Tuesday 29 June 2010

Ode to the Po

Great show yesterday Kid. In the history of great shows, there are one or two, great shows which stand out.
The man looking for caravan windows.
The petrol can man.
The wood chip wall paper man.
Mr Coyle and bull-gate.
Great shows all. Great shows which will stand the test of time. But yesterday Mr Jordie Tuft gave a talk on chamber pots which had the people of Ulster on the edge of their seats. To hear old Jordie talk about pos was po-etry in motion. Old Jordie's great love for pos was obvious. As he spoke lovingly and romantically about, spraying, dripping, emptying and the liberal use of Jeyes Fluid.
"Old Jordie knows his pos," said Tommy my cat, as he did a Spanish dance on a floor covered with Jacob's cream crackers.
"Jordie is the Maradona of chamber pots," I cried, as I brought down a pedestrian at 1500 yards with my home made ray gun. Ah, I remember my first po. I cut open the box, pulled back the bubble wrap and there it lay. The Lord Nelson deluxe. Maritime scenes abounded and as I looked into the po, the smiling face of a little sailor stared up at me. I searched the bubble wrap frantically, but-alas, no instructions on how to use the po. I was then faced with a dilemma that all proud po owners are faced with. Do you go to the po, or bring the po to you? I tried both methods, making careful notes on spillage, drips and over-flows. At the end of the day, when all was said and done,I decided I would go to the po. This left my hands free, to play a musical instrument or shoo away blue bottles. Like a trumpet player, I soon developed a ring of hard skin on my bottom and now I can sit on a po until the cows come home. Like love, everyone remembers their first po. Over the years I have had more pos than you could shake a stick at. Yet, each night, you will find me on eBay searching, always searching for the Lord Nelson deluxe po and the smiling little sailor. That little mariner knows the contours of my bottom like the back of his hand.
WHERE HAS HE GONE? WHERE HAS THE LITTLE SAILOR-GONE?
(Cue the Coasters)
Well now if I have to swim a river, you know I will
And if I have to climb a mountain, you know I will
And if he's hiding up on, Blueberry hill
I'm gonna find that little sailor, you know I will.
I've been searching, gonna find him
I've been searching, gonna find him
I've been searching, gonna find him.
(Good night, God bless and safe home from Tommy and me.)

Monday 28 June 2010

Poster for Northern Ireland

Great show yesterday Kid. I see Mr Coyle is still in South Africa coaching the North Korean world cup football team. Failure to qualify could see Kim Jung banish the "Eye Brow" to a no star gulag. Oh the heat is killing me and Tommy my cat. Play something by Snow Patrol to cool us down. As I speak, Tommy is lying in a basin of cold water filled with ice cubes. The feline is naked, except for an Elizabethan mole skin cod piece.
Suddenly there was the clink of ice cubes and Tommy yelled,
"Two pos on the window sill! Two world war one rucksacks hanging from a tree! One chair sitting in the garden and three pair of old grey drawers hanging limply and sullenly from the clothes line! What a poster that would make for the Northern Ireland Tourist Board and the motto could be,
"COME TO ULSTER AND ENJOY A GOOD OLD FASHIONED SLASH!"
"Shut your gub you feline gulpin!" I yelled. "Old Jordie may not be a great Samaritan, but he is a GOOD Samaritan. What other house in Ireland would offer the weary traveller, a seat, a rucksack, the loan of a pair of drawers, good conversation and the choice of TWO pos to pee in?"
"Hairy gooseberries!" yelled Tommy. "If we are to compete with the rest of the world we need to get into the white hot heat of technology. I suggest the Tourist Board should commission a poster, showing a well groomed, competent shopkeeper utilising the top of the range bacon slicer in a corner shop in Clogher."
I couldn't let it lie. I went to the piano, played a few chords and said,
"I want to say a few words in defence of old Jordie.
Does not the big book say.
"Blessed are they who give help to the hefted for they shall be hefted too."
"Bacon slicer!" yelled Tommy
"Pos!" I roared.
"Bacon slicer!" screamed Tommy.
"Pos!" I shrieked.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Both ideas are good, but not right. I have just came from a meeting of the tourist board. The next Norn Iron Tourist Board poster will depict Tubby Nolan tucking into a big Ulster fry and underneath it will say,
"Come to Northern Ireland where the cholesterol is as high as an elephant's eye."
Jim screamed, "UP GLENTORAN-NIGH!" leaped on his bike and was gone.
"A strange fellow," said Tommy.
"Yes," I said. "but I find myself strangely attracted to him."
I spat on my hands and yelled,
"Pos!"
"Bacon slicer!" roared Tommy.
"Pos!" I shrieked.
"Bacon slicer!" screamed Tommy.
Meanwhile the sun, the cross community sun, shone down on Prod and Taig alike.
Oh, little, petite, dainty, oh so clean Frank Mitchell, is drawing up a list of ten houses with two pos on the window sill!
There's nowt as queer as folk!!!

