Great shows last week kid. I just heard the dreadful news that Mr Coyle lost his first communion money while out on a solitary, nocturnal stroll. All police leave has been cancelled in Derry and a helicopter, fitted with a metal detector, is patrolling the lonely highways and bye ways traversed by the night hawk. Mr. Coyle, heavily sedated, keeps mumbling in his sleep, "There was a big half crown, a bright silver shilling, two tanners and a threepenny bit. OH! and two farthings, from Mrs Doherty." Wee Sean, is not taking the loss well. He chased a grief counsellor away with a rolled-up copy of the Derry Journal. The doctor said wee Sean should be left alone to deal with his grief. Let's hope that someday, Mr Coyle, will find closure.
Tommy my cat, looked up from his shredded tweet, which contains 59% scaldie and said, "He's mad as hell and he's not going to take it anymore?"
"Of whom are you talking feline?" I yelled.
"David McNarry," said Tommy. "I saw him barging out of Stormount yelling, "Up with this I shall not put!"
"Dave boy," I said putting my arm around him, "What's up kid? Who has annoyed you?"
"Tom Elliott, that's who," yelled David. "Tom Elliott, our magnetic, silver-tongued leader, called me into his office and said, "McNarry, you have been spouting off to the press. That displeases me. You don't want to make me angry. You wouldn't like it when I'm angry. You are on the education committee. I am taking you off that committee. You have a big mouth McNarry. You are a viper in my bosom. I shall replace you on the education committee with someone who knows piles more about education than what you do. Go now and don't let the door hit you on the arse on your way out." I turned my baseball cap back to front, pulled up my hoodie and said, "And did McNarry take all that dogs' abuse from farmer Tom?"
"Well, yes and no," said Tommy. "When David McNarry reached the gates of Stormount, he turned around and roared, "Elliott, you sod buster, I hope the slurry in your tank takes on the consistency of congealed porridge and brusts the rivets on your dung spreader!"
"What a great come back!" I cried. "I must commit it to memory and then forget all about it."
Tommy cast a dirty look in the general direction of Iran and said, "How close Sinn Fein and the DUP have become. Did you see Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness at the McKenna cup final on Saturday?"
"Ground breaking!" I yelled. "Historic! Mind you, Peter doesn't know much about Gaelic football. He kept leaping up and yelling, "HANDBALL!" and asking Martin, what time the fight started.".
"It was a very generous gesture by Peter Robinson," said Tommy. "McGuinness, will have to respond in kind."
I flicked a locust off the butter and said, "Martin said he will shake hands with the Queen and MAY attend a poppy day parade."
"It will take more that that!" said Tommy. "There is a rumour going round Stormount that, come July, Martin McGuinness, will beat a big orange drum as he leads a parade of black hats down the Garvaghy road."
Overcome with the historical significance of it all, I grabbed the clock off the wall and ran down the street yelling, "PEACE IN OUR TIME!!! PEACE IN OUR TIME!!!!"
Monday 30 January 2012
Thursday 26 January 2012
Where did the stile jumping get Noel Thompson?
Tommy my cat, dragged my head out of the oven and yelled, "Gerald Michael Anderson is back on his feet and ready to go!"
"GREAT!" I cried. "Now we can have some Wing, Chilly Bagpipes and Mongolian, nose flute music, instead of the happy, clappy songs Mr Coyle plays.
Tommy who, for some reason was dressed up as Brigham Young, the founder of the Mormon religion. said, "Now, we are a family again! I never close my eyes until I hear Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet come in at night."
"Stop your old brown-nosing!" I yelled. "If you think Gerry Anderson will send you a CD, think again! Poor, old Jordie Tuft has been waiting for a Christmas parcel for twenty years."
"You're right there, wee woman," said Jordie, as he came into my house smelling of Jeyes Fluid, cooking sherry and mature manure. "JORDIE!" I screamed. "What brings you to Belfast?"
"Urination," said Jordie. "I have came to Belfast with one purpose in mind and that is to urinate on Gerry Anderson's tree. Twenty long years I have waited at my front gate, hoping, praying that Gerry Anderson, would send me a wee parcel full of whiskey, Christmas cake and Pecker Dunn Cds. What I got," roared Jordie, "was diddly-squat! Diddly-squat boy, wrapped up in nothing. Not even wan of them auld fairy rashers. You know fairy rashers? The wee woman says at the party, "OOH! Mr Ambassador, with these fairy rashers, you are spoiling us." If that wee woman was at a party in Gerry Anderson's house, she would wait a long time for her fairy rashers!" Old Jordie, did a practice urination behind the sofa and then set off to vandalize the tree which bore the name, Gerry Anderson.
"Where did it get you?" I roared to Noel Thompson, at the other side of the street. "Where did all your stile-jumping get you? Have you increased your life span by one second? NO! Are you any healthier? NO! Amen, amen, I say on to you. Better had you lay in bed, than thundering round the mountains of Mourne like a buck goat looking for something to jump over. So, once more I say on to you, Where did it get you?"
"BE off with you," said Noel Thompson. "I must hasten to the BBC. I have a very important bulletin to read."
"Oh yes!" I yelled. "You're very good at talking about other people, BUT when it comes to stile-jumping, you clam up and have nothing to say. You will not fob me off Mr Thompson. As a woman who is considering paying for a TV licence I ask you once again.
All this stile-jumping?. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? NO! I will not go away. I demand to know, WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU? You know the stile-jumping I'm talking about Mr Thompson. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU????
"GREAT!" I cried. "Now we can have some Wing, Chilly Bagpipes and Mongolian, nose flute music, instead of the happy, clappy songs Mr Coyle plays.
Tommy who, for some reason was dressed up as Brigham Young, the founder of the Mormon religion. said, "Now, we are a family again! I never close my eyes until I hear Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet come in at night."
"Stop your old brown-nosing!" I yelled. "If you think Gerry Anderson will send you a CD, think again! Poor, old Jordie Tuft has been waiting for a Christmas parcel for twenty years."
"You're right there, wee woman," said Jordie, as he came into my house smelling of Jeyes Fluid, cooking sherry and mature manure. "JORDIE!" I screamed. "What brings you to Belfast?"
"Urination," said Jordie. "I have came to Belfast with one purpose in mind and that is to urinate on Gerry Anderson's tree. Twenty long years I have waited at my front gate, hoping, praying that Gerry Anderson, would send me a wee parcel full of whiskey, Christmas cake and Pecker Dunn Cds. What I got," roared Jordie, "was diddly-squat! Diddly-squat boy, wrapped up in nothing. Not even wan of them auld fairy rashers. You know fairy rashers? The wee woman says at the party, "OOH! Mr Ambassador, with these fairy rashers, you are spoiling us." If that wee woman was at a party in Gerry Anderson's house, she would wait a long time for her fairy rashers!" Old Jordie, did a practice urination behind the sofa and then set off to vandalize the tree which bore the name, Gerry Anderson.
"Where did it get you?" I roared to Noel Thompson, at the other side of the street. "Where did all your stile-jumping get you? Have you increased your life span by one second? NO! Are you any healthier? NO! Amen, amen, I say on to you. Better had you lay in bed, than thundering round the mountains of Mourne like a buck goat looking for something to jump over. So, once more I say on to you, Where did it get you?"
"BE off with you," said Noel Thompson. "I must hasten to the BBC. I have a very important bulletin to read."
"Oh yes!" I yelled. "You're very good at talking about other people, BUT when it comes to stile-jumping, you clam up and have nothing to say. You will not fob me off Mr Thompson. As a woman who is considering paying for a TV licence I ask you once again.
All this stile-jumping?. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? NO! I will not go away. I demand to know, WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU? You know the stile-jumping I'm talking about Mr Thompson. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU????
Wednesday 18 January 2012
How Radio Used To Be.
Tommy my cat looked at me and said, "What a great, strange show that was."
"Just two guys hanging out," I said. "Just two guys shooting the breeze."
"No structure," said Tommy, "no script, no idea what they were going to say next. Just two guys talking."
"That's how radio should be!" I yelled. "Communication, conversation, speech!
There is far too much loud music on radio," I cried. "People are crying out for sane, intelligent conversation and if Sean Coyle had not been there yesterday that is what we would have got!"
"Just two guys talking," said Tommy. "What a great name for a show! That's how radio used to be. I remember Gilbert Harding, Bernard Levin, Malcolm Muggridge, Alan Titchmarsh."
I broke in and cried, "I remember old Marmaduke or was it, Marmite Hussy, standing on the back of a wee, blue, Fergie tractor yelling........."
"Who stole my leg?" ventured Tommy. "NO!" I cried. "Old Marmaduke stood there, a bit lop-sided and yelled, "More speech! Capiche!"
"I remember that," said Tommy. "Then old Marmaduke's parrot flew up a woman's skirt and there were questions asked in the House of Commons."
"There were questions asked," I said. "Bob Brick, representing the boiler makers' and stokers' union called out, "Mr. speaker. Hey up, Mr speaker, my members demand to know parrot's name, by gum."
