Did You See It?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which greatly helped old man Zimmer get over the sad, sudden death of Fergus, his pet ferret. "Fergus was more than a ferret!" cried the the old man. "He was also a friend. What will I stick down the front of my trousers NIGH?" he screamed. A kindly, caring, district nurse made the old man forget his sorrow, by hitting him over the head with a child of Prague statue. "The power of religion," croaked old Maggie, who was sitting in the corner teaching crickets how to sit, beg and roll over and play dead. Tommy my cat, sporting a tattoo of Jim Allister on his right buttock, opened a packet of rich tea biscuits with a controlled explosion and said, "We should go to the city of culture at the weekend and see the amazing, "Nitro Five" dancing troupe from Salford, put on a display of clog dancing which will leave you bewitched, bothered, bewildered and breathless." "Listen, Tommy lad," I said, "if thee thinks I want to see clog dancing, then thee must be barmy, so, think on lad, think on!" "Eeh by gum!" said Tommy. "Thee has changed. Ever since Mr Hardcastle made thee foreman at mill, thee has come over all laddy-dah. Thee makes me sick," said Tommy. "It's an awful thing to say, but sometimes I pray for, trouble at mill." "Trouble at mill!" I yelled. "Wash thee mouth out with carbolic soap. Another outburst like that, and thee will hit cobble stones, with thee flat cap, moleskin trousers and clogs. I won't have thee bad mouthing mill. If it wern't for mill, our gruel wouldn't have little bits of pigs' whiskers floating it it. So, think on lad. Pigs' whiskers, Aye! Aye! and bread and dripping don't grow on trees." At twelve o'clock Wendy Austin nearly burst my ear drums when she guldered, "Well folks, it's The BIG day in America. Bronco Obama and Mike Roomy will be battling it out to become the next President of America. Tell us what you think. Later I shall be talking to Jim Allister about his strange, secret hobby of running after butterflies, with a big net shouting, "Come back you wily varmints!" The door opened and Jim Rodgers screamed, "Nigh Nigh, a thousand times, Nigh! to yous all." Tommy looked up and drawled, "Well, if it ain't the old tomato jumper! What brings you round these here parts stranger?" Jim stood there, steely eyed, hands on hips and replied, "I've come for my toy." "You been eating loco weed?" said Tommy. "Let me explain," screamed Jim. "I was playing with my remote control, toy helicopter and it went in to your back yard. Can I have it back--please?" "Sure partner," said Tommy. "Just moosey on out there and get it." When Jim was in the back yard, Tubby Nolan burst in roaring. "Did you see it? Did you see the UFO? It seemed to disappear into your back yard." In came Jim, with a low-hanging sheet from the clothes' line tangled round his head. "ALIENS!" Guldered Tubby. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "It's trying to communicate!" yelled Tubby. "Yous keep it talking, while I run for a camera crew." "I'm sure most of you saw it on the news. Jim Rodgers, with a sheet over his head, waving his arms like crazy and screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" Mark Carruthers, ever the professional, looked into the camera and said, "Well folks, it seems an alien invasion is imminent. I for one am looking forward to it!" "Never nothing worth watching on TV," said Tommy, as he put on a CD of Hugo Duncan's Christmas Hits. NOW! that was scary!!!

Protect Ireland's Coastal Waters

Great show yesterday kid. Jim Allister, not to be confused with any person living or dead, leaped to his feet up at Stormont to make YET another point of order. "Mr Speaker!" he roared. "Are you aware that Gerry Anderson's great shows have been hi-jacked by Sinn Fein and the DUP? I have tried, on many occasions, to get a request played. Mr Coyle, who I am reliably informed is an unrepentant Rossville flats' stone thrower, has steadfastly refused to play, "Hello, hello, who's your lady friend" for me and my dog Victoria. YET! the same Mr Coyle, this very morning, passed on requests to Gerald Michael Anderson, from Sammy Wilson and John O'Dowd. Mr Anderson then played, "When I'm cleaning windows" for Mr Wilson and, "Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes" for Mr O'Dowd. This is a clear breach of the Good Friday Agreement (which I don't recognise) and proof, if proof were needed, that Ulster, is a cold house for Jim Allister." The speaker, in no uncertain terms, told Mr Allister to sit down, dry his eyes and stop his old incessant intrangience. Mr Allister refused and was carried from the chamber and dumped beside the wheelie bins. Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Herman's hermit, pulled up his polka dot, ankle socks and said, "AT LAST! The gridlock has been broken up at Stormont. Alex" It's my party and I'll cry if I want to" Attwood, will soon present a new bill to the house and attached garage.". "Expand Tommy!" I cried. "In the name of Aunt Jane, expand and tell what bill little Alex will bring forth." "A marine bill!" yelled Tommy. "Let me quote an article from the Poleglass Chronicle. "Mr Alex Attwood, minister for the environment, told our reporter yesterday at a car boot sale, "I plan to deliver policy and legislation to promote, protect AND sustain Northern Ireland's coastal waters." "About time!" I cried. "Our coastal waters are out there at the mercy of the elements." Tommy coughed and said, "Mr Attwood, who had just bought 12 CDs of Big Tom at the car boot sale, continued, "When I think of our coastal waters, I think of the wealth of resources, the splendour of its biodiversity, the simple fact of it being a HUGE natural resources to be engaged. This means, it is vital that we concentrate our efforts to protect AND sustain it." "What a speech!" I cried. "It's up there with Churchill's, "We will fight them on the beaches" speech, or General De Gaulle's, "We surrender" oratory. But, what does it mean?" I cried. "What does it mean for the man, woman, child and dog in the street? "Rationing!" Yelled Tommy. "When the bill is made law, the average family will be rationed to building only two and a half sand castles when they go to the seaside." "About time!" I yelled. "Did you know, there are as many grains of sand as there are stars in the sky. Last night, I looked up at the sky and saw only seven stars. So, to Mr Attwood, I say, "Good, but no cigar. Too little, too late! The sands of time are disappearing from our coasts. Ration by all means, but also import sand from Belgium, Switzerland and other countries with a thriving marine coast policy!" Tommy concurred, filthy little feline!

Fake Shenanigans and Red Glitter

Great show yesterday kid. In the hills above Drumquin, the lime kiln men listened to the great show before hibernating for the Winter. To the shouts and yells of, "Goodnight, Jim Bob, Goodnight Pio McSpalter, Goodnight John boy!" the lime kiln men climbed into tea chests, pulled straw over them and went to sleep. When they awake, on the 20th of March, they will be spoonfed royal jelly and the soft flesh of American pumpkins. May the good Lord protect them from hungry bears and frustrated spinsters. Tommy my cat, poster boy for Lyles' granulated sugar, hung his little, blue blazer up on the hook of a song that was playing on the radio and said, "Rambling Joe Mahon must know every road, lane and short cut in Ulster." "Rubbish!" I roared. "The wandering Joe lies sleeping in the back of a UTV, people carrier, after a feed of hotdogs, Muller yogurt and jelly babies. Joe has no idea where he is! He is hauled out of the back seat, plopped down in the middle of rushy ground, handed a microphone and told to get on with it." "The fake, sham, shennigans behind television programmes," said Tommy,"leads me to believe that Jedward may well be cartoon characters." "Of course they are!" I cried. "No human twins could look like THAT!" "I was listening to the lovely Karen Patterson read the six o'clock news. Karen was reporting on Jim Allister's shambolic attempt to jump over the river Boyne dressed as Lord Carson. Suddenly, Tommy my cat rushed in, grabbed the radio, held it high above his head and smashed it on the floor. "I interrupt this programme," yelled Tommy, "to bring you some, breaking news! A weather warning, just issued, has warned the public about fierce turbulence round the back of Tubby Nolan's massive trousers. Motorists, are advised to avoid the area, BUT, if caught in the turbulence, stay in the car and pray." "The tail end of Hurricane Sandy?" I cried. "NO!" roared Tommy, "The tail end of Tubby Nolan!" Two hours later Tommy looked at me, as I stood there wearing a sheepfarmer's body warmer and red, sparkling knickers. "So," said Tommy, "you are determined to go to the Halloween party, dressed as the overweight Lady Gaga?" "Yes, I is," I replied as I pulled the phone off the wall and glued it to my head. "You look-awful!" said Tommy. "You look like Tubby Nolan in drag. How did you get your bust so big?" "Turnips!" I cried. "Two huge turnips painted in delicate skin tones." "You'll be rumbled," said Tommy. "This whole Lady Gaga malarky is going to end in tears." "Utter rubbish!" I replied, as I sailed off into the night with my red knickers glinting under the street lights. OH, the disgrace! Brought home by Matt Baggott and two of his, left, but came back coppers. Tommy, wearing a lovely, paisley dressing gown, stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded and said. "Well, well, well! If it isn't Lady big gub! What happened? Come on, spit it out. Don't just stand there like a witch with an itch." "I was-mugged!" I shrieked. "Mugged, by a gang of little hoodies. They stole my turnips and, right in front of my eyes, hollowed them out and made two horrible macabre, diabolical faces." "Go to bed," said Tommy, "and I'll bring you up a nice cup of diluted, foam rubber. It's supposed to be good for shocks." I pulled the phone off my head and screamed, "I shall never sleep-AGAIN! I was, molested. I got a horrible molestation!" "What on earth did they DO?" cried Tommy, turning pale under the brilliant light of a 5 watt light bulb. I wrung my hands. When the sound of the bells had died down I said, "Oh Tommy, one of the little hoodies, took out a trowel and-and-and........" "Yes? Yes?" Said Tommy. "What did the little hoodie do with the trowel?" I stood there, wild eyed, knees knocking, hot flushes running all over my face, mouth agape and screamed, "The little hoodie scraped all the glitter off my red knickers with the trowel!" Then I collapsed in a twisted, ugly heap. Tommy put on a dear stalker hat, put a pipe in his mouth, began to play the fiddle and said, "Now, what would a little hoodie want with red glitter at this time of night? Something is afoot. Something deep and dangerous is going on. I sense the hand of Professor Moriarty in this!" And before I could stop him, Tommy ran out the door, leaped into a hackney coach and disappeared into the fog. I lay crying into the sheepskin rug. Than the rug said, "BAA!" and ran into the scullery.

It was a simple breakdown in communication.

