The Whole Town Is Talking.

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which brought a smile to the cheeks of a naked man bent over looking for moths by the side of the M1. Well, that's what he told the police.
If moths are eating your clothes, do what I do, dress in cheap polyester.
After your great show I was sitting staring at the wall, which was staring angrily back at me. Tommy my cat was twiddling a pair of thumbs he had found outside a pub.
Suddenly, Wendy Austin shrieked,
"Do you believe that capital punishment is too good for smokers?"
"NO!" I yelled, lighting up two Benson and Hedges and running to check on my secret stash of illegal Lambert and Butler king size. I looked at Tommy who was softly singing,
"4,000 holes in Blackburn Lancashire."
Tommy stopped singing and said,
"Did you know the whole town is talking about you?"
"Are they?" I said.
"Yes they are," said Tommy. "The whole town is talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at-you."
"Are they?" I said.
"Yes they are," said Tommy. "The whole town is talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at you,24/7."
"Why is the whole town talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at me?" I asked.
"Because of your appearance," said Tommy.
"When was the last time you bent down to look at your reflection in a dirty, muddy, puddle hole?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "My late daddy was dragged into a puddle hole by something horrible with tentacles."
"Let me put it in a nut shell," said Tommy.
"NO!" I roared. "The last time you did that,I thought you would never stop crying."
"You need help," said Tommy. "But who can we turn to? Gok Wan,or Trinny and Suzanne wouldn't touch you with a barge pole,neither would Thelma or Louise.
You're all bent out of shape," said Tommy. "You're like a condemned building, ready to topple over any minute. You need to be broken down and reassembled. I'm taking you to Harland and Wolff."
So, here I lie in dry dock. It's not too bad. The crack is good. Oh bananas and buttercups, here comes wee Sammy with a rivet gun.
"Get back yeh boy yeh! No man has been in that locality since the night Barry McGuigan beat Eusebio Pedroza for the world, featherweight boxing championship at Loftus Road stadium."
Barry's fight went the distance. I went down in round one.

Post Apocalypse Paradise

Great pre-apocalypse shows last week kid.
As you probably know by now, the world ended at six o'clock on Saturday night.
This event was prophesied by evangelist broadcaster 89 year old Harold Camping.
Harold,or 'Arold as he is know in some parts of London,came to the conclusion the world was about to end,by delving into Biblical texts and taking more than the recommended dose of prescription medication
"The day of rapture is coming!" yelled Harold as he hitched up his blue, polyester,Velcro,waistband pants.
Then Hank made his way slowly indoors to pee while yelling,"GET OFF MY LAWN" to some young children.
And true to form the world did end,not with a bang but a whimper. Tommy my cat and I heard a distinct-whimper on the dot of six o'clock and we both knew the world had ended.
"Oh dear," I muttered.
"Bummer!" said Tommy.
Then two burly heaven's angels appeared and roared,
"Listen up you two mugs and listen good. Big computer screw-up in heaven. Many rooms were double, even treble booked. The truth is,there is no room in heaven. You two mugs just carry on as before and we'll drop you an email in 50 or 60 years time when a double room with sharing bathroom is available."
"Oh thank you angelic gentlemen," said Tommy brown nose.
I leaped to my post-dead feet and yelled,
"Forgive me winged gentlemen,on which floor will the Ballymena contingent be housed?"
"Ballymena?" said one angel looking at another. "I ain't got no-Ballymena on my list. What about you Fred?"
"No Ballymena here either Bert," said the second angel,"and if ain't on the list, they ain't getting into heaven."
"Stall the wedding!" I roared.
"You can't have a heaven without Ballymena. Ballymena is the bible belt, braces and galluses of Northern Ireland."
Then Tommy yelled,
"Look on the Ulster/Scots page!"
And there it was,sitting all on its own----------------Ballymena.
Heaven without Ballymena would be like a po without a handle.
"Heaven boy! It's a great big paradise up in the air-Hi!"