When the speaker replied, "Polly" the honorable members threw their order papers in the air and began to sang, "She was as beautiful as a butterfly, proud as a Queen, was pretty, little, Polly Perkins, from Paddington Green." Tommy picked up a Queen Ann po and roared, "Order in the house, or I'll clear the chamber!"
I threw back my head and sang, "She was only a milkmaid's daughter, but udders stole her cream."
Tommy cried, "Look at me, I'm Arkle!" and cut the whole face off himself when he tried to jump over the half door.
I grabbed Tubby Nolan, coming out of a "Pies For All Occasions" outlet and roared,
"Listen up butter-ball, I want the name of your tailor and I want it quick. Tommy's birthday is coming up soon and I want to order a large tent."
"Don't squash my pies," shrieked the oval one.
"Enough with the old sexy, love talk," I growled. "Who, whom, or what makes your gigantic trousers?"
Tubby ruminated, a horrible sight to see, especially in broad daylight, and slabbered,
"I have a little man,".
"Listen punk," I yelled, "I told you to cut out the old, sexy love talk."
"You don't understand," cried Tubby. "The little man lives in America. His name is Mr Boeing."
"Boeing?" I said. "Doesn't he make...........?"
"Yes," said Tubby. "Mr Boeing makes aeroplanes as a sideline. His main job is making clothes for me."
"Did he make that horrible "Thing" you're nearly wearing?" I asked.
"Yes, he did," replied Tubby. "Note the sweptback sleeves, the stream-lined gusset and the air intake just above my fork."
"What's that thing attached to your belt?" I asked.
Tubby giggled and said, "That's my black box, mind you, in reality, it's an orange box."
Seventeen little hoodies, wearing Celtic football shirts pricked up their ears at the word-orange.
The last thing I saw, was Tubby, sprinting down a buslane, laden down with pies and hotly pursued by a pack of baying, sports' fans, all ardent devotees of, the beautiful game!
"Just two guys hanging out," I said. "Just two guys shooting the breeze."
"No structure," said Tommy, "no script, no idea what they were going to say next. Just two guys talking."
"That's how radio should be!" I yelled. "Communication, conversation, speech!
There is far too much loud music on radio," I cried. "People are crying out for sane, intelligent conversation and if Sean Coyle had not been there yesterday that is what we would have got!"
"Just two guys talking," said Tommy. "What a great name for a show! That's how radio used to be. I remember Gilbert Harding, Bernard Levin, Malcolm Muggridge, Alan Titchmarsh."
I broke in and cried, "I remember old Marmaduke or was it, Marmite Hussy, standing on the back of a wee, blue, Fergie tractor yelling........."
"Who stole my leg?" ventured Tommy. "NO!" I cried. "Old Marmaduke stood there, a bit lop-sided and yelled, "More speech! Capiche!"
"I remember that," said Tommy. "Then old Marmaduke's parrot flew up a woman's skirt and there were questions asked in the House of Commons."
"There were questions asked," I said. "Bob Brick, representing the boiler makers' and stokers' union called out, "Mr. speaker. Hey up, Mr speaker, my members demand to know parrot's name, by gum."
When the speaker replied, "Polly" the honorable members threw their order papers in the air and began to sang, "She was as beautiful as a butterfly, proud as a Queen, was pretty, little, Polly Perkins, from Paddington Green." Tommy picked up a Queen Ann po and roared, "Order in the house, or I'll clear the chamber!"
I threw back my head and sang, "She was only a milkmaid's daughter, but udders stole her cream."
Tommy cried, "Look at me, I'm Arkle!" and cut the whole face off himself when he tried to jump over the half door.
I grabbed Tubby Nolan, coming out of a "Pies For All Occasions" outlet and roared,
"Listen up butter-ball, I want the name of your tailor and I want it quick. Tommy's birthday is coming up soon and I want to order a large tent."
"Don't squash my pies," shrieked the oval one.
"Enough with the old sexy, love talk," I growled. "Who, whom, or what makes your gigantic trousers?"
Tubby ruminated, a horrible sight to see, especially in broad daylight, and slabbered,
"I have a little man,".
"Listen punk," I yelled, "I told you to cut out the old, sexy love talk."
"You don't understand," cried Tubby. "The little man lives in America. His name is Mr Boeing."
"Boeing?" I said. "Doesn't he make...........?"
"Yes," said Tubby. "Mr Boeing makes aeroplanes as a sideline. His main job is making clothes for me."
"Did he make that horrible "Thing" you're nearly wearing?" I asked.
"Yes, he did," replied Tubby. "Note the sweptback sleeves, the stream-lined gusset and the air intake just above my fork."
"What's that thing attached to your belt?" I asked.
Tubby giggled and said, "That's my black box, mind you, in reality, it's an orange box."
Seventeen little hoodies, wearing Celtic football shirts pricked up their ears at the word-orange.
The last thing I saw, was Tubby, sprinting down a buslane, laden down with pies and hotly pursued by a pack of baying, sports' fans, all ardent devotees of, the beautiful game!
Tuesday 17 January 2012
Some Cocoon!
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought little joy to an old codger, who had pushed a peanut up a hill with his nose. As the old codger stood smiling for press photographs with his hands up in the air, news suddenly broke that the old codger had failed a drug test. Officials said the old relic was found to be full of pumpkin puree, a well known illegal stimulant taken by old codgers who push peanuts up hills with their nose. The cup was snatched out of the old codger's hand and he was banned from taking part in any more pushing a peanut up hills with your nose events.
The poor old man, with his nose almost worn away, broke down and cried, "I don't know what came over me. I used to be an altar boy, you know."
Tommy my cat, yelled, "Winegate!" and lashed a glass of wine into my face like a wellknown singer did recently to Paul Martin and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle gloat, YES! I repeat it, gloat when he heard poor Gerry was sick?"
"I did!" I said. "How can a christian man, who believes in Limbo AND Purgatory, have such little compassion?"
"The more I hear of Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "the more I am convinced he was the youngest member of the Gestapo."
"There are pictures," I said, "pictures of Mr Coyle, as a very small boy, sitting on Hitler's knee."
"The next time Mr Coyle complains about his eye," said Tommy, "Gerry should whip out a pea-shooter and ping Mr Coyle right in the afflicted ocular."
Tommy kicked a scatter cushion all around the room. As the cushion flew through an open window, Tommy pulled his gansey over his head and yelled, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"OFF SIDE!" I roared. "The wardrobe moved up the floor leaving you in an off-side position."
"RUBBISH!" yelled Tommy. "The coffee table was between me and the window."
I pulled out a red card, handed it to Tommy and said, "Take that to her at number 27, with the bad perm. The postman mistakenly left it here seventeen years ago."
As I slithered through Belfast, like some hideous, repulsive, creature of the night, I found to my surprise I was singing, "I Enjoy Being A Girl" at the top of my voice. I saw a glint, a flash and I was on him like a lurcher. "Mr John Daly, I presume," I cried, pulling off the mauve, beanie hat and revealing the celestial dome in all its naked, nude glory.
"Get off!" yelled nein Herr Daly. "You're squashing my blackberry."
"Do I look bothered?" I said. "Face, bothered?" I wrapped my prey in a sticky, gooey substance and spun him into a cocoon. Back home I scurried and hung Mr Daly up with my other cocoons.
If you haven't seen John Daly, John Bennet, George Jones, Lord Laird, or Mark Durkin on TV recently, well now you know why!
The big prize would be to capture the giant, all eating, Tubbyious Nolanious, but it's going to take some web. Boy, that would be some cocoon!!!!!
The poor old man, with his nose almost worn away, broke down and cried, "I don't know what came over me. I used to be an altar boy, you know."
Tommy my cat, yelled, "Winegate!" and lashed a glass of wine into my face like a wellknown singer did recently to Paul Martin and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle gloat, YES! I repeat it, gloat when he heard poor Gerry was sick?"
"I did!" I said. "How can a christian man, who believes in Limbo AND Purgatory, have such little compassion?"
"The more I hear of Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "the more I am convinced he was the youngest member of the Gestapo."
"There are pictures," I said, "pictures of Mr Coyle, as a very small boy, sitting on Hitler's knee."
"The next time Mr Coyle complains about his eye," said Tommy, "Gerry should whip out a pea-shooter and ping Mr Coyle right in the afflicted ocular."
Tommy kicked a scatter cushion all around the room. As the cushion flew through an open window, Tommy pulled his gansey over his head and yelled, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"OFF SIDE!" I roared. "The wardrobe moved up the floor leaving you in an off-side position."
"RUBBISH!" yelled Tommy. "The coffee table was between me and the window."
I pulled out a red card, handed it to Tommy and said, "Take that to her at number 27, with the bad perm. The postman mistakenly left it here seventeen years ago."
