Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which cocked a snoot at convention,drove a coach and horses through laws and regulations and proved beyond all reasonable doubt that all your fantastic tales are Cock and Bull stories.
The heavy machine gun, Snow White and falling into a bath; all figments of an over active imagination.
Cut down on the Cheddar at night kid. Go back to the old,tried and tested, hot water bottle filled with vodka. SMIRNOFF, for a good nights sleep!
Suddenly Tommy my cat ran in wearing a black cassock and a white dog collar and yelled,
"Prepare thee ye sinners, the end is NIGH! Does not the good book state,
'And when that time comes there shall be wars and rumours of wars.'
That refers to the Middle East, which is a tinder box ready to explode.
The bible goes on,
'The dead shall rise from their graves and walk among the living.'
A clear reference to Michael McGimpsey if I ever heard one.
'Strange sights shall be seen in the sky.'
That's Daniel O'Donnell mooning over Ireland.
'False prophets shall appear.'
That's Jordie Tuft to a T.
'When that time comes, woe to she, or HE who has a bun in the oven.
Don't turn back, not even for your coat.
The No Ticket, No Tote policy shall be relaxed.'
Apart from that," said Tommy, "the day will be very warm with spits and spots of fire and brimstone appearing almost everywhere."
I leaped to my feet, threw my Scientology loyalty card into the fire and yelled,
"It was good for my mamma
It was good for my pappa
That old time religion is good enough for ME!"
THEN,all we could do was-wait,and while we were waiting we got on with our lives.
That theory has worked up to now.
If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Tuesday 29 March 2011
A Question Of Degrees
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which tackled the last great taboo of our time,'What to do with your compost box?'
Tommy my cat cut the top of his egg with a Syrian scimitar and said,
"Ground breaking stuff. What do you think Mr Coyle should do with his compost box?"
I ripped out the front window, threw it through the back window and yelled,
"Mr Coyle should climb into his compost box, pull some straw in behind him and then get his good friend Joe to hammer on a lid using six inch nails."
"A bit harsh," said Tommy,as he buttered a hot Belgium toasted soldier.
"A bit harsh my uncle Pedro's burro!" I cried. "Then, Mr Coyle, still in the box, should be floated out to sea to deter Somalian pirates."
"I can see where you're coming from," said Tommy,"and you should get back there as soon as possible before the men with the white coats come looking for you."
"Bulgarian bananas!" I roared,as I ran upstairs and rolled under the bed. As a child I always preferred the lower bunk.
"Soon ol' four o'clock rolled around.
You finally lay your burden down."
"NADINE! honey is that you?" I yelled to the girl across the street.
"NADINE! honey is that you?"
"That's not Nadine Coyle," said Tubby Nolan,coming out from an "Eat your weight in blubber for a tenner" joint.
"Hey,Tubby, my main man," I said. "what's up? What's happening? You never come back to the projects no more."
"I'm trying to leave my past behind," said Tubby.
"The word in the hood is that Queen's University are thinking of bestowing a degree on me."
"Well, well,well," I said. "Little Tubby Nolan all grown up and doing the town.
You think the man at Queen's university is going to waste a degree on YOU?
FOOL! The only degree you gonna' get,FOOL,is the third degree from Matt Baggott and all the boys and girls at the PSNI."
THE PSNI, they can really make you cry
They got big rubber hoses and the old pepper spray
They will probe you like aliens, 'till night turns to day
Down at the ol' PSNI
The old PSNI.
I love them old PSNI.
NOW CONTAINING 30% CATHOLICS.
A great show which tackled the last great taboo of our time,'What to do with your compost box?'
Tommy my cat cut the top of his egg with a Syrian scimitar and said,
"Ground breaking stuff. What do you think Mr Coyle should do with his compost box?"
I ripped out the front window, threw it through the back window and yelled,
"Mr Coyle should climb into his compost box, pull some straw in behind him and then get his good friend Joe to hammer on a lid using six inch nails."
"A bit harsh," said Tommy,as he buttered a hot Belgium toasted soldier.
"A bit harsh my uncle Pedro's burro!" I cried. "Then, Mr Coyle, still in the box, should be floated out to sea to deter Somalian pirates."
"I can see where you're coming from," said Tommy,"and you should get back there as soon as possible before the men with the white coats come looking for you."
"Bulgarian bananas!" I roared,as I ran upstairs and rolled under the bed. As a child I always preferred the lower bunk.
"Soon ol' four o'clock rolled around.
You finally lay your burden down."
"NADINE! honey is that you?" I yelled to the girl across the street.
"NADINE! honey is that you?"
"That's not Nadine Coyle," said Tubby Nolan,coming out from an "Eat your weight in blubber for a tenner" joint.
"Hey,Tubby, my main man," I said. "what's up? What's happening? You never come back to the projects no more."
"I'm trying to leave my past behind," said Tubby.
"The word in the hood is that Queen's University are thinking of bestowing a degree on me."
"Well, well,well," I said. "Little Tubby Nolan all grown up and doing the town.
You think the man at Queen's university is going to waste a degree on YOU?
FOOL! The only degree you gonna' get,FOOL,is the third degree from Matt Baggott and all the boys and girls at the PSNI."
THE PSNI, they can really make you cry
They got big rubber hoses and the old pepper spray
They will probe you like aliens, 'till night turns to day
Down at the ol' PSNI
The old PSNI.
I love them old PSNI.
NOW CONTAINING 30% CATHOLICS.
Monday 28 March 2011
WE DON'T CARE
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which blared out from the cabs of hundreds of dung-spreaders as they scattered animal defecation far and wide like veritable confetti.
"Dung-spreader," said Tommy my cat. "What a great name that is. It does what it says on the tin."
"Just think Tommy," I said,"everything we eat comes from dung."
"With the exception of beans and peas," said Tommy,"which come from a can."
"Don't be a pedantic pussy," I said. "People don't like to be corrected by a fly cat like what you is."
"I think," said Tommy with a superior smirk,"that should be,corrected by a fly cat like what I AM!"
In the twinkling of an eye I constructed a court out of wooden pallets and sticky-backed plastic. I placed Tommy in the dock and roared,
"Tommy cat, would you be happy to see Martin McGuinness as first minister?"
Tommy pursed his lips, made an arch of his paws and said,
"I'm glad you asked me that question. If I can refer you to a speech I made in 1986, the reality is......"
I threw a shovel of gravel on my desk and roared,
"Answer the question! Don't stand there like a poor man's Michael Howard. Martin McGuinness, first minister, YES or NO?"
"In what context are you using the words yes or no?" said Tommy.
"ANSWER THE QUESTION!" I yelled. "I DEMAND YOU ANSWER THE QUESTION-NIGH!"
Then came the Perry Mason moment. Tommy broke down.
"I DON'T CARE!" screamed Tommy. "Do you hear me? As sure as God made little green epaulettes, I DON'T CARE! I don't care if the first minister is,Martin McGuinness, Peter Robinson or the wino in the cardboard box. It won't make any difference to MY life."
