Poor Tara! That's tarra.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which came as a great surprise
to an old codger who was being waked at home in the good room. The old
codger, leaped out of the coffin and ran through the town in his
shroud yelling, " Barnyard fowl and tawny owl, I've missed two Gerry
Anderson shows!" When told that Mr Coyle's interrupting had increased
by 37% the old codger ran home, leaped into the coffin and closed the
lid with a bang!
Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "The well spring of ugliness in
your family must run fast and deep."
"It does," I chortled. "When I was born the doctor and midwife would only handle me with tongs. My sister Suzie, was fined for being knowingly and persistently ugly in a public place. My brother Sunk, who was named after the Titanic could
kill a goatee beard just by looking at it. When my late daddy died, the man who came to shave him took one look and yelled, "In the name of God!" turned him over on his face and covered him with bubble wrap."
Tommy picked up his pea-shooter, fired a salvo of peas in the general direction of Iran and said, "Your family would made the Adam's family look like the Osmonds. Your combined ugliness must have been a great drawback to tourism."
"Oh it was," I said. "Tourists, especially the Japanese, used to take one look at us and get right back on the plane. We did our bit in the war!" I yelled. "Oh yes, we did our bit in the war. Old Winston Churchill, reeking of cigars, self importance and cooking sherry, lined the whole family up on the cliffs of Dover and ordered us to pull faces for God, King and country."
Tommy flicked a speck of dark matter off his gansey and muttered under his
breath. "So, that was why Hitler, never invaded Britain!"
Under the spreading chestnut tree, the lovely, blonde, Tara Mills,sat eating corn on the cob, washed down with Listerine mouthwash. "TARA!" I yelled. "Lovely, wee political Tara. It must be tarra for you to have to sit up in Stormount,listening to the sound of baying jackals and the inspiring, unforgettable oratory of Jim
Allister."
Little Tara, wrung her hands, wept and cried, "OH woe is me. You knee
Noel Thompson just ONCE in the groin and the BBC send you off to Stormount. SIBERIA, the political correspondents' graveyard. How I would love to sit on the sofa, talking about the Titanic and interviewing important people like Sue Pollard, Les Dennis and little old wine drinker me, Brian Kennedy."
"TARA!" I cried. "That's tarra. You only kneed Noel Thompson once. One day you will be set free. But what in tarnation did big Jim Fitzpatrick do to be sent to Stormount for LIFE?"
"That I can not say," said Tara. "Let's just say it involved Donna Traynor, a box of Ferraro Rocher and a feather duster."
NO!" I cried.
"YES!" said Tara--in the broom cupboard! GO" said Tara. "Make haste and go. The BBC have spies everywhere.
I looked around just in time to see Tubby Nolan, hiding behind some
wheelie-bins, like Orson Wells. The thin man? I think NOT!!!!!

Pies, Pies, Chocolate and Fries.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was mostly ignored in and round the Bricklands area. When a naked Jordie Tuft rode into town on a donkey protesting at the spiraling cost of cooking sherry, the Mother's Union and the Legion of Mary had a whip round and sent old Jordie home wearing, French, satin knickers, fishnet stockings and a double D bra, all of which were hidden under a wee, blue top and a charcoal-grey pencil skirt.
"Don't he look lovely?" cried old Ma Clampet. "He looks just like my granny, the night before she died."
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the bow tie and yelled, "How would you describe the mood of Mr Coyle today?" Tommy gave me a voucher for a head butt and said, "Buoyant! Buoyant, is the only word to describe Mr Coyle's mood." I stared hard at a green tomato until it turned red and said, "Something isn't right."
"Then it must be left," said Tommy. "Anyway, what's amiss?"
"A young, unmarried woman," I replied. "I can't quite put my finger on it," I said.
"Want me to get the wooden spoon?" said Tommy.
"It's a puzzler," I said. "Mr Coyle plus a good mood equals..what?"
"DRUGS!" yelled Tommy. "Old Popeye went to see the doctor before dropping into the studio for a rest. The doctor must have used eye drops consisting of sterilized water and LSD! Mr Coyle was as high as a kite, pumped up to the eye balls with hippy, trippy, acid."
"GOTCHA!!!" I yelled. "Quick Tommy, the phone number for big, Jim McDowell at the Sunday World."
I found Steven Nolan, sitting in an old, abandoned warehouse singing this little ditty over and over again, "PIES, PIES, CHOCOLATE AND FRIES."
"Hey Bro," I cried, "what's up? Eat anything good lately?"
Tubby snarled like a Komodo dragon and said, "I feel my position as King of the airways is in danger. I have heard strange tales of treason and intrigue relating to Alan Simpson and William Crawly. I am surrounded by enemies. I must protect my flanks and cover my rear."
"The only way for you to cover your rear,"I giggled, "is to reverse into an aircraft hanger."
"Begone!" yelled Tubby. "I must prepare for battle! My visage must be grim and my loins girded."
"Oh Sir Tubby," I cried, "May I gird your mighty loins?"
"YOU?" roared Tubby. "You are a mere rat bag. It requires six strong men to gird MY massive loins."
For some strange reason I was reminded of a cowboy film I saw when just a cuttie.... HOLD UP AT TWISTED FORK!!!

