Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which helped quell a riot at Saint Dymphna's Old Folks' Home.
The trouble began after breakfast when two old codgers fell out over ownership of a pair of false teeth. The trouble spread to the gym and soon the doors to the morgue were torn off and used as shields. Before you could say, "incontinent" a full scale riot erupted. Soon the air was full of bed-pans, catheters, colostomy bags and heavy, sodden, adult nappies.
It was then the matron, a hefty lump of a woman with more than a passing resemblance to Steven Nolan roared, "THE GERRY SHOW IS ON-NIGH!!!"
Soon the old relics were back in the day room pumped full of a liquid cocktail containing Valium, Diazepam and horse tranquilizers. Nothing brings an unruly old codger to heel like the liquid cosh!
Tommy my cat looked up from his knitting and said,
"I do declare, poor Steven Watson will wilt if another Ulster sportsman OR woman wins a major event."
"I blame Darren "The Cigar" Clarke!" I yelled. "Darren knew fine well that Steven Watson was exhausted after the Rory McIlroy jamboree. Knowing that, Darren could have done poor Steven a favour by dropping a few holes, but-NO! Darren only goes and wins the British open."
Tommy held his knitting up to the light and said,
"Now poor Steven will have to use the same words in the same sequence AND with the same emphasis to laud Darren Clarke as he lauded Rory McIlroy only a week ago."
"SHAMBOLIC!" I yelled. "It's like a singer coming on stage and singing the same song TWICE!"
Tommy picked up a stitch he had dropped and said,
"I think Steven should come on TV and just say, "Good on ye, ye boy ye!"
Needless to say I concurred. I really must get the doctor to change my tablets! My chronic concurring is not responding to treatment.
Thursday 28 July 2011
Tuesday 26 July 2011
Who's Been listening?
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept many directors of News Corp International from leaping out of the windows of skyscrapers. Sources close to News Corp said, old Rupert Murdock was slowly making his way towards an open window when he heard Mr Coyle say,
"If I had my life to live over again, I'd be a barnacle scraper in a marina."
Old Rupert stopped and said, "Now there's a man with more than his share of handicaps. A veteran of rickets. A man who was christened on the whim of a lump of a cuttie. Then in his formative years, the police were mean to him and took away his dog. If that man, above all other men can still dream, then by Ayers Rock I will stand my ground and see this thing through."
Old Rupert staggered back to his throne and yelled. "Bring the ginger minx to me!" Rebekah Brooks was dragged in and thrown at the Master of the Universe's feet.
"Rebekah," said the press baron, "you have been like a daughter to me, but I must throw you to the wolves. I must protect my son James. I will never give up my little Jimmy, do you hear me? Never-Never-NEVER!"
Tommy my cat paced up and down and said, "I wonder did the News of the World hack into my phone?"
"Who would want to listen to the banal babblings of a flea infested feline?" I scoffed.
Tommy coughed and said, "Over the years I have had secret and protracted conversations with-Tubby Nolan."
I looked Tommy up and down and said, "Were you in a-relationship with the oval one?"
"Platonic," said Tommy, "purely platonic. We would go out for dinner, maybe see a show and then go back to Tubby's house for crisps, chocolate and coke. Tubby would put on a little Barry White and we would just sit there, shooting the breeze and laughing at Gerry Anderson."
"You're playing a dangerous game Tommy cat," I warned. Tommy bit his nails and said,
"Do you think our innocent, purely platonic friendship could be-misconstrued?"
"Of course it could!" I yelled. "You must come clean. You must call a press conference."
Which is why you probably saw Tommy on TV, making rambling, veiled references to THAT man---Steven Nolan.
Great shows which kept many directors of News Corp International from leaping out of the windows of skyscrapers. Sources close to News Corp said, old Rupert Murdock was slowly making his way towards an open window when he heard Mr Coyle say,
"If I had my life to live over again, I'd be a barnacle scraper in a marina."
Old Rupert stopped and said, "Now there's a man with more than his share of handicaps. A veteran of rickets. A man who was christened on the whim of a lump of a cuttie. Then in his formative years, the police were mean to him and took away his dog. If that man, above all other men can still dream, then by Ayers Rock I will stand my ground and see this thing through."
Old Rupert staggered back to his throne and yelled. "Bring the ginger minx to me!" Rebekah Brooks was dragged in and thrown at the Master of the Universe's feet.