Ciaran's A Good Egg

Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat hit me on the nose with an old Corgi,1960's,red London double-decker bus and said,
"What a lovely lad that Ciaran McMenamin is,so talented,so humble,so handsome and the word in the hood is,he makes a nifty hard boiled egg."
"Ciaran is an all-rounder," I said. "Ciaran is an educated,talented,all singing,all dancing,cosmopolitan actor stroke egg boiler."
Tommy bit his nails and muttered..,
"I hope Ciaran is not related to that premier tube,JP McMenamin."
I gave a shriek and yelled,
"Wash your mouth out with Camay soap! JP McMenamin is not worthy to tie the laces on Ciaran's sky, blue gutties."
"Sky blue gutties?" said Tommy. "Only Ciaran McMenamin could carry that off in Enniskillen!"
"Turn on the TV," I said. "There must be someone cooking,decorating or crying their eyes out on a talk show." Just by luck we came on an America show called, "FAT YANKS".
"Wall to wall blubber," said Tommy."A veritable herd of Tubbies."
The fattest man there was a 900 pound Obesity called, Hank Washington Lincoln Kennedy McSmack. After a strict three day fast Hank had lost half an ounce of lard and his temper. Tommy and I watched in horror as Hank lumbered towards pretty little Lindy Lou the aerobics instructor and sank his teeth into her tanned fleshy thigh. Only for the stun guns,tazers,pepper-spray and bucket of raw pig livers,little Lindy Lou would have been eaten alive! And she was SO purty, golden tan,blonde hair,blue eyes and a pair of you-know-whats, which cost $50,000.
I turned the TV off and sat glumly on my Ikea,flat-pack bull-groper's stool. As the seconds turned to minutes I lost my head and shrieked hysterically,
"Tommy,If I pulled my belly button out,would I fly through the air like a deflated balloon making horrible farting noises?"
Tommy leaped to his feet, picked up the fly swatter and give me a battering which no bluebottle could endure and survive. But he's a good cat. He drove me later to casualty in an old abandoned rusty pram.
"Ambulance not good enough for you two?" said Doctor Crippen.
"NO!" yelled Tommy. "Now get someone to throw this "Thing" on to a trolley."
Three days later I had to walk home. Someone nicked my pram!
Needless to say,suspicion has fallen on Doctor Crippen. A leotard never changes its spots.

The Queen's Visit

Great Royal show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat and I were filled with great anger, ire and outrage, when the rascally stone thrower from the Rossville flats tried to sabotage your heartfelt story about the Queen. Needless to say, steps have been taken at Buckingham Palace. Neither MBE, or OBE shall never grace the front of Mr Coyle's gansy.
After your show, Tommy and I waved the tricolour and the union jack as the Queen landed on the auld sod.
"Look at the Queen, all dressed in green.
Prettiest sight I've ever seen!" yelled Tommy.
He quickly changed into a tuxedo, mounted an Ikea, luminous-green, plastic chair and roared,
"This is indeed a historic occasion. On behalf of cats from every religion and indeed, none, I would like to welcome the Queen and her retinue to Dublin."
"Tommy," I whispered, "What's a-retinue?"
"It's a fancy name for suitcase," said Tommy. "The Queen will need a retinue to hold the green leprechaun and bog oak shillelagh which will be presented to her Majesty by Irish President, Mary McAleish after a marathon, 24 hour,Irish dancing ceremony on top of Tara hill."
I looked out the window at all the bunting. This is the day Mr and Mrs Bunting their eleven children and adopted son Pepe go to Portrush and said,
"Can the Irish afford such extravagant gifts? Will not the IMF protest?"
Tommy blew his nose on the end of his simmet and said, "What can an old lag do from a cold, damp cell on Rikers Island?"
That's what I like about Tommy, not always clean but extremely succinct!
"I bit my nails, pulled my nose hair and said,
"I wonder will Daniel, perhaps, Sir Daniel O'Donnell, sing for her Majesty tonight?"
"Are you mad!" roared Tommy. "This is supposed to be a friendly visit. A warble from Dan would set back Anglo/Irish relations for another 800 years. No, my guess is, the entertainment will be provided by Phill Coulter, Jedward, and the Furey brothers with Davie Arthur."
"They'll be dancing on the Liffy tonight!" I yelled, as I wrenched a picture of Prince Phillip off the wall and gave the ancient Greek a great big kiss.
I hope the damned auld corncrake doesn't keep the Queen awake at night.
Things look good for the Anglo/Irish. Stall the wedding! Didn't that used to be a-bank!!!!!

BEWARE THE CAT!