As I slithered through Belfast, like some hideous, repulsive, creature of the night, I found to my surprise I was singing, "I Enjoy Being A Girl" at the top of my voice. I saw a glint, a flash and I was on him like a lurcher. "Mr John Daly, I presume," I cried, pulling off the mauve, beanie hat and revealing the celestial dome in all its naked, nude glory.
"Get off!" yelled nein Herr Daly. "You're squashing my blackberry."
"Do I look bothered?" I said. "Face, bothered?" I wrapped my prey in a sticky, gooey substance and spun him into a cocoon. Back home I scurried and hung Mr Daly up with my other cocoons.
If you haven't seen John Daly, John Bennet, George Jones, Lord Laird, or Mark Durkin on TV recently, well now you know why!
The big prize would be to capture the giant, all eating, Tubbyious Nolanious, but it's going to take some web. Boy, that would be some cocoon!!!!!
Monday 16 January 2012
Something Will Have To Be Done About Wee Frank.
GREAT SHOWS LAST WEEK KID. GREAT SHOWS WHICH LARGELY WENT UNNOTICED AT
UTV. PAUL CLARKE AND PAMELA BALLENTINE WERE HUDDLED IN A CORNER OF
THE CANTEEN WATCHING IN FEAR AS FRANK MITCHELL WENT ON AN ORGY OF
PLATE SMASHING BECAUSE THERE WASN'T ENOUGH JAM IN HIS DOUGHNUT. "EASY
THERE BIG BOY," SAID PAUL CLARKE.
"PUT DOWN THAT TEA SPOON FRANK!" SCREAMED PAMELA BALLENTINE.
"DRAT! DRAT! AND TRIPLE DRAT!" YELLED THE ENRAGED WEATHERMAN. "DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM? WHEN I ORDER A DOUGHNUT, I EXPECT THE JAM CONTENT TO COMPLY WITH THE LATEST EUROPEAN DIRECTIVES. THIS JAMLESS DOUGHNUT IS A DISGRACE!!! I DEMAND A JAMMY DOUGHNUT BEFITTING A MAN OF MY IMPORTANCE AND STATION."
AS FRANK STOMPED OUT TO PREDICT SPITS AND SPOTS, A WHITE-FACED PAMELA
BALLENTINE LOOKED AT A WHITE HAIRED PAUL CLARKE AND WHISPERED, "PAUL,
WE REALLY MUST PUT A MUZZLE ON WEE FRANK." PAUL CONCURRED, WHICH IS
NOT UNUSUAL FOR A GREY-HAIRED MAN.
TOMMY MY CAT, SPRANG INTO THE ROOM DRESSED AS LADY GAGA'S OLD AUNT
BERTHA AND CRIED, "ALL HANDS TO THE PUMPS! STEVEN NOLAN HAS SPRUNG A
LEAK AND IS GOING DOWN!"
"GOOD RIDDANCE!" I YELLED. "MAYBE DAVY JONES CAN PUT THE SLABBERING
OUT OF THE LARD CONNOISSEUR."
TOMMY PUSHED HIS BUSTLE ROUND TO THE BACK AND SAID,
"I FAIL TO SEE HOW THE SMALLEST MEMBER OF THE MONKEYS CAN SALVAGE THE
ROTTEN HULK OF THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN." THEN, AN OLD CODGER STUCK HIS HEAD
THROUGH THE WINDOW AND BEGAN TO MAKE CLICKING SOUNDS WITH HIS FALSE
TEETH. "MORSE CODE!" CRIED TOMMY. "THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN HAS RUN AGROUND
ON A SAND BANK AND WILL BE PULLED OFF TOMORROW, AT HIGH TIDE, BY THE
SCOTTISH TUG, "THE BONNY WEE MAID FROM FIFE."
"TOMMY!" I SAID. "NEVER USE THE WORDS, STEVEN NOLAN AND RUN IN THE SAME SENTENCE."
"HEY GRINGO!" I YELLED TO MARTINA PURDY, "THAT SURE IS A NICE LITTLE
TOP."
"BUCKSKIN," DRAWLED MARTINA,"ME AND THAT JED CLAMPET GUY, JORDIE TUFT, STALKED THAT BUCK FOR THREE HOURS BEFORE I BROUGHT HIM DOWN WITH A BULLET PLUMP RIGHT BETWEEN HIS LITTLE, OL EYES. OLD JED, OR JORDIE YELLED, "GOOD ON YE WEE WOMAN. NOW KEEP HER LIT 'TILL WE GET OUT!" LATER, OLD JORDIE TOOK ME HOME AND SHOWED ME HIS FIRST WORLD WAR MEDALS WHICH HE BOUGHT ON EBAY. OLD JORDIE IS SURE ONE FUNNY POSSUM."
"MARTINA!" I YELLED, "DID OLD JORDIE TRY ANY FUNNY STUFF?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. "BUT THINGS DID GET A LITTLE HOT WHEN HE WAS OVERCOME
WITH A COMPELLING COMPULSION TO SET FIRE TO HIS HOUSE."
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" I CRIED. "DID YOU PHONE THE FIRE BRIGADE?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. " I BITCH SLAPPED HIM UNTIL HIS OVERWHELMING COMPULSION FOR FIRE BECAME BUT A SMOULDERING EMBER."
I STOOD BACK IN WONDER AND AWE AND CRIED, "YOU AMERICANS ARE SO CAPABLE. I WOULD HAVE CALLED IN APACHE HELICOPTERS FOR AIR SUPPORT."
"SIT DOWN FRANK!" CRIED PAUL CLARKE. "YOU'RE NOT GOING OUT THAT DOOR
FILLED WITH ANGER.".
"DO PLEASE SIT DOWN FRANK," PLEADED PAMELA BALLENTINE. "PAUL AND I WOULD NEVER FORGIVE OURSELVES IF YOU CUT UP ROUGH AND WENT ON A MAD RAMPAGE." FRANK SIPPED HIS HERBAL TEA AND SAID, "I'M ALL RIGHT NOW. WHEN THE WEE HOODIE CALLED OUT, "HEY, OLD SCHOOL AROUND THE CORNER, MY DA SAID YOU GET THE WEATHER FROM GOOGLE", A RED MIST CAME OVER MY EYES. I WANTED TO WRECK, SMASH AND DESTROY
EVERYTHING IN MY PATH. I SWEAR TO GOD PAUL, IF YOU HADN'T CALLED OUT,
"HEEL FRANK! HEEL!" THERE'S NO KNOWING WHAT I MIGHT HAVE DONE."
"IT'S ALL RIGHT NOW FRANK," SAID PAMELA. "HERE, WIPE THE FOAM OFF YOUR
MOUTH WITH THIS TISSUE AND HAVE A WEE BRANDY BALL. A WEE BRANDY BALL
WILL HELP TO COOL YOU DOWN." AS FRANK CYCLED OFF HOME, PAUL LOOKED
AT PAMELA AND SAID, "HE'S GETTING WORSE,"
"I KNOW," SAID PAMELA. "SOMETHING WILL HAVE TO BE DONE. IT'S LIKE WORKING WITH MAD FRANKIE FRAZIER". PAUL CONCURRED, BUT LIKE I SAID BEFORE, IT'S NOT AT ALL
UNUSUAL FOR A MAN HIS AGE WITH GREY HAIR.
UTV. PAUL CLARKE AND PAMELA BALLENTINE WERE HUDDLED IN A CORNER OF
THE CANTEEN WATCHING IN FEAR AS FRANK MITCHELL WENT ON AN ORGY OF
PLATE SMASHING BECAUSE THERE WASN'T ENOUGH JAM IN HIS DOUGHNUT. "EASY
THERE BIG BOY," SAID PAUL CLARKE.
"PUT DOWN THAT TEA SPOON FRANK!" SCREAMED PAMELA BALLENTINE.
"DRAT! DRAT! AND TRIPLE DRAT!" YELLED THE ENRAGED WEATHERMAN. "DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM? WHEN I ORDER A DOUGHNUT, I EXPECT THE JAM CONTENT TO COMPLY WITH THE LATEST EUROPEAN DIRECTIVES. THIS JAMLESS DOUGHNUT IS A DISGRACE!!! I DEMAND A JAMMY DOUGHNUT BEFITTING A MAN OF MY IMPORTANCE AND STATION."
AS FRANK STOMPED OUT TO PREDICT SPITS AND SPOTS, A WHITE-FACED PAMELA
BALLENTINE LOOKED AT A WHITE HAIRED PAUL CLARKE AND WHISPERED, "PAUL,
WE REALLY MUST PUT A MUZZLE ON WEE FRANK." PAUL CONCURRED, WHICH IS
NOT UNUSUAL FOR A GREY-HAIRED MAN.
TOMMY MY CAT, SPRANG INTO THE ROOM DRESSED AS LADY GAGA'S OLD AUNT
BERTHA AND CRIED, "ALL HANDS TO THE PUMPS! STEVEN NOLAN HAS SPRUNG A
LEAK AND IS GOING DOWN!"