So there you have it, people of Ulster. It took a humble cat to point out what THE REALITY IS!
We, the people of ULSTER, DON'T CARE!!!
Great shows which blared out from the cabs of hundreds of dung-spreaders as they scattered animal defecation far and wide like veritable confetti.
"Dung-spreader," said Tommy my cat. "What a great name that is. It does what it says on the tin."
"Just think Tommy," I said,"everything we eat comes from dung."
"With the exception of beans and peas," said Tommy,"which come from a can."
"Don't be a pedantic pussy," I said. "People don't like to be corrected by a fly cat like what you is."
"I think," said Tommy with a superior smirk,"that should be,corrected by a fly cat like what I AM!"
In the twinkling of an eye I constructed a court out of wooden pallets and sticky-backed plastic. I placed Tommy in the dock and roared,
"Tommy cat, would you be happy to see Martin McGuinness as first minister?"
Tommy pursed his lips, made an arch of his paws and said,
"I'm glad you asked me that question. If I can refer you to a speech I made in 1986, the reality is......"
I threw a shovel of gravel on my desk and roared,
"Answer the question! Don't stand there like a poor man's Michael Howard. Martin McGuinness, first minister, YES or NO?"
"In what context are you using the words yes or no?" said Tommy.
"ANSWER THE QUESTION!" I yelled. "I DEMAND YOU ANSWER THE QUESTION-NIGH!"
Then came the Perry Mason moment. Tommy broke down.
"I DON'T CARE!" screamed Tommy. "Do you hear me? As sure as God made little green epaulettes, I DON'T CARE! I don't care if the first minister is,Martin McGuinness, Peter Robinson or the wino in the cardboard box. It won't make any difference to MY life."
So there you have it, people of Ulster. It took a humble cat to point out what THE REALITY IS!
We, the people of ULSTER, DON'T CARE!!!
Wednesday 23 March 2011
CURIOUS CHICKENS
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which solved the age old question,
Why did the chicken cross the road? Tommy my cat and I were shocked, amazed, and greatly perplexed to find it was all down to our old friend, good old fashioned curiosity.
Tommy jumped off his little pink,Triang tricycle and said, "For more years than I care to remember,I have studied the various emotions a chicken can display on its face. I have seen, hate, love, sadness, lust, envy,awful,awful envy, greed, exasperation and petulance, but I have NEVER seen a chicken display even an iota of curiosity on its visage."
"Which is why chickens make such good poker players," I said.
"All over the world,gambling casinos bar chickens from playing any game of chance."
"The things you learn," muttered Tommy,"when you talk to a premier head-banger."
Tommy delicately picked up the latest copy of "HEAT" magazine, crossed one scrawny leg languidly over the other and said,
"According to this article by Martha Carney, John Wayne walked the way he did because of baby rash. CHRONIC,INCURABLE,baby rash," roared Tommy, "that increased in severity and intensity as the years went by!"
I threw the heel of a pan loaf like a Frisbee at my latest ginger-haired hostage and screamed,
"And yet, knowing that, John Marion Wayne goes and picks a career that involves lots of horse riding!"
"Don't get on to me!" roared Tommy."Take it up with Martha Carney."
"I will!" I yelled. "When I'm on Newsnight Review giving a critique on the charcoal drawings and brass monkey rubbings of Steven Nolan."
"Tubby Nolan can kiss my ass!" yelled Tommy.
"Thank you Tommy!" boomed Tubby and the oval one stuck his massive head in the window and kissed Tommy on the bum.
"UGH!" shrieked Tommy. "I'll never be able to look at my rear in the face again."
While Tommy ran for the scrubbing brush and Lifebuoy soap, the rotund,
un-debonair, debauchee ran away as fast as his little,fat legs would carry him.
Any man who would kiss a cat's ass, has NO boundaries,which is why, I have no hesitation in naming Tubby Nolan, BOUNDER OF THE WEEK!
A great show which solved the age old question,
Why did the chicken cross the road? Tommy my cat and I were shocked, amazed, and greatly perplexed to find it was all down to our old friend, good old fashioned curiosity.
Tommy jumped off his little pink,Triang tricycle and said, "For more years than I care to remember,I have studied the various emotions a chicken can display on its face. I have seen, hate, love, sadness, lust, envy,awful,awful envy, greed, exasperation and petulance, but I have NEVER seen a chicken display even an iota of curiosity on its visage."
"Which is why chickens make such good poker players," I said.
"All over the world,gambling casinos bar chickens from playing any game of chance."
"The things you learn," muttered Tommy,"when you talk to a premier head-banger."
Tommy delicately picked up the latest copy of "HEAT" magazine, crossed one scrawny leg languidly over the other and said,
"According to this article by Martha Carney, John Wayne walked the way he did because of baby rash. CHRONIC,INCURABLE,baby rash," roared Tommy, "that increased in severity and intensity as the years went by!"
I threw the heel of a pan loaf like a Frisbee at my latest ginger-haired hostage and screamed,
"And yet, knowing that, John Marion Wayne goes and picks a career that involves lots of horse riding!"
"Don't get on to me!" roared Tommy."Take it up with Martha Carney."
"I will!" I yelled. "When I'm on Newsnight Review giving a critique on the charcoal drawings and brass monkey rubbings of Steven Nolan."
"Tubby Nolan can kiss my ass!" yelled Tommy.
"Thank you Tommy!" boomed Tubby and the oval one stuck his massive head in the window and kissed Tommy on the bum.
"UGH!" shrieked Tommy. "I'll never be able to look at my rear in the face again."
While Tommy ran for the scrubbing brush and Lifebuoy soap, the rotund,
un-debonair, debauchee ran away as fast as his little,fat legs would carry him.
Any man who would kiss a cat's ass, has NO boundaries,which is why, I have no hesitation in naming Tubby Nolan, BOUNDER OF THE WEEK!
Tuesday 22 March 2011
A Great St. Patrick's Day
Great Saint Patrick's Day show kid and kudos to Mr Coyle for wearing the long, ragged,green gansy. Janet and Emma wore something green too,but it was discreet, very discreet.
"That crazy,mixed-up music has got me in a tizzy!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"I don't know if I should dance,sing,or yodel."
"Some early gardeners would agree with you," I said. "As they hear the strange music drift out of the kitchen window they find themselves digging with the wrong foot."
"You can do strange things with a CD," said Tommy,looking at me oddly.
I pursed my lips,wiggled my hips and replied,
"Well,try it sideways first Tommy,you'll never get a doctor to come out on Saint Patrick's Day."
"There are some people," said Tommy,"Kate Bush and Jordie Tuft being two,who believe if you play a CD backwards you can hear messages from the dead."
"Who wants to listen to Michael McGimpsey?" I cried. "Now slip into these old,ragged,torn,dirty clothes. You and I are going to the big parade as, Ireland Bankrupt and Broke but ready to Boke."