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which proved beyond all reasonable doubt, if you multiphy the square root of the hysterical hydrogenous by eleven and a half, add five, divide by one,multiply by two, divide by one again, stir in a little Bisto and leave to settle overnight at room temperature the answer is always the same... a cable stitched, mauve cardigan with one sleeve longer that the other.
I know! You could have knocked me down with a feather too!
Once upon a time only three people in the world could solve Fermat's last theorem. The three were, Professor Max Shidner from Switzerland, myself and Tommy my cat.
NOW! thanks to the calculator, the very dogs in the street can work it out and talk of little else.
I looked at Tommy my cat plucking his lute in a darkened recess of the room and said,
"Tommy, why has every cat got a mysterious, I'm better than you look on its face?"
"Because cats are BETTER that you," replied Tommy. "Can you see in the dark? Can you fall from a great height and land on your feet? Have you the patience to crouch for seven hours by a mouse hole? NO!" yelled Tommy. "The answer is undoubtedly--NO! Beware the cat! The cat is a creature of the night. I can read your mind and see every sin on your old black soul."
I pondered furiously on my Ikea triangular chair and said,
"There is something you can do that I can do even better. I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my............."
"You disgusting, repulsive, dirty old ratbag!" yelled Tommy,as he put on scarf, gloves and padded parkka and went out to face the horror's of an Ulster Summer.
"My thumb Tommy!" I yelled. "I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my thumb!"
Too late, Tommy was gone! Instead of worrying about it, I conjured up an imaginary enemy and was soon rolling around the floor in an imaginary fight to the death.
"Who won?" I hear you ask.
I'll give you a clue.It was ME!

Home Grown Music

Tommy my cat leaped in the air, clicked his heels together and cried, "TGF, thank God it's Friday. No inane, banal, babbling from Mr Coyle."
"Darn, dash and dandruff!" I yelled. "I was just in the mood for a long, monotonous monologue which would beat about the bush, lead us up the garden path and then take us the long way home."
"Well not today!" cried Tommy. "Today you will get a show which will set you back on your heels, or your toes, it all depends on which way you're standing. A show choc-a-bloc of precise English like what it should be spoken. A show which raises the bar for other shows. And have we got... music? AWAY, We've got music so far out it will knock your socks off and leave you lying under the kitchen sink like a discarded cabbage leaf."
"Looking forward to it," I said, as I pulled my tights up above my head,just for the hell of it.
"Today," said Tommy,"we will have home grown music. Ah! there's nothing like going out into the garden early in the morning and picking a basket of home grown music with the dew still fresh on it."
"I want more BASS!" I yelled. "I want a bass so loud it will rattle my bones, rumble my bowels and produce enough static electricity in my knickers to light up a small town, village or hamlet."
"Be careful of what you wish for," said Tommy. "That amount of electricity would melt the plastic gums of your National Health false teeth and leave you with a gub full of loose, rattling gnashers."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "I want to hear the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. I took precautions. I have a small lightning rod hanging from both legs of my knickers."
"On your own head be it!" yelled Tommy and he picked up a 1962, sunburst, Fender Precision bass guitar, serial number 2279 and hit me over the head with it!
I fell to the ground groggily singing,
"Hey Mr Bass man, I think you're really with it.
With your Boom-Bomb-Boomie-dee-A.
And your Boom-Boom-Boomie-dee-U.
Then,I saw Leo Fender beckoning me at the end of a bright, white tunnel, beckoning, ever-beckoning!
I like a nice rasher of-beckoning in the morning!

No Hign Falutin Rubbish Here

Great shows last week kid,
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that migraines do not respond to dancing naked with a cut-out figure of Jim Allister. Nothing relieves a migraine like sitting, legs akimbo on a huge nude turkey basted with a high octane mixture of ferret liquid ear wax and turpentine.
Turp-en-tine, doesn't the word, turp-en-tine have a sensual, erotic sound?
Unlike garbage, which is just rubbish.
Oh yes! speaking of cures for migraine.
Always remember,if it's long, curly, with a tuft of dry, ginger hair at the tip, it's an old wives' tail.
Tommy my cat ran down the stairs wearing a cream,linen jacket, white trousers and cried,
"Anyone for tennis?"
"Shut up Brides head Revisited!" I roared. "Folks round here don't go in for all that highfalutin, rootin-tootin, cream teas on the village green rubbish. Folk round here are-hard. Aye, hard and gritty. Fallen women are lying everywhere.
Orphans abound and there's trouble at mill. The doffin spincters and shuttle grommits are out on strike. Not a wheel will turn at mill,'til workers get another farthing a week and gruel with the added ingredient- real gruel!"
"Well bend me over and spank me with a copy of, "Fox and Hounds," said Tommy.
"Won't those dirty, illiterate, ricket-legged paupers ever be satisfied?"
"Eeh you're hard Tommy cat," I said. "Hard as flint, but think on. Day is coming when workers will unite and people like Alex Maskey and Edwin Poots will sit in Stormont. AYE! sit in Stormont lad, with mufflers round their neck and hobnailed boots on their feet. You can't keep the working man down!" I yelled.
"POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"
Tommy took a pinch of Plumbridge snuff and said,
"And what will happen when the workers become the bosses?"
"SIMPLE!" I roared. "We will hire asylum seekers to do our work for a pittance and then lord it over THEM!"
"If it looks like a plan," said Tommy, "and swims like a plan, it is a plan."
"Heat up last year's soup," I growled.
"I'm going to kip to think on!"