"Rebekah," said the press baron, "you have been like a daughter to me, but I must throw you to the wolves. I must protect my son James. I will never give up my little Jimmy, do you hear me? Never-Never-NEVER!"
Tommy my cat paced up and down and said, "I wonder did the News of the World hack into my phone?"
"Who would want to listen to the banal babblings of a flea infested feline?" I scoffed.
Tommy coughed and said, "Over the years I have had secret and protracted conversations with-Tubby Nolan."
I looked Tommy up and down and said, "Were you in a-relationship with the oval one?"
"Platonic," said Tommy, "purely platonic. We would go out for dinner, maybe see a show and then go back to Tubby's house for crisps, chocolate and coke. Tubby would put on a little Barry White and we would just sit there, shooting the breeze and laughing at Gerry Anderson."
"You're playing a dangerous game Tommy cat," I warned. Tommy bit his nails and said,
"Do you think our innocent, purely platonic friendship could be-misconstrued?"
"Of course it could!" I yelled. "You must come clean. You must call a press conference."
Which is why you probably saw Tommy on TV, making rambling, veiled references to THAT man---Steven Nolan.
Tuesday 19 July 2011
No More Piles.
Great show yesterday kid.
A great shop which helped fix the teething problems with the ejector seat on McLaren's new child buggy, The Sprogger 500XL. Now when mum arrives home with baby, no more struggling with twisted straps and tight buckles. Simply press the ejector seat pedal with your toe and the baby will shoot 50 feet up in the air and land safely in mum's maternal waiting arms. This new invention will give busy mums more time to smoke and open another bottle of wine. "The McLaren Sprogger 500XL baby buggy, leaving busy mums more time to paint their toe nails and squeeze black heads. Because you're worth it!"
Tommy my cat sauntered into the room dressed as Tom pick and Mix. "Ugly woman!" yelled Tommy,"are you trying to bring back the punk look?"
"WHY?" I yelled. " Has someone stuck a pin through my nose?"
Tommy snorted, measured out another line and said, "I am talking about the home made barbed-wire leggings you are wearing. What's the buzz? Speak up you old hempen container for rodents."
"Keep it down, Willie Brown!" I roared. "These barbed-wire leggings are to stop dogs from jumping up on me."
"Hang loose, ugly goose," replied Tommy. "Why would canines jump up on you, you old withered crone?"
"Hang on Willie John," I wittily replied. "The dogs are attracted to my liver."
"Five and two, Scooby-Do," said Tommy. "No dog, not even a bloodhound could smell your liver hidden deep in your big, fat gut."
"I refer," I said, "to the liver in my coat pocket."
"All the fours, shut them doors!" cried Tommy."Why are you tempting the dogs in the street with pockets of liver?"
"It's an old wives' cure for piles!" I yelled. "Have you never heard the old saying, "Pocket full of liver, make piles shiver?"
"Here's another old saying!" roared Tommy. "This too shall pass, with boot up ass."
And Tommy lifted his foot and gave me a riser of unparalleled, ferocity and unforewarned hurt and pain.
BUT!!! No more piles. Both my cheeks now wear smiles!
A great shop which helped fix the teething problems with the ejector seat on McLaren's new child buggy, The Sprogger 500XL. Now when mum arrives home with baby, no more struggling with twisted straps and tight buckles. Simply press the ejector seat pedal with your toe and the baby will shoot 50 feet up in the air and land safely in mum's maternal waiting arms. This new invention will give busy mums more time to smoke and open another bottle of wine. "The McLaren Sprogger 500XL baby buggy, leaving busy mums more time to paint their toe nails and squeeze black heads. Because you're worth it!"
Tommy my cat sauntered into the room dressed as Tom pick and Mix. "Ugly woman!" yelled Tommy,"are you trying to bring back the punk look?"
"WHY?" I yelled. " Has someone stuck a pin through my nose?"
Tommy snorted, measured out another line and said, "I am talking about the home made barbed-wire leggings you are wearing. What's the buzz? Speak up you old hempen container for rodents."
"Keep it down, Willie Brown!" I roared. "These barbed-wire leggings are to stop dogs from jumping up on me."
"Hang loose, ugly goose," replied Tommy. "Why would canines jump up on you, you old withered crone?"
"Hang on Willie John," I wittily replied. "The dogs are attracted to my liver."
