It's Ron Burgundy!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused quite a ruckus at Saint Cody's school for talented, old codgers with an IQ of 9 or higher. The ancient prodigies, expend much grey matter trying to invent something that is better than the sliced loaf. One old relic claimed to have invented perpetual motion. But tests showed it was just a chronic case of gastroenteritis with little or no regard for penicillin. "Drat!" croaked the old relic, as he was raised from the hunkering position and helped into bed. "For a moment there, I thought I had solved the world's energy crisis."
Tommy my cat came over to the chair where I sat, drew out the hair which grew from the mole on my chin, picked up a bow and played a haunting, plaintive refrain which tugged at the heart strings like a pale-faced,child-ghost looking out of an attic window. Tommy released the hair which sprang back like a coiled watch spring and said, "What about that then? Not bad for a lump of a cat!"
"OH Tommy," I enthused. "It was lovely, so eerily sad, so haunting, so beautiful in its sad, haunting, plaintive melancholia Pray enlighten one as to the name of the piece."
"The old buck goat's hind leg," said Tommy, as he broke three large eggs over my head and scrambled my brain into a maelstrom, a malevolent, malfeasant vortex, spinning, every spinning in the canyons of my mind. But it was just high spirits. I promised Tommy's mother I would never take him to see a psychiatrist, or a man who sold potatoes by the road side.
"FRANK!" I Yelled. "FRANK! FRANK" FRANK!"
Frank Mitchell stopped on his way out of the chemist, clutching a large bottle of "Honey-Voice" for broadcasters and hissed. I know, I couldn't believe it either. Frank Mitchell, of all people hissing in the street.
"Keep your voice down," hissed Frank. "You're making a show of me. I am not one of your saloon bar chums. I have my reputation to think of. I met the Queen you know. I am Mr Frank Mitchell. I am a meteorologist and dapper, little dandy. Go away. I don't consort with people like YOU!" I was stunned. My hero had spurned me. A red mist came over my eyes and I yelled, "Ron Burgundy! That's what you are, a thick-as-two-short planks, Ron Burgundy!"
"I AM NOT RON BURGUNDY!" roared Frank,to the amusement of passers-by. "If anyone at UTV is Ron Burgundy, it is "The Shoe Man" Paul Clarke. I AM NOT-RON BURGUNDY! I AM NOT, RON BURGUNDY!" Then a van with black windows pulled up and Pamela Ballentine said. "Get in Frank. A cup of tea and a gypsy cream and you'll be fine. Now what did I tell you about going out alone? Next time ask Paul or me and we'll take you by the hand to the chemist."
"RON BURGUNDY!" I yelled after the van. "RON BURGUNDY! And your name is not Frank Mitchell, it's--RON BURGUNDY!!!!"

The Christmas Blues

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Prince Philip pick up his bed and growl, " TAXI, Taxi for the Prince! We had that Anderson chap round one night. The wife seemed greatly taken with him, but I still have some misgivings. I walked up to him with my hands behind my back, as is my wont and said, "Hello and what do you do?"
The silly ass looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and replied, "It's twenty five minutes to nine your highness! TAXI! TAXI for Phil."
Tommy my cat strolled into the room wearing his Christmas jumper. It was a vomit inducing extravaganza of snowmen, holly, robins and Santa Claus. As Tommy picked at the left over Chivers jelly in the fridge, I thought of all the poor men who were sitting in corners afraid to go out and face the scorn of the Christmas jumper jury. It's an awful experience for a man to go for a walk, or pop into the pub wearing the hideous creation their wives and girlfriends had given so much though to. Some men go to extremes to rid themselves of the Christmas jumper. Some set themselves on fire, leap into sewage tanks, or go to the police and report the theft of their Christmas jumper.
"Let's see if I've got this right," said the detective. "Two burly men jumped on you, forced you to take off your Christmas jumper and made off with it. You received no injuries. The jumper thieves never stole your money or mobile phone----just your jumper. The detective winked and said, "Leave it with us sir. I think we're dealing with an International gang of Christmas jumper thieves. Only yesterday sir, I was mugged and left bereft of my wife's lovely "Christmas in Lapland" jumper."
What an air of depression and sadness has settled over Belfast. You would think one of the giant cranes had died. It's a condition known as, the Christmas blues. Millies don't have the same arrogant strut to their fluffy, pink, bedroom slippers. The little hoodies huddle together for comfort. Old codgers don't spit their phlegm half as far. Shopping housewives walk round in circles like dead planets circling a dying sun. People burst into tears for no reason. Husbands cling on to their wives' ankles, begging not to be left alone.
Then, the dismal darkness is shattered by a cheery whistle. It's big Jim McDowell, sweeping the street with his giant stuck out feet. "How's about ye Belfast. Come on, snap out of it. It's nearly the New Year. Plenty of Northern Ireland nils to look forwards to. May McFetridge is still at the Opera House and Tubby Nolan will give us all a good laugh when he appears in a big Christmas jumper. Sticking out Belfast! Sticking out!!!"