All Safely Back In The Hen House

Great Balmoral show yesterday kid and not one bull was molested.. thanks mainly to the vice squad who followed Mr Coyle all around the field.
Later that night, the bull groper confided to his friend Joe, "Oh I was tempted Joe, sorely tempted, but praise the Lord I did not succumb."
Mr Coyle then went down to the wine cellar and came back with two vintage bottles of 1959 Mackeson's stout.
"It looks good, tastes good and by golly, it does you good!"
(Thank you Sir Bernard Miles (deceased). The cheque is in the post.)
Tommy my cat and I listened to the Balmoral show wearing Michael Jackson masks and carrying two shoves to clear up the animal filth and defecation which kept oozing from the grill on the radio. After much shouting, yelling and roaring, pushing, shoving, cajoling, bribery and threats,Tommy mopped his brow and said,
"I counted them out and I counted them in. I am happy to report that all MLAs are back on their roosts in the Stormont hen house."
"Did you lock and bar the door," I cried. "We don't want them getting out and running wild through Belfast."
"Don't worry," said Tommy, "you won't see hair or hide of an MLA for four, long years.".
"Four years!" I muttered. "Four long,long years!"
Overcome with extraordinary exuberance I grabbed Tommy and danced none ex tacito to the sound of rain-washed,Welsh slates clattering down the roof.
I may be standing in a hovel, but I'm staring up at the stars!
I helped Steven Nolan out of the back of a bin lorry and said,
"So, it's happened again!"
"JA!" bellowed the Ulster Goering.
"There I was, standing at the corner, trying to get a large Easter egg sideways into my mouth, when I heard an uncouth, probably catholic voice roar.
"Micky, grab that massive wheelie-bin with no house number on it!"
"Next thing I knew I was in the bin lorry, derriere in the air, and my mouth full of fish heads."
"Tut-Tut," I said, "you need a gansy.A gansy with the nuclear symbol on the front and HAZARDOUS WASTE written on the back."
"SORTED!" yelled Tubby, as he sprinted off, looking for a Nuclear, Hazardous Waste gansy with a 59 inch waist.
Shouldn't be too hard to find. Surely someone out there has such a garment!.

Tommy's Obsessed with Tom.

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which kept the flies away from the butter and the daddy-long-legs away from the tight's drawer.
I looked at Tommy my cat carving a likeness of Tom Elliott out of wood and said,
"Tommy, why this great love and devotion,some might say, obsession with Fermanagh's finest, Tom Elliott?"
Tommy put his knife down, his face a picture of rumination and replied,
"Tom Elliott, is not, never has been, or never will be-SCUM! I find Tom Elliott to be strong, stable, capable and in a certain light, quite handsome. Tom Elliott is no excitable flibbertigibbet. Tom Elliott has a sound foundation. Tom Elliott is not built on shifting sand. Tom knows the price of a bullock and the value of good fertiliser. Tom knows if you look after the pennies, the pounds will look after themselves. Tom Elliott thinks long and hard before he buys a gansey. Tom Elliott's favourite colour is a dull, drab grey! Tom Elliott is a straight shooter: He shoots from the mouth and thinks about it afterwards. That's why I like, perhaps, even love, Tom Elliott."
I looked on sadly as little Tommy picked up his Tom Elliott drawing and went out whistlng.
"Always look on the bright side of life!"
I glared towards Fermanagh and yelled,
"Tom Elliott, you silver-tongued Svengali,you may have fooled Tommy the cat but you don't fool me!"
When I saw the strolling policeman I climbed out of the gutter, adjusted my clothing and said,
"Good evening officer."
"Hello turnip head," replied the policeman.
That's what I missed when the troubles were on, the cheerful banter with the local bobby on the beat.
I glanced at the notches on his baton and said,
"How are all the old Bills back at the station?"
"Fine," said the copper. "When I left everyone was stuffing their faces with chips and bullying the Culchie from Co Tyrone."
"And little Matt?" I said. "Is little Matt Baggott settling in?"
"The Governor is settling in well," said the blue bottle. "He now knows that a wee beg, is a wee bag and a puff at a fag is not a criminal offence."
"Splendito!" I yelled.
I looked all around, put my finger to my nose and whispered,
"When do you think we'll have a Northern Ireland chief constable?"
The policeman tested his baton on my head and said,
"When apples grow on an ivy tree."
"As soon as that!" I screamed, as I sank back into the gutter.