"Five and two, Scooby-Do," said Tommy. "No dog, not even a bloodhound could smell your liver hidden deep in your big, fat gut."
"I refer," I said, "to the liver in my coat pocket."
"All the fours, shut them doors!" cried Tommy."Why are you tempting the dogs in the street with pockets of liver?"
"It's an old wives' cure for piles!" I yelled. "Have you never heard the old saying, "Pocket full of liver, make piles shiver?"
"Here's another old saying!" roared Tommy. "This too shall pass, with boot up ass."
And Tommy lifted his foot and gave me a riser of unparalleled, ferocity and unforewarned hurt and pain.
BUT!!! No more piles. Both my cheeks now wear smiles!
Friday 15 July 2011
The Real News
Great show yesterday Kid.
A great show which caused much anger among the Taliban when they finally got Mr Coyle's book, "How to fight an occupying force" translated into Talabanese.
"Read Abdul!" yelled a fierce warlord with a black beard and a white kitten clasped in his arms. "Soon we will know the secrets of warlord Coyle, the Che Guevara of Stroke City."
Abdul turned to the first page and read,
"First, find a five story block of flats."
The fierce warlord put a secondhand stamp on a fatwa and sent it to Mr Coyle, care of Radio Foyle.
A man stuck his head up the plug hole in the sink and roared, "TAXI! for Tommy cat."
"I'm off to London," said Tommy. "I have been called to give evidence before the phone hacking enquiry. For many years I have been exchanging emails with Whiskers, the tabby cat of Rebekah Brooks. When I reveal what I know," yelled Tommy, "summonses, injunctions, and subpoenas will be flying like stones and bottles after a disputed parade in the Short Strand Road!"
"Can I come too Tommy?" I yelled.
"NO!" said Tommy. "You would be seen as a security risk, while I have been thoroughly and intimately--vetted."
I shrugged my knees and went back to the Real news on the Jeremy Kyle show.
A great show which caused much anger among the Taliban when they finally got Mr Coyle's book, "How to fight an occupying force" translated into Talabanese.
"Read Abdul!" yelled a fierce warlord with a black beard and a white kitten clasped in his arms. "Soon we will know the secrets of warlord Coyle, the Che Guevara of Stroke City."
Abdul turned to the first page and read,
"First, find a five story block of flats."
The fierce warlord put a secondhand stamp on a fatwa and sent it to Mr Coyle, care of Radio Foyle.
A man stuck his head up the plug hole in the sink and roared, "TAXI! for Tommy cat."
"I'm off to London," said Tommy. "I have been called to give evidence before the phone hacking enquiry. For many years I have been exchanging emails with Whiskers, the tabby cat of Rebekah Brooks. When I reveal what I know," yelled Tommy, "summonses, injunctions, and subpoenas will be flying like stones and bottles after a disputed parade in the Short Strand Road!"
"Can I come too Tommy?" I yelled.
"NO!" said Tommy. "You would be seen as a security risk, while I have been thoroughly and intimately--vetted."
I shrugged my knees and went back to the Real news on the Jeremy Kyle show.
Thursday 14 July 2011
Men In Kilts
A great 12th of July show yesterday kid which sent the eager brethren off with a ringing, "KAY-ME-la- FAULT-YA" from your good self and a roar of, "ERIN GO BRAGH" from Mr Coyle.Then, with a BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! from the big bass drum, a RAT-A-TAT-TAT! from the side drums and a skirl of the pipes they were off.
"Look at the swirl of the kilts," yelled Tommy my cat. One can't help but wonder if every kilt has a wee pair of breeks under it?"
"May the road rise up to meet you," croaked an old codger, with flat feet, flat cap and a flat wheel on his zimmer frame.
I looked at Tommy with puss in my eye and sobbed, "As long as men in kilts are prepared to march to the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the bass drum, the RAT-A-TAT-TAT of the side drums and the terrible, agonizing skirl of the bagpipes, the Ulster fry, the Ulster accent and the Ulster, dry sense of humour will survive."
"How's about ye?" yelled Tommy.
"Sticking out-Hi!" I shrieked.
Once again, like the flooding of the Nile, Mr Coyle's past comes back to haunt him. How good to know that the police are still keeping an eye on comrade Coyle to the extent that they will send a lady detective to a wedding.