"GOOD RIDDANCE!" I YELLED. "MAYBE DAVY JONES CAN PUT THE SLABBERING
OUT OF THE LARD CONNOISSEUR."
TOMMY PUSHED HIS BUSTLE ROUND TO THE BACK AND SAID,
"I FAIL TO SEE HOW THE SMALLEST MEMBER OF THE MONKEYS CAN SALVAGE THE
ROTTEN HULK OF THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN." THEN, AN OLD CODGER STUCK HIS HEAD
THROUGH THE WINDOW AND BEGAN TO MAKE CLICKING SOUNDS WITH HIS FALSE
TEETH. "MORSE CODE!" CRIED TOMMY. "THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN HAS RUN AGROUND
ON A SAND BANK AND WILL BE PULLED OFF TOMORROW, AT HIGH TIDE, BY THE
SCOTTISH TUG, "THE BONNY WEE MAID FROM FIFE."
"TOMMY!" I SAID. "NEVER USE THE WORDS, STEVEN NOLAN AND RUN IN THE SAME SENTENCE."
"HEY GRINGO!" I YELLED TO MARTINA PURDY, "THAT SURE IS A NICE LITTLE
TOP."
"BUCKSKIN," DRAWLED MARTINA,"ME AND THAT JED CLAMPET GUY, JORDIE TUFT, STALKED THAT BUCK FOR THREE HOURS BEFORE I BROUGHT HIM DOWN WITH A BULLET PLUMP RIGHT BETWEEN HIS LITTLE, OL EYES. OLD JED, OR JORDIE YELLED, "GOOD ON YE WEE WOMAN. NOW KEEP HER LIT 'TILL WE GET OUT!" LATER, OLD JORDIE TOOK ME HOME AND SHOWED ME HIS FIRST WORLD WAR MEDALS WHICH HE BOUGHT ON EBAY. OLD JORDIE IS SURE ONE FUNNY POSSUM."
"MARTINA!" I YELLED, "DID OLD JORDIE TRY ANY FUNNY STUFF?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. "BUT THINGS DID GET A LITTLE HOT WHEN HE WAS OVERCOME
WITH A COMPELLING COMPULSION TO SET FIRE TO HIS HOUSE."
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" I CRIED. "DID YOU PHONE THE FIRE BRIGADE?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. " I BITCH SLAPPED HIM UNTIL HIS OVERWHELMING COMPULSION FOR FIRE BECAME BUT A SMOULDERING EMBER."
I STOOD BACK IN WONDER AND AWE AND CRIED, "YOU AMERICANS ARE SO CAPABLE. I WOULD HAVE CALLED IN APACHE HELICOPTERS FOR AIR SUPPORT."
"SIT DOWN FRANK!" CRIED PAUL CLARKE. "YOU'RE NOT GOING OUT THAT DOOR
FILLED WITH ANGER.".
"DO PLEASE SIT DOWN FRANK," PLEADED PAMELA BALLENTINE. "PAUL AND I WOULD NEVER FORGIVE OURSELVES IF YOU CUT UP ROUGH AND WENT ON A MAD RAMPAGE." FRANK SIPPED HIS HERBAL TEA AND SAID, "I'M ALL RIGHT NOW. WHEN THE WEE HOODIE CALLED OUT, "HEY, OLD SCHOOL AROUND THE CORNER, MY DA SAID YOU GET THE WEATHER FROM GOOGLE", A RED MIST CAME OVER MY EYES. I WANTED TO WRECK, SMASH AND DESTROY
EVERYTHING IN MY PATH. I SWEAR TO GOD PAUL, IF YOU HADN'T CALLED OUT,
"HEEL FRANK! HEEL!" THERE'S NO KNOWING WHAT I MIGHT HAVE DONE."
"IT'S ALL RIGHT NOW FRANK," SAID PAMELA. "HERE, WIPE THE FOAM OFF YOUR
MOUTH WITH THIS TISSUE AND HAVE A WEE BRANDY BALL. A WEE BRANDY BALL
WILL HELP TO COOL YOU DOWN." AS FRANK CYCLED OFF HOME, PAUL LOOKED
AT PAMELA AND SAID, "HE'S GETTING WORSE,"
"I KNOW," SAID PAMELA. "SOMETHING WILL HAVE TO BE DONE. IT'S LIKE WORKING WITH MAD FRANKIE FRAZIER". PAUL CONCURRED, BUT LIKE I SAID BEFORE, IT'S NOT AT ALL
UNUSUAL FOR A MAN HIS AGE WITH GREY HAIR.
Saturday 14 January 2012
Red's Visit To Belfast.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought great relief to old Geronimo Mc Sioux, who has not had a bowel movement since Christmas Eve. old Geronimo, skipped out from the dilapidated outhouse, leaped high in the air, clicked his heels and yelled to his wife, "Yvette! That’sa big load off my mind!"
Yvette came out of the sandbag bunker where she had been hiding and cried. "Glory be, now maybe you'll stop eating them dammed auld ferrero rocher." Geronimo, did a somersault, landed in the splits position, threw his leg on the bicycle and sped off to tell the good news to the people of
Drumquin and surrounding districts. Tommy my cat came into the room and said, "I would like you to meet my cousin Red. As you can see Red is a ginger tom. Red came all the way from Tyrone to visit me.” What a difference there was between the two felines. Tommy looked immaculate in a mustard- yellow ,Italian suit, pale-blue shirt and yellow tie. Red, on the other hand wore blue overalls and a pair of green Wellingtons. "Red," I said, "You’ll have a cup of tea."
"Only if you’re making it," said Red. "I’ll have a cup of tay surely. Oh aye, I’ll have a cup of tay surely to God. It’s a wild, long run on the auld bus from Tyrone. Tyrone is were I live, sort of thing. Aye,
Tyrone among the bushes. Up Tyrone. Aye, up Tyrone sort of thing.”
"What do you think of Belfast?" I asked.
"It’s wild big," said Fred. "Aye, it’s wild big, so it is. Back in Tyrone, the traffic lights are still black and white. God the Tyrone boys would be lost up here, so they would. Lost, baffled and confused,
sort of thing. Aye surely. The pace of life, aye surely, the pace of life is a lot slower back in Tyrone, so it is. Oh aye, it is surely. You could lie in the middle of the road all day and devil a wan would come near you. But things will soon be livening up back in Tyrone. Livening up surely. Soon the lanes and byways will be grid locked with dung spreaders. Oh aye surely. Any man who has dung, will be spreading it with exuberance and fierce abandonment. There’s nothing better the Tyrone boys like than to sit on a stone ditch watching the shi--manure flying. Aye, flying surely, like a cloud of crows, rooks and pigeons." "How is your dear mum doing?” said Tommy.
"Doing fine," said Red. "Aye, doing fine surely to God. Still the best mouser in Tyrone boy. Still the best mouser in Tyrone and when she's at herself she can still catch the odd rat! Oh aye, surely to God, mammy can still put the fear of God into any kitten who is acting the gulpin. Oh, aye surely. Mammy abhors gulpins and gulpinish behaviour."
"Is there any thing you want to particularly see while you're in Belfast?" I said.
"There is by God," said Red. "Oh aye, there is surely. I want to see Tubby Nolan, the boy who struts around like the cat who got all the cream." That was easy to fix. So we fixed it!!!
Yvette came out of the sandbag bunker where she had been hiding and cried. "Glory be, now maybe you'll stop eating them dammed auld ferrero rocher." Geronimo, did a somersault, landed in the splits position, threw his leg on the bicycle and sped off to tell the good news to the people of
Drumquin and surrounding districts. Tommy my cat came into the room and said, "I would like you to meet my cousin Red. As you can see Red is a ginger tom. Red came all the way from Tyrone to visit me.” What a difference there was between the two felines. Tommy looked immaculate in a mustard- yellow ,Italian suit, pale-blue shirt and yellow tie. Red, on the other hand wore blue overalls and a pair of green Wellingtons. "Red," I said, "You’ll have a cup of tea."
"Only if you’re making it," said Red. "I’ll have a cup of tay surely. Oh aye, I’ll have a cup of tay surely to God. It’s a wild, long run on the auld bus from Tyrone. Tyrone is were I live, sort of thing. Aye,
Tyrone among the bushes. Up Tyrone. Aye, up Tyrone sort of thing.”
"What do you think of Belfast?" I asked.
"It’s wild big," said Fred. "Aye, it’s wild big, so it is. Back in Tyrone, the traffic lights are still black and white. God the Tyrone boys would be lost up here, so they would. Lost, baffled and confused,
sort of thing. Aye surely. The pace of life, aye surely, the pace of life is a lot slower back in Tyrone, so it is. Oh aye, it is surely. You could lie in the middle of the road all day and devil a wan would come near you. But things will soon be livening up back in Tyrone. Livening up surely. Soon the lanes and byways will be grid locked with dung spreaders. Oh aye surely. Any man who has dung, will be spreading it with exuberance and fierce abandonment. There’s nothing better the Tyrone boys like than to sit on a stone ditch watching the shi--manure flying. Aye, flying surely, like a cloud of crows, rooks and pigeons." "How is your dear mum doing?” said Tommy.