Election Fever

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped to keep people grounded as election fever swept through Ulster like a gorse fire.Many people, overcome with election fever threw off their clothes, painted their face with woad and drove the wrong way around round-a-bouts yelling, "Tom Elliott is the personification of silver-tongued charisma!"
Tommy my cat took another handful of Valium and yelled, "Nigel Dodds, Margaret Richie, David Ford, Edwin Poots, Jim Allister, old uncle Tom Elliott and all, hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit me! Hit MEEEEEEEEE!"
"GONE and never called me mother!" I screamed, as the orphaned Tasmanian devil I had been fostering leaped over the half door and sprinted off towards the Falls Road.
"You should have checked its religion!" yelled Tommy.
"It's plain to see you were fobbed off with a catholic Tasmanian devil, who is sitting now downing pints in the Felons' club."
"I should have known," I sobbed. "He had a photograph of Celtic football club in his cardboard box."
"Next time," said Tommy, "get an orange dodo, very loyal and with a little patience will happily whistle, "God Save the Queen."
"That's my kind of dodo!" I yelled, as I put on a coat of paint and headed for a certain place.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Charlie Witherspoon.I am standing in Liam O'Flattery's soiled and second-hand sock shop. This is the beating heart of the city. From here I can hear the clish-clash of language from cliques of clueless tourists.
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Hank, I never knew Belfast was so small. One cruise missile would take out the entire city."
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Velly ancient civilisation. Eat soda bread and pray to big God Titanic."
THE RUSSIANS. "Plenty vodka, plenty, how's your pappa."
CO TYRONE. "Get back Willie John, get back! That big motor nearly run you over, so it did."
A strolling monster appears. All ears hark.
(Cue Tubby Nolan)
"I have often walked down this street before.
But the pavements never crumbled beneath my feet before."
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Ethel, that is BIG! We ain't got nothing at home like THAT!"
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Big sumo Godzilla!"
THE RUSSIANS. "Run! It's a Russian bear!"
CO TYRONE. "Stand it Willie John. That boy would eat you as sure as my name is Barney Francie McSpalter."
And so we leave Belfast and go home to curl up like a foetus and cry, cry, cry.
And the tears I cried for that Tubby
Would flood you big river
So I'm gonna sit down here until I die!"
It's a strange fact, but dead men are very good singers!

Ballots and One Word Sentences.

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which FAILED to give any guidance on how to handle THREE ballot papers and place them correctly in THREE different ballot boxes.
The time is coming, I say, the time is coming, when the voters of Ulster will be expected to go out in the dark of night and pin a tail on their favourite candidate. Jim Allister has already called for it!
I saw an old codger standing confused and bewildered clutching THREE ballot papers in his trembling hand.
"I can't do it!" croaked the old codger. "I left school at nine, we didn't go to university in my day."
"SHUT UP!" he was told. "Its hardly rocket surgery."
The old codger told them what to do with their ballot papers, but they didn't do it, instead they foisted them on to a Millie with a baby in her arms and a fag in her gub.
Tommy awoke from his self-induced stupor and roared,
"What's Mr Coyle up to with his one word sentences? He glares at Gerry from behind the glass and yells,
"Marbles. Hurley. Knickers. Jordie."
And poor Gerry has to try and guess what le-interrupter is talking about."
"Mr Coyle," I said, making a horrible face,"is trying to out-do Harold Pinter. Mr Coyle is writing a book called "Finnegan's Bereavement" which consists entirely of one word sentences."
Tommy's face turned bright red and he roared,
"Well I have one word for Mr Coyle and that word is........!"
"Language Timothy," I said. "Language!"
Tommy, good cat that he is, later said, "SORRY!"

