Great shows this week kid.
Tommy my cat peeped out at me from the Ann Summer's drawer and said,
"So, Mr Coyle is climbing the corporate ladder with a new extended show. The word in the hood is,that Ken Doherty hammered a steel spike into the ground behind radio Foyle,so Mr Coyle could chain his 1952 Raleigh bicycle to it."
"PERKS!" I cried. "Mr Coyle is receiving perks from the BBC. Today a steel spike, tomorrow, red braces, better known in the Bogside as galluses,and his own special monogrammed toilet paper with a likeness of Charlie Landsborough printed on it."
The lad's on his way up," said Tommy. "Why, he's only a hop, skip and shuffle away from Newsnight or How clean is your Cesspit?"
And so we leave Mr Coyle and move on to Tubby Nolan.
I couldn't believe it! There,in the middle of a circle of Japanese tourists was Tubby Nolan demonstrating,in graphic detail,how elephants pluck leaves from trees with their trunk.
"PUT IT AWAY!" I yelled."PUT IT AWAY!"
Tubby picked up his little Henry the hoover, grabbed the flexible hose and slunk off in a huff.
"AH-SO!" said a Japanese tourist.
"Yes," I said sadly."Ah-so, belly, thighs and face all made from 100% Ulster lard."
"Make velly good sushi," said an old, withered Kamikaze pilot with 627 successful missions behind him.
"Clear off Honda," I yelled,"or I'll book you a one-way ticket home on Ryan Air!"
The old Kamikaze fell to his knees screaming,
"NO! NO! HARI-KARI, BUT NO RYAN AIR!"
Wednesday 24 November 2010
Monday 22 November 2010
The Caravan Moves On
Great royal show yesterday kid. I am sure Mr Coyle's serf-like, servile grovelling has been noted in the house of Windsor.
"Whom is that brown-nosed toady?" asked Prince Phillip as he waited for old Jordie to appear.
" A mere surly churl," said the Queen,"who sweeps the floors, brings in water and keeps the bathrooms clean in the house of Anderson. His name, for some, quaint reason is, Sean Coyle."
"I don't like him," puffed Prince Phillip."Off with his head AND his feet and any protuberance that may be spoiling the line of his village idiot smock."
Tommy my cat tattooed the image of the battleship Bismark on my back with a Black and Decker drill and said,
"The dogs bark and the caravan moves on."
"Meaning-what?" I cried.
"Meaning," said Tommy,"that the tsunami of royal coverage will greatly diminish now until a week before the marriage."
And a good thing too," said Tommy. "There are other things of great importance to talk about."
"Such as what?" I roared.
"Are you aware," said Tommy,"that the Northern Ireland budget has not yet been passed?"
"Have they tried castor oil?" I asked.
"Litres of it," said Tommy,"and gallons and gallons of Jeyes Fluid. Next week, if there is no movement, Sammy Wilson is going to call in Dyno-Rod."
THEN! there was a timid knock on the door. It was little, clean, tidy Frank Mitchell asking if either of us knew how to tie a bow tie. Tommy came to the rescue and tied a hugh, frilly, scarlet-red McGuffin around wee Frank's neck that made it appear the little man was peering over a massive red petticoat. If little Frank turns up at the royal wedding looking like that,he will turn the big day into a veritable circus.
Perhaps Pammy Ballentine could have a word in his shell-like. I mean you can see the headlines.
"IS HE 'AVING A LAUGH?"
"ULSTER WEATHERMAN GETS ROYAL RISER."
"Mr McCRORY ASKED TO LEAVE!"
"Whom is that brown-nosed toady?" asked Prince Phillip as he waited for old Jordie to appear.
" A mere surly churl," said the Queen,"who sweeps the floors, brings in water and keeps the bathrooms clean in the house of Anderson. His name, for some, quaint reason is, Sean Coyle."
"I don't like him," puffed Prince Phillip."Off with his head AND his feet and any protuberance that may be spoiling the line of his village idiot smock."
Tommy my cat tattooed the image of the battleship Bismark on my back with a Black and Decker drill and said,
"The dogs bark and the caravan moves on."
"Meaning-what?" I cried.
"Meaning," said Tommy,"that the tsunami of royal coverage will greatly diminish now until a week before the marriage."
And a good thing too," said Tommy. "There are other things of great importance to talk about."
"Such as what?" I roared.
"Are you aware," said Tommy,"that the Northern Ireland budget has not yet been passed?"
"Have they tried castor oil?" I asked.
"Litres of it," said Tommy,"and gallons and gallons of Jeyes Fluid. Next week, if there is no movement, Sammy Wilson is going to call in Dyno-Rod."
