Kittens on a catamaran.

Great show yesterday kid. It is truly remarkable that just three people, your good self, Mr Coyle and Emma can put on such an extravaganza.
"What a splendid show!" said Tommy my cat.
"Exuberant, luxuriant, lavish, abounding in high spirits and literally over flowing with good humour. What a contrast to Tubby Nolan and his loud, bucket-bake, slabbering, bellowing and guldering!"
"You must excuse the oval one," I said. "This early, unnatural heat has spawned a multitude of gad flies. Poor Tubby is in agony. The gad flies gather on his massive rump and bite the rear of the obese dear."
"Has he tried Savlon antiseptic cream?" said Tommy.
"First thing he reached for," I said. "But he can't keep it down, keeps boking it back up again."
"In that case," Said Tommy, "he should consider covering his bum with arsenic."
I pulled my apron over my head and giggled, "You said-arsenic."
"So!" said Tommy. "What's so funny about that?"
"It's the word-arsenic," I giggled. "It sounds rude."
Tommy drew himself up, put both thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and said,
"Forgive me if I fail to see the humour in a fat boy being eaten alive from the rear by ravenous gad flies."
Tommy glared at me and cried, "YOU remind me of the old, wrinkled, wizened, prune-faced, hairy chinned crones who used to sit at the foot of the guillotine, croaking, cackling and giggling, as the bloody, severed heads fell into the basket."
"How dare you!" I yelled, jumping to my feet. "My dear, late mammy did not bring me up to sit beside guillotines counting heads. My mammy loved me. I was her favourite. Whenever there were kittens to be drowned, mammy would always hand the bag to ME!"
As soon as the words passed my cracked and chaffed lips I realized what I had said.
Tommy's face turned white. He backed into a corner and began yelling, "MONSTER! KILLER! CRIPPIN! HITLER! How could you? How could you drown helpless, little kittens?"
Thinking on my feet, I fell into a chair and said,
"Tommy, Tommy, A Chara, I could never drown a wee kitten. I took the kittens to the river and then opened the bag and placed the little kittens on a ship. Off they sailed, happy as Larry, to find good homes in the country."
Tommy ruminated, a filthy habit, even for a cat, and said, "Deep in my heart I knew you could never drown kittens. You may be old, bent, twisted and ugly as sin, but you could never do THAT! I go now, to shoot gad flies off Tubby Nolan's rump with my pellet gun." I heaved a big sigh of relief. THEN! Tommy spun round and said, "What kind of ship did you put the little kittens on?"
"A catamaran," I said. "I sent the dear little kittens to good homes on a catamaran."
Tommy nodded and went out the door holding his rifle like Elmer Fudd.
(That's all for now folks)

Corruption, brown envelopes and too much fluoride!