Great show yesterday kid. The great show was sadly missed by Edwin Poots, who is on a factfinding mission to America, to find out how they deal with the clamour for road signs in Irish. "GEE!" said Hank H. Warmonger. "Better give those guys what they want, before they occupy honest jobs, houses and DUP-exclusive golf courses." "Shinners on the green!" screamed Poots. "Over my grey, stooped, strudel-fed body!" Tommy my cat, masonic mason and Jim Allister's, fashion consultant, hit me on the head with a small, brass, replica of the the Giant's Causeway and said, "I see Stroke City is pulling out all the stops for City of Culture, 2013. Phil Coulter AND Seamus Heaney! That's like having Big Daddy and Giant Hay Stacks on the same team! And ballet," said Tommy. "The Maiden City will be a veritable feast of jumping, leaping, knickers and tights." "Ballet is coming home!" I yelled. "In the 1940's, the Bogside was a hot bed of ballet. Many men were on the dole and spent their time ballet dancing at street corners." "Well bend me over and paddle my rear," said Tommy. "I never knew that! What about opera? Did opera have a big following?" "It did!" I replied. "But opera was confined to the Waterside. The city was divided. The taigs, leaping and jumping, celebrating ballet and the prods, roaring and guldering in praise of opera. Many culture wars broke out at interfaces. The taigs, leaping high in tights and the prods, roaring and shouting with black cloaks flying and Viking horns on their head.". Tommy ruminated and said, "No wonder they built a big wall round it to confine the loonies from normal people." I concurred, muttered, "Pardon!" and retired in confusion to the scullery. Tommy drew a rough sketch of Sammy Wilson's bum on my face with a felt tip pen and said, "Phil Coulter is writing a new song in honour of the occasion. For inspiration, Phil, is drinking numerous mugs of nettle tea and listening to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" on a continuous loop." "Seamus Heaney is writing a new poem," I cried. "There he stands in the bog, a lone solitary figure, a ragged sculpture of the wind, surrounded by snipe and crying out desperately for the muse." "If Seamus wants the muse," said Tommy, "why doesn't he turn on the TV and listen to the lovely, fragrant, Fiona Bruce, read the-news?" NO! NO! Hauld on! Hauld on! Tommy, is not stupid! It was a simple breakdown in communication. Ask the big wigs at the BBC, they know all about THAT!"

Change from analogue to digital transmissions.

Great shows yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, leaped out of bed, rushed downstairs, grabbed me by the throat and yelled, "Today is the 24th of October. Today, is the day that ALL television transmissions change from analogue to digital. What steps have you taken to ensure continuity in our sphere of television watching?" I grabbed Tommy by the ear and lead him to our, the usual suspect's chair and cried, "Shut your scaldie hole and answer the following relevant, pertinent and wild intelligent questions. Question number one. What happens to a TV screen when the signal changes from analogue to digital?" "The picture disappears," said Tommy. "and is replaced with white noise and the screen takes on the appearance of a foggy day in London town." "Question number two, I cried, " Could you describe the sound of, white noise?" Tommy scratched his head and said, "The sound of white noise, could be described as a sort of cracking, sizzling sound." I glowered at the felonious feline and said, "May I refer you to bundle five now, page 157." Tommy grabbed the bundle of evidence and turned to the relevant page. "Question number three," I roared, "which television programmes are paramount in this house?" "That's an easy question," said Tommy. "Our preference for cooking, takes up 100% of our viewing consumption. We are cooking mad. We would be driven to mad, crazy, insane distraction if we were deprived of cooking programmes. COOKING!" yelled Tommy. "I love it! Boiling, frying, roasting, grilling, is my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning!" I spread a llama skin rug on the floor, looked at Tommy and said, "Sit beside me on this decorous floor covering and hark, as I explain why we don't need a digital TV." Tommy sat with his arms round his knees and said, "Your reasons for not going digital better be good, or I will batter the big turnip, you laughingly refer to, as your head." I laughed merrily at the feline witticism and said, "Tomorrow, when we turn on our TV we will be met with the sound of sizzling, crackling and sparking. What does that remind you off?" "COOKING!" cried Tommy. "EXACTLY!" I yelled. "From tomorrow on, we can sit in front of our TV, listening to the sound of white noise and pretending it is the sound of-cooking!" "Jumping jelly beans!" cried Tommy. "How lucky are we? Thanks to digital television, we will have wall to wall cooking on our analogue TV. Hold on!" said Tommy. "What about the loss of picture?" "Steam," I replied. "Clouds of steam wafting from pots, pans, grills and singed hair." "You crafty old crone," said Tommy. "Just one and a half brain cells and you come up with brilliant suggestions like that!" "I could have been a simpleton," I replied, "but I didn't have the Latin."

Bring Back Melody!

Great show yesterday kid. With unrestrained gusto, Mr Coyle got stuck into, "Dellaware" like a man who was searching frantically for his lost childhood. "THAT!" said Tommy my cat, is the sound of a flower child, trying to return to Strawberry Fields." "Take me home country roads!" I yelled. Tommy roared, "Down with hip-hop, rap, garage, grunge and house music! Bring back, Melody!" screamed Tommy. "Give me something I can whistle. Phrasing!" yelled Tommy. "A nice chord progression, a restrained drummer and a horn section, wearing snappy suits and giving off the whiff of grade A cannabis. Beautiful ladies, wearing evening dresses, men in tuxedoes and an absence of trainers, jeans and tattooed faces." "No slappers wearing mini skirts," I cried "which fail to hide thongs, many of which have disappeared up the great divide!" Tommy and I have an unusual way of watching TV. We place the TV in the centre of the room and Tommy watches the screen, while I sit on a milkmaid's stool watching the back. It's a brilliant system I came up with myself, after hearing that strange things happen at the back of TVs. While I watched a scart socket Tommy said, "Look who's on the Tubby Nolan show! Old Edwina Curry. I thought that old bag was dead, buried and forgotten." "What's she saying Tommy?" I yelled from the back of the TV. "She's telling us, the people of Northern Ireland, that we've never had it so good. She says, stop whinging. Start up small businesses. Get on your bike and stop complaining. OH, IT'S ALL KICKING OFF NOW!" yelled Tommy. "Some union members are on their feet. They are not pleased. They are yelling at old John Major's bit on the side, "GO HOME!" they roar. "Shut your big mouth!" "Do you want a riser?" yells another one. NOW, Tubby has intervened. "Shut up, or GET OUT!" he bellows. Oh dear! Oh, dear! Tubby Nolan has shown his true colours. He has denied free speech to the workers and taken sides with old Edwina, who is painted up like a new cart and smirking something horribly." "I KNEW IT!" I cried. "Tubby is a Tory. He has no time for the working man. Tubby Nolan has turned into Ulster's version of Boris Johnson. I bet Tubby hopes to run for parliament in a safe seat in the shires." "BOO!" yelled Tommy, from the front of the screen. "LACKEY!" I screamed at the scart socket. Tommy smirked and said, "One thing is sure, the police will open the big gate for Tubby and his bicycle. The oval one, would never get through the side gate outside, number 10.". Never taking my eyes of the scart socket, I laughed like a drain. Ha-Ha, gurgle-gurgle ha-ha.

Creationism, Evolution or The Third Way??

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped old man Rooney, climb the three steps to the door of the transgender clinic. "Make me a woman" yelled old Rooney. "Woman live longer that men". After a full examination, a doctor informed the old codger that he had left it too late. "Ah, hoots mon" said the Scottish doctor. "Sure, you dinny leave us anything to work with". Tommy my cat, blood donor and close friend of Jim Allister said, "Where do you stand with regard to creationism versus evolution?" Knowing full well that my thinking cap was at the laundry, Tommy, had cleverly backed me into a corner. I strode about, with my hands not behind my back, looked out the window, coughed, blew my nose, cracked my knuckles and said, "With regard to creationism or evolution, I find myself in disagreement with both camps. Why limit our existence to just two choices? I am a fervent believer in the, Third Way." "What third way?" yelled Tommy. "You were either created by God, or evolved from, in your case, pond scum." "It ain't necessarily so," I replied. "Doctor Carl Junket from Geneva has written a book called, "The Third Way" In that book, written on the pages, Carl Junket, puts forward a theory that, nothing exists. You are a figment of my imagination and I am a figment of your imagination. In reality, neither of us exists. There is no planet called Earth. No time, no space, no gravity, no Titanic Quarter. All that exists is, nothing and in a state of nothingness, imagination runs riot. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. You, don't exist. Neither do I. So what I say to you is, "GO HOME and prepare for reality." "Hauld on! Hauld ON!" yelled Mark Durkin. "The reality-IS. Can you hold reality? Smell reality? See reality? NO, but if reality stands for anything, it stands for reality and the reality-IS, the reality always was-IS and always will be-IS." "Nigh! nigh! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "You boys are talking about, creationism, evolution, the third way and reality. Let me, as a simple ex mayor and life long Glentoran supporter, put forward another theory." Jim, sat on the floor in the lotus position and said, "Consider this Hi. Northern Ireland is at the crossroads between two parallel universes. That's why we never get on. Wan universe says this and the other universe says that. We are lost in space!" screamed Jim. "Our only solution is to find a wormhole in space and wriggle through it like wee blind mice. Time, is of the essence!" screamed Jim. "We must find a wormhole and we must find it-NIGH" "Evolution!" yelled Tommy "Creationism and the reality-IS! Roared Mark Durkin. "The Third Way!" I shrieked. "Wormholes!" screamed Jim. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" That was when the men in white coats arrived. It was pretty cramped in the back of the van.

If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?"

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat rearranged the deck chairs on his Airfix model of the Titanic and said, "It still annoys me and Randy Newman that Pluto ain't a planet anymore. If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?" I dropped my feather duster with a, CLANG! and cried, "Has anyone told Pluto that it's not a planet?" "NO!" cried Tommy "And Steven Watson doesn't know that the Irish league may go the way of Pluto.". "They must be told!" I yelled. "But whom will we tell first? How far is it to Pluto?" Tommy began to count on his fingers and said, "Pluto is nearly three thousand, million miles away." "And Steven Watson?" I said. "How far is it to his house?" Tommy got busy with his fingers again and said, "Two and a half miles." "Listen!" I cried. "You go and tell Pluto, while I tell Steven Watson and the first one back heats up last night's toad in the hole." "Sounds like a plan to me!" said Tommy, as we both ran for our coats. "Jim Allister should not listen to Steven Nolan, while driving his car," I said to Tommy. "On Monday, Jim got so angry, he pulled into the verge, put on his hazard lights, whipped out his mobile phone and got stuck into the fat boy about something or other. Motorists looked on in amazement at the solitary man in the parked car, roaring, yelling and shouting, with his neck swollen and his face as red as a turkey. Children, on their way to school, went into hysterics and talked all day about the "bad man." "No one should drive and listen to Tubby Nolan," said Tommy. "Figures just released, show a 56% increase in car honking when Tubby is on the radio." "There should be a warning!" I yelled. "Before the Nolan Show a calm voice should say, "Our next programme contains shouts, roars and gulders and sounds of graphic fatness. Motorists should be aware that their driving ability could be affected by fierce, tarra, fake anger and constant references to food." Tommy picked a peck of pepper off his pullover and said, "I prefer Nolan on TV. You can see what he's doing. When I listen to Nolan on radio, I always wonder what his hands are doing. Just think, the oval one, could be up to anything. Washing his smalls, while still wearing them. Plucking a chicken for a snack. Writing to Crisp makers, asking them if they ship by the ton, or even de-fluffing his massive belly button." After going through nine sick bags, I put Tommy, over my knee and beat him like a carpet, with a rolled up copy of the Syrian Sun. The paper was a little damp, leaving Tommy with some very trendy Arabic words and phrases on his feline rear. He looked very David Beckham, as he ran upstairs to cry.

Jim Rodgers gets A Makeover!

