Sunday 30 May 2010

If Not Why Not?

Great shows last week Kid. Great shows which, if Newnight's bonny wee lass, Kirsty Wark is to believed opened up a whole, new, political entente cordiale between Clegg and Cameron. Some people find it difficult to tell Clegg and Cameron apart. The reason is, one is a hologram thought up by Sachi and Sachi. But which one is the hologram? AAH! That is a secret I will take to the grave, bury, and then go home and have my tea.
And if not, why not? as the bin men in Ballymena say.
As Raymond the cuckoo came out of the closet to cuckoo four o'clock, Tommy my cat and I staggered in from the back yard, bruised and bloodied. For the past four and a half hours, Tommy and I had been engaged in fierce, violent, no holds barred, hand to hand fighting to decide "who was the best since sliced bread, the Beatles or Ruby Murray?"
When it became apparent that neither Tommy or I would give in, we both decided to scrub the Beatles and Ruby Murray and pencil in the Grateful Dead. Neither Tommy or I have ever heard the Grateful dead, but we are reliably informed that they are a merry, jolly, harmonic beat combo. Tommy and I get curious looks now, being the only two Dead Heads living in Hobo Boulevard.
And if not, why not? as Fiona Bruce would say!
Tommy and I hired a blood hound and set off on the trail of our oval chum Tubby Nolan
"He's just left," said one fish and ship shop owner after another.
Then Morris the blood hound caught a head cold and Tommy slipped the leash round my neck and the hunt was on again.
"Have you seen Tubby Nolan?" we asked hundreds of passers-by
"YES!" they yelled. "Isn't he FAT!"
We finally tracked Tubby down to an all night, lorry, garage and baby clothes complex. Four man wearing goggles and protective clothing, had Tubby up on a ramp, sandblasting his nether region.
"I went up to the foreman of the four men and said,
"Well, what's the verdict? Will Tubby have to come off the road?"
"Oh no," said the foreman, who turned out to be a big fan of Audie Murphy and Dame Edith Evans.
"There's a few miles left in the fat boy yet. We tightened his joints to stop him lumbering all over the road and put in a new slabber box. But next time he comes in for a service, I would recommend replacing his big end."
"Phew!" I said. "That would be a huge job."
"Massive!" said the foreman. "But we have the technology and the curiosity to see what lies behind it."
We left then as a small man with a big grease gun approached the apprehensive, quivering rear of he who is, Tubby Nolan.
Tommy and I then went home to watch, "Come Dine With Me". Four cannibals would gather for a dinner party and the last man left standing would win one thousand pounds.
Think it couldn't happen here? You just wait and see Kid. You just wait and see. Mind you the BBC's "Blame Game" is breaking new boundaries in lack of taste and lack of humour.
But Colin Murphy can pull some wild, comic faces and the panel seem to greatly enjoy it, which, as the end of the day is what its all about!
"If not, why not?" yelled Nuala O'Loane from a passing Renault Clio!

Friday 28 May 2010

Booker the New Emperor

Great show yesterday Kid. Even Sir Reg Empry and Peter Robinson were seen to smile when Mr Coyle made reference to your "Hanging basket."
I believe Mr Coyle is not as green as he is cabbage looking and is well aware of his, "innocent" double entendres. Tommy my cat has christened Mr Coyle the Charles Hawtrey of Radio Foyle.
"Oh hello, has anyone seen my sausage roll?"
Mr Coyle is the sultan of smut, Radio Foyle's answer to Lennie Bruce. I believe Mr Coyle gets most of his one liners from Ireland's Own and Our Boys.
Tommy blew a John Coltrane riff on his saxophone, looked at me and said,
"I say old thing, I wonder who shall win the Booker prize this year?"
I stuck the poker into my ear to get my brain working and said,
"Tommy, enlighten me. What is the Booker prize?"
Tommy winked at a wino peeping in the window and said,
"The Booker prize is a competition to find a book that no one will ever read."
"That doesn't make sense!" I yelled. "I have a sneaking suspicion that the Booker prize comes under the banner of, Arts and culture."
"Indeed it does," said Tommy. "What a thrill it is. What a thrill it is to be sure, to see the great and good dressed up to the nines to applaud a book so oblique, so-so unreadable. Thousands of copies of the winning book will be sold and thrown, still wrapped, straight into the wheelie bin. It really is the highlight of the literary calender. All the great writers will be there--and Melvin Bragg."
"The Emperor's new clothes!" I yelled. "It's the Emperor's new clothes all over again. Oh for some child, some dirty urchin to walk into the Booker competition and cry,
"See you'se? You'se is all mad in the head, so you'se are!"
"But WHERE," cried Tommy, "can one find an urchin at this time of the night?"
I just went back to reading the Beano. You know where you are with the Beano. The Beano may not be art or culture, but it makes me chuckle.
And that's what we all want, a good chuckle--chuck!