Great shows last week kid. As the Newfoundland geese flew over your house for Summer, they could plainly hear Mr Coyle guldering, "Your drawers! That's a lie!" The goose on point duty, turned round and said, "Still at it! Just like last year, it's going to be an acrimonious Summer." And a decision was taken to dump on Mr Coyle, at every conceivable opportunity. To keep on the right side of the United Nations, the geese agreed to use the term, "defensive strike" but there could be collateral damage, so take care.
"Up Gortin!" yelled Tommy my cat, as he kicked a small, nondescript turnip through the window.
I beat a swagger stick against my jack boots and roared, "Achtung! Herr Bertie Ahern, Kaput!"
Tommy giggled and said, "Yes, old Bertie has resigned so he can spend more time with his brown envelopes."
"Corruption" I yelled, "runs through politicians like the word,"Bundoran", through a stick of rock!"
"Politicians are weak," said Tommy. "I blame property developers, speculators and too much fluoride in the drinking water."
"Rubbish!" I yelled. "Ever since the Greeks invented democracy and the kebab, greed has lead to the downfall of many a politician."
"FLUORIDE!" yelled Tommy.
"GREED!" I roared. A hoarse cough announced the arrival of Gregory,"London-erry" Campbell.
"Stop that noise!" roared Greg. "You'se is worse than a UUP convention."
"Dear Gregory," I said. "where do you stand on corruption? Are you for it, or again it?"
Gregory's face took on the complexion of a turkey and he roared, "By the sacred gates of London-erry, I detest greed and corruption with every bone in my Ulster/Scots body. The biggest, greediest, corrupter in Ulster today is Tubby Nolan. Time and time I ask him how much he earns and time after time he tells me to, get stuffed. The greed and avarice of Nolan is beyond belief. Steven Nolan, is a grasping, mercenary miser."
"He may be," said Tommy, "but he loves his mum and keeps 47 workers in a job at the prawn cocktail crisps factory in Nuneaton."
"Nuneaton?" screamed Gregory. "The fat boy is ALWAYS eating. By Lunday's flame retardant drawers, I would like to know the fat boy's salary."
I peered at Gregory through my eyebrows and said, "As a matter of fact, I happen to know an accountant at the BBC, who knows the salary of everyone at the BBC, including Tubby Nolan. For a wad of spondulicks this man would divulge Tubby's salary." Gregory turned his back and began stuffing money into a brown envelope from a tartan wallet while yelling hysterically, "I know it's wrong, but I have to know! I will become part of the brown envelope brigade, but I must know how much Tubby Nolan earns at the BBC.".
Two days later a letter arrived. Gregory tore it open with his Ulster/Scots teeth, gave a little cough and read, "Steven "Tubby" Nolan, receives a salary commensurate with any fat boy of the same talent, girth, weight, appetite and gluttonous tendencies."
Gregory gave a hoarse, Ulster/Scots shriek and yelled, "Hoist by my own captain Petard. If that brown envelope is traced back to me, Peter Robinson, will hang me out to dry, like a a pair of cheap knickers. CURSE TUBBY NOLAN! and my unnatural desire to know his salary. I ride now to London-erry to shout, "Shut that Gate! Shut That Gate! Look at the muck in here! SHUT THAT GATE!!!!"

A Poem To Celebrate Spring.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused great consternation at UUP headquarters, when the backwoods men heard that Mike Nesbitt had been seen wearing pink socks.
"What does it MEAN?" croaked an old, 91 year old farmer, who had joined the UUP at the tender age of two and a half.
"CHANGE!" yelled a young, thrusting, sixty year old.
"Young Mike Nesbitt, with his pink socks, will drag the UUP, kicking and screaming, into the twenty first century."
"Hauld on, hauld on boys!" yelled the old backwoods man, "It's only a hop, skip and jump from pink socks to red socks as worn by the Pope!"
"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!" said Tommy my cat. "It takes some time for Mr Coyle to tell a joke. Take that joke about Mike Tyson and Henry McCullagh, I thought old Thaddeaus would never get to the punchline."
"I missed that!" I yelled. "Please sit me down on a chair and tell me the great joke."
Tommy put one foot up on a sleeping turtle and said,
"One day, Mike Tyson and Henry McCullagh were standing by the roadside waiting for a lift. A flock of pigeons flew over their head. Tyson looked up and said, "Fantail."
Henry McCullagh thought this was an insult directed at him and retorted,
"When you were boxing, you were often a tumbler."
I laughed so much, my false teeth flew out and bit Herbie the budgie on the bum.
I bit my lip, narrowed my eyes, puckered my mouth and said, "I am deeply worried about old Jordie Tuft. Not a dickey bird has been heard from the oracle. I hope old Jordie is not on the broad of his back, fighting off a malaise or an ague."
Tommy leaped up and yelled, "I have in my hand a piece of paper. It is a poem, written by Jordie Tuft to celebrate Spring.
Tommy cleared this throat and said, "SPRING by Jordie Tuft.
The Greening of the hedges
So beloved by birds and sedges
And sap, like syrup, rising in the trees
My old heart goes pitter-patter
I must soon be on the batter
I have sexual tingles running through my knees.

