Great shows this week kid. Tommy my cat sat beside the radio dressed as Lady Godiva and whimpered,
"What a sad day this is! Deary, deary me. What a sad, sad day."
I sat in the corner weeping, surrounded by scores of gnashing false teeth. I was blubbering into a pair of Crisp and Dry adult diapers. I blew my nose-"HONK!" and said,
"Sadness has overcome me like- like a cloud of frogspawn and left me bereft of joy and merriment. Amen, amen I say onto you, I have never felt so sad, since the day my late daddy peed on a high-voltage, electric cable. They never found him. He was incinerated in a blinding, urine-perfumed flash."
"I remember the headline in the Sunday World." said Tommy.
"Flasher hoist by his own pee-tard."
"I still remember dearest mummy's last words," I sighed.
"Put it away Percy!" she screamed. "PUT IT AWAY!"
But put it away, dear daddy did not and soon there was nothing left to put away."
Suddenly Tommy threw himself on the floor, began to kick and fling and screamed,
"Ah Gerry, Gerry, Gerry! Don't go! In the name of all that's holy, DON'T GO! Don't leave this lump of a cat, who loves you like a mother. AAH! 'tis sad my old heart is today, so it is. My darling boy is sailing far, far away from the emerald isle, leaving me grieving and keening like a banshee with toothache. AAAH! AAAH! The pain of parting 'tis breaking my heart, so it is. Musha alana and mother McCree!"
"That's quite enough of the stage Irish cat!" I yelled.
"Pull yourself together! I have hired a caravan in Wales for the month of August. Just think, you and I will be able to see Mary Hopkins and Max Boyce every night."
Tommy leapt to his feet, had a leek in the corner and yelled,
"Barry John at Wembley, boyo and I was there! Cliff Jones at Cardiff Park, boyo and I was there! Wales at Murrayfield, boyo and I wasn't there. Didn't have the money see, didn't have the money see. RAIN!" yelled Tommy, "falling on grey, slate roofs and all the tidy housewives snoring and breaking wind, while their menfolk lumber like beasts of burden towards the dark, cold pit. And I wasn't there either boyo. I went to university see. Do not go gently into that good night!" yelled Tommy.
But I ignored the feline's advice and went out into the garden and watered the lupins and petunias the way nature intended.
"You're a veritable camel," I muttered, as I walked, wide-legged from flower bed to flower bed.
"A veritable camel."
HAPPY TRAILS KID!
Friday 30 July 2010
Thursday 29 July 2010
Are Wedding Bells About to Ring For Tommy?
Great show yesterday kid, even though it clashed with sports day in Cullybaccy, where Fred "The Greyhound" Romano ran the mile in just under two hours.
"I won't sleep a wink tonight," said Tommy my cat. "I shall worry all night about the three, little, orphaned hedgehogs. Poor little mites," sighed Tommy. "No mammy and no daddy, as the song so aptly puts it, they are no body's hedgehogs."
"Worry not!" I yelled. "The little hogs who reside in the hedge will be all right thanks to the kind woman who is supplying them with milk."
"You don't mean!" cried Tommy.
"Of course not!" I yelled. "The kind woman feeds them milk from little bottles."
"Hedgehogs have a great love for apples," said Tommy. "Do you know how the hedgehogs carry the apples home from the orchard?"
"In their pockets?" I ventured.
"No," said Tommy. "The crafty little hedgehogs roll on the fallen apples. The apples stick to their prickly spines and the little hedgehogs run home covered in apples."
"How do they get the apples off their prickly spines?" I asked.
Tommy himed and hawed and spluttered,
"The hedgehogs eat the apples from each other's spines."
"And what happens," I said, "if one, lazy, little, hedgehog comes home with NO apples on his spines?"
"In that case," said Tommy, "he would get a riser and be cast out into eternal darkness."
"Firm but fair," I muttered. "Firm but fair."
As the sun slowly made its towards the East, the silence stretched like pre-war knicker elastic. Tommy began to fidget. I sat with all the composure and ugliness of an Easter island statue.
Suddenly, Tommy sprang to his feet and yelled,
"I may have to get married!"
"ZOINKS!" I cried. "What do you mean, you may have to get married?"
"It's Tiddles, the ginger tabby cat at number 27!" yelled Tommy.
"She is about to kittle and has put me in the frame."
"I told you to be careful!" I roared.
"I was," cried Tommy. "I always looked both ways before I crossed the street to speak to her."
I paced the floor, the walls, the ceiling and said,
"No one in my family has ever fathered a kitten and neither have you. When you were a mere lump of a kitten I got you- NEUTERED!"
"MUTILATION!" screamed Tommy. "How dare you cut, slash, scar and mutilate my nether region!"
"Had I not," I screamed, "you would soon be pushing a pram with six, mewing kittens in it!"
"Who carried out this-this-outrage on my person?" cried Tommy.
"Sweeney Todd the vet," I answered.
"That can not be!" yelled Tommy. "Everytime I meet Sweeney he always says,
"Hello Tommy, how are they hanging?"
"He says that to everyone," I sighed, "even me. But believe me, Tommy cat, I have NEVER lain legs akimbo on a vet's table."
"There's a first time for everything," glowered Tommy, as he went upstairs with a small mirror in his hand.
The scream when it came was loud, long, shrill and piercing!
Such a big fuss about something so little!
"I won't sleep a wink tonight," said Tommy my cat. "I shall worry all night about the three, little, orphaned hedgehogs. Poor little mites," sighed Tommy. "No mammy and no daddy, as the song so aptly puts it, they are no body's hedgehogs."
"Worry not!" I yelled. "The little hogs who reside in the hedge will be all right thanks to the kind woman who is supplying them with milk."
"You don't mean!" cried Tommy.
"Of course not!" I yelled. "The kind woman feeds them milk from little bottles."
"Hedgehogs have a great love for apples," said Tommy. "Do you know how the hedgehogs carry the apples home from the orchard?"
"In their pockets?" I ventured.
"No," said Tommy. "The crafty little hedgehogs roll on the fallen apples. The apples stick to their prickly spines and the little hedgehogs run home covered in apples."