Magicians and Cannibals

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly amazed sinister, spinster, old Maud Muppet, when she went to the woodshed and found Jordie Tuft sitting on an upturned bucket wearing the full regalia of a Captain in the Spanish navy. Old Jordie, who was under the impression he was in the crow's nest of the Constantia, yelled, "Hello wee woman. How sets the wind for France?" Old Jordie, was taken away by the police to be washed, sanded,varnished and polished. Tommy my cat, wearing the away colours of Plymouth Argyle, finished a lovely, charcoal drawing of Ghandi, wearing a lime-green three piece suit and said,
"Ageing magician old Paul Daniels, is so deranged he cut off his own finger thinking it was the head of the lovely Debbie Magee."
"Not a lot do I like that!" I yelled. "It is high time and indeed, low time that the ancient magician was hog tied and taken to secure accommodation."
"Paul Daniels should see this as a wake-up call," cried Tommy. "It was a finger this time, but next time it could be a John Bobbit. Now you see it, now you don't."
"I wonder at the lovely Debbie Magee," I said. "She's no Spring chicken herself. When she saw the deceiving, old relic get off the commode with a groan and reach for an electric, circular saw, she must have known the old, bald, dimwit would climb into bed that night minus this or that."
"The lovely Debbie Magee was lucky this time," said Tommy. "The doddering, old fool only cut off this, but it could so easily have been-that!"
"And they don't grow on trees," I said. "They don't grow on trees!"
Tommy looked at me, like a biologist looking at a newt with two heads, and said,
"Why did you never get married?" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and stammered, "I had my chances. Don't you worry, I had my chances. There was a time men used to fall at my feet."
Tommy sneered and said, "Yes, they do say the rank, putrid smell of athlete's food can drop a man quicker than a bullet." I ignored the spiteful, hateful slur and went on, "When I was a gal, living in the country, men used to drive out from Belfast just to gaze at my beauty, grace and deportment. Dear Mama, would serve tea on the lawn. Darling papa would whip out his kazoo and I would throw back my head, exposing my soft, slender, swan-like neck and sing, "She was only a farmer's daughter, but she always got her oats."
"There must have been someone special," said Tommy. "Whom was the special boy in your life?" I blushed, threw my arms about me, until my knuckles grazed the floor, kicked the coal bucket with a pink flip-flop and replied, "The special boy in my life was, little Willie Snot. Willie, was only the son of a vicar, but he meddled not with hymns. Little Willie, said he would marry me after two years working as a kilt salesman in the Congo, but, but, but.......... "
"What happened?" cried Tommy. "What happened to little Willie?"
"Eaten," I sobbed. "Eaten by cannibals."
"Oh no!" cried Tommy.
"Oh yes!" I shrieked. "Eating little Willie, was bad enough, but it was what they said afterwards that has remained with me to this day."
"What did they say?" cried Tommy. I tore clumps of hair from my head and screamed,
"The cannibals, described my little Willie, as a tasty little snack." I fell back then on my bustle, kicking my legs and pulling faces of the most hideous and repulsive ugliness.
Tommy went out the door singing, "She was only a cannibal's daughter, but she wouldn't eat her granny's ass.!!!

In Other Words.