Tommy's Loaded With Ferrero Rocher

SO! It's all over! The tinsel has lost its glitter and the drains have stopped running with puke. OH! Christmas takes it out of you!
Tommy my cat and I were taken to casualty twice. Once to have our stomachs pumped out and then to have sprigs of holly removed from our rears. How they got there is a mystery to both of us.
I was bent over a bucket on Boxing Day when Tommy came downstairs leaning heavily on the banister. Oh, he did look pale. Oh, he did look wan, waif-like and knackered. Tommy came towards me on wee, tiny steps as if he was walking in a minefield. "Tommy," I croaked, "what ails thee lad? What peculiar circumstance has robbed thee of walking in a manner conductive of genteel, society which is demonstrated so professionally and graciously in Downton Abbey?"
"KEEP AWAY!" screamed Tommy. "I am a walking time bomb!"
I recoiled like the spring in a mouse trap and utterised, "Tommy, explain yourself before acute curiosity causes blood clots to form and head posthaste for my heart and leave me bereft of life."
"Yesterday!" yelled Tommy. " I ate 24 Ferrero Rocher. I regret to inform you that all 24 Ferrero Rocher are lined up like bullets in a magazine in my stomach. The slightest jolt could start a sequence of events which could lead to a fusillade of cluster bombs."
"Don't come near me!" I shrieked. "You're armed and dangerous. Keep looking straight at my face. Don't dare point your rear at me."
Tommy sighed and said, "You certainly know who your friends are when you're loaded with live Ferrero Rocher."
"Tip-toe out to the coal bunker," I yelled, "while I evacuate the house and send for the bomb squad!" It took me quite a while to clear the house. I dug in my heels and refused to go. Finally I convinced myself that I would be safer, bound and gagged and tied to a railway track.
It took the bomb squad two hours to disarm Tommy. I don't know what they did, but Tommy is walking funny and has a pathological fear of the coal tongs..
"Biggest in the country!" roared Tubby Nolan, as he lumbered down Bradford Street pulling a giant cracker behind him. The cracker was so long it had a red flag tied to the back of it. Soon a crowd gathered and the usual, good natured ribbing began. "Hey fat boy, your sack should be on your back, not your front. Hey giant Haystacks, have you any rooms to let in your trousers? Hey lard man, give me the crust from your pie."
It took two tractors to pull the giant cracker apart. There was a huge "BANG", a cloud of smoke and out staggered the most wanted man in the world. Higgs Bosum stood there with a black face, his trousers in tattered remnants and roared, " I am NOT the God particle. My name is Higgs Boson. Go away and leave me alone. I do NOT know the secret of a black hole. I am an accountant from Oslo in Norway, who has got caught up in some crazy nightmare!"
Tubby, hitched up his trousers with a complicated system of weights and pulleys and went off singing,
"Always look on the bright side of life."

Have We Enough Sprouts?