Great show yesterday kid, which never intruded on the feeling of loss and sadness suffered by retired Coco-Pops taster, Brian B. O'Brian, when Robert, his pet fruit fly died suddenly during the night. Speaking to reporters yesterday Brian said, "I would like to thank all who visited the tree hut where I live, or sent flowers. Life goes on. I am encouraged by the words of Rene Descartes who said, "See that bicycle? I got it for a fiver." After Tommy my cat and I got up, we listened intently for the sound of a reshuffle from Stormont and then got on with our lives. Carson, our butler came in with a silver tray bearing the business card of Jim Rodgers. "Send him in Carson," said Tommy, "but search him on the way out. I notice our private stock of Iron Brue is decreasing with every visit that man makes." Jim Rodgers crept in, twisting a flat cap between his nervous fingers. "I need help!" screamed Jim. "I feel I need a make-over to compete with the, cool, with-it MLAs, such as "Lucky" Barry McElduff and "Flash" Jim Allister." Tommy looked Jim up and down and said, "Your trouble my lad, is your, Nigh, Nigh, Nighs. You have been screaming triple nighs for years. It's time for a change. I suggest cutting back to two nighs, OR, increasing your nighs by one which would sound like, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" Jim mounted a small stool and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh!" Tommy and I both shook our heads. The duo of nighs, lacked conviction. Jim took a deep breath, threw back his head and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" "Nailed it!" yelled Tommy. "Made it your own!" I shrieked. "Yipee!" screamed Jim. "I have got my mojo back!" "GO HOME," yelled Tommy, "and prepare for reshuffles!" Tommy and I listened as Jim, raced through Belfast screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH NIGH!---------NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" "There goes a future minister for culture," said Tommy. I concurred! --

Has Mike Nesbitt, sacked anyone else yet?

Great show yesterday kid. Mr Coyle played some great music on Monday. As the hiss of vinyl spread over Northern Ireland, old codgers, lying on hospital trolleys, yanked out catheters and jived in the corridors to the pounding beat of Mud, singing, "Tiger Feet." Tommy my cat, still wearing his pyjamas, ran down the stairs with a look of concern on his pale, sensitive, feline face and cried, "" "Not yet," I replied, "but the day is still young." "Where is it all going to end?" yelled Tommy."How many members can a party leader sack, before he is the last card left in the pack?" "Mike Nesbitt," I cried, "has seen UUP leaders come and go. They all had one thing in common, Weakness! Mike Nesbitt will brook no dissent. Go off message, just one time and you're OUT! No second chances. No appeals. You cross Mike Nesbitt, at your peril. Mike has no wish to be liked. He rules with a rod of iron. Stern of face, he will race all malcontents who pee, into tents. If you're not with him, you're against him. "GO!" he will roar. "If you disagree with me, no room for you in the UUP. The UUP, is mine, all mine. Soon, trains and buses will run on time. Will I unite, with those on the right. I will not say, yes, or answer no. The answer to that question, only Lynda and my chickens know." Politics is SO exciting," cried Tommy. "It reminds me of a spade factory. Someone is always getting shafted." "Nolan is on tonight," I said with a shudder. "Put the splatter guard in front of the television. Last week, his roaring and ranting blew the speakers and wrenched the satellite dish from off the wall." "Fake, manufactured anger," said Tommy. "The Nolan show is like wrestling used to be. Light entertainment, disguised as hard hitting and ground breaking. Big daddy, Nolan, will huff and puff, but no houses will be blown down." "For a fat man," I said, "he sure can jump nimbly on many band wagons. I believe the BNP chappie is on tonight." "A bit late to be complaining about the cost of petrol," said Tommy. "If the BNP drill expensive oil wells, they should receive a reasonable profit for their investment." "It's the birds I feel sorry for," I said. "Covered in thick, stinking, oily, BNP sludge." "Yes," sighed Tommy. "Someone always has to clean up after the BNP." I decked the halls with boughs of holly and said, "Have you seen the "Must Have" toy this Christmas? "It's a Jim Allister doll. As soon as you open the box, it springs out and grabs you by the throat." "Hours of fun for young and old alike," said Tommy. "The Tubby Nolan doll never really caught on," I said. "People soon got tired of pressing its ass, just to hear it say, "Biggest in the country." "Remember the wind-up Noel Thompson," said Tommy, "that used to jump over a stile. Now, there was a toy! Strong, durable, made to last." "Do you still have it?" I asked. "No," said Tommy with a sob. "One day Jordie Tuft asked to see it and it burst into flames." "Pyrotechnics?" I asked. "Oh, no!" said Tommy. "It just went off like a firework". --

Covenants and Intrigues

reat shows last week kid. An old codger from the hills above Drumquin, told Reuters news agency, "Gerry Anderson and to a much lesser extent, Sean Coyle, saved my life last week. A terrible depression came over me last Sunday, when Danny, my pet banty rooster died from flu related symptoms. I hit an all time low. Thanks to the Gerry Anderson show, I am still here today after a sorrowful week. The wake and funeral for Danny, left me bereft of hope. I was ready to end it all, by over-dosing on Hugo Duncan. I nearly had the earphones on my head when fire bug Jordie Tuft roared, "Hi, come here ye boy ye! I was born in a tea chest!" "There are people worse off than me!" I cried, as I ran to the Post Office, to spend my life savings on wine, women and lilting. Tommy my cat, came in from the back yard, where he had been feeding the birds into his own mouth and said, "I lost touch with you, during the big covenant march. Where did you go?" I blushed and said, "I got lost. I found myself in a maze of back streets and next thing I knew, I was standing at the bar of the Felon's club, drinking a pint of Guiness." "How did the naughty little felons treat you?" said Tommy. "Like royalty," I answered. "They sat me up on the bar and bought me a four-green fields' cocktail. They called me, Maeve, their Celtic Queen. I sang, "Mother McCree, in Ulster/Scots, danced a jig and kept up a steady flow of, "Chuckie-ar-lahs." Tommy looked at me in anger and said, "What a tube you are! Drinking in the Felon's club on Covenant day. Why, you are once, twice, three times a Lundy!!" I cornered the lovely Sarah Travers, coming out of a second -hand potpourri shop. "SARAH!" I cried. "What's the matter? You never write. You never call. So, your old nanny isn't good enough for you anymore? Your old nanny, who used to throw you up in the air as a baby and only dropped you 27 times." "Oh, hello nanny Ferocious," said Sarah. "I am rather busy at work with the departure of Noel Thompson. Everyone is pitching in to do the work of the rugged, craggy faced, former anchorman." I looked around and whispered, "'Twas a horrible deed. A dastardly plot hatched when the blindbat flits on high and poisonous reptiles, slither like legless mice over blasted heaths. Cornered in the chamber, where he often ruminated Thompson cried, "IS this a dagger I see before me?" "No," said a man in a suit. It's your P45, now vacate that chamber, others are waiting to use it." "NO!, NO!" said Sarah. "It wasn't like that! It was all very amiable. Noel, just happened to pick up the poisoned chalice. It could have been any of us." "NOT Carruthers!" I cried. "Not the Thane of Socks. Carruthers is the favoured one. Why, the country is ready to follow Carruthers to war, if need be. Watch the moon, lady Sarah. See how she changes. So too, with the BBC. The BBC, is a place of intrigue and plots. A dark, gloomy edifice. The BBC is not a place where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you've came. INTRIGUE!" I cried. "Intrigue, piled on intrigue, until the intrigues take on the shape of a mountain of intrigueous intrigues. LEAVE!" I yelled. "Catch the night boat and flee to UTV. UTV, where the living is free and it's always time for tea." "I CAN'T!" shrieked Sarah. "Alas, I am betrothed to the BBC. They bought me young at a hiring fair in Strabane. HARK! Be careful. Something wicked this way comes!" "What a lovely day," said Tubby Nolan, from the interior of a massive, grey suit. "Sarah, my dear, get back to work. My smalls could do with a good sprinkling of DDT." "You lacky!" I cried. "Tubby Nolan, you are a craven-hearted lacky of Carruthers, the Thane of socks!" Tubby chuckled, rubbed his fat little hands together and yelled, "I am the power behind the throne! It was I who got rid of Thompson, with his rugged, craggy-faced good looks. Carruthers, is my puppet. Soon, others will follow. If the ancient one, Walter Love, doesn't pull his hose up--TO THE TOWER WITH HIM. I am the master NIGH!!!" I ran off screaming into the night, looking for two other witches to babble and gibber with.

How The Ministe of Transport Came Up With the New traffic Regulations In Belfast.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which provided a rare insight into, "Born in a tea chest" Jordie Tuft. How Janet laughed when Jordie explained how to clip a chicken's wing. Old Jordie, is not only alive and well, but seems ready to carry out some strange, curious act which will grab the headlines and astonish the people of Northern Ireland. Having played with fire, Jordie may well turn his hand to flood, famine, or pestilence. When asked by big, Jim Fitzpatrick how he came up with the new traffic regulations in Belfast, Danny Kennedy, minister of transport, explained, "I simply played with my Dinky toys on the kitchen table until I found a solution. I then upgraded the kitchen table method to cover the whole of Belfast. Soon, a giant sugar bowl will be erected at the bottom of the Donegal road. Motorists must enter the sugar bowl from the left, giving way to on-coming traffic from the right. Large teaspoons on dual carriageways, will greatly reduce speed, leading to much greater safety for Lego men." Jim, was left speechless, so he and Danny, talked about Rinty Monaghan, to fill the remaining minutes of the interview. Cut away, to Donna Traynor, standing knee keep in clabber, talking about the poor potato harvest. I could see Tommy my cat was fuming, ready to explode. Suddenly Tommy kicked a small, stuffed, effigy of Steven Nolan and yelled, "This would never have happened under the rule of benign, dictator Noel Thompson. Noel Thompson would not stand by while poor Donna Traynor, was treated like a serf. There she is, standing in the cold, knee deep in mud, talking about the potato harvest, when everyone, even the dogs in the street, know that most potatoes are imported from warmer climes. It's a scare story! A non story! dreamed up by producers, who never ate a spud in their life. The lotus eaters!" cried Tommy."The prawn sandwich brigade. The veal and sushi merchants. Bring back, rugged, craggy jawed Noel Thompson, before Newsline, declines into a cheap version of, "The One Show." "Hear! Hear!" I cried. "Give that cat a lollipop. AND, my I also add, BBC comedy has hit an all time low. Citizen Khan, Not going out, Life with the Flynns and big, Miranda, are an insult to people who grew up with, Hancock, Steptoe and sons, Monty Python and Harry Worth." "Bring back Charlie Drake," yelled Tommy, "Tommy Cooper, Ken Dodd and hamster eater, Freddie Star!" After venting our fury on a lost scarecrow, Tommy said, "SO, Saturday is the big day. When the signing of the Ulster Covenant with Bic pens is remembered.". "I was there!" I cried. "I was only a cuttie of 28, but I remember Lord Carson saying, "Put your names down here boys. If you can't write, just put down an X. And a wee man at the back, with a fag in his mouth and a flat cap on his head roared, "My Lord, how do you spell, X?" "Tubby Nolan is cashing in," said Tommy. "He plans to have a chain of trestle tables along the way, selling tea, coffee, baps and wee buns. Big Audrey, has been baking for the past five years. The whole enterprise, is called, "Tubby's Tuck In" and all proceeds go towards the purchase of a large, industrial, gastric band from the Boeing company." "Too little, too late!" I cried. "Take Tommy to the shipyard and have his lips welded together. Then, and only then, will we see the inner core of rogue planet, Nolan."