"What a great show that was!" said Tommy my cat. "And what a lot of subjects were covered. Poetry, swans, Gerry's great love for his fellow man, Mr Coyle's pussy phobia and how hateful and awful Steven Nolan is."
I coughed. Tommy said, "What's up? Is a small doctor examining you below the Mason, Dixon line?"
"Don't be crude!" I yelled. "Sometimes you can be as crude as Iranian oil, which we ain't going to get no more, thanks to Porgy and Bess, Aka William Hague and David Cameron. If you must know," I said, "I have something stuck in my craw."
"Spit it out," said Tommy. "Don't stand there like Tubby Nolan without a pie in his hand."
"The reason for my blocked craw," I said, "is-COYLE!" Suddenly the sky darkened. A flash of lightening split the heavens and a busker played a discordant, Hammer House of Horror chord on a mouth organ. Tommy blessed himself with some holy water from the river Boyne and said through chattering teeth, "We promised never to mention that name in this house."
"I have to!" I yelled. "Coyle's interrupting is one thing, but when he disagrees with every thing Gerry says, well, he's walking on the fighting side of me."
"You're right!" cried Tommy. "Or as they would say in Eastenders, "Hoi son, come 'ere you Muppet. You wuz bang,right out of order there!"
"OR," said Tommy, "if we were in Coronation Street, it would be, "Nay lad. Nay, nay lad. Stop mithering our Gerry. Go to foot of stairs and think on!"
"OR," said Tommy, "If it was Fair City, it would be, "AH, come on Charley. Another auld pint won't hurt you, by janey, begorragh and be jesus."
"OR," said Tommy, "if it was Hollyoaks, it would be, "I think Jason likes me, he vomited all over me last night."
"IT must STOP!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle must allow Gerry to tell a story without roaring. "There's nothing about that! I don't believe a word of it, or, AAH, your drawers!" "A time is coming," I said. "Oh, yes my friends, a time is coming, when Gerry will say, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is, Gerald Michael Anderson and Mr Coyle will roar, "Ah, your drawers! There's not one word of truth in that statement. You're a liar! I demand to see your birth certificate and a photograph of you with Gerald Michael Anderson."
"The Twilight Zone," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle is talking us into a place where time doesn't exist. A place where the truth is bent and twisted like a licorice stick. A place where the one-eyed man is King. A place known as, The Twilight Zone."
Frightened beyond belief, I was too scared to concur!!!

I love George Clooney.

Great show yesterday kid. The great show was much appreciated by the widow of old 87 year old Jingo Mumbles. Just a week ago old Jingles had glued chicken feathers all over his body and leaped off a steep cliff. As old Jingo plummeted to the ground he cried out in a shrill, piercing scream. "Well, back to the drawing board!" Old Jingo was buried quickly in the dark of night in a five minute ceremony befitting a crazy, old head banger. Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "I have known Jordie Tuft all my feline life. In all that time I have never seen a shorter phone-in than the one old Jordie did on Tuesday morning. I wonder what is the matter with the rural, rustic Oracle?"
"Hefted?" I said.
"No!" said Tommy, "old Jordie has many cures for that condition." Tommy giggled and said, "I think old Jordie had a lady friend in and was in a rush to get back to her. I think old Jordie put his lady friend on the back burner, so to speak, had a brief talk with Gerry, and then returned to steamy,lecherous shenanigans, not seen since the days of Caligula."
"Pork salad Annie!" I yelled. "I heard old Jordie is often seen in the company of a lady called, Pork Salad Annie. She's not as green as she's cabbage looking. Old Jordie better watch out. If the DHSS hear about it they could cut off his cold weather payment."
Tommy smiled grimly and said, "If this romantic dalliance is to be nipped in the bud, they may cut off a lot more than THAT!" I pulled my masonic apron over my face and screamed, "You don't mean........?
"Oh yes!" said Tommy. "If old Jordie doesn't stop his fluffing and futtering they may cut off his electricity! People in and around Bricklands say that women of a certain age are attracted to the light in old Jordie's window, like wanton moths to a flame."
I put on an Etta James false face, threw back my head and sang, "I'd Rather Go Blind!"
"George Clooney," I said, hugging myself with delight. "What a man! So handsome, so intelligent, so hunkable. I love him. I love him. I want the whole world to know that I love George Clooney. I love George Clooney, with a love so strong, so deep, so everlasting. NOTHING could take away my great love for George Clooney."
"Is that a fact?" said Tommy.
"It is a fact," I said.
"So be it," said Tommy. "I will now take away your love of George Clooney by asking you one simple question."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "NOTHING will take away my love for gorgeous George." "Tommy looked deep into my eyes and said, "What hand does George Clooney use to clean his bum? I ran down the street screaming and pulling my hair, with the sound of Tommy's evil laughter ringing in my ears.