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which made people ask, "Why is Alex Atwood always on TV recently? Is he taking advantage of Alasdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights?" I put that question to former SDLP leader Mark Durkin who said,
"The reality is, Alex Atwood is a fly, little skitter, who is always on the look out for a camera crew. When I was leader, the reality is, I used to hobble Atwood's feet like a circus pony to keep him from breaking into a gallop when he saw Ken Reid or Martina Purdy."
"Mark," I said. "Dear lovely Mark Durkin, do you miss the cut and thrust of premiership politics?"
"Indeed I do not!" said Mark "The reality is, I'm quite happy sitting at home in Derry. The reality is, is that the reality will always be-is. Knowing the reality will always be is, I am not going to upset the applecart, by claiming that the reality is this,that or the other, when I know fine well that the reality-is!" What a fine political brain, calling out for a home in a laboratory specimen jar.
Tommy my cat came in with yet another wheel barrow of brussel sprouts, tumbled them out in the corner and said,
"Is that all, or should I fetch in another load?"
"How many sprouts are in that pile?" I asked.
"517," replied Tommy.
"Bring in one more sprout," I said. "We don't want to end up fighting over the last sprout, or having to cut it in half."
"Good thinking," said Tommy. "That's why MENSA sent you a funny Christmas card. When you opened it up, two fingers shot out."
I looked around my tinseled hovel and said, "This is going to be the best Christmas EVER! We have a plump turkey, a fat plum pud, 2 gallon of cranberry sauce, a zinc bucket full of trifle, a stone of Flemish stuffing and 307 Christmas crackers. Now, what about our Christmas DVDs?"
"On the mantelpiece SIR! ready for inserting SIR!" yelled Tommy.
I sat down on a gnome and said, "Read out the titles Tommy. Everything must be perfect." Tommy cleaned his reading glasses with my tongue and yelled,
"The dog who saved Christmas. Wild trouble and strife at Christmas. My granny died at Christmas. Santa gets clamped at Christmas. Black plague strikes at Christmas. OH! what a cruel Christmas. The town that died from food poisoning at Christmas and Who shot Santa on Christmas Eve?"
"Tommy, Tommy," I chided, "No Christmas Carol?"
"I hate that film!" roared Tommy. "Why should an old miser be forgiven for buying ONE turkey on Christmas morning? And another thing," yelled Tommy, "if the turkey was SO great, why was it not sold BEFORE Christmas day?"
Two and a half hours. That's how long it took me to throw 517 brussel sprouts at a retreating cat with no respect for Christmas!

Holy,snow and a clanging bell.

Great show yesterday kid. After listening to the great show, the inmates of Saint Wendy's Old Folk Home, slid down a steep, slippery, hill on their breakfast trays. The crack of broken bones was clearly audible over the excited yells and screams coming from the wrinkled, wizened, tobogganing relics. "I live in a-Wendy house," croaked one old codger as he was taken away by ambulance to be treated for concussion and the removal of an impaled catheter.
"Careful with that axe Eugene," he joked,as he was wheeled into the operating theatre.
Tommy my cat nailed a holy wreath to the toilet seat and said,
"That's the house decorated from top to bottom. Miles and miles of tinsel. A boat load of baubles. Fake snow up to the oxters. Reindeer on the roof. A giant, inflatable Santa and our last demand from VISA card pinned to the front door." I opened the window and yelled, "Look on my works and despair!" A voice from across the street roared back, "Look on my despair and fill me with Valium!" I watched with tears in my eyes as a small, thin, pale-faced workhouse urchin came round the corner on crutches. He looked up at me with a sad, pale face and said,
"HOI! rat features, how about some gruel for a lump of a cub!"
"Clear off four legs!" I roared. "Gruel doesn't grow on trees!"
"The cheek of it," said Tommy. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, there's too much charity and religion creeping into Christmas."
"Tommy!" I cried. "Is it snowing, or is it the local drug dealer shaking out his duvet again?"
"It's snow!" cried Tommy. "Real honest to goodness snow, which is made by God and most good film studios."
Then we both heard the clanging of a bell. It was the town crier, Jim Rodgers. "NIGH hear ye!" screamed Jim. "NIGH hear ye! Two o'clock and all is wrong. Just an hour ago, Tubby Nolan was blowing up balloons. The fat boy sucked instead of blowing and now has a gastric band in his large intestine. The blubber ball is locked in his bedroom and friends have taken away his belt, galluses and shoe laces."
Tommy looked at me and said. "So, this is the way the Tubby will end, not with a bang but a whimper!" Forgetting I was wearing my new flip-flops,I concurred enthusiastically!

