"Now Tommy cat," I thundered, "I want you to tell my Lud what you were doing at exactly twenty seven and a half minutes past eleven this morning."
Tommy blushed bright red and cried,
"My Lud, I was listening to the Gerry Anderson show."
"And what did you hear Tommy cat?" I yelled. "What did you hear, as you gave full rein to your unspeakable perversions, by listening to the Gerry Anderson show?"
"I heard-music, my Lud," said Tommy. "I heard-banter."
"Tommy cat!" I roared. "I put it to you. What else did you hear?"
"Cor, stone the crows my Lud," said Tommy. "I heard a patter. I heard the patter of rickety feet."
"My Lud!" I yelled. "My lovely, lovely Lud. What the feline heard, was Mr Coyle running through the studio,with his fur-lined anorak billowing out behind him, like Lawrence of Arabia, which was directed by David Lean."
"Clear the court!" roared my Lud. "Sue Barker and I are going to play tennis."
"CURSE YOU!" yelled Tommy. "You think you have beaten me,but I have an elbow up my sleeve. My father knew a man, who knew a man, who yelled,
"Ready when you are Mr De-Mille!".
"Cobblers! I said. "That would be the greatest story ever told."
Monday 12 April 2010
LOOKING FOR VOTES.
Great shows last week Kid,shows which raised the bar,pushed the envelope and encouraged poor Frankie Boyle to go on a kamikaze career-ending rant. You were thinking outside the box. Your voice was clear as crystal. When you think inside the box,your voice has that muffled, HELP! get me out! I'm stuck in a box." quality.
Les Dennis asked 100 people,"Men you don't want to see on TV. 99.99% said-Les Dennis."
Tommy my cat threw the Newsletter from him and yelled,
"Elections? A waste of money if you ask me. Elections are nothing more than frivolous,frenetic,infrequent flimflam. Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Merely shuffling a deck of cards and putting them back in the box again."
Tommy snapped his feline fingers and cried,
"I care not a fig for elections. I say FIE to Elections. Anyone who says 'elections' to Tommy the cat,will be met with a curt, abrupt yell of "COBBLERS!"
"Calm down Tommy,," I said. "Elections are just something we have to put up with, like putting the clocks back or taking out the wheelie bin. Elections do not impinge on our lives. Elections are called to get the politicians up off their back sides and get the blood pumping in their deskbound legs."
"Ah yes," said Tommy, "the precious house-bound honeys. WHERE WERE THE MPS AND THE MLAS WHEN YOU AND I WERE STARVING WITH COLD DURING THE WINTER?" screamed Tommy.
"Where were they then-eh? SITTING WITH THEIR ARSE ON A HOT RADIATOR!" Shrieked Tommy.
"During the months from October to March,heat-induced piles rose by a staggering 87% up in Stormont. Preparation H was airlifted into Stormont during the worst of the blizzards."
"I saw the big net hanging under the helicopter," I said. "I remember thinking to myself,he won't catch many fish up there!"
Suddenly, the door burst open and a scream of, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" announced the arrival of Jim Rodgers.
"I WANT VOTES!" screamed Jim, "AND I WANT THEM-NIGH!"
"NEVER!" yelled Tommy. "You shall never have my vote."
"You don't have a vote!" screamed Jim.
"WHAT?" yelled Tommy. "This election is of the utmost importance. My demand is,One cat one vote. When do we want it-NIGH?"
Jim dropped to his knee,clasped my deformed, twisted hand and said,
"Can I depend on your vote, you beautiful, adorable, old bag?"
I blushed, giggled and muttered,
"There is something you should know about me Mr Rodgers.When it comes to voting,I am a-floater. I come from a long line of-floaters.".
"Why does that not surprise me?" said Tommy and Jim in unison.
Les Dennis asked 100 people,"Men you don't want to see on TV. 99.99% said-Les Dennis."