Rejected because he's a Cat....

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought out Mr Coyle's innate kindness, generosity and philanthropic nature. When I heard Mr Coyle had opened his car window and hurled a half-eaten cheese sandwich at a beggar, with an ignorant yell of, "Now bugger Off Smelly!" I fell to my knees before a statue of Charles Dickens and yelled, "God bless us, everyone!" The highlight of the week for me was Wednesday, when you talked to a 48 stone man with no ambition to lose weight and climb mount Everest! Old Jordie's views on nuclear physics were interesting, but not exactly ground breaking. Tommy my cat, sat in front of the radio all week, holding an empty jam jar, hoping to catch one of Emma's dainty little coughs. Alas, Benelin won the day and Tommy came away with an empty jam jar, which will now be sterilized and used to hold tadpoles. I like a tadpole or two around the house. They bring a Zen-like tranquility to a home. Hence the well known poster, "A home Is Not A home Without A Tadpole." They say Damian Hirst made thousands out of that!!
Tommy ran to fetch the mail and came running back with a brown envelope in his hands. I spilled some needles and pins on the floor and stood on them as Tommy tore open the letter with teeth, claws and a Swiss army knife. Tommy read the letter, let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed on the floor. I watched the second half of Countdown and then ran to his side. "TOMMY!" I shrieked. "Speak to me, even if it's only to say, "I can't talk now, come back later." Tommy raised his little head and cried, "Hello rejection, my old friend. You've come to talk with me again." Tommy looked all around for a cat to kick and yelled, "Once more I have been turned down for a job on the police commission. Once again, the reason is the same, it's because I'm a CAT!. A CAT.......A....."
"But Tommy," I yelled, "there are many catholics on that board and one or two of them even pretend to follow the tenets of their faith."
"CAT!" roared Tommy. "Not catholic! They turned me down because I'm a CAT!"
"You kept that quiet," I said. "I had no idea. I thought you were my aunt Flo's boy. Nevertheless, you have as much right to be on that board as any Tom, Dick or Saddam. Why, the very dogs on the street are on the police commission."
"I know," said Tommy. "Sammy the dachshund told me it's a cushy little number. All you have to do is listen to Matt Baggott, droning on and on and then get stuck into the tea and biscuits." I raised my clenched teeth in the air and cried, "By the revolutionary drawers of Che Guevara, I will take this to the European court for human and feline rights. Questions will be asked," I roared, "in parliament and in the back snug of Patel's shebeen!"
"Leave me," said Tommy. "I am irrelevant. I had hoped to do some good, but if Matt Baggott treats me like a second-class cat, then on his own head be it."
Tommy staggered to his chair in front of the fire, pulled an old horse blanket round him and sobbed, "The police commission is a cold house for cats!"
I concurred repeatedly, until my legs gave way and I fell in a crumpled, dishevelled heap on the floor!

The Proud Tradition of Cutting across the Fields.

Great Saint Valentine's day show kid. If you can't say it with flowers, say it with bullets like Al Capone.
I saw an old fakir, trying to raise his pecker, in a field near Malin Head, his old pipe was wailin' the magic was fadin' alas, his old snake was dead!
Don't you just hate it when that happens!!!
Tommy my cat, wearing a pair of wrinkled tights, leaped into the room like Rudolph Nurevyev and cried,
"On pointe de toes, here I go, watch me pirouette. En dehors, en dehors, shut them doors, for petit, feline pet. Pas de chat, the step of the cat, I leap high in the air, bourree, bourree, I bend my knee and stick out my derriere!" "Bravo!" I yelled. "Encore, encore!"
"I can't encore, there is no more," said Tommy, changing back into his grey, flannel trousers and blue blazer with the crest of the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls on the front. Where did Tommy get the blazer? I don't know. Probably Manfred woman, or Manfred Mann.
Tommy stood at the window, stuck out his tongue in the general direction of Iran and said, "Up at Stormount, bonny wee Sammy Wilson is spending money hand over fist."
"I know!" I yelled. "For the first time in history, Co Tyrone is going to have a road, a big road, which goes places! How great is that!"
Tommy drew a picture of a parrot, placed it on his shoulder and said, "Not everyone is over the lunar landscape. Just seventeen minutes ago, by my H Samuel, ever-right watch, be-spectacled, Sinn Feiner, Barry McElduff, leaped to his feet and made this impassioned speech. "(Irish Intro) Mr Speaker, I thank the minister for his offer of the first road in Co Tyrone. But does the minister know that this will sound the death knell for a grand old tradition in that county? I refer of course to cutting across the fields. Since time began the people of Tyrone have been cutting across the fields. I myself, cut across the fields to get to school. My father, cuts across the fields to get to the bog and my sainted mother, cut across the fields to by me a new, secondhand suit when I first entered Stormount. Cutting across the fields is a proud tradition that the people of Tyrone will fight to retain. I shudder to think of a generation of Tyrone cubs and cutties, who may NEVER know the great thrill of cutting across the fields. If this new road leads to trouble on the streets, I must warn the minister, that I will cut across the fields to lead the protest. UP TYRONE and UP cutting across the fields!"
Sammy Wilson, got to his feet with a pained expression on his face, (piles or indigestion?) and said,
"Barry, do you want the flipping road or NOT?"
The bold Barry leaped to his feet and yelled, "YES! I do want the road, but with stipulations. When the big road is built, I insist that everyone in Tyrone be issued with a licence, a licence to cut across the fields!"
"CARRIED!!!" roared Jim Allister, who was sitting with a red face brusting for a slash!