Sunday 27 June 2010

ENGLAND-NIL

Hey Kid, it is with a sense of felicitous, happy-clapinessess, anticipation bordering on Zen, that Tommy my cat and I look forward to another week of great shows.
What would we do without great shows? Have you ever asked yourself that? What would be do without great shows? Watch the, "Blame Game"? NO! NAY! NEVER! This is Ulster. Not Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay.
Les Dennis asked one hundred people.
"What would you rather do than watch the Blame Game?"
99% said, "Get water boarded."
1% replied, "Don't know!"
And already fingers are being pointed at Edwin Poots!
After England and Algeria played out one of the most boring nil-nil draws in the history of football, Tommy my cat and I sat in a cardboard replica of the tower of London, in stunned disbelief. After a period of silence lasting five hours and four minutes Tommy said,
"What went wrong? That wasn't supposed to happen."
I ran to the door, threw seven and a half snipe eggs in quick succession towards Algeria, turned to a grief-stricken Tommy and said,
"The only thing I can put it down to, is--bad timing. England just happened to be playing football the same night Algeria were."
Tommy said,
"I don't blame, "Our Boys". It was plain, right from the kick-off, that Algeria were doing everything in their power to stop England from scoring."
"Who do Algeria think they are?" I yelled. "Don't they know, they are only there to make up the numbers? How dare they thwart mighty England in their quest for world cup glory?"
Tommy roared,
"If I were the foreign secretary and knew where Algeria was, I would send a gun boat post haste. And if Algeria has no shore line, I would put the gun boat on a low loader and drive it through the jungle."
I leaped to my feet, faced Buckingham Palace, saluted and cried.
"Tommy, you are a true son of John Bull. That was the biggest load of "Bull" I have heard in a long time".
Tommy waved his England scarf in the air and chanted,
"ENGLAND-NIL. ENGLAND-NIL. ENGLAND-NIL. COME ON, ENGLAND-NIL!"
And soon the whole of Belfast joined in, especially those of a Taigish disposition.
"England-nil. England-Nil. Chuckie-ar-la!"
P.S. What is wrong with Wayne Rooney?
The lad looked confused, concerned and-constipated!

Saturday 26 June 2010

Put Tommy Down.

Great show yesterday Kid. It was a well-made, little show and the only great show this year, that had a profile of Emma on the wrapper. I never knew Emma used to be a blacksmith, or used to go rambling for nuts in May. Emma really should go rambling for nuts in October. That's when the nuts ripen. I bit into Tuesday's great show and was surprised and knocked for six, to see "Radio Ulster" written all the way through it. How do they do that? I suppose its some kind of black magic or voodoo that Mickey Bradley picked up, while travelling with the Undertones. I was talking to a Londonderryaire and he said,
"Mickey Bradley goes through a fierce lot of chickens. The slightest little dispute with himBradley he resorts to the dead chicken nailed to your front door and the beat of the drums all night.".
"OH, Mr Bradley, with these dead chooks you are spoiling us!"
After weighing up the pros and cons, I sent the cons back to jail, the pros back to the street, and sent for Tommy my cat.
"Tommy," I said, in broken china. "The books don't add up. We are in deep monetary do-do. We are up a certain creek without a paddle and it grieves me to say it, but Tommy, to save money---I must put you down."
Tommy never shook, shivered, or quivered. He stood toe to toe with me and yelled,
"Too late! I have decided to put you down!"
"Put me down?" I said. "If there's any putting down in this house, then YOU, Tommy cat, will be down, after I get someone to do the putting."
"No, No" yelled Tommy. "Down I shall be putting you. I am not the one that is going down. You are the one that is going down, after I put you down. And down I will put you."
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "UP DOWN! No one is going down. I have been sent by Belfast council to offer you, BOTH of you, the post of village idiot."
"I accept!" yelled Tommy. "I shall do the night shift."
"And I shall do my idioting by day!" I cried.
The moral is, if you're a right idiot, you never shall be put down. Ask Tubby Nolan, Bobby Davro, Colin Murphy, Gazza, Freddy Starr, George Bush, Mad Frankie Frazier.,Wee, crazy as a loon, Joe Horselips Mc Zimmerframe. NO! Scrub that! Wee Joe was put down and about time too!

Wednesday 23 June 2010

Missing The Interruptions

Great show yesterday Kid. The show had that certain something. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I think it's my back. You know the part of your body that isn't your front? Even after three days and knowing full well that Mr Coyle is spending some time in North Korea with Kim Jong, some North Koreans have christened Mr Coyle, the lodger from hell, because he and Kim sit up half the night doing Elvis impersonations and knocking back pints of Guinness. Even after knowing all that, part of me, some evil, deformed, perverted part of me, still misses the interruptions. And not just me. Tommy my cat yelled out yesterday,
"Mien Gott, is no one going to impede Gerry's conversational flow?"
Today, as I was rolling on the floor over something you said, I looked at Tommy and looked back again in horror. A change had come over the feline. His face was swollen up and one large eye brow covered his little yellow slitted eyes. Tommy looked dark and swarthy, the dead spit of Bill Sykes. I heard a rattle in Tommy's legs. 'Twas the dreaded rickets. Looking back at me was not the happy face of Tommy my cat, but the vicious visage of--Sean Thaddeaus Coyle!
Then the "Thing" that was not Tommy yelled out to the radio,
"When you were young did you wear short trousers? Do you know what I saw on TV last night? What kind of man was your father? What was the highest number of lodgers to ever stay in your house? Do you put salt AND pepper on your poundies?"
Then the horrible invader contorted its evil face and yelled,
"I had a dream last night!"
"Well have another!" I roared
And I hit the thing that was not Tommy over the head with a bronze statue of Queen Julianna of the Netherlands.
(Janet, will you please turn the page)
"Do you hear me mother?" roared Tubby Nolan to big Audrey.
"Do you hear me mother? I will NOT wear that horrid, red and black striped gansy you bought me. It makes me look like Dennis the Menace."
And Tubby stamped his foot, sending paving slabs flying out into the middle of the road. I put a halter on the Blimp and led him away before a hit squad from the DOE arrived.
"Calm down fat boy," I said, placing a hand on his quivering flank.
"It's mummy," said Tubby. "She thinks I'm still her little boy."
"Has she tried Specsavers?" I asked.
"I'm a big boy now," said Tubby.
"You certainly are!" yelled a bus load of nuns on their way to Knock.
Tubby dragged me into Fred Blogg's Chinese take-a-way and soon Tubby's chubby hands were ferrying oodles of noodles to his rose bud mouth.
Steven looked at Fred Bloggs and said,
"Fred, are you Chinese?"
"Nah son," replied Fred. "Fred Bloggs is not from China, but my mother's tea set is!"
Tubby shrugged and went back to noodle oodling.