Tommy my cat threw the Newsletter from him and yelled,
"Elections? A waste of money if you ask me. Elections are nothing more than frivolous,frenetic,infrequent flimflam. Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Merely shuffling a deck of cards and putting them back in the box again."
Tommy snapped his feline fingers and cried,
"I care not a fig for elections. I say FIE to Elections. Anyone who says 'elections' to Tommy the cat,will be met with a curt, abrupt yell of "COBBLERS!"
"Calm down Tommy,," I said. "Elections are just something we have to put up with, like putting the clocks back or taking out the wheelie bin. Elections do not impinge on our lives. Elections are called to get the politicians up off their back sides and get the blood pumping in their deskbound legs."
"Ah yes," said Tommy, "the precious house-bound honeys. WHERE WERE THE MPS AND THE MLAS WHEN YOU AND I WERE STARVING WITH COLD DURING THE WINTER?" screamed Tommy.
"Where were they then-eh? SITTING WITH THEIR ARSE ON A HOT RADIATOR!" Shrieked Tommy.
"During the months from October to March,heat-induced piles rose by a staggering 87% up in Stormont. Preparation H was airlifted into Stormont during the worst of the blizzards."
"I saw the big net hanging under the helicopter," I said. "I remember thinking to myself,he won't catch many fish up there!"
Suddenly, the door burst open and a scream of, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" announced the arrival of Jim Rodgers.
"I WANT VOTES!" screamed Jim, "AND I WANT THEM-NIGH!"
"NEVER!" yelled Tommy. "You shall never have my vote."
"You don't have a vote!" screamed Jim.
"WHAT?" yelled Tommy. "This election is of the utmost importance. My demand is,One cat one vote. When do we want it-NIGH?"
Jim dropped to his knee,clasped my deformed, twisted hand and said,
"Can I depend on your vote, you beautiful, adorable, old bag?"
I blushed, giggled and muttered,
"There is something you should know about me Mr Rodgers.When it comes to voting,I am a-floater. I come from a long line of-floaters.".
"Why does that not surprise me?" said Tommy and Jim in unison.
Thursday 8 April 2010
HUNTING FOR VOTERS
Great show yesterday Kid. What a revelation you revealed,when you informed the nation about the cosy tete-a-tete that goes on in a secret room between Ken and Mr Coyle.
Let's draw a veil over the assignation and file it under, 'Don't ask, don't tell.'
Two consenting adults taking a walk on the wild side. Two lonely men helping each other to, make it through the night. Let us avert our eyes and leave them to it. All I will say is this, when you leave the secret room Sean, SHUT THAT DOOR!
Tommy my cat sauntered into the room wearing a yellow tee-shirt with,
"IT AIN'T ROCKET SCIENCE-VOTE ALLIANCE" written on it.
I ran upstairs, which isn't easy in a bungalow and grabbed a green tee shirt with the slogan,
"DON'T EAT BEANS-VOTE FOR THE GREENS."
Both Tommy and I were on the hunt for voters. Busby the budgie was hanging by one leg from his swing shouting,
"NEVER, NEVER, NEVER!"
Poor Busby doesn't get out much and lives in the past.
Tommy pulled a coin out of his Rupert the bear, yellow checked trousers and said,
"Call it. Heads for Prods, tails for Taigs."
"Heads!" I yelled,getting a legal high just from saying the name.
"Sorry," said Tommy with an evil chuckle,
"It's tails. I get the Prods and you get the Taigs. Good luck, trying to sell the Green party to a people who already have a green party in the form of Sinn Fein."
As I got nearer the Falls Road, the sky seemed to darken. People were looking at me. The words, "Old bag" and, "Vile features" were bandied about. I knew what I had to do and I did it. I nipped into a Sinn Fein gift shop and came out wearing a green shirt with, "Vote Sinn Fein" printed on it. Then I headed for the Felons' club.
Oh yes, I am known to the police!