Life is like a pigeon with one wing.

Great shows last week kid, and hats off to Mr Coyle, who manipulated his
fader brilliantly with just one good eye.
Birdman, Dickie Crowe, wishes it to be known that he has crossed a parrot
with a rooster which shouts, "Are you going to lie in bed all day?" at
break of dawn. What a boon for house-bound honeys and the fox hunting
fraternity. Do you ken John Peel? No! but I ken his sister Emma Peel!
Tommy my cat, picked up his shoe shine box and said, "I'm off to work. I
have a pitch just outside the BBC. Oh yes, I know them all. Dear Donna
Traynor, with her blue gutties, Noel Thompson, with his hiking boots and
debonair, Mark Carruthers, with his super-dooper, leather shoes made by a
saddle maker in Barnsley."
"Eeh, it's grim up North," I said. "Our Eli said cobble-stones are no friend of clogs. Eeh, by gum, Michael Parkinson said in book, "I were so hungry I ate food out of whippet's bowl. Trouble at mill lay over Barnsley like a dark satanic cloud. My ambition were to be a gas lamp lighter like our mum, but gift of the gab decreed I be a talk show host. Eeh, I don't know! Life is like a pigeon with one wing. You never know which direction it's going to go. It were only going to foot of our stairs on a regular basis that stopped me from going barmy. A lot of folk go barmy in Barnsley thee knows."
Tommy hit me over the head with a bronze bust of Louis Spence, picked up
his shoe shine box and set off for the BBC to polish the hooves of the
great and the good. Finding myself on the floor, I decided not to waste the
opportunity and began to clean the carpet with my tongue. I ran out of
spittle behind the sofa and lay there like an old bag with a dry mouth.
"So, Mr Nolan, we meet again," I said. Tubby took his little piggy eyes
away from the pies in the window and yelled, "Clear off you old bedlamite.
Every food outlet I go to, there you are, mumbling and cackling like an
old crone."
"Don't be like that," I said. "Let's be friends. Chase me round the wheelie-bins like you used to do before you became famous." Tubbylooked towards the Black Mountain and said. "Fame lies heavy on my shoulders. I carry a great responsibility. Like Caesar's wife I must be whiter than white. Like Lot's wife I must never look back and like King Henry's wife I must keep my head, while all around me are losing theirs."
"MARRY ME!" I shrieked, falling to my knees. "Marry me! I will give you
many offspring."
Tubby looked at me with scorn and replied. "YOU! give birth to children? You are too old, too ugly and too crazy."
I retreated like a scalded warthog and screamed, "Do you think I would have children with YOU in the conventional way? You shall never lay a finger on me, oval man. The lights may be going out all over Europe, but this midden, I mean,
maiden intends to keep her lamp LIT!" Then it suddenly hit me, Jordie
Tuft, too must be a child of God, why else would he cry on high.
"KEEP HER LIT, 'TILL WE GET OUT!" As for the children I promised Tubby,
I simply meant I would steal five or six sprogs from an orphanage. Lips which taste lard, shall never taste mine. I go now, to put more oil in my lamp and trim my wick. I like a well trimmed wick!