"How do they get the apples off their prickly spines?" I asked.
Tommy himed and hawed and spluttered,
"The hedgehogs eat the apples from each other's spines."
"And what happens," I said, "if one, lazy, little, hedgehog comes home with NO apples on his spines?"
"In that case," said Tommy, "he would get a riser and be cast out into eternal darkness."
"Firm but fair," I muttered. "Firm but fair."
As the sun slowly made its towards the East, the silence stretched like pre-war knicker elastic. Tommy began to fidget. I sat with all the composure and ugliness of an Easter island statue.
Suddenly, Tommy sprang to his feet and yelled,
"I may have to get married!"
"ZOINKS!" I cried. "What do you mean, you may have to get married?"
"It's Tiddles, the ginger tabby cat at number 27!" yelled Tommy.
"She is about to kittle and has put me in the frame."
"I told you to be careful!" I roared.
"I was," cried Tommy. "I always looked both ways before I crossed the street to speak to her."
I paced the floor, the walls, the ceiling and said,
"No one in my family has ever fathered a kitten and neither have you. When you were a mere lump of a kitten I got you- NEUTERED!"
"MUTILATION!" screamed Tommy. "How dare you cut, slash, scar and mutilate my nether region!"
"Had I not," I screamed, "you would soon be pushing a pram with six, mewing kittens in it!"
"Who carried out this-this-outrage on my person?" cried Tommy.
"Sweeney Todd the vet," I answered.
"That can not be!" yelled Tommy. "Everytime I meet Sweeney he always says,
"Hello Tommy, how are they hanging?"
"He says that to everyone," I sighed, "even me. But believe me, Tommy cat, I have NEVER lain legs akimbo on a vet's table."
"There's a first time for everything," glowered Tommy, as he went upstairs with a small mirror in his hand.
The scream when it came was loud, long, shrill and piercing!
Such a big fuss about something so little!
Wednesday 28 July 2010
ROLLING IN THE AISLE
Great show yesterday kid, no matter what the people say. A great show made all the more memorable by Mr Coyle walking like Alex Higgins.
"Look!" yelled Tommy my cat, pointing to the radio. "Did you ever see anything so funny? I bet Mr Coyle could also walk like John Wayne."
"And John Inman too," I said, according to the residents of Saint Crispin's home for lame and crippled, funny walkers."
"I like Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I don't know why. I guess it's just.. something 'bout the way he walks attracts me like no other."
"END OF!" I yelled, before Tommy said something he would regret later.
I looked at Tommy by focusing my eyes on the feline and said,
"Tommy, attend me, have you seen the new comedy show, Stand up for the week? Oh, it's so funny Tommy. I installed an aisle at the back of the house so I could roll in it."
Tommy made a pukey face and replied,
"It's aggressive comedy. I don't like aggressive comedy. Give me Laurel and Hardy, Robinson and McGuinness, Charlie Chaplin-even Edwin Poots. I long for a more-gentle time. A time when a young gentleman would place his hoodie over a puddle hole to let a fair damsel cross the street. A time when a man would say to his wife,
"Verily my dear, I am hefted. But I shall abide in my chamber, while YOU use the chamber pot and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always the urn containg your dear papa's ashes on the mantelpiece."
"POETRY!" I cried. "Pure Mills and Boon."
I crouched low, lowered my voice and whispered,
"Tommy, do you think Daniel O'Donnell has, you know, got some visage reconstruction?"
Tommy sauntered over to a chair so he could put his hands in his pockets. His little, tartan strides were hanging over the back of the chair. Tommy smoothed the pleats over the high, falsetto fork and said,
"I would describe Daniel O'Donnell as a work in progress. He has had a little done, but most of the heavy duty stuff is still to come."
"In the name of Saint Patrick and all his snakes!" I yelled. "What will Danny Boy end up looking like, at tall, at tall, at tall?"
"A NEW MAN!" yelled Tommy. "A man who would not look out of place on Vulcan, or Jupiter, but who would be stoned in most parts of Donegall and surrounding districts."
"DAN, DAN, THE ALIEN MAN," I laughed and I ran to my aisle for a good roll.
I blame Majella! Oh yes missus, I blame-Ma!
"Look!" yelled Tommy my cat, pointing to the radio. "Did you ever see anything so funny? I bet Mr Coyle could also walk like John Wayne."
"And John Inman too," I said, according to the residents of Saint Crispin's home for lame and crippled, funny walkers."
"I like Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I don't know why. I guess it's just.. something 'bout the way he walks attracts me like no other."
"END OF!" I yelled, before Tommy said something he would regret later.
I looked at Tommy by focusing my eyes on the feline and said,
"Tommy, attend me, have you seen the new comedy show, Stand up for the week? Oh, it's so funny Tommy. I installed an aisle at the back of the house so I could roll in it."
Tommy made a pukey face and replied,
"It's aggressive comedy. I don't like aggressive comedy. Give me Laurel and Hardy, Robinson and McGuinness, Charlie Chaplin-even Edwin Poots. I long for a more-gentle time. A time when a young gentleman would place his hoodie over a puddle hole to let a fair damsel cross the street. A time when a man would say to his wife,
"Verily my dear, I am hefted. But I shall abide in my chamber, while YOU use the chamber pot and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always the urn containg your dear papa's ashes on the mantelpiece."
"POETRY!" I cried. "Pure Mills and Boon."
I crouched low, lowered my voice and whispered,
"Tommy, do you think Daniel O'Donnell has, you know, got some visage reconstruction?"
Tommy sauntered over to a chair so he could put his hands in his pockets. His little, tartan strides were hanging over the back of the chair. Tommy smoothed the pleats over the high, falsetto fork and said,
"I would describe Daniel O'Donnell as a work in progress. He has had a little done, but most of the heavy duty stuff is still to come."
"In the name of Saint Patrick and all his snakes!" I yelled. "What will Danny Boy end up looking like, at tall, at tall, at tall?"