THEN! there was a timid knock on the door. It was little, clean, tidy Frank Mitchell asking if either of us knew how to tie a bow tie. Tommy came to the rescue and tied a hugh, frilly, scarlet-red McGuffin around wee Frank's neck that made it appear the little man was peering over a massive red petticoat. If little Frank turns up at the royal wedding looking like that,he will turn the big day into a veritable circus.
Perhaps Pammy Ballentine could have a word in his shell-like. I mean you can see the headlines.
"IS HE 'AVING A LAUGH?"
"ULSTER WEATHERMAN GETS ROYAL RISER."
"Mr McCRORY ASKED TO LEAVE!"
Wednesday 17 November 2010
Go West!
A great show yesterday kid for all young school girls who don't like Mondays.
Suddenly Tommy my cat who was suffering from cabin fever began to shriek,
"I gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing I ever do."
Before you could say,"You don't send me flour anymore," Tommy and I set off down Belfast, wearing matching Seamus Heaney heavy,woollen gansyies and kingfisher-blue hot-pants. We looked good and we knew it. We did a sexy little routine from Pan's People as we skipped along. Rounding a corner we found the road was blocked by a line of men. There was an Indian,a motorcycle cop,a construction worker,a cowboy and in the middle, Tubby Nolan roaring at the top of his voice,
"GO WEST, life is peaceful there,
GO WEST, the Londonderry air,
GO WEST, where the culchies dwell,
GO WEST, and watch my ego swell,
GO WEST, to Gerry Anderson's lair,
GO WEST, where I will rule the air."
"Who goes there," yelled Tommy,"rriend or fiend?"
"FIEND!" yelled Tubby."No one can stop me now. Soon I shall rule the universe. I wonder would Hugo Duncan be my Mini-Me?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "Hugo Duncan will fight to the last man in Strabane before he escapes over the camel's hump into Lifford."
"Soon," yelled Tubby, "I and my army of BBC minions will invade the air-space of the North/West! Soon, I will ignite ructions and riots in remote places like Kesh and Plumbridge. I will lay waste the land West of the Bann, with slabbering poison from my big bucket bake. And there is nothing or no one who can stop me."
Tubby then let loose an evil laugh that chilled the marrow in my bones and rippled the water in my bladder.
"Not so fast!" cried Tommy. "Hold hard Everard! The chosen one,Saint Patrick incarnate,Gerry Adams, will stop you at Lough Derg and banish you like the snake you are."
Tubby turned white and mumbled,
"Gerry Adams and I were always the best of friends. I will not encroach on his thiefdom. I shall raise my standard at the camel's hump on the border of Strabane and Lifford until I have consulted the Oracle of Derry, Sean Coyle. Coyle can read the entrails of a chicken, like a cub can read the Beano."
SO! What does the future hold?????
Who knows, who cares? Bring on the chilly pipers with nay breeks so I can have a good gleek!
Suddenly Tommy my cat who was suffering from cabin fever began to shriek,
"I gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing I ever do."
Before you could say,"You don't send me flour anymore," Tommy and I set off down Belfast, wearing matching Seamus Heaney heavy,woollen gansyies and kingfisher-blue hot-pants. We looked good and we knew it. We did a sexy little routine from Pan's People as we skipped along. Rounding a corner we found the road was blocked by a line of men. There was an Indian,a motorcycle cop,a construction worker,a cowboy and in the middle, Tubby Nolan roaring at the top of his voice,
"GO WEST, life is peaceful there,
GO WEST, the Londonderry air,
GO WEST, where the culchies dwell,
GO WEST, and watch my ego swell,
GO WEST, to Gerry Anderson's lair,
GO WEST, where I will rule the air."
"Who goes there," yelled Tommy,"rriend or fiend?"
"FIEND!" yelled Tubby."No one can stop me now. Soon I shall rule the universe. I wonder would Hugo Duncan be my Mini-Me?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "Hugo Duncan will fight to the last man in Strabane before he escapes over the camel's hump into Lifford."
"Soon," yelled Tubby, "I and my army of BBC minions will invade the air-space of the North/West! Soon, I will ignite ructions and riots in remote places like Kesh and Plumbridge. I will lay waste the land West of the Bann, with slabbering poison from my big bucket bake. And there is nothing or no one who can stop me."
Tubby then let loose an evil laugh that chilled the marrow in my bones and rippled the water in my bladder.
"Not so fast!" cried Tommy. "Hold hard Everard! The chosen one,Saint Patrick incarnate,Gerry Adams, will stop you at Lough Derg and banish you like the snake you are."