When I spy a nice wee dote
Wrapped up in a duffle coat
'Tis then I'll put my feathers on display.
I will dance beneath the stars
In a pair of old, grey drawers
And invite the little woman in for tay.

I will ply her with strong liquor
For I find it so much quicker
And make sure that the little dote is fed.
I will whisper in her ear
"Come with me and have no fear."
Then! how's your father, in a dunged out bed."
"That's-DISGUSTING!" I cried. "A litany of pure filth, masquerading under the guise of-poetry."
Tommy carefully put the poem back in his pocket and roared, "Well at least it rhymes, which is more than can be said for old, Seamus "Snug Pen" Heaney!!!!

The Hair Of The Dog For The Cat.

Great show yesterday kid. After the Saint Patrick's Day celebrations, Tommy my cat, came down the stairs on trembling legs. Oh, he was pale and wan. Tommy staggered to a chair, slumped down and whimpered, "Tell the walls to stop screaming!"
"You dirty, dirty cat!" I yelled. "I will have to wash all your bedclothes and your Betty Boop pyjamas."
"I'm sick," moaned Tommy. "I must have got a bad fish supper."
"Bad fish supper, my Aristotle Onassis!" I yelled. "You were poured in here at four o'clock in the morning. You were singing, a dirty rugby song and wearing nothing but a tattered simmet and one sock. Where were you?" I roared.
"At the Holy Lands," whispered Tommy. "I fell in with some Tyrone culshies and ended up at a bottle party."
"Poor Saint Patrick!" I yelled. "That's a fine way to honour the man who made the snakes scarper. You should be ashamed of yourself," I cried. "You are nothing but a booze hound, a newt, a drunk, a bum, a wino and a cat who drinks to excess. Now, what do you want for your breakfast?"
"Vodka and white," muttered Tommy, gazing up at me with two, red, pus filled eyes.
"Good boy!" I cried, "The hair of the dog, will soon cure the cat."
"Stop talking," said Tommy, " and bring on the Smirnoff." Soon, little Tommy was up on his feet singing, dancing and telling jokes which would be banned on HBO.
I came upon Steven Nolan, reversing out of a sweet shop. "BEEP-BEEP!" went Tubby. "Keep her coming," cried an old codger, who was standing behind Tubby, directing the reversing mass out to the street.
"You just had to show off yesterday!" I cried. "Biggest show in the country and biggest bunch of shamrocks on Saint Patrick's Day."
Tubby burped, which make his eyes blink and his ears shoot out and said, "I couldn't find a bunch of shamrocks big enough for my massive suit, so I pinned on a large cabbage."
"Good thinking fat man," I said.
I looked at the oval one and said, "I heard your good, saintly mother being interviewed on the radio by Vinny. She said, as a boy, you were a real go getter, sweeping out a garage at the age of eight, selling sandwiches to orange men, mowing gardens, washing windows, working as a scarecrow for farmers, ANYTHING! to earn a penny or two."
"Big Audrey is right," said Tubby. "As soon as I was out of nappies, I was earning. I was a real Sir Alan Sugar."
"And another thing," I yelled. "Your dear, sainted mother said, that as a boy, you were very thin!"
"Tubby stood there, gobsmacked."
I lay at Tubby's feet, looked up at the quivering mass and said,
"Where did it all go wrong Steven? Where did it all go wrong?"

The UUP Grand National.