Monday 21 June 2010

Smoke and Mirrors

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat blew up a balloon with a controlled explosion, turned to me and said,
"NOW THAT'S the kind of great show I like! 100% Gerry. No added flavouring OR Mr Coyle."
"Perhaps I'm getting odd in my senility," I said, "but I missed old flog 'em and hang 'em. There was a time yesterday morning, when I would have given anything for a good, COOEE!"
"Good COOEE my scrawny, furry ass!" said Tommy. "I didn't get where I am by looking for, COOEES. I am a self made cat. Anything I have, I worked for. I'm full of GRIT! Do you hear me? I'm full of grit and determination. My motto is, where there's muck, there's brass and where there's brass, there's-monkeys. I was just saying to Sir Alan Sugar the other day..........."
I shut Tommy up by knocking him out with a sock full of Pringle crisps. Eeh, feline went down like a bag of spanners an' lay on back, staring up at ceiling like a bewitched, bothered and bewildered Michelangelo.
"Eeh by gum," I said as I rubbed Dobbin into hobnailed boots, stuck ferret down front of trousers and went out to feed pigeons. AYE! feed pigeons and look at dark satanic mills. Eeh by gum. Them mills don't half get dark and satanic. Mother and I put it down to global warming thou knows!
"Has anybody seen our Eli? E-L-Dub-a-dub-I?
Eli from Huddersfield. Take it away Bert on spoons!"
"I feel-adventurous," said Tubby Nolan, as he lay in his hammock, snacking from a wheelbarrow of prawn cocktail crisps and sipping from a five gallon drum of Mi-Wadi orange.
"I think I shall ask the big cheddar cheese at the BBC to send me to the midst of the Amazon rain forest, to convert the cannibal, flesh-eating pygmies into vegans.
Just think what a TV programme that would make!
"Day four, and the pygmies are still nibbling at Nolan's toes. Steven has just three days left to turn the hungry pygmies on to the joys of soya. Can the intrepid explorer DO IT?"
"You'll be eaten Tubby!" I yelled. "It may take five or six months, but you'll be eaten down to the marrow of your bones.".
"RUBBISH!" yelled Tubby. "I shall have a fifty man camera crew with me and I will be working with house trained pygmies hired from an agency."
"So that's how its done!" I yelled. "Do you mean to tell me, that Bear Grylls, Michael Palin and Yvette Fielding are never in any danger?"
"Of course not," said Tubby. "Celebrities may be thick, but they're not buck stupid."
"Smoke and mirrors!" I yelled. "The whole thing is a con. You'll be telling me next, that Sean Coyle did not fondle a bull at the Balmoral show."
"NOW that is true," giggled Tubby. "Coyle wanted a pay rise, but the BBC decided to let the lad fulfill a life time fantasy instead."
"WHERE'S THE JEYES FLUID?" I yelled. "I shook hands with the "Eye-brow" last week!"
Oh the things you learn about people, when you talk to a fat man in a hammock.

Is there a Pattern Emerging?

Great shows last week Kid and, if the good Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, we can look forward to a pride of great shows this week.
Tommy my cat and I sat on two burros, wearing ponchos and sombreros, cheering on Mexico, our adopted team in the world cup. When the match ended in a one all draw, I looked at Tommy and said,
"Well, Senor Tommy, is that one point gained, or two points lost?"
Tommy bared his teeth, gave a horrible, Mexican laugh and yelled,
"Points! I don't need your stinking points.I spit on your feelthy points!"
I would not describe Tommy as a football hooligan, but the feline does have all the attributes of a football gulpin. I watched as Tommy dismounted from his burro and rearranged the fork of his little lovat trousers. I could see he was angry. I decided to let the feline cool down, so I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him under the cold tap for seventeen and a half minutes. (As recommended in the Geneva convention for wayward cats and dogs.)
"Tommy," I said, "I heard the South African crowd chant, "Bafana. Bafana." What does-Bafana mean Tommy?"
Tommy gave himself a shake, sending water and fleas everywhere and replied,
"Bafana is a Zulu word. A literal translation of Bafana,Bafana would be, Boys, Our boys."
I looked out the window and said,
"Tommy, come and look at the gang of little hooded Bafanas throwing stones at our condemned hovel!"
To which Tommy wittily replied,
"Once you've seen one hooded Bafana in Belfast, you've seen them all."
Like people who wear watches, Tommy and I found ourselves with time on our hands,
so we decided to channel hop, in the hope we would see the fat man singing, "Go Compare."
Imagine our joy, when in the space of fifty minutes, we came upon the fat, mustachioed Italian tenor roaring, "GO COMPARE", 257 TIMES!!!
Our coffee mugs runneth over and we gave praise and glory to bonny Lord Laird. (The Thane of Tullywhisker)
After the England America match I looked at Tommy and said,
"Another one all draw. I see a pattern emerging here."
Tommy, who was dressed as a miniature uncle Sam, complete with stove pipe hat said,
"I claim a moral victory and as for your goalkeeper, he really was a bit--green."
I stood there, dressed as a pearly Queen and said,
"Tommy, I hope this will not affect the special relationship between Britain and the US."
"Not at all," drawled Tommy, "to America, Britain will always be "Special". Did we not take you by the hand and lead you into two wars in the Middle East?"
I stood there with tears in my eyes, wax in my ears, no brains in my head and yelled.
"GOD BLESS AMERICA!"
I crawled, grovelled abjectly in a sycophantic, Uriah-Heapish way and muttered,
"Sorry about the trouble with BP."
"Don't worry kid," drawled Tommy, "your British bees can pee in the Gulf of Mexico anytime."
I yelped like a poodle and rolled over on my back so my tummy could be tickled.