"A NEW MAN!" yelled Tommy. "A man who would not look out of place on Vulcan, or Jupiter, but who would be stoned in most parts of Donegall and surrounding districts."
"DAN, DAN, THE ALIEN MAN," I laughed and I ran to my aisle for a good roll.
I blame Majella! Oh yes missus, I blame-Ma!
Monday 26 July 2010
We're all Doomed
"And nigh the end is near and so we face the final curt-tain."
"Five days to go and counting!" yelled Tommy my cat, as he frantically searched the phone book for Dr Kevorkian's phone number.
I threw a bar of soap at a dirty rat and cried,
"Put the phone book down and back away! Spread your legs and put both hands on the retired circus clown. We don't need Dr Death. Michael McGimpsey's health service will finish us off soon enough."
"DOOMED!" yelled Tommy. "We're all-doomed. Soon Mr Coyle will be killing us softly with his song."
I gulped, gasped and spluttered,
"We could always listen to--Frank Mitchell."
"Are you MAD?" screamed Tommy.
"Yes," I said, producing the necessary paper work.
"There's only one thing to do," yelled Tommy. "We must dig two holes and crouch in them for the month of August."
"Could we not both crouch in the same hole?" I asked,
Tommy looked at me like I was mad, which I am, and said.
"If we did that, we would have to dig the hole twice as deep."
I gazed in awe at my feline friend. A genius. That's what Tommy is. A genuine, generic, gentile, gender-bender, 24 caret, 100%-genius. And you don't have to take my word for it. Tommy will tell you the same thing himself!
While Tommy was making five gallon of Bird's Angel Delight in an oil drum, he looked over his shoulder and said,
"I saw a horrible sight on the Donegall road yesterday."
"I saw it too," I yelled. "Tubby Nolan bent over in the canon position."
Tommy stirred the Bird's Angel Delight with a wooden leg and said,
"No. What I saw was a street performer, twisting small dogs into the shape of balloons."
"That's horrible," I squeaked. "Did you phone the RSCPA?"
"I did," said Tommy, "but they told me to keep my nose out, or they would send someone to pee on my geraniums."
"So that's who's been doing it," I yelled. "And all the time I thought it was ME!"
The sun set in the West. Darkness spread its jet black cloak and the little hoodies appeared from the shadows like grey, mindless zombies.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
Please put my false teeth in my bake.
Goodnight Gerry. Goodnight Janet. Goodnight Emma. Goodnight Sean boy!
"Five days to go and counting!" yelled Tommy my cat, as he frantically searched the phone book for Dr Kevorkian's phone number.
I threw a bar of soap at a dirty rat and cried,
"Put the phone book down and back away! Spread your legs and put both hands on the retired circus clown. We don't need Dr Death. Michael McGimpsey's health service will finish us off soon enough."
"DOOMED!" yelled Tommy. "We're all-doomed. Soon Mr Coyle will be killing us softly with his song."
I gulped, gasped and spluttered,
"We could always listen to--Frank Mitchell."
"Are you MAD?" screamed Tommy.
"Yes," I said, producing the necessary paper work.
"There's only one thing to do," yelled Tommy. "We must dig two holes and crouch in them for the month of August."
"Could we not both crouch in the same hole?" I asked,
Tommy looked at me like I was mad, which I am, and said.
"If we did that, we would have to dig the hole twice as deep."
I gazed in awe at my feline friend. A genius. That's what Tommy is. A genuine, generic, gentile, gender-bender, 24 caret, 100%-genius. And you don't have to take my word for it. Tommy will tell you the same thing himself!
While Tommy was making five gallon of Bird's Angel Delight in an oil drum, he looked over his shoulder and said,
"I saw a horrible sight on the Donegall road yesterday."
"I saw it too," I yelled. "Tubby Nolan bent over in the canon position."
Tommy stirred the Bird's Angel Delight with a wooden leg and said,
"No. What I saw was a street performer, twisting small dogs into the shape of balloons."
"That's horrible," I squeaked. "Did you phone the RSCPA?"
"I did," said Tommy, "but they told me to keep my nose out, or they would send someone to pee on my geraniums."
"So that's who's been doing it," I yelled. "And all the time I thought it was ME!"
The sun set in the West. Darkness spread its jet black cloak and the little hoodies appeared from the shadows like grey, mindless zombies.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
Please put my false teeth in my bake.
Goodnight Gerry. Goodnight Janet. Goodnight Emma. Goodnight Sean boy!
Thursday 22 July 2010
CITY OF CULTURE
Great shows last week Kid. Tommy my cat, poet, deep thinker and renowned philosopher is convinced that Stroke City was awarded the City of Culture 2013 for just one reason and that is the highly intellectual, scholarly conversations you have conducted with Jordie Tuft over the years.
"When it comes to culture," said Tommy, "old Jordie is up there with Chas and Dave, Dolly the cloned sheep and Chubby Brown."
"How right you are, my little, scaldie snatcher," I said. "Old Jordie should be cast in brass, marble or, at the very least, papier-mache and to hell with the expense."
Tommy brought his pink stiletto down hard on my foot and said,
"There's a stamp, write to the proper authorities immediately."
That's how we do things at our house. No sending it out for consultation, or setting up special committees. We just get on with it.
Tommy and I were playing hop-scotch outside the house, when Phil Coulter cycled down the street on his Betterware round.
"Hark!" muttered Tommy. "Yon gloomy visaged peddler approaches."
"Verily," I said. "Ne'r have I seen such a gloomy countenance, since the Thane of Cullybaccy caught his doublet and hose in the mangle."
I looked at the little, bearded man who had immortalised the words, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and said,
"Congratulations, little resident from the city of culture."
"Seamus Heaney has stolen my thunder!" screamed the little, tin pan alleyer. "I am a REAL Derry man. Heaney is nothing but a blow-in from the country. Seamus Heaney is a-CULCHIE! A clod hopping, bog tramping, snipe loving Culchie. Yet there he was on Friday night, hogging the limelight and uttering prose poems of ubiquitous banality. Heaney is an impostor!" screamed Phil. "I am the rightful King!"
