It's Ron Burgundy!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused quite a ruckus at Saint Cody's school for talented, old codgers with an IQ of 9 or higher. The ancient prodigies, expend much grey matter trying to invent something that is better than the sliced loaf. One old relic claimed to have invented perpetual motion. But tests showed it was just a chronic case of gastroenteritis with little or no regard for penicillin. "Drat!" croaked the old relic, as he was raised from the hunkering position and helped into bed. "For a moment there, I thought I had solved the world's energy crisis."
Tommy my cat came over to the chair where I sat, drew out the hair which grew from the mole on my chin, picked up a bow and played a haunting, plaintive refrain which tugged at the heart strings like a pale-faced,child-ghost looking out of an attic window. Tommy released the hair which sprang back like a coiled watch spring and said, "What about that then? Not bad for a lump of a cat!"
"OH Tommy," I enthused. "It was lovely, so eerily sad, so haunting, so beautiful in its sad, haunting, plaintive melancholia Pray enlighten one as to the name of the piece."
"The old buck goat's hind leg," said Tommy, as he broke three large eggs over my head and scrambled my brain into a maelstrom, a malevolent, malfeasant vortex, spinning, every spinning in the canyons of my mind. But it was just high spirits. I promised Tommy's mother I would never take him to see a psychiatrist, or a man who sold potatoes by the road side.
"FRANK!" I Yelled. "FRANK! FRANK" FRANK!"
Frank Mitchell stopped on his way out of the chemist, clutching a large bottle of "Honey-Voice" for broadcasters and hissed. I know, I couldn't believe it either. Frank Mitchell, of all people hissing in the street.
"Keep your voice down," hissed Frank. "You're making a show of me. I am not one of your saloon bar chums. I have my reputation to think of. I met the Queen you know. I am Mr Frank Mitchell. I am a meteorologist and dapper, little dandy. Go away. I don't consort with people like YOU!" I was stunned. My hero had spurned me. A red mist came over my eyes and I yelled, "Ron Burgundy! That's what you are, a thick-as-two-short planks, Ron Burgundy!"
"I AM NOT RON BURGUNDY!" roared Frank,to the amusement of passers-by. "If anyone at UTV is Ron Burgundy, it is "The Shoe Man" Paul Clarke. I AM NOT-RON BURGUNDY! I AM NOT, RON BURGUNDY!" Then a van with black windows pulled up and Pamela Ballentine said. "Get in Frank. A cup of tea and a gypsy cream and you'll be fine. Now what did I tell you about going out alone? Next time ask Paul or me and we'll take you by the hand to the chemist."
"RON BURGUNDY!" I yelled after the van. "RON BURGUNDY! And your name is not Frank Mitchell, it's--RON BURGUNDY!!!!"

The Christmas Blues

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Prince Philip pick up his bed and growl, " TAXI, Taxi for the Prince! We had that Anderson chap round one night. The wife seemed greatly taken with him, but I still have some misgivings. I walked up to him with my hands behind my back, as is my wont and said, "Hello and what do you do?"
The silly ass looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and replied, "It's twenty five minutes to nine your highness! TAXI! TAXI for Phil."
Tommy my cat strolled into the room wearing his Christmas jumper. It was a vomit inducing extravaganza of snowmen, holly, robins and Santa Claus. As Tommy picked at the left over Chivers jelly in the fridge, I thought of all the poor men who were sitting in corners afraid to go out and face the scorn of the Christmas jumper jury. It's an awful experience for a man to go for a walk, or pop into the pub wearing the hideous creation their wives and girlfriends had given so much though to. Some men go to extremes to rid themselves of the Christmas jumper. Some set themselves on fire, leap into sewage tanks, or go to the police and report the theft of their Christmas jumper.
"Let's see if I've got this right," said the detective. "Two burly men jumped on you, forced you to take off your Christmas jumper and made off with it. You received no injuries. The jumper thieves never stole your money or mobile phone----just your jumper. The detective winked and said, "Leave it with us sir. I think we're dealing with an International gang of Christmas jumper thieves. Only yesterday sir, I was mugged and left bereft of my wife's lovely "Christmas in Lapland" jumper."
What an air of depression and sadness has settled over Belfast. You would think one of the giant cranes had died. It's a condition known as, the Christmas blues. Millies don't have the same arrogant strut to their fluffy, pink, bedroom slippers. The little hoodies huddle together for comfort. Old codgers don't spit their phlegm half as far. Shopping housewives walk round in circles like dead planets circling a dying sun. People burst into tears for no reason. Husbands cling on to their wives' ankles, begging not to be left alone.
Then, the dismal darkness is shattered by a cheery whistle. It's big Jim McDowell, sweeping the street with his giant stuck out feet. "How's about ye Belfast. Come on, snap out of it. It's nearly the New Year. Plenty of Northern Ireland nils to look forwards to. May McFetridge is still at the Opera House and Tubby Nolan will give us all a good laugh when he appears in a big Christmas jumper. Sticking out Belfast! Sticking out!!!"

Tommy's Loaded With Ferrero Rocher

SO! It's all over! The tinsel has lost its glitter and the drains have stopped running with puke. OH! Christmas takes it out of you!
Tommy my cat and I were taken to casualty twice. Once to have our stomachs pumped out and then to have sprigs of holly removed from our rears. How they got there is a mystery to both of us.
I was bent over a bucket on Boxing Day when Tommy came downstairs leaning heavily on the banister. Oh, he did look pale. Oh, he did look wan, waif-like and knackered. Tommy came towards me on wee, tiny steps as if he was walking in a minefield. "Tommy," I croaked, "what ails thee lad? What peculiar circumstance has robbed thee of walking in a manner conductive of genteel, society which is demonstrated so professionally and graciously in Downton Abbey?"
"KEEP AWAY!" screamed Tommy. "I am a walking time bomb!"
I recoiled like the spring in a mouse trap and utterised, "Tommy, explain yourself before acute curiosity causes blood clots to form and head posthaste for my heart and leave me bereft of life."
"Yesterday!" yelled Tommy. " I ate 24 Ferrero Rocher. I regret to inform you that all 24 Ferrero Rocher are lined up like bullets in a magazine in my stomach. The slightest jolt could start a sequence of events which could lead to a fusillade of cluster bombs."
"Don't come near me!" I shrieked. "You're armed and dangerous. Keep looking straight at my face. Don't dare point your rear at me."
Tommy sighed and said, "You certainly know who your friends are when you're loaded with live Ferrero Rocher."
"Tip-toe out to the coal bunker," I yelled, "while I evacuate the house and send for the bomb squad!" It took me quite a while to clear the house. I dug in my heels and refused to go. Finally I convinced myself that I would be safer, bound and gagged and tied to a railway track.
It took the bomb squad two hours to disarm Tommy. I don't know what they did, but Tommy is walking funny and has a pathological fear of the coal tongs..
"Biggest in the country!" roared Tubby Nolan, as he lumbered down Bradford Street pulling a giant cracker behind him. The cracker was so long it had a red flag tied to the back of it. Soon a crowd gathered and the usual, good natured ribbing began. "Hey fat boy, your sack should be on your back, not your front. Hey giant Haystacks, have you any rooms to let in your trousers? Hey lard man, give me the crust from your pie."
It took two tractors to pull the giant cracker apart. There was a huge "BANG", a cloud of smoke and out staggered the most wanted man in the world. Higgs Bosum stood there with a black face, his trousers in tattered remnants and roared, " I am NOT the God particle. My name is Higgs Boson. Go away and leave me alone. I do NOT know the secret of a black hole. I am an accountant from Oslo in Norway, who has got caught up in some crazy nightmare!"
Tubby, hitched up his trousers with a complicated system of weights and pulleys and went off singing,
"Always look on the bright side of life."

Have We Enough Sprouts?

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which made people ask, "Why is Alex Atwood always on TV recently? Is he taking advantage of Alasdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights?" I put that question to former SDLP leader Mark Durkin who said,
"The reality is, Alex Atwood is a fly, little skitter, who is always on the look out for a camera crew. When I was leader, the reality is, I used to hobble Atwood's feet like a circus pony to keep him from breaking into a gallop when he saw Ken Reid or Martina Purdy."
"Mark," I said. "Dear lovely Mark Durkin, do you miss the cut and thrust of premiership politics?"
"Indeed I do not!" said Mark "The reality is, I'm quite happy sitting at home in Derry. The reality is, is that the reality will always be-is. Knowing the reality will always be is, I am not going to upset the applecart, by claiming that the reality is this,that or the other, when I know fine well that the reality-is!" What a fine political brain, calling out for a home in a laboratory specimen jar.
Tommy my cat came in with yet another wheel barrow of brussel sprouts, tumbled them out in the corner and said,
"Is that all, or should I fetch in another load?"
"How many sprouts are in that pile?" I asked.
"517," replied Tommy.
"Bring in one more sprout," I said. "We don't want to end up fighting over the last sprout, or having to cut it in half."
"Good thinking," said Tommy. "That's why MENSA sent you a funny Christmas card. When you opened it up, two fingers shot out."
I looked around my tinseled hovel and said, "This is going to be the best Christmas EVER! We have a plump turkey, a fat plum pud, 2 gallon of cranberry sauce, a zinc bucket full of trifle, a stone of Flemish stuffing and 307 Christmas crackers. Now, what about our Christmas DVDs?"
"On the mantelpiece SIR! ready for inserting SIR!" yelled Tommy.
I sat down on a gnome and said, "Read out the titles Tommy. Everything must be perfect." Tommy cleaned his reading glasses with my tongue and yelled,
"The dog who saved Christmas. Wild trouble and strife at Christmas. My granny died at Christmas. Santa gets clamped at Christmas. Black plague strikes at Christmas. OH! what a cruel Christmas. The town that died from food poisoning at Christmas and Who shot Santa on Christmas Eve?"
"Tommy, Tommy," I chided, "No Christmas Carol?"
"I hate that film!" roared Tommy. "Why should an old miser be forgiven for buying ONE turkey on Christmas morning? And another thing," yelled Tommy, "if the turkey was SO great, why was it not sold BEFORE Christmas day?"
Two and a half hours. That's how long it took me to throw 517 brussel sprouts at a retreating cat with no respect for Christmas!

Holy,snow and a clanging bell.

Great show yesterday kid. After listening to the great show, the inmates of Saint Wendy's Old Folk Home, slid down a steep, slippery, hill on their breakfast trays. The crack of broken bones was clearly audible over the excited yells and screams coming from the wrinkled, wizened, tobogganing relics. "I live in a-Wendy house," croaked one old codger as he was taken away by ambulance to be treated for concussion and the removal of an impaled catheter.
"Careful with that axe Eugene," he joked,as he was wheeled into the operating theatre.
Tommy my cat nailed a holy wreath to the toilet seat and said,
"That's the house decorated from top to bottom. Miles and miles of tinsel. A boat load of baubles. Fake snow up to the oxters. Reindeer on the roof. A giant, inflatable Santa and our last demand from VISA card pinned to the front door." I opened the window and yelled, "Look on my works and despair!" A voice from across the street roared back, "Look on my despair and fill me with Valium!" I watched with tears in my eyes as a small, thin, pale-faced workhouse urchin came round the corner on crutches. He looked up at me with a sad, pale face and said,
"HOI! rat features, how about some gruel for a lump of a cub!"
"Clear off four legs!" I roared. "Gruel doesn't grow on trees!"
"The cheek of it," said Tommy. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, there's too much charity and religion creeping into Christmas."
"Tommy!" I cried. "Is it snowing, or is it the local drug dealer shaking out his duvet again?"
"It's snow!" cried Tommy. "Real honest to goodness snow, which is made by God and most good film studios."
Then we both heard the clanging of a bell. It was the town crier, Jim Rodgers. "NIGH hear ye!" screamed Jim. "NIGH hear ye! Two o'clock and all is wrong. Just an hour ago, Tubby Nolan was blowing up balloons. The fat boy sucked instead of blowing and now has a gastric band in his large intestine. The blubber ball is locked in his bedroom and friends have taken away his belt, galluses and shoe laces."
Tommy looked at me and said. "So, this is the way the Tubby will end, not with a bang but a whimper!" Forgetting I was wearing my new flip-flops,I concurred enthusiastically!