Plebeians to the Core.

Great show yesterday kid, which helped lower the blood pressure of Jim Allister, when he rushed to the toilet, only to find that the DUP and Sinn Fein had put superglue on the seat. As Jim returned to the chamber with the toilet seat under his trousers, Sammy Wilson sniggered and said, "Mr speaker, please ask the honorable member to take the seat out of his trousers, before he takes his seat in the assembly." Mark Durkin, put his head in his hands and screamed, "Is this reality I see before me, or a horrible dream, sponsored by Kraft cheese?" Tommy and I were bored. We walked up and down, hands behind our backs, thumbs a twiddle. Tommy looked out the window and said, "You know you're getting old, when the children seem to be getting younger." I pulled clumps of hair from someone's head and yelled, "Two fingers to this insufferable boredom. I feel like Sherlock Holmes, waiting for a case." I pulled my old fiddle from the wall and went into a frantic bout of playing. My right arm was going like a fiddler's elbow. Tommy, looked at me and said, "It might sound better if you reversed the instrument and had the strings at the front." "Rubbish!" I yelled. "I know what I'm doing. I studied under the great Fiddlero. Now there WAS a fiddle player! He could make the fiddle talk." "What did it say?" said Tommy. "Let me out of the case!" I replied. "Fiddlero, was also a ventriloquist." Tommy scrawled, "Kilroy wasn't here!" on the wall, turned to me and said, "What do you think of chief whip, Andrew Mitchell, and all this talk about effing and blinding and calling the police Plebs?" I jumped into an empty tea chest, picked up a bull horn and yelled out, "In Roman times, The Plebs, were the general body of FREE land owning citizens, as distinguished from slaves. The Plebs, were skillful people and usually quite wealthy!" "So, it wasn't an insult?" said Tommy. "Far from it!" I yelled from the tea chest. "Most people in Northern Ireland, farmers, shop keepers, teachers and policemen would come under the heading of, Plebeians!" "What about Gerry and Sean?" asked Tommy. "Plebeians to the core!" I yelled. "FREE, skilled men, making their living by the Roman art of, oratory." Tommy sucked my thumb and said, "SO, Mrs Coyle was right, when she wanted to call her sprog, Thaddeaus." "Well, not really," I said. "Calling a Plebeian Thaddeaus, could suggest illusions of grandeur and might well get up the nose of the Emperor. NO! Sean, was a good choice. A good, Plebeian name if I ever heard one.". "He would have suffered at school," said Tommy, "had he been christened, Thaddeaus. Can you imagine the names the other children would have called him. Thad, Thaddy, the Roman Emperor." ""I can well imagine," I said, climbing out of the tea chest. "Yet, Mr Coyle, still has a proud, Roman Plebeian name in the form of, Coylus Interuptus." "I never get that joke," said Tommy. "I hear Cardinals, Bishops and men of the cloth, going into gales of laughter, but it just goes over my head." "You'll understand when you're taller," I replied. " Tom!" I yelled to a friend across the street. "Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom!.....TOM!!!

Mark Carruthers and The VIew

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly aided 79 year old Skipper O'Gill, as he set off on his epic voyage to cross the Atlantic in a kitchen sink. Skipper, seemed well prepared for the journey. He had two table tennis bats to row with and a sliced loaf and a hard boiled egg tied round his neck. When asked by a hard nosed hack from the Derry Journal, how he propsed to bail if water got into the sink, Skipper, laughed and said, "I will simply remove the plug and the water will run out. People watched as Skipper went in and out with the edd of the tide. By nightfall, Skipper could be heard under Derry bridge singing sea shanties and yelling, "Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink!" Tommy my cat and I leaped to our feet as Mike Nesbitt brought an hysterical crowd to fever pitch at the UUP convention with a defiant yell of, "GO HOME! and prepare for, opposition!" "A ground breaking speech!" cried Tommy. In the distance I heard a far away rumble as the back woods men in Tyrone and Fermanagh, broke cover and stampeded to the centre ground. Left alone in the back woods, Ken Maginnis, ambled off into the darkness like a brown bear, eating wild berries as he went. Tommy watched as I burned ticks from my body with a red hot poker and said, "What is your view of the View?" I looked out the window and said, "I can see clearly now the rain has gone." Tommy gave licence for his face to show exasperation and yelled, "I speak of the NEW, bespoke BBC, show, tailored for Mark "Socks" Carruthers. The new, talk show is called, The View, and features Mark, putting blunt, hard nosed questions to the same old faces we have seen and heard, over the past thirty years." "Oh, I saw that!" I cried. "Mark asked two gentlemen what Mike Nesbitt, needed to do to revive the UUP party. After talking about it for ten minutes both gentlemen said they didn't know AND, Mark said, he didn't know either! Next day, people talked of little else as stage coach horses were changed at great Victoria station." "The View," mused Tommy. "I don't think much of the name. Why not, the View from The Beeb? The View from the bridge, or the View from the rear window?" That's Tommy. Always pushing the envelope. Always thinking outside the box. Always getting behind the back four and passing to the extra man. Hungry drunks parted, like the Red Sea, in the chip shop as Tubby Nolan, burst through roaring, "Make way! Make way! Certified glutton coming through!" "Why Mr Tubby," said the owner. "Hungry again? It's not more that twenty minutes since you left with a barrow load of fish suppers." "Less talk and more frying!" yelled Tubby. "I want a quadruple chip and a pentagon fish. A plethora of mushy peas, two handfuls of salt and half a pint of vinegar." "Certainly Mr Tubby," said the owner. "Anything else?" "Yes!" roared Tubby. "Twenty toothpicks and a strong bucket guaranteed to withstand fierce, projectile vomiting." As Tubby made his way outside, pulling his snack behind him on a little red wagon, the owner said to his assistant., "Marcus, take a spade and a torch and go dig another acre of potatoes. I fear the galloping glutton, will be back!"

Nostalgic for the past!

Great show yesterday kid, which caused great confusion and consternation up at Stormont. Wee Barry McElduff, was just about to put the kettle on for a cup of tay for everyone, except, Jim Alister, when Mr Coyle yelled, "There's nothing about that! You're a liar!" A great feeling of nostalgia swept over the MLAs. Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness, who were sitting on Alex Attwood's back, sharing a bap, stared into each other's eyes and said, "Remember when we used to carry on like that? The insults, shouting each other down. Each one calling the other a liar. So much time wasted on petty point scoring. Now, we live in harmony, each aware of the other's needs. Each ready to defend the other against brick bats, threats and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Jim Allister, sitting alone in a corner, with a jam sandwich in his hand and a red face on his shoulders roared, "Sean Coyle is my hero! I model myself on Sean Coyle. It was from him, I learned not to trust anything, or anybody." Jim leaped to his feet and screamed, "I follow Coyle, the way a hungry lion follows a missionary. Coyle, taught me to be rude, disruptive, unforgiving, loud, disparaging, annoying, boring, unremitting, bombastic and a right gulpin." Jim, crushed the heel of his jam sandwich under his foot and shrieked, "Here's to Coyle, a man with no insight, hindsight, and very little sight in his bad eye!" In the silence which followed Wee barry McElduff said, "Will I wet the tay boys? The burner is lit and I'm going to keep her lit!" All this happened, so Lord Laird could eat his porridge and make merry in an inn with plenty of room. We stand now and shake the pins and needles out of our legs. I looked at Tommy my cat having a cat nap in my chair and yelled, "Tommy, if you're going to make a habit of breathing, at least do it quietly." Tommy leaped to his feet, still wearing a black armband in memory of Noel Thompson and roared, "Ah, shut your mouth, you old harridan! All you ever do is complain. Go and get a job. Plenty of villages are looking for an idiot." "How dare you!" I cried. "I was at Queen's university." "Not as a student!" shouted Tommy. "When you were six years old, your father, who was a chimney sweep, took you to Queen's university and rammed you up all the chimneys." "It still counts!" I yelled. "I WAS, at Queen's university!" "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers, creeping out of the cubby hole under the stairs. "Is this any way to behave? You two, should be setting an example to the Sudan, Iran, Syria and the plethora of inter-faces we have here in wee Belfast." "Jim is right," said Tommy, putting the sledge hammer back in the corner. "I'm sorry," I muttered, lowering the battle axe. "That's better," said Jim. "Now come home with me and we'll jump over giant tomatoes until mammy calls us in for milk and cookies." You may have seen it in the sports pages and Steven Watson, put it well when he did a piece to camera. "Once again, ex lord Mayor, Jim Rodger's trailing foot let him down when he tried and failed to win the coveted, world tomato jumping championship, held at the moment by Mexican, Manuel Labour. Speaking after the leap, Jim said, "I'm working on the trailing leg and hope to bring the tomato jumping championship to 'Norn' 'Iron in the near future. If the good Lord's willin' and the creeks don't rise!"

MLAs must demonstrate they are hard workers.

Great show yesterday kid. The combined effort of you, Sean and Janet, helped quell a riot at Saint Jimmy's home for the old and infirm over a shortage of catheters. Old 98 year old Max Miller roared, " I stood toe to toe with Hitler, Albert Speers, Gorbals, Hess, Rommel and Hilda Brune and now, in the Autumn of my life, you expect me to go catheterless! Today, I stand proudly and unsteadily on this commode and cry, "Up with this, I shall not put!  I shall present myself today in the clinic in full dress uniform and demand that a catheter be inserted. If the answer is, NO!  I will stand smartly to attention, salute and pee my trousers, while singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary!" Old Max, was overpowered and taken off on a trolley while still roaring, "Even Hitler, for all his high spirited pranks, jolly japes and school boy foolishness, would not stand idly by and watch an old soldier pee his trousers!" 

Tommy my cat, prospective candidate for the Upper Bann constituency, read Mike Nesbitt's, new pamplet. "Going forward, while looking back" and said, "I see where Mike's coming from, but I've been there and the last bus out, is half past eleven in the morning!"

"The Back Woods!" I cried. "You talk of, the Back Woods in Tyrone and Fermanagh. Strange, weird tales emerge from the Back Woods. Not even the Discovery channel will venture in there. Did you not hear of the giant footsteps left by the Back Woods yeti?" 

"Rubbish!" cried Tommy. "It was merely Ken Maginnis, wearing a big pair of UDR boots."

I gazed at Tommy, as he sat on an upturned bucket, wearing a lovely, tartan, maternity dress, topped off with a snappy, red, Egyptian fez.

"Tommy," I said, "when you are elected by a veritable landslide in the next election, what do you plan to do?"

 "Hit the ground running," said Tommy. "First, I will put out a tender for the erection of a naughty step for Jim Allister. I will then propose, that ALL MLAs turn up for work at six o'clock  each morning, wearing overalls, or boilersuits. MLAS should look like real workers, not pampered pets.

Before MLAs leave the chamber at night, a small boy will smear dirt and grime over their faces. This, will demonstrate to the public and others, that MLAs  are as hardworking as coal miners, or ice cream men."