Never again! My head is killing me. Tommy looked at me with two red eyes and said,
"How did you get out of the Holy Lands last night?"
"By the heels," I groaned. "Some kind student who is studying alcohol, drugs and tobacco pulled me home by the heels."
"I saw a policeman give you a right batter," giggled Tommy.
I turned into Ronnie Flanagan and said in a dead, monotone voice,
"I have no recollection of having received any such batter."
"That old guff may have fooled Nuala O'Loane," said Tommy, "but it don't fool me!"
And the horrible feline hit me over the head with a bog oak shillelagh harvested in the bogs around Drumquin by none other that Seamus Heaney himself!
Tommy is lethal with the shillelagh. He gets his stance right,never takes his eyes from the noggin and always follows through.
"That crazy,mixed-up music has got me in a tizzy!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"I don't know if I should dance,sing,or yodel."
"Some early gardeners would agree with you," I said. "As they hear the strange music drift out of the kitchen window they find themselves digging with the wrong foot."
"You can do strange things with a CD," said Tommy,looking at me oddly.
I pursed my lips,wiggled my hips and replied,
"Well,try it sideways first Tommy,you'll never get a doctor to come out on Saint Patrick's Day."
"There are some people," said Tommy,"Kate Bush and Jordie Tuft being two,who believe if you play a CD backwards you can hear messages from the dead."
"Who wants to listen to Michael McGimpsey?" I cried. "Now slip into these old,ragged,torn,dirty clothes. You and I are going to the big parade as, Ireland Bankrupt and Broke but ready to Boke."
Never again! My head is killing me. Tommy looked at me with two red eyes and said,
"How did you get out of the Holy Lands last night?"
"By the heels," I groaned. "Some kind student who is studying alcohol, drugs and tobacco pulled me home by the heels."
"I saw a policeman give you a right batter," giggled Tommy.
I turned into Ronnie Flanagan and said in a dead, monotone voice,
"I have no recollection of having received any such batter."
"That old guff may have fooled Nuala O'Loane," said Tommy, "but it don't fool me!"
And the horrible feline hit me over the head with a bog oak shillelagh harvested in the bogs around Drumquin by none other that Seamus Heaney himself!
Tommy is lethal with the shillelagh. He gets his stance right,never takes his eyes from the noggin and always follows through.
Monday 21 March 2011
A CLOSE SHAVE
Great shows last week kid.
Tommy my cat and I greatly enjoyed the "NEW", improved Gerry Show NOW containing 47% Spring-fresh,lemon aroma. How lucky you are,compared to poor Jim Davidson, who cancelled the play he wrote and starred in due to lack of interest.
The play is called,"Stand up and be counted." It is centered around an aging, racist comedian played by Jim. Jim said to Mohammad Muldoon, editor of the Messenger,
"It's a bit of a stretch playing a big mouthed racist, but I worked like a white man to get it right."
Tommy attracted my attention by pulling out the velcro waistband of my prototyle, space-age,aluminium slacks and pouring in five gallons of thick,Canadian molasses.
"Attend me scurvy knave!" yelled Tommy. "Why have the amalgamated union of winos and newts not taken off their red noses?"
I yelled, "PERUVIAN PLUMS!" and fired off a salvo of Motherwell molluscs in the general direction of the pertinacious pussy.
Then Tommy,scardy cat that he is,ran to the United Nations and got them to issue a no flight zone over his head. The horrible feline had Gadaffied me.
I went into my tent where I pondered and farted for ten hours.
On Friday Tommy and I donned matching harris tweed suits and went to Bushmills to see how whiskey is made. As we watched swearing,sweating men roll big barrels up a ramp,Tommy grabbed me by the harris tweed and yelled,
"Look at barrel five! Does it not look familiar?"
"Stall the distilling!" I cried. "Among your massive casks is one known as Tubby Nolan. Release him! Release him-NIGH!" I roared.
"PHEW!!!" said Tubby. "That was a close shave. I was standing minding my own business when two men threw me to the ground and began to roll me away."
"I have told you before Tubby," I said, "a man of your size and girth needs to keep on the move to avoid being thrown into the back of a wheelie-bin lorry,or hoisted into the hold of a foreign ship."
"I'm off to Stormount!" Yelled Tubby.
"I am the only persecuted minority left in Ulster."
Tubby lumberd off yelling,
"What do I want?
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
When do I want it?
NIGH!!!!"
Respect from Sammy Wilson? I think the plump one is peeing up the wrong tree!
Tommy my cat and I greatly enjoyed the "NEW", improved Gerry Show NOW containing 47% Spring-fresh,lemon aroma. How lucky you are,compared to poor Jim Davidson, who cancelled the play he wrote and starred in due to lack of interest.
The play is called,"Stand up and be counted." It is centered around an aging, racist comedian played by Jim. Jim said to Mohammad Muldoon, editor of the Messenger,
"It's a bit of a stretch playing a big mouthed racist, but I worked like a white man to get it right."
Tommy attracted my attention by pulling out the velcro waistband of my prototyle, space-age,aluminium slacks and pouring in five gallons of thick,Canadian molasses.
"Attend me scurvy knave!" yelled Tommy. "Why have the amalgamated union of winos and newts not taken off their red noses?"
I yelled, "PERUVIAN PLUMS!" and fired off a salvo of Motherwell molluscs in the general direction of the pertinacious pussy.
Then Tommy,scardy cat that he is,ran to the United Nations and got them to issue a no flight zone over his head. The horrible feline had Gadaffied me.
I went into my tent where I pondered and farted for ten hours.
On Friday Tommy and I donned matching harris tweed suits and went to Bushmills to see how whiskey is made. As we watched swearing,sweating men roll big barrels up a ramp,Tommy grabbed me by the harris tweed and yelled,
"Look at barrel five! Does it not look familiar?"
"Stall the distilling!" I cried. "Among your massive casks is one known as Tubby Nolan. Release him! Release him-NIGH!" I roared.
"PHEW!!!" said Tubby. "That was a close shave. I was standing minding my own business when two men threw me to the ground and began to roll me away."
"I have told you before Tubby," I said, "a man of your size and girth needs to keep on the move to avoid being thrown into the back of a wheelie-bin lorry,or hoisted into the hold of a foreign ship."
"I'm off to Stormount!" Yelled Tubby.
"I am the only persecuted minority left in Ulster."
Tubby lumberd off yelling,
"What do I want?
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
When do I want it?
NIGH!!!!"
Respect from Sammy Wilson? I think the plump one is peeing up the wrong tree!
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Death Warmed up
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which rewrote the rules for great shows everywhere. Tommy my cat looked at me by focusing his eyes on my person and said,
"May I compliment you on your untiring efforts to make extreme ugliness chic and fashionable."
"Thanks kid," I said,"one day every woman will look like me."
"You look," said Tommy,"like death warmed up. I greatly admire your ambition to make zombieism acceptable to women on a low budget."