Then Tommy pipped up with this gem,
"Could you not share the honour like Ant and Dec?"
Wee Phil turned purple and cried,
"Not ever. Not ever. NOT EVER!"
He pulled a crumpled Derry Journal from his pocket and yelled,
"To celebrate Derry's great honour, Heaney and I composed two wee poems. Heaney's poem is on the front page in bold black type. Mine is hidden away on page 17 with births, marriages and deaths. I will now read both poems and ask you which is better.
Heaney's poem is called, "North Star" and goes like this.
Rain washed cobblestones
Greyhound men and spires
Shirt workers huddle round
Little coal fueled fires."
RUBBISH!" screamed Phil.
"Complete rubbish! Where is the essence of Derry in that rubbish?
Now listen to my poem, which is called, "Music City".
"Showband stars, throng the bars
With money, jingle-jangle
Dressed in Burton's best, they take their rest
Wearing ties that dingle-dangle."
"Well!" screamed Phil."Did I not nail it? Did I not make it my own?"
I gazed at Phil like a startled stoat and yelled,
"Give me my lavatory brush!" and I went in and slammed the door.
Jingle-jangle? Dingle-dangle? My granny's, pink, Parisian, store-bought pantaloons.
As little Phil peddled sadly away, Tommy yelled after him,
"BOOM-BANG-A-BANG BANG I LOVE--YOU!"
"When it comes to culture," said Tommy, "old Jordie is up there with Chas and Dave, Dolly the cloned sheep and Chubby Brown."
"How right you are, my little, scaldie snatcher," I said. "Old Jordie should be cast in brass, marble or, at the very least, papier-mache and to hell with the expense."
Tommy brought his pink stiletto down hard on my foot and said,
"There's a stamp, write to the proper authorities immediately."
That's how we do things at our house. No sending it out for consultation, or setting up special committees. We just get on with it.
Tommy and I were playing hop-scotch outside the house, when Phil Coulter cycled down the street on his Betterware round.
"Hark!" muttered Tommy. "Yon gloomy visaged peddler approaches."
"Verily," I said. "Ne'r have I seen such a gloomy countenance, since the Thane of Cullybaccy caught his doublet and hose in the mangle."
I looked at the little, bearded man who had immortalised the words, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and said,
"Congratulations, little resident from the city of culture."
"Seamus Heaney has stolen my thunder!" screamed the little, tin pan alleyer. "I am a REAL Derry man. Heaney is nothing but a blow-in from the country. Seamus Heaney is a-CULCHIE! A clod hopping, bog tramping, snipe loving Culchie. Yet there he was on Friday night, hogging the limelight and uttering prose poems of ubiquitous banality. Heaney is an impostor!" screamed Phil. "I am the rightful King!"
Then Tommy pipped up with this gem,
"Could you not share the honour like Ant and Dec?"
Wee Phil turned purple and cried,
"Not ever. Not ever. NOT EVER!"
He pulled a crumpled Derry Journal from his pocket and yelled,
"To celebrate Derry's great honour, Heaney and I composed two wee poems. Heaney's poem is on the front page in bold black type. Mine is hidden away on page 17 with births, marriages and deaths. I will now read both poems and ask you which is better.
Heaney's poem is called, "North Star" and goes like this.
Rain washed cobblestones
Greyhound men and spires
Shirt workers huddle round
Little coal fueled fires."
RUBBISH!" screamed Phil.
"Complete rubbish! Where is the essence of Derry in that rubbish?
Now listen to my poem, which is called, "Music City".
"Showband stars, throng the bars
With money, jingle-jangle
Dressed in Burton's best, they take their rest
Wearing ties that dingle-dangle."
"Well!" screamed Phil."Did I not nail it? Did I not make it my own?"
I gazed at Phil like a startled stoat and yelled,
"Give me my lavatory brush!" and I went in and slammed the door.
Jingle-jangle? Dingle-dangle? My granny's, pink, Parisian, store-bought pantaloons.
As little Phil peddled sadly away, Tommy yelled after him,
"BOOM-BANG-A-BANG BANG I LOVE--YOU!"
Sunday 18 July 2010
HOW NOT TO CARRY OUT A FACELIFT.
Great show yesterday Kid. It has been said that five minutes into the show a man got up, picked up his bed and walked. But don't ring the Vatican yet until the story is confirmed. Saint Gerry, Patron saint of lost dogs and fallen women.
Now that the world and his wife know that Ken takes a tea break between half past ten and eleven o'clock I bet he gets some ribbing tonight, when he walks into the "Cat's Whiskers" pub in William street for his usual pint and wart hog scratchings.
"AAH! You take a tea break at half past ten!" a booze hound will roar. And wee Ken will stand there, head waxed, screwdriver in hand, blushing like a new bride.
But let's move on.
"Tommy!" I yelled to my cat. "Are you not ready yet? You'll be late for your ballet class with Madame Simpleton."
"I'm looking for my tutu!" yelled Tommy.
"This is no time to conduct an intimate, anatomical examination!" I yelled. "Your wee, pink, ballet dress is hanging over the sleeping wino. Slip into it and come down immediately."
Tommy sprang into the room, legs akimbo and cried,
"Does my bum look fat in these tights?"
"Yes!" I yelled. "Now hurry up and don't stop to talk to any strange men and that includes Steven Nolan."
I watched him skip down the street, then I ran upstairs and came down with a big box.
"Carry out your own face lift" it said on the lid.
I tore open the box and out fell a roll of bandages, a bottle of chloroform and a big knife. With trembling hands I sat down to read the instructions.
(First) Use plenty of Chloroform as anaesthetic.
(Two) When you have fallen asleep, pick up big sharp knife and cut, stab and slash until satisfied with face.
(Three) Use bandages to cover cuts, gashes and horrible damage done to visage.
"Any fool could do that!" I yelled, as I poured Chloroform onto a towel and held it to my twitching hooter. Five times I did that before the penny dropped.
"It's a con!" I yelled. "I can't operate on my face when I'm asleep."
Then Tommy came back from his ballet class. I cornered the feline and soon the cunning plan was hatched.