Give me a bite baby!

Great show yesterday kid. Old, blind Pugh stumbled around pressing the dreaded, black spot into the hands of Ken and the Undertone. "AHOY ship mate!" yelled Mr Coyle, as he was helped into his chair by Emma. "Man on one, sighted off the main bow. Ho-Ho-Ho, and a bottle of blue nun." Emma brought Mr Coyle to his senses by hitting him repeatedly over the head with a rolled up copy of, "Pregnant and Proud."
Tommy my cat dropped lightly from the ceiling where he had been pretending to be Spiderman and said, "The Free State economy is in a bad state when Eamon Dunphy is reduced to flogging Kentucky Fried Chicken."
"I saw him!" I yelled. "I saw his big, ugly, reflected face saying, "Give me a bite baby."
"He was on the Late, Late show," said Tommy. "When asked by the brilliant Brian Turbidy why he sold out, Dumphy laughed with his new teeth and said, "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Johnny Giles, would never do that!" I yelled. "IF, heaven forbid, circumstances ever forced Johnny Giles into doing commercials on TV, Johnny Giles' honesty and gravitas would lead him into DIY products, or hardware appliances."
"I can see Johnny Giles now," said Tommy, "standing behind the counter of a hardware shop. Johnny, would stare into the camera, with both hands on the counter and say, "You want buckets? We got buckets! We got plastic buckets, iron buckets, zinc buckets, wooden buckets, even glass buckets. If you want buckets, we got buckets!"
"What a great pitch!" I yelled. "I feel compelled to run out and buy a bucket." Tommy snorted and said, "Eamon Dumphy, with his, "Give me a bite baby" really rattles my cage, bunches my shorts and curls my whiskers."
"What are you going to do about it?" I yelled to Noel Thompson, as he came out of the newsagents with the Exchange and Mart under his arm. "YES you, Mr Thompson. What are you going to do about it?" I roared. Noel glanced down at me and muttered, "Oh, it's you again, Les Miserable. What am I going to do about WHAT?" "How soon they forget," I said to a policeman, who was sleeping against the wall. "Last night, on Newsline, you, yes you, Mr Thompson predicted nothing but doom, gloom and despondency for the people of Ulster."
"I, am not responsible for the news," said Noel, "I merely report it."
"Not so fast Anchorman," I yelled. "Your, so called, reporting has the people of Ulster on the edge of a nervous breakdown. It would seem to me that the man who delivers all the bad news, has a moral duty to do something about it. So once again Mr Thompson, I say onto you, what are you going to do about it?"
Noel collapsed like a cheap suit and began to snivel, "I can't cure unemployment. I can't round up all the hoodies. I can't repair all the potholes on the M1."
"Perhaps not," I said. "In that case you should keep silent and not go scaring the good, Ulster folk. However, there is something you can do. Last night, you reported on a broken sewer pipe in Poleglass." I stood over Noel, until he dug up the old pipe and replaced it with a new one. As Noel staggered away, I yelled after him, "If you can't fix it, keep your mouth shut and that goes for Donna Traynor too."
I hear tonight's, "Newsline" is reduced to just three minutes. "Give me a bite baby! Give me a bite baby!"

The Big Daddy of the Airwaves.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made many people ponder and ruminate on the logistical effort required in putting on a great show.
Here are just a few of the tweets I received after the great show. "It made me want to yank out my catheter and dance." (Old Bob Tanner)
"I felt as if my gizzard would explode." (Mrs A.Tuna)
"It brought a smile to my cheeks, front and back." (Doctor Billy Bunting) "The great show goes down well with cooking sherry." (Jordie Tuft) High praise indeed, especially from old Jordie who is discombobulated beyond belief at the soaring price of old, buck goats.
Tommy my cat, took a ball of string and ran outside. Five minutes later he came running back and said, "Nine feet and seven inches."
"What is?" I said."
How long is a piece of string?" said Tommy. I made a note on my Mayan calender, which for some strange reason ends abruptly on the fifth of May and said, "Let's have a little treat. Peel a banana while I do the splits."
From a distance Tubby Nolan looked like a dust storm. Soon he stood before me, quivering all over like a highly-strung, Arab stallion. I slipped a piece of sugar into his mouth and said, "Hey Bluto, there is a rumour going round the coffee houses and DLA offices, that your radio show is going down the tubes, faster than a particle in the higgs boson, hydron collider."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tubby. "I am a household name here and on the mainland. I am the biggest thing to hit radio since the cat's whiskers. Groups of middle aged woman follow me everywhere I go screaming, "Steven! Make a farting sound with your oxter again!" Who could replace me? I am the Big Daddy of the air waves."
I borrowed a stool, clambered on to it and whispered in the fat boy's ear. "There is a whisper going round Broadcasting House, that the BBC have Walter Love up on a ramp, where he is being oiled and greased by a group of ancient broadcasting enthusiasts."
"INFAMY!" roared Tubby. "If Walter Love dares to take the food out of my mouth I will inform the BBC about Walter's nefandous flirting with Nell Gwynn in the back seat of the Globe theatre in London, in the year of our Lord, 1625." I went on my way, happy in the thought that soon Tubby Nolan and Walter Love would be fighting like a manatee and an old pike.