  "You're a hard task master Tommy cat" I said. "Hard as flint. Make buggers graft for their brass."   Tommy, drew himself up, put a clenched fist up in the air and roared,

"As the first cat elected to Stormont, I shall not pussy foot around!"     

-- 

Assmosis!!

Great show yesterday kid and, Congratulations! on being the number one radio show for single women in the 21-34 age group, who stay in on Saturday nights to wash their Hereford cattle. Getting a cow into a shower is a precise maneuver which requires patience and much frenzied activity from the left lobe of the brain. Tommy my cat wrote,"Repeats", on the giant blackboard, turned to the assembled me and said. "Today class we will discuss television repeats, sometimes called, re-runs. If we go back in time, we find repeats/re-runs, were palmed off on an unsuspecting public as, "Another chance to see!" NOW!" yelled Tommy, "The Illuminati, who manipulate our brains, have come up with a new wheeze. Re-runs/repeats, are now branded as, "Classic Episodes!" So, we now have, Classic, Who wants to be a Millionaire. Classic, Fools and Horses and of course, Classic, Classic cars. Where will it all end?" screamed Tommy. "What will be the next marketing ploy to foist off old rubbish on the general, sergeant and private public?" I put up my leg and cried, "Please Sir, as the first and only Northern Ireland brain donor may I make a suggestion? All the voices in my head and I agree that television moguls will stop at nowt. The next marketing ploy will be anonymous emails and phone calls threatening people to watch, such and such, or bad men will come in the middle of the night to behead your garden gnomes and place cling film over your letterbox." "Get out of this classroom!" yelled Tommy. "And take your Simpson's schoolbag with you!" I stood out in the hall, listening to Tommy speak to an empty room with authority and oratory, bordering on genius. What a cat! And he can also whip up a mean tortiera di cozze. After a light supper of lard balls and chocolate, Tommy wiped his lips, took a delicate sip of Buckfast wine and said, "Did you know that a terrible plague is sweeping the western world?" "PLAGUE!" I screamed, running to the door and yelling, "Bring out your dead!" "This plague is called Assmosis and it's very infectious," said Tommy. "In theory, if you stand close to someone with a big ass, your ass will grow bigger, attracted by the gravity of the bigger ass.". I grabbed my ass in both hands and ran to a mirror. No signs of Assmosis yet! There I stood, with two hips on me as lean as a starved greyhound. "Tell me more Tommy!" I screamed. "I don't want to have an ass as big as the back of a bus, which never turns up on time!" "The only precaution," said Tommy, "is to stay away from people with big asses." I blanched, turned white, shook all over and screamed, "Tubby Nolan, is coming here tomorrow night to collect the Christmas club money! What shall I do? If I stand close to Tubby, my ass will expand like a Goodyear blimp!" "Push the money under the door," said Tommy, "and hold a heavy, expensive, industrial magnet next to your ass, to help fight the gravitational pull of Tubby's massive rear." I ran to the phone to order a magnet--then, I stopped and said, "Hauld on! Hauld on! You're taking a hand at me. I went to Sunday school. I read about Assmosis in the bible. He was the boy who parted the Red Sea, so William of Orange, could cross the Boyne and sign the Ulster Covenant, with a swan's feather. You had me going there!" I said to Tommy. Assmosis, indeed! Assmosis, my ass!

Rory McIlroy! What an ambassador for Ulster!

Great shows last week kid made all the more spectacular when Mr Coyle announced he has been appointed official owl counter, by the Northern Ireland Bird Brain Society. The old nighthawk will walk the darkened roads, clicker in hand, counting everything that goes, too wit-too woo! A heck of a job for a cub, who left school with just a D in basket weaving. Perks include free binoculars and all the mouse pellets he can carry in one hand. Nice! Tommy my cat leaped in the air and cried, "And it's yet another major golf trophy for Northern Ireland's favourite mop top, Rory McIlroy!" I swung my umbrella at a duck egg and cried, "There's no stopping the lad. What a sportsman! What an ambassador for Ulster!" "We must honour him!" yelled Tommy. "We must name some Northern Ireland landmark after Rory McIlroy!" I ruminated, pondered, thunk and cried, "We could rename the Titanic Quarter, the Rory McIlroy Quarter. Just think of all the putts, Rory has sunk." "It's good, but it's not right," said Tommy. "I propose we rename the Giant's Causeway, the Rory McIlroy Causeway." Let me be the first to second that!" I yelled, as I filled two pewter tankards with methelated spirits and white lemonade. "Still hungry?" I asked Steven Nolan, as I watched him pull a mouldy, Mother's Pride loaf out of a wheelie bin. "A little peckish," grunted Tubby, as he pushed the loaf into his mouth with the heel of his hand. "How goes the glittering career?" I asked. "From strength to strength," replied Tubby. "In fact, the BBC are grooming me to be the next Joe Mahon. I will go round Ulster, in a wee Fergie tractor, talking to boring, old codgers, making jam with the Mothers' Legion, fishing, sheep shearing, horse-shoeing and doing all the strange things which Culshies do. The programme will be called, "Roaming with Nolan.". I hope my country mentor and sidekick will be old Jordie Tuft. Unfortunately, money could be a problem." "Is old Jordie asking for a large fee?" I asked. "Oh, no!" said Tubby. "It's just that the BBC, might not be able to afford the exorbitant amount of money that's being quoted for fire insurance." "Here's an old country saying," I said. "What does it mean when a countryman stands with his back to the fire?" "I don't know," said Tubby. "What does it mean when a countryman stands with his back to the fire?" I picked up a drum and said, "It means his trousers are on fire! BOOM-BOOM!

Nothing to Do Now But Wait For A Sign From Paul Clarke or Sarah Travers

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, came away from the window muttering,

"If rioting were an Olympic sport............"

"Shut your big mouth!" I yelled. "You know the rules. No talk about religion, politics, sport, or Steven Nolan in this house. If you must talk about something, talk about the early morning beauty of Julie Goodyear and Coleen Nolan in Celebrity Big Brother."

"Grey faced bags," snapped Tommy, "with all the allure of soggy chips on a wet Monday morning!"

"Why do they do it?" I cried. "Why do they debase themselves by living in a goldfish bowl for the titillation of the great unwashed?"

"Money!" said Tommy. "For some, it is a last throw of the dice. Oh how sad, to see the once chipper, pink-faced, cherub, Julian Clary, turn before our eyes into Rigsby from Rising Damp. He shuffles round the house in ill fitting cardigan, bedroom slippers, dead behind the eyes, muttering, "I miss my wee dog, I wonder if she misses me?"

"Any woman," I roared, "who believes in anti ageing cream, should take a good look at the grey, putty face of Julie Goodyear! A zombie!" I yelled. "It will take more, I say, it will take more than leopard skin to bring the sparkle back to old Bet Lynch!".

"Leave them!" said Tommy. "They are irrelevant." 

Tommy blushed and said, "I must confess to having a crush on blonde, beauty, Sarah Travers."

"You could do worse," I replied. "Sarah is a fine and fair maiden. Lovely hair and complexion and I hear she whips up a mean steak and kidney pie." 

Tommy, looked at me, giggled and said, "Have you still got a "Thing" for Paul Clarke?"

I blushed to the roots of my hair extensions, fluttered my hands, knocked my knees together and replied, "The greyer that little newshound gets, the more I love him. Oh, how I would love to kiss his breaking news mouth and press him close to my cameo brooch. Hold him, enfold him, never let him go, until the sun goes out and the stars fall from the heavens like skin flakes from Julie Goodyear's face."

"How romantic AND poetic!" said Tommy. "You must have got it bad."

 "I have got it bad!" I yelled. "I have never had it badder. Under this olive-green body warmer, six ganseys and four simmets, beats a heart.

A heart, fair bursting with love, affection and cholesterol for little Paulie Clarke. OH, PAUL!" I screamed, "OH, PAUL! Give me a sign! If you really love me, comb your hair over your eyes when you present, "UTV Live Extra" tonight, or wear a Hitler moustache and I will know that you love me too!"

"OH, Sarah Travers!" roared Tommy. "Give ME a sign! Dye your hair ginger, when you read the news tonight, or wear a black eyepatch over your right eye!" 

Nothing to do now but wait. Will one of us, perhaps both of us, get our prayers answered by a ginger haired Sarah Travers and a Hitler moustached, Paul Clarke.  Stranger things have happened!  

The Lad Was Only Having A Bit Of Fun!

Welcome back kid. Tommy my cat and I are desperately seeking great shows this week. While you were away in Nepal, looking for the elusive, sabre toothed Nepal washer woman,two men stepped up to the plate. First up was, Gerald Michael Kelly. Gerry Kelly played good music and conducted tough, hard hitting, Paxmanesque interviews. "When did you first appear on stage?" he snapped to a young, female singer. "What did you have for your dinner on Sunday?" he yelled to Anthony Toner. Then, along came Coyle, all pleasing Coyle, slow talking Coyle, slow walking Coyle, along came, I'll play anything, Shawney Coyle. Coyle's musical choices were many and varied, ranging from, "The French Marseillaise" to, "How much is that doggie in the window. Bow Wow." Mr Coyle, came over as a man well versed in the art of radio. His voice was strong and confident. His posture, regal. Just by listening, one could tell that this man had studied at the feet of Hugo Duncan. "Ah, hello Kathleen, And how are you this fine morning? You what Kathleen? You want me to play "Killing the pigs in Kerry" by Willie John McCracken? What's that Kathleen? Willie John, goes by the name of the "Goose Man". Aye, I did know that Kathleen. Goodbye. Goodbye! Goodbye! Good luck. Good luck." Tommy my cat, looked and me and said, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" "I am not responsible for the wrongs of Mr Coyle," I answered. "I speak not of Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I refer to Prince Harry, soldier, ginger nut and third in line to the throne. Did you not see the shameful photographs in the Sun? There he was, playing pool, naked as a jay bird, smiling, laughing. The camera flash illuminating his ginger fuzz. The whole world is laughing. Everyone is calling him, flash Harry. The pound has dropped lower than the Yen for 24 years. The stock market is in turmoil. Old ladies, wearing lace cuffs and smelling of lavender, are lying on hospital trolleys all over the country. The DUP have called a special, secret meeting. Jim Allister's face got so red he looked like a tomato and Jim Rodgers, took a running jump and leapt over him. All police leave has been cancelled and Mark Durkin, is running round in circles yelling, "Is THIS the reality?" I looked at Tommy, standing there like a feline Cromwell and said, "Be off with you cat and your puritanical plotting for the tumbrel, the pillory and the ducking stool. The lad was only having a bit of fun. NEVER, have so many called so loudly, over something so little!" Tommy slouched away muttering, "I thought everything that happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas." "NO MORE!" I cried. "This is the age of Aquarius! Away with clothes! Let the dog see the rabbit and the devil take the hindmost!" I then threw off all my clothes and ran naked through Belfast, pursued by a cabal of Chinese dry cleaners, brandishing smoothing irons. I don't have wrinkles, just stretch marks, after swallowing a beach ball. It's a long story. Perhaps, some other time.