Thursday 27 May 2010

Knees Ups And Bouncy Castles.

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat, a connoisseur of great shows if ever there was one,was affected to such an extent,that he spoke nothing but Hindu for the rest of the day. Not to be out done, I immediately look a crash course in German and answered the Hindu speaking feline, with guttural roars and Germanic shouts.
Are Tommy and I the only listeners to notice that while you are doing the show. Mr Coyle and the girls are having a good old knees up in the adjacent room?
Only last week, while you were speaking, I heard Mr Coyle shout,
"Look Janet! Look at the big bubble I can blow with my chewing gum!"
And as for Emma and Janet discussing-pantyhose, well, I had to cover Tommy's ears with a death mask of Ronnie Kray!
Do these three not realise that small children and domesticated animals are listening to the show? (Including the bull that Mr Coyle fondled)
I have nothing against the,'let it all hang out' hedonistic' hippy life style of Janet, Emma and "Moonbeam" Coyle, but do think of others. Think of old Jordie. Think of old Jordie, looking over the half door at the crack of dawn with a well filled po in his calloused, rustic hand.
Old Jordie doesn't let it all hang out. If he did, he wouldn't need the po!
I came upon Tubby Nolan fast asleep in the long grass behind an all night, truss and surgical appliances' complex. A group of little hoodies were using Tubby's tummy as a bouncy castle.. and not just hoodies. I also saw a little, bearded man leaping up and down. He bore a striking resemblance to James Galway. In reply to your unanswered question,
NO! he did not have his flute in his hand. I approached a little hoodie and said,
"Hey little hoodie, who was that small man jumping on Tubby Nolan's tummy?"
The little hoodie mugged me and replied very politely,
"That little man is a famous footballer. He told us he played for the Berlin philharmonic."
I gave the little hoodie the telephone number of a good solicitor, something he will need in the near future and went on my way, praising Lord Laird and his delectable swinging sporran.
"Oh Lord Laird, with your sexy, swinging sporran, you are spoiling us."

Thursday 20 May 2010

Bulls and Boils

Great show yesterday Kid. It went a long way towards taking people's mind off the toppling of wee Sir Reg Empry. Why did he have to go? We will never see his like again! Never! Never! NEVER!!!
Tommy my cat laid down the Jewish Chronice, muttered, "Ah very" and yelled to me,
"Hi! Hi! Yes you with the reptilian features, what did Sean Coyle do to the bull at the Bamoral show?"
I sprinkled the house with holy water and replied,
"Never you mind. But suffice to say, had Thaddeaus done it in a Muslim country, the Imams would have cut off both his hands."
"In the name of all that's holy!" yelled Tommy. "Then why the-facade? Why the pretence that he is an honest,decent, human being, when he is skulking about interfering with bulls?"
"Why!" roared Tommy. "Mr Coyle is another Jordan, all front but no substance."
"Leave the lad alone," I said. "Everyone needs to have a hobby. If Mr Coyle wants to fondle bulls,that is between him and the farmers' union."
"I don't like it!" yelled Tommy.
"Then don't do it!" I roared.
"Leave that sort of thing to mono eye-brow. Mr Coyle has the hands for it, warm, soft hands, the kinds of hands that bulls appreciate."
Tommy yelled, "BULLY BEEF!" and strode over to the window, where he stood looking out,with his hands behind his back. I joined Tommy by simply walking over to him.
Dark was the sky. No sun shone. The street was deserted. The only sound came from a lean, hungry polar bear as he flipped open the lids of wheelie bins. Tommy did the splits, like the late, great James Brown and yelled,
"WOW! MAMMA, How long is this Icelandic volcanic ash going to go on for?"
"As long as it takes," I said. "A volcano is a boil on the face off the earth. The greatest brains in the world are working on it."
"Greatest brains, my olive, green, silk knickers!" screamed Tommy. "All they have to do, is cover the volcano with cement, like they did with Chernobyl."
"But Tommy," I interjected, "the volcano would blow again. The volcano needs some outlet to release the pressure.
Tommy clicked my fingers and cried,
"I've got it! Harland and Wolff must build a giant whistle, with TWO diagonal steam traps. The giant whistle will be inserted into the volcano and the volcano can sit up on the mountain, whistling away like Rodger Whittaker."
"Tommy" I yelled. "You are a geological genius."
"I know!" said Tommy. "And I haven't even had my cornflakes yet!"
Tommy and I stood silently at the window, looking out at the dark, dark day. The radio gave a chuckle and turned itself on. The entire house shook as big Brendan Bowyer shrieked,
"NO SUN SHALL SHINE BY DAY.
IT WAS THE NEW JERUSALEM THAT WOULD NOT FADE AWAY. IT WAS THE NEW JERUSALEM THAT WOULD NOT FADE AWAY.
JERUSALEM! JERUSALEM!"
What a racket! But it kept the polar bear away from MY wheelie bin!