Higgs Boson on The Run

Great show yesterday kid, which restored a degree of sanity after the Hugo Duncanesque excess of Black Monday. "Sean Coyle," said Tommy my cat, "is playing fast and loose with the Gerry Anderson doctrine of, "I'll pick the music I play. The listeners can like it or lump it!"
"That's what the public want!" I yelled. "A benign dictator. The smack of firm dee-jaying."
Tommy leaped up on the mantlepiece and yelled, "J'accuse Mr Coyle of Neville Chamberlain, appeasment tactics. Coyle would provide the public with bread and circuses when what they really want is mashups, Miles Davis and the little Honda 50."
"Coyle is a tube!" I yelled. "And like Mitt Romney, I'll bet ten grand that he wears tube socks!"
Later that night, when I was ironing a pair of kippers, Tommy came running in from the back yard. Oh he did look pale. Oh he did look discombobulated.
"Tommy!" I shrieked. "What is the cause of your obvious discombubulation?"
Tommy held on to the mantlepiece and stuttered, "A man has taken up abode in the confines of our coal bunker."
I ran out to the back yard and peeped into the coal bunker. In the dark and gloom I saw the figure of a man crouched in the far corner.
"Is that Alisdair McDonnell?" I asked.
"No," said the strange figure. My name is Higgs Boson. I am on the run. Strange weird people are after me. They claim I am the God particle. They say, erroneously, that I hold the secret of dark matter." Poor wee Higgs, burst into tears and yelled, "They even say I know how matter is formed. But I don't! I don't! I would like to know who is spreading all these lies about me."
"Tubby Nolan!" I yelled. "Tubby Nolan must have given the Hydron Collider boys your name. Tubby Nolan knows how matter is formed. Tubby Nolan, is a veritable mountain of matter. Tubby Nolan should be speeding around the Hydron Collider not you."
"I know not Tubby Nolan said Higgs Boson, but I loathe, hate and despise him. It is HE not ME who should be in the collider."
"And yet, he never shall," I answered sadly.
"WHY NOT?" screamed Higgs.
"If you saw the size of his head, you would not ask that question," I replied. Wee Higgs was gone in the morning, a wanted man, a man on the run. "Good luck Higgs Boson," I whispered. "Another victim of the unscrupulous, God particle, known through out the universe as--Tubby Nolan."