Tubby turned white and mumbled,
"Gerry Adams and I were always the best of friends. I will not encroach on his thiefdom. I shall raise my standard at the camel's hump on the border of Strabane and Lifford until I have consulted the Oracle of Derry, Sean Coyle. Coyle can read the entrails of a chicken, like a cub can read the Beano."
SO! What does the future hold?????
Who knows, who cares? Bring on the chilly pipers with nay breeks so I can have a good gleek!
Monday 15 November 2010
Rubber ducks
Great shows last week kid,great shows which laid the foundations and set out a road map for peace and prosperity for everyone corralled within the borders of Ulster.
We,the people of Ulster are not like other people. We are dour,sour,hard-headed and,it has to be said, thick. We prefer the stick to the carrot. We have no hesitation in cutting off our nose to spite our face,and by golly, both sides of the house can march up and down ,round and round. No other nation clocks up as many marching miles as the people of Ulster. We will march at the drop of a black bowler hat,or the shrill cry from a jail,
"Nothing matters Mary when you're free!"
But we could be worse, I say we could be worse. We could stand kicking our heels at street corners,picking our nose and smoking Woodbine like the natives of Papua,New Guinea do on a regular basis.
I looked at Tommy my cat lying in a bubble bath squeezing his rubber duck. Tommy gazed through the curtain of steam and said,
"I say old girl,I do declare I could live on bread and water if I had great shows."
I mounted a brindle water buffalo called Rick and yelled,
"Great shows don't just happen. Great shows have to be planned. The greatest exponents of great shows were the Romans and Barnum and Bailey."
"Ah, I know Barnum and Bailey," said Tommy. "Did they not fall in with a chap called Cromwell and form the BBC?"
"Get out of that bubble bath!" I yelled. "Get out of that bath and while we're on the subject,there has been a deal too much rubber duck squeezing going on under the water for my liking."
"How dare you brand me a rubber duck squeezer!" cried Tommy. "I stick to the rules of bubble bathers everywhere. The number of times one can squeeze one's rubber duck in a bubble bath is set at five and I have never, never exceeded that number."
"Liar, liar pants on fire!" I yelled. "I have been watching you my fine,feathered friend and I will swear in any court in the land that you,Tommy cat,squeezed your rubber duck a total of SEVEN times."
"Lies, damn lies and the Stylistics!" roared Tommy.
THEN! Jim Rodgers leaped over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato, landed in the middle of the room and screamed,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! Great news. After an all night sitting in Brussels, British Prime Minister David Cameron has won a history-making concession. From midnight tonight, the price of pan loaves will go through the roof, but the people of Britain can squeeze their wee rubber ducks as many times as they like.
"This will have great political significance in Ulster!" screamed Jim. "What shinner would want to join the Free State if their rubber duck squeezing was curtailed by the bureaucrats in Brussels?"
Tommy and I concurred, grabbed our wee,yellow,rubber ducks and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
What a great day for democracy and the manufacturers of wee,yellow, rubber ducks,who reside,I believe,in China!
We,the people of Ulster are not like other people. We are dour,sour,hard-headed and,it has to be said, thick. We prefer the stick to the carrot. We have no hesitation in cutting off our nose to spite our face,and by golly, both sides of the house can march up and down ,round and round. No other nation clocks up as many marching miles as the people of Ulster. We will march at the drop of a black bowler hat,or the shrill cry from a jail,
"Nothing matters Mary when you're free!"
But we could be worse, I say we could be worse. We could stand kicking our heels at street corners,picking our nose and smoking Woodbine like the natives of Papua,New Guinea do on a regular basis.
I looked at Tommy my cat lying in a bubble bath squeezing his rubber duck. Tommy gazed through the curtain of steam and said,
"I say old girl,I do declare I could live on bread and water if I had great shows."
I mounted a brindle water buffalo called Rick and yelled,
"Great shows don't just happen. Great shows have to be planned. The greatest exponents of great shows were the Romans and Barnum and Bailey."
"Ah, I know Barnum and Bailey," said Tommy. "Did they not fall in with a chap called Cromwell and form the BBC?"
"Get out of that bubble bath!" I yelled. "Get out of that bath and while we're on the subject,there has been a deal too much rubber duck squeezing going on under the water for my liking."
"How dare you brand me a rubber duck squeezer!" cried Tommy. "I stick to the rules of bubble bathers everywhere. The number of times one can squeeze one's rubber duck in a bubble bath is set at five and I have never, never exceeded that number."
