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.