Let's draw a veil over the assignation and file it under, 'Don't ask, don't tell.'
Two consenting adults taking a walk on the wild side. Two lonely men helping each other to, make it through the night. Let us avert our eyes and leave them to it. All I will say is this, when you leave the secret room Sean, SHUT THAT DOOR!
Tommy my cat sauntered into the room wearing a yellow tee-shirt with,
"IT AIN'T ROCKET SCIENCE-VOTE ALLIANCE" written on it.
I ran upstairs, which isn't easy in a bungalow and grabbed a green tee shirt with the slogan,
"DON'T EAT BEANS-VOTE FOR THE GREENS."
Both Tommy and I were on the hunt for voters. Busby the budgie was hanging by one leg from his swing shouting,
"NEVER, NEVER, NEVER!"
Poor Busby doesn't get out much and lives in the past.
Tommy pulled a coin out of his Rupert the bear, yellow checked trousers and said,
"Call it. Heads for Prods, tails for Taigs."
"Heads!" I yelled,getting a legal high just from saying the name.
"Sorry," said Tommy with an evil chuckle,
"It's tails. I get the Prods and you get the Taigs. Good luck, trying to sell the Green party to a people who already have a green party in the form of Sinn Fein."
As I got nearer the Falls Road, the sky seemed to darken. People were looking at me. The words, "Old bag" and, "Vile features" were bandied about. I knew what I had to do and I did it. I nipped into a Sinn Fein gift shop and came out wearing a green shirt with, "Vote Sinn Fein" printed on it. Then I headed for the Felons' club.
Oh yes, I am known to the police!
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Who Took Our wheel?
Was it not Viv Stanshall of the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah band who posed the question,
"Can blue men sing the whites?"
Yes it was! So now we have that out of the way.
Great show yesterday Kid. It reminded me of Normandy. You went in at dawn,caught the blighters with their pants down and were home in time for tea.
I hear Mr Coyle caught one. No VC for a jacksy wound. People who were shot in "nicer" places would complain.
"It will be all over by Christmas," said Winston Churchill.
"You wot?" I yelled. "You wot? What will be all over by Christmas? The war?"
"No," said Churchill, "Advent."
"Go and build a wall!" I yelled. "Yeh,put on your boiler suit and go and build a wall, you old--silly socks.".
Tommy my cat entered stage right
Tommy pointed with a rigid digit and yelled,
"HOI! YOU! Yes you! The old bag who is doing a good impersonation of a pot bellied stove. Where is my breakfast? Correct me if I'm wrong,but the table seems completely devoid of scaldies or sardines. What do you do all day? What do you do all day eh?
Why, you are nothing more than a shambling, shuffling Fagin-like figure,with the vile, ugly features of a giant Sloth."
Startled, stunned and senescent I yelled, "SQUIGGLERS!" and leapt into the turret of my Chieftain tank. As I swung the big gun round,I knocked the child of Prague off the mantle-piece. When I had Tommy in the cross hairs I pressed the trigger. He ducked and the North/West wall of my abode disappeared,leaving me a lovely view of the big wheel.
Tommy and I stood there,hands clutched tightly round each others throats.
"I shall miss the big wheel," said Tommy with a sob in his voice.
"So shall I," I said,with a glob of phlegm in my voice.
Suddenly, I yelled, "Antelopes and Ankles, Tommy!" I screamed, "Do my tired old eyes deceive me? Or is the big wheel-MOVING?"
Tommy ran for a pair of binoculars.
"Those are German binoculars," I yelled. "Everything you see will be in German."
"Don't worry," cried Tommy. "I shall translate everything I see in German into English. I have been taking night classes every morningTHE BIG WHEEL IS MOVING!" yelled Tommy. "A man with a stick is rolling the big wheel out of Belfast like a hoop."
"It's the Derry wans!" I yelled. "The Derry wans are stealing our big wheel."
"Let them have it!" said Tommy. "Does it not say in the Bible.