"Liar, liar pants on fire!" I yelled. "I have been watching you my fine,feathered friend and I will swear in any court in the land that you,Tommy cat,squeezed your rubber duck a total of SEVEN times."
"Lies, damn lies and the Stylistics!" roared Tommy.
THEN! Jim Rodgers leaped over a woman dressed as a red, furry tomato, landed in the middle of the room and screamed,
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH! Great news. After an all night sitting in Brussels, British Prime Minister David Cameron has won a history-making concession. From midnight tonight, the price of pan loaves will go through the roof, but the people of Britain can squeeze their wee rubber ducks as many times as they like.
"This will have great political significance in Ulster!" screamed Jim. "What shinner would want to join the Free State if their rubber duck squeezing was curtailed by the bureaucrats in Brussels?"
Tommy and I concurred, grabbed our wee,yellow,rubber ducks and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
What a great day for democracy and the manufacturers of wee,yellow, rubber ducks,who reside,I believe,in China!
Thursday 11 November 2010
No Cure For Surliness.
Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat turned the radio off by yelling,
"You were good, but not right!"
A radio taker-away ran in, bound and gagged the radio and made his escape on a Honda 900cc Widow Maker motorcycle. Tommy plucked a lute, tooted a flute, pressed his suit and said,
"Mr Coyle was very surly today."
"I grabbed my Chamber's pot dictionary and yelled,
"SURLY, Morose, Gruff, Grumpy, Gloomy, Made famous by Shakespeare when he said in his famous play The mercenary of Ennis,
"Gadzooks, the knave in tattered hose was a surly churl."
"Well, bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of Titbits!" cried Tommy."That's Mr Coyle to a T. Is there no cure? Is there no remedy that will cure Mr Coyle from his morose, gruff, gloomy, grumpy surliness?"
"RISERS!" I yelled."RISERS, administered by a man wearing Italian shoes and sporting a crop of newly sown hair."
"Where is Silvino Berlussconi when you need him?" yelled Tommy.
"Probably playing away from home," I cried.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" screamed Tommy, for no apparent reason that I could see.
As I skipped by Eason's book shop on the Donegall Road, I saw the most amazing sight. It was Tubby Nolan clambering out of the back of a bin lorry.
"What did I tell you?" I yelled. "Did I not say to you, Steve don't appear on the street wearing a black suit when the bin lorry is making its rounds?"
Tubby flicked a fish head from his hair and said,
"That's the third time that has happened to me this week. On Tuesday I had to walk back from the landfill site AND pay a fine for dumping an item stuffed with flammable material,ie curry."
"Steve," I said,"Steve,you've got to take yourself in hand. Look at you, standing there like Patrick Moore's down-at-heel love child."
"Perhaps I should get a make-over," said Tubby.
"Make-over?" I scoffed. "You need land-scaping. Oh,if only Capability Brown could have got his hands on you. I can see you now. A wide avenue leading up to a water feature at the fork of your trousers. Neatly clipped privet hedge eyebrows. Shoes with decking soles to keep you from sinking into the mire and your hair topiaried into cute,little bunny rabbits."
"Push off bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "I'm no namby-pamby like Hugh Grant. I'm tough, like James Colburn, Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine and Babara Stanwych who scared the pants of Sean Coyle with her Rift (Pardon me)valley."
"Cats," I mused, "pigeons, Barbara Stanwyck, could there be a link? I decided to fly to America, dig up Barbara Stanwyck, get a sample of her DLA--sorry-DNA and compare it with Tommy's. Then and only then, could we work on Mr Coyle's peculiar phobia.
As I walked away I heard a bull-like roar. Once again Tubby Nolan was in the back of the bin lorry. Seems like water and rubbish always find their own level!
It's the kids I feel sorry for, having to witness such a degrading spectacle on their way to the off-licence.
Tommy my cat turned the radio off by yelling,
"You were good, but not right!"
A radio taker-away ran in, bound and gagged the radio and made his escape on a Honda 900cc Widow Maker motorcycle. Tommy plucked a lute, tooted a flute, pressed his suit and said,
"Mr Coyle was very surly today."
"I grabbed my Chamber's pot dictionary and yelled,
"SURLY, Morose, Gruff, Grumpy, Gloomy, Made famous by Shakespeare when he said in his famous play The mercenary of Ennis,
"Gadzooks, the knave in tattered hose was a surly churl."
"Well, bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of Titbits!" cried Tommy."That's Mr Coyle to a T. Is there no cure? Is there no remedy that will cure Mr Coyle from his morose, gruff, gloomy, grumpy surliness?"
"RISERS!" I yelled."RISERS, administered by a man wearing Italian shoes and sporting a crop of newly sown hair."