I hitched up my shroud and said,
"The essence of a pretty woman is a grey face,grimacing out of a black duffle coat.
Stella McCartney wants to copy my designs. We are hoping to sign up supermodel Kate Moss,if we can get the fag out of her gub."
"Jolly good show!" said Tommy,turning to go.
"OH TOMMY," I cried,"before you go,there is something I wish to bring up with you.
Please refrain from secreting old tuna tins under your mattress."
"OK!" said Tommy."OH, before you go there is something I wish to bring up with YOU."
And the filthy feline vomited profusely over my carpet slippers for four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Shocked beyond belief I stood in a large lagoon of cat puke,my bedroom slippers full to the gunnels.As the cat made good his escape I roared,
"You dirty rat.You dirty,stinking,rotten-RAT!"
Tommy stuck up two finger behind his back and went on his merry way. Then the postman looked at my carpet slippers and said,
"Are YOU pregnant? That's the worse case of morning sickness I have ever seen!"
And all because the lady likes milk in her tay.
A great show which rewrote the rules for great shows everywhere. Tommy my cat looked at me by focusing his eyes on my person and said,
"May I compliment you on your untiring efforts to make extreme ugliness chic and fashionable."
"Thanks kid," I said,"one day every woman will look like me."
"You look," said Tommy,"like death warmed up. I greatly admire your ambition to make zombieism acceptable to women on a low budget."
I hitched up my shroud and said,
"The essence of a pretty woman is a grey face,grimacing out of a black duffle coat.
Stella McCartney wants to copy my designs. We are hoping to sign up supermodel Kate Moss,if we can get the fag out of her gub."
"Jolly good show!" said Tommy,turning to go.
"OH TOMMY," I cried,"before you go,there is something I wish to bring up with you.
Please refrain from secreting old tuna tins under your mattress."
"OK!" said Tommy."OH, before you go there is something I wish to bring up with YOU."
And the filthy feline vomited profusely over my carpet slippers for four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Shocked beyond belief I stood in a large lagoon of cat puke,my bedroom slippers full to the gunnels.As the cat made good his escape I roared,
"You dirty rat.You dirty,stinking,rotten-RAT!"
Tommy stuck up two finger behind his back and went on his merry way. Then the postman looked at my carpet slippers and said,
"Are YOU pregnant? That's the worse case of morning sickness I have ever seen!"
And all because the lady likes milk in her tay.
Monday 14 March 2011
A Difference of Authorship.
Great shows last week kid
On Friday Tommy my cat and I jived along to the Commitments like one cool cat and one old rat bag. Tommy stopped mid-jive and yelled,
"Hey man, stall the wedding! What's the difference between the Commitments and the Commandments?"
"The Commandments were written by God," I said,"and the Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle."
"So it's just a difference of authorship?" said Tommy.
"Let me add a small caveat," I replied,picking up a little pair of roncelled, plywood, sugar tongs. "The Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle and directed by Alan Parker."
Tommy stood there wearing 37 petticoats under his frock, screwed up his little face like Bronagh Gallagher,the Etta James of Derry and said,
"Who directs the Commandments then?"
"Any headbanger with a big mouth and a bible," I replied non-ambiguously.
A few seconds later I yelled,
"Now let's Rock. I feela James Brown moment coming on. I'm going to boogie on down and bring it on home.".
Tommy ran for the po,but alas,too late!
Not wishing to be seen as too eager I never applied for the job of chief stoker at Black and Whites foundry. Needless to say, when the job went to Mrs Aruba Cuba from Rodent Street I was fit to be tied.
"What kind of world do we live in," I roared,"where one has to apply for a job to have any chance of getting it?"
I picked up my BT cordless,toothless,cross community phone to give the Ombudsman 1.5% of my mind. His wife said, he was out in the garden kicking next door's cat because he never applied for the job EITHER!
"VENT! yelled Tommy.
"VENT! For too long you' been toting that 'ol bale of cotton behind you.
I hear the Freedom train a'coming!" roared Tommy.
"Oh Lord," screamed Tommy,"lead us to the water and make us drink! Let me sit on the bonnet of the bus.OH LORD!" screamed Tommy. "Someone knocking on my door,it's ol' man trouble!"
"I wasn't always like this!" I yelled. "I used to live on cloud nine and what happened?"
"They took it away on the back of a lorry in the dead of night," shrieked Tommy.
"Jim Rodgers said it was a traffic hazard."
"Please take me away," I roared. "I can't live in a world without love."
Tommy threw back his outraged,feline head,stood there like Etta James and roared,
"I'D RATHER GO BLIND!"
I threw a big, black blanket over the soulful Tommy and went to my bed.
You CAN get too much of a bad thing!
On Friday Tommy my cat and I jived along to the Commitments like one cool cat and one old rat bag. Tommy stopped mid-jive and yelled,
"Hey man, stall the wedding! What's the difference between the Commitments and the Commandments?"
"The Commandments were written by God," I said,"and the Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle."
"So it's just a difference of authorship?" said Tommy.
"Let me add a small caveat," I replied,picking up a little pair of roncelled, plywood, sugar tongs. "The Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle and directed by Alan Parker."
Tommy stood there wearing 37 petticoats under his frock, screwed up his little face like Bronagh Gallagher,the Etta James of Derry and said,
"Who directs the Commandments then?"
"Any headbanger with a big mouth and a bible," I replied non-ambiguously.
A few seconds later I yelled,
"Now let's Rock. I feela James Brown moment coming on. I'm going to boogie on down and bring it on home.".
Tommy ran for the po,but alas,too late!
Not wishing to be seen as too eager I never applied for the job of chief stoker at Black and Whites foundry. Needless to say, when the job went to Mrs Aruba Cuba from Rodent Street I was fit to be tied.
"What kind of world do we live in," I roared,"where one has to apply for a job to have any chance of getting it?"
I picked up my BT cordless,toothless,cross community phone to give the Ombudsman 1.5% of my mind. His wife said, he was out in the garden kicking next door's cat because he never applied for the job EITHER!
"VENT! yelled Tommy.
"VENT! For too long you' been toting that 'ol bale of cotton behind you.
I hear the Freedom train a'coming!" roared Tommy.
"Oh Lord," screamed Tommy,"lead us to the water and make us drink! Let me sit on the bonnet of the bus.OH LORD!" screamed Tommy. "Someone knocking on my door,it's ol' man trouble!"
"I wasn't always like this!" I yelled. "I used to live on cloud nine and what happened?"
"They took it away on the back of a lorry in the dead of night," shrieked Tommy.
"Jim Rodgers said it was a traffic hazard."
"Please take me away," I roared. "I can't live in a world without love."
Tommy threw back his outraged,feline head,stood there like Etta James and roared,
"I'D RATHER GO BLIND!"
I threw a big, black blanket over the soulful Tommy and went to my bed.
You CAN get too much of a bad thing!
Thursday 10 March 2011
An Old Odour
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which made professor Richard Dawkins re valuate his life and apply to Maynooth College for admittance,claiming a late vocation.