Higgs Boson on The Run

Great show yesterday kid, which restored a degree of sanity after the Hugo Duncanesque excess of Black Monday. "Sean Coyle," said Tommy my cat, "is playing fast and loose with the Gerry Anderson doctrine of, "I'll pick the music I play. The listeners can like it or lump it!"
"That's what the public want!" I yelled. "A benign dictator. The smack of firm dee-jaying."
Tommy leaped up on the mantlepiece and yelled, "J'accuse Mr Coyle of Neville Chamberlain, appeasment tactics. Coyle would provide the public with bread and circuses when what they really want is mashups, Miles Davis and the little Honda 50."
"Coyle is a tube!" I yelled. "And like Mitt Romney, I'll bet ten grand that he wears tube socks!"
Later that night, when I was ironing a pair of kippers, Tommy came running in from the back yard. Oh he did look pale. Oh he did look discombobulated.
"Tommy!" I shrieked. "What is the cause of your obvious discombubulation?"
Tommy held on to the mantlepiece and stuttered, "A man has taken up abode in the confines of our coal bunker."
I ran out to the back yard and peeped into the coal bunker. In the dark and gloom I saw the figure of a man crouched in the far corner.
"Is that Alisdair McDonnell?" I asked.
"No," said the strange figure. My name is Higgs Boson. I am on the run. Strange weird people are after me. They claim I am the God particle. They say, erroneously, that I hold the secret of dark matter." Poor wee Higgs, burst into tears and yelled, "They even say I know how matter is formed. But I don't! I don't! I would like to know who is spreading all these lies about me."
"Tubby Nolan!" I yelled. "Tubby Nolan must have given the Hydron Collider boys your name. Tubby Nolan knows how matter is formed. Tubby Nolan, is a veritable mountain of matter. Tubby Nolan should be speeding around the Hydron Collider not you."
"I know not Tubby Nolan said Higgs Boson, but I loathe, hate and despise him. It is HE not ME who should be in the collider."
"And yet, he never shall," I answered sadly.
"WHY NOT?" screamed Higgs.
"If you saw the size of his head, you would not ask that question," I replied. Wee Higgs was gone in the morning, a wanted man, a man on the run. "Good luck Higgs Boson," I whispered. "Another victim of the unscrupulous, God particle, known through out the universe as--Tubby Nolan."

What Is A Pantomime?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which caused bubbly Tom Elliott and exciting, interesting, Alasdair McDonnell to exchange early Christmas presents.
Alasdair McDonnell gave Tom Elliott a a ventriloquist's dummy to deliver his sparkling, witty speeches and bubbly Tom gave exciting, interesting Alasdair a torch without batteries. Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson exchanged dinky toys and David Ford bought himself a Pete Seegar record. (My comb-over is blowing in the wind)
Tommy my cat grabbed me by the lapels of my Harris tweed leotard and yelled, "HEY ugliness personified, what is a pantomime?"
I kissed my wickerwork, death mask of Peter Stringfellow and said,
"A pantomime is income support for actors, comedians and singers who have fallen on hard times. Kindly people go round old folks' homes pulling old relics out of their bed and saying, "Come with me. I have a job for you, which will keep you in bedsocks and peppermint sweets."
The old, burnt-out stars hitch up their rubber pants and croak, "What will I have to do? I was big in the 30s you know."
The kind-hearted people wipe away a tear and answer, " Pick up your catheter and follow me. YOU are going to star in a pantomime. All you have to do is shout, "Oh no it isn't!" and, "He's behind you!"
"I can do that," croak the old relics. "Oh no!, he isn't behind you! How was that?" "It's good," said the kind Samaritan, "but not right."
"HEY! I used to say that," says old Roy Walker, "a long, long, time ago."
"So," said Tommy, rubbing my chin, "a pantomime is out-of-door relief for faded stars. Just one more question," said Tommy, snapping the Harris tweed fork on my leotard, "why do the geese fly South in Winter?"
"Because it's quicker than walking," I answered.
Tommy grabbed a bass drum and went, BOOM! BOOM!
Belfast was a Winter wonderland as Tommy and I strolled round Shaftsbury Avenue dressed as Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie McGee. Drunken Santas were puking into litter bins. Small, pale faced urchins, with little, white faces on them like snowdrops were running about with bowls crying, "MORE! Please sir, I want MORE!" Girls, wearing very short mini-skirts were followed by leering old codgers singing, "Ding dong merrily on high." Tubby Nolan, was dancing around dressed as a giant turkey. "Holy God!" said a wee woman. "How would you like to have to stuff THAT?"
"Don't worry about that wee woman!" roared big Jim McDowell. "That turkey is called Tubby Nolan and he's been stuffing himself for years."
"Hang on Ethel," said the wee woman to her friend. "I have to run home and go to the foot of our stairs!!!"

The Christmas Madness Has Begun.

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat and I were in Castle Court yesterday when we witnessed a fracas in Santa's grotto. A fat child, modelled along the lines of Tubby Nolan, leaped on to Santa's knee like a well fed hippo.
"AH! in the name of God!" yelled Santa. "Get off! You're squashing my baubles, you wee, fat gulpin!" The juvenile Haystacks burst into tears and wailed, "Mummy! mummy! mummy! Auld Santa, insinuated I was a wee fat gulpin!" People scattered as a big, fat woman thundered up like a run-a-way Blob. It was the fat boy's mum. Her face was purple with anger and her big, fat jowls shook and quivered like saddlebags on a long-eared mule. "Where's my little Willie?" she bellowed. "Who has dared to call my wee son a jelly belly?"
"I DID!" yelled the drunken Santa. "You have fed that cub until he looks like a poisoned pup. He is a danger to heath and safety. He leaped up on my knee like an over-weight manatee. I fear the wee, fat gulpin has done irreparable damage to my forkal area."
The mother of the oval boy sniffed the air like a stag and yelled, "You're drunk! You're a pissed Santa!"
"YES!" roared the man in red. "But I'll be sober in the morning and you and your son will still be blubber balls!"
"The straw that broke the camel's back," whispered Tommy.
"A bridge too far," I muttered.
All hell broke loose in the grotto. The massive mum pulled a golden horn from an angel's hand, lifted up Santa's red coat, gave a thrust and roared, "Ding Dong Merrily On High on-THAT!!!!" The drunk Santa, headbutted the irate mammoth mother right between her two little piggy eyes. And the juvenile Tubby sank his teeth into Santa's thin, dirty ankle with a look of relish on his fat face. Women screamed and children cried, as Santa and the duo of fatties over-turned the Christmas tree and sent elves scurrying for safety. The manager arrived, sacked the Santa and mollified the obese mum and her plump offspring with selection boxes and half a dozen large pies.
On the way home Tommy said, "It's only starting. The Christmas madness has begun."
I looked at Tubby Nolan, standing on a traffic island yelling, "This Christmas, I will eat my own weight in giblets" and concurred!!!!

Oracles and Dark Forces.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought some consolation to SDLP leader, doctor Alasdair McDonnell, as he sat in a darkened room, waiting for the sun to go down. Meanwhile, arch knave, Alex Attwood, arrayed in doublet and laddered hose, was spreading mischief. "He's a vampire!" yelled Attwood,
"Our esteemed leader Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire! He can't stand the light. He has no reflection and his eyebrows meet in the middle!"
"As a woman," shrieked Margaret Richie, "I can only say, Alasdair hasn't tried to bite MY neck!"
"It would take some fangs to bite through your auld scrawny, Deirdre Barlow neck!" yelled Attwood. "What are we going to DO? Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire, a creature of the night, a blood-sucking monster. We must hammer a stake through his heart!" screamed Attwood. "THEN! I can claim my rightful inheritance."
"Don't stir the buttermilk," said Joe Byrne from Tyrone. "First we must consult the Oracle."
Mark Durkin, sat in a cobwebbed cave, wearing a rabbit-skin cloak. His long, tangled hair hung down to his waist and his dark, brooding eyes seemed to hold all the knowledge known to man.
"MARK!" screamed Attwood. "Don't you know me? It's wee Alex Attwood!"
"Come closer child," croaked the Oracle. "My how big and ugly you've grown. What can I do for you my son?"
Attwood opened his mouth and said, "The reality is..."
"STOP!!!" yelled the Oracle, holding his hands to his ears. "The reality is, is a false doctrine. Once I led my life by, 'the reality is', and look at me now! The reality is, is bunkum and balderdash. You must banish 'the reality is' from your life!"
"But Mark!" screamed Attwood. "You know better than most, that all members of the SDLP start their sentences with, 'the reality is'"
"Better then to be DUMB!" cried the Oracle, gathering up his rabbit-skin cloak and disappearing into a crevice.
SO! all SDLP political messages on TV, from on now, will be in sign language. As to whether Alasdair McDonnell is a vampire or not-we must wait and see. The first sign will be cases of sheep worrying all over Northern Ireland.
Tommy my cat, stirred the ashes in his mother's urn and said, "So, we still don't know! Here we sit with throbbing throats, still not knowing if Alasdair McDonnell is indeed a vampire. I will find out!" yelled Tommy. "I go now to consult with Michael McGimpsey and Nigel Dodds." With Tommy gone a great fear came over me. McDonnell, McGimpsey, Dodds. By Dracula's drawers, I was surrounded by dark forces! I wrapped a loaf of garlic bread round my neck and waited Tommy's return.
OH Lord, God almighty, send down your holy light and keep McDonnell, McGimpsey and Dodds confined to their rooms!!!.

Sammy's Brilliant Skit.

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which provided much needed material for end of the pier comedian, Cheeky Sammy Wilson. Sammy has been low on patter recently, resorting at times to old gags about the troubles, mother-in-laws and knock-knock jokes. But, in his defence, Sammy did do a brilliant skit at the recent DUP conference about new SDLP leader Alisdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights.
"Alisdair McDonnell would make a great air raid warden!" laughed Sammy. "I can see him walking up the Falls Road shouting, "PUT OUT THAT LIGHT! PUT OUT THAT LIGHT!" And wee Alex Attwood running after him shouting, "NO! LET THERE BE LIGHT! LET THERE BE LIGHT! And what about poor Jim Allister?" said Sammy. "Aye what about poor Jim Allister missus? There he sits in Stormount, like the Ancient Mariner, spouting gloom, doom and despondency. A face on him like a bulldog chewing a wasp. A face on him like a Taig at the 12th of July. A face on him like David Ford at a Catweezle convention. Ah, poor wee Jim. It's not really his fault. When Jim was a baby, his mother, a very short sighted woman, used to powder his bum with a well known breakfast cereal. Wee Jim would sit in his playpen all day wearing a nappy, crying from one end and going snap, crackle and pop from the other end. So, don't blame him, life turned him that way."
Then, to the delight of middle-aged women from stout, hardy, farming stock, Sammy stuck a ferret down the front of his baggy trousers and finished with a soft, shoe shuffle. Poor Edwin Poots, was greeted with scorn and derision when he tried and failed to juggle three oranges while singing, "God Save The Queen."
"GET OFF you slabberer!" yelled a farmer from Tyrone. It was left to Nigel Dodds to rescue the show with a brilliant display of magic, which left the audience spellbound. When Nigel produced two eggs from his ears, the crowd went frantic. Gasps filled the hall as Nigel, with a little smile on his face, put the eggs behind his back, yelled, "CARAMBA!" removed his hands from behind his back, opened his fists and revealed two, empty, eggless hands.
"Where in tarnation did the eggs go?" muttered the crowd. The farmer from Tyrone roared, "Thon boy must have stuck them two eggs up............."
The stewards rushed in, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the Tyrone farmer was thrown out on his ear.
Tommy my cat is away giving evidence to the Levinson Inquiry. Tommy took umbrage to a headline in the Cullybaccy Chronicle which stated,
"Cat running across the road causes catastrophe! Catamaran careers carelessly, catapultin Catholic curate into caravan!" Watch the news tonight and see Tommy get stuck into the print media!