What Is A Pantomime?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which caused bubbly Tom Elliott and exciting, interesting, Alasdair McDonnell to exchange early Christmas presents.
Alasdair McDonnell gave Tom Elliott a a ventriloquist's dummy to deliver his sparkling, witty speeches and bubbly Tom gave exciting, interesting Alasdair a torch without batteries. Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson exchanged dinky toys and David Ford bought himself a Pete Seegar record. (My comb-over is blowing in the wind)
Tommy my cat grabbed me by the lapels of my Harris tweed leotard and yelled, "HEY ugliness personified, what is a pantomime?"
I kissed my wickerwork, death mask of Peter Stringfellow and said,
"A pantomime is income support for actors, comedians and singers who have fallen on hard times. Kindly people go round old folks' homes pulling old relics out of their bed and saying, "Come with me. I have a job for you, which will keep you in bedsocks and peppermint sweets."
The old, burnt-out stars hitch up their rubber pants and croak, "What will I have to do? I was big in the 30s you know."
The kind-hearted people wipe away a tear and answer, " Pick up your catheter and follow me. YOU are going to star in a pantomime. All you have to do is shout, "Oh no it isn't!" and, "He's behind you!"
"I can do that," croak the old relics. "Oh no!, he isn't behind you! How was that?" "It's good," said the kind Samaritan, "but not right."
"HEY! I used to say that," says old Roy Walker, "a long, long, time ago."
"So," said Tommy, rubbing my chin, "a pantomime is out-of-door relief for faded stars. Just one more question," said Tommy, snapping the Harris tweed fork on my leotard, "why do the geese fly South in Winter?"
"Because it's quicker than walking," I answered.
Tommy grabbed a bass drum and went, BOOM! BOOM!
Belfast was a Winter wonderland as Tommy and I strolled round Shaftsbury Avenue dressed as Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie McGee. Drunken Santas were puking into litter bins. Small, pale faced urchins, with little, white faces on them like snowdrops were running about with bowls crying, "MORE! Please sir, I want MORE!" Girls, wearing very short mini-skirts were followed by leering old codgers singing, "Ding dong merrily on high." Tubby Nolan, was dancing around dressed as a giant turkey. "Holy God!" said a wee woman. "How would you like to have to stuff THAT?"
"Don't worry about that wee woman!" roared big Jim McDowell. "That turkey is called Tubby Nolan and he's been stuffing himself for years."
"Hang on Ethel," said the wee woman to her friend. "I have to run home and go to the foot of our stairs!!!"

The Christmas Madness Has Begun.

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat and I were in Castle Court yesterday when we witnessed a fracas in Santa's grotto. A fat child, modelled along the lines of Tubby Nolan, leaped on to Santa's knee like a well fed hippo.
"AH! in the name of God!" yelled Santa. "Get off! You're squashing my baubles, you wee, fat gulpin!" The juvenile Haystacks burst into tears and wailed, "Mummy! mummy! mummy! Auld Santa, insinuated I was a wee fat gulpin!" People scattered as a big, fat woman thundered up like a run-a-way Blob. It was the fat boy's mum. Her face was purple with anger and her big, fat jowls shook and quivered like saddlebags on a long-eared mule. "Where's my little Willie?" she bellowed. "Who has dared to call my wee son a jelly belly?"
"I DID!" yelled the drunken Santa. "You have fed that cub until he looks like a poisoned pup. He is a danger to heath and safety. He leaped up on my knee like an over-weight manatee. I fear the wee, fat gulpin has done irreparable damage to my forkal area."
The mother of the oval boy sniffed the air like a stag and yelled, "You're drunk! You're a pissed Santa!"
"YES!" roared the man in red. "But I'll be sober in the morning and you and your son will still be blubber balls!"
"The straw that broke the camel's back," whispered Tommy.
"A bridge too far," I muttered.
All hell broke loose in the grotto. The massive mum pulled a golden horn from an angel's hand, lifted up Santa's red coat, gave a thrust and roared, "Ding Dong Merrily On High on-THAT!!!!" The drunk Santa, headbutted the irate mammoth mother right between her two little piggy eyes. And the juvenile Tubby sank his teeth into Santa's thin, dirty ankle with a look of relish on his fat face. Women screamed and children cried, as Santa and the duo of fatties over-turned the Christmas tree and sent elves scurrying for safety. The manager arrived, sacked the Santa and mollified the obese mum and her plump offspring with selection boxes and half a dozen large pies.
On the way home Tommy said, "It's only starting. The Christmas madness has begun."
I looked at Tubby Nolan, standing on a traffic island yelling, "This Christmas, I will eat my own weight in giblets" and concurred!!!!