"Where is Silvino Berlussconi when you need him?" yelled Tommy.
"Probably playing away from home," I cried.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" screamed Tommy, for no apparent reason that I could see.
As I skipped by Eason's book shop on the Donegall Road, I saw the most amazing sight. It was Tubby Nolan clambering out of the back of a bin lorry.
"What did I tell you?" I yelled. "Did I not say to you, Steve don't appear on the street wearing a black suit when the bin lorry is making its rounds?"
Tubby flicked a fish head from his hair and said,
"That's the third time that has happened to me this week. On Tuesday I had to walk back from the landfill site AND pay a fine for dumping an item stuffed with flammable material,ie curry."
"Steve," I said,"Steve,you've got to take yourself in hand. Look at you, standing there like Patrick Moore's down-at-heel love child."
"Perhaps I should get a make-over," said Tubby.
"Make-over?" I scoffed. "You need land-scaping. Oh,if only Capability Brown could have got his hands on you. I can see you now. A wide avenue leading up to a water feature at the fork of your trousers. Neatly clipped privet hedge eyebrows. Shoes with decking soles to keep you from sinking into the mire and your hair topiaried into cute,little bunny rabbits."
"Push off bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "I'm no namby-pamby like Hugh Grant. I'm tough, like James Colburn, Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine and Babara Stanwych who scared the pants of Sean Coyle with her Rift (Pardon me)valley."
"Cats," I mused, "pigeons, Barbara Stanwyck, could there be a link? I decided to fly to America, dig up Barbara Stanwyck, get a sample of her DLA--sorry-DNA and compare it with Tommy's. Then and only then, could we work on Mr Coyle's peculiar phobia.
As I walked away I heard a bull-like roar. Once again Tubby Nolan was in the back of the bin lorry. Seems like water and rubbish always find their own level!
It's the kids I feel sorry for, having to witness such a degrading spectacle on their way to the off-licence.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
S.O.C. Nigh!
Four great shows last week kid.
Tommy my cat drew YET another outline of a body with chalk on the floor and said,
"I am worried about dear Christine Bleakley. Her early morning show has only got 600,000 viewers."
I stopped wall-papering the wheelie-bin and yelled,
"Well shiver my timbers and call me Rhonda. That works out at 300,000 viewers for Christine and 300,000 viewers for Mr Personality, Adrian Chiles."
"Indeed," said Tommy. "And when you further share out the over-all viewing figures with the tea lady and the production staff, you are nearly down to single digits."
"Something must be done!" I cried. "We can't let Christine go down like the Titanic!
We must take to the streets. We must protest.
SOC!" I roared.
"SOC. Save our Christine!"
"CMBS!" yelled Tommy.
"CMBS! Christine must be saved!"
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers.
"CIFUAMBGPT!"
"CIFUAMBGPT! Christine is from Ulster and must be given preferential treatment!"
If you are looking for a snappy slogan Jim Rodgers is your man. He went to school you know. There are witnesses who saw him going AND coming back.
No wonder the people of North Belfast never worry about an over-flowing toilet. They just make a cup of tea and say, "JIM WILL FIX IT!"
Tommy assembled an Ikea flat-pack court and said,
"Was Mr Coyle a SCAB for working last Friday?"
"YES!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle faced cats and pigeons to turn up for work on Friday, proving,if proof were needed, that the blood of Arthur Scargill does not run in his veins."
Tommy brought his gravel down on my head and yelled,
"I find Mr Coyle GUILTY of working and the sentence of this court is, that Mr Coyle be ostracized from decent, doing the double, income support, DLA society."
"Hauld on!" I yelled. "Hauld on! Ostracization is a bit hard. Why not give him 50 lashes instead of making him dress up in an ostrich costume like Bernie Clifton?"
"Clear the court," yelled Tommy,"before you find yourself up for obstruction!"
"Since when has constipation been a crime?" I yelled. I was dragged out by four members of the Vatican Swiss Guard.
They kept that one quiet,I say, they kept that one quiet.
Members of the Vatican Swiss Guard coming over here and taking our jobs.
ARE THE DUP ASLEEP???
Tommy my cat drew YET another outline of a body with chalk on the floor and said,
"I am worried about dear Christine Bleakley. Her early morning show has only got 600,000 viewers."
I stopped wall-papering the wheelie-bin and yelled,
"Well shiver my timbers and call me Rhonda. That works out at 300,000 viewers for Christine and 300,000 viewers for Mr Personality, Adrian Chiles."