"And lo,before the end of days,even the wretched people of the Bogside got a spin on a big wheel and praised the Lord mightily."
If you were travelling on the M1 last night and saw a man with a stick guide the big wheel down the motorway,phone Wendy Austin. But phone after the 6th pip, not after the first pip. Wendy can be very precious when it comes to her-pips.
Back to the studio now, where Mr Coyle has taken the back door off and is going to dance the, "Bonney Wee Maid from Fife" with Emma and Janet,accompanied by Gerry on his little red kazoo.
This should be good. I hope I don't die and miss it!.
"Can blue men sing the whites?"
Yes it was! So now we have that out of the way.
Great show yesterday Kid. It reminded me of Normandy. You went in at dawn,caught the blighters with their pants down and were home in time for tea.
I hear Mr Coyle caught one. No VC for a jacksy wound. People who were shot in "nicer" places would complain.
"It will be all over by Christmas," said Winston Churchill.
"You wot?" I yelled. "You wot? What will be all over by Christmas? The war?"
"No," said Churchill, "Advent."
"Go and build a wall!" I yelled. "Yeh,put on your boiler suit and go and build a wall, you old--silly socks.".
Tommy my cat entered stage right
Tommy pointed with a rigid digit and yelled,
"HOI! YOU! Yes you! The old bag who is doing a good impersonation of a pot bellied stove. Where is my breakfast? Correct me if I'm wrong,but the table seems completely devoid of scaldies or sardines. What do you do all day? What do you do all day eh?
Why, you are nothing more than a shambling, shuffling Fagin-like figure,with the vile, ugly features of a giant Sloth."
Startled, stunned and senescent I yelled, "SQUIGGLERS!" and leapt into the turret of my Chieftain tank. As I swung the big gun round,I knocked the child of Prague off the mantle-piece. When I had Tommy in the cross hairs I pressed the trigger. He ducked and the North/West wall of my abode disappeared,leaving me a lovely view of the big wheel.
Tommy and I stood there,hands clutched tightly round each others throats.
"I shall miss the big wheel," said Tommy with a sob in his voice.
"So shall I," I said,with a glob of phlegm in my voice.
Suddenly, I yelled, "Antelopes and Ankles, Tommy!" I screamed, "Do my tired old eyes deceive me? Or is the big wheel-MOVING?"
Tommy ran for a pair of binoculars.
"Those are German binoculars," I yelled. "Everything you see will be in German."
"Don't worry," cried Tommy. "I shall translate everything I see in German into English. I have been taking night classes every morningTHE BIG WHEEL IS MOVING!" yelled Tommy. "A man with a stick is rolling the big wheel out of Belfast like a hoop."
"It's the Derry wans!" I yelled. "The Derry wans are stealing our big wheel."
"Let them have it!" said Tommy. "Does it not say in the Bible.
"And lo,before the end of days,even the wretched people of the Bogside got a spin on a big wheel and praised the Lord mightily."
If you were travelling on the M1 last night and saw a man with a stick guide the big wheel down the motorway,phone Wendy Austin. But phone after the 6th pip, not after the first pip. Wendy can be very precious when it comes to her-pips.
Back to the studio now, where Mr Coyle has taken the back door off and is going to dance the, "Bonney Wee Maid from Fife" with Emma and Janet,accompanied by Gerry on his little red kazoo.
This should be good. I hope I don't die and miss it!.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
SOD BUSTING
Great shows last week Kid. Tommy my cat and I spent Easter in a snow drift. There we sat, shivering with cold, eating chocolate eggs and singing,
"I'm dreaming of a white Easter."
What is wrong with the weather? I blame hurricanes, hoodies and hair spray. Too many people are yelling, "Because I'm worth it!" pressing the nozzle on the hair spray can and leaving the ozone layer like a Swiss Cheese. And John Daly Esquire is the worst offender. NO! John, you are NOT worth it! Do you expect me and Tommy to spend Easter in a snow drift, just so you can get a mirror-like shine on your dome?