"Doing fine," said Red. "Aye, doing fine surely to God. Still the best mouser in Tyrone boy. Still the best mouser in Tyrone and when she's at herself she can still catch the odd rat! Oh aye, surely to God, mammy can still put the fear of God into any kitten who is acting the gulpin. Oh, aye surely. Mammy abhors gulpins and gulpinish behaviour."
"Is there any thing you want to particularly see while you're in Belfast?" I said.
"There is by God," said Red. "Oh aye, there is surely. I want to see Tubby Nolan, the boy who struts around like the cat who got all the cream." That was easy to fix. So we fixed it!!!
Thursday 12 January 2012
MLAs Spielberg and a Laughing Cat!
GREAT SHOW YESTERDAY KID. A GREAT SHOW WHICH DROVE THE MLAS OUT OF
THE SAUNA AND HOT TUBS. THERE THEY SAT, NAKED, EXCEPT FOR TWO PIECES
OF CUCUMBER OVER THEIR EYES. JIM ALLISTER, WHO HAD BEEN TAKING A SEA
WEED BATH, LOOKED LIKE NEPTUNE AS HE SAT THERE WITH RIBBONS OF KELP
HANGING FROM HIM. SAMMY WILSON, RUBBED E45 CREAM INTO HIS BABYSOFT
BUM AND CHUCKLED, "BOYS, THAT'S A GREAT AULD SONG ABOUT JOE MAHON."
GERRY KELLY, WIPED STEAM FROM HIS GLASSES AND MUTTERED, "I FEEL
VULNERABLE, A'CHARAS. I FEEL THE EYES OF BRITISH SECURICRATS ON MY NAKED,
CATHOLIC BODY." THEN NIGEL DODDS AND WEE BARRY McELDUFF, BEGAN TO FLICK
EACH OTHERS' BEHIND WITH WET TOWELS AND SOON THE HIGHLY-PAID
POLITICIANS WERE ROLLING ROUND THE FLOOR LIKE A LITTER OF YOUNG PIGS.
MICHAEL McGIMPSEY SLIPPED ON A PAIR OF UNDERTAKER-BLACK, BOXER SHORTS
AND MUTTERED, "THIS IS HOW THE ROMAN EMPIRE FELL. TOO MUCH FRIVOLITY
AND FUN. I DON'T LIKE-FUN!"
IN A FURY I THREW, "1,000,000 FILMS YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE" INTO
THE FIRE AND YELLED, "HAS STEVEN SPIELBERG LOST HIS COTTON-PICKING
MIND?" TOMMY MY CAT, PUT DOWN, "GREAT CRAIC IN SPAIN" by DANIEL
O'DONNELL AND SAID,
"WHAT'S GOT UP YOUR HOOTER THEN?"
"STEVEN SPIELBERG!" I YELLED. "HE'S ONLY GONE AND MADE A FILM ABOUT
PIPE TOBACCO CALLED,"WAR HORSE".
TOMMY SIGHED, AND SAID, "THE FILM,"WAR HORSE" IS NOT ABOUT PIPE
TOBACCO. "WAR HORSE", IS THE HEART-WARMING STORY ABOUT A YOUNG BOY AND
JOEY HIS PET HORSE. DURING THE FIRST WORLD WAR, JOEY, FUELED UP BY
ROUSING SPEECHES AND BRASS BANDS, DECIDES, HASTILY TO SIGN UP AND JOIN
THE HORSE CALVARY. THE FILM SHOWS THE LOVE BETWEEN A YOUNG MAN AND
HORSE EVEN IN THE MIDST OF WAR, CARNAGE AND A GREAT SHORTAGE OF WOMEN'S
NYLON STOCKINGS."
I PONDERED 50%, RUMINATED, 59% AND SAID,
"YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NOW. JOEY THE HORSE WILL BE ON THE
NEXT SERIES OF, "STRICTLY COME DANCING".
"SO WHAT?" SAID TOMMY. "WOULD YOU STAND BETWEEN A HORSE AND HIS
CHANCE OF FAME?" "BESIDES," SAID TOMMY, "I AM SURE JOEY, WILL BE MUCH
MORE GRACEFUL THAT EITHER JOHN SERGEANT OR ANN WIDDECOMBE!"
"TOMMY," I SAID, "WOULDN'T RUSSELL GRANT AND TUBBY NOLAN, MAKE A GREAT PAIR OF
BOOKENDS?"
TOMMY THREW BACK HIS HEAD AND LAUGHED, WHICH AS ANY VET WILL TELL YOU,
IS QUITE UNUSUAL FOR A CAT!
THE SAUNA AND HOT TUBS. THERE THEY SAT, NAKED, EXCEPT FOR TWO PIECES
OF CUCUMBER OVER THEIR EYES. JIM ALLISTER, WHO HAD BEEN TAKING A SEA
WEED BATH, LOOKED LIKE NEPTUNE AS HE SAT THERE WITH RIBBONS OF KELP
HANGING FROM HIM. SAMMY WILSON, RUBBED E45 CREAM INTO HIS BABYSOFT
BUM AND CHUCKLED, "BOYS, THAT'S A GREAT AULD SONG ABOUT JOE MAHON."
GERRY KELLY, WIPED STEAM FROM HIS GLASSES AND MUTTERED, "I FEEL
VULNERABLE, A'CHARAS. I FEEL THE EYES OF BRITISH SECURICRATS ON MY NAKED,
CATHOLIC BODY." THEN NIGEL DODDS AND WEE BARRY McELDUFF, BEGAN TO FLICK
EACH OTHERS' BEHIND WITH WET TOWELS AND SOON THE HIGHLY-PAID
POLITICIANS WERE ROLLING ROUND THE FLOOR LIKE A LITTER OF YOUNG PIGS.
MICHAEL McGIMPSEY SLIPPED ON A PAIR OF UNDERTAKER-BLACK, BOXER SHORTS
AND MUTTERED, "THIS IS HOW THE ROMAN EMPIRE FELL. TOO MUCH FRIVOLITY
AND FUN. I DON'T LIKE-FUN!"
IN A FURY I THREW, "1,000,000 FILMS YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE" INTO
THE FIRE AND YELLED, "HAS STEVEN SPIELBERG LOST HIS COTTON-PICKING
MIND?" TOMMY MY CAT, PUT DOWN, "GREAT CRAIC IN SPAIN" by DANIEL
O'DONNELL AND SAID,
"WHAT'S GOT UP YOUR HOOTER THEN?"
"STEVEN SPIELBERG!" I YELLED. "HE'S ONLY GONE AND MADE A FILM ABOUT
PIPE TOBACCO CALLED,"WAR HORSE".
TOMMY SIGHED, AND SAID, "THE FILM,"WAR HORSE" IS NOT ABOUT PIPE
TOBACCO. "WAR HORSE", IS THE HEART-WARMING STORY ABOUT A YOUNG BOY AND
JOEY HIS PET HORSE. DURING THE FIRST WORLD WAR, JOEY, FUELED UP BY
ROUSING SPEECHES AND BRASS BANDS, DECIDES, HASTILY TO SIGN UP AND JOIN
THE HORSE CALVARY. THE FILM SHOWS THE LOVE BETWEEN A YOUNG MAN AND
HORSE EVEN IN THE MIDST OF WAR, CARNAGE AND A GREAT SHORTAGE OF WOMEN'S
NYLON STOCKINGS."
I PONDERED 50%, RUMINATED, 59% AND SAID,
"YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NOW. JOEY THE HORSE WILL BE ON THE
NEXT SERIES OF, "STRICTLY COME DANCING".
"SO WHAT?" SAID TOMMY. "WOULD YOU STAND BETWEEN A HORSE AND HIS
CHANCE OF FAME?" "BESIDES," SAID TOMMY, "I AM SURE JOEY, WILL BE MUCH
MORE GRACEFUL THAT EITHER JOHN SERGEANT OR ANN WIDDECOMBE!"
"TOMMY," I SAID, "WOULDN'T RUSSELL GRANT AND TUBBY NOLAN, MAKE A GREAT PAIR OF
BOOKENDS?"
TOMMY THREW BACK HIS HEAD AND LAUGHED, WHICH AS ANY VET WILL TELL YOU,
IS QUITE UNUSUAL FOR A CAT!
Wednesday 11 January 2012
Patience, Practice and Martina Purdy.
GREAT SHOWS LAST WEEK KID. GREAT SHOWS WHICH IGNITED MUCH CONTROVERSY
AMONG A SELECT GROUP SEEKING ILLUMINATION REGARDING HUMAN,
INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION.
"IT'S HEARTBURN WHAT CAUSES IT!" YELLED WEE SPARKY McRONSON.