The Flamingo Gang. How did they GET IT OUT?

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat looked at me with his wee, sincere, feline face and said, "My heart goes out to Mr Coyle, who is suffering from severe, chronic, ocular trouble. Gadzooks, the lad is stumbling about like an old banger of a car, with just one headlight."
"Old Keyhole Kate!" I cried. "Peeping through keyholes will give you an eye infection. J'accuse Mr Coyle of peeping AND gleeking through keyholes. J'accuse Mr Coyle of being a serial voyeur, which is French for Nosey-Parker."
Tommy unrolled an old, aged, faded parchment, which gave him permission to drive geese up the stairs at Stormount and said, "This coming year, is chock-a-block with anniversaries. There is the signing of the Ulster covenant, sponsored by BIC pens, the 1916 hanlin' at the post office in Dublin, sponsored by Murphy's stout and O'Toole's pigs' cheeks and the big one on the first of September, when good, old Jackie, (One two and you're in) Fullerton, will clock up one hundred years on the old speedometer."
"Let's hear it for Ballymena's finest!" I yelled. "Jackie has come a long way since he first played football on the village green with a pig's bladder."
"Jackie Fullerton is a legend," cried Tommy, "an institution! Jackie Fullerton, is a model to any young man contemplating entering the highly skilled world of football commentary. Jackie has proved, time and time again, that no matter how hard you try, you never quite get it right."
"Remember his howler at Windsor Park," I giggled., "Fowler, the Glentoran keeper has run amok in the six yard box, flapping his arms ineffectually like a headless chicken."
Tommy laughed and said, "My favourite Jackie-Bite is, "Lennon has his head between his knees, but I don't think he'll find the ball there!"
"Old Jackie Fullerton," I said. "It seems only yesterday he was playing football in the street wearing only his underpants."
"It was only yesterday!" said Tommy. "Old Jackie, sold the nurse a dummy and escaped from secure accommodation. He dribbled his way through the main gate, nut-megged a policeman and kicked an empty tin of coke through Eason's window. Then old Jackie pulled his simmet over his head, croaked, "GOOOOAL" and ran into a lamp post. As he was taken away in an ambulance the genial, crooner sang, "I Did It My Way!"
Tommy stood over a terrified, bound and gagged Jim Rodgers and yelled,
"It has come to my attention that you, Jim Rodgers, and some of your friends stole the flamingo from the Flamingo ballroom way back in the day when you could have a good night out for a tanner." Tommy yanked the old sock out of Jim's mouth and yelled, "Confess Rodgers! I have you bang to rights.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim, "You shall never hear from my lips the names of the Flamingo gang."
"I don't want names!" roared Tommy. "I just want to know one thing about the great flamingo heist and that is,
HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT? HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT?? HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT?????"