Lynda Byrons IS, worth it, but not you Mr John Daly. Why don't you use Brasso like Harry Hill? I await your answer with baited breath and clenched buttocks.
Suddenly, Tommy's mood, unlike the weather changed. The wild-eyed feline grabbed me by my soupstained twinset and screamed,
"Why are the BBC trying to stitch up poor Peter Robinson?"
"I know not of what you speak," I cried. "I haven't heard the Ulster news for ages. Everytime I gaze into Noel Thompson's dark, latin eyes I get hypnotized and the next thing I see is the big potato head of Adrian Chiles on the One Show. What has the BBC alleged that little Peter is up to, riding a bicycle without a light?"
"LAND GRABBING!" yelled Tommy.
The truth is, Peter bought a small strip of land. Then her took off his coat and got stuck into some heavy duty sod busting."
"How do you bust a sod?" I asked.
"You hit it over the head with a spade," said Tommy.
"Like killing an eel?" I asked
"Yes," said Tommy, "the same modus operandi. As I was saying, the BBC is trying to infer that Peter....."
"Could you use a shovel?" I asked.
"Use a shovel for what?" said Tommy.
"Could you use a shovel for sod busting?" I asked.
"I don't know" said Tommy. "The point is, the BBC are trying to make out that........"
"How many sods has Peter busted?" I asked.
"Peter has busted many, many sods," said Tommy. "When it comes to sod busting,Peter Robinson is probably the premier sod buster in Ulster. No one can bust a sod like him. I have seen sods that I never thought could be busted,but Peter would raise the spade high above his head and bring it down with a WHACK! And Hey Presto, a busted sod."
"And the BBC has taken umbrage because Peter Robinson busts sods?" I said.
"YES!" yelled Tommy.
"It's PC gone mad. It's the nanny state. The BBC says that sods have rights and now, the BBC is vilifying Peter Robinson for sod busting. Sod busting is in Peter Robinson's blood. He comes from a long line of sod busters. Oh the stories I could tell you about Peter Robinson and sod busting."
"Did Peter Robinson make a reference to Mother Theresa and Cruella De Ville?" I asked.
"Yes he did," said Tommy.
"I always get them mixed up," I said.
"Do you know which is which?"
"Mother Theresa is the nun," said Tommy, "the one that was fasttracked to sainthood.
But to get back to the BBC and Peter Robinson,"
I turned Tommy off by hitting him over the head with a frying pan and sat down to watch the Wacky Races on TV. I just love Dick Dastardly. Penelope Pitstop is such a--girl!
Now, where is my spade? I know a sod that should have been busted years ago.
"Oh Tubby. Tubby Nolan, come out. I have a stone of lard for you. Tubby. COOEE Tubby! TUBBY! TUBBY!
I wasn't half chagrined when Tubby failed to appear.
"I'm dreaming of a white Easter."
What is wrong with the weather? I blame hurricanes, hoodies and hair spray. Too many people are yelling, "Because I'm worth it!" pressing the nozzle on the hair spray can and leaving the ozone layer like a Swiss Cheese. And John Daly Esquire is the worst offender. NO! John, you are NOT worth it! Do you expect me and Tommy to spend Easter in a snow drift, just so you can get a mirror-like shine on your dome?
Lynda Byrons IS, worth it, but not you Mr John Daly. Why don't you use Brasso like Harry Hill? I await your answer with baited breath and clenched buttocks.
Suddenly, Tommy's mood, unlike the weather changed. The wild-eyed feline grabbed me by my soupstained twinset and screamed,
"Why are the BBC trying to stitch up poor Peter Robinson?"
"I know not of what you speak," I cried. "I haven't heard the Ulster news for ages. Everytime I gaze into Noel Thompson's dark, latin eyes I get hypnotized and the next thing I see is the big potato head of Adrian Chiles on the One Show. What has the BBC alleged that little Peter is up to, riding a bicycle without a light?"