"RUBBISH!" ROARED VESTA MATCH. "INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION IS BROUGHT
ABOUT BY DRINKING TOO MUCH WHISKEY AND METHYLATED SPIRITS."
HEATED WORDS LED TO FIERCE IN-FIGHTING. AS FISTS BRUST, FACES AND FEET SANK
INTO SOFT, YIELDING GROINS, THE PROTAGONISTS FAILED TO NOTICE THAT
FOUNDER MEMBER, OLD CALOR KINDLING, HAD BURST INTO FLAMES IN A DARKENED
CORNER. THE CORONER SAID THE CAUSE OF DEATH WAS DUE TO A FLAMMABLE
POLLOP IN THE GIZZARD. "GUTTED!" WAS THE ONLY REQUIEM, CHISELED ON
OLD CALOR'S TOMBSTONE.
TOMMY MY CAT, PICKED UP HIS RED, FENDER GUITAR, TRIED, CALAMITOUSLY TO
PLAY THE SOLO FROM, "SULTANS OF SWING" THREW THE GUITAR FROM HIM AND
YELLED, "YON GEORDIE, MARK SNUFFLER, MUST HAVE TWENTY FINGERS!"
"PATIENCE TOMMY," I SAID. "PATIENCE AND PRACTICE. UP AT STORMOUNT, THE
DIXIELAND COMBO, "THE MLA 5" ARE GOING FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH.
JEFFREY DONALDSON, IS REPUTED TO BE A VERITABLE VIRTUOSO ON THE FIVE
STRING BANJO AND EDWIN POOTS, AN ABSOULTE WHIRLWIND ON DRUMS."
"WHOM IS THEIR LEAD SINGER?" ASKED TOMMY.
"WHISPERING BARRY MCELDUFF," I ANSWERED. "NIGEL DODDS TOLD ME THAT WHEN
WHISPERING BARRY SINGS, "I'LL BE GLAD WHEN YOU'RE DEAD, YOU RASCAL
YOU" BIG TEARS RAN DOWN THE OBSTINATE, GRANITE FACE OF JIM ALLISTER!"
TOMMY PICKED UP HIS GUITAR AND WENT BACK TO BASICS WITH A STUMBLING
VERSION OF, "THREE BLIND MICE".
I MET MARTINA PURDY WALKING UP THE FALLS ROAD WITH A TOWEL AROUND HER
NECK. "HEY AMERICANO!" I YELLED. "WHERE YA ALL BEEN?"
"WE ALL BEEN DOWN AT THE CRICK," SAID MARTINA. "I HAD ME A SKINNY DIP AND CHASED A
DOGGONE POSSUM UP A TREE."
"ARE YOU SETTLING IN TO THE ULSTER WAY OF LIFE?" I ASKED.
"HECK SURE," SAID MARTINA. " I DONE GONE BUILT ME A LOG CABIN ON THE
MALONE ROAD. I GOT ME AN OLD YELLER DOG, A FIDDLE AND A STONE JUG. HOT
DOGGITY, WE ALL AS HAPPY AS A TICK ON THE REAR OF STEVEN NOLAN. HEY,
YOU WANT TO HEAR MY HOG HOLLER?"
AND BEFORE I COULD STOP HER MARTINA, THREW BACK HER HEAD AND WENT,
"SHOOEE! SHOOEE! SHOOEE!"
A WEE WOMAN OPENED THE DOOR AND ROARED, "OUR HUGHIE IS AT HIS DINNER.
HE'LL BE OUT AS SOON AS HE FINISHES HIS CHIVER'S JELLY, SO HE
WILL!"
"AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE PANTS," SAID MARTINA, AS SHE WENT OFF
DOWN THE TRAIL.
AMONG A SELECT GROUP SEEKING ILLUMINATION REGARDING HUMAN,
INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION.
"IT'S HEARTBURN WHAT CAUSES IT!" YELLED WEE SPARKY McRONSON.
"RUBBISH!" ROARED VESTA MATCH. "INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION IS BROUGHT
ABOUT BY DRINKING TOO MUCH WHISKEY AND METHYLATED SPIRITS."
HEATED WORDS LED TO FIERCE IN-FIGHTING. AS FISTS BRUST, FACES AND FEET SANK
INTO SOFT, YIELDING GROINS, THE PROTAGONISTS FAILED TO NOTICE THAT
FOUNDER MEMBER, OLD CALOR KINDLING, HAD BURST INTO FLAMES IN A DARKENED
CORNER. THE CORONER SAID THE CAUSE OF DEATH WAS DUE TO A FLAMMABLE
POLLOP IN THE GIZZARD. "GUTTED!" WAS THE ONLY REQUIEM, CHISELED ON
OLD CALOR'S TOMBSTONE.
TOMMY MY CAT, PICKED UP HIS RED, FENDER GUITAR, TRIED, CALAMITOUSLY TO
PLAY THE SOLO FROM, "SULTANS OF SWING" THREW THE GUITAR FROM HIM AND
YELLED, "YON GEORDIE, MARK SNUFFLER, MUST HAVE TWENTY FINGERS!"
"PATIENCE TOMMY," I SAID. "PATIENCE AND PRACTICE. UP AT STORMOUNT, THE
DIXIELAND COMBO, "THE MLA 5" ARE GOING FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH.
JEFFREY DONALDSON, IS REPUTED TO BE A VERITABLE VIRTUOSO ON THE FIVE
STRING BANJO AND EDWIN POOTS, AN ABSOULTE WHIRLWIND ON DRUMS."
"WHOM IS THEIR LEAD SINGER?" ASKED TOMMY.
"WHISPERING BARRY MCELDUFF," I ANSWERED. "NIGEL DODDS TOLD ME THAT WHEN
WHISPERING BARRY SINGS, "I'LL BE GLAD WHEN YOU'RE DEAD, YOU RASCAL
YOU" BIG TEARS RAN DOWN THE OBSTINATE, GRANITE FACE OF JIM ALLISTER!"
TOMMY PICKED UP HIS GUITAR AND WENT BACK TO BASICS WITH A STUMBLING
VERSION OF, "THREE BLIND MICE".
I MET MARTINA PURDY WALKING UP THE FALLS ROAD WITH A TOWEL AROUND HER
NECK. "HEY AMERICANO!" I YELLED. "WHERE YA ALL BEEN?"
"WE ALL BEEN DOWN AT THE CRICK," SAID MARTINA. "I HAD ME A SKINNY DIP AND CHASED A
DOGGONE POSSUM UP A TREE."
"ARE YOU SETTLING IN TO THE ULSTER WAY OF LIFE?" I ASKED.
"HECK SURE," SAID MARTINA. " I DONE GONE BUILT ME A LOG CABIN ON THE
MALONE ROAD. I GOT ME AN OLD YELLER DOG, A FIDDLE AND A STONE JUG. HOT
DOGGITY, WE ALL AS HAPPY AS A TICK ON THE REAR OF STEVEN NOLAN. HEY,
YOU WANT TO HEAR MY HOG HOLLER?"
AND BEFORE I COULD STOP HER MARTINA, THREW BACK HER HEAD AND WENT,
"SHOOEE! SHOOEE! SHOOEE!"
A WEE WOMAN OPENED THE DOOR AND ROARED, "OUR HUGHIE IS AT HIS DINNER.
HE'LL BE OUT AS SOON AS HE FINISHES HIS CHIVER'S JELLY, SO HE
WILL!"
"AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE PANTS," SAID MARTINA, AS SHE WENT OFF
DOWN THE TRAIL.
Monday 9 January 2012
Cutting Edge Comedy
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which sadly went unnoticed in Clougher, when a camel convey of aid from Sudan arrived in the town square. Soon the Clougherarians were arrayed in long,white night-dresses and Arab head gear. Saint Judas street looked like the old bazaar in Cairo. Unfortunately Rosie Ryan, the Miss Haversham of Clougher, arrived too late and had to make do with a sheepherder's smock and a pair of puce slippers with turned-up-toes, kindly donated by the ladies in the harem of the court of King Caractacus.Rosie turned the air blue and stomped off home, with the toes of her slippers staring up at her big, red, puce face. "What a hallion!" said Father Goodman, as he leapt on a camel and galloped down the street, shooting at his congregation with an imaginary colt 45.
Tommy my cat opened the last Ferrero Rocher, popped it into his mouth and said,
"I hold Mrs Brown, in the greatest esteem. There she is, a decent, christian woman trying to bring up her boys in a world of depravity and debauchery." I gave the thumbs up to Matt Baggott, who was wrestling with a run-a-way circus clown in the middle of the street and said, "It's always a sign of an early Spring when the clowns run away from the circus in January. BUT! getting back to Mrs Brown and her boys, that programme would NEVER have been commissioned by RTE when the Celtic Tiger was cock of the walk and tall buildings were springing up like Lego sets."
"I demand enlightenment!" cried Tommy. "Please clarify, in a transparent way, the reason behind your outrageous statement."