"Indeed," said Tommy. "And when you further share out the over-all viewing figures with the tea lady and the production staff, you are nearly down to single digits."
"Something must be done!" I cried. "We can't let Christine go down like the Titanic!
We must take to the streets. We must protest.
SOC!" I roared.
"SOC. Save our Christine!"
"CMBS!" yelled Tommy.
"CMBS! Christine must be saved!"
"Nigh, Nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers.
"CIFUAMBGPT!"
"CIFUAMBGPT! Christine is from Ulster and must be given preferential treatment!"
If you are looking for a snappy slogan Jim Rodgers is your man. He went to school you know. There are witnesses who saw him going AND coming back.
No wonder the people of North Belfast never worry about an over-flowing toilet. They just make a cup of tea and say, "JIM WILL FIX IT!"
Tommy assembled an Ikea flat-pack court and said,
"Was Mr Coyle a SCAB for working last Friday?"
"YES!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle faced cats and pigeons to turn up for work on Friday, proving,if proof were needed, that the blood of Arthur Scargill does not run in his veins."
Tommy brought his gravel down on my head and yelled,
"I find Mr Coyle GUILTY of working and the sentence of this court is, that Mr Coyle be ostracized from decent, doing the double, income support, DLA society."
"Hauld on!" I yelled. "Hauld on! Ostracization is a bit hard. Why not give him 50 lashes instead of making him dress up in an ostrich costume like Bernie Clifton?"
"Clear the court," yelled Tommy,"before you find yourself up for obstruction!"
"Since when has constipation been a crime?" I yelled. I was dragged out by four members of the Vatican Swiss Guard.
They kept that one quiet,I say, they kept that one quiet.
Members of the Vatican Swiss Guard coming over here and taking our jobs.
ARE THE DUP ASLEEP???
Monday 8 November 2010
The Ugly Face Of U.T.V.
"What a great show that was" said Tommy my cat,as he took the radio by the hand and walked it out to the wheelie-bin. That radio, unlike Mary Bell's pussy would never see the light of day again.
"That great show today," I cried,mounting a dung heap and crowing like a rooster, "that great show today could mean the difference between life and death to some poor, depressed, miserable excuse for a human being who gambled his granny's hip replacement money on the last race at Haydock Park."
"You tell it like it is sister," yelled Tommy,"'cause you is one proud, butt-ugly woman!"
"You don't know me!" I yelled to the empty room. "You don't know me,so don't be booing and cat-calling 'till you walk a mile in my drawers. If I is ugly and I sure am ugly,it was MEN that made me ugly. So don't you go blaming me 'cause I is ugly. Blame the MAN who looks at me and says,
"Every day is Halloween with her."
"You tell it like it IS girl!" yelled Tommy. "Women ain't to blame for anything. Men is to blame for EVERYTHING. You got beauty inside girl. You hold that big, ugly head high. If men don't like you, they is missing a mess of ugliness. Ugliness that conceals your inner beauty."
"TO HELL WITH-MEN!" I roared, attacking a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea with my claws, teeth and the curved bit at the end of my nose.
"And what have you got in YOUR handbag?" I asked.
"Oh just some moist wipes and a gallon of Jaffa tan," said a beaming Julian Symmons.
"Here," says Julian, "there was a wild hanlin' at UTV this morning. Paul Clarke and Pamela Ballentine fell out over the last chocolate eclair. Hur was flying. Hur, you know-hur, the stuff that grows on your head, was flying. Pammy's wee eyes were flashing an' Paul Clarke slammed the dour and said,
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Then, come 'ere hi, didn't Royal Correspondent,Frank Mitchell, walk in and eat the wee eclair. Oh you should have heard the names Pammy called him.
Brown nose. auld ten things and for some, strange reason I don't understand, Mr McCrory. I hid in the girls' loo, so I did. I hid in the loo with May McFedridge who was slapping poly-filler on thon big gub of hers.
Here! I must be off. Frank has another list for the people tonight, so he has.
"Name 10 things Tubby Nolan hasn't seen in the last twenty years."
OH! that was my first guess too, but I don't think it will get past Of Com.
Must fly-Bye-Bye-Bye."
"That great show today," I cried,mounting a dung heap and crowing like a rooster, "that great show today could mean the difference between life and death to some poor, depressed, miserable excuse for a human being who gambled his granny's hip replacement money on the last race at Haydock Park."
"You tell it like it is sister," yelled Tommy,"'cause you is one proud, butt-ugly woman!"
"You don't know me!" I yelled to the empty room. "You don't know me,so don't be booing and cat-calling 'till you walk a mile in my drawers. If I is ugly and I sure am ugly,it was MEN that made me ugly. So don't you go blaming me 'cause I is ugly. Blame the MAN who looks at me and says,
"Every day is Halloween with her."
