Nil Desperandum

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that Northern Ireland can not play football and should not be allowed anywhere near a football pitch.
Tommy my cat and I watched in disgust as Northern Ireland, with no guns blazing, went down 2-0 to a poor Welsh side.
And then,and then, Stephen Watson said, "Northern Ireland may not have scored any goals in this strange, weird, tournament which fluctuated madly between the sublime and the ridiculous, but they leave Dublin with their pride intact!"
KNICKERS!" yelled Tommy my cat." He picked up a rare rooster's egg given to him by Jordie Tuft on the day of his barMitzvah and threw it at Stephen Watson, hitting him right up the gub.
Tommy cried into a dirty tea towel and sobbed,
"Where are our George Bests, our Dennis Taylors and Alex Higgins? Where are our Joey Dunlops and Eddie Ervines. WHERE," yelled Tommy, "are our Mary Peters?"
I cleared my throat with a small, miniature chimney brush and said, "Nil Desperandum! We still have Jim Rodgers. No one in the world can leap over a woman dressed in a red, furry, tomato costume like our Jim."
Tommy wiped his eyes and said,
"Oh thank you, strange, ancient creature, I feel much better now."
With a bound and a skip the cheerful pussy picked up a battered, bent trombone and marched off in the direction of his shock proof, water resistant po, trousers hanging round his ankles and loudly playing, "When the saints go marching in."
When it comes to trombone playing, it's hard to beat a cat who has studied at Guilliard and practised religiously in the back yard.
With Tommy gone, I stripped naked, covered my body with honey and rolled all over the floor.
It's the best way I know to get fluff out of a carpet!
Go on, give it a go. Since I started rolling round the floor covered in honey, I feel much more confident and feminine.
Girl power, my big, fat bum! Give me old bag power anytime.