Great shows last week kid, which spurred on Irish mountaineer, Timmy Tucker from Trillick, as he struggled to climb Mount Everest with an Ikea, flat pack, cement mixer strapped to his back.
When Timmy, reached the summit he planned to build a giant statue of Padre Pio, standing with his arms out-stretched. Timmy giggled when he thought how mad the Dali Lama would be.
"I'll put the Zen out of the wee saffron boy," laughed Timmy.
Tommy my cat, swung round from the fire where he had been heating his feline fork and said,
"SO it's just going to be a two horse race in the upcoming UUP grand national. The favourite at the moment is Mike Nesbitt. Name recognition is a big plus for Mike. The other dark horse is, John McAllister.
Not much is known about John. No one has ever heard of him. Even his own mother, when asked how she thought her son would do in the election, gave a shriek and cried, "Our John? Are you sure it's, our John?"
"Tommy!" I yelled. "Put on a Jeremy Paxman face and highlight the political differences between the two contenders. Pretend you are interviewing John McAllister and Mike Nesbitt." Tommy, changed into a grey suit, put a sour gub on him and said,
"Well Mr McAllister, it's all falling apart, isn't it? No one knows you. You seem to be, Mr Nobody!"
"Not at all Mr Paxman, the reality is, I am quite well known by some members of my own family."
"What are your policies Mr McAllister? Suppose by some miracle you were elected the leader of the UUP, what would you do first?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question Mr Paxman. When I am elected leader, I will lead the UUP party into opposition.".
"Opposition to-what Mr McAllister?"
"Everything! Mr Paxman. When I am leader, the UUP party will oppose everything, everybody, and sit in a darkened room singing, "Nobody loves you when you're down and out".
"Go away Mr McAllister! Mr Nesbitt,I had high hopes for you. You could have been another ME! You could have been a contender. Where did it all go wrong Mr Nesbitt?"
"Au contraire Jeremy, when I am elected leader of the UUP, I will rejuvenate the party and stir the grass roots. Under my leadership young, sprightly, sixty year olds will be queueing up join the party."
"Come, come, Mr Nesbitt that's what Trimble, Empey and old Tom Elliott said. What have you got that makes you different from former leaders?"
"Well, Jeremy, I have dedication, enthusiasm, honesty and the finest flock of chickens this side of the river Bann."
"Well there you have it ladies and gentlemen. Who will lead the UUP? McAllister or Nesbitt? Quite frankly, I don't care. In my, far from humble opinion, the UUP are doomed to years of in-fighting, back stabbing and bickering, and will go gurgling down the drain in ever decreasing circles."
"Bravo Tommy!" I yelled. "That Paxman impersonation was so good I could feel the arrogance and superiority ooze out of you."
Tommy looked out the window at the little match girl and said, "Leadership of the UUP is a poisoned chalice. Many have fallen by the wayside, never to rise again. David Trimble was last seen prowling the house of Lords muttering, "Is this a dagger I see before me?" Sir Reg Empey, a brave and noble knight, has disappeared! Some say he has a hog farm in Utah, others say he dances every night at a certain venue under the name of, Valentino McGinty. Tom Elliott, poor old Tom Elliott, is a broken man. He sits alone in the barn, playing blues harmonica and watching out for political intrigue among his cows."
"Poor Mike Nesbitt!" I screamed. "All alone on the bridge of the Titanic, yelling "10% Starboard!" not knowing his ship has already been holed below the water line."
"The omens are not good," said Tommy. "Mike Nesbitt threw his hat into the ring on the ides of March!!"
"The Scottish play that shall not be named!" I shrieked.
"Ah, you talk of-Macbeth! said Tommy. At that moment the Gods turned against us. Jim Rodgers and Tubby Nolan appeared in our doorway. Jim was screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" and the fat boy was singing,
"FOOD! glorious FOOD!"
"DOOMED!" cried Tommy, as he leaped into my arms and burst into tears.
Will it? Will it all end in-TEARS??????