"You tell it like it IS girl!" yelled Tommy. "Women ain't to blame for anything. Men is to blame for EVERYTHING. You got beauty inside girl. You hold that big, ugly head high. If men don't like you, they is missing a mess of ugliness. Ugliness that conceals your inner beauty."
"TO HELL WITH-MEN!" I roared, attacking a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea with my claws, teeth and the curved bit at the end of my nose.
"And what have you got in YOUR handbag?" I asked.
"Oh just some moist wipes and a gallon of Jaffa tan," said a beaming Julian Symmons.
"Here," says Julian, "there was a wild hanlin' at UTV this morning. Paul Clarke and Pamela Ballentine fell out over the last chocolate eclair. Hur was flying. Hur, you know-hur, the stuff that grows on your head, was flying. Pammy's wee eyes were flashing an' Paul Clarke slammed the dour and said,
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Then, come 'ere hi, didn't Royal Correspondent,Frank Mitchell, walk in and eat the wee eclair. Oh you should have heard the names Pammy called him.
Brown nose. auld ten things and for some, strange reason I don't understand, Mr McCrory. I hid in the girls' loo, so I did. I hid in the loo with May McFedridge who was slapping poly-filler on thon big gub of hers.
Here! I must be off. Frank has another list for the people tonight, so he has.
"Name 10 things Tubby Nolan hasn't seen in the last twenty years."
OH! that was my first guess too, but I don't think it will get past Of Com.
Must fly-Bye-Bye-Bye."
Friday 5 November 2010
Irrational Fears and Flak Jackets
Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat crawled out from under the floor boards,where he had been timing death watch beetles run the 100 metres and said,
"It is truly amazing the amount of hate mail Mr Coyle receives on the Gerry show."
"And not undeserved!" I yelled. "Not undeserved. Any man,no matter how many eye brows he has, who thinks a pigeon is about to attack him as he makes his way to work, deserves hate mail by the sack load."
"Cats, pigeons," said Tommy,"what will Mr Coyle fear next?--mothers who breast feed?"
"He already does!" I cried."Only last week as Mr Coyle waited in a doctor's surgery to get Maine sarsaparilla dropped into his eye, a young mother began to unbutton her blouse prior to giving liquid nourishment to her young sprog. Mr Coyle leaped to his feet, yelled, "AIR BAGS!" and ran from the surgery pursued by angry villagers with torches and pitch forks."
"Outrage!" yelled Tommy, throwing down the Bangor Bugle. "The Ministry of Defence can't find a flak-jacket big enough to fit Lord Ken McGuinness!"
"Nor can they find a tank big enough to hold him!" I cried. "If there is one thing Afghanistan is crying out for now, it is a visit from Ken McGuinness. How Ken would have raised the morale of the troops by telling tales of daring-do in the UDR."
"We heard a fissle coming from behind a hedge," said Ken. "I yelled, "FIRE, AIM, RAISE!" and we shot two cows that were acting suspiciously behind the hedge."
"Could not Tubby Nolan lend Ken a body-warmer?" said Tommy.
"He could," I said, "but Tubby's mother, big Audrey,doesn't want Tubby's body-warmer coming home full of holes."
"Snipers?" said Tommy.
"Moths," I answered. "Great big buggers of Afghanistan moths."
"My-My", said Tommy, "The things you learn when you're talking to a complete tube."
I held my piece, Mother's Pride bread and plum jam. YUM-YUM!
Tommy my cat crawled out from under the floor boards,where he had been timing death watch beetles run the 100 metres and said,
"It is truly amazing the amount of hate mail Mr Coyle receives on the Gerry show."
"And not undeserved!" I yelled. "Not undeserved. Any man,no matter how many eye brows he has, who thinks a pigeon is about to attack him as he makes his way to work, deserves hate mail by the sack load."
"Cats, pigeons," said Tommy,"what will Mr Coyle fear next?--mothers who breast feed?"
"He already does!" I cried."Only last week as Mr Coyle waited in a doctor's surgery to get Maine sarsaparilla dropped into his eye, a young mother began to unbutton her blouse prior to giving liquid nourishment to her young sprog. Mr Coyle leaped to his feet, yelled, "AIR BAGS!" and ran from the surgery pursued by angry villagers with torches and pitch forks."
"Outrage!" yelled Tommy, throwing down the Bangor Bugle. "The Ministry of Defence can't find a flak-jacket big enough to fit Lord Ken McGuinness!"