When I came out of the anaesthetic, the first thing I saw was Tommy, wearing a pink tutu and holding a big knife. My face felt stiff and tight. Tommy had done it. Hehad given me a face lift. I ran to the mirror and fainted. When I was asleep Tommy had super glued a Hitler mask to my face!
There go my callah, gefilte fish and matzah soup tonight. I can't go into Levi Goldstein's delicatessen looking like-THIS!
Now that the world and his wife know that Ken takes a tea break between half past ten and eleven o'clock I bet he gets some ribbing tonight, when he walks into the "Cat's Whiskers" pub in William street for his usual pint and wart hog scratchings.
"AAH! You take a tea break at half past ten!" a booze hound will roar. And wee Ken will stand there, head waxed, screwdriver in hand, blushing like a new bride.
But let's move on.
"Tommy!" I yelled to my cat. "Are you not ready yet? You'll be late for your ballet class with Madame Simpleton."
"I'm looking for my tutu!" yelled Tommy.
"This is no time to conduct an intimate, anatomical examination!" I yelled. "Your wee, pink, ballet dress is hanging over the sleeping wino. Slip into it and come down immediately."
Tommy sprang into the room, legs akimbo and cried,
"Does my bum look fat in these tights?"
"Yes!" I yelled. "Now hurry up and don't stop to talk to any strange men and that includes Steven Nolan."
I watched him skip down the street, then I ran upstairs and came down with a big box.
"Carry out your own face lift" it said on the lid.
I tore open the box and out fell a roll of bandages, a bottle of chloroform and a big knife. With trembling hands I sat down to read the instructions.
(First) Use plenty of Chloroform as anaesthetic.
(Two) When you have fallen asleep, pick up big sharp knife and cut, stab and slash until satisfied with face.
(Three) Use bandages to cover cuts, gashes and horrible damage done to visage.
"Any fool could do that!" I yelled, as I poured Chloroform onto a towel and held it to my twitching hooter. Five times I did that before the penny dropped.
"It's a con!" I yelled. "I can't operate on my face when I'm asleep."
Then Tommy came back from his ballet class. I cornered the feline and soon the cunning plan was hatched.
When I came out of the anaesthetic, the first thing I saw was Tommy, wearing a pink tutu and holding a big knife. My face felt stiff and tight. Tommy had done it. Hehad given me a face lift. I ran to the mirror and fainted. When I was asleep Tommy had super glued a Hitler mask to my face!
There go my callah, gefilte fish and matzah soup tonight. I can't go into Levi Goldstein's delicatessen looking like-THIS!
Thursday 15 July 2010
FALSE TEETH RIOTS
Great show yesterday Kid. A show which greatly eased the tension at the "Last Stop" old folks' home in Belfast. As you know' feelings were running high after the Friday night bingo riots. Social services have stepped in and ruled that all bingo callers must be fitted with a working pair of false gnashers. Little did Paddy, "the Weasel" McFlipper know, the trouble that was to follow, when he picked out ball number 33 and roared out, "dirty pee".
Old biddys went berserk. Old codgers yelled,
"Up with this, I shall not put!"
The police were called and in the melee that followed, four tumblers containing false teeth were smashed and a colostomy bag exploded with great violence. Order has now been restored, thanks to your great show and lots and lots of Diazepam and Temazepam.
Tommy my cat and I found Tubby Nolan sitting in the lotus position in the long grass and weeds behind the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls. Tubby was gnawing at a soup bone and reading a book called. "Things All Fat Boys Should Know."
Tubby looked up, by ceasing to look down and guldered,
"Did you know the human body is 90% water?"
"In that case," quipped Tommy, "that would make you the second biggest reservoir in Belfast.".
"90% water," said Tubby,"no wonder I gurgle when I walk"
"Tubby old chap," said Tommy, "are you aware of the moon's gravitational pull?"
"By jingo" yelled Tubby, lumbering to his feet, "everytime there is a full moon, all the water rushes to my head and I feel like my noggin's going to explode. Help me!" screamed Tubby."How can I reduce the vast amount of water in my body?"
"Simples," said Tommy. "You must utilize the overflow mechanism that nature provided."
"I can't spend all my time in the toilet!" roared Tubby.
I snapped my fingers, which started a bush fire and yelled,
"You don't have to. Tommy and I will help you."
Soon Tubby was on his way, fitted with a length of tubing leading into two Coke bottles taped to his legs. I believe he was kept for three days at Belfast International Airport, trying to convince the police he was not a suicide bomber.
BUMMER!
Old biddys went berserk. Old codgers yelled,
"Up with this, I shall not put!"
The police were called and in the melee that followed, four tumblers containing false teeth were smashed and a colostomy bag exploded with great violence. Order has now been restored, thanks to your great show and lots and lots of Diazepam and Temazepam.
Tommy my cat and I found Tubby Nolan sitting in the lotus position in the long grass and weeds behind the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls. Tubby was gnawing at a soup bone and reading a book called. "Things All Fat Boys Should Know."
Tubby looked up, by ceasing to look down and guldered,
"Did you know the human body is 90% water?"
"In that case," quipped Tommy, "that would make you the second biggest reservoir in Belfast.".
"90% water," said Tubby,"no wonder I gurgle when I walk"
"Tubby old chap," said Tommy, "are you aware of the moon's gravitational pull?"
"By jingo" yelled Tubby, lumbering to his feet, "everytime there is a full moon, all the water rushes to my head and I feel like my noggin's going to explode. Help me!" screamed Tubby."How can I reduce the vast amount of water in my body?"
"Simples," said Tommy. "You must utilize the overflow mechanism that nature provided."
"I can't spend all my time in the toilet!" roared Tubby.
I snapped my fingers, which started a bush fire and yelled,
"You don't have to. Tommy and I will help you."
Soon Tubby was on his way, fitted with a length of tubing leading into two Coke bottles taped to his legs. I believe he was kept for three days at Belfast International Airport, trying to convince the police he was not a suicide bomber.
BUMMER!