Tuesday 18 May 2010

Ulster Scots and Oxymorons

Great show on Friday Kid. After the great show Tommy my cat and I climbed out of our tattered kilts and inflatable sporrans. I kicked a haggis that was showing signs of life out the window and said to Tommy,
"Hoots tay you, the noo. Did Gerry's Ulster/Scots guest coulter yer grommet an' curdle your wheest?"
Tommy shot the haggis that was climbing back in the window again, with a flint lock pistol and replied,
"Ulster/Scots is like short bread. I find a little nibble goes a long way."
I felt for a soft spot on the wall, ran at it with my head and said,
"As doctor McCoy on the star ship Enterprise used to say to Captain Kirk,
"It's language Jim, but not as we know it."
Tommy laughed and said,
"Remember Scotty, the Scottish engineer on the star ship Enterprise? Captain Kirk would say,
"Increase speed Scotty. Go to maximum power."
And wee Scotty would always cry,
"She canny take it Captain. She's gonna BLOW!"
Yet she never did blow," laughed Tommy. "Leading me to believe that Scotty knew as much about space ship engines, as Sir Reg Empry knows about Conservative pacts."
"Poor wee Reg," I said. "What's going to become of him?. To beg he is too proud. To dig he has no spade. Will the golden locked Knight of the realm, be reduced to wandering the streets like the Ancient Mariner?"
Tommy settled back in his leather armchair, crossed his legs, clasped his fingers and said,
"IT IS AN ANCIENT MARINER
AND HE STOPPETH ONE OF THREE
HE HAD A LONG GREY BEARD AND GLISTENING EYE
THERE WAS A PACT, QUOTH HE."
"King Tut-King Tut," I sighed. "There but for the grace of God..."
As our condemned hovel sang deeper into the shifting sands underneath, I passed the time by drawing match-stick men on the wall with a red crayon. Tommy was busy doing the Times crossword puzzle. My parents didn't believe in high faluting book learning but I went to school. I went until I was 28, but only for the corporal punishment. Once I was placed over the headmaster's knee and thrashed to within an inch of my life I was out of there. It was a different time, a less tolerant time. The only place you could get well spanked was at school. Now, every leisure centre and credit union has a spanking parlour and we have David Ford to thank for that. Suddenly Tommy said,
"I know this is what American footballers call a Hail Mary, but I can't find the answer to one question. The answer has three words and the clue is-OXYMORON."
"Tommy," I chided.
"The answer is in the question. OXYMORON--Ox and moron. The answer is, Silly old moo."
Tommy put me over his knee and caned me for two long glorious hours and he refused to take the five pound note I pressed gratefully into his hand.
What a cat! And he's mine! ALL MINE!