Sunday 20 June 2010

Should She Stay Or Should She Go?

Great show yesterday Kid. When I heard, "Hit the road Jacques" sung in French, I nudged Tommy my cat with a baguette and cried, "C'est tordant affreux!"
It wasn't really a French baguette, just a pan loaf that Tubby Nolan sat on.
For some reason, maybe it was the reception I was getting on my radio, Mr Coyle came across as almost human! And the girls? Ah, I could smell their perfume. Janet was wearing, Allure and Emma,Hot and Sultry. Mr Coyle reeked of strong, carbolic soap.
And if I'm not mistaken, you were wearing a very expensive cologne called, Yak L'amore Juice, made exclusively by a reclusive family of one-legged, red- haired dwarfs, who reside in a secret valley in Tibet.
I looked at Tommy my cat who was playing, Smoke on the water on his Calliope. Even the dogs in the street know that a Calliope is a keyboard musical instrument similar to an organ, with a set of whistles operated by steam or compressed air.
It doesn't make much sound on its own, but when Tommy plugs his Calliope into a Marshall stack it sure does rock.
I attracted his attention by throwing an Iranian turnip at his head and began a conversation thus,
"Tommy," I began, "where do you stand on the most important question facing the world today. Should Christine Bleakley stay with the BBC or move to ITV?"
Tommy beckoned a wino to him, scratched the wino's head and said,
"Could you not ask me something more difficult such as how to stop the Icelandic volcano or how to plug the massive BP oil spill in the gulf of Mexico?"
"Don't be a precious, precocious little pussy!" I yelled. "What should Christine Bleakley do? Should she stay, or should she GO?"
Tommy picked up the bagpipes, played, tThe Bonny Wee Maid From Fife and replied in the following manner,
"Christine Blakeley," said Tommy, "is like a race horse approaching Beecher's Brook. Whereever she jumps, there could be trouble. Take GMTV first. A very early start. No night life and she may have to talk to Bobby Davro! If Christine stays with the BBC, what vehicle will the BBC come up with, to display her skill and personality? Cook with Christine? Holiday with Christine? Walk the Pennine Way with Christine?. The return of, Blankety-Blank with-Christine? The vehicle a television company puts you in, is of the utmost importance. Just ask the Madleys. Old Judie has only been seen popping out to the off-licence since her show flopped.
As Judie slowly makes her way home carrying two plastic bags she keeps muttering to herself,
"That's the way to do it! That's the way to do it!"
I broke a red Dungannon brick over my head and cried,
"This is serious Tommy! if you were Christine Blakeley what would you DO?"
Tommy made a big pot of Hungarian goulash and said,
"I would stay with the BBC, but hold out for Newsnight, or permanent host of, Have I got news for you."
"What about the, "Blame Game?" I yelled
"OH NO!" cried Tommy. "OH NO! Christine would only get the blame for "THAT" game!"
I concurred, curtsied, cried and collapsed.
And so would you, had you been there!

Friday 18 June 2010

The Bogeyman and Moby Dick

Great show yesterday Kid. A panting, sweating Tubby Nolan handed you the baton and you were off like a greyhound.
"Go Gerry-GO!" yelled Tommy my cat.
After the great show, Tommy and I sat down for the after match discussion. Alas, Alan Hanson couldn't make it. His plane was turned away from the George Best airport because of an earwig on the runway.
"Tommy cat," I said, "what are your thoughts about that great show?"
Tommy sat there in his canary, yellow, cashmere sweater and said,
"I agree it was a great show, but it could have been a better great show, if Mr. Coyle and the girls could not be heard giggling and, YES! it has to be said, tittering in the background."
"Just what goes on in that room?" I yelled. "What goes on between Mr Coyle, or should I say, gamekeeper Mellors and the fine, buxom wenches who work there?"
"Unspeakable naughty things," said Tommy.
"Ken told me that what goes on in that room, would knock old Nero and his Roman shenanigans into a cocked hat."
"I don't blame the girls," I said. "The girls have fallen under the spell of Salvador Dali Coyle and his huge, waxed eye brow."
"Did you know," said Tommy, "that 87% of young sprogs and rug-rats see Mr Coyle as the bogeyman? Young busy mothers have to open the wardroom door at bedtime and say,
"See dear, no Mr Coyle hiding in there." before they rush down stairs again and get stuck into the wine.
I snorted like a Clydesdale horse and said,
"Mr Coyle should be on a pay-to-view channel, hosting the Degeneration game.
"How do we know he isn't?" said Tommy, with a crafty look on his face.
Could Tommy have found a way round the parental control on my Sky box?
"Like Ulster," said Tubby Nolan, "I find myself at a crossroads."
I looked at Tubby, sitting in his garden, wearing a massive string vest and a pair of electric blue speedos. The oval one was eating a bucket of Muller's yogurt with a big wooden spoon.
"Orson Wells," said Tubby, "Sydney Greenstreet, Oliver Hardy, Fatty Ardbuckle, Tessie O'Shay. All rotund men who made it big in films. I feel," said Tubby, "that motion pictures will be my next career choice. In fact, my agent just phoned to say I have been offered a big part in a remake of a famous film."
"What is the film called?" I asked with a trembling lip
"MOBY DICK!" cried Tubby, with a proud look on his full moon face.
I looked at all the blubber on Tubby.
"How could Ishmael miss THAT?"