"No head for heights my feline ass!" yelled Tommy. "I once saw Mr Coyle, complete with spangled tights as a trapeze artist with Duffy's circus. He was billed as the "Great Leaper from Lapland." When asked why he didn't use a net, Mr Coyle explained it interfered with his hair style."
Tomorrow is the rumble in the jungle, the thriller in Manila. I refer of course to the sham fight at Scarvagh. After studying form, Tommy and I have decided to bet the farm on King James. I know he's had a long string of defeats, but logic dictates that ONE day Lady Luck will smile on King Jimmy.
I got odds of 7/2 from Paddy Power. What a mug! Tomorrow Tommy and I will turn him over and clean him out.
"Look at the swirl of the kilts," yelled Tommy my cat. One can't help but wonder if every kilt has a wee pair of breeks under it?"
"May the road rise up to meet you," croaked an old codger, with flat feet, flat cap and a flat wheel on his zimmer frame.
I looked at Tommy with puss in my eye and sobbed, "As long as men in kilts are prepared to march to the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the bass drum, the RAT-A-TAT-TAT of the side drums and the terrible, agonizing skirl of the bagpipes, the Ulster fry, the Ulster accent and the Ulster, dry sense of humour will survive."
"How's about ye?" yelled Tommy.
"Sticking out-Hi!" I shrieked.
Once again, like the flooding of the Nile, Mr Coyle's past comes back to haunt him. How good to know that the police are still keeping an eye on comrade Coyle to the extent that they will send a lady detective to a wedding.
"No head for heights my feline ass!" yelled Tommy. "I once saw Mr Coyle, complete with spangled tights as a trapeze artist with Duffy's circus. He was billed as the "Great Leaper from Lapland." When asked why he didn't use a net, Mr Coyle explained it interfered with his hair style."
Tomorrow is the rumble in the jungle, the thriller in Manila. I refer of course to the sham fight at Scarvagh. After studying form, Tommy and I have decided to bet the farm on King James. I know he's had a long string of defeats, but logic dictates that ONE day Lady Luck will smile on King Jimmy.
I got odds of 7/2 from Paddy Power. What a mug! Tomorrow Tommy and I will turn him over and clean him out.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
So Young To Die
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which led to the demise of the News of the World and the reincarnation of faction fights in Tyrone among the bushes. Last Friday night, Gortin City beat Drumquin United by five cracked skulls to four. It was a close game. Both managers agreed that the boys gave 110% and every man was fighting for the jersey. It's good to see the young men out in the fresh air instead of crouched over computers studying the curvaceous, female, anatomical form.
While we all try to get that mental picture out of our mind, here are The Celtic Four, Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet to dance the Walls of Limerick.
Tommy my cat ran in holding a white handkerchief with his finger and thumb and yelled,
"LOOK! a wee dead ghost!"
Tommy lay the wee ghostie on the table and tried to blow death into it for over half an hour.
I led the sobbing feline away and said,
"It's no good Tommy. The wee ghost is-dead."
"WHY?" yelled Tommy, staring up at the sky. WHY? It was SO young! It had so much haunting to do. Why did God allow the wee ghost to die?"
"God has a reason for everything," I whispered.
"Well, it better be a good one," said Tommy, "for between you and me, people are beginning to ask questions."
There he was just a walking down the street, with a small, Vietnamese,pot-bellied pig at his feet.
Yes! it was Tubby Nolan out walking, Vince, this year's Christmas dinner.
A funny thing about pot-bellied pigs is, unlike turkeys they do vote for Christmas.We have President Nixon to thank for that and the futile Vietnam war. I leaned against a lamp post like George Formby and said,
"Well, if it ain't big me and little me. May one enquire where you two tubbies are going?"
Tubby and the pig scowled and yelled as one,
"We are going to have our portrait painted by blind Pugh, the famous, unknown Belfast piss artist!"
I laughed and said, "It's going to take a lot of vomit yellow to capture you two tubbies on canvas."
"SIC!" yelled Tubby and Vince the pot-bellied pig chased me to Ann Summer's shop and wouldn't go away until I bought Tubby and Vince the porker Micky Mouse boxer shorts.
I can see Vince the pig carrying off the look, but Tubby will just look like mobile wall-paper!