I climbed on to a Queen Ann computer desk and manoeuvred my gub up and down and from side to side to produce oratory. "Southern Ireland," I proclaimed, "is going through hard times. The country is broke and in debt to the eyes. The Celtic Tiger has gone! Slattery's goat has been restored to power. When a country is down, the first thing the people do is return to their roots. Ireland has returned to bogholes, famine, emigration, donkeys and the entertainment of long, long ago. "Mrs Brown's Boys" ticks all the boxes. It shows the Irish to be buckstupid and lacking the thinnest veneer of sophistication. Mrs Brown is a throw back to "Take the floor, The Kennedys of Castlerock and Walton's music--If you do feel like singing, do sing an Irish song. When the Celtic Tiger was in its prime," I yelled, "Mrs Brown's Boys would have been laughed out of RTE! But now, that's what the people want: A man dressed as a woman acting the fool and the English love it! They love it. Mrs Brown confirms all their stereotypical prejudices."
"How lucky are we," cried Tommy, "We live in Ulster, where comedy is cutting edge, new and exciting."
"Right on Bro.!" I yelled. "Let's drink to May McFedridge, Our William and Sketchy."
Tommy my cat opened the last Ferrero Rocher, popped it into his mouth and said,
"I hold Mrs Brown, in the greatest esteem. There she is, a decent, christian woman trying to bring up her boys in a world of depravity and debauchery." I gave the thumbs up to Matt Baggott, who was wrestling with a run-a-way circus clown in the middle of the street and said, "It's always a sign of an early Spring when the clowns run away from the circus in January. BUT! getting back to Mrs Brown and her boys, that programme would NEVER have been commissioned by RTE when the Celtic Tiger was cock of the walk and tall buildings were springing up like Lego sets."
"I demand enlightenment!" cried Tommy. "Please clarify, in a transparent way, the reason behind your outrageous statement."
I climbed on to a Queen Ann computer desk and manoeuvred my gub up and down and from side to side to produce oratory. "Southern Ireland," I proclaimed, "is going through hard times. The country is broke and in debt to the eyes. The Celtic Tiger has gone! Slattery's goat has been restored to power. When a country is down, the first thing the people do is return to their roots. Ireland has returned to bogholes, famine, emigration, donkeys and the entertainment of long, long ago. "Mrs Brown's Boys" ticks all the boxes. It shows the Irish to be buckstupid and lacking the thinnest veneer of sophistication. Mrs Brown is a throw back to "Take the floor, The Kennedys of Castlerock and Walton's music--If you do feel like singing, do sing an Irish song. When the Celtic Tiger was in its prime," I yelled, "Mrs Brown's Boys would have been laughed out of RTE! But now, that's what the people want: A man dressed as a woman acting the fool and the English love it! They love it. Mrs Brown confirms all their stereotypical prejudices."
"How lucky are we," cried Tommy, "We live in Ulster, where comedy is cutting edge, new and exciting."
"Right on Bro.!" I yelled. "Let's drink to May McFedridge, Our William and Sketchy."
Wednesday 4 January 2012
Regrets and Custard Creams.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which nearly brought a smile to the face of Michael McGimpsey, as he sat beside a dead Christmas tree decorated with two black balloons and a black armband instead of a fairy. Michael, shivering from the cold, drew a tattered shroud around him, peered into his crystal ball and moaned, "In the year 2012, I foresee doom, gloom, more doom and Jim Allister. Oh, dearie me! Oh, dearie me!" Michael, went back to polishing a gleaming, oak coffin and muttered, "The older I get the more I regret leaving Miss Gertie Haversham standing at the altar. Oh dearie me. Oh dearie me. It's only being so cheerful that keeps me going."
"BANG!" I jumped as Tommy my cat opened a plastic bubble containing his new toothbrush with a controlled explosion.
"Tommy," I said. "As long as you've got the Semtex out, please open a packet of air-tight, shock resistant, hobnobs for tea."
"Ja Mien Fuhrer!" roared Tommy. Sometimes I think Tommy may be an unrepentant NAZI. Small things make me think that, the way he struts about and the Panzer tank hidden in his bedroom. I decided to question Herr Tommy. "Tommy," I said. "Give me a word or phrase that would sum up Adolf Hitler."
Tommy sprang to his feet, stood smartly to attention, stuck his right arm up in the air and yelled out in a guttural voice, "High spirited!" I could have kicked myself for thinking little Tommy was a spy. Tommy's not a NAZI, he's a member of the golf club AND a practicing Catholic!
I found Hugo Duncan, being measured for a gold lame bathrobe in "Tiny Tim's" clothes for big boys and short men. "Hey, little man from Strabane," I yelled, "what have you been up to?"
Hugo gave me a low five and said, "When you're my size you don't get up to much. On my honeymoon, my wife had to lift me up to put out the light."
"Listen up, Shorty," I said. "You must remember Gerry Anderson going round Strabane in a wee van when he worked for social services."
"Did you say-worked?" roared Hugo. "I'll tell you what Anderson did in Strabane. Like a jackal he sniffed out all the auld wans in Strabane who were lonely. Once Anderson got his foot in the door he never left. Lying back smoking and eating the old dears out of house and home. He was a locust!" yelled Hugo. "A locust! When Anderson came to Strabane it was a thriving, middle-class town. By the time Anderson left it was a rundown slum with the highest unemployment rate in Europe."
Then Tiny Tim interjected to ask, "Mr Duncan, which side do you dress to?"
Hugo gave a leap and cried, "That's the Belfast boys for you. They can't wait to know your religion. "I'm a catholic!" roared Hugo, as he stormed out. "I'm a catholic and I dress right down the middle like the pope and the concave of holy cardinals."
"Touchy, little titch," said Tiny Tim.
"You must forgive him," I said. "Gerry Anderson, ate all his mother's custard creams."
"Ah! the day of the jackal," said Tiny Tim. "A time of great sorrow and hardship for the poor working class of Strabane."
"BANG!" I jumped as Tommy my cat opened a plastic bubble containing his new toothbrush with a controlled explosion.
"Tommy," I said. "As long as you've got the Semtex out, please open a packet of air-tight, shock resistant, hobnobs for tea."
"Ja Mien Fuhrer!" roared Tommy. Sometimes I think Tommy may be an unrepentant NAZI. Small things make me think that, the way he struts about and the Panzer tank hidden in his bedroom. I decided to question Herr Tommy. "Tommy," I said. "Give me a word or phrase that would sum up Adolf Hitler."
Tommy sprang to his feet, stood smartly to attention, stuck his right arm up in the air and yelled out in a guttural voice, "High spirited!" I could have kicked myself for thinking little Tommy was a spy. Tommy's not a NAZI, he's a member of the golf club AND a practicing Catholic!
I found Hugo Duncan, being measured for a gold lame bathrobe in "Tiny Tim's" clothes for big boys and short men. "Hey, little man from Strabane," I yelled, "what have you been up to?"
Hugo gave me a low five and said, "When you're my size you don't get up to much. On my honeymoon, my wife had to lift me up to put out the light."
"Listen up, Shorty," I said. "You must remember Gerry Anderson going round Strabane in a wee van when he worked for social services."
"Did you say-worked?" roared Hugo. "I'll tell you what Anderson did in Strabane. Like a jackal he sniffed out all the auld wans in Strabane who were lonely. Once Anderson got his foot in the door he never left. Lying back smoking and eating the old dears out of house and home. He was a locust!" yelled Hugo. "A locust! When Anderson came to Strabane it was a thriving, middle-class town. By the time Anderson left it was a rundown slum with the highest unemployment rate in Europe."
Then Tiny Tim interjected to ask, "Mr Duncan, which side do you dress to?"
Hugo gave a leap and cried, "That's the Belfast boys for you. They can't wait to know your religion. "I'm a catholic!" roared Hugo, as he stormed out. "I'm a catholic and I dress right down the middle like the pope and the concave of holy cardinals."
"Touchy, little titch," said Tiny Tim.
"You must forgive him," I said. "Gerry Anderson, ate all his mother's custard creams."
"Ah! the day of the jackal," said Tiny Tim. "A time of great sorrow and hardship for the poor working class of Strabane."
Tuesday 3 January 2012
Beware Holidy Brochures!
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which spurred on an old codger, who for the past week had been trying to climb the nine steps leading to the office of, "Truss In Us" makers of surgical appliances since 1862.
"A small step for man," croaked the old codger. "A giant LEAP for an old relic with multiple hernias." The old codger's joy turned to sadness when he was informed his custom made, rhinestone-studded truss had failed the stress test,due to metal fatigue in the fork.
" Buttermilk and boulevards," croaked the old wrinkly, as he donned an oxygen mask and prepared to make the hazardous descent back down the nine steps.
