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.