How To Look Absolutely Divine and Mysterious.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused fierce consternation at the Northern Ireland bird-watchers' club in Plumbridge. Old Dicky "bird" Santana, lost the plot, went haywire and ran out and ringed a young lady who was waiting for a bus. "She's a bird ain't she?" screamed old Dicky as he was taken away to be plugged into the national grid. Old Dicky's wife, big Pansy said, "I can't understand it. He's usually so quiet, even when I hit him with the coal hammer."
I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, ironing my face, when Tommy my cat sauntered into the room. Tommy looked immaculate in a chocolate-brown, swallow-tailed coat and an emerald-green posing pouch. Tommy looked at me, boaked and said, "Any beauty that was once in that old wrinkled face has long departed, obliterated by time, cigarettes, booze and your penchant for sniffing the exhausts of buses."
"I love the smell of diesel in the morning," I cried. "I have often run three miles with my hooter in close proximity to an exhaust. The bus drivers call me, @the old bag, with her honk up the exhaust'. But don't just stand there Tommy, like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the headlights of a car. Make haste and fetch the sander to remove the laughter lines which criss-cross my face like spaghetti junction." As Tommy tottered out of the room on 8 inch heel, pink stilettos I drank a mug of Doctor Quacker's fountain of youth elixir. It must be good. It was advertised in Exchange and Mart!
I never looked up as Tommy returned. Suddenly all the lights went out. Tommy pulled a coal bag over my head and laughed. "Now, you look absolutely divine, beautiful and mysterious. Soon gentlemen will be saying, "Who is that beauty with a coal bag over her head?"
Oh how we laughed!!!
Later at lunch which consisted of chops, mashed potatoes and 17 green peas, Tubby Nolan came in with a hammond organ under his oxter. Tubby flexed his fingers and went right into, "Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall. Just like Humpty Dumpty I may topple from a wall. But I'll get right back on my feet, and so I tell you all. Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall."
Without a word Tubby picked up the organ and departed. A strange man and yet-I feel myself strangely drawn to him. It's either love, or gravity!!!!

Can A Swan Be Arrested For Jay Walking?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Basil McCrea jettison the junket to San Diego and join the Bogside branch of the Legion of Mary on their annual trip to Knock.
"I have seen the error of my ways!" cried Basil, as he waved a giant flag of Saint Emmanuel, the patron saint of people who refuse to go on junkets.
As soon as the great show was over, Tommy my cat, shivering all over like a nude seal, grabbed me by my Greek orthodox church cassock and yelled,
"There's a swan on the road! There's a swan on the road!"
"Just ignore it and it will go away!" I replied. "It's just showing off." Tommy calmed down, downed a litre of vodka and said in a much milder tone,
"I wonder if Chief Constable Matt Baggot would arrest a swan for jay waking?"
"NEVER!" I cried. "Matt Baggott's love of the swan is legendary. Matt Baggot loses all control when a swan appears in his line of vision. Matt Baggott would give up his life for a swan. Matt Baggott sleeps under a duvet cover embroidered with cute, little cartoon swans playing football. AND! the clincher is, every Christmas, Matt Baggott gathers a cabal of wooden-tops around him and sings, "Swany River."
"Golly!" said Tommy. "What a great film that would make. The heart warming story about the special love between a simple swan and a high ranking member of the PSNI. I bet Johnny Depp could give a great performance as the swan. He could really get under the feathers."
Later that day, at exactly nineteen minutes to four, big Jim Fitzpatrick ran in yelling,
"Hide the Marmite, Tubby Nolan is back in town!!!" I glowered at my Tubby Nolan early warning system and cried, "Man the lifeboats, women and cats first!"
Big Jim brought me to my senses by showing me an erotic photograph of Noel Thompson cavorting with a wooden stile and yelled in fluent gibberish,
"Hide all food! Disguise the bread bin as a small coffin. Turn all bottles of 7up upside down. Tubby never drinks 7down. Destroy all cookery books, menus, stale bread and that photograph of your big,fat aunt Bertha, lying on the beach in Portrush, with her legs in the air like a Christmas turkey!" Tommy hid a wine gum under the sofa muttering, "I would rather by far, be invaded by the Vikings." NOW! all we could do was-wait. Far away in the distance I heard the thud of giant Hush Puppies. Nearer, ever nearer! I couldn't stand it anymore. I crept to the window, peeped out, and there he was. He looked like, "AAAAH! AAAAH"! Will I ever get that horrible vision out of my head?????
Matt Baggott visited me in hospital. He brought me a stuffed, cuddly-swan! Told me to be careful and mind how I went. I just had time to mutter, "Evening all." before the morphine kicked in.

Coyle Refuses To Abdicate.

Great show yesterday kid.
When news of Mr Coyle's abdication came through on the radio, Tommy my cat and I put on matching, plum coloured duffel coats and headed for Shaftsbury Square. Thousands of people were dancing round their tents. Young women were making free with their affections and old codgers were grabbing old codgeresses and then dropping them like hot bricks when they couldn't remember what to do next. Jim Rodgers dressed as a giant, red tomato leaped on the back of a lorry and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! I can confirm that Sean Thaddeaus Coyle has-GONE!!! No more will the people live in fear of the tyrant-Coyle. The last I heard, Coyle was seeking refuge in Lifford."
An old codger, wearing the obligatory flat cap and muffler croaked, "I have seen the demise of Walter Love, John Bennet and now, the biggest rascal of them all, Sean Coyle!" The old codger fell to his knees to give thanks with tears and green puss running freely from his eyes. THEN! a loud, uncouth voice roared, "How's about yease? My name is big Jim McDowell, so it is and I have just got a tweet."
"Don't tell us!" yelled Sarah Travers from the crowd. "Go and see a doctor!"
"Hauld on wee woman!" roared big Jim. I have my finger on the pulse of wee Nor'n Ir'n and the latest news is, Coyle has REFUSED to abdicate!!! I will now read a communique from Herr Coyle."
"Dear subjects, there is a false rumour going round that I am leaving Radio Foyle. That rumour was spread by Gerald Michael Anderson. Anderson has been trying to get rid of me since the day I came here. Me leave Radio Foyle? Me leave a cushy number near my home? Let my answer ring out in Belfast, Stroke City, Strabane, Clougher, Lisburn, Gortin and Cullybaccy. NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! Now, go back to your homes before I set the PSNI on youse!" Tommy looked at me and said, "An Arab Winter, I think not effendi!!!!"
I kicked a lost camel with a notice round its neck stating, "I belong to Sheik Jordie Tuft!
Back home, Tommy and I got out a plate of cold liver and a six-pack of Andrews liver salts. I turned on the radio, just in time to hear Mr Coyle roar,
"Did you ever enter a talent contest?"
Tommy looked at me with surprise and said, "He hasn't lost it. What an astute observation!"
I handed Tommy an IOU for a concur and went to my bed!!!

McCrea's Trip To San Diego.

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which unfortunately, failed to prick the conscience of Basil McCrea and the cabal of MLAs who are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense. Tommy my cat and I attended the press conference up at Stormont.
"Mr McCrea," yelled a very blonde and very irate Eamon Mally, "can you explain why YOU, and a number of other MLAs are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," replied Basil McCrea. "This trip to San Diego is NOT a junket. We are going on a fact finding trip, which could in time, bring great rewards to the hard working and non-working people of Ulster."
"With all due respect Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "that is bunkum and balderdash! People see this as a group of MLAs setting off on a free holiday."
"I resent that!" cried Basil McCrea. "This will be a business trip, not a pleasure trip. If I wanted pleasure I would go home at dinner time."
(Tommy and Ken Reid giggled and sniggered at this reply.)
"Mr McCrea," roared the ever genial Ken Reid,"what will you be studying while in San Diego?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," said Basil McCrea. "We shall be studying San Diego's unemployed and comparing them to our own unemployed. We will spend our time studying dole queues. We will travel to every street corner in San Diego to see how the San Diego cornerboys comport themselves. I have noticed in Ulster, a tendency for our cornerboys to slouch, scowl and yell fly wans after members of the general public.".
Eamon Mally, elbowed Ken Reid in the guts and yelled,
"I am dumbfounded Mr McCrea, completely dumbfounded, that you would seriously think an all expenses paid trip to Sad Diego could in any way help our unemployed!"
"Well that's where you're wrong Mr Smarty Pants!" roared Basil McCrea. "Only today, I have put out for consultation a bill that will compel all the unemployed to be compulsory spray-tanned to make them appear more healthy and pleasing to the eye.".
"Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "you are a-tube!"
"Mr Mally," yelled Basil McCrea, "so are YOU!!!!"
"Democracy at work," said Tommy, "is like a sausage factory. It's much better in the long run not to see what's going on behind the scenes." Without warning, I instinctively-concurred!
When we got home Tommy donned a Gladstone death mask, leaped up on the mantle-piece and yelled, "The word, epochal is tossed about lightly in boardrooms, whaling ships and Ann Summer's parties. YET, on Saturday, first minister Peter Robinson, made a speech that was truly epochal, truly ground-breaking and historical. Peter Robinson, who used to follow Martin Luther and now follows Martin Luther King, called for an end to sectarianism. "No more, them and us!" yelled Peter. "Go home and prepare for peace, prosperity and prose from Seamus Heaney."
"All very well and good,"I yelled, "but we don't want to turn into a nation of pacifists, Quakers or Amish. If there's no them and us, where will we fight?" "AT HOME," yelled Tommy, "where God fearing,hard working, decent, honest people have been fighting since the dawn of time behind closed curtains!" I let out my face to an evil grin and said, "Tommy, you're not one of us." Quick as a flash Tommy replied, "Well you are certainly one of them!" I retired, hoist, pierced, run through and skewered by my own petard!!!

THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused a great change in Jim Allister. Jim or, Jimmy boy, as he likes to be called, morphed into a happy, cheery chap and ran out and embraced first minister Peter Robinson and second minister Martin McGuinness. Both men ran to the high court and took out an injunction on Sunny Jim, alleging sexual molestation and vexing and annoying Bonnee amie.
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat in the corner playing solitaire and cheating like a riverboat gambler.
"Attend me Tommy," I said. "I desire one of your brilliant, smashing, professional critiques. You heard sick bag Sally sing and play the banjo, how would you sum up her performance?"
Tommy threw the devil's play things from him and said,
"Sick bag Sally nailed it! She made it her own! I predict that Sickbag Sally will be Ulster's answer to yon Susan Boyle. I heard on the grapevine that Simon Cowell has slipped into a figure-hugging t-shirt and is on his way to sign Sick bag Sally and promote her musical and vocal talent on the worlds stage."
"Cor Slimy!" I cried. "Sick bag Sally could be another Alma Cogan, Kathy Kirby or Captain Sensible!"
"She could indeed!" said Tommy. "HOWEVER, it would be remiss of me not to point out one glaring fault."
"What fault Tommy?" I yelled. "Her clothes? Her appearance? Her catholic upbringing?"
"Neither!" cried Tommy. "If I were Sick bag Sally, I would take the banjo to someone who CAN play it and get it tuned!" I looked at Tommy in wonder and awe. What a cat! Tommy cut right to the chase and pointed out that all musical instruments have to be tuned. I bet Phil Coulter doesn't know that! Listen carefully to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and you will find the crash cymbal is flat.
Tommy and I lay in front of the fire, like two lurcher dogs, talking about the good old days. "Powdered eggs," said Tommy. "Birds instant custard took two days to make. The clip-clop of clogs. The rattle of rickets and the shrill, piercing cries of tapeworms."
"The sound of cart wheels on cobble stones," I said. "The shrill cry of, "Bring out your dead" Boils, Buboes and blackheads."
Tommy smiled and said, "It was a golden age. A golden age for pus."
"THEN!" I cried. "Old Alexander Fleming left his half-eaten bap on the window sill and invented penicillin and pus was defeated."
"Could old Alex not let things alone?" Tommy yelled. "We were poor, filthy and disease ridden, but we were happy."
Tommy looked at me and said, "Did not Alex Fleming also invent phlegm in the chest?"
"Yes he did," I said. "He also invented the annual check-up and the repeat prescription."
"Who invented the DLA?" said Tommy.
"Daniel Larry Assburger," I replied. "He also invented malingering, malaise and the malignant mallet."
"The wonders of science," said Tommy, as he injected 1,000mg of Novacine into my rear. As yet, there is no cure for a numb bum!!!

The New Captain Of The SS.SDLP.

Welcome back kid. Kelly and Coyle, the Burke and Hare of the airways, did good. Both men played to their strengths. Kelly played interesting music and conducted probing interviews with people I have never heard of before. Coyle's contribution was a pot-smoking, drug-fueled orgy of,peace man,flowers in your hair,free love, flared trousers,hippy, happy drug feast.
Let me bring you up to speed with what happened in Nor'n Ireland while you were away.
There is a new, thrusting, swash-buckling captain aboard the SS SDLP.
His name is, Doctor Alasdair McDonnell. I know, I never heard of him either! Alasdair, or Big Al, as he likes to be called, has big plans for the party which made such a political break through with, the reality is!!!
"There are SDLP voters out there!" yelled big Al. "My job is to beat them out of the heather and bracken and back into the voting booths!"
"What about, WOMEN?" shrieked former leader, Margaret Richie.
"There will always be room in the SDLP for women!" roared big Al. "The reality is, someone has to make the tea."
"RESIGN!" yelled Alex Attwood, a man who does not take defeat lightly.
Now for news closer to home. Tommy my cat passed the cycling proficiency test last week. The instructor said Tommy negotiated the intricate maze of red cones like Tubby Nolan on the scent of a fish supper. As Tommy was cycling furiously home to tell me the good news, he was overcome with feline exhilaration, bordering on hysteria. Forgetting every thing he had learned, Tommy raised both hands high in the air and yelled, "TOP OF THE WORLD MA!"
Those who saw the accident say Tommy tumbled over the handle-bars and cut the whole face off himself on the unforgiving asphalt. At first I was furious, but it's hard to stay cross with a cat who is sitting glumly in the corner with two black eyes and missing a front tooth. To say Tommy looks like a cross between Dusty Springfield and Terry Thomas would be putting it mildly. Around Tommy's neck hangs a bib stating, NIL BY MOUTH!
OH the fun Tommy and I have with the tuna suppositories four times a day!
You should segue-way now into, "Stick your job where the sun don't shine!"

The Hermit Syndrome.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made a furious Gregory Campbell yell, "Why is no one occupying the grounds of the Vatican Hi? Why are there no tents outside the Pope's window?" But let's draw a line under that.
Tommy my cat, put on a powdered wig and said, to a small, parish urchin who was peering in the window, "BOY! I say, boy! Run to the apothecary and get me a pint of laudanum, two tinctures of mercury and a box of mansize tissues. I feel an ague coming on." The small boy hit Tommy a thump up the hooter and cried, "What did your last, small, parish urchin die off?"
"Wretched child," muttered Tommy, as his nose bled like a drain.
"WHY?" I yelled into the dismal, darkness of a Belfast street. "WHY does old Jordie Tuft inspire such confidence in sane, intelligent people?
"It's the hermit Syndrome," said Tommy. "Since the dawn of time, people have convinced themselves that old codgers, living alone, are fonts of wisdom and wise sage-like figures. Kings have lavished gold on old codgers living in caves who couldn't tell you what day of the week it was. It is a security blanket," I cried. "Knowing not the answer ourselves, we think an old headbanger living in the wilds, wearing animal skins, can answer our quest for knowledge."
"I visited an old hermit-stroke-oracle," said Tommy. "I found him living down a well, eating nothing but weeds and mud. OH, great wise one," I hollered down, "why do you live in a well, cut off from home, family and society?"
"In a shrill, piping voice the aged one answered, "Because I can't fill in a DLA form you ugly tube!"
"It is a universal condition," I said. "We, who know nothing, like to think the Gods have given all knowledge to crazy, old fools, who never wash or comb their hair and smell like rancid stoats."
"Then we must be stupid!" yelled Tommy.
"We are!" I said. "It is part of the human condition to be stupid and to seek out old coffin-fodder looking for the meaning of life."
"What a world!" said Tommy. "Is it any wonder Queen's University is handing out phds to any Tom, Dick, or Darren Clarke?"
"Never mind," I said. "Let's open two tins of condensed milk and get the Ludo board out."
"Splendito!" cried Tommy. "A reason for life if ever there was one!!!"

Michael D's Only Worry.

Great shows last week kid. The subliminal message planted in the minds of Free Staters by Jordie Tuft, hidden in cooking -sherry -induced, yells, squawks, barks and animalistic mating cries, carried wee Michael D. over the winning line.
Old Jordie's subliminal message was, "The Old Dog For The Hard Road."
Tommy my cat, adjusted his comb-over and said, "Alas, Dana's 2% late surge was too little, too late. Senator Steven Norris, with the help of floaters did reasonably well. Gay Mitchell, may as well have stayed in the house. And Sean "The Bagman" Gallagher is still bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Here's to Michael D, the Barry O'Sullivan of Irish politics. Today, Michael D, has only one worry on his mind."
"And what would THAT be?" I yelled from the wardrobe, where I was pretending to be a coat hanger.
"His address," yelled Tommy. "Soon, Micheal D will live in a house called, THE ARAS!"
"In the name of the sacred brown envelope!" I cried. "Poor Michael D, must be as sick as Polly the parson."
Tommy stuck a wad of blue fluff into his navel and said, "It's the postman I feel sorry for. Imagine having to stuff thousands of letters through the letterbox of the Aras. I thank the good Lord that my house is called, "The Pissoir's Retreat."
As I came out of Easons clutching a copy of, "My wicked, wicked life" by Noel Beatty, I was just in time to see a confrontation between Tubby Nolan and the police. "Put the pie down Tubby and step away from it!" yelled Matt Baggott. "You'll never take me hungry copper!" roared Tubby.
"Shall I tazer the oval one Sir?" said constable Bluebottle.
"Are you mad?" yelled Matt Baggott. "Tubby is full of flamable gas! Do you want to start a roaring inferno?"
"I don't really care Sir," said constable Bluebottle. "I just want to fire my tazer gun."
As Tubby made good his escape with the pie, Matt Baggott gave constable Bluebottle a massive riser up the ARAS!

Plans To Hold An Intervention.

Great show yesterday kid. Would-be Irish President, Sean Gallagher, listened to the great show in his peat bunker, while throwing darts at a photograph of Martin McGuinness. Wizened leprechaun, Senator Steven Norris and matronly Dana, held hands and sang, "All kinds of Everything" to a bemused man and his dog in Bally-Faddle town square. What the other candidates did, I do not know and I have no wish to know!
Tommy my cat, yelled,"COBBLERS!" and threw the "Shoe Makers' Weekly" into the bin. Tommy, braced himself, looked at me, boaked and said,
"When old Jordie got the bums rush yesterday, was he.......?"
"AS A NEWT!" I yelled. "High as a kite and full as a po!"
"Tut-Tut," said Tommy. "What a shame to see a great, beautiful mind brought so low by early morning, cooking sherry. Has he no control at all?"
"Not where cooking sherry or his bladder is concerned," I replied. "Old Jordie gets up very early, feeds the livestock, lights the fire and sits staring out the window. The bare trees, the grey sky, the desolate landscape silently scream, "Have a drink. One little drink won't do any harm." and soon old Jordie is dancing a jig and singing a Pecker Dunn song."
Tommy wiped his dirty hands on my tongue and said, "I hate to see a good man go bad. We must do something. We must hold an intervention live, on the Gerry Anderson show."
"Back of the net!" I yelled. "What a great idea! Gerry, Sean, Ken, Emma and the Lough Brickland fire brigade will tell old Jordie how much they love him and beg him, on bended elbows, to to put the cork back into the sherry bottle."
"I will cater the event," yelled Tommy. "I will serve up a running buffet on the back of a running rottweiler."
"Set and match!" I cried. "Old Jordie will collapse in a blubbering heap and promise never to drink again!"
"Stall the weddin!" yelled Tommy. "What beverages does one serve at an intervention?"
"Thank goodness you remembered!" I shrieked. "Run to the off-licence and get six bottles of Black Bush, six bottles of vodka, twelve bottles of sherry and a small bottle of pineapple juice for Emma."
What an intervention THIS is going to be! I can see stomach pumps and intensive care being involved before this intervention is over!

Wild Heavy Rain But No Ringer For Gerry.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused the usually unflappable Wendy Austin to cry,
"I can't possibly go on after that GREAT show! All I have to talk about is-rain! Gerry's show was full of exciting things like, lost dogs, Jordie Tuft, the strange, weird world of Sean Coyle and then Gerry goes and tops it off with, wood-chip wallpaper!"
The director of Talkback tried to cajole Wendy by promising her a nail to hang her coat on.
"Give me another subject that isn't about rain!" screamed Wendy. "Can I not do half an hour on flags and emblems?" A tearful Wendy sat in the Talkback studio as the seventh caller described the rain as "wild heavy!" In desperation Wendy yelled, "One can't help but wonder if any flags or emblems got wet!"
Tommy my cat and I stood behind the sandbags watching garden furniture, gnomes and inflatable rubber men swept down the street as a result of the "wild heavy" rain.
"It's good for the garden," said Tommy.
"It will keep the dust down," I replied.
"The farmers will be glad to see it," said Tommy.
"And the fishermen," I replied.
"It's wild heavy," said Tommy.
"It is wild heavy," I agreed.
Tommy and I sat staring at each other. Tommy coughed and said, "We have to talk."
After making a roast warthog, peas and diced rice I said, "Lay it on me dude."
Tommy made a little tent out of his hands and said,
"The question on the agenda is, Can Gerald Michael Anderson run the New York marathon???"
I sucked my teeth, put them back in my pocket and said, "In my humble opinion, Gerry is venturing on an impossible mission. Gerry is sailing into deep waters. New York is the Mount Everest of marathons. The big question is, can Gerry do the New York marathon, or will the New York marathon DO for Gerry. In conclusion, I fear Gerry has set himself a task which could prove-fatal!!!"
"I agree!" said Tommy. "We must save Gerry, but without Gerry losing face."
"A RINGER!" I yelled. "We replace Gerry with someone who is a dead ringer for Gerry!"
"Great idea," said Tommy. "However there is a flaw in your plan. Fergal Sharkey couldn't run the New York marathon either!!!"
Sorry kid. I'm afraid you-and you alone, must hit the bricks!