So You Want To Be The Leader Of The UUP?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Mike Nesbitt think twice about running for the leadership of the UUP. After reading a heart-breaking petition from his chickens, pleading not to run, Mike told Rodney the rooster,
"I like hanging out with you guys. I love the clucking and clocking and the way the eggs pop out like little, white, rugby balls, but I have to think of my career. Sure it's fun rolling around with you guys in the dirt, under the apple tree, but if Ulster goes back to the crossroads, I want to be there calling for clarity and transparency and make sure that all agreements are copper fastened."
Rodney went over to a sandy spot and wrote with his beak, "David Trimble-Kaput! Sir Reg Empey, Kaput. Tom Elliott, Kaput. Mike Nesbitt, could also end up Kaputed!"
"Rodney," said Mike. "You have given me food for thought. I'll lay down under the apple tree. I got me a heap full of thinking to do."
Tommy, my cat, put his pink, clockwork mouse in his pocket and said, "Kudos to Janet for putting Mr Coyle in his place, when she told the nation that Mr Coyle was a bare faced liar."
"Gerry scare Janet?" I yelled. "Never, Trevor, Never!Gerry may be many things, but he is not a scarer of Janets!"
"The eyebrow is up to his old tricks," said Tommy. "He spends ever second of the show trying to malign Gerry. J'accuse Mr Coyle of being an unrepentant, serial maligner."
"He must be stopped!" I yelled. "Nuala O'Loane, must be called in to expose the eyebrow for what he is!"
Tommy stormed about, his little face red with anger and literally shrieked, "Put Coylers in the stocks! When the people see his big face staring out, he will get more than five pieces of fruit."
"Nice one Tommy," I said. "Give me a high five and a gangsta fist bump."
Tommy and I are cool when it comes to modern, hip talk. We use words and phrases like, "End off, Whatever! Wicked. Sorted! You betcha! Tickety-Boo and keep her lit".
Tommy unpeeled a banana, took a bite, zipped it up again and whispered soft and low, "I was talking to the lovely, tanned, Julian Symmons last night. Old Jaffa head told me that UTV, will soon be screening a new reality show called,
"SO, you want to be the leader of the UUP!"
"Goodie-goodie!" I cried. "Do you know any of the contestants?"
"The usual suspects," said Tommy. "John McCririck, Vanessa Feltz, the drummer out of Mud and a guy from Northern Ireland called, John McCallister."
"Never heard of him," I said. "Any American rappers? You can't have a reality show without a rapper. My favourite rapper is, Ice Lolly."
"No rappers," said Tommy. "But Julian said, there may be a few surprise canditates from Northern Ireland which may surprise you."
"John Daly!!" I cried. "That explains why the dome has been keeping a low profile."
Tommy sighed and said, "No matter how hard I try, my mind keeps going back to poor, old, Tom Elliott. The last I heard, old Tom had bought a banjo and was spending all his time sitting on the porch steps a plinking an a whittling."
"Old Tom, is still on a political high," I said. "In time, the aroma of cow dung will erase all memories of Stormont."
Tommy sighed again and said, "Will we never hear his exciting, exhilarating, silver-tounged oratory again?"
"No," I said sadly. "Only the cows and the hogs, the cats and the dogs, will ever hear Tom Elliott again!"
"Bummer!" said Tommy, pointing at my derriere.

It Has A Ring To It!