Noel Thompson! Don't Walk Away Like Shane! Come Back To Our Screens!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which led to a staggering increase in apathy among the lime kiln workers in Drumquin, with regard to membership of the EU and courting in the kitchen. Old Juniper McRoach, bounty hunter and life long member of "Our Boy's", appreciation society said, "Boys! Listen boys! I feel it incumbent on me to disassociate myself from everything Archduke Franz Ferdinand said in the House of Hadsburg, on Pancake Tuesday, 1894." This was greeted by wild cheering from the Drumquin lime kiln men, but one wee nuck at the back, lowered the somber tone of the occasion by yelling out, "Too Little! Too Late!" "The end of an era," said Tommy my cat. "The dogs bark and the caravan moves on. What strange, sad times we live in, when the foundations, the VERY rocks, which we cling to like veritable limpets, are taken away, leaving us bereft of truth, honesty and moral compass." I looked up from the floor, where I had been kicking and flinging and yelled, "We'll never see his like again! He was like a father to us. Anyways there in times of trouble. As rugged as the Mourne mountains, where he loved to walk. Leaping stiles with the sure footed expertise and bonamie of a mountain goat. NOEL!!" I screamed. "NOEL THOMPSON!!! Don't go! Don't walk away like-Shane. Come back NOEL! Return to our television screens. Sit once more, beside the lovely, fragrant Donna Traynor and reassure us that Ulster, in spite of its trouble, is still the 97th best place in the world!" "The dynamic duo!" roared Tommy. "Noel and Donna. John Steed and Emma Peel. George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Fred and Ginger." "George and Mildred!" I cried. "They had sexual chemistry. They had the trust of the people." "They could walk and talk at the same time," sobbed Tommy. They could sit on armchairs, with the poise, grace and dignity of royalty. And the way they looked at each other! Doe-eyed Donna and craggy, rugged Noel. News anchor and anchoress. Ulster's Posh and Becks!" Tommy, rendered his garments, pulled his hair out by the roots and screamed, "Who was the scurvy knave who decreed that Noel Thompson, should move to radio and Mark "Socks" Carruthers, should sit on his throne?" "Faceless men!" I cried. "Nameless, faceless men have intrigued to oust Noel Thompson, the King of Newsline and replace him with the pretender, Carruthers." "A cruel callous coup!" yelled Tommy. "In the dark, gloomy corridors of the BBC, plots have been hatched. Around the water cooler, traps and snares have been laid. Machiavellian machinations have been hatched by men with suits, cocking snoots at the people of Ulster, who stand proudly under the Noel Thompson banner." "To the streets!" I cried. "Today, we march on the bastille of the BBC. Heads will roll! Tumbrels will jolt and sway over cobblestones. Old crones will knit ganseys as heads fall into baskets like turnips." Tommy, ruminated and said, "Stall the tumbrel. I have a better plan. Let's write a sharp letter to the chairman of the BBC." And, that's what we did!. I will now read our razor sharp letter to the BBC. "Dear Boss, your horrid actions, we will not thoal. Please reinstate, stile jumper, Noel.". To make the letter sound more legalistic, Tommy, picked up a green crayon and scrawled at the bottom of the letter. PS. This is no cod!!!!!

Sport's Commentator is Running out Of Superlatives!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Olympic superstar, Usain Bolt, wonder if Mr Coyle could be his long-lost uncle, Rusty Bolt, who stowed away on the good ship Sabrina en route to Derry. Tommy my cat, sitting glued to the television screen, wearing a very skimpy vollyball outfit yelled, "These are the BEST Olympic games I have seen in the last four years. The running and leppin' are a joy to watch and team GB, has made the BBC forget all about Syria, Iran and the debt crisis. It almost seems all our troubles have gone away and been replaced with men and women in knickers running, swimming and leppin' like veritable gazelles and dolphins!" "It will all end in tears!" I cried. "Mark my words. It was a bad omen when busty, blonde Boris Johnson, hung from a wire like a village idiot. It was a portend for hunger, poverty and hard times. Therefore I say onto thee Tommy cat, Go home and prepare for instant, insidious insolvency! The yoke of poverty and misery will be placed round your neck like an albatross. And men, now abed, will rise and cry forth, "This is some hanlin'" Tommy roared, "Stop standing there like the very ancient mariner and go tell your tale of woe to someone who cares!" So I did! I told Nigel Dodds and Nigel is going to set up a select committee. Who said our MLAs just sit up at Stormont twiddling their thumbs? When I burst into Nigel's office, neither of his thumbs were a twiddle. He was reading, "50 shades of Grey" and whistling, "Happy days are here again." "Poor Steven Watson, has had a busy year," said Tommy. "How many times have we seen young Steven, standing drenched to the skin on a cold, windy golf course? How many times has he built up our hopes, only to dash them later with sad, woeful tales about bunkers and bad luck?" I threw a rotten tomato in the general direction of Iran and said, "At the start of the year, Steven Watson had a store of superlatives which any sporting commentator would give his eye teeth for. He even had a superfluous of super, smart superlatives stored in his garden shed. Now, the man who tells us what is going on, even though we can see it with our own eyes, is down to just seven superlatives, AND, one of the superlatives is bent and may be a counterfeit!" "Thundering, galloping Usain Bolts!" yelled Tommy. "This is serious! What will poor Steven do if he runs out of superlatives when Rory McIlroy, is putting on the 18th green to win the match AND a selection of superlatives from a very excited, Steven Watson. What is Steven supposed to DO? Stand flapping his gums, with his mouth open?" "Not if I can help it," I cried. "Today, I want everyone who listens to the Gerry show, to send superlatives to, Steven Watson, Care of the BBC, Belfast. So, come on folks, search the attic, the garage and the cubby hole under the stairs. If you were hoarding superlatives, now is the time to send them to a worthy cause. SSS. Send Superlatives to Steven. "Great idea!" yelled Tommy, "But may I address Mr Jordie Tuft. Jordie, old pal, please don't send in, "Keep her lit, 'till we get out". It is not really appropriate for sporting events. Hope your bum is healing nicely. Yours sincerely, Tommy the cat."

The BBC Coverage of The Olympic Games Is just Too Much!! Blanket Coverage Leads to Suffocation!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows, which brought back memories of the great depression, when an old codger, in a battered model T Ford, was stopped on route 66 out of Derry and charged with vagrancy. The codger, who insisted his name was Tom Joad, was found to be pissed on the grapes of wrath. "GOLD!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Another gold medal for team GB. Britain, has hit the mother lode. What a bonanza! It's a veritable Klondike! GOLD!!! Yet another Gold medal for team G!" I dusted the baby grand accordion, breathing heavily through my nose, yet saying nothing. "Stall the weddin' " yelled Tommy. "What's got up your hooter, why are you not cheering on team GB?" I spun round, duster in hand and yelled, "How can you sit there and give credence to an Olympic games, which is clearly under the influence of, DRUGS?" Tommy reeled back like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah and cried, "How dare you! How dare you, accuse the athletes of being on drugs!" "I speak NOT of the athletes!" I yelled. "Every athlete is as drug free as Tom Cruise, at a Scientology, Saturday night, fish fry." I quickly assembled an Ikea, flat pack podium, mounted it and roared, "J'accuse the sports commentators of broadcasting, while being high as a kite on illegal substances, which induce frantic excitement, bordering on hysteria." A small worried frown, with a ball, played over Tommy's face. "Have you heard them?" I yelled. "Have you heard the over-the-top, excited shrieks, yells and screams coming from our sports presenters? Every other word is, ""stunning, amazing, stupendous and world beating. I heard one drug fuelled moron scream out in a frenzy, "Britain doesn't have a competitor in this race, but if we did, I'm sure they would shatter the world record and win by a mile!" "So they gloat a little," said Tommy. "Let them have their day. The games got off to a bad start. Remember Boris Johnson, hanging from a wire, like a male version of Barbara Windsor?" "It's not just that," I moaned. "The BBC coverage is just too much. Wall to wall coverage and instant replays ad infinitum and ad nauseum. And, being ad free, no commercials to break up the continual, running, swimming, cycling, and leppin'. Oh, what I would give to see the loathsome tenor from, Go Compare. The Olympic games," I shrieked, "is nothing but a glorified school sports day! The BBC has lost all sense of balance. Blanket coverage leads to suffocation. I can't take anymore!" I yelled. "Tommy, in the name of Allah, put on a DVD of "The Quiet Man" or, "2,000 leagues under the sea". "NO!" roared Tommy. "Sebastion Coe, has worked hard for seven years. You will not be excused from the Olympic games. You will sit there for three weeks and enjoy it like the rest of us." "Joe Mahon!" I yelled. "Put on Joe Mahon! How I would love to see the bold Joe shear a sheep, or try his hand at quilt making." "NO!" cried Tommy. "These Olympic games cost eleven billion pounds and you will sit there and enjoy them, or I will tie you to the chair." I gave in. I sat in a stupor, as a voice, quivering with hysterical excitement screamed, "And here comes the British competitor in eighth place! What an amazing, stupendous performance from an athlete, giving his all for Britain. And LOOK! Boris Johnson, has left his seat and given the glorious Briton a big, wet kiss on the mouth. What a story he'll have to tell his grandchildren, if he's that way inclined. Simply amazing, stupendous, brilliant, magical! Now, sit back in your seat and enjoy the whole excited, amazing, stupendous race over again, in slow motion!"

The Weather Forecast from Frank Othello Mitchell as Wee Chinese Cutties win more Swimming Medals.

Great show yesterday kid, which greatly helped team GB, in their quest for gold in the Olympic games. "It's all good!" said David Cameron, as he was shown round a state-of-the-art sewage works in Cullybaccy. The little man, who gave Mr Cameron the guided tour, kept roaring, "I eat, drink and sleep sewage Mr Cameron, like my father before me." It was obvious the wee man was hoping for an OBE. Obnoxious, boring egidt. Tommy my cat came down the stairs in a state of languidness. I have seen Tommy in a languid state before, but this was bordering on lethargy. Tommy, wearing cherry red doublet and laddered hose put one hand to his head and opined, "Let us sit on the sand and talk of the death of Kings. The year goes on a pace and odds bodkins, the nights are drawing in. 'Tis August. The dog days of Summer. All too soon the sun, the great shining orb in the sky, will chart a course, taking it away from mortal man. Dark then, will be the day and of short duration. To frolic in the dark day, will be seen as a sign of madness. The prancing of a fool, who, devoid of brain, is seen by all as a weather vane, a stopped clock. His dance has all the jollity of a corpse on the gibbet. Then, will old men slumber before Winter fires, telling stirring tales of battle and merry romps in my lady's chamber. Old grey heads, chattering nonsense, like the crickets in the hearth. Men of youth, men of vigour, will champ at the bit. Confined indoors, they will verily punch and batter their nagging spouse. Children, now abed, will dream of sunlit streams, pigs' bladders, flying high into the bright blue yonder and picking flowers with the beauty and radiance of the jewels in the King's crown. Apart from that," said Tommy, "the Winter will be generally mild, with little or no snow or frost." "Thank you Frank Othello Mitchell!" I roared. "Attend me here! Hold this duck's legs wide open while I stuff it with onion, sausage meat and herbs." At the mention of the word, stuff, the duck gave a Quack and flew out the open door. Tommy opened a tin of beans, poured them out on the table and went to make some toast. Yes, it would be toast on beans-again! Tommy and I sat watching wee Chinese cutties win all the swimming medals at the Olympic games. "Well done Chew You!" yelled Tommy, as a Chinese child of four, broke the world record by two hours. "Swimming is very boring," I said. "To make it more interesting, take away the water and make the competitors swim on bare concrete. It would be quite jolly to see all the blood from cuts and grazes on knees and elbows." Tommy, pondered, ruminated and said, "Would you also take the water away from divers?" "Of course!" I replied. "If divers had to land, headfirst on hard concrete, there would be less showing off on the way down!". Just then, a herd of prowlers thundered down the street, followed by Edwin Poots, firing a double barrel shotgun into the air. "Hey up!" said Tommy. "It's our Edwin on prowler duty." I stood smartly to attention as the Chinese national anthem was played again and again and again!