Great shows which led to the demise of the News of the World and the reincarnation of faction fights in Tyrone among the bushes. Last Friday night, Gortin City beat Drumquin United by five cracked skulls to four. It was a close game. Both managers agreed that the boys gave 110% and every man was fighting for the jersey. It's good to see the young men out in the fresh air instead of crouched over computers studying the curvaceous, female, anatomical form.
While we all try to get that mental picture out of our mind, here are The Celtic Four, Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet to dance the Walls of Limerick.
Tommy my cat ran in holding a white handkerchief with his finger and thumb and yelled,
"LOOK! a wee dead ghost!"
Tommy lay the wee ghostie on the table and tried to blow death into it for over half an hour.
I led the sobbing feline away and said,
"It's no good Tommy. The wee ghost is-dead."
"WHY?" yelled Tommy, staring up at the sky. WHY? It was SO young! It had so much haunting to do. Why did God allow the wee ghost to die?"
"God has a reason for everything," I whispered.
"Well, it better be a good one," said Tommy, "for between you and me, people are beginning to ask questions."
There he was just a walking down the street, with a small, Vietnamese,pot-bellied pig at his feet.
Yes! it was Tubby Nolan out walking, Vince, this year's Christmas dinner.
A funny thing about pot-bellied pigs is, unlike turkeys they do vote for Christmas.We have President Nixon to thank for that and the futile Vietnam war. I leaned against a lamp post like George Formby and said,
"Well, if it ain't big me and little me. May one enquire where you two tubbies are going?"
Tubby and the pig scowled and yelled as one,
"We are going to have our portrait painted by blind Pugh, the famous, unknown Belfast piss artist!"
I laughed and said, "It's going to take a lot of vomit yellow to capture you two tubbies on canvas."
"SIC!" yelled Tubby and Vince the pot-bellied pig chased me to Ann Summer's shop and wouldn't go away until I bought Tubby and Vince the porker Micky Mouse boxer shorts.
I can see Vince the pig carrying off the look, but Tubby will just look like mobile wall-paper!
Wednesday 6 July 2011
What This Situation Needs.
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show, which after the sensational disclosures by ace reporter Jordie Tuft about illiterate, uneducated, street fish sellers, had herring men queueing up round the block for elocution lessons.
"Herrings Paddy. Not herons. Roll your R's Paddy, roll your R's."
Tommy my cat strapped a new flea collar on to my neck and said,
"After an extensive search of ALL TV listings, I regret to inform you that there are no special programmes about Rory McIlroy on TV tonight."
"How soon they forget!" I yelled.
"It's Steven Watson I feel sorry for," said Tommy. "There he is, complete with camera crew, hoping, praying, wishing and dreaming for a call to interview the curly one, but the phone, like a Trappist monk,remains silent. What is the lad to DO?" screamed Tommy.
I flicked a locust from off my nose and said,
"In a situation like that, the only thing to do is dig out the old Joey Dunlop and George Best tapes."
"It's either that," said Tommy, "or another interview with a man who nearly worked on the Titanic."
"What Ulster needs," I cried, "is another Charlie Witherspoon. A man who will get on his bike and reveal,in all their horrific glory, the veritable legion of grotesques who inhabit this fair land like fruit flies. How I long, how I pine to see a man staring into a field of rushes and reminiscence about working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Why do old men stare into empty fields?" said Tommy.
"This is no country for old men," I replied. "When an old man stares into a field, he is staring into the past. In that empty field lie all his hopes, loves, desires and accomplishments. Not standing proudly on plinths, shining and glittering with gold and silver, but trampled into the dust like manure by the big steam-roller of life. And that man staring into the field, knows deep in his heart, that life is nothing, but a sick joke, a con, a cheap bagatelle. Life's not a cabaret old chum, life is a caboodle of worry, fear and-death."
After a profound silence lasting two days Tommy looked at me and said,
"The old man must feel a right eejit for working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Ce monde est plein de fous," I muttered, as I made my way to the po.
A great show, which after the sensational disclosures by ace reporter Jordie Tuft about illiterate, uneducated, street fish sellers, had herring men queueing up round the block for elocution lessons.
"Herrings Paddy. Not herons. Roll your R's Paddy, roll your R's."
Tommy my cat strapped a new flea collar on to my neck and said,
"After an extensive search of ALL TV listings, I regret to inform you that there are no special programmes about Rory McIlroy on TV tonight."
"How soon they forget!" I yelled.
