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.