Titled Comedians and Plagiarism

Greetings Kid. What a great show you put on yesterday from the Balmoral show.
Tommy my cat sniffed the air and said,
"Ah, the Balmoral show. You can almost smell the....."
"Language Tommy," I warned.
Tommy shot me a glance full of venom,a real Peter Robinsoner and said,
"I was going to say, you can almost smell the fish and chips. Bye the bye," said Tommy, brushing imaginary, volcanic ash from his primrose yellow lederhosen,
"What a lot of laughing Mr Coyle did today. I do believe the lad has access to laughing gas."
I shot one of the three ducks flying up the wall with a Lee Enfield rifle and said,
"If Mr Coyle has laughter to spare, he should can it and sell it to Frank Skinner. Frank Skinner's new show is going down like a Newfoundland goose with a belly full of buckshot."
"I do so agree," said Tommy. "Frank Skinner-Opinionated? What kind of title is that? And Frank is not the only culprit. There is Lee Evans, alive and wired. Sean Locke, almost live and by far the worst of all, Frankie Boyle, contains 100% vile, putrid haggis."
"It's the "In thing," I said. "Back in the good old days, you had the Les Dawson show. Not Les Dawson, fat and sweating."
"Did Tubby Nolan go to the Balmoral show? said Tommy.
"No," I answered. "Tubby was afraid to be measured."
Tommy chuckled and said,
"Was Tubby afraid they would measure his....?"
"His girth," I cried. "His girth. I do not understand," I said, "I do not understand... and I see it all about me... continually... how the most sensitive and cultivated of cats can so easily change, almost overnight, into the bully, the cutpurse, the brigand. In my day nobody changed. A man was. Only religion could alter him, and that at least was a glorious misery."
"PLAGIARIST!" yelled Tommy. "You stole every word of that from Harold Pinter's play, No Man's Land."
"Did I?" I cackled,as I backed Tommy into a corner. His eyes filled with horror as I leered,
"Now! Is the Winter of our discontent."
Tommy whimpered as I hissed,
"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."
Tommy screamed loud and shrill as I shrieked,
"Once upon a time there were three little pigs."

Saturday 15 May 2010

Electricity Poles and Headless Horsemen

Great show to start the post election week Kid. Beware of the knavish Mr Coyle. The bastion of law and order is trying to undermine your confidence by insinuating you are putting on weight. Mr Coyle is trying to give you a Tubby Nolan complex and send you on an eating splurge that would shame Billy Bunter.Is there nothing the Machiavellian Thaddeaus will not stoop to in his effort to oust you from your seat? Reference is made to Mr Coyle in the book of Revelations.
"Beware the dark one with the one hirsute eye brow. His treachery and corner boy shenanigans will make countless thousands mourn."
During the show Tommy my cat was shaken out of his nonchalant,devil may car attitude by the news that the street lights in Gilford are ablaze 24 hours a day.
"By the star spangled, tattered, grey Y-fronts of Les Dennis!" yelled Tommy.
"Do the people of Gilford think that electricity grows on trees?"
I giggled, gurgled and smirked,
"Of course electricity does not grow on trees. Electricity grows on poles,electric poles."
The riser Tommy gave me was painful to the point of Marquis De-Sade erotic pleasure.
I leaped on the shoulders of a passing, stooped, old aged pensioner and yelled,
"Blame not the people of Gilford. Blame rather the horseman,the terrible, headless horseman,who gallops through the sleepy hollow that is Guilford,cutting off noggins like a mad, headless thing."
"I RELENT!" yelled Tommy. "Let the lights of Gilford blaze out! My message to the people of Gilford is, "Keep your heads and DON'T switch off the street lights."
Suddenly a thought hit me. I gave a dog-like yelp and cried,
"Could the headless horseman be-Tubby Nolan?"
"NO!" cried Tommy. "Tubby has head in abundance. Tubby Nolan's head is on a par with the statues on Easter Island. If Tubby were a horseman,he would be the neckless horseman."
"Tommy!" I cried. "You are indeed the Steven Hawkin of the feline world."
"I may be," said Tommy,"but I won't let it go to my-head."
Oh how we laughed at the impromptu Oscar Wilde quip.

Thursday 13 May 2010

A hurdle too far for some.