I was fast asleep when Tommy my cat woke me with a piercing scream of, "HELP!" I leapt out of bed like a wayward husband. "FIRE! POLICE! AMBULANCE!" I shrieked. As I bounded down the stairs like a Tubby Nolan on a helter-skelter a horrible sight met my eyes. There lay Tommy, buried alive under an avalanche of holiday brochures.
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "Don't you dare die on me." as I removed quite resonable offers of holidays in the Seychelles and Desert martin with my bare hands. I found Tommy lying pale and still under a special offer for self catering holidays in the Sahara desert. "TOMMY!" I cried. "Speak to me! If you're dead, blink your eyes."
"My leg!" yelled Tommy. "My leg is trapped under a family holiday in Blackpool for only £199.00."
"That's very reasonable," I panted, as I grasped the brochure with both hands and rolled it off Tommy's leg.
As I bent to give Tommy the kiss of life, the rescued feline leaped to his feet yelling, "I'm all right! Don't come near me with that big,ugly, stuck-out gub."
I wasn't satisfied, so I put on a CD of, Bosco McBog singing "Father O'Flynn" at high speed and made Tommy river dance in the corner for three hours.
I stopped Pamela Ballentine coming out of a newsagents with a copy of, "Woman's Own Busts" under her arm and asked how playboy and jet-setter Frank Mitchell had got on over the holidays.
"Ah, you know Frank," laughed Pamela. "Nothing bothers him. We call him Mr Cool back at UTV."
We were joined by Tara Mills, who was taking Jim Fitzpatrick for a walk on the end of a chain.
While Jim sniffed a lamp post blonde Tara, wiped her nose with a perfumed tissue and said,
"I don't know why, but every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bojangles and want to dance."
"Funny you should say that," said Paul Clarke, with a pound of special mince sticking out of his pocket.
"Every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bow-Legs and want to laugh."
"Oh you're awful Paul," giggled Tara. "Isn't he awful Pamela?"
"Don't be awful Paul," said Pamela. "Frank, after all, is our collegiate."
"More like, village eegit," laughed Paul. I left them bent over laughing. I don't see anything funny about pouring scorn and distasteful derision on a national treasure.
"A small step for man," croaked the old codger. "A giant LEAP for an old relic with multiple hernias." The old codger's joy turned to sadness when he was informed his custom made, rhinestone-studded truss had failed the stress test,due to metal fatigue in the fork.
" Buttermilk and boulevards," croaked the old wrinkly, as he donned an oxygen mask and prepared to make the hazardous descent back down the nine steps.
I was fast asleep when Tommy my cat woke me with a piercing scream of, "HELP!" I leapt out of bed like a wayward husband. "FIRE! POLICE! AMBULANCE!" I shrieked. As I bounded down the stairs like a Tubby Nolan on a helter-skelter a horrible sight met my eyes. There lay Tommy, buried alive under an avalanche of holiday brochures.
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "Don't you dare die on me." as I removed quite resonable offers of holidays in the Seychelles and Desert martin with my bare hands. I found Tommy lying pale and still under a special offer for self catering holidays in the Sahara desert. "TOMMY!" I cried. "Speak to me! If you're dead, blink your eyes."
"My leg!" yelled Tommy. "My leg is trapped under a family holiday in Blackpool for only £199.00."
"That's very reasonable," I panted, as I grasped the brochure with both hands and rolled it off Tommy's leg.
As I bent to give Tommy the kiss of life, the rescued feline leaped to his feet yelling, "I'm all right! Don't come near me with that big,ugly, stuck-out gub."
I wasn't satisfied, so I put on a CD of, Bosco McBog singing "Father O'Flynn" at high speed and made Tommy river dance in the corner for three hours.
I stopped Pamela Ballentine coming out of a newsagents with a copy of, "Woman's Own Busts" under her arm and asked how playboy and jet-setter Frank Mitchell had got on over the holidays.
"Ah, you know Frank," laughed Pamela. "Nothing bothers him. We call him Mr Cool back at UTV."
We were joined by Tara Mills, who was taking Jim Fitzpatrick for a walk on the end of a chain.
While Jim sniffed a lamp post blonde Tara, wiped her nose with a perfumed tissue and said,
"I don't know why, but every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bojangles and want to dance."
"Funny you should say that," said Paul Clarke, with a pound of special mince sticking out of his pocket.
"Every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bow-Legs and want to laugh."
"Oh you're awful Paul," giggled Tara. "Isn't he awful Pamela?"
"Don't be awful Paul," said Pamela. "Frank, after all, is our collegiate."
"More like, village eegit," laughed Paul. I left them bent over laughing. I don't see anything funny about pouring scorn and distasteful derision on a national treasure.
Monday 2 January 2012
Time Does Not Exist.
Great shows in 2011 kid. Last year's great shows brought a degree of respectability to crude, cornerboy antics and greatly advanced the cause for making National Slapper day a bank holiday.
"Who goes there?" I yelled, as Tommy my cat came downstairs wearing a 1954 Burton's suit and a superior look on his sensitive, classical, feline features. "I go there!" roared Tommy. "The name's, Cat, Tommy Cat. I have a licence to do my business in flower beds and sit in front of the fire with my leg up in the air."
"Tommy, my little feisty feline," I shrieked. "Happy New Year! May your wee lum reek and your bawbees jingle in the coming year. May your kilt swing, your sporran dance, your haggis prosper and your wee breeks cling like limpets to your two, bonny, wee, scrawny hips."
Tommy spat the seed from a Cox's Pippin in the general direction of Iran and said, "Wheest your auld bleather woman. This is not the New Year, it is not Sunday and it is not half past ten in the morning."
I fell back against the wickerwork aquarium, like Dave "Boy" McCauley used to do and yelled, "Hold on there a cotton-picking moment. How dare you stand there spouting rubbish like Galleio Galleio, or Boris Johnson. Explain yourself or, by the Lady Gaga, I'll tickle the backs of your legs with a sally rod."
Tommy put one foot up on an imaginary step and said, "Time is an abstract, it is not a reality. In fact, time does not exist. Take the singularity of a black hole. There is no time there. You will never hear a black hole saying,"What time is it?" or, "Happy New Year."
"But Tommy," I cried. "I see the hands on the clock move. I hear the church bells proclaim it to be Sunday."
"Man-made manifestations of stupidity and fear," laughed Tommy. "Man has never understood time and space. In an effort to understand and harness time, man has come up with childlike names like hours, days, weeks, months and years. Can you see time, touch it, smell it? NO! Time does not exist and yet men go around asking, "Hi sir, have you got the correct time?" The fools!" said Tommy. "The poor, stupid, thick, innocent-fools."
Driven to distraction by the abstraction of time I yelled, "Why does a woman take more time to get ready than a man?"
"I haven't got time for this nonsense," said Tommy. "I'm off for a game of snooker at the British Legion. What time do you want me home for dinner?" "Why don't you ask the singularity in your black hole!" I yelled, as I ripped the calender from the wall and broke every clock in the house!
"Who goes there?" I yelled, as Tommy my cat came downstairs wearing a 1954 Burton's suit and a superior look on his sensitive, classical, feline features. "I go there!" roared Tommy. "The name's, Cat, Tommy Cat. I have a licence to do my business in flower beds and sit in front of the fire with my leg up in the air."
"Tommy, my little feisty feline," I shrieked. "Happy New Year! May your wee lum reek and your bawbees jingle in the coming year. May your kilt swing, your sporran dance, your haggis prosper and your wee breeks cling like limpets to your two, bonny, wee, scrawny hips."
Tommy spat the seed from a Cox's Pippin in the general direction of Iran and said, "Wheest your auld bleather woman. This is not the New Year, it is not Sunday and it is not half past ten in the morning."
I fell back against the wickerwork aquarium, like Dave "Boy" McCauley used to do and yelled, "Hold on there a cotton-picking moment. How dare you stand there spouting rubbish like Galleio Galleio, or Boris Johnson. Explain yourself or, by the Lady Gaga, I'll tickle the backs of your legs with a sally rod."
Tommy put one foot up on an imaginary step and said, "Time is an abstract, it is not a reality. In fact, time does not exist. Take the singularity of a black hole. There is no time there. You will never hear a black hole saying,"What time is it?" or, "Happy New Year."
"But Tommy," I cried. "I see the hands on the clock move. I hear the church bells proclaim it to be Sunday."
"Man-made manifestations of stupidity and fear," laughed Tommy. "Man has never understood time and space. In an effort to understand and harness time, man has come up with childlike names like hours, days, weeks, months and years. Can you see time, touch it, smell it? NO! Time does not exist and yet men go around asking, "Hi sir, have you got the correct time?" The fools!" said Tommy. "The poor, stupid, thick, innocent-fools."
Driven to distraction by the abstraction of time I yelled, "Why does a woman take more time to get ready than a man?"
"I haven't got time for this nonsense," said Tommy. "I'm off for a game of snooker at the British Legion. What time do you want me home for dinner?" "Why don't you ask the singularity in your black hole!" I yelled, as I ripped the calender from the wall and broke every clock in the house!
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