The Dean of Maynooth,one Herbie Hancock,refused the application,but gave professor Dawkins the phone number of a Mullah from Meath.
Tommy my cat looked at me, swallowed some boke and yelled,
"You smell of old!"
"How dare you!" I yelled. "Like Miss Jean Brody, I am in the prime of my life."
"If you're in the prime of your life,"roared Tommy,"then the Egyptian boy King Tutankhamen must just be having 40 winks. You smell of old," yelled Tommy,
"a sort of grey, musky, buttoned-up cardigan,clove rock sweets in the pocket,old dog stench!"
"I was voted Miss Clean Oxters in 1943!" I yelled.
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "Your oxters are a breeding ground for mushrooms and a nursery for frogspawn and tadpoles. You smell of the crypt, you smell of dank, cold,green mouldy cellars. You smell of the gansy that was thrown into the glory hole under the stairs 12 years ago. You smell of the lint in an undertaker's pocket. In short, you smell of old."
"What about you?" I yelled. "You smell of stale cheese,John West tuna tins and deceased mice and scaldies. You smell of dustbins, wino's puke, old men's farts and the piece of cardboard you put in your shoe to keep the water out. In short my lad, you smell of-cat!"
Later as Tommy and I sat in a piping,hot bath, lathering on the Lifebuoy soap, Tommy looked at me and said,
"I'm glad we brought that out into the open. We have found-closure and can now move on."
My answer to Tommy was a multitude of bubbles rising from the depth of the bath.
I like to have the last word!
A great show which made professor Richard Dawkins re valuate his life and apply to Maynooth College for admittance,claiming a late vocation.
The Dean of Maynooth,one Herbie Hancock,refused the application,but gave professor Dawkins the phone number of a Mullah from Meath.
Tommy my cat looked at me, swallowed some boke and yelled,
"You smell of old!"
"How dare you!" I yelled. "Like Miss Jean Brody, I am in the prime of my life."
"If you're in the prime of your life,"roared Tommy,"then the Egyptian boy King Tutankhamen must just be having 40 winks. You smell of old," yelled Tommy,
"a sort of grey, musky, buttoned-up cardigan,clove rock sweets in the pocket,old dog stench!"
"I was voted Miss Clean Oxters in 1943!" I yelled.
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "Your oxters are a breeding ground for mushrooms and a nursery for frogspawn and tadpoles. You smell of the crypt, you smell of dank, cold,green mouldy cellars. You smell of the gansy that was thrown into the glory hole under the stairs 12 years ago. You smell of the lint in an undertaker's pocket. In short, you smell of old."
"What about you?" I yelled. "You smell of stale cheese,John West tuna tins and deceased mice and scaldies. You smell of dustbins, wino's puke, old men's farts and the piece of cardboard you put in your shoe to keep the water out. In short my lad, you smell of-cat!"
Later as Tommy and I sat in a piping,hot bath, lathering on the Lifebuoy soap, Tommy looked at me and said,
"I'm glad we brought that out into the open. We have found-closure and can now move on."
My answer to Tommy was a multitude of bubbles rising from the depth of the bath.
I like to have the last word!
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Baby Blues
Great show yesterday kid.
It was dark when Tommy my cat and I staggered home after gawking all day at Prince William and Kate Middleton. We placed our two Union Jacks carefully beside our two tricolours and slumped down on the sofa. Tommy looked at me and said,
"If someone had told me that Prince William and Kate Middleton would be tossing pancakes HERE! in Northern Ireland today I would have said they were drunk, liars or crazy as a loon."
"When Kate Middleton looked straight at me," I gushed, "I felt so servile and common. It was like a fairy tale."
"The Royals are not like the common people," said Tommy."They give off an aura. Dear Kate and Prince William were like two alien creatures surrounded by the dregs of humanity. They gave off an ethereal, airy, spirit-like glow. One can see them drinking ruby red wine from crystal goblets, eating larks' tongues from golden plates and never having to go to the loo."
"No lou for the Royals," I yelled, "and I'll fight any man who says different!"
Tommy slipped into a red, velvet,smoking jacket he had rescued from a bonfire and said,
"I'm worried about Mr Coyle. Did you hear him have a Les Dennis moment on the show yesterday with regard to impersonations?"
I knitted my eyebrows with two chopsticks and said,
"What age is Mr Coyle's youngest child?"
"Oh I don't know," said Tommy. "But I do know she has grown up into a fine young woman. What are you getting at?" asked Tommy.
"BABY BLUES!" I yelled. "Latent, very latent, but Mr Coyle is suffering from delayed baby blues."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy..
"Is it?" I yelled."IS IT? Remember old 97 year old Rubin Jones. Lying on his death bed, he was. Suddenly old Rubin was overcome with delayed baby blues for his 74 year old son Jasper. He pulled various tubes from his nose, mouth and you know what, leaped out of bed, down the stairs, out the door and down the street yelling,
"RUSKS! I must have rusks for my wee baby Jasper!"
" Then, RUSKS Mr Coyle shall have,"roared Tommy. "Tomorrow, I,Tommy cat,will send an abundance of RUSKS to Mr Coyle."
"Oh, don't forget the nappies Tommy," I said.
"Nappies?" said Tommy. "But Mr Coyle's daughter is......"
"The nappies are for Mr Coyle," I said. "He IS getting on and there are a lot of electrical cables lying round his feet."
"Does Mr Coyle not have a wee lightning rod?" giggled Tommy.
That's Tommy, always first with the crude, lewd, filthy come back.No more Mrs Brown's Boys for Tommy!
Sometimes I hate Tommy cat.
It was dark when Tommy my cat and I staggered home after gawking all day at Prince William and Kate Middleton. We placed our two Union Jacks carefully beside our two tricolours and slumped down on the sofa. Tommy looked at me and said,
"If someone had told me that Prince William and Kate Middleton would be tossing pancakes HERE! in Northern Ireland today I would have said they were drunk, liars or crazy as a loon."
"When Kate Middleton looked straight at me," I gushed, "I felt so servile and common. It was like a fairy tale."
"The Royals are not like the common people," said Tommy."They give off an aura. Dear Kate and Prince William were like two alien creatures surrounded by the dregs of humanity. They gave off an ethereal, airy, spirit-like glow. One can see them drinking ruby red wine from crystal goblets, eating larks' tongues from golden plates and never having to go to the loo."
"No lou for the Royals," I yelled, "and I'll fight any man who says different!"
Tommy slipped into a red, velvet,smoking jacket he had rescued from a bonfire and said,
"I'm worried about Mr Coyle. Did you hear him have a Les Dennis moment on the show yesterday with regard to impersonations?"
I knitted my eyebrows with two chopsticks and said,
"What age is Mr Coyle's youngest child?"
"Oh I don't know," said Tommy. "But I do know she has grown up into a fine young woman. What are you getting at?" asked Tommy.