Great shows during election week Kid. Wasn't the election exciting? Just
like the grand national.
"THEY'RE OFF!" yelled Noel Thompson and for the next 15 hours,the greatest
political brains in Ulster and Edwin Poots, galloped non stop around the
election circuit. THEN! within sight of the winning post,Peter Robinson and
Sir Reg Empry, fell at the last hurdle. At the election speeches,Peter
Robinson spat venom to the media,
"NOW you won't have Robinson to kick around anymore!"
Little woebegone Sir Reg was more humble and succinct. The little golden
haired Knight of the realm,looked down at his dusty, Clark's shoes and
mumbled,
"I'll get my coat."
Little Sir Reg had seen the writing on the wall. Some horrible little
hoodie with time on his hands and chalk in his fingers had written,
"WEE REG IS FINISHED,SO HE IS!"
"Oh,cruel are the hoodies Of Belfast's fair city.
They stand at the corners to jeer and to boo.
They care not for honour or Queen or for country.
Smoking their spiffs and sniffing their glue."
(One of the finest pieces of doggerel Seamus Heany has ever written)
Let's draw a veil over the election. Let's treat the election like a very ugly bride and draw a veil over her. I'm changing the subject now.The second subject will start in exactly one second.
Tommy my cat and I sat with sunglasses on, to cut out the glare of Noel
Edmond's shirt. Deal or no deal? What a load of big red balloons.
Tommy yelled,
"Dymphna's droopy drawers!" and turned off the TV by throwing a siege of Derry cannon ball through the screen. He looked at me and yelled,
"Repulsiveness!"
"Yes," I cried,as I heard once again the little pet name, dearest mummy used
to call me.
"Let's take Henry the hoover for a walk," said Tommy,"to see if the volcanic ash makes him cough and splutter."
Little Henry did not want to go. It took numerous risers and lots of hose
twisting to get him out of the house.
As Tommy,Henry and I approached a corner,formed by two walls coming
together,we heard an awful commotion coming from a piece of waste ground.
There lay Tubby Nolan, writhing among the weeds and nettles.
"It's the volcanic ash!" screamed Tommy. "The volcanic ash has blocked Tubby's outlet. QUICK! Run for a fork lift truck! Tubby's trousers must come off immediately! His exhaust is clogged with volcanic ash. We need a volunteer to go where no man,or indeed woman, has gone before and and remove the ash from Tubby's outlet."
Suddenly the ball of blubber leapt to his feet and said,
"Worry not,I was merely laughing at a joke Michael McGimpsy told me.
A man said to the doctor, Doctor I think I'm a jelly baby and the doctor
chewed the face of him."
Oh how we didn't laugh. Then! I heard a sound from the past. I looked at Tubby and cried,
"Corncrake?"
"No," said Tubby. "It's my mum,big Audrey learning to play the fiddle."
"Does mummy play by ear?" I asked.
"No," said Tubby. "She puts it under her chin!" Neither Tommy the cat,
Henry the hoover or she,who is known as Repulsiveness,could think of a
comment,so no comment was made.