"Nor can they find a tank big enough to hold him!" I cried. "If there is one thing Afghanistan is crying out for now, it is a visit from Ken McGuinness. How Ken would have raised the morale of the troops by telling tales of daring-do in the UDR."
"We heard a fissle coming from behind a hedge," said Ken. "I yelled, "FIRE, AIM, RAISE!" and we shot two cows that were acting suspiciously behind the hedge."
"Could not Tubby Nolan lend Ken a body-warmer?" said Tommy.
"He could," I said, "but Tubby's mother, big Audrey,doesn't want Tubby's body-warmer coming home full of holes."
"Snipers?" said Tommy.
"Moths," I answered. "Great big buggers of Afghanistan moths."
"My-My", said Tommy, "The things you learn when you're talking to a complete tube."
I held my piece, Mother's Pride bread and plum jam. YUM-YUM!
Monday 1 November 2010
Fiscal News
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly aided the Pound in its unfair fight with the Euro and the Dollar.
"The Pound has rallied!" yelled Tommy my cat. "The dollar is just holding its own. Brian Cowan, Angela Merkel, Nicolas Sarzozy, Silvio Berlusconi, your Euro is taking a hell of a beating. Your Euro is taking a hell of a beating!"
I clapped my Hans, two Dutch lodgers I had recently taken in, and cried,
My drawers are shaking! This great fiscal news has affected the pound in my pocket."
Tommy my cat looked at me with a gormless look on his face like Adrian Chiles and said,
"Britain owes a shed load of money doesn't it?"
"It sure does," I said. "Billions and billions and even more billions."
"To who or whom does Britain own this money?" asked Tommy.
"The banks," I said.
"That can not be!" said Tommy. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did this fiscal hanlin' not come about because the banks went bust as a result of greed and gross stupidity.
So how can we own money to the people who got us into this mess in the first place?"
Once again, it had taken a simple lump of a cat to reveal that the Emperor wore no clothes and was naked as a jaybird.
"Ah, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I said,"there is no sense or logic in the hanlin' we are in. One way or another we are going back to Dickensian times. There will be small boys up chimneys. Once again we shall hear the cry of the knife grinder and the rag and bone man and many shall languish in debtors' prisons."
"It could be worse," said Tommy. "Had we gone back to the 1970s everyone would be wearing flared trousers."
"Release that fat, obese Guy!" I yelled to the gang of hoodies who were pulling poor Steven Nolan around Belfast in a wee cart.
"Tubby is not a play-thing or a figure of fun. He is a man! Prick him and see how much he bleeds."
"Shut your gub bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "This is my idea. I get 75% of the treats!"
Oh the things a plump man will stoop to, to stuff his pie-hole!
"Penny for the guy! Penny for the BIGGEST guy in the country!"
"The Pound has rallied!" yelled Tommy my cat. "The dollar is just holding its own. Brian Cowan, Angela Merkel, Nicolas Sarzozy, Silvio Berlusconi, your Euro is taking a hell of a beating. Your Euro is taking a hell of a beating!"
I clapped my Hans, two Dutch lodgers I had recently taken in, and cried,
My drawers are shaking! This great fiscal news has affected the pound in my pocket."
Tommy my cat looked at me with a gormless look on his face like Adrian Chiles and said,
"Britain owes a shed load of money doesn't it?"
"It sure does," I said. "Billions and billions and even more billions."
"To who or whom does Britain own this money?" asked Tommy.
"The banks," I said.
"That can not be!" said Tommy. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did this fiscal hanlin' not come about because the banks went bust as a result of greed and gross stupidity.
So how can we own money to the people who got us into this mess in the first place?"
Once again, it had taken a simple lump of a cat to reveal that the Emperor wore no clothes and was naked as a jaybird.
"Ah, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I said,"there is no sense or logic in the hanlin' we are in. One way or another we are going back to Dickensian times. There will be small boys up chimneys. Once again we shall hear the cry of the knife grinder and the rag and bone man and many shall languish in debtors' prisons."
"It could be worse," said Tommy. "Had we gone back to the 1970s everyone would be wearing flared trousers."
"Release that fat, obese Guy!" I yelled to the gang of hoodies who were pulling poor Steven Nolan around Belfast in a wee cart.
"Tubby is not a play-thing or a figure of fun. He is a man! Prick him and see how much he bleeds."
"Shut your gub bucket bake!" roared Tubby. "This is my idea. I get 75% of the treats!"
Oh the things a plump man will stoop to, to stuff his pie-hole!
"Penny for the guy! Penny for the BIGGEST guy in the country!"
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