Oracles and Dark Forces.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought some consolation to SDLP leader, doctor Alasdair McDonnell, as he sat in a darkened room, waiting for the sun to go down. Meanwhile, arch knave, Alex Attwood, arrayed in doublet and laddered hose, was spreading mischief. "He's a vampire!" yelled Attwood,
"Our esteemed leader Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire! He can't stand the light. He has no reflection and his eyebrows meet in the middle!"
"As a woman," shrieked Margaret Richie, "I can only say, Alasdair hasn't tried to bite MY neck!"
"It would take some fangs to bite through your auld scrawny, Deirdre Barlow neck!" yelled Attwood. "What are we going to DO? Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire, a creature of the night, a blood-sucking monster. We must hammer a stake through his heart!" screamed Attwood. "THEN! I can claim my rightful inheritance."
"Don't stir the buttermilk," said Joe Byrne from Tyrone. "First we must consult the Oracle."
Mark Durkin, sat in a cobwebbed cave, wearing a rabbit-skin cloak. His long, tangled hair hung down to his waist and his dark, brooding eyes seemed to hold all the knowledge known to man.
"MARK!" screamed Attwood. "Don't you know me? It's wee Alex Attwood!"
"Come closer child," croaked the Oracle. "My how big and ugly you've grown. What can I do for you my son?"
Attwood opened his mouth and said, "The reality is..."
"STOP!!!" yelled the Oracle, holding his hands to his ears. "The reality is, is a false doctrine. Once I led my life by, 'the reality is', and look at me now! The reality is, is bunkum and balderdash. You must banish 'the reality is' from your life!"
"But Mark!" screamed Attwood. "You know better than most, that all members of the SDLP start their sentences with, 'the reality is'"
"Better then to be DUMB!" cried the Oracle, gathering up his rabbit-skin cloak and disappearing into a crevice.
SO! all SDLP political messages on TV, from on now, will be in sign language. As to whether Alasdair McDonnell is a vampire or not-we must wait and see. The first sign will be cases of sheep worrying all over Northern Ireland.
Tommy my cat, stirred the ashes in his mother's urn and said, "So, we still don't know! Here we sit with throbbing throats, still not knowing if Alasdair McDonnell is indeed a vampire. I will find out!" yelled Tommy. "I go now to consult with Michael McGimpsey and Nigel Dodds." With Tommy gone a great fear came over me. McDonnell, McGimpsey, Dodds. By Dracula's drawers, I was surrounded by dark forces! I wrapped a loaf of garlic bread round my neck and waited Tommy's return.
OH Lord, God almighty, send down your holy light and keep McDonnell, McGimpsey and Dodds confined to their rooms!!!.

Sammy's Brilliant Skit.

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which provided much needed material for end of the pier comedian, Cheeky Sammy Wilson. Sammy has been low on patter recently, resorting at times to old gags about the troubles, mother-in-laws and knock-knock jokes. But, in his defence, Sammy did do a brilliant skit at the recent DUP conference about new SDLP leader Alisdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights.
"Alisdair McDonnell would make a great air raid warden!" laughed Sammy. "I can see him walking up the Falls Road shouting, "PUT OUT THAT LIGHT! PUT OUT THAT LIGHT!" And wee Alex Attwood running after him shouting, "NO! LET THERE BE LIGHT! LET THERE BE LIGHT! And what about poor Jim Allister?" said Sammy. "Aye what about poor Jim Allister missus? There he sits in Stormount, like the Ancient Mariner, spouting gloom, doom and despondency. A face on him like a bulldog chewing a wasp. A face on him like a Taig at the 12th of July. A face on him like David Ford at a Catweezle convention. Ah, poor wee Jim. It's not really his fault. When Jim was a baby, his mother, a very short sighted woman, used to powder his bum with a well known breakfast cereal. Wee Jim would sit in his playpen all day wearing a nappy, crying from one end and going snap, crackle and pop from the other end. So, don't blame him, life turned him that way."
Then, to the delight of middle-aged women from stout, hardy, farming stock, Sammy stuck a ferret down the front of his baggy trousers and finished with a soft, shoe shuffle. Poor Edwin Poots, was greeted with scorn and derision when he tried and failed to juggle three oranges while singing, "God Save The Queen."
"GET OFF you slabberer!" yelled a farmer from Tyrone. It was left to Nigel Dodds to rescue the show with a brilliant display of magic, which left the audience spellbound. When Nigel produced two eggs from his ears, the crowd went frantic. Gasps filled the hall as Nigel, with a little smile on his face, put the eggs behind his back, yelled, "CARAMBA!" removed his hands from behind his back, opened his fists and revealed two, empty, eggless hands.
"Where in tarnation did the eggs go?" muttered the crowd. The farmer from Tyrone roared, "Thon boy must have stuck them two eggs up............."
The stewards rushed in, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the Tyrone farmer was thrown out on his ear.
Tommy my cat is away giving evidence to the Levinson Inquiry. Tommy took umbrage to a headline in the Cullybaccy Chronicle which stated,
"Cat running across the road causes catastrophe! Catamaran careers carelessly, catapultin Catholic curate into caravan!" Watch the news tonight and see Tommy get stuck into the print media!

