Gerry's Back!

Tommy my cat danced round the room like Louie Spence singing,
"GERRY'S BACK, GERRY'S BACK.
GO HOME AND PREPARE FOR CRAIC."
I continued to knit a kipper tie from a basket of dead kippers at my feet. My face was dead pan, for all the world like a pan that had died, but inside my gorgeous gizzard, smashing spleen and pretty little pancreas were singing, dancing and throwing their little hats in the air.
Tommy glared at me like a gargoyle from Gortin and yelled,
"Come on, let's have it, who was the best stander-inner when Gerry was away? Painful eyes, or Thunder thighs?"
I leaped to my feet, overturning my basket of deceased kippers and roared,
"I refuse to play the blame game. Both men concerned have families to feed and addictive habits to maintain. YOU may point the finger," I yelled, pointing at Tommy,
"but I refuse to point the finger!"
Tommy looked at me like Kat Deely and said,
"I admire you for that, old, wizened ratbag! Let others cast slurs, aspersions and bits of breeze blocks, you and I shall rise above it and take the moral high ground."
In the silence that followed, Tommy and I listened intently to the rumble of the chimney tumbling slowly down the roof.
When the soot had cleared, I gracefully made my way to the window and said,
"Don't worry, the wee lum is still reeking."
Tommy faced me by turning his back to the wall and whispered,
"I think Gerry Anderson is a secret agent!"
"Get away!" I said.
"Every time Gerry goes away," yelled Tommy,"something major happens in the world. This time it was the downfall of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, another time it was the civil partnership between Cameron and Clegg. Now that I think of it," said Tommy, "I once heard Gerry say to a girl wearing a mini skirt at a street corner,
"The names-Anderson, Gerry Anderson."
"Get away!" I replied.
"Gerry Anderson is the new James Bond!" screamed Tommy. "He carries a hotplate and has a licence to grill."
"Get away!" I said.
"Come 'ere hi, there's more," said Tommy. "Did you ever notice the way Gerry stands, with his hand ready to go for his piece, his gnat, his-rod?"
I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of his scrawny neck, sank my toe into his furry rear and shrieked,
"Amen, Amen I say onto to thee, did I not tell thee thrice to get away? Now, get away and leave me alone. Tubby Nolan is coming over for tea. I have to trim my nose hairs and run out for a wheel barrow load of wee buns!"
"When Tubby Nolan comes to tea
All the mice and earwigs flee.".
It's a survival mechanism!

Will He Stay Or Will He Go?

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept old 89 year old Reefer McBong company as he tilled his cannabis patch up at the city allotments.
Tommy my cat climbed out of a bunker looking remarkably like besieged Prime Minister Brian Cowan and yelled,
"OK, OK, lads, I will resign! But, using sacred,ancient Irish logic, I shall still be the leader of the party. Confused? How do you think I feel? I am not a quitter, but I have seen the writing on the wall. When you see "Cowan is a clown" written on every shebeen in Ireland, you know the jig is up. But as a good party man, I will work like a Polish asylum seeker in the weeks before the forthcoming massacre, I mean, election."
"What about all the debt you're in?" I cried. "What are you going to do about THAT?"
"Never fear," said Brian. "I have a cunning plan. I shall sell Ireland, county by county on eBay. Britain and America will compete against each other and I shall retreat to a mud hut in the wilds of Connemara and build a big wall around it."
I looked at the cornered Premier and said,
"Brian Cowan, you're not just a pretty face."
"Don't underestimate me!" yelled Brian. "I shall cling on to power like a barnacle
clinging on to a rock on the wild, stormy Western coast of Ireland."
"COWAN MUST STAY!" I yelled. "COWAN MUST STAY!"
Brian Cowan has been hunted like a hare through mountain, forest and glen. What horrible crime did this man COMMIT? Sure, he ran the country into debt and penury. But, even as we speak, famine ships are being built in every city, town and village in Ireland, bringing much needed work to those who shall sail far away from the green fields of Erin.
A vote for Cowan is a vote for prosperity-for bankers all over the world."
A week is a long time in politics AND purgatory.