"It's Steven Watson I feel sorry for," said Tommy. "There he is, complete with camera crew, hoping, praying, wishing and dreaming for a call to interview the curly one, but the phone, like a Trappist monk,remains silent. What is the lad to DO?" screamed Tommy.
I flicked a locust from off my nose and said,
"In a situation like that, the only thing to do is dig out the old Joey Dunlop and George Best tapes."
"It's either that," said Tommy, "or another interview with a man who nearly worked on the Titanic."
"What Ulster needs," I cried, "is another Charlie Witherspoon. A man who will get on his bike and reveal,in all their horrific glory, the veritable legion of grotesques who inhabit this fair land like fruit flies. How I long, how I pine to see a man staring into a field of rushes and reminiscence about working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Why do old men stare into empty fields?" said Tommy.
"This is no country for old men," I replied. "When an old man stares into a field, he is staring into the past. In that empty field lie all his hopes, loves, desires and accomplishments. Not standing proudly on plinths, shining and glittering with gold and silver, but trampled into the dust like manure by the big steam-roller of life. And that man staring into the field, knows deep in his heart, that life is nothing, but a sick joke, a con, a cheap bagatelle. Life's not a cabaret old chum, life is a caboodle of worry, fear and-death."
After a profound silence lasting two days Tommy looked at me and said,
"The old man must feel a right eejit for working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Ce monde est plein de fous," I muttered, as I made my way to the po.
Monday 4 July 2011
Our Rory.Coming Soon To A Cinema Near You.
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept piling the pressure onto the frail Scottish shoulders of tennis player Andy Murray until he lost the heid and collapsed like a cheap kilt.
I looked at Tommy my cat who was sitting polishing his extensive collection of surgical instruments.
Tommy removed my appendix one night, gave it a thorough cleaning, oiled the hinges and replaced it in the blink of an eye. And no nasty, ugly stitches. I stood outside the door and Tommy operated through the keyhole. Yes! Tommy invented key hole surgery.If I ever need a fifth frontal lobotomy I will put my head into the capable, healing hands of doctor Tommy Cat.
Tommy grabbed a passing mouse, lanced a boil on the back of its neck and said,
"Steven Speilberg is going to make a film about Rory McIlory. The film will be called, "Our Rory" and Jimmy Nesbitt will play the golfing legend."
"Well he's certainly got the hair for it," I said. "The last time I saw him he looked like a white Jimmy Hendrix."
"I saw a copy of the script," said Tommy. It follows the old, tried and tested Irish formula. Rory McElory, in the shape of Jimmy Nesbitt, will be challenged to a game of golf by Brian the King of the faeries. If Rory wins he gets a crock of gold, but should he lose, Rory will be condemned to sit for all eternity on the "One Show" sofa talking about what might have been."
"How does it end Tommy?" I shrieked. "Does curly Rory win the crock of gold?"
"That I can not tell you," said Tommy. "The last few pages of the script were missing, but I can say this, there will be plenty of Darby O'Gill shenanigans and donkey loads of lovable, Irish whimsy. The film abounds with fiddle playing, Irish dancing and enough, diddly-dee to satisfy any green-blooded Irishman."
"A sure-fire Oscar winner!" I yelled as I toppled the dresser and danced a frantic, frenetic Irish jig to the sound of breaking delft.
Great shows which kept piling the pressure onto the frail Scottish shoulders of tennis player Andy Murray until he lost the heid and collapsed like a cheap kilt.
I looked at Tommy my cat who was sitting polishing his extensive collection of surgical instruments.
Tommy removed my appendix one night, gave it a thorough cleaning, oiled the hinges and replaced it in the blink of an eye. And no nasty, ugly stitches. I stood outside the door and Tommy operated through the keyhole. Yes! Tommy invented key hole surgery.If I ever need a fifth frontal lobotomy I will put my head into the capable, healing hands of doctor Tommy Cat.
Tommy grabbed a passing mouse, lanced a boil on the back of its neck and said,
"Steven Speilberg is going to make a film about Rory McIlory. The film will be called, "Our Rory" and Jimmy Nesbitt will play the golfing legend."
"Well he's certainly got the hair for it," I said. "The last time I saw him he looked like a white Jimmy Hendrix."