"BABY BLUES!" I yelled. "Latent, very latent, but Mr Coyle is suffering from delayed baby blues."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy..
"Is it?" I yelled."IS IT? Remember old 97 year old Rubin Jones. Lying on his death bed, he was. Suddenly old Rubin was overcome with delayed baby blues for his 74 year old son Jasper. He pulled various tubes from his nose, mouth and you know what, leaped out of bed, down the stairs, out the door and down the street yelling,
"RUSKS! I must have rusks for my wee baby Jasper!"
" Then, RUSKS Mr Coyle shall have,"roared Tommy. "Tomorrow, I,Tommy cat,will send an abundance of RUSKS to Mr Coyle."
"Oh, don't forget the nappies Tommy," I said.
"Nappies?" said Tommy. "But Mr Coyle's daughter is......"
"The nappies are for Mr Coyle," I said. "He IS getting on and there are a lot of electrical cables lying round his feet."
"Does Mr Coyle not have a wee lightning rod?" giggled Tommy.
That's Tommy, always first with the crude, lewd, filthy come back.No more Mrs Brown's Boys for Tommy!
Sometimes I hate Tommy cat.
Tuesday 8 March 2011
He's not bad just mad.
Great show yesterday kid
A great show which gave British Foreign Secretary,William Hague,time to reflect on his failed SAS mission into Lybia.
Small-dome Hague, standing under big dome, Saint Paul's said,
"Apart from the outcome the mission was a complete success. We owe a great debt to the brave, intelligent men who refused to go. If I had to do it all over again, then I'd do it all over you."
Mr Hague was then wheeled away on a small trolley yelling and roaring,
"BRINK BACK MAGGIE!"
Speaking from a rented tent somewhere in the Libyian desert,President Muammar Gadaffi said,as he grilled some goat chops,
"The mission was ill conceived, poorly planned and embarrassingly executed, but apart from that, the mission was a complete success."
As he opened yet another tin of Heinz baked beans the President went on,
"I is not a bad man, a crazy dictator, or the anti- Christ, I is just a crazy, mixed up kid,who has spent too long alone in the desert with my goats, camels and sheeps. I is the Libyian Jordie Tuft!"
Gadaffi then pulled off his horrible, rubber,face mask to reveal the smirking, stoned face of Charlie Sheen."
"I knew it!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"It's another black operation by the CIA. Mark my words, the price of goat meat will rocket in the world market and Tubby Nolan will be storing food like a big, fat squirrel."
"Don't just stand there!" I yelled. "Run down to the corner shop and buy 37 pan loaves and half a pound of butter."
A British foreign secretary once said.
"A wind of change is blowing across Africa."
I feel that same wind blowing again, but it's only Gadaffi farting after all the goat chops and Heinz baked beans he lives on. Very loud farts I grant you, but hardly weapons of mass destruction.
My advice is,
"GO HOME--AND PREPARE FOR-BED!"
(This has been a home office bulletin, issued by the department of farts)
A great show which gave British Foreign Secretary,William Hague,time to reflect on his failed SAS mission into Lybia.
Small-dome Hague, standing under big dome, Saint Paul's said,
"Apart from the outcome the mission was a complete success. We owe a great debt to the brave, intelligent men who refused to go. If I had to do it all over again, then I'd do it all over you."
Mr Hague was then wheeled away on a small trolley yelling and roaring,
"BRINK BACK MAGGIE!"
Speaking from a rented tent somewhere in the Libyian desert,President Muammar Gadaffi said,as he grilled some goat chops,
"The mission was ill conceived, poorly planned and embarrassingly executed, but apart from that, the mission was a complete success."
As he opened yet another tin of Heinz baked beans the President went on,
"I is not a bad man, a crazy dictator, or the anti- Christ, I is just a crazy, mixed up kid,who has spent too long alone in the desert with my goats, camels and sheeps. I is the Libyian Jordie Tuft!"
Gadaffi then pulled off his horrible, rubber,face mask to reveal the smirking, stoned face of Charlie Sheen."
"I knew it!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"It's another black operation by the CIA. Mark my words, the price of goat meat will rocket in the world market and Tubby Nolan will be storing food like a big, fat squirrel."
"Don't just stand there!" I yelled. "Run down to the corner shop and buy 37 pan loaves and half a pound of butter."
A British foreign secretary once said.
"A wind of change is blowing across Africa."
I feel that same wind blowing again, but it's only Gadaffi farting after all the goat chops and Heinz baked beans he lives on. Very loud farts I grant you, but hardly weapons of mass destruction.
My advice is,
"GO HOME--AND PREPARE FOR-BED!"
(This has been a home office bulletin, issued by the department of farts)
Monday 7 March 2011
Passing The Budget
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which acted as a lubricant to our MLAs as they strained, grunted and groaned with bulging eyes and red faces to pass a budget up at Stormount.
"Piss or get off the pot!" yelled Tommy my cat, who has no time for dilatoriness or procrastication.
"Tommy," I chided,"don't be so crude. A budget is a big thing to pass. Our estemed MLAs seem to be suffering from Elvis syndrom, but I am sure that Sammy Wilson will huff and puff until Stormont gives birth to a budget."
"I blame the floaters," yelled Tommy,"the SDLP and the UUP! Cheeky-chappie Michael McGimpsey said,a budget would only be passed over his dead body."
"Then why the big hold up?" I yelled.
"Michael McGimpsey isn't exactly-dead," said Tommy."Michael belongs to that band of merry men known as the undead."
"Silly, stupid, semantics!" I yelled."Mark my words,semantially brings naught but trouble and strife."
"KNOCK, KNOCK" said Tommy
"WHO'S THERE?" I cried.
"THE GESTAPO," said Tommy.
"THE GESTAPO WHO?" I asked.
"VEE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!" cried Tommy and he lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter.
Oh how we laughed!
I met Tubby Nolan coming out of the chemist. Seeing no bottle of Lucozade in his hand I thought the blimp had at last summoned up the courage to go in and ask for them himself. But it was not so. Tubby glowered at me like a bison on Bisto and yelled,
"I got a selection of photographs taken in the chemist for my Face Book page! Tell me what you think. How do I look in profile?" said Tubby.
"Like Arthur Hitchcock." I replied.
"Face on?" said Tubby.
"Christopher Biggins. Listen Tubby old chap," I said,"your Face Book photograph is very important. It says who you are. Take a tip from the great Holywood stars.
You could pose in jeans and tee-shirt with a rifle behind your head like James Dean.
You could stand over an air vent and let your frock billow up, or you could copy Marlon Brando and pose,looking tough with both legs astride a Harley Davidson."
Tubby held on to a lamp post as a gust of wind billowed his huge Patrick Moore suit and whined,
"But I don't know any men called Harley Davidson."
I went home with despair in my heart and Tubby went home with my shoe in his rear.
Like the owner of the Flamingo dance hall used to say
"How will they get it- OUT? How will they get it-OUT?"