The Leaders' Debate

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which FAILED to warn us about the leaders' debate, or Night of the Zombies on BBC One. There they all were:
Margaret Richie of the SDLP,the taming of the shrew.
David Ford, Lord Snooty, above the common fray.
Ant and Dec, Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness watching each other's back.
Tom Elliott is living proof that the dummy should never leave the ventriloquist and try and make it on its own. Talk about wooden!
"Someone should slap a coat of Roncell on THAT!" said my near-sighted spouse.
It was a night of horror. Nightmarish horror which would send Christoper Lee running for his mammy.
"The reality is," was trotted out like a circus pony.
Short falls. Budget deficit. Working for-change!
First Minister. Second Minister. The orange and green minstrels.
"What about the working man?" yelled a wee tube, who had never worked a day in his life.
"I'll answer that question," said, David "Catweezle" Ford. "The Alliance party will provide jobs for the working man and lamp posts for the working women."
"We need more women in public life!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"We must provide a level playing field, with mirrors, makeup and copies of Heat magazine on the touch line."
"Let's not get too excited," droned Tom Elliott. "And may I add, the main plank of the UUP party is made of-wood! WOOD!" yelled Tom, "WOOD! The UUP is a stand alone party. No one has his hand up my back working ME!"
"Why do we never see WOMEN coal men?" screamed the shrewish Margaret Richie.
Peter and Martin stood with a wee smile. Everything was coming up roses.
"I hope this podium is made from good Fermanagh WOOD," droned Tom Elliott.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"WOOD!" droned Tom Elliott.
"Well, there you have it ladies and gentlemen" said Mark Carruthers. "The election is on Thursday and I'm sure that you,like me, are looking forward to it."
"WOOD!" droned Tom.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret.

Hoist by Her own Petard

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which averted a street fight between the Belfast winos and members of alcoholics anonymous. There they were, lined up in military formation, when a splinter group from the Legion of Mary yelled,
"Will youse stop your auld fighting! The Gerry Anderson show is on, so it is!
Members of alcoholic anonymous broke off and ran home in a straight line. The winos ran for their cardboard boxes in a curious zig-zag manner which was quite endearing to behold.
I ran down the stairs, leaving a trail of mystery and stupidity behind me and yelled to Tommy my cat,
"We really must get an inside toilet. It is dangerous in the extreme to have to hang out of the upstairs window the way we have to. "
"Are you mad?" roared Tommy. "Toilets don't grow on trees. Toilets cost money! And think of the harm it would do to our rhubarb!"
I was hoist by my own Captain Petard. I do love my Sunday rhubarb and custard.
"In that case," I said, "that gulpin of a cub across the road must stop shooting at my, you know what, with an air rifle."
"It's your own fault," said Tommy, picking up, "The pleasure I get from mooning" by Daniel O'Donnell. "You shouldn't have tempted the lad by drawing a bulls-eye on your arse!"
I found Tubby Nolan lying in the long grass behind Madam George's surgical supplies and massage parlour.
"No more dieting or exercise for me!" yelled the Nemesis of Weight Watchers.
"Soon I enter the,"Fat Boy" clinic in Chingford to have a large, reinforced, industrial, rubber, gastric band fitted to my large intestine. The rubber band will be flown into the George Best airport straight from NASA in a giant B52 cargo plane. When a gang of plumbers and welders have attached the gigantic band, my stomach will shrink to the size of a golf ball and a veritable avalanche of stones and pounds will fall off me, leaving me slim, thin and slender. Say goodbye to Tubby and say hello to Twiggy."
I giggled and said, "A gastric band will reduce more than the size of your stomach."
"You don't mean...!" screamed Tubby.
"Oh yes I do!" I tittered.
"Tubby whipped out his mobile phone and screamed,
"ABORT! Abort the mission. I will not have Anderson and Mark Carruthers laughing at me in the showers. ABORT! ABORT! I say--ABORT!!!"
What a big fuss over something so little!