Team GB Find It Hard To Strike Gold.

Great show yesterday kid. The Olympic games were stopped so the large crown could listen to it on the big screen. Every time you put Mr Coyle down, a big Mexican wave went through the stadium. Tommy my cat, wearing scanty, vermilion,volley ball pants and a lime green bandeau looked at me and said, "Britain is finding it hard to strike gold in the Olympic games." "It's all good!" I replied. "Seb Coe has looked into it and found that other countries are swimming and cycling faster and generally trying harder than we are. Now the problem has been identified, a select committee will be set up to see what needs to be done." "Good!" cried Tommy. "I like select committees. I like the way they sit in horse shoe formation. Very pastoral, very John Constable." After a timid knock on the door, a very deflated Jim Rodgers entered, "Jim!" I cried. "You look, disgruntled. Why no, nigh, nigh, nigh, for your old friends?" "I haven't a nigh, nigh, nigh, left in me," said Jim. "I thought, after my world famous tomato jump, I would be a certainty for the high jump in London, but Seb Coe, said I would turn the whole thing into a circus, so he did." Tommy, threw both arms round Jim's knee and cried, "Turn the Olympics into a circus? You, Jim Rodgers? Never! Your day will come Jim. Bide your time. In the meantime, go home, and prepare for bed!" He sat on the corner of Donegal Street, astride of an old packing case. YES! it was Tubby Nolan, selling clothes pegs, combs and coloured ribbons. "Hey, Sir Alan Sugar Rush," I yelled. "Has it come to this? Mrs Nolan's little boy selling rubbish on a street corner. Why Tubby? In the name of Friar Tuck-WHY?" "I need the money," growled Tubby. "All the major airlines got together and issued a decree that I, Tubby Nolan, must pay for three seats before boarding an aircraft." "It was hardly unforeseen," I said. "After the squashing of the two gentlemen of Verona.". "There must be another way to travel," said Tubby. "How does a hovercraft work?" "It works by air," I said. A crafty smile appeared on Tubby's face and he guldered, "I can provide plenty of air, point me in the direction of the hovercraft shop."

How Would You Sum Up The Opening Ceremony Of The Olympic Games London 2012?

Great shows last week kid. The great shows gave Danny Boyle inspiration, as he slaved into mid morning to put on the grand opening for the London, 2012, Olympic Games. I turned to Tommy my cat, who has first class honours degrees in art and basket weaving and said, "Tommy, how would you, a cat with many artistic accomplishments behind you, sum up the opening of the Olympic games?" Tommy, who was painting the windows black to keep direct sunlight from fading the new carpet said, "Well, I do like a good, green, grassy knoll, but I would sum up the opening of the Olympic games as, turgid." I fell back against a Clydesdale horse, which was taking a short cut through my house and cried, "TURGID? "Explain yourself, in any language other than Ulster/Scots, you whiskery feline." Tommy yelled, "Shut that door!" to the horse and continued, "The dictionary defines turgid as, tediously pompous and bombastic. Film director, Danny Boyle, thought he was making a film which would won the Palme D'Or, at the Cannes Film Festival. It was a miss-mash, a cross between the Telly Tubbies and My Fair Lady. And topping it all off with old, wrinkly Paul McCartney, was the final insult. The old fool should have been in his bed." "Well, I loved it!" I roared. "To see the Queen jump from a helicopter, was a real kick up the pants for old codgers everywhere. The big factory chimneys, climbing up into the air, The dancing nurses, David Beckham, Mr Bean! I loved every minute. It was Britain at its finest. Britain is a hard taskmaster, a wily mistress, an errant child. And how proud I was to see our wee Billy, Kenneth Branagh,complete with stove pipe hat, recite a passage from Shakespeare's, King Lear, while dressed as Britain's finest composer of music hall ballads, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, known to his friends as Issy." "I will say this," said Tommy. "It was very well received all over the world AND in the Mexican quarter of Ballymena. I take back what I said," said Tommy. "Danny Boyle, should be made a knight of the realm and a day of the Triffids." I picked up the Newsletter, gave a yelp and cried, "Listen to this! Edwin Poots, MLA, and part time juggler, fired a shotgun into the air to scare off prowlers." "It's all right for some," said Tommy. "When we have prowlers, I have to go to the front door and bark like an alasian." "There's no point in having a cat and barking yourself," I replied. Tommy went outside, kicked a can further down the street, came indoors and said, "How many gold medals have Britain won so far?" "None" I replied. "Good!" said Tommy. "That's a good base to start from. The only way to go is up." "Tubby Nolan should pick up a gold medal in the sumo wrestling," I said. "The way I see it," said Tommy. "The only thing standing between Tubby and a gold medal is a nappy malfunction. If Tubby's nappy should rip asunder, the fat boy will be disqualified on the spot." "Not only that," I said. "Tubby would prove, to a world wide audience, that he is not the biggest in the country." "I never really thought he was," said Tommy. "Not since the night in the hot tub at Noel Thompson's house. What a night that was! Noel was drinking guinness out of Donna Traynor's wellington boot and Sarah Travers was belting out, "My little Honda 50. Edwin Poots, broke up the party at four o'clock by barging in and firing both barrels of a shotgun into the air!"

The World of Twitter

Great show yesterday kid. The saga of the long poem continues. Was it really Seamus Heaney, as many people think? I greatly liked the poem. I would compare it to the Tour de-France. Good in bits but a little too long. People can only laugh so much. By the time the poem was over, I feel the audience were like a rat in a sewer pipe, simply going through the motions. What was the name of the saga and will it ever be made into a film? Tommy my cat came in, put down his brief case and said, "I heard the great show in a taxi. Mr Coyle is in a bad way. I fear he may never see another millennium. One eye has gone, rickets have played havoc with his legs and now he has a sore throat." "Swinging the lead!" I cried. "I am on to Mr "put it in the bin" Coyle. Mr Coyle, knows that Gerry will soon be entering the world of Twitter. Coyle knows that will entail more work for him. What Mr Coyle is doing is laying the ground work, so he can absent himself from Twitter on the grounds of ill health and a caterpillar eyebrow." "Tommy sighed and said, "I love Twitter, I wonder what Stephen Fry is doing at this moment." I put on a Stephen Fry voice and said, "Just met the lovely, fragrant Fiona Bruce at the Beeb. She flashed me a smile and threw me a rainbow trout, which I caught in my mouth like a seal." "Fiona Bruce would never stink up her handbag with fish!" yelled Tommy. "Maybe a tin or two of corned beef, but never fish!" To avoid a fight, we disagreed to agree. "Tommy!" I said, pointing to a Mayan calendar, you have been working for the past six months as a political adviser to UUP leader, Mike Nesbitt. How goes that work? Mike has a small Unionist base, I suppose the hunt is on for floaters." "It's a hard slog," said Tommy. The big hurdle for Mike Nesbitt and the Unionist party is the back woods men. We can't get them out of the woods. We have tried sheep dogs, low flying helicopters, stick and carrot, but the back woods men will not leave the woods. Last week we got a glimpse of Ken Maguinnes, grazing in open pasture, but before we could sedate him with a dart gun he was gone." "What about Napalm?" I said. "Defoliage the trees and the back woods men will be revealed in all their dinosaurian glory." "I shall bring it up with Mike at our next working breakfast," said Tommy. "Tommy," I whispered, "what does the lovely Lynda cook for your dinner." "Classified!" yelled Tommy. "Top Secret! If I told you what Lynda makes for dinner, I would be carted off to the Tower in Blackpool. And, further more," cried Tommy, "if I told you dinner was followed by stewed prunes and custard, Turkish coffee, Jacobs cream crackers and a choice of six cheeses, I would be sacked on the spot.". Loose lips sink ships. Loose lips also lose many sets of false teeth.

I Blame Sebastian Coe!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which livened up no end old Musha McCree, from the hills above Drumquin. For the past four years old Musha has been leaping shucks and bog holes hoping to be picked for the Northern Ireland team at the Olympic games in London. Musha was on the short list, but failed a drug test. Apparently he was pumped full of suelugs and magic mushrooms. Old Musha, took it badly. He jumped on his bicycle and roared, "The Iranians will be glad of me!" Tommy my cat, wearing a French maid's costume came in with two cups of tea and some Jaffa cakes on a plate. I leaped to my feet, dashed the plate to the floor and cried, "Tommy, do you want to end up in the tower? How dare you arrange the five Jaffa cakes in the sacred symbol of the Olypmic games. Have you not heard of the stringent branding law. No five circles shall be so arranged as to imply, or copy the five precious rings of the London Olympic games." "We live in a police state!" cried Tommy. "I want to be FREE, to arrange my Jaffa cakes how I like. Blonde beauty, Boris Johnson. said the branding law was foolish and draconian in the extreme." "Boris, is a fool," I said. "Anything relating to five rings is out until the end of the Olympics. In London, just yesterday, riot police stood by as a busker sang the twelve days of Christmas. When he dared sing , "FIVE golden rings" the riot squad pounced. The busker has been sentenced to 27 life terms in jail, after he gets out of hospital." "I blame snaggle tooth Sebastian Coe!" yelled Tommy. "The little sporting Tzar has gone power mad. Steve Ovett would never have turned the Olympic games into the Spanish inquisition." Just then a Papal nancio burst in yelling, "The Pope is not pleased with you. Don't make the Pope angry. You wouldn't like the Pope, if you made him angry." "Tommy, pointed to a picture of Martin Luther eating a lollypop and said, "We are not Catholics, we is Protestant." "Every one is a Catholic in the eyes of the Pope!" shrieked the wee Roman hitman. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Food, glorious food!" yelled Tubby Nolan. "The reality IS!" roared Mark Durkin, standing at a street corner with Alex Attwood and a couple of hard nuts from the SDLP. "The President is NOT a crook!" guldered Nigel Dodds. "I just don't know what to do with myself," sang Mike Nesbitt. "Turned out nice again!" snarled David Ford. I turned to Tommy and roared, "Look what you started with your five Jaffa cakes." "JAFFA CAKES!" yelled Tubby and the Lardman ran into my house, like Patrick Moore on speed. As Tubby lumbered past me I yelled, "Five Circles! Five circles of fat round Tubbies neck!" Jim Allister went by on a hobby horse, pulled by a donkey and roared, "I shall not take it lying down, standing up, sitting, or hanging by my heels from a banana tree." "Jim, ain't gonna take it!" said Tommy. "Then, let him eat cake!" I replied. "CAKE!" yelled Tubby Nolan, as he burst out of my house, taking half the gable wall with him.