Thursday 17 June 2010

Pragmatic to the core.

Great show yesterday Kid. Yesterday being ancient Rome day, Tommy my cat and I listened to the show wearing very short togas. We both had laurel leaves in our hair as we lay beside a portable vomitorium bought from the Argos catalogue. We splashed out and bought the chrome, Super 500A vomitorium, which comes with folding legs and twin plug holes for quicker emptying.
Tommy boaked into the Super 500A and said,
"The ancient Romans must have been veritable newts. When it came to wine they would lash it into you Cynthia."
"The Roman god of wine was called Bacchus," I gasped, as I too spewed into the Super 500A. "He was depicted as bald, fat, nearly naked pouring out a pitcher of wine."
"That description," said Tommy, "could apply to most winos in Belfast."
I concurred and then collapsed.
All afternoon Tommy sat fiddling with his calculator. At seven minutes past five he threw it from him and cried,
"APOCALYPSE-NIGH! According to my calculations, which, by the way, are backed up by the Wall Street Journal and the Economist, American is in debt to the sum of 14 trillion dollars. Next year the debt is expected to rise to a figure greater than the net worth of America, leaving poor old uncle Sam bankrupt!"
"Great balls of flibbertigibbets! " I yelled. "What will happen THEN? Is it the end of conversation as we know IT?"
"Not at all," replied Tommy. "America is in hock to China. The Chinese will simply take over America, Europe and, in time-Northern Ireland."
"GOOD!" I yelled. "Maybe the Chinese will get their finger out and do something about the Maze site AND the John Lewis situation in Lisburn."
Nil desperandum!" yelled Tommy
"On this day I feel the hand of history on my shoulder and I am proud to stand here and say, "I, too, am a Chineser."
Pragmatic is Tommy. Pragmatic to the core!

Wednesday 16 June 2010

No More Repeats.

Great shows last week Kid. Great shows which cleared the deck for the World Cup and Big Brother. Tommy my cat crawled out from under the old, bullnose, Morris car he has been doing up for the past 27 years, cleaned his oily, greasy hands on my face and said,
"Hey, Al Jolson, I suppose Gerry's gog is all agog as he plans "Special" shows to celebrate the World Cup and the last ever, Big Brother."
"It's going to be a great Summer," I cried. "Thanks to the World Cup and Big Brother, we won't have to watch another repeat of, "Last of the Summer wine" until September."
Tommy whacked me over the head with a big spanner and said,
"What a pity Northern Ireland Nil will not be represented at the World Cup."
"Northern Ireland Nil have only themselves to blame," I yelled. "Northern Ireland Nil are unable to understand, that the main purpose in football is to score more goals than the other team."
"I fear it is too late for Northern Ireland Nil to change their tactics now," said Tommy. "But unlike England, Northern Ireland Nil have been very lucky regarding injuries, apart from the goal keeper, who slipped a disc lifting the ball out of the back of the net."
"Will you be watching Big Brother Tommy?" I said, as I plucked a pound of special mince prior to making Irish stew.
"I will," replied Tommy, "but only as a social, anthropology experiment. The Big Brother house is a microcosm of the world. Yet every year, people are shocked and surprised when the house mates, divide into groups and squabble and fight. FORGETTING," yelled Tommy, "that in God's Big Brother house, viz a vie the world, wars are raging and people will die to defend a border line drawn on a map."
I gazed at the impassioned pussy in wonder and awe.
Tommy kicked a turnip through the window and said,
"Brenda Behan once said,
"If there were only three Irish men left in the world, two of them would be in a corner talking about the other one."
"The old triangle," I said
"Went jingle jangle," said Tommy.
"Along the banks of the Royal canal!" roared Steven Nolan, as he stuck his massive head in the broken window.
"Patrick Kavanagh," said Tommy, "he of the poems you know and all that malarkey, said a man threw him into the Royal canal. Most Dubliners and the Furey brothers think Patrick fell into the canal after drinking too much of the great malt, which wounds, which wounds. The man blamed for throwing Patrick Kavanagh into the canal said,
"I am not the man who threw Paddy Kavanagh into the Royal canal, but the man I would like to get my hands on, is the fellow who pulled the old tube out!"
"Don't go spreading that story about Tommy," I said "It will get arts and culture a bad name and the Arts council will come down on you like a ton of bricks."
"Mum's the word," said Tommy, going outside to retrieve the turnip for the Irish stew.