What's a Resolution Centre?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which sadly went unnoticed in a secluded hamlet in the hills above Drumquin. Amateur escapologist, the self styled, The Great McGenie, lay at the bottom of a deep lake, shackled with chains and confined in a steel casket. It was four days since the great McGenie had been lowered into the lake. A large crowd stood on the shore, waiting for the bold, McGenie to bob up at any minute. The parish priest approached McGenie's wife and said, "Muriel, do you not think four days is a long time for your husband to be at the bottom of the lake?" Wee Muriel, flicked ash from her cigarette and replied, "Ah, not at all father. Sure my Willie John, is just building up the suspense."
And so a fifth day passed without any sign of the great McGenie. But the people of Drumquin and surrounding districts are quite sure it's only a matter of time before the great McGenie escapes from his chains, opens the steel casket, swims to shore and runs into the loving arms of wee Muriel.
Tommy my cat, threw the Newsletter from him and yelled, "Nothing ever changes! 150 million will be spent in Belfast and diddly-squat for Clogher, Augher and Cullybaccy. Why do our culshie cousins, never get a piece of the pie?"
I laughed, clapped my hands and cried, "What would the Clampets in Clogher, Augher and Cullybaccy do with the money, but buy new wellingtons and produce even bigger middens. You have to have a them and us!" I yelled. "We fly, city folk are the "us" and the naked savages West of the Bann are "them."
"I suppose that's right," said Tommy. "It all goes back to Darwin's theory of evolution. Survival of the fittest. Why give money to Tyrone, where fierce, bloody, factional, infighting still goes on under the name of Gaelic football." "Tyrone!" I said with a shudder. "The last outpost of barbarity, uncultured, uncivilized , unwashed, where skulduggery and vile, villainy is perpetrated by men AND women, wearing flat caps and animal skins!"
"Tyrone!" said Tommy with fear in his eyes. "Thank God it's surrounded by bushes."
"Tommy," I said, "what's a resolution centre?"
"Darned if I know," said Tommy. "Why do you ask?"
I picked up the Newsletter and cried, "It says here, in black and white, that 18 million will be spent on creating a resolution centre on the site of the Maze prison."
"OH! I know now," said Tommy. "It's a big thing like the Post Office tower in London. Up on the top will be a restaurant serving the best food this side of the Pecos. Outlaws will gather from all parts of the country and seek closure for their past crimes-Capiche?"
"I still don't understand why it's called a resolution centre!" I yelled.
Tommy looked at me like a fool and roared, "The restaurant on top of the Post Office tower in London goes round and round when you're eating. Fanny by gaslight!, did the word, resolution, not give you a clue?"
I slunk away like the stupid, thick, low down dog I was. Resolution, the answer was staring me in the face!

Poor Mike Nesbitt!

Great show yesterday kid. In spite of a multitude of prayers from all over
Northern Ireland, Mr Coyle turned up before the 11 o'clock news. "Is this
why my granny fell at Ypres?" yelled an old codger, as he threw a one kilo
bag Of McKinney's, pure and natural granulated sugar at his radio. (You can
pick up McKinny's sugar at any good supermarket, or go to Sandyford
Business Estate, Dublin 18. McKinney's is part of the Nordzucker company.)
I looked at Tommy my cat who was weaving a wickerwork teapot and said, "Did
you see David McNarry on TV last night?"
"STOP!" roared Tommy. "Enough with the old David McNarry talk. The world does not revolve around David McNarry, or farmer Tom Elliott. Do not intrude on private grief. Leave the UUP to sort out their own shambles. It is not for you or I to meddle in the boring, self induced wounds which afflict a party in decline."
After rumination, I concurred with vigor and 100% 24 caret enthusiasm.
Later that night, Tommy and I were standing at the door with a pile of
stones at our feet. We were both ready to open fire if the pesky, Aurora Borealis appeared. Round the corner came a smiling Mike Nesbitt. Mike smiled at us like
a man who was looking for something and said, "I hope I can depend on you two
come the next election?"
"Of course you can Mr Nesbitt," I gushed.
"Not so fast!" yelled Tommy. "What are you going to do for US?"
Mike pulled out a UUP ukulele and began to sing,
"OH, I'd do anything, for you dear, anything, I'd do anything, anything for you." "Congratulations Mr Nesbitt," I cried, "on becoming the assistant,deputy,
second in command, assistant on the education committee."
"Mike smiled and said, "First rung on the ladder, just got to keep climbing."
As Mike walked away whistling "House Bound Honey" Tommy shook
his head and said, "How sad to see Mike Nesbitt, brought down so low. Once he was a media star and now he is reduced to begging for votes from the likes of me and you."
"Scum!" I said.
"The dregs of society," said Tommy.
"The down and outers!" I yelled.
"The untouchables," cried
Tommy.
"The lowest of the low!" I roared.
"Rat bags," screamed Tommy.
"Complete wasters," I shrieked.
"Poor Mike Nesbitt," said Tommy,"forced to
consort with the likes of US!"
When Tommy and I went indoors, we thought we saw an
elephant in the room, but it was only, David McNarry!.