Wednesday 5 May 2010

Back To The Future

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat said,that,such is your popularity,no cat would even consider kittling, between the hours of half past ten and twelve o'clock. High praise indeed. Unlike Tubby Nolan whose gulderings and slabbering bring on premature kittling. Tubby Nolan is known to the female,feline population as, The-Inducer. Tommy carefully removed a pane of glass, by hurling a brick through it and said,
"So, old belt and braces can't breathe when getting his eyes tested. Why should that be?"
"Onions," I said. "Mr Coyle is the premier onion eater in Stroke City. Mr Coyle's love of onions knows no bounds. he has been known to snatch an onion out of a baby's hand. In the Latin quarter of Stroke City,when they see Mr Coyle coming, the people throw up their hands and scream,
"Mamma-Mia, here comes old cheese and onion!"
"Tut-Tut," said Tommy. "What a legacy to leave to ones loved ones. Why, Mr Coyle is a veritable, mobile weapon of mass destruction."
"He is that!" I yelled. "And his choice of gansies is-puerile! Puerile in the extreme!"
Tommy peered at me like a young feline Fagan and lisped,
"Well, my pretty,who are you going to vote for on Thursday my dear?"
"JIM ALLISTER!" I yelled. "I like the cut of Jim's jib. Jim's jib appeals to me. Of all the jibs on show,Jim's jib stands out, as the jib with the WOW factor. Jim Alister," I yelled,"has a jib, by jingo, that would knock all other jibs into a cocked hat. So on Thursday, I shall vote-Jim Alister because I like the cut of Jim's jib."
Tommy rubbed his hands together and said,
"And tell me, my dear, what are Jim Alister's policies?"
"BACK TO THE FUTURE" I yelled. "On Friday morning, when Jim Allister gets the reins of power,the first thing he will do is reopen the Delorean factory and take us all back to the future,where wrongs shall be righted and a NEW-IMPROVED Northern Ireland created. A new Northern Ireland!" I yelled. "A land of peace and plenty. A land of milk and honey. A land of wee Fergie tractors and flat caps. A land of fresh milk and wee baps. A land of ploughing competitions and flower arranging. A land of flax mills and Sunday school. A land of virtuous, demure, young women and strong, sturdy young men with corduroy forks on their trousers. A land....."
"A LAND THAT TIME FORGOT1" cried Tommy.
"Exactly!" I yelled"Vote Jim Alister and walk proudly with head high, back into the past."
"And all because the lady liked the cut of Jim's jib," muttered Tommy.

Tuesday 4 May 2010

NAILING IT.

Great shows last week Kid,great shows made possible by the old,reliable water wheel at the side of Radio Foyle. If Radio Foyle ever gets hooked up to the national grid don't sell the water wheel for scrap. Slap a preservation order on that wheel. It helped turn out some great shows in its time.
"BIG WHEEL KEEPS ON TURNING. WEE KEN KEEPS ON GIRNING. ROLLING. ROLLING. ROLLING ON THE RIVER."
When Tommy my cat and I moved into this condemned hovel,imagine our surprise when we discovered a room upstairs. At first I thought of handing the room into the police,but Tommy said,
"Finders keepers. Let's keep the room and call it the spare room."
And that,as the man said,was what we did.
I listened to the low drone of Tommy practising the cello in the spare room.
Tommy was playing,Lionel Bart's,Fings ain't what they used to be. It was good,but Tommy hadn't nailed it. He hadn't made it his own. My trained ear, the one on the left,picked up where Tommy was going wrong. The feline was playing too soft and low.
I grabbed a map of the house,ran to the spare room,threw the door open and yelled,
"Tommy, it's too larghetto! Too soft and measured. Louder Tommy. Fortissimo, Fortissimo!"
"How dare you talk like that to me?" yelled Tommy.
And little Tommy, who had always been affettuoso, tender and affectionate, suddenly became agitato-agitated, passionato-impassioned and rather, pathetique-pathetic.
I relented, which is difficult to do with your shoes and tights on and ran to Tommy and gave him a big hug. Tommy smiled and his mood turned to allegretto, playful and vivacious. As I left the spare room I turned to Tommy and said,
"Tommy, please don't take this the wrong way,but the cello should be played between your knees and not under your chin."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "I have been lucky enough to see the noted cellist, Yehudi Menuhin, perform many times at the Black Box in Belfast and Carnegie Hall in Cullybaccy and NEVER!, NEVER!" yelled Tommy, "did Yehudi Menuhin play the cello between his knees. Yehudi Menuhin ALWAYS, ALWAYS, put the cello under his chin!"
"I bow to your superior musical knowledge Tommy," I said,as I left the spare room on my belly,like a soldier or a a very, very drunk man. I went to my bedroom,picked up my harpsichord,put it under my chin and played,I am the walrus, by the Beatles. As the harpsichord got heavier and heavier,the music began to lag. I looked at my sweating face in the mirror and yelled,
"Fortissimo! Fortissimo! For Pete's sake, Fortissimo, you ugly old bag!"
But alas,I failed to nail it. I did not make it my own. Later, when the harpsichord fell on me pinning me to the floor, I remember thinking before I blacked out,
"I bet this sort of thing doesn't happen to Yehudi Menuhin. JP McMenamin-Yes! But not Yehudi Menuhin."