Great shows which acted as a lubricant to our MLAs as they strained, grunted and groaned with bulging eyes and red faces to pass a budget up at Stormount.
"Piss or get off the pot!" yelled Tommy my cat, who has no time for dilatoriness or procrastication.
"Tommy," I chided,"don't be so crude. A budget is a big thing to pass. Our estemed MLAs seem to be suffering from Elvis syndrom, but I am sure that Sammy Wilson will huff and puff until Stormont gives birth to a budget."
"I blame the floaters," yelled Tommy,"the SDLP and the UUP! Cheeky-chappie Michael McGimpsey said,a budget would only be passed over his dead body."
"Then why the big hold up?" I yelled.
"Michael McGimpsey isn't exactly-dead," said Tommy."Michael belongs to that band of merry men known as the undead."
"Silly, stupid, semantics!" I yelled."Mark my words,semantially brings naught but trouble and strife."
"KNOCK, KNOCK" said Tommy
"WHO'S THERE?" I cried.
"THE GESTAPO," said Tommy.
"THE GESTAPO WHO?" I asked.
"VEE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!" cried Tommy and he lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter.
Oh how we laughed!
I met Tubby Nolan coming out of the chemist. Seeing no bottle of Lucozade in his hand I thought the blimp had at last summoned up the courage to go in and ask for them himself. But it was not so. Tubby glowered at me like a bison on Bisto and yelled,
"I got a selection of photographs taken in the chemist for my Face Book page! Tell me what you think. How do I look in profile?" said Tubby.
"Like Arthur Hitchcock." I replied.
"Face on?" said Tubby.
"Christopher Biggins. Listen Tubby old chap," I said,"your Face Book photograph is very important. It says who you are. Take a tip from the great Holywood stars.
You could pose in jeans and tee-shirt with a rifle behind your head like James Dean.
You could stand over an air vent and let your frock billow up, or you could copy Marlon Brando and pose,looking tough with both legs astride a Harley Davidson."
Tubby held on to a lamp post as a gust of wind billowed his huge Patrick Moore suit and whined,
"But I don't know any men called Harley Davidson."
I went home with despair in my heart and Tubby went home with my shoe in his rear.
Like the owner of the Flamingo dance hall used to say
"How will they get it- OUT? How will they get it-OUT?"
Wednesday 2 March 2011
An Audio Masterpiece
Great show yesterday kid.
"The Gerry show," said Tommy my cat,"runs with the precision of a Swiss watch or a small,lime-green detonator for a hydrogen bomb. The Gerry show," said Tommy,"is a jigsaw made up from several different but highly important interlocking pieces.
Each piece of the jigsaw is nothing on its own, but when fitted together they make up an audio masterpiece, a listening experience and a good place to find a lost dog or a rare petrol can."
I stood at the sink cleaning my tooth with a Brillo pad and cried,
"And music, don't forget the music, music like what you will never hear in your darkest nightmares."
"And another thing," cried Tommy,"the Gerry show comes with detachable oracle in the likeness of Jordie Tuft."
"If Jordie can't cure you, you haven't got it," I said. "Many an auld buck goat owes its virility to old Jordie. From aardvarks to zebras, from ponies to piles Jordie Tuft is the must see guy."
"AND, never forget," said Tommy,"old Jordie was first with product placement with regard to Jeyes Fluid."
"What's that horrible noise out in the street?" I yelled.
I ran out and saw a herd of unseated Fianna Fail TDs looking for free orange juice and prescriptions. One of the wild-eyed TDs saw me and roared,
"DETENTE Missus, DETENTE!"
"DEPART!" I yelled. "DEPART and take your empty piggy bank with you!"
"That settled his hash," giggled Tommy,as he patted a gnome on the head,had a slash in the rose bed and stole a bottle of milk from next door to make a nice cup of tea.
I envy the way Tommy can multi-task.
POST SCRIPT
The word in the hood is that Mark Carruthers has been invited to the royal wedding.
I predict MAYHEM in the Newsline office!
"The Gerry show," said Tommy my cat,"runs with the precision of a Swiss watch or a small,lime-green detonator for a hydrogen bomb. The Gerry show," said Tommy,"is a jigsaw made up from several different but highly important interlocking pieces.
Each piece of the jigsaw is nothing on its own, but when fitted together they make up an audio masterpiece, a listening experience and a good place to find a lost dog or a rare petrol can."
I stood at the sink cleaning my tooth with a Brillo pad and cried,
"And music, don't forget the music, music like what you will never hear in your darkest nightmares."
"And another thing," cried Tommy,"the Gerry show comes with detachable oracle in the likeness of Jordie Tuft."
"If Jordie can't cure you, you haven't got it," I said. "Many an auld buck goat owes its virility to old Jordie. From aardvarks to zebras, from ponies to piles Jordie Tuft is the must see guy."
"AND, never forget," said Tommy,"old Jordie was first with product placement with regard to Jeyes Fluid."
"What's that horrible noise out in the street?" I yelled.
I ran out and saw a herd of unseated Fianna Fail TDs looking for free orange juice and prescriptions. One of the wild-eyed TDs saw me and roared,
"DETENTE Missus, DETENTE!"
"DEPART!" I yelled. "DEPART and take your empty piggy bank with you!"
"That settled his hash," giggled Tommy,as he patted a gnome on the head,had a slash in the rose bed and stole a bottle of milk from next door to make a nice cup of tea.
I envy the way Tommy can multi-task.
POST SCRIPT
The word in the hood is that Mark Carruthers has been invited to the royal wedding.
I predict MAYHEM in the Newsline office!
Tuesday 1 March 2011
Loose Women
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which passed the time for our hard working MLAs up at Stormount as they sat twiddling their thumbs waiting for Loose Women to appear on the TV.
"Loose Women?" sniffed Tommy my cat."I hate, loathe and despise Loose Women,so vulgar, so crude, so awful, so loud!"
I climbed up on the china cabinet that was made in Taiwan and said,
"The women you see on Loose Women are REAL women without any guile or pretence.
When women are around men they act all nicey-nicey, but when women are in a gang they turn into wild, feral creatures with knickers and claws."
"In the name of Slattery's auld buck goat," said Tommy,"are you saying that women are as bad as men?"
"Not as bad," I yelled,"wORSE! Have you ever seen a group of women out on a hen night,yelling and roaring, showing their drawers and molesting a poor old naked rubberman? THEN, in the morning a little,painted waif, dressed in virginal white will mutter demurely, "I DO" and another unsuspecting male will be drawn into the clutches of the black widow spider."
"If that be the case," said Tommy,"why do men GET married?"
"Many reasons," I said. "Love, wanting to settle down, pressure from their mothers and shotguns!"
"But women smell so nice," said Tommy.
"So does deadly nightshade," I replied.
"Women use scent as a lure. They also wear see-through nylon things and only fart after being married three months."
I then cried, "GERONIMO!", as I leaped down from the china cabinet, rolled like a paratrooper, pulled out my bayonet and opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish Sporran soup for dinner.