Friday 11 June 2010

Parity of Esteem

Great show yesterday Kid. I looked at Tommy my cat who was melting some strawberry jelly in hot water and said,
"Tommy, my old Comanchero, was that not a great, great show?"
Tommy flipped the butt of his cigarette into the melting jelly and replied,
"It grieves me and saddens me, but I can not, in all honesty, describe the show we just heard as a great show."
I reeled back, like a man who had caught his braces on a door knob and cried,
"Not a great show? Tommy, we have always agreed that all the Gerry shows are great shows."
"I know," said Tommy, "but this time I cannot concur. My heart is heavy," said Tommy, "My brain is in turmoil and my innards are all a quiver,but I can not, I will not, agree, that today's show was a great show. Because of my deep feelings for Gerry, I will go so far as to state, it was a middling show."
"A middling show!" I exploded. "By the red flannel drawers of Maggie Taggart have you lost your cotton picking mind?"
"I have not lost my cotton or polyester picking mind!" yelled Tommy. "What I expect from Gerry and the BBC is parity of esteem. Today's show was all about the canine species. Not one word about felines. Not a dicky bird about pussy cats. DISCRIMINATION!" screamed Tommy."Blatant, naked DISCRIMINATION!"
I looked at little Tommy, so sad, so downcast, so knocked into a heap.
"Have a sweet Tommy!" I yelled, taking a brandy ball out of my mouth and handing it to the deflated pussy.
"No thank you," replied Tommy. "I couldn't eat a thing. I think I'll go to bed and cry into my pillow."
THEN! an orange-faced Steven Nolan burst into the room.
"I came as soon as I heard Tommy!" roared the oval man. "How are you holding up?"
"Not too well," whispered Tommy. "I feel --unwanted. I feel like a fart in a diver's helmet. I think I will toddle off to bed and cry myself to sleep."
"Look at the shape Anderson has left that poor lump of a cat in!" roared Tubby.
"Anderson is dog mad. I saw the lovely Sarah Travers offer Anderson a piece of her Kit-Kat one day and Anderson yelled,
"Oh matron, take it away!"
Don't you worry Tommy lad!" roared Tubby. "When I return on Monday I will devote the entire show to pussy cats."
Then I saw Tubby glance at the bowl of jelly.
"Ah, jelly!" cried Tubby. "My favourite beverage. May one have a little sip?"
Tubby put the bowl to his gub and swallowed half the jelly,
He who is fashioned after the egg, smacked his lips and said,
"A cheeky little jelly, fruity, with just a hint of..........."
"Nicotine," I said.
"Yes," said Tubby."Nicotine, and if I'm not mistaken, it's Benson and Hedges."
Then Lardo put the bowl to his mouth and finished the jelly.
The fat boy burped, gave a belly gurgle and was sick all over me.
On my way back from the car wash, I went into the Linen Hall library and bought Tommy a lucky bag. You will never guess what was in it. A little plastic dog! Tommy went completely haywire and had to be super-glued to the bed for his own safety!
Mind your backs! Mind your backs! Let the man with the unicorn through.

Diamonds Are Not Forever.

Great show yesterday Kid. It was a well set up wee show. It was a neat, tidy little show. The kind of show you would take home to meet mummy.
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the heels and pulled him out from behind the washing machine where he had been pretending to be a lost sock.
I sat him down on a Queen Ann bean bag and said,
"Tommy, did you hear Mr Coyle complaining about not having a screen?"
"I did!" yelled Tommy. "And I must say I was filled with great loathing and high octane revulsion."
"Who does Mr Coyle think he is?" I screamed. "Graham Norton?"
"Thank goodness for Ken," said Tommy. "Armed only with his trusty screwdriver, Ken made a dawn raid on the inner sanctum and left Mr Coyle-screenless."
"Kudos to Ken!" I yelled. "I know why Mr Coyle wants a screen. He wants to watch Jeremy Kyle while poor Gerry is slogging his guts out putting on a show."
"What a bad boy Mr Coyle has turned into!" said Tommy. "Oh, by the by, talking about early morning shows, did you know that the only place to see Ann Diamond is on the Matthew Wright show on Channel Five?"
I lifted my leg high in the air and said,
"Little Ann Diamond? That's a blast from the past. Little perky, cheeky, round-eyed Ann Diamond. I haven't seen her for monkey's years. What does she look like, Tommy, what does Ann Diamond look like? I gotta know. I just gotta know!"
Tommy opened the door. A smart Rhode Island hen marched up the floor and laid a wreath in front of the fireplace. Tommy blew the last second class post on his bugle and bellowed,
"Age has indeed withered her and the years condemned. Gravity," yelled Tommy, "has played havoc with her visage! Ann Diamond," yelled Tommy,"looks like an old boot, an old, baseball catchers mitt, a chamois leather than has been left out in the sun, the inside of a kangaroo's pouch. Gravity," screamed Tommy, "has pulled Ann Diamond's face hither and thither! Remember her cute, little, cupid, rosebud mouth? All gone. Her mouth has turned down to such an extent, the only way she can eat soup, is by wearing a sou' wester."
"And is she still opinionated Tommy?" I asked.
"Oh yes," replied Tommy, "and in my opinion has moved to the right. No matter what the discussion is, Ann Diamond is always to be found on the high moral ground. She grimaces, or girns out of the TV screen and says things like,
"WELL! My children don't do that!
WELL! My husband doesn't do that!
Or, WELL! My gardener has never flashed at ME!"
"I bet he has," I said, "when her back was turned, from the shelter of the cucumber patch.
Gardeners, in my opinion, are earthy, lusty sons of the soil.
Why, for a gardener not to flash, is akin to a dog that will not bark!"
"Bow Wow!" said Tommy.