Wednesday 14 July 2010
Relieving the Orangemen
Great 12th of July show Kid. Tommy my cat and I could feel the love for our orange brethren ooze from the radio like thick Canadian maple syrup.
"Gerry's Presbyterian right foot must be itching to march today," said Tommy, as he adjusted a little, tangerine thong under his McFeline tartan kilt.
"Pull your kilt down Tommy," I yelled. "Who do you think you are-Lord Laird?"
"Ah, orange fest," said Tommy. "What a joy it is to see all races, colours and religions march to the sound of flute, bagpipe and drum. It would not surprise me in the least to see a shinner lead the big parade in Belfast."
I looked at Tommy with sagacious sadness. What a thick, deluded little tube he is.
Tommy is an eternal optimist. Always looking on the bright side of life. Tommy has turned the other cheek so many times, the vet had to replace the ball bearings in his neck. Oh to see the world through the eyes of a young, innocent, guileless pussy. Being a tad longer, some might say, wolverine in the tooth, I knew it would all end in tears.
As the marchers made their tired way back home, they had to pass by my house. Imagine their surprise and delight when they found 64 pos lined up on both sides of the road. It was like the relief of Mafeking, Ladysmith and Plumbridge, all rolled into one. The orange men broke ranks and fell on the pos like veritable locusts. One old veteran with tears in his eyes and smoke coming out of his shoes cried,
" Ni neart go cur le chile!" Which even the very dogs in the street could translate as,
" There is no strength without unity."
"Remember the Alamo," cried Tommy, waving above his head the national flag of the United Arab Emirates.
"I greatly admire your regalia," said Tommy. "Did you make it yourself?"
"Nay Tommy," said the marching man. "My wife ran it up on the wee Ruby Murray."
(Ruby Murray--Singer sewing machine)
After the marchers had gone, Tommy and I skipped out and emptied the contents of all 64 pos out on the road. We then cleaned the pos, using plenty of Jeyes Fluid and put them away until next year. Then Tommy came out with a universal truth that left me wild-eyed and legless. He stood at the garden gate, lifted his kilt above his head and yelled,
"Nil aon leigheas ar an ngra ock pus-idd." which even the ducks on the village pond could translate as,
"The only cure for love is-marriage."
How many wives and husbands out there are saying,
"AMEN-to--THAT!!!!"
Legion! Aye! The number is--legion!
"Gerry's Presbyterian right foot must be itching to march today," said Tommy, as he adjusted a little, tangerine thong under his McFeline tartan kilt.
"Pull your kilt down Tommy," I yelled. "Who do you think you are-Lord Laird?"
"Ah, orange fest," said Tommy. "What a joy it is to see all races, colours and religions march to the sound of flute, bagpipe and drum. It would not surprise me in the least to see a shinner lead the big parade in Belfast."
I looked at Tommy with sagacious sadness. What a thick, deluded little tube he is.
Tommy is an eternal optimist. Always looking on the bright side of life. Tommy has turned the other cheek so many times, the vet had to replace the ball bearings in his neck. Oh to see the world through the eyes of a young, innocent, guileless pussy. Being a tad longer, some might say, wolverine in the tooth, I knew it would all end in tears.
As the marchers made their tired way back home, they had to pass by my house. Imagine their surprise and delight when they found 64 pos lined up on both sides of the road. It was like the relief of Mafeking, Ladysmith and Plumbridge, all rolled into one. The orange men broke ranks and fell on the pos like veritable locusts. One old veteran with tears in his eyes and smoke coming out of his shoes cried,
" Ni neart go cur le chile!" Which even the very dogs in the street could translate as,
" There is no strength without unity."
"Remember the Alamo," cried Tommy, waving above his head the national flag of the United Arab Emirates.
"I greatly admire your regalia," said Tommy. "Did you make it yourself?"
"Nay Tommy," said the marching man. "My wife ran it up on the wee Ruby Murray."
(Ruby Murray--Singer sewing machine)
After the marchers had gone, Tommy and I skipped out and emptied the contents of all 64 pos out on the road. We then cleaned the pos, using plenty of Jeyes Fluid and put them away until next year. Then Tommy came out with a universal truth that left me wild-eyed and legless. He stood at the garden gate, lifted his kilt above his head and yelled,
"Nil aon leigheas ar an ngra ock pus-idd." which even the ducks on the village pond could translate as,
"The only cure for love is-marriage."
How many wives and husbands out there are saying,
"AMEN-to--THAT!!!!"
Legion! Aye! The number is--legion!
Tuesday 13 July 2010
CELEBRATIONS AND ANNIVERSARIES.
Great shows last week Kid. As a result of the 11th night bonfire, Tommy my cat and I are sitting with two black faces, coughing up a pitch-black, oily goo that came from burning tyres. Poor Tommy's tail is bandaged from tip to derriere.
I looked at Tommy and said,
"I told you not to stand too close to the bonfire."
"I was pushed!" yelled Tommy. "There I was, minding my own business, drinking a can of Tennents when some schmuck bumped into me and my tail caught fire. Only for Jim Rodgers leaping on me, screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" and rolling me on the ground, my tail could have been gutted."
"What did they say at the hospital?" I asked.
Tommy eased himself up painfully on his chair and said,
"The doctor said I have to take it easy. No swishing my tail about. I have to drink plenty of liquids and in time my tail will heal and I shall play the piano again."
"Thank goodness," I said. "I really enjoy our Saturday night sing song."
"As do I," said Tommy. "But this Saturday night I shall have to play the piano standing up like Jerry Lee Lewis."
"Great balls of fire!" I yelled, as a torrent of black tar gushed out of my mouth, aided and abetted by fierce, inhuman, projectile vomiting.
Tommy touched the tip of his tail cried,
"OUCH!" and said,
"Whom was that giant effigy on top of the bonfire last night?"
I ran the hoover over my face and said,
"That giant effigy was-Steven Nolan."
"WHY?" yelled Tommy. "What did the fat boy do to incur the wrath of the community?"