"I saw a copy of the script," said Tommy. It follows the old, tried and tested Irish formula. Rory McElory, in the shape of Jimmy Nesbitt, will be challenged to a game of golf by Brian the King of the faeries. If Rory wins he gets a crock of gold, but should he lose, Rory will be condemned to sit for all eternity on the "One Show" sofa talking about what might have been."
"How does it end Tommy?" I shrieked. "Does curly Rory win the crock of gold?"
"That I can not tell you," said Tommy. "The last few pages of the script were missing, but I can say this, there will be plenty of Darby O'Gill shenanigans and donkey loads of lovable, Irish whimsy. The film abounds with fiddle playing, Irish dancing and enough, diddly-dee to satisfy any green-blooded Irishman."
"A sure-fire Oscar winner!" I yelled as I toppled the dresser and danced a frantic, frenetic Irish jig to the sound of breaking delft.
Saturday 2 July 2011
Stop Or Give Way?
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which broke the news that, "Old dogs, children and watermelon wine" is the favourite song of Queen Juliana of the Netherlands.
How proud Tommy my cat and I were when you stood on the new bridge and declared to the world,
"Today, I too, am a Londonderry heir."
It was the Boston accent which gave the statement the ring of truth and the necklace of humbug and insincerity. Then you threw the butt of a cigarette into the Foyle, jumped up, clicked your heels and airguitar played, "Smoke on the water."
"Look at Anderson," said an auld wan burdened down with care and wrinkles. "You would think he built the bloody bridge himself."
"You're right there Hannah," said another auld wan with water on the knee and air that blew free. "My Willie said that Anderson, didn't even put one brick in the wall."
"Sure I know he didn't," said the first auld wan. "He was too busy sunning himself in Barbados and strutting round Derry like a Hottentot."
"I like wee Sean," said the second auld wan. "He could have been a priest ,you know, but he didn't have the Latin."
(Breathe--and--relax)
"Tommy my cat stormed in full of anger, ire and John West tuna chucks.
"It's gone again!" yelled Tommy. "The STOP! sign on Dead Man's Curve has been stolen--AGAIN!!! I'll swing for those hoodies!" roared Tommy.
"I blushed and said, "It wasn't hoodies who stole the STOP! sign. It was women of a certain age who nail the STOP! signs above their marriage beds when "how's your father, is your mother still working?" has become just another chore like scrubbing the floor."
"Well,knowing women the way I do," said Tommy, "they are not adverse to changing their minds. I would bet that the same women who erect STOP signs in the bedroom also have a GIVE WAY sign under the bed next to the po."
There was nowhere to hide, so I gritted my teeth and concurred right out in the open.
STOP! GIVE WAY! Who would be a married man these days? Not even George Cloony-apparently??
How proud Tommy my cat and I were when you stood on the new bridge and declared to the world,
"Today, I too, am a Londonderry heir."
It was the Boston accent which gave the statement the ring of truth and the necklace of humbug and insincerity. Then you threw the butt of a cigarette into the Foyle, jumped up, clicked your heels and airguitar played, "Smoke on the water."
"Look at Anderson," said an auld wan burdened down with care and wrinkles. "You would think he built the bloody bridge himself."
"You're right there Hannah," said another auld wan with water on the knee and air that blew free. "My Willie said that Anderson, didn't even put one brick in the wall."
"Sure I know he didn't," said the first auld wan. "He was too busy sunning himself in Barbados and strutting round Derry like a Hottentot."
"I like wee Sean," said the second auld wan. "He could have been a priest ,you know, but he didn't have the Latin."
(Breathe--and--relax)
"Tommy my cat stormed in full of anger, ire and John West tuna chucks.
"It's gone again!" yelled Tommy. "The STOP! sign on Dead Man's Curve has been stolen--AGAIN!!! I'll swing for those hoodies!" roared Tommy.
"I blushed and said, "It wasn't hoodies who stole the STOP! sign. It was women of a certain age who nail the STOP! signs above their marriage beds when "how's your father, is your mother still working?" has become just another chore like scrubbing the floor."
"Well,knowing women the way I do," said Tommy, "they are not adverse to changing their minds. I would bet that the same women who erect STOP signs in the bedroom also have a GIVE WAY sign under the bed next to the po."
There was nowhere to hide, so I gritted my teeth and concurred right out in the open.
STOP! GIVE WAY! Who would be a married man these days? Not even George Cloony-apparently??
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