How To Look Absolutely Divine and Mysterious.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused fierce consternation at the Northern Ireland bird-watchers' club in Plumbridge. Old Dicky "bird" Santana, lost the plot, went haywire and ran out and ringed a young lady who was waiting for a bus. "She's a bird ain't she?" screamed old Dicky as he was taken away to be plugged into the national grid. Old Dicky's wife, big Pansy said, "I can't understand it. He's usually so quiet, even when I hit him with the coal hammer."
I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, ironing my face, when Tommy my cat sauntered into the room. Tommy looked immaculate in a chocolate-brown, swallow-tailed coat and an emerald-green posing pouch. Tommy looked at me, boaked and said, "Any beauty that was once in that old wrinkled face has long departed, obliterated by time, cigarettes, booze and your penchant for sniffing the exhausts of buses."
"I love the smell of diesel in the morning," I cried. "I have often run three miles with my hooter in close proximity to an exhaust. The bus drivers call me, @the old bag, with her honk up the exhaust'. But don't just stand there Tommy, like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the headlights of a car. Make haste and fetch the sander to remove the laughter lines which criss-cross my face like spaghetti junction." As Tommy tottered out of the room on 8 inch heel, pink stilettos I drank a mug of Doctor Quacker's fountain of youth elixir. It must be good. It was advertised in Exchange and Mart!
I never looked up as Tommy returned. Suddenly all the lights went out. Tommy pulled a coal bag over my head and laughed. "Now, you look absolutely divine, beautiful and mysterious. Soon gentlemen will be saying, "Who is that beauty with a coal bag over her head?"
Oh how we laughed!!!
Later at lunch which consisted of chops, mashed potatoes and 17 green peas, Tubby Nolan came in with a hammond organ under his oxter. Tubby flexed his fingers and went right into, "Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall. Just like Humpty Dumpty I may topple from a wall. But I'll get right back on my feet, and so I tell you all. Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall."
Without a word Tubby picked up the organ and departed. A strange man and yet-I feel myself strangely drawn to him. It's either love, or gravity!!!!