Will Dana Have A Late Surge?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Senator Steven Norris drop a small dog he was about to kiss, in the mistaken belief it was a baby, and exclaim, "By Jove, that great show follows in the footsteps of Joyce, Beckett and Celica Aherne."
The campaigning Senator, wiped the rain off his glasses with the tail of his shirt, sniffed the air like a pack rat and carried on with his doomed quest to be the next Irish Presidente. Tommy my cat, came away from the table where he had been playing snooker with brandy balls and said, "As sure as pigs are pigs, the next Irish President will be Michael D Higgins, poet, scholar and accordion player, OR Sean Gallagher, the burly, bald bouncer."
"Don't be so sure my precious pussy," I cried. "Dana, wife, mother and her own worst enemy, might get a late surge."
"Late surge my Granny's cabbage patch dol!l" roared Tommy. "Dana derailed her own train. Dana put the mockers on her campaign and gave the newspapers a field day."
"Don't underestimate the late surge!" I cried. "A late surge can come out of no where and astonish the media, who abhor a late-surge."
"Let me refer you to a night in 1972," said Tommy. "Dana, then but a lump of a cuttie, never mentioned a late surge in her list of all kinds of everything."
"Snowdrops, daffodils, things of the night," I muttered. Alas, Tommy was correct. Dana had completely forgot to include a late surge in her list of everythings which reminded her of you.
"Don't forget Gay Mitchell!" I yelled. "Gay Mitchell has all the charisma and eloquence of Tom Elliott, the silver-tongued devil from the UUP."
"And therein lies his downfall," said Tommy. "Gay Mitchell and Tom Elliott have been cursed with the gift of bubbling exuberance, exhilarating oratory and an electrifying, rapier-like wit bordering on the unnatural."
"You're right Tommy," I said. "The world is not yet ready for the computer-like,quick-silver minds of Gay Mitchell or Tom Elliott."
Tommy sucked my thumb and said, "What is old Tom Elliott up to these days?" "Still leading the UUP" I said. "Still leading the UUP in ever decreasing circles."
"Bummer!" said Tommy. "Don't you just hate it when THAT happens?"
I did a reluctant-concur.

The Big Bang.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show, some might say, with a few teething troubles over the volume levels. Tommy my cat and I were sitting on the sofa wrapped up snug and warm in the national flag of Liberia when the house shook, ornaments leapt off the TV and a frantic, flashing message on the screen advised us, "To press the red button-NIGH!!!"
"In the name of Tubby Nolan's bulging Y-fronts!" yelled Tommy. "What was THAT???"
I retrieved my dry, thread-bare, ginger wig from the top of the Welsh dresser and shrieked, "It sounds like Hitler making a blood-curdling speech at a rally in Nuremberg, but why would Hitler be guldering, "HELLO EMMA! HELLO EMMA!"
"I know dear Emma," said Tommy, "and Emma is no more in the Gestapo than you are in the Brownies. Mark my words," said Tommy, "the day is yet young. Before dusk, news of great calamity will be made known." And Tommy was right! Traffic accidents, window-cleaners falling off their ladders, old codgers tumbling down open manholes, were just some of the stories a wild-eyed and frightened Noel Thompson and Donna Trainor had to deal with on Newsline. Donna popped another Valium and said, "Old folks' homes were the worst hit. Catheters and colostomy bags were wrenched from their moorings and flew through the air like shrapnel." Donna gasped, swooned and rugged anchorman Noel Thompson carried on.
"Perhaps the worst incident happened at Saint Corky's old folks' home in Cullybaccy. 104 year old Miss Candy McStump,who had served as a wren and bit of rough during two world wars, was just lowering herself on to the toilet when the BIG BANG occurred. Old Candy had a flashback, well, two if truth be told, and charged out of the little girls' room shrieking, "INCOMING!!!" Old Candy ran to the broom cupboard, grabbed a bisum shaft and went on an orgy of bayoneting never seen before in any theatre of war."
Donna Trainor came out of her swoon with a yell of, "Get back yeh boy!" and continued. "A PSNI spokesman said just 13 minutes ago, "I can confirm that four people are being held in Strand Road police station in relation to the, "BIG BANG!" The four are, Gerry Anderson, Sean Thaddeaus Coyle, Emma and Screwdriver Ken. Chummy Coyle has lawyered up and is claiming he was on a pilgrimage to Knock."
Tommy looked and me and said, "I wonder what Gerry's levels will be like tomorrow?"
"Gerry will be in Belfast tomorrow," I said,"where some wee Sammy or Mick will be twiddlin his knobs."
"OH MATRON!" shrieked Tommy.

Seven Into One Won't Go.

Great shows last week kid. Tommy my cat buttoned his battleship-grey cardigan and said, "The great shows last week will be remembered LONG after the zany, madcap, John Belushi, antics of Edwin Poots are but memories in the doting mind of old men."
I giggled and gurgled like a drain and said, "But, to give Poots his due, when he shrieks out, "Hey everybody, it's Teatime with Tommy!" and then does his little teapot impersonation,I laugh my Wigan Athletic, football socks off."
"Poots is a mere jester," said Tommy, " a fool, a buffoon, but underneath the clown's mask, Poots is crying like a baby."
I grabbed Tommy by the battleship-grey cardigan and cried, "Expand feline! Why would Edwin Poots, the minister of mirth, shed tears like an infant with nappy rash?"
"BECAUSE," yelled Tommy, "Edwin Thomas Poots wants to be a serious actor! Instead of playing the fool, Poots really wants to play Hamlet, Lear, Ali Baba and the old codger in Coronation Street, who sits in the corner mumbling, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb."
"That old codger in Coronation Street is a bridge too far for Poots!" yelled Tommy. "Were Poots to mumble, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb" in the throes of some misguided ambition to become legit, it would came over as the most rude, vile, repulsive double entendre of all time."
I rolled on the floor like a baby warthog, laughing my Wigan Athletic football socks off at the thought of Edwin Poots yelling, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb!"
Tommy walked to the window, looked towards Stormont, stuck up two fingers and said, "Down in the Free State, where everything is so expensive, The Magnificent Seven, seeking the Presidency of Ireland,are spurring on their mustangs as the finishing line draws ever closer."
"Margaret Thatcher. Bobby Charlton" I cried. "They sure took a hell of a beating."
"They sure did!" said Tommy. "Poor Senator Steven Norris got an awful mauling from big Miriam O'Callaghan. By the time big Miriam was finished with the dapper, little dandy he looked like a leprechaun who had lost his crock of gold." "Why do they do it?" yelled Tommy. "Why do they put their dignity on the line? Do they not know that seven into one won't go?"
"Now, you just hold on a doggone moment," I said. "Seven dwarfs went into SnowWhite's house!"
"NO! NO! NO!" yelled Tommy. "It was the other way about. Snow White went into the home of the seven dwarfs!"
Oh I do hate being corrected by a flea-ridden pussy. Out came my claws and soon Tommy's battleship-grey cardigan was rendered into thousands of little pieces.
The motto is, a cat should never correct a ratbag!!!

Ode to The Milkman.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which showed in vivid detail the tragedy of buying cheap, Taiwan microphones. If the BBC must make drastic cuts, why don't they slash Steven Nolan's expenses? £500 for a secondhand Patrick Moore suit and a staggering £2,500 on prawn cocktail crisps!!! If the BBC carry on like this they will incur the wrath of the, "Occupiers." In America the occupiers have brought Wall Street to a standstill. No wall has left Wall Street for three weeks. The trucks can't get in to transport walls to Boston, Baltimore or Baghdad. Numerous Hanks and Ethels are left staring at three walls and thinking long and hard about joining the Tea Party. "Hank," said Ethel, "America is going down the toilet like a suicide floater!"
"Gosh, durn, dammit," growled Hank. "I got me a good mind to pick up my rifle, buy me a clown's mask and climb a tall building!"
"Well, you be careful Hank," Said Ethel. "You know for durn, tooting sure that Jesus loves you!"
Tommy my cat, sat reading an early copy of Alex Atwood's new book, "My Unsuccessful Bid To Lead The SDLP" and said, "Alex Atwood is a literary genius. His writing is well above the standard of most eight year olds. Listen to this impressive passage.
"When I heard old Maggie May was throwing in the dishcloth, I said to myself, "Alex yeh boy, NIGH is the time to don political G-string and climb the greasy pole. NIGH is the time to issue in the reign of Atwood. Your time is NIGH Alex. NIGH is the time to stamp your authority on Norn' Iron. Not sometime in the future Alex, but-NIGH!"
"What prose!" I yelled. "If Seamus Heaney had the brains to write good prose like what that is, he would call it poetry!"
"Did you know," said Tommy, "that a note Seamus Heaney left for his milkman has just won a prestigious poetry award in Finland?"
I gave a yelp and cried, "I must hear that ode before I die!" Tommy pulled a grubby piece of paper from his pocket and said, "And hear it you shall! I have in my hand a piece of paper. Written on this piece of paper is the poem that sent the literary world in Finland into a dog barking frenzy. Pin back your flappers and hark to the words of a genius.
"OH early-rising milk purveyor
Early minstrel of the dawn
Hark to my words, my hale, stout fellow
And then, just carry on.

I shall be away two days this week
So on these days, no milk I seek.
The days when I will not be here
Are Tuesday and Friday, now, is that clear?

All other days of the coming week
Two cartons of milk I verily seek.
Long gone is the fear of the small bluetit
Thank you my man and keep her lit."

The silence which followed the remarkable ode was profound, perplexed and prolonged!!!

Like an Orangeman with a faulty Sat Nav.

Great show on a rainy Monday morning Kid. Her with the perm at number 27, who always puts out a nice clean washing said, "Eeh by gum, that great show set my clogs tapping, so it did. Our Eli, leaped out of bed shouting, "I'll see you later, our mum, I'm off to mill to start some trouble!" Eeh, he's always been an odd child. He was a forceps delivery, thee knows. Oh aye,daft as a brush. He don't know his, Eeh by gums, from his, Eeh, I'll go to foot of our stairs." Tommy my cat, my consort and personal trainer, strummed his ukulele and sarcastically sang, "You must have been a beautiful baby. You must have been a beautiful child. I bet the day you started, farting in the garden, you must have drove the other kids wild." I picked up a Queen Ann table with the tell-tale bow-legs and beautiful chestnut whatnots and threw it at the feline George Formby.
"OUCH!" cried Tommy, as his head and Queen Ann made contact. Tommy rubbed his throbbing noggin with an oily rag and said, "May the good Lord protect us from an angry woman complaining about music!"
"That shrewish woman yesterday was a disgrace to her sex AND her knickers!" I yelled. "How dare she come on and bombast Gerald Michael Anderson as to his choice of music!"
"Hear! Hear!" cried Tommy. "Bring back the cat!"
"Bring back the Iron Maiden!" I yelled.
"Bring back the birch!" roared Tommy.
I topped it all by screaming, "Bring back the McCooies AND the Kennedys of Castlerock!!!"
"Here! Here!" screamed Tommy. "Give her a blast of the McCooies and see how she likes them apples!"
I marched round the room like an Orangeman with a faulty Sat Nav and said, "Coyle is behind this! Coyle, the instigator of coups is trying to whip up an Arab Winter of discontent."
"BOO!" cried Tommy. "Why doesn't old mono eyebrow stick to his bats, vigilantism and compost box?"
"Sean Coyle," I cried, "is a serial, hardline, fundamentalist meddler! If I was Gerry, I would ostracize Mr Coyle."
"Tommy winced and replied, "A tad severe, don't you think and think of the irritating, "Helium Boy" voice?"
I sighed and sadly said, "Let's face it Tommy, Mr Coyle will be there until the cows come home, the swallows return to Capistrano and apples grow on an ivy tree."
"Indeed!" said Tommy. "Did not our Lord say, "The poor you shall have with you always and-Sean Coyle! Don't blame me! My father and I had very angry words about THAT!!!"