As I passed the abode of Steven Nolan I saw blubber and mouth out in the garden.
Tubby was wearing a giant pair of dungarees and cradling a hoe.
"Get rid of that painted, lady of the night!" I yelled.
"Do you want to see a giant headline screaming from the front page of the Sunday World "Ho down at Nolan Manor as Tubby dances the night away with painted slapper?"
"It's not my fault," whined Tubby. "She latched on to me at the chip shop when I flashed my big wad."
"Big wad,my Assyrian Alsatian!" I yelled. "I know your old trick,two twenty pound notes wrapped around a wad of toilet paper."
"How do you know that?" roared Tubby. "Have you been talking to Anderson?"
I tapped my nose and said,
"That's for me to find out and you to know."
"Clear off!" yelled Tubby. "I'm sowing an early crop of runner beans."
"Better get your front gate fixed then," I laughed. "You don't want the beans running away down the street."
"Good thinking, Blunder Woman," said Tubby.
And it was then I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt,that a man can be as stupid as he looks.
Great shows which passed the time for our hard working MLAs up at Stormount as they sat twiddling their thumbs waiting for Loose Women to appear on the TV.
"Loose Women?" sniffed Tommy my cat."I hate, loathe and despise Loose Women,so vulgar, so crude, so awful, so loud!"
I climbed up on the china cabinet that was made in Taiwan and said,
"The women you see on Loose Women are REAL women without any guile or pretence.
When women are around men they act all nicey-nicey, but when women are in a gang they turn into wild, feral creatures with knickers and claws."
"In the name of Slattery's auld buck goat," said Tommy,"are you saying that women are as bad as men?"
"Not as bad," I yelled,"wORSE! Have you ever seen a group of women out on a hen night,yelling and roaring, showing their drawers and molesting a poor old naked rubberman? THEN, in the morning a little,painted waif, dressed in virginal white will mutter demurely, "I DO" and another unsuspecting male will be drawn into the clutches of the black widow spider."
"If that be the case," said Tommy,"why do men GET married?"
"Many reasons," I said. "Love, wanting to settle down, pressure from their mothers and shotguns!"
"But women smell so nice," said Tommy.
"So does deadly nightshade," I replied.
"Women use scent as a lure. They also wear see-through nylon things and only fart after being married three months."
I then cried, "GERONIMO!", as I leaped down from the china cabinet, rolled like a paratrooper, pulled out my bayonet and opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish Sporran soup for dinner.
As I passed the abode of Steven Nolan I saw blubber and mouth out in the garden.
Tubby was wearing a giant pair of dungarees and cradling a hoe.
"Get rid of that painted, lady of the night!" I yelled.
"Do you want to see a giant headline screaming from the front page of the Sunday World "Ho down at Nolan Manor as Tubby dances the night away with painted slapper?"
"It's not my fault," whined Tubby. "She latched on to me at the chip shop when I flashed my big wad."
"Big wad,my Assyrian Alsatian!" I yelled. "I know your old trick,two twenty pound notes wrapped around a wad of toilet paper."
"How do you know that?" roared Tubby. "Have you been talking to Anderson?"
I tapped my nose and said,
"That's for me to find out and you to know."
"Clear off!" yelled Tubby. "I'm sowing an early crop of runner beans."
"Better get your front gate fixed then," I laughed. "You don't want the beans running away down the street."
"Good thinking, Blunder Woman," said Tubby.
And it was then I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt,that a man can be as stupid as he looks.
Beware The Hucklebuck
Great show yesterday kid.
It's good to know one can still get back into the country by flashing an Iranian passport. All your callers yesterday gave every indication they were taking their medication religiously. All but one that is. I speak of course of the last caller who,it seemed, did not have a stop button. As he babbled on and on, Tommy my cat lay behind the sofa with a 1916, German World War one 3 inch, FK96 Krupp,Feldkanone howitzer pointing at his head.
"MAKE HIM STOP!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's sacred, holy and Divine, MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Put down that piece of light artillery," I yelled,"and have some compassion for your fellow man! That none-stopping,talking man may be a Trappist monk with a dispensation from the Pope to talk for one day only."
"Papal Bull!" roared Tommy,picking up a piece of chalk and drawing a line under the subject.
I looked at my prized painting of Henry The Eighth eating a suckling pig and said,
"That royal picture is old hat. Take it out and replace it with this lovely picture of Prince William and Kate Middleton walking hand in hand down the Mall carrying two jam jars of tadpoles."
When Tommy took the back off the picture he gave a shriek and yelled,
"Hey, there's a song written here in very olde, English script!"
"Sing it,Tommy!" I yelled. "Nail it and make it your own."
"I'll do my best," said Tommy."It's very difficult to read, but here goes.
Here's a minuet you should know--HEY!
When the candles are down low-HEY!
Grab your strumpet and then go."
TOMMY!!!" I screamed."Put the song down and back away.It's the dreaded Hucklebuck!
Had you sung all of that song, you and I would be going to George Jones' Show band revivals for the rest of our lives."
Tommy and I were put up in a school until men wearing anti-Hucklebuck suits came and took the song away.
Should you come on a copy of the Hucklebuck, get out, stay out and get the elite anti-Hucklebuck squad-OUT!
It's good to know one can still get back into the country by flashing an Iranian passport. All your callers yesterday gave every indication they were taking their medication religiously. All but one that is. I speak of course of the last caller who,it seemed, did not have a stop button. As he babbled on and on, Tommy my cat lay behind the sofa with a 1916, German World War one 3 inch, FK96 Krupp,Feldkanone howitzer pointing at his head.
"MAKE HIM STOP!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's sacred, holy and Divine, MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Put down that piece of light artillery," I yelled,"and have some compassion for your fellow man! That none-stopping,talking man may be a Trappist monk with a dispensation from the Pope to talk for one day only."
"Papal Bull!" roared Tommy,picking up a piece of chalk and drawing a line under the subject.
I looked at my prized painting of Henry The Eighth eating a suckling pig and said,
"That royal picture is old hat. Take it out and replace it with this lovely picture of Prince William and Kate Middleton walking hand in hand down the Mall carrying two jam jars of tadpoles."
When Tommy took the back off the picture he gave a shriek and yelled,
"Hey, there's a song written here in very olde, English script!"
"Sing it,Tommy!" I yelled. "Nail it and make it your own."
"I'll do my best," said Tommy."It's very difficult to read, but here goes.
Here's a minuet you should know--HEY!
When the candles are down low-HEY!
Grab your strumpet and then go."
TOMMY!!!" I screamed."Put the song down and back away.It's the dreaded Hucklebuck!
Had you sung all of that song, you and I would be going to George Jones' Show band revivals for the rest of our lives."
Tommy and I were put up in a school until men wearing anti-Hucklebuck suits came and took the song away.
Should you come on a copy of the Hucklebuck, get out, stay out and get the elite anti-Hucklebuck squad-OUT!
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