Wednesday 9 June 2010

A Free State with New Lords

Great shows last week Kid; five great shows which had Sony Award written all over them. You really should take the box of crayons away from Mr Coyle. It is not generally known, but Mr Coyle was the first man to write, "Free Derry" on a gable wall. It was not patriotic fervour which inspired Mr Coyle. Oh no! Oh no! Oh dearie me-no! It was the looters, staggering home burdened down with TVs and Burton's suits. At half past ten on the morning of April 2nd 1971, Mr Coyle came up with a humdinger of a political slogan which read thus.
" WE THE PEOPLE DEMAND A STATE WHERE ALL ARE EQUAL UNDER THE LAW.
A STATE WHERE MEN AND WOMEN CAN WALK FREE WITHOUT FEAR OF INJUSTICE.
A STATE WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME AND THEY'RE ALWAYS GLAD YOU CAME.
A STATE WHERE A MAN CAN EAT A SAUSAGE SUPPER IN PEACE. A STATE WHERE BLIND BATS SWOOP. A STATE WHERE DOGS ARE GIVEN FREE LEGAL AID. A STATE WHERE GOLFERS ARE NOT LAUGHED AT. A STATE AT PEACE WITH ITSELF. A STATE WHERE A MAN MAY STATE WHATEVER HE WISHES TO STATE IN THAT STATE.
OH, AND FREE EYE TREATMENT TOO."
Mr Coyle picked up a brush and a tin of black paint, but was unable to find a gable wall big enough to write his slogan on. After that he was never the same. He took to pulling clumps of hair out of his head and yelling, "STALL THE WEDDING!"
Eamon McCann could see that Mr Coyle was suffering from post traumatic stress. It was then Eamon McCann gently took the stones out of Mr Coyle's hands and pockets and sent him home to rest. For three years Mr Coyle lay in bed yelling,
"I did my bit! Hey girl, I been down to the river and paid my dues!"
As the coolie on the bike delivered the Tokyo Chronicle, I read the banner headline and yelled,
"He's only gone and done it! The Rev, Doctor Ian Paisley, is now Lord Paisley!"
"Tommy pulled my forelock and cried,
"Well done Governor! I knows my place. My place is to look up full of 'umbleness at the Peers of the Realm."
"Ian Paisley," I said, as I bricked up a wall where I would hang his Lordship's portrait. "Ian Paisley is like Frank Sinatra. Both hate the Kennedy family and both of them did it, "Their Way". Ian Paisley has no regrets. I heard him say that recently to Noel Thompson, who was wearing a cast on his arm after falling over YET another stile in the Mournes."
Tommy drank a bottle of brandy, burped and said,
"Do you not think the Russian hat was a bit of a faux pas, a faux pas that could have lead to a united Ireland?"
"Poppycock and fiddle sticks!" I yelled. "Ian Paisley is a big man. A big man can get away with wearing a Russian hat or a wind propeller on his head. Now, had it been Hugo Duncan!!!"
Tommy began to giggle and replied,
"Can you imagine little, tiny,teenie Hugo Duncan with a big Russian hat on his head?
Why it would look like an egg cosy."
I took another brick out of the wall, parcelled it up, addressed it to Pink Floyd and cried,
"If Strabane's smallest dared to wear a Russian hat on his head, the fashion police would come down on him like a ton of bricks and the wee man would end his days in a Russian gulag."
"Gulag?" said Tommy. "That's a funny name,Gu-lag. Is that where we get the term, old lag, meaning a long term prisoner?"
"Indeed it is, my fine spotted dick," I replied merrily. "And did you know that the first old lag in a Gulag was Irish?"
"I did not," said Tommy. "Please relate the circumstances as to how this strange state of affairs came about."
"It was the year 1547," I said. "Paddy Murphy from the Glenties, a self employed stone mason and part time ballerina, was on holiday cycling around Russia. It was an awful cold Winter. As Paddy cycled past the palace of Tsar Ivan Muscovite singing, "Mother McCree" he hit a patch of black ice and went flying over the handlebars. As poor Paddy lay there, Tsar Muscovite looked out from his palace window and laughed at him. Paddy, a man who had been thrown out of more public houses than Jordie Tuft, lost the bap and yelled,
"Hi you tube, why don't you grit this road or get the snow plough out?"
The police pounced. Paddy was dragged into a field and before you could say, "Another vodka and white please," a big Gulag was build round Paddy."
"History!" said Tommy. "I find history amazing, brilliant and boring. They do say," said Tommy, "that history belongs to the victors."
"Rubbish!" I yelled. "History belongs to David Starkey."
I then ran at the wall with my head, broke through into an entry, where I found six winos playing, Ring-a-ring-a-Rosie. Who says there is no night life in Belfast???
Oh to see Lord John Preston dressed in ermine, eating a pie and calling for HP sauce in the House of Lords!

Friday 4 June 2010

A Storm in a Gravy Boat.