Desperately seeking-floaters.

Great shows last week kid. I suppose simple shepherd, Chuck E. Lavender, best summed up the great shows when he stood on a high, windy hill and proclaimed to the world, "David Cameron, Bobby Davro, Cilla Black, Mortimer and Reeves, Theresa May, Timmy Mallet, Alan Partridge, DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN DAN!, DANA!!!!, My sheep and I are filled with perfuse happy-happiness after listening to great shows. DAN! DAN!.......DAN!"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with the vulgar pussy from number 27, kicked the tin can further down the road and said, "After many self-inflicted wounds the Magnificent Seven, seeking the Irish Presidency, are still sitting tall in the saddle and desperately seeking-floaters." I opened the window, yanked the hat from a passing policeman, planted some early snowdrops in it and said, "AH! The floater is a wily customer. The floating voter goes to ground during elections. The floater may float for weeks before making his mind up. Floaters need to be handled with great care. Floaters are well aware of their importance during elections. Floaters respond to touch. Gingerly point a floater in the right direction and nine times out of ten, the floater will go off and leave his mark."
"It would seem to me," said Tommy, "that floating voters are a blight on society. The way they go about puffed up with their own self importance." I swung around, stern of visage, broad in the beam and cried,
"And yet, lovely, dainty Dana and Senator Steven Norris, the highly educated leprechaun, are grasping blindly here, there and everywhere for floaters!"
"Well, wrap me in bacon and call me a sausage!" yelled Tommy. "Someone should tell dainty Dana to keep well away from the self important, playing hard-to- get-floater!"
"I will!" I cried. I opened the door, filled my lungs with diesel fumes and roared,
"DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN--DANA!!!!! Beware of the--FLOATER"!!!

Give quantitative easing a chance.

Great shows last week kid, which caused great consternation in the hills above Drumquin. Every morning ragged, tattered, unwashed,unshaven, unshorn, lean, wiry men left their under-ground poteen stills and danced, gracefully to the sweaty tones of Christy Moore, singing, "My Little Honda 50."
"Gee Hank," said visiting American, Ethel Occupying-Force, "those guys would make the Bolshoi ballet hang its head in shame." Hank, who was keeping a wary eye out for the Taliban, grunted, "You betcha Ethel. You gosh, durned, betcha!"
Tommy my cat, wearing a fetching, off the shoulder string vest came away from the window, where he had been watching the chickens come home to roost after the collapse of the big housing bubble and said,
"It will take a third world war to get us out of this debt hanlin."
"At least give quantitative easing a chance," I said. "Even as we speak, 20 pound notes are flying off the printing presses like Smarties."
Tommy caught me in a headlock, micro-chipped me behind the ear and said,
"You can't spend your way out of a recession. What we need is a great, big, world-wide debt concert. Bob Geldoff, Bono, Lady Gaga and Declan Nerney are drawing up a list of the great and good, plus Michael Buble, who will sing our way out of debt.
I slipped on a bald wig like Harry Hill and yelled, "Well, I do like a big concert, but I also like a third world war, but which is the best? Only one way to find out-FIGHT"!!!!!!!!!

What Is Love?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which proved for the record that Mr Coyle is alive and well and still sucking wine gums. Tommy my cat listened intently, but heard nothing which might prove that Mr Coyle had slipped Emma a sweetie. Tommy spat on his HB pencil point and wrote in his "Gerry" book.
10.31, Mr Coyle makes first interruption of the day.
10.37, Gerry says, "Did you hear me cough?"
10.43, Mr Coyle tells a long story about Tom Jones finding his bathrobe.
10 .50, Gerry calls Mr Coyle a liar.
10.51, Mr Coyle says,"Well may God forgive you!"
10.54, Gerry and Sean laugh at a secret joke, too blue to be told on air.
10.59.57, Gerry says, "We will be right back after the news."
Note to self. Three records follow the news. Extending the news slot to,15.47 minutes.
11. 19, Coyle makes veiled reference to handing in his notice.
Note to self. The nation holds its breath.
11. 21, Woman comes on looking for lost poem. Women gets the BR.--The bum's rush.
11.34, Old Jordie comes on and gives the distinct impression that he may be on the cooking sherry.
Old Jordie is in good form. Mr Coyle nearly kills himself giggling. Old Jordie, cures many animals and then departs with a "Keep her lit, till we get out."
11.45, The bailiff rushes in and repossesses the radio.
Tommy lay on the sofa, sucking an orange, rolling his eyes and curling his tail.
"This love thing," said Tommy, "what's it all about? Can you see love? Hear love? Touch love? People kill in the name of love AND YET! love can turn into great hate.
Why do we associate love with the heart when we know the heart is incapable of emotion or feelings?
So many kinds of love," muttered Tommy. "The love of children, animals, places, things, God, self and Daniel O'Donnell. LOVE!!!" yelled Tommy. "What's it all-ABOUT???"
I brought a huge saucepan down hard on Tommy head and yelled, "You left out, tough love!" and I brought the saucepan down time and time again on the feline's head. But, I did it in a loving way!

When I'm Dead.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought a blush to the face of Mrs Bunty Hovis, when her husband opened the back door and a blast of icy,cold wind rushed into her back passage. "'Oi!" yelled Bunty. "What's your bleeding game then?" Herbert, who uneasily wears the crown of Mr Hovis, knocked a flying duck of the wall and yelled, "Ah, stop your bleeding row, you ferret-faced, old rat bag!" Then the door bell rang and Herbert and Bunty Hovis began another day of marriage counselling.
Tommy my cat put down his copy of "Too Big to Fall" by Steven Nolan and said,"When you die, do you want to be used as a scarecrow, or stuffed and mounted on the wall?"
"Neither!" I yelled. "I want to be propped up on the Ballymena round-a-bout with a cardboard sign saying, CULLYBACCY, in my hands."
"Ah, you're a traditionalist," said Tommy. "I thought you might be one of those, freeze my head when I'm dead, modern-day types."
"Not me!" I cried. "When my clogs go-POP! I want to be displayed in a prominent place so passers by can say, "LOOK Ethel, that must be a new Damien Hurst." I utilised my eyeballs to look at Tommy and said, "And how do you want to be buried, my fine feathered friend?" Tommy coughed daintily into a French lace handkerchief and replied,
"I have lived a simple life. I despise flippery-flappery and ostentation. A simple shoe box will do me, BUT! before you bury me, please remove the words, "Clark's Shoes" from the box. I do not wish to suffer for all eternity for the sins of Paul Clarke." That's what I like about Tommy, his forward thinking and ability to play with a suffering mouse for hours.
As luck would have it I found myself walking into a tin whistle emporium, just as dapper, little Phil Coulter was coming out. I looked at the little manikin, laden down with whistles, recorders and oboes. Some little devil ignited a spark within me and I found myself singing,
"Steal away, steal away.
No reason left to stay.
How many windwind instruments
Can Derry's Pied Piper play?"
Well! Boom-Bang-A Bang! Wee Phil completely lost the head. The miniature composer took after me yelling,
"I'll brust your bake you stupid clown.
You do the hokey-cokey then you turn around!"
You can hear the rest of that little ditty next year, when it will be Ireland's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest.

The first Commissioner for the Elderly

Great show yesterday kid. All the guys and gals at Saint Dymphna's Home for the Chronically Nonchalant drawled, "Way to go dude!"
Quick-fix fitters went into a frenzy of quick-fix fitting and the friars at Saint Nobbler's Priory, chucked chips, fish and sausages into a deep-fat frier. The deep, fat friar wishes to remain anonymous. And who can blame him? When you have a skylight in your hair the last thing you want is publicity.
Tommy my cat sat in front of the fire reading the Ulster/ Nova Scotia edition of the Belfast Telegraph.
"HEY ratbag!" yelled Tommy. "Listen to this!"
"If you utilise I will hark," I replied with a merry, throaty, phlegm-filled chuckle.
"THIS," said Tommy, "is a direct quote from Peter Robinson. "Delivering a strong, independent voice". AND this is a direct quote from deputy acting first Minister, John O'Dowd, "A strong voice to champion causes!"
I crawled under the sofa and screamed,
"Don't read any more Tommy. You're scaring me. What calamitous misfortune do your oblique words foretell?" Tommy sprang out into the middle of the room like a hairy, demented ballet dancer and shrieked,
"After much old-codger lobbying, Stormount has capitulated and employed a Commissioner for the elderly."
"Mustangs and melancholy!" I yelled. "Please tell me it's not--not--Jordie Tuft."
The first Commissioner for the Elderly," yelled Tommy, "is-Claire Keating! I don't know dear Claire personally," said Tommy, "but I am assured she is a fine upstanding woman, with principles as high as an elephant's eye who wears sensible, flat shoes."
"Imagine if old Jordie had been made Commissioner," I said. "Every Darby and Joan club would have its own dung-spreader. Old codgers would be encouraged to go on the tear and free cooking sherry would be provided for the over 65s."
Tommy looked lovingly at Orville his clockwork mouse and said, "Old Jordie was in the running for Commissioner, but he blew his chances when he made a drunken,spaltering grope at Nigel Dodds in the mistaken belief it was Catriona Ruane. "You're a nice wee dote," slurred Jordie, as he hung like a limpet to poor Nigel's tie."
"Fouled his nest again!" I mused. "A good job was in his grasp and old Jordie goes and man-handles the man who was a stand in on, Frost and Nixon." "Representable!" muttered Tommy. "Totally and thoroughly-Representable!"
Then! Wendy Austin diverted our attention with a yell of, "Prince Charles, Camilla and Bobby Davro to appear on platform with Martin McGuinness. What do you think?? Phone Talkback-NIGH!"

IT'S ALL GOOD.

Great shows last week kid. Word is just filtering out that the great Tuesday show caused great consternation in the NASA control centre.
After working for ten years, at a cost of 25 trillion dollars, NASA were just about to launch top secret, red diesel fueled rocket, "Uncle Sam" towards Pluto if Goofy wasn't in. Hank Weinsteiner sat with his hand over the control panel as the countdown continued. SEVEN. SIX. FIVE. THEN!!! due to a freak wormhole in the ether, the voice of Mr Coyle came over loud and clear. "STALL THE WEDDIN!" Hank brought his hand down hard on the abort button and the "Uncle Sam" rocket exploded in a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks. Veteran Hank Weinsteiner looked at rookie, Burt Brick Outhouse and growled, "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at tall."
"SIR!, yes Sir!" yelled rookie captain Burt Brick Outhouse.
Tommy my cat clasped the hand of Spike our local burglar and softly sang,
"Steal away, Steal away.
No reason left to stay.
Burgle a house, quiet as a mouse.
And then, Spike, steal away."
I decided to teach Tommy a lesson, so I ran out and stole a driving instructor's car.
"MSM" I yelled. "Mirror, signal manoeuvre!" Tommy looked into the rear-view mirror, stuck two fingers up to me and ran straight into a wall.
But it was all good. That's the new buzz phrase now--"It's all good!"
When things go as wrong as things can go, a politician comes on TV and tells the people, "It's all good!" The police when they came, sixteen days later, were Pink Floyd fans and believed Tommy when he said, "All and all it's just another brick in the wall."
"Careful with that axe Eugene," I whispered to Eugene Massacre our new, trainee, madaxe man.
Then, home for honey, treacle, cod liver oil, Lyle's golden syrup and a hard boiled egg to protect the carpet from a Tsunami!!!