Move On

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which tackled head on the last great mystery of life. Why is Daniel O'Donnell still releasing CDs?
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat down to breakfast wearing an imperial purple toga which barely covered his furry bum.
"Tommy," I gushed, "did you see the wedding dress? It was........."
"SILENCE!!!" roared Tommy. "The day of which you speak is over! KAPUT! In the past! We must move on. Let it GO! In the name of all that's roly-poly let it go!
We talked about that 'Thing' for weeks.The planets revolve and the Universe creaks. Why would you speak of some small,incremental,incident in the past which has as much relevance to our life as a bull frog farting in a zinc bucket?"
"Tommy," I said, "your poetic bent is getting more bent each day. Why,in time,you may share a podium with none other than Seamus Heaney."
Tommy sneered and replied coldly,
"I fear I have little in common with the bogman from Stroke City.
Seamus Heaney is a proser, and a poser
And he gets right up my noser."
"Give that cat a Nobel prize!" I yelled, as I chased two kippers,who appeared to have still some life left in them, round the kitchen. I must make a fierce complaint to Phoenix gas.
"Tubby Nolan," said Tommy, taking a sip of finely blended Kesh coffee, "made a right fool of himself at the Belfast marathon. There he was, on the starting line, before the race began, down on the broad of his back surrounded by medics, oxygen bottles, heart defibrillators and undertakers."
"Was the lad nobbled?" I shrieked. "Were his nobblers interfered with? Did Gerry Anderson put a Micky Finn in the lad's liquid lard?"
"All I know," said Tommy. "is the oval one told the doctor he was feeling fine, but suddenly he came over all fat."
"Where is he?" I screamed. "Take me to him. I should be by his side, emptying his brow and mopping his bedpan."
"I don't know where he is," said Tommy. "They took him away on the back of a low-loader with a police escort."
"Phone all the hospitals!" I yelled. "Ask them if a fat boy is lying on four trolleys in the corridor."
Silly me, he was at home eating his way through a mountain of crisps.
The only way to get any momentum out of Tubby Nolan is to roll him down a steep hill!
ATTENTION ALL GARDENERS! PHONE TUBBY NOLAN TODAY AND HE WILL COME ROUND AND ROLL YOUR LAWN!

Easing Pre Nuptial Nerves

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which greatly eased the pre-nuptial nerves in Buckingham palace.
"That's my friend Gerry, so it is," said the Queen."I had him over for tea and bikkies, so I did. What a lovely man he is, so he is, so cultured, so elegant, so very, very fond of vodka."
"But what does he DO?" roared Prince Phillip. "What does he DO? I said to him, what do you do?
He looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and said,
"It's half past nine your highness." Gormless if you ask me, just like number one son Charles."
"Tommy cat esquire," I yelled,
"Ja mein Fuhrer," roared Tommy.
"Tomorrow morning on the stroke of eight o'clock I expect to see you sitting bolt upright on a straight-backed chair wearing a swallow-tailed coat like Groucho Marx."
"Ja mein Fuhrer," yelled Tommy. "Permission pleeze to wear my jack boots."
"Nein, Nein, Nein!" I yelled. "You will wear your patent,leather, black shoes. The same shoes you wear when we watch, Strictly Come Dancing. Now when we first see the bride's dress we must, Ooh and Aah. So let's practise our Oohs and Aahs." Tommy and I clasped our hands to our face, opened our eyes wide and went,
"OOH! AAH! OOH! AAH!"
"What a wunderbar hockzeitskleid* (wedding dress*), shrieked Tommy.
"Ooh, Aah, Master McGraw."
"Next comes the exchange of rings!" I yelled.
At this point we both fall to the floor together and go into a fit of blubbering, sobbing, weeping, crying and keening. We then turn towards each other and sob, "OH, I do love a wedding!"
Then the happy couple leave the Cathedral. We leap to our feet, sing two verses of God save the Queen, Rule Britannia and Knees up Mother Brown."
"And what do we do then?" asked Tommy.
"Nothing!" I replied.
"The wedding is over! We have a light lunch consisting of black pepper, salad and boiled blubber and then turn over to RTE and watch Podge and Rodge."
"I like Podge and Rodge," said Tommy. "They are indeed the Hibernian Morecambe and Wise."
I concurred, swept it under the carpet and hung by the heels from the ceiling yelling,
"What do you mean funny? I'm a clown? I amuse you?
What the flipping heck is so funny about ME?"
Yeh, Podge and Rodge are Goodfellows!