Talk of Sick Accordions and Upturned Turtles!

Great show yesterday kid. To hear Mr Coyle wax lyrically about egg spoons was delightful in the extreme. "The things which come into that man's head," said Tommy my cat, "would baffle anyone who ever passed the eleven plus." "Leave wee Sean alone!" I cried. "He is labouring under many handicaps His blind bats are in bed with rabies and the chain has come off his black, 1942, Raleigh bicycle." "He is irrelevant, leave him!" cried Tommy. I looked at the old accordion, lying in the corner, wheezing most horribly and covered with blankets. Tommy, stifled a sob and said, "That accordion is in pain, phone the vet and get it put down." "NEVER!" I cried. "My late daddy was presented with that accordion when he moved from the dole to the old age pension. For over twenty years dear daddy, tried and failed to play it. THEN! just before he breathed his last breath, he sat bolt upright in bed and cried. Eureka I should have un-fastened the two little straps which hold it together!" Dear mummy cried, "Praise the Lord! He has regained his sanity." The undertaker yelled, "What will he do, take the money, or go in the box?" And soon, dear pappa had shift shaped into a small grave with a tombstone asking, "WHY?" I squinted at the screen on my gooseberry, (it's just like a blackberry, only green) and said, " A text from the chubby little fingers of Tubby Nolan. He wants to meet us at the old abandoned mill." There was trouble at'mill. Tubby had slipped on wet grass, fallen on his back, like a giant turtle and couldn't get up again. "Don't just stand there!" yelled Tubby, "Help me to my feet!" Tommy and I sprang into action. We each grabbed a leg of Tubby's trousers and pulled like King Billy-oh. Tubby's massive trousers came down like an avalanche, revealing his giant Y-fronts, a complicated contraption of straps, belts and a fibre glass gusset. Only for the arrival of a bus load of Japanese tourists, we would never have righted the Easter island statue. A small Japanese man, pointed at Tubby with his trousers round his ankles and said, "AH SO" I nodded my head and said, "Yes, I would say about 90% AH SO!"

What is Gerry thinking about?

Great shows last week kid. The Tuesday show caused great consternation at the Royal, Accident and Emergency Department, when an old codger rode in on a bicycle claiming he was suffering from Coylus Interuptus. As nurses dragged him away to examine him, the old codger yelled, "Every time I hear Sean Coyle, I stop what I'm doing, which isn't good if you work in air traffic control. Last week I sent a Boeing 747 to Scotland and ordered Ryanair to land in a cow pasture outside Clogher." After a thorough examination, the old man was found to be suffering from senility, shingles and sea sickness. After two Panadol and a rub down with with a brillo pad, the old codger was released into the safe hands of Mrs Bunty Hoven, 27 Easy street. Ballymena. Tommy, my cat, put down, "Ventriloquism For Dummies" and said, "Come away from the window. You're scaring children, cats, dogs and every known species of bird life." "How dare you!" I yelled. "At high school I was voted the girl most likely to be a navvy. I had great big hands and could hold ten cigarettes behind my ear." "Which school did you go to?" asked Tommy. "Private or public?" "If you must know," I replied, "I went to an alfresco, hedge school. Me and two other pupils sat behind a whin bush for eleven years reading, "See Spot Jump" and "The rise and fall of the Roman Empire" written by a smart monkey called Gibbon. Our teacher, Ronaldo "Town Drunk" McWhacker said I had the looks of Einstein and the brains of Laurel and Hardy." "I wonder what Gerry is thinking about now," said Tommy. "Is he thinking, this is a cushy little number, or Mamma Mia, has it come to this!!!" I replied thus, in dolphin clicking sounds. "If I know Gerry, and I don't, he is planning the mother of all rickety-wheels for Christmas. Ken has cleared out a big shed, to hold all the bagpipies, broken cement mixers, stone jugs, surgicial appliances and woodchip wallpaper, which will pour in from a grateful public and recovering hoarders." Tommy clapped his hands and cried, "I propose that the burnt out hulk of Jordie Tuft, with his arse in a sling, spin the big wheel." "What a festive sight!" I cried. "A rickety-wheel, being spun by a rickety man." "And think how safe it will be for the public," yelled Tommy. "Should a fire break out, Jordie, will keep her lit 'till we get out."

This Higgs Boson Hanlin'

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which proved once again that Mr Coyle still has a hankering for the sea. "Do you hear old Barnacle Bill?" said Tommy my cat. "Why, a sniff of salt water would have him down on his knees, puking up his daily five." "Mr Coyle a sailor?" I laughed. "The man couldn't walk a dog, never mind a plank." "Leave him," said Tommy. "He's irrelevant!" I pulled the blinds, lowered my voice and said, "Tommy, how is the Higgs Boson hanlin' coming along?" Tommy, made a little arch of his fingers and said, "Ah, you talk of the God particle?" "QUIET TOMMY!" I whispered. "HE!" and I pointed on high with my finger, "HE, might be listening. Imagine how angry God would be if he knew you and I were talking about his particle." "Tommy laughed and said, "The God particle is not actually a particle of God." I leaped to my feet and yelled, "Then why call it the God particle? What are they really looking for, with the big Hydron Collider?" "I shouldn't really say this," said Tommy, "but the sole purpose of the Hydron Collider is, to see how much money they can waste before people see it for what it is. A folly! A white elephant! A fraud!" "The hat trick!" I yelled. "First the politicians, with their fraudulent expenses. Then the banks, with their Las Vegas style games and now the scientists, with their big underground sewer pipe. I bet it's not even there!" I yelled. "I bet the Hydron Collider, does not exist!" "Of course it exists!" roared Tommy. "We all saw it on TV." "Did we Tommy?" I yelled. "Did we really? All I saw was a nine inch television screen and a wee dot of light." "You don't understand," roared Tommy, "due to lack of schooling and stupidity bordering on extreme thickness." "It's a fraud!" I screamed. "A fraud thought up by the government to take our minds off the horrible, depressing things happening in Eastenders." "Rubbish!" roared Tommy. "If the government wanted to distract the people from dire, brain-dead stories in soaps, they would not choose Eastenders, Hollyoaks would be their first choice." "Hollyoaks," I muttered. "Where everyone is young, blonde, but yet, strangly, never happy. You've hit the head on the nail Tommy!" I cried. "The Hydron Collider, is really a ruse to take our minds off bad TV!" Tommy, threw himself on the floor and screamed, "Ill timed! Ill timed! Why was the Hydron Collider not used when, "Give my head peace" was on?"

I'm worried about Jim

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought much needed work to Clogher. An old codger was peacefully smoking his pipe and driving his tractor when, into his earphones, came a tarra gulder of Mr Coyle, singing, "Two Little Boys." The old codger, cried, "Yo Bro, Respect!" before demolishing a row of small houses built for pensioners and peewheets. It will take a gang of 50 men, five years to rebuild the houses. This will bring much needed trade to the local supermarket and Toots La Rue, who resides in, No 27, Bordello Road, Clogher. Any spare time Toot's has, is given over to looking after mice suffering from scurvy. Tommy my cat, looked at me, vomited and said, "Did you know, after the Gerry show, producer Mickey Bradly, takes Gerry, Sean and Janet into a broom cupboard and debriefs them?" "A gross misuse of power!" I yelled. "I know Gerry and Janet would be up for it, but does not Mr Coyle, protest at being de-knickered?" "You don't understand," said Tommy. "Debriefed, means to go over the show in detail." "Not in Africa!" I roared. "Debriefs, mean, de material dat covers de ass." Just then the door opened and Jim Allister trailed in. Jim, looking resplendent in Union Jack tank top moaned, "I have no one to play with. The other boys point at me and call me a dinosaur." "Man up!" I yelled. "Grow a pair of..of. ash plants and batter all around you. Take up body building. Learn the noble art of boxing. Don't stand there blubbering about having no one to play with. My late daddy, had no one to play with until he was on his death bed. Oh the joy on his face, as he and the undertaker threw darts at the lid of his coffin.". "Leave little Jim alone!" cried Tommy. "Jim is shy and sensitive." "Then why is he always roaring and shouting up at Stormount?" I yelled. Tommy patted Jim's sandy hair and replied, "Every roar and shout is a cry for help. It's Jim's way of saying, "I need a group hug." "More likely to get a group riser!" I said. "Peter Robinson called Jim the Ancient Mariner." Wee Jim, gave a scream and yelled, "Like one who on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread. And having once looked back walks on and turns no more his head. Because he knows Martin McGuinness doth close behind him tread." Jim, gave a horrible scream and rushed off to Stormount to raise, yet another, point of order. "I'm worried about Jim," said Tommy. as he picked up the milk and shut the door with a slam.

Ulster Bank Try Turning The Computers Off And On Again!!!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show, made all the greater when Barclay's, Bob Diamond, decided to pack his bags and get out of town. "Bob was a diamond geezer," said Tommy my cat. "He never hurt his own, only the general public." I looked at Tommy and said, "Did you know crooks are biting their nails, waiting for the Ulster bank to get their house in order so they can rob it?" Tommy, opened the window and yelled, "Get out of here! I'll tell your mother, you were playing football in the street!" "Young policemen again?" I asked. "Yes," said Tommy. "I blame the quota system, I bet 40% of them were Catholics." I stood on two tins of Lyle's golden syrup and cried, "The banks are on a suicide mission. One after the other, like lemmings and lemons they leap off the cliff. WHY?" I screamed, "WHY?" Tommy stood in front of the fire, stern of visage and cried, "There is only one man to blame and that man IS....."Tommy rolled a small drum down the floor and yelled, "Prime Minister, Harold Wilson!!!" I reeled back,fell against a nest of tables and cried, "Harold Wilson? Huddersfield's finest, pipe smoker of the year, the man who said things in Blackpool, THAT, Harold Wilson?" "YES!" cried Tommy. "The bankers of today, are blinded by the white, hot heat of technology, ignited by-Harold Wilson!!!" "Well, shave my head and call me slap head!" I roared. "Tell all Tommy!" I cried. "Lay bare the relevant facts which brought us to this tarra, banking crisis." "Computers!" yelled Tommy. "At first computers were a great help. Then, as computers got more intelligent and people became more stupid, the computers, began to talk to each other and in 1996, the computers carried out a coup on the banking industry. For the past 16 years," roared Tommy, "computers have been running the banks, without any human help!" "That's good," I cried. "Computers are very reliable." "They are," said Tommy. "Unfortunately, the computers became infected with human greed and began to pile up trillions of pounds in a virtual reality account. The computers, refuse to release the money and, even as we speak, are hacking into people's accounts and making off with their lives savings!" I tore my hair out, ripped my garments, scattered dust on my head and screamed, "Is there nothing we can DO?" Tommy, lit a candle to Saint Jude and said, "There is one thing we haven't tried. Next Monday, in a secret location, George Osbourne will try turning the computers off and on again." "SORTED!" I yelled as I ran off to the Ulster bank to see if the cash machine would accept my kidney donor card.