"Nothing," I said. "The little hoodies gathered two ton of bubble wrap. It seemed a shame to waste it, so they made an effigy of Tubby."
"Very lifelike," said Tommy. "Especially when it popped."
"Indeed," I said. "One could almost see and hear Tubby coming down the Donegall Road firing on all cylinders."
"Will our blackened visages stop us marching on the 12th of July?" said Tommy.
"No way kid," I said. "Jim Rodgers said we can take part in the parade, but we must fly the flag of Ghana."
"I shall do so with pride," said Tommy, as he got up to take our sashes out of the tumble drier. Don't get the wrong idea kid. Tommy and I are non-denominational.
We celebrate the 17th of March, Black Saturday, Passover, Pancake Tuesday, Ramadan and the birth of Shiva. Only last week, Tommy and I celebrated when Castro lit up his one millionth cigar. We shared ten Woodbine and smoked until we puked. If there is a big day going, Tommy and I are there. Are you aware that a very important anniversary is coming up? On Monday the 27th of September it will be ten years since the night you got stuck in the bath. On that night, Tommy and I will fall backwards in precise synchronization into two rented baths and struggle and scream, "All Through The Night!"
If anyone would like to take part, just go to.
www.fallinthebath.com
Oh, how is Mr Coyle behaving himself since he was caught and released for smuggling jelly tots into Columbia? Tell the old lag that Tommy and I are praying to Shiva for him.
Let he who is without sin get a move on, time is running out!
I looked at Tommy and said,
"I told you not to stand too close to the bonfire."
"I was pushed!" yelled Tommy. "There I was, minding my own business, drinking a can of Tennents when some schmuck bumped into me and my tail caught fire. Only for Jim Rodgers leaping on me, screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" and rolling me on the ground, my tail could have been gutted."
"What did they say at the hospital?" I asked.
Tommy eased himself up painfully on his chair and said,
"The doctor said I have to take it easy. No swishing my tail about. I have to drink plenty of liquids and in time my tail will heal and I shall play the piano again."
"Thank goodness," I said. "I really enjoy our Saturday night sing song."
"As do I," said Tommy. "But this Saturday night I shall have to play the piano standing up like Jerry Lee Lewis."
"Great balls of fire!" I yelled, as a torrent of black tar gushed out of my mouth, aided and abetted by fierce, inhuman, projectile vomiting.
Tommy touched the tip of his tail cried,
"OUCH!" and said,
"Whom was that giant effigy on top of the bonfire last night?"
I ran the hoover over my face and said,
"That giant effigy was-Steven Nolan."
"WHY?" yelled Tommy. "What did the fat boy do to incur the wrath of the community?"
"Nothing," I said. "The little hoodies gathered two ton of bubble wrap. It seemed a shame to waste it, so they made an effigy of Tubby."
"Very lifelike," said Tommy. "Especially when it popped."
"Indeed," I said. "One could almost see and hear Tubby coming down the Donegall Road firing on all cylinders."
"Will our blackened visages stop us marching on the 12th of July?" said Tommy.
"No way kid," I said. "Jim Rodgers said we can take part in the parade, but we must fly the flag of Ghana."
"I shall do so with pride," said Tommy, as he got up to take our sashes out of the tumble drier. Don't get the wrong idea kid. Tommy and I are non-denominational.
We celebrate the 17th of March, Black Saturday, Passover, Pancake Tuesday, Ramadan and the birth of Shiva. Only last week, Tommy and I celebrated when Castro lit up his one millionth cigar. We shared ten Woodbine and smoked until we puked. If there is a big day going, Tommy and I are there. Are you aware that a very important anniversary is coming up? On Monday the 27th of September it will be ten years since the night you got stuck in the bath. On that night, Tommy and I will fall backwards in precise synchronization into two rented baths and struggle and scream, "All Through The Night!"
If anyone would like to take part, just go to.
www.fallinthebath.com
Oh, how is Mr Coyle behaving himself since he was caught and released for smuggling jelly tots into Columbia? Tell the old lag that Tommy and I are praying to Shiva for him.
Let he who is without sin get a move on, time is running out!
Wednesday 7 July 2010
ITCHING TO TICKLE
Great shows last week Kid. It is with great sadness that we start the countdown to the return of Mr Coyle. If we are lucky, Coylers may be suffering from acute sunburn of the tongue, jelly fish stings or incurable, Montezuma revenge. If Lady luck is on our side we could hit the jackpot and land the treble. It's a long shot, but did not Dick Turpin say,
"I live in-hope," just before he was dragged out and hanged at Newgate?
I leaped out of the way as Tommy my cat rode into the room on a palomino hobby horse. I do believe to the core of my being, that every cat should have a hobby. Tommy dismounted, adjusted the rigid fork of his sky blue lederhosen and said,
"Today is National Tickle a Politician Day. Shall I prepare the burros for the long trek to Stormont?"
"Do so with immediate effect," I cried. "My fingers are itching to get under the oxters of Edwin Poots. May one ask whom you will be tickling today?"
"One may," said Tommy. "I have set myself a task, which to many, may seem like mission impossible, but today Matthew, I shall be tickling-Michael McGimpsey!"
I recoiled like the spring in a Lee Enfield rifle and cried,
"Tommy, why must you set yourself up for a fall? Michael McGimpsey has never been known to laugh, titter or smile. Why oh why, do you want to tickle Michael McGimpsey?"
"Because he's-THERE!" yelled Tommy. "Sure I could tickle Barry Mcelduff, Sammy Wilson, even old stone face himself, David Ford. But what satisfaction would I get? No! I want to pit myself against the dour, gloomy, creature from the crypt-Michael McGimpsey!"
I looked down at the brave, little, feline soldier. Tommy was never one to go for the easy tickle. Tommy's tickling standards are very high.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "If you pull this off, you will be a hero. You will probably be interviewed by Lynda Byrons on her last day at UTV."
"That's the general idea," said Tommy, with a horrible leer. "And if I play my cards right, I will get hugs, kisses and a big saucer of milk."
Machiavellian, that's what Tommy is.
Machiavellian from the tips of his ears to the point of his tail.