"LAND GRABBING!" yelled Tommy.
The truth is, Peter bought a small strip of land. Then her took off his coat and got stuck into some heavy duty sod busting."
"How do you bust a sod?" I asked.
"You hit it over the head with a spade," said Tommy.
"Like killing an eel?" I asked
"Yes," said Tommy, "the same modus operandi. As I was saying, the BBC is trying to infer that Peter....."
"Could you use a shovel?" I asked.
"Use a shovel for what?" said Tommy.
"Could you use a shovel for sod busting?" I asked.
"I don't know" said Tommy. "The point is, the BBC are trying to make out that........"
"How many sods has Peter busted?" I asked.
"Peter has busted many, many sods," said Tommy. "When it comes to sod busting,Peter Robinson is probably the premier sod buster in Ulster. No one can bust a sod like him. I have seen sods that I never thought could be busted,but Peter would raise the spade high above his head and bring it down with a WHACK! And Hey Presto, a busted sod."
"And the BBC has taken umbrage because Peter Robinson busts sods?" I said.
"YES!" yelled Tommy.
"It's PC gone mad. It's the nanny state. The BBC says that sods have rights and now, the BBC is vilifying Peter Robinson for sod busting. Sod busting is in Peter Robinson's blood. He comes from a long line of sod busters. Oh the stories I could tell you about Peter Robinson and sod busting."
"Did Peter Robinson make a reference to Mother Theresa and Cruella De Ville?" I asked.
"Yes he did," said Tommy.
"I always get them mixed up," I said.
"Do you know which is which?"
"Mother Theresa is the nun," said Tommy, "the one that was fasttracked to sainthood.
But to get back to the BBC and Peter Robinson,"
I turned Tommy off by hitting him over the head with a frying pan and sat down to watch the Wacky Races on TV. I just love Dick Dastardly. Penelope Pitstop is such a--girl!
Now, where is my spade? I know a sod that should have been busted years ago.
"Oh Tubby. Tubby Nolan, come out. I have a stone of lard for you. Tubby. COOEE Tubby! TUBBY! TUBBY!
I wasn't half chagrined when Tubby failed to appear.
Saturday 3 April 2010
BIG WHEEL KEEPS ON TURNING., BUT NOT FOR MUCH LONGER.
Great shows last week Kid. Five great shows that can be bought individually or as a cellophaned pack of five from the BBC barrow in Ann Street. But do shout out your order.Old Walter Love is suffering most horribly from sax in the ears. Listening to too much jazz music will do that.
And behold, the time came when the people of Belfast could look forward to another week of great shows. After batheing in the Lagan and anointing their feet with Deep Heat ointment, the people of Belfast girded their loins and sat, cross-legged, in front of the radio, chanting the mantra handed down by the ancient ones,
"Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy yeh-NIGH!!!"
So, all-a-quiver from gizzard to liver, the people of Belfast wait for Mr Coyle to yell.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Here comes--GERRY!"
We now stand and turn to page two.
I was conducting an experiment on myself to know how a stuffed chicken feels,when Tommy my cat came dancing into the room. He threw some shapes, boogied on down and sang,
"Big wheel keeps on turning
Proud Mary keeps on burning."
"Well not anymore!" I yelled,as I bent my knees like a flea and leaped up on top of the Welsh dresser.
"The big wheel will not be turning anymore!" I cried. "The owners of the big wheel, The Big Wheel Company are going to dismantle it and give it to old Jordie. Old Jordie is going to open a Jeyes Fluid mill and he wants the big wheel to provide the power to run the two, massive, stone Jeyes Fluid grinders."
Tommy snapped his feline fingers and said,
"I care not a jot for the big wheel. It was a bad influence on the people of Belfast. The big wheel was turning the populace into veritable hamsters.