Great show to start the week kid. The great show blew the cobwebs from the canyons of my wind, girded my loose loins and gave me a raison de-etre, which I pickled in cider and placed in a jar. The great show brought faith, hope and sanity to old Ruby Capsules, who had been trapped in her room for three days with both feet down one leg of her knickers. A quick thinking window cleaner dialled 999 and yelled, "I need an ambulance and a brace of vicars, old lady trapped in a pair of knickers!" The firemen cut old Ruby out of her mangled knickers and the chief fireman said, "I bet what you need right now is a good slash."
Old Ruby, smiled at him with her gums and cackled, "Oh contraire young man. I have had numerous slashes while waiting for you!"
Gas masks were immediately issued to all the crew!
Tommy my cat, turned off the radio by showing it naked pictures of me and said,
"Well, Mr Coyle has only gone and done it! He called Gerry a bare-faced liar on live radio."
"He's a bad boy," I said. "He needs a sharp, sally rod round the backs of his legs. If I had Mr Coyle now, I would put him over my knee and wring his neck!" "He called Gerry a liar!" said Tommy. "In the old West of Belfast, that was a prelude to gun play."
"Where will he go from here?" I screamed. "Will he call Gerry a robber, a murderer, or heaven forbid, an entertainer!" Tommy opened a packet of biscuits with a chainsaw and said,
"Mr Coyle blames his erratic, corner-boy behavior on a fall. According to Mr Coyle, while dodging rubber bullets, he fell from the roof of the Rossville flats and landed on his head."
"NO excuses!" I yelled. "No one has fallen on their head more than me and I am completely normal."
The Pinteresque pause which followed, lasted for three hours, then Tommy looked at me and said,
"Do you believe Gerry's story about sending a wee parcel free by bus?"
"Of course NOT!" I said. "It's just another lie, from the master of lies, Gerald Michael Anderson!"
Tommy finally caught the green pea he had been chasing round his plate with a knife and said,
"I wonder what old, ousted, former UUP leader Tom Elliott is doing now."
"Probably waiting for the result of a no confidence motion brought about by his cows," I replied.
"What," said Tommy, "if the cows, like so many in Northern Ireland, say-NO?"
"In that case," I said. "Old Tom will be thrown into a white van and taken straight to the house of Lords."
"The final indignity," said Tommy. "Oh the shame, the shame!"
"It will be a long time," I yelled, "before old Tom Elliott is seen in Joe Mahon's in Irvinestown on Karaoke night."
"What a come down!" said Tommy. "Old Tom sure liked to belt out "Rhinestone Cowboy". I wonder what name Lord Elliott would take?"
I ruminated behind the sofa and said, "How about, Lord Erne from Fermanagh?"
"I like it," said Tommy. "Like old Tom's bull, it has a ring to it!"

No Farmer Tom To Kick Around Now?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which should be produced as a boxed set and inflicted on the poor, unsuspecting public.
Speaking from his home in Lisburn, retired balloon-blower-upper, Sheriff McGinty said, "Yes, it is true, I am an expert on great shows. The great shows I heard last week, were, in my humble opinion, the greatest shows I have ever heard."
When asked about the swift departure of UUP leader, Tom Elliott, Mr McGinty slammed the door and yelled through the letter box, "You can't pin that on me! I was at home all night with a girl from an escort agency. You ain't pinning that on me! I know nothing about that man, Tom Elliott."
Tommy my cat, stood on a soap box and roared, "Ladies and gentlemen, in the up coming race for leader of the UUP, I am offering 7/4 Mike Nesbitt, 3/1 Basil McCrea and one zillion to two on David McNarry."
I pulled a Wells Fargo safe out of my pocket and cried, "I'll have a monkey on Nesbitt, a pony on McCrea and diddly-squat on McNarry."
Tommy gave a wicked grin a licence to play over his face and said, "Sorry, I can't accept diddly squats. The Dow Jones predicts, that by two minutes past four today, the bottom will have fallen out of the diddly squat currency."
"Freddy Mac and Fanny Hill!" I yelled, as in a panic, I ran home, grabbed all the diddly squats from under the mattress and sprinted to the bank to exchange them for spondulicks.
I looked at Tommy as he put the final touches to a beautiful, charcoal drawing of Lord Nelson's father, Full Nelson, yes, Nelson's daddy was a bit of a newt and said, "Will he go for it?"
Tommy wiped his hands on my tongue and said, "Will whom go for what?"
"Leadership of the UUP," I cried. "Will Mike Nesbitt, throw his hat, cap, or bonnet into the ring?"
"Leading the UUP," said Tommy, "is like minding mice at Captain Terence O'Neill's crossroads. The UUP, is a divided party. The UUP has more splits than the Bolshoi Ballet.".
"If that be the case," I yelled,"why do they call themselves, the UNITED! Ulster Party?"
"A misnomer if every there was one," replied Tommy.
"Leave wee Miss Nomer alone," I cried. "She's only trying to make a living. I saw her last night, standing under a lamp post, smoking a fag and bothering no one."
Tommy ignored me, looked out the window at the muffin man and said, "The upcoming election will be dirty in the extreme. Name calling will reach epidemic proportions. God help any man whose father, OR, grandfather, ever attended a Gaelic match, was seen in the vicinity of a chapel or cavorting at a gay pride march!"
I yanked out my last remaining wisdom tooth and screamed, "It's a battle for hearts and minds!"
Tommy, coughed up a fur ball and said, "Think of Ulster as a slaughter house. The best bits of meat are fought over by the DUP and Sinn Fein. What the UUP and the Alliance party get is meat that has been hoovered up from the dirty floor."
"Sausages and pies!" I roared. "It's awful that the UUP and the Alliance party are left with awful offal."
"In my opinion," said Tommy,"I think Mike Nesbitt, should bide his time. Let the hare sit. Let some other fool lead the UUP and THEN, leap in as the saviour of the party, the country and democracy."
"I concur!" I yelled. "To Mike I say, chuckie are lah!
And Mike's chickens will be soooo pleased. They look up to Mike as a role model and a father figure."
"So let it be written," yelled Tommy. "So let it be done!"
Are you happy now UUP'ers, you don't have farmer Tom Elliott, to kick around?????