Can A Swan Be Arrested For Jay Walking?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Basil McCrea jettison the junket to San Diego and join the Bogside branch of the Legion of Mary on their annual trip to Knock.
"I have seen the error of my ways!" cried Basil, as he waved a giant flag of Saint Emmanuel, the patron saint of people who refuse to go on junkets.
As soon as the great show was over, Tommy my cat, shivering all over like a nude seal, grabbed me by my Greek orthodox church cassock and yelled,
"There's a swan on the road! There's a swan on the road!"
"Just ignore it and it will go away!" I replied. "It's just showing off." Tommy calmed down, downed a litre of vodka and said in a much milder tone,
"I wonder if Chief Constable Matt Baggot would arrest a swan for jay waking?"
"NEVER!" I cried. "Matt Baggott's love of the swan is legendary. Matt Baggot loses all control when a swan appears in his line of vision. Matt Baggott would give up his life for a swan. Matt Baggott sleeps under a duvet cover embroidered with cute, little cartoon swans playing football. AND! the clincher is, every Christmas, Matt Baggott gathers a cabal of wooden-tops around him and sings, "Swany River."
"Golly!" said Tommy. "What a great film that would make. The heart warming story about the special love between a simple swan and a high ranking member of the PSNI. I bet Johnny Depp could give a great performance as the swan. He could really get under the feathers."
Later that day, at exactly nineteen minutes to four, big Jim Fitzpatrick ran in yelling,
"Hide the Marmite, Tubby Nolan is back in town!!!" I glowered at my Tubby Nolan early warning system and cried, "Man the lifeboats, women and cats first!"
Big Jim brought me to my senses by showing me an erotic photograph of Noel Thompson cavorting with a wooden stile and yelled in fluent gibberish,
"Hide all food! Disguise the bread bin as a small coffin. Turn all bottles of 7up upside down. Tubby never drinks 7down. Destroy all cookery books, menus, stale bread and that photograph of your big,fat aunt Bertha, lying on the beach in Portrush, with her legs in the air like a Christmas turkey!" Tommy hid a wine gum under the sofa muttering, "I would rather by far, be invaded by the Vikings." NOW! all we could do was-wait. Far away in the distance I heard the thud of giant Hush Puppies. Nearer, ever nearer! I couldn't stand it anymore. I crept to the window, peeped out, and there he was. He looked like, "AAAAH! AAAAH"! Will I ever get that horrible vision out of my head?????
Matt Baggott visited me in hospital. He brought me a stuffed, cuddly-swan! Told me to be careful and mind how I went. I just had time to mutter, "Evening all." before the morphine kicked in.

Coyle Refuses To Abdicate.

Great show yesterday kid.
When news of Mr Coyle's abdication came through on the radio, Tommy my cat and I put on matching, plum coloured duffel coats and headed for Shaftsbury Square. Thousands of people were dancing round their tents. Young women were making free with their affections and old codgers were grabbing old codgeresses and then dropping them like hot bricks when they couldn't remember what to do next. Jim Rodgers dressed as a giant, red tomato leaped on the back of a lorry and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! I can confirm that Sean Thaddeaus Coyle has-GONE!!! No more will the people live in fear of the tyrant-Coyle. The last I heard, Coyle was seeking refuge in Lifford."
An old codger, wearing the obligatory flat cap and muffler croaked, "I have seen the demise of Walter Love, John Bennet and now, the biggest rascal of them all, Sean Coyle!" The old codger fell to his knees to give thanks with tears and green puss running freely from his eyes. THEN! a loud, uncouth voice roared, "How's about yease? My name is big Jim McDowell, so it is and I have just got a tweet."
"Don't tell us!" yelled Sarah Travers from the crowd. "Go and see a doctor!"
"Hauld on wee woman!" roared big Jim. I have my finger on the pulse of wee Nor'n Ir'n and the latest news is, Coyle has REFUSED to abdicate!!! I will now read a communique from Herr Coyle."
"Dear subjects, there is a false rumour going round that I am leaving Radio Foyle. That rumour was spread by Gerald Michael Anderson. Anderson has been trying to get rid of me since the day I came here. Me leave Radio Foyle? Me leave a cushy number near my home? Let my answer ring out in Belfast, Stroke City, Strabane, Clougher, Lisburn, Gortin and Cullybaccy. NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! Now, go back to your homes before I set the PSNI on youse!" Tommy looked at me and said, "An Arab Winter, I think not effendi!!!!"
I kicked a lost camel with a notice round its neck stating, "I belong to Sheik Jordie Tuft!
Back home, Tommy and I got out a plate of cold liver and a six-pack of Andrews liver salts. I turned on the radio, just in time to hear Mr Coyle roar,
"Did you ever enter a talent contest?"
Tommy looked at me with surprise and said, "He hasn't lost it. What an astute observation!"
I handed Tommy an IOU for a concur and went to my bed!!!