Great show yesterday Kid. Yesterday's show reminded me of little, well dressed men you see on a frosty Autumn morning, coming out of the newsagent's with the Newsletter under their arm. Their little shoes are shining, they have razor sharp creases on their little trousers, they wear kid gloves, a muffler and a flat cap. These clean, neat, tidy, little men never stop to talk to anyone. Home they go to a little apple-faced wife, who is wearing a white starched apron, baking an apple cake or drowning kittens in the sink. Who are these little men? And what do they want?
Noticing a window on the wall that wasn't there last night. I thought I would make use of it by looking out of it and there, in the garden was Tommy my cat. Tommy had just planted an acorn and was standing with hands on hips waiting for it to grow.
I tapped the window and yelled,
"Tommy, don't go climbing that tree while my back is turned."
Incandescent was the colour Tommy turned.
He came bursting into the house, like Sean Coyle's bull and roared,
"Why must you ruin everything? Why must you shatter all my dreams? Why can I not run my own life? You make everything I do turn into ashes. My dancing career? Ashes. My acting career? Ashes! Why yesterday, even the dinner you served up tasted of-ashes."
"That was ashes," I replied. "I had run out of Bisto."
"Run out of BISTO?" screamed Tommy. "What sort of person runs out of-Bisto? A house should be built around-Bisto. Bisto should be the first thing carried into a new home from the removal van. And yet," yelled Tommy, with his eyes leaping out of his head and the veins on his temple throbbing, "you ran out of--Bisto! What are you like?" hissed Tommy. "What are you like-eh? A creature!" cried Tommy.
"That's what you are. A slimy, creepy, repulsive, vile,cold blooded, loathsome creature, who has crawled out from some putrid cesspool of filth and decay."
"Stop bring up my Ballymena background!" I yelled.
"Come out to the back yard!" yelled Tommy.
"You what?" I said.
"You heard me!" roared Tommy. "Come out to the back yard and bring your face with you, because I'm going to brust it."
The last time Tommy and I fought,I ended up in very, very intensive care. I had to find a way to get out of the fight.
"Tommy!" I cried. "I know what Sean Coyle is looking for tonight."
"I care not a fig for Coylers or his wishes,wants or desires!" yelled Tommy. "Come out to the back yard!"
But the seed had been planted. I decided to add a little Wonder-Grow.
"Tommy," I said, "Sean Coyle is looking for something very special tonight and I know what it is."
Tommy stopped. His ears stood up straight on his head and his tail thrashed about like a snake.
I waited. Tommy turned and said,
"OK. What is Mr Coyle looking for tonight?"
"A little bit of Bully!" I yelled.
Then Jim Rodgers leaped out from the broom cupboard and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! You get nothing in this game for two in a shed."
It was the icing on the cake. It was the final touch. It was the end game. Tommy threw back his head and laughed and laughed. That was just before he knocked me out with a left hook up the kisser.
And all because the cat loves--BISTO!

Tuesday 1 June 2010

Luddites and Lignite

Great show yesterday Kid. A show, if I'm not mistaken, that had its face washed and hair combed by Janet, just before Micky Bradly yelled.
"Quiet in the studio please! Three-Two-One and-ACTION!" The show had, as Patrick Kavanagh would say, merit and proved that arts and culture was very much alive, West of the Bann.
Tommy looked at me, like only a cat can who is dismantling a live hand grenade can and said,
"Herr Coyler gave short shift to that poor man with the golfing story. Why was that? Do tell. One JUST has to know."
I readjusted my jet pack and replied,
"Huston! we have a problem." I then went on.
"The story was new, topical and up to date. Mr Coyle hates anything-new. Had the story been about making a pair of moleskin britches out of weasel skins back in the 1920's, Mr Coyle would have been all over it like a rash."
Tommy pulled a wee, red thing out of the hand grenade cried, "OOPS!" and quickly replaced it again. After the house didn't blow up, Tommy said,
Are you implying that Mr Coyle is a-Luddite?"
"I am!" I yelled. "Oh, how Mr Coyle would like to pick up his sledge hammer and go on an orgy of destruction. In the course of a night, Mr Coyle would smash every computer, mobile phone, photocopier and gameboy in the province."
"Lor love a duck!" said Tommy, picking up a very ugly, cross-eyed mallard drake and giving it a big kiss right on the beak.
"There is another word," said Tommy.
"There are many words," I replied.
"Another word that sounds like Luddite," said Tommy. "I think it is the name of a brown coal found in great quanties in Ulster and surrounding districts."
"LIGNITE!" I screamed. "Don't get me started on-Lignite. Fifty years ago a man came on TV and said,
"People of Ulster. Sit back. Relax ay voo and let it all hang out. I bring tidings of great joy. We have just discovered that Ulster is build on millions of tons of-lignite. Lignite is a brown coal found close to the surface. Our fuel problems are over. Lignite can be used as a coal, or converted into gas, petrol, moisturizer and margarine."
And what happened?" cried Tommy.
"ZILCH! I yelled. "Diddly Squat! Nothing! Experts found out that Lignite burns up faster than an old, dry wig of Dicky Rock and is not worth the trouble of mining."
"So," said Tommy, "there it sits. Lignite, a big pile of brown stuff."
"And that's what Lignite is!" I screamed. "A great big pile of-brown stuff."
I watched as Tommy opened a window and released the defused hand grenade back into the wild.
"Fly my little one," said Tommy. "Fly back to the flock of defused hand grenades that are swooping back and forwards over Tubby Nolan's house."
Plenty of crumbs at Tubby's house for hungry hand grenades.
Tubby is indeed the Saint Francis of hand grenades.
You got to love him. You just got to love him.