The Reason Behind The Tolerance At Stormont.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought a modicum of sanity to Sunshine Sally from Strabane, who was attacked by a rare, Maltese falcon as she cleaned out the guttering on her home. As the falcon repeatedly dive bombed Sally, her husband, life-long, dole, claimant Uggy, who was holding the ladder yelled, "Sally, for God's sake stop playing with the wee birdie, that DLA form won't fill itself in!"
Sally yelled, expletives deleted, as the falcon flew off with her ear in its beak. "Dammit!" roared Sally. "That big scaldie has made off with my good, fake, emerald ear ring."
Tommy my cat, my friend, companion and mentor, threw a bucket of coal on the electric fire and said, "Things are very quiet up at Stormont. Does the white, dove of peace sit, fluttering its wings on the speaker's rostrum?"
"NO!" I yelled. "The reason for tolerance at Stormont can be summed up in three words: Prozac, Valium and Temazepam."
"You don't mean..,"Yelled Tommy.
"Oh, but I do!" I roared. "After Ulster at the crossroads again, and again and a plethora of roadblocks, Prime Minister, Tony Blair, with the help of MI5, MI6 and IKEA, decided secretly to spike all food and drinks at Stormont with tranquillizers!"
"Dopegate! yelled Tommy.
"Consider this," I cried. "look at the change that has come over, spitting cobra, Peter Robinson, Sein Fein bulldog, Martin McGuinnes and serial trouser dropper, Sammy Wilson."
Tommy ran to the dictionary and yelled, "Incredible!" Tommy turned to walk away, turned and cried,
"Hold on there! Hold on there! If all MLAs are drugged, how do you explain the red-faced, ire of Jim Allister?"
"A sad story," I said. "When just a lad, young Jim Allister fell out of his tree. I refer of course to the coconut tree that grew near the Allister residence. The doctor, who was high on snuff and Spangles, injected a very, strong, horse tranquillizer into the bum of wee Jim Allister, to take away the pain in his head. EVERY SINCE THAT DAY," I roared, "Jim Allister has been immune to all forms of sedation. NO drug can calm Jim Allister down! Jim Allister, will roar, shout and gulder until the grim reaper grabs him by his red, angry neck and leads him to eternal peace."
Tommy bowed his head and softly said, "Here's to Jim Allister, a man who tells it like it is, with logic garnered from the twisting canyons of his mind."
I raised my mug of 100% proof Ovaltine and yelled, "Here's to Jim, who's like him since Mr Angry died!"