The Magnificient Irish Seven

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made the wizened denizens of the Betty Boop Old Folks' home form an impromptu conga line. Poor old souls. Age has indeed withered them and the years condemned. Everytime they put their right foot in, they had to have an injection of steroids before they could shake it all about. Poor old dears. Only for the Monday and Wednesday strip poker nights they would have nothing left to live for.
Tommy my cat, adjusted his paisley-patterned cowboy chaps and said, "Did you see them? Did you see Dana lead out the Magnificent Seven in Dublin? They were all there," said Tommy. "Dana, Gay Mitchell, Martin McGuinness and Senator Steven Norris bringing up the rear. Gay Mitchell took off his hat, wiped his brow and said, "I don't like it. It's too doggone quiet out there." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Martin McGuinness threw back his head and sang, "The Town I Loved So Well."
"That's not fair," screamed Dana, "I'm from Derry too, so I am!"
"Dana darling," gushed Steven Norris, easing himself up on the saddle. "Do us all the exquisite honour, my dear, of singing that little ditty so near to my heart "All Kinds Of Everything."
That was when the Mexicans appeared! It fell to poor Steven Norris to make the mistake of offering the Mexicans-badges! Well, you know what happened next. Why do Mexicans get so angry when they hear the word-badges?
"BADGES??? We don't want your feelthy-badges!"
"I say old chap," began Steven Norris, but Martin McGuinness roared out, "RAWHIDE!!! Head for the hills!"
"Let the Gringos go!" yelled a swarthy Mexican. "Seven rode away, but only one will return".
Then the Mexicans lay over their horses and laughed for 39 minutes. Once upon a time in the West, in the days of John Huston and John Ford, when one Mexican laughed-all Mexicans laughed. Then, along came football and the Mexican laugh, turned into the Mexican wave! Meanwhile, the magnificent Seven are camped at Big Fork, fearing tomorrow will bring, blazing saddles.
You couldn't make it up!!!

Money For Old Rope

Great bald show yesterday kid. All over Ulster, slap-heads broke cover like snipe and poured their hearts out about their lack of thatch.
"At last," cried old, baldy Joe Pate, "I have found closure! No more sticking my head up the chimney when visitors call."
The exuberance of wee Kenny from Larne was beyond description. Wee Kenny pulled off the dry, dusty, ginger wig he had worn for 35 years and ran down the street yelling, "GO TO WORK ON AN EGG!"
All over Tyrone yesterday, old men could be seen lying over gates staring into fields. All hoping that Rhianna might turn up and loosen a button. That's what men do in Tyrone before they have a pee. They loosen a button. Zip on your fly? it makes no difference, you still, "loosen a button."
Tommy my cat knocked an arrow off my head with an apple and said,
"The recession is really beginning to bite. I saw a knife-grinder, a rag and bone man and a thin, pale, workhouse urchin today."
"OAKUM!" I yelled. "The future is, OAKUM!"
"What in the name of Rhianna's simmet is Oakum?" cried Tommy, as he launched a paper aeroplane in the general direction of Iran.
"OAKUM," I said, rolling the word round my mouth like a brandy ball, "Oakum is what you get when you unpick a rope. Oakum is fine hemp, just like human hair. Oakum is a sealant. Mixed with tar, or Chiver's thick-cut marmalade, oakum will seal any ship, pipe, or orifice leaking water."
Tommy mused, ruminated, pondered and said, "The word in the hood is, old Jordie stuffs his Christmas turkey with oakum. He says it keeps the juices in."
"Old Jordie is not as crazy as he looks," I said. "Way back in 1947 old Jordie invented the toothless comb for bald men." I went to the window, broke a pane of glass with my nose and shrieked,
"OAKUM! it's money for old rope!"

Water on The Brain.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which stopped an angry mob of old codgers from shuffling to the Royal hospital and demanding free catheters.
"Look at our Eli!" croaked an old codger. "His grey, flannel, 28 inch inside leg trousers are saturated beyond redemption." Tommy my cat sat and listened intently as Mr Coyle pulled and yanked at his ear.
"Water on the brain," said Tommy.
"Big red bus!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle's head has turned into a veritable reservoir. Is there NO cure known to man, beast, or insect??" Before Tommy could answer, an old codger took another brick from the wall and yelled, "Stick a catheter up his nose, it did wonders for our Eli!" SO! if you meet a man with two candles hanging from his nose, judge ye not!--it may be Mr Coyle.
I was hunkered down in front of Easons pretending I was very small when the sky darkened, bits of plaster fell from buildings, crows and seagulls took to the air and a hoarse, guttural voice began to roar,
" I am BIG in Tombstone City, I am BIG in Tennessee, I was BIG in Weight Watchers until they got shot of me!"
I leaped to my feet and cried, " Lo, what fat fiend approaches, arrayed in Patrick Moore suit and lavender ankle socks?" A smirk appeared on the vast, barren landscape that was Tubby Nolan's face and the oval one roared,
"Greetings yokel, 'tis I, Tubby Nolan, king of comedy and allround good egg. Riddle me this. What is the difference between Tubby Nolan and the Titanic?"
"I know not good sire," I replied. "What is the difference between the arch knave, Tubby Nolan and the good ship Titanic?"
Tubby tittered, well, it was Patrick Moore's suit and yelled,
The difference between Tubby Nolan and the Titanic is, I KEEP COMING BACK!!!"

Beware Cream Buns And Calpol.

Great shows last week kid.
After the Friday show all the girls who work at the cream bun bakery checked their ovens before they went home for the weekend. A bun in the oven can lead to great agitation and loss of production.
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with the weird, hairy thing that lives under my bed, braced himself, looked at me, boked but did not vomit and made this utterance,
"Little Hugo Duncan had an awful fright last night when he got caught in the cat flap as he returned home from a late night gig."
"Well, I'll be a rhinestone cowboy!" I yelled. "How did they extricate the little warbler from the pussy portal?"
"Stick and carrot," said Tommy. "A family member held a Bounty bar six inches from Hugo's nose, while a neighbour pretended to attack Shorty's rear with a chainsaw."
"Ah the old bounty and chainsaw trick," I said. "Many a miner and pot-holer owe their life to that combination."
Tommy tossed a peanut high in the air, caught it with my mouth and said,
"What a rugged, handsome man Noel Thompson has become. Time, has stripped away all callow youth and left him craggy and worn like an old cartwheel left out in the sun."
"I do so agree," I enthused. "Women of a certain age must sit in front of the TV thinking, "I wouldn't mind a go at that craggy cove."
"And the lovely Donna Trainor," said Tommy, "so beautiful, so elegant, so good at keeping her hands of Noel."
I pulled the curtains, placed a black cloth over the mirror and said,
"Deep sadness lies at the heart of Donna Trainor. At the tender age of six months she won a bonny baby contest, ONLY to see it snatched away again."
"How did that happen?" cried Tommy, biting my nails furiously.
"It came about thus!" I cried. "After winning the bonny baby contest, the gurgling Donna was taken away for a drug test."
"OH NO!" cried Tommy.
"OH YES!" I shrieked. "Full as a kite on extra-strong Calpol, the rosette was torn off her bib and she was banned for life from the bonny baby circuit."
"How sad," cried Tommy, how terribly, terribly sad!"
"There is a bright side," I said. "From that day till this, Calpol has never passed the lips of Donna Trainor."
"BRAVO!" yelled Tommy. "Donna Trainor is a veritable role model for young girls everywhere, just like Kerry Katona!!"

Dana To Stand On What Platform???

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat threw a handful of gravel on the table and yelled,
"I wish to make a statement to the house."
"Resign!" yelled Henry the hoover.
"ORDER!" I roared. "Order in the house!"
"I have been offered and accepted," yelled Tommy, "the post of gopher in Dana's campaign to be the next president of Ireland."
"Too little, too late," chirped Rodger the budgie.
I leaped to my feet and roared, "Would the right honourable cat tell the house on what platform the darling Dana will stand? ORDER! ORDER!" I yelled as Henry and Rodger began to boo, hiss-yes, hiss and cat call.
"They don't want to hear it!" yelled Tommy. "Both honourable members have little, or no regard for free speech."
"RESIGN!" yelled Henry. "Sling your hook!" chirped Rodger.
"In answer to the right honourable ratbag's question," yelled Tommy, "the delightful Dana's policies are, family values, the preservation of the wild mountain hare and sturdy,sensible,flat shoes."
I leaped to my feet and roared, "Where does dainty Dana stand on, all kinds of everything?"
"She's against it!" yelled Tommy. "Dana feels that, all kinds of everything is a charter for low lives, scum bags, hamster lovers and people over the age of 85 living in sheltered accommodation. On the day Dana is elected, she will provide every townland in Ireland with its own Kitty the Hare. SOON! little scuttling women, dressed in black, with shawls over their heads, will leap out from behind fairy trees on dark nights screaming, "Aah! musha-a-lana and Mother McCree!"
The house broke up then for cucumber sandwiches and a spot of grouse shooting.
Tommy sidled up to me and whispered, "HE!!! will be back on Monday. Mr Coyle,the agitator, interrupter and disruptor will be back on black Monday. I had hoped......." whispered Tommy.
"I know!" I hissed, yes! hissed. "I too had hoped that the little sailors from Somalia would have shanghaied old mono eyebrow."
"The word in the hood AND on the grapevine," whispered Tommy, "is the little sailors have-gone."
"BUMMER!" I yelled as the division bell rang to separate the right honourable Catholics from the right honourable Protestants.

A Duel For The Irish Presidency.

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show in which old Jordie proposed, YET AGAIN!, leaving out bowls of beer to make snails and slugs blind drunk. "Is there not enough carnage on the roads Mr Tuft? Do you expect our hardpressed emergency services to rush to the scene of every accident involving a drunk snail, or slug? And who will donate the blood needed Mr Tuft-YOU? I thought not! What I say to you Mr Tuft is, go home, light a good fire and prepare for the fire brigade."
"That settled his hash," said Tommy my cat, sitting at the breakfast table, masticating furiously at a turgid heap of Snap Crackle and Pop. Tommy burped, got up, hit me a massive whack on the head with a silver, Georgian teapot and yelled, "Have YOU had an accident recently? Go to Claims Direct and you could get a nice little packet if you are prepared to lie your head off in the witness box."
I punched Tommy up the gub and cried, "Are you embarrassed by loose false teeth falling into your soup at dinner parties? Then YOU need Mrs Fixit's Farrier kit. Just four nails hammered into your upper and lower mouth will secure your dentures. Guaranteed to bite through steel, glass, plastic, wood and very strong, stubborn cardboard."
While I sat down to fill in a Claims Direct form, Tommy ran to the chemist for a Mrs Fixit's Farrier kit.
Tommy came away from the window where he had been counting ginger-haired winos and said,
"I feel it incumbent on me to reduce by 50% the number of people from Derry running for the Irish presidency."
"WHY???" I yelled to the coat bucket."Why is my little Tommy always two steps ahead of the crowd?"
"I propose a duel," said Tommy, "a paintball duel between Dana and Martin McGuinness, said duel to be held in Croke Park and televised by RTE. The first person hit will withdraw and the winner will go on to the grand final."
The coal bucket looked at me with a, "what a cat!" look on its zinc face.
"Tommy," I said, "could you tell me in minute and graphic detail what the President of Ireland does?"
Tommy picked up the Cairo Chronicle and replied, "Nothing! Zilch! Diddly-Squat!"
I winked at the coal bucket and said,
"Hence the stampede seeking the position!"