On our way to Stormount, Tommy and I met Tubby Nolan. The fat boy was sporting a black eye and a thick lip. Tubby had only gone and attempted to tickle-Peter Robinson. A big mistake when you think of the annus horribilis that Peter has just had. So be warned fellow ticklers. NEVER tickle a man with a horrible annus!
See you on the dark side of the moon!
"I live in-hope," just before he was dragged out and hanged at Newgate?
I leaped out of the way as Tommy my cat rode into the room on a palomino hobby horse. I do believe to the core of my being, that every cat should have a hobby. Tommy dismounted, adjusted the rigid fork of his sky blue lederhosen and said,
"Today is National Tickle a Politician Day. Shall I prepare the burros for the long trek to Stormont?"
"Do so with immediate effect," I cried. "My fingers are itching to get under the oxters of Edwin Poots. May one ask whom you will be tickling today?"
"One may," said Tommy. "I have set myself a task, which to many, may seem like mission impossible, but today Matthew, I shall be tickling-Michael McGimpsey!"
I recoiled like the spring in a Lee Enfield rifle and cried,
"Tommy, why must you set yourself up for a fall? Michael McGimpsey has never been known to laugh, titter or smile. Why oh why, do you want to tickle Michael McGimpsey?"
"Because he's-THERE!" yelled Tommy. "Sure I could tickle Barry Mcelduff, Sammy Wilson, even old stone face himself, David Ford. But what satisfaction would I get? No! I want to pit myself against the dour, gloomy, creature from the crypt-Michael McGimpsey!"
I looked down at the brave, little, feline soldier. Tommy was never one to go for the easy tickle. Tommy's tickling standards are very high.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "If you pull this off, you will be a hero. You will probably be interviewed by Lynda Byrons on her last day at UTV."
"That's the general idea," said Tommy, with a horrible leer. "And if I play my cards right, I will get hugs, kisses and a big saucer of milk."
Machiavellian, that's what Tommy is.
Machiavellian from the tips of his ears to the point of his tail.
On our way to Stormount, Tommy and I met Tubby Nolan. The fat boy was sporting a black eye and a thick lip. Tubby had only gone and attempted to tickle-Peter Robinson. A big mistake when you think of the annus horribilis that Peter has just had. So be warned fellow ticklers. NEVER tickle a man with a horrible annus!
See you on the dark side of the moon!
Monday 5 July 2010
The Granny who will not knit.
Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat and I were shocked, surprised and gob-smacked, when the hairdresser granny, without any shame or feelings of guilt, informed the nation that she does not knit.
Obsessed by bicycles, the granny yelled,
"I do not knit! I never have knitted and I will NOT knit in the future."
"That granny will be ostracized!" yelled Tommy, as he finished a letter to Lynda Byrons, offering her the post of live-in housekeeper.
"All grannies should knit!" I yelled. "All grannies should smell of snuff, moth balls Power's whiskey, and a slight aroma of the po."
"I don't believe she is a granny," said Tommy. "I believe she has taken on the guise of granny to get out of bringing in the coal and taking out the wheelie bin."
"Bad granny," I said. "Bad, bad, bad, bad--granny!"
As Jermain DeFoe scored against Slovenia I yelled,
"DeFoe has beaten de foe!"
"I never had a moment's doubt," said Tommy, as he surreptitiously flicked a Paddy Power's docket into the fire. I heard later on the grapevine, that Tommy had staked £10, that Slovenia would beat England 21-Nil. Oh how I hate a pecuniary pussy!
With a scream of NIGH, NIGH, NIGH! Jim Rodgers bounded into the room.
"Well, Anderson has only gone and done it NIGH!" screamed Jim. "All over Ulster, men, women and children are calling the po, the-Jordie! I just heard a wee woman yelling,
"Run and fetch the Jordie, your daddy is going to boke."
"FAME at last for old Jordie!" cried Tommy. "From this day forward, wherever people squat, the name of Jordie Tuft will be revered and honoured."
"Jordie must be knighted!" I yelled. "The Queen must lay her sword on old Jordie's shoulder and say,
"Arise Sir Jordie. I confer on you the loyal order of the PO. What do you think about that yeh boy yeh?"
And Sir Jordie will bow and say,
"Thanks wee woman. Boys this is a wild, big house you've got. Do you dung out your own bed?"
Obsessed by bicycles, the granny yelled,
"I do not knit! I never have knitted and I will NOT knit in the future."
"That granny will be ostracized!" yelled Tommy, as he finished a letter to Lynda Byrons, offering her the post of live-in housekeeper.
"All grannies should knit!" I yelled. "All grannies should smell of snuff, moth balls Power's whiskey, and a slight aroma of the po."
"I don't believe she is a granny," said Tommy. "I believe she has taken on the guise of granny to get out of bringing in the coal and taking out the wheelie bin."
"Bad granny," I said. "Bad, bad, bad, bad--granny!"
As Jermain DeFoe scored against Slovenia I yelled,
"DeFoe has beaten de foe!"
"I never had a moment's doubt," said Tommy, as he surreptitiously flicked a Paddy Power's docket into the fire. I heard later on the grapevine, that Tommy had staked £10, that Slovenia would beat England 21-Nil. Oh how I hate a pecuniary pussy!
With a scream of NIGH, NIGH, NIGH! Jim Rodgers bounded into the room.
"Well, Anderson has only gone and done it NIGH!" screamed Jim. "All over Ulster, men, women and children are calling the po, the-Jordie! I just heard a wee woman yelling,
"Run and fetch the Jordie, your daddy is going to boke."
"FAME at last for old Jordie!" cried Tommy. "From this day forward, wherever people squat, the name of Jordie Tuft will be revered and honoured."
"Jordie must be knighted!" I yelled. "The Queen must lay her sword on old Jordie's shoulder and say,
"Arise Sir Jordie. I confer on you the loyal order of the PO. What do you think about that yeh boy yeh?"
And Sir Jordie will bow and say,
"Thanks wee woman. Boys this is a wild, big house you've got. Do you dung out your own bed?"
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