Since it came to Belfast,I have noticed a change in the people. They have grown two buck teeth, little whiskers and are always sniffing the air."
I slapped a thigh, that someone stuck through the open window, and yelled,
"Ester Ransen must never have been off the big wheel in London. Why, the gobby one has turned into a giant hamster, right before our eyes."
"Ester suffers from big wheel addiction," said Tommy "The Priory clinic tried everything,electric shocks,water boarding, tight knickers, even the rack. But everytime Ester was released,she ran pell-mell for the big wheel."
"And now Ester, hamster face, wants to be an MP!" I cried. "Do we want to be governed by someone who is addicted to-big wheels?"
Tommy went into the ponder room for a deep ponder,returned and said,
"Well, I suppose the big wheel is no different to the greasy pole that all MP's are addicted t."
"By the sacret simmet of Jules Holland," I yelled,"you are right Tommy. We are governed by a gyrating band of pole dancers. I feel dirty and grubby. I must go and wash Hans Vandervalk our new postman."
After I had washed my Hans. I gave him a perm, a blow dry, a riser and sent him on his way. You can't hinder the Royal Mail. The Queen would respond by throwing a wobbly and believe me, a royal wobbly is a frightful sight to behold.
"Phillip!. Phillip-you tube! Hold my crown! One is going to throw a right royal wobbly!"
And behold, the time came when the people of Belfast could look forward to another week of great shows. After batheing in the Lagan and anointing their feet with Deep Heat ointment, the people of Belfast girded their loins and sat, cross-legged, in front of the radio, chanting the mantra handed down by the ancient ones,
"Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy yeh-NIGH!!!"
So, all-a-quiver from gizzard to liver, the people of Belfast wait for Mr Coyle to yell.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Here comes--GERRY!"
We now stand and turn to page two.
I was conducting an experiment on myself to know how a stuffed chicken feels,when Tommy my cat came dancing into the room. He threw some shapes, boogied on down and sang,
"Big wheel keeps on turning
Proud Mary keeps on burning."
"Well not anymore!" I yelled,as I bent my knees like a flea and leaped up on top of the Welsh dresser.
"The big wheel will not be turning anymore!" I cried. "The owners of the big wheel, The Big Wheel Company are going to dismantle it and give it to old Jordie. Old Jordie is going to open a Jeyes Fluid mill and he wants the big wheel to provide the power to run the two, massive, stone Jeyes Fluid grinders."
Tommy snapped his feline fingers and said,
"I care not a jot for the big wheel. It was a bad influence on the people of Belfast. The big wheel was turning the populace into veritable hamsters.
Since it came to Belfast,I have noticed a change in the people. They have grown two buck teeth, little whiskers and are always sniffing the air."
I slapped a thigh, that someone stuck through the open window, and yelled,
"Ester Ransen must never have been off the big wheel in London. Why, the gobby one has turned into a giant hamster, right before our eyes."
"Ester suffers from big wheel addiction," said Tommy "The Priory clinic tried everything,electric shocks,water boarding, tight knickers, even the rack. But everytime Ester was released,she ran pell-mell for the big wheel."
"And now Ester, hamster face, wants to be an MP!" I cried. "Do we want to be governed by someone who is addicted to-big wheels?"
Tommy went into the ponder room for a deep ponder,returned and said,
"Well, I suppose the big wheel is no different to the greasy pole that all MP's are addicted t."
"By the sacret simmet of Jules Holland," I yelled,"you are right Tommy. We are governed by a gyrating band of pole dancers. I feel dirty and grubby. I must go and wash Hans Vandervalk our new postman."
After I had washed my Hans. I gave him a perm, a blow dry, a riser and sent him on his way. You can't hinder the Royal Mail. The Queen would respond by throwing a wobbly and believe me, a royal wobbly is a frightful sight to behold.
"Phillip!. Phillip-you tube! Hold my crown! One is going to throw a right royal wobbly!"
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