Too Much Churning.

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which bewitched Tom Elliott to such an extent, he ran out looking frantically for a catholic funeral he could attend.
But alas, not all were as enamoured with the great shows as uncle Tom. Tommy my cat has some complaints about the Thursday show. "Come on you pesky feline. Tell Gerry to his face why you didn't like the great Thursday show."
"I'm NOT saying I didn't like the Thursday show," said Tommy. "The Thursday show was a fine show. I'm just saying,in my opinion, there was too much talk about churning and churning is just a hop, skip and jump away from the vile, repulsive subject of--lactation."
I did an Ali shuffle in my Ugg boots and cried, "And what pray did lactation ever do to you?"
Tommy blushed bright red and said, "I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room the other day. Across from me sat a woman with a young baby. SUDDENLY! she opened her blouse and began to,---to,--front feed her baby."
"FRONT FEED!" I yelled. "Who are you, Oliver Cromwell or Sean Coyle? The mother was breast feeding her baby.It's quite natural. Even you were breast fed."
"I was not!" yelled Tommy. "Mummy had a big litter of kittens. I was the smallest and there was no teat for me. Only for United dairies I would have died."
"How odd," I mused. "And yet you support Manchester City! But tell me puerile, Puritan pussy, how did the episode with the lady who was breast feeding, or as you would say, front feeding, her baby end?"
"I told her to put them away," said Tommy, "and she bitch-slapped me across the face with them."
"What a boob," I laughed.
"There was more than one," replied the woe-begone feline.
After a lunch of under-cooked mutton,scallions, gooseberries and two sick bags, Tommy marched up and down beating his German swagger against his candy-pink fluffy,bedroom slippers. With a yell of, "Heil Nigel Dodds!" Tommy swung round and said,
"IF, Martin McGuinness is elected President of Ireland, will he turn it into another Cuba?"
"YES!" I yelled." The first thing Marty will do is shore up our hurricane defences by planting millions of palm trees all along the coast line."
"And about time too," said Tommy. "David "the beard" Ford promised to do that, but never got round to it."
"THEN!" I yelled. "Gallagher's factory will work 24/7 and 365 making giant cigars called, Titanics." Tommy ruminated, as cats do in a darkened corner and said,
"And will President Marty wear a drab, olive-green uniform and peaked cap like a petrol pump attendant?"
"Not only that!" I cried. "President Marty will dig silos in and around Cullybaccy and fill them with Russian missiles. Viva la Castro!" I yelled.
"Viva la Castrol!" roared Tommy.
And people say nothing exciting ever happens in boring old Northern Ireland!

Jordie The Constant Countryman.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused an old codger to yank out his diamante studded catheter and proclaim to the world, "PEE AT LAST. PEE AT LAST. THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, PEE AT LAST!"
Tommy my cat hitched up his heavy-duty, industrial knickers and said,
"What an absolute joy to hear the gritty, hard-as-nails voice of old Jordie again! Old Jordie keeps me-grounded. he is a constant, always there when war looms or swallows revolt and fly upside down to show their contempt for mankind."
I spat on two hands that reached inside the broken window and cried, "Old Jordie is a man of the soil. He desires neither gold or silver. Old Jordie is never happier, than sitting atop a steaming midden sipping an early morning cooking sherry."
"Here's to him, who's like him, since the King of Tongo died!" yelled Tommy.
I got down on my knees on the floor to lower my voice and whispered, "Mind you, old Jordie has been under surveillance for over 50 years by the CIA,FBI,MI5,MI6 and the Legion of Mary."
"Why should these dark forces be interested in a simple countryman?" asked Tommy.
I looked all around,blessed myself, muttered, "Allah is good" and replied,
"Old Jordie is unable to recollect where he was on the 22nd of November, 1963."
Tommy's eyes opened wide, his black face turned white and he gasped, "Eeh by gum. Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs."
"SHIBBOLEH!" I cried. "Jordie Tuft has no alibi for the day President Kennedy was assassinated!"
"CHEROKEE CREEK!" yelled Tommy. "Could old Jordie have been the figure seen on the grassy knoll?"
"The grassy knoll, not at tall!" I yelled. "It is my hunch that on the 22nd of November, 1963, old Jordie was sleeping off a drunken debauch in a disused badger set."
"I agree!" cried Tommy. "It is a well known fact that when the cooking sherry runs out, old Jordie seeks refuge underground with the rabbits, foxes and badgers."
"Conspiracy?" I yelled. "What conspiracy?"
Then, buoyed up by a strange, hysterical exuberance bordering on Bedlam, I stuck my head up the chimney and yodeled for six hours. Everyone who complained to the police said it was Kenny Archer!

Breaking News

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused an old codger to stop and think before sticking a wet finger into an electric socket. The old codger pondered, ruminated and considered. Then with a hoarse yell of, "GERONIMO" he rammed a wet digit into the socket and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
"It's how dad would have wanted to go," said the old codger's 69 year old son Jasper, who teaches belly-dancing twice a week at the local old folks' home.
Don't blame yourself kid. Just remember, life turned him that way.
Tommy my cat, wearing a lovely, off-the-shoulder cassock tripped gaily into the room and sang, "I'm gonna lay down a little burden, down by the riverside."
"Make sure you kick dirt over it when you're finished!" I yelled.
"I always do!" cried Tommy. "Unlike you, I don't pull the chain, laugh and say, "Well, it's the city's problem now."
With Tommy gone I ran at all four walls with my head, seeking any cracks or structural damage. I had some misgivings about wall No 3, so I lowered my head and ran at it time and time again. When I came round I was able to put a little tick for all four walls.
Just before the big hand reached two and the little hand lay on the broad of its back in the clock case, Tommy came running in, cassock flying behind him and shrieked, "Breaking news regarding old fatso, Tubby Nolan!"
"Do tell!" I screamed, while reclining gracefully on a rusty heap of scrap iron. "Well!" said Tommy, crossing both arms under his non-existent bosom, "Her at No 27, who is married to Manuel Garcia, who owns the Chinese restaurant on Rodent Street, was told in confidence by Maggie Hitler, the would be rat catcher, that Steven Nolan turned up at Ryan air with NO luggage and STILL had to pay for excess baggage.
"I warned him!" I yelled. "I told Tubby that Michael O'Leary issued a bulletin stating, "If Tubby Nolan puts on another stone, throw him in the cargo hold."
"Best place for him," said Tommy. "Should a Ryan air jet get into trouble it will be quite easy to jettison Tubby from the cargo hold. This would give the plane sufficient fuel to make a soft landing in Cullybaccy."
Tubby Nolan is eating in the last chance junk food outlet!

Tommy Delivers The News Stories Gerry Might Have Missed.

Welcome back kid. Now we can face the Winter, warm and snug in the heat that radiates from great shows.
Tommy my cat, burdened down by a heavy, granite, stone slab, staggered to his Ikea, flat-pack, gold throne and gasped, "On this stone tablet I have chiseled all the news stories Gerry might have missed while on pilgrimage to India, where, rumour has it,he frolicked and wallowed like an otter in the sacred water of the river Ganges." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe, what a smart little chiseler he was!
"FIRST!" yelled Tommy. "Norn Iron-Nil, have two more defeats proudly tucked under their belt."
"Nigel Worthington must GO!" I yelled. "Make Jackie Fullerton manager. Jackie would play the old, spare man in the box, one, two and you're in formation."
"Second news story!" roared Tommy. "Margaret Richie, in spite of all her shrill denials, has-GONE!"
"YIPPEE!" cried a bug-eyed cricket from a dark, recess in the hearth.
"The big question is," roared Tommy,"Did dear Margaret jump, or was she pushed?"
"PUSHED!" I yelled. "I saw the palm prints of Patsy McGlone on the back of her brilliant, white, cashmere gansy."
"Good on ye Patsy ye boy ye," chirped the cricket.
"Third!" cried Tommy. "Steven Nolan, Christoper Biggins and Chris Moyle are to open a posh, exclusive restaurant in the West end of London called, "THE LARD BUCKET." Tommy laughed and said, "The only restaurant in London to be awarded three Michelin tyres."
"Tee-hee-hee," giggled the cricket in the hearth.
"Fourth news item!" yelled Tommy. "Paddy Doherty, traveller, bare-knuckle fighter and star of, "My big Fat Irish gypsy wedding" beat Kerry Katona and Jedward in the final of, "Celebrity Big Brother."
"A great day for the Irish," I cried, "but would you want either of the three to live next door to you?"
"Hauld on, hauld on!" yelled the cricket. "That remark is out of order. You should be ashamed of yourself, you old rat bag."
I picked up the poker to knock the Buddy Holly out of the cricket, but Tommy stopped me with a yell of, "Item Five! Jordie Tuft, sage, oracle, vintage sherry drinker and son of the soil is considering running for the Presidency of Ireland."
"On what platform will old Jordie stand?" Yelled the cricket and I in close, Everly Brothers harmony.
"Old Jordie will stand on a platform of pallets!" cried Tommy. "A platform of pallets piled high so the people can see his wee feathered hat, muffler round the neck and the safety pin holding the fork of his trousers together."
"A shrewd move," chirped the cricket. "The safety pin will bring in the women's votes"
"Where does old Jordie stand on alternative fuel?" I bellowed.
"On the broad of his back waiting for the Lough Brickland fire brigade!" yelled Tommy. Old Jordie's motto on fuel is, "BURN BABY BURN!"
VIVA LA PRESIDENTE!" cried the cricket.
"Go home and prepare for CHANGE!" yelled Tommy. "Soon old Jordie shall bring all factions together, under the stirring banner of, "UNITED IN DEBT!"
I went to bed then, but Tommy and the cricket stayed up all night discussing old Jordie's campaign strategy.
(OH! I made no mention of Kelly or Coyle, I will leave that to others)

Surviving Without Gerry.

Great pre-going away show kid.
"Three weeks?" I yelled.
"Three long, long, weeks," said Tommy my cat.
"That's a fortnight and a half!" I cried. "Who, or whom is going to look after us when Gerry is away?"
"Tommy spat into the fire and said, "Sean Thaddeaus Coyle."
"Old STC?" I yelled. "That's like leaving the little pigs alone with the wolf! Mark my words, Sean Coyle will run that great show into the ground, not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a fortnight and a half, but-always." "Chins up," said Tommy. "If we are to survive this ordeal with our peckers up, we must be prepared for pain, dog's abuse, bossing and Danny Kaye singing, "The Three little fish fish swam over the dam."
"SENERITY NIGH!" I yelled. SENERITY NIGH!!!!"
Suddenly, YES! it was as quick as that, Jim Rodgers sprang into the room screaming,
"Nigh! NIGH! NIGH! Stop that racket. A shaking wino is trying to eat an egg at the corner of your house!"
"Highly exciteable," said Tommy, but a good man to have with you if you're ever playing poker in Austin Texas where heat is being packed."
"The only heat Jim Rodgers ever packed," I yelled,"was a fish supper in his coat pocket as he ran like a greyhound through the rain on his way home from the chip shop."
Tommy and I both concurred, which left a large stain on the carpet.
As Vera Lynn sang softly in the background. Tommy and I, both wearing tin helmets, settled down for the long fortnight and a half.
"The lights are going out all over Poleglass," whispered Tommy.
"Hold hard Everard, old chum, old pal," I crooned. "This too shall pass."
"Yes it will pass my dear old ratbag," whispered Tommy.
Tommy and I burst into tears as the plaintive Vera Lynn sang.
"And Jimmy Nesbitt will go to sleep, in his own little room again."
Safe journey kid. Missing you already!