Too Many Sick People Going To Hospital!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which helped ease the pain of the Clogher Ancient Ramblers' Club. After lunch on Monday, the ancient ramblers donned strong, hiking boots, all-weather, thermal clothing and set out to begin the long hike to the front gate of Saint Peter and Pauline's Old Folks' Home. At the dimming of the day, head nurse, Fred Crippin, became worried. A search party was sent out and discovered an old codger lying in the brambles, just ten yards from the front door. As the search continued, old relics were discovered lying by the wayside. Just a metre from the main gate, old Beano McDandy, was found crawling on his belly like a snake, with a trembling hand reaching out for the gate. After a nappy change, a hot bath and a good feed of champ, the old pre-deads, were able to sit girning and criticizing the "ONE SHOW".
Tommy my cat, removed his appendix with a tin opener and said,
"The health Service is in a bit of a mess." I picked up a DVD of, "Sex In The City" with the tongs, threw it on the fire and said,
"Edwin Poots said, the trouble is too many sick people are going to hopital to experience the thrill of lying on an hospital trolley for 48 hours. P, which stands for Poots, wants to ban sick people. From now on, if you want to be sick, you must go outside like the smokers do."
"Hold on!" yelled Tommy. "There will soon be more people standing smoking and puking outside, than there is inside."
"News Flash!" I cried. "From next Monday, drinkers, eaters and painters using toxic paint, must too stand outside."
"What about the library?" said Tommy.
"Outside," I said.
"Mothers giving birth?" said Tommy.
"Outside" I answered.
"Grave diggers?" said Tommy.
"Inside," I said. "With the exception of bank holidays, Pancake Tuesday and the Queen's two birthdays."
"Tiny, little tots of wains?" said Tommy.
"Outside" I said.
"Up with this I shall not put!" yelled Tommy. "I will not live in an alfresco society."
"OUTSIDE!" I yelled. "Anyone showing anger, envy, pride, or insufferable smugness must also go, outside."
As Tommy headed for the door he said, "What does Matt Baggott think of all this?"
"Let me read you a line from Baggott's briefs," I said.
"Anyone found milling about outside will be rounded up and banged up, inside." "STOP! the world, I want to get off!" yelled Tommy. I pressed down hard on the brakes and dropped Tommy off outside Eason's shop. What a lot of people I saw there, reading, smoking, eating, vomiting, painting and getting angry on the street. The big society? More like the big screw-up!!!!

What IS the Reality, Mark?

Great show yesterday kid. Today, our thoughts go out to all the girls at the "Crusty Bakery". When the girls returned after the weekend, they found to their consternation that some bad man had put a bun in each of their ovens. "CRIKEY!" yelled big Maggie. "I took precautions, I stood bolt, upright against a wall."
Wee Nellie went into hysterics, fell to the ground, kicked and flung and screeched, "He told me it was the Heimlich maneuver!"
Tommy my cat rubbed Vaseline over his thighs to stop his deep purple, leder-hosen from chaffing and said, "Did you know the last thing Hitler said in the bunker was, "Either this wallpapers goes, or I do?"
"Liar, Liar, leder-hosen on fire," I yelled. "It was Oscar Wilde who said that!"
"Au contraire!" said Tommy. "Who are you going to believe? Old Oscar Wilde, who never fired a shot in anger, OR, Adolf Hitler, dog lover, cream bun eater and big Charlie Chaplin fan?"
"Wilde!" I yelled.
"Hitler!" roared Tommy.
"Let Wikipedia decide," I cried, running to our steam driven computer. Apparently we were both wrong! According to Wikipedia, the person who said, "Either this wallpaper goes, or I do!" was, Laurence Llewellyn Bowen! I looked at Tommy, Tommy looked at me, "WILDE!" I roared.
"HITLER!" screamed Tommy. Tommy looked slyly at me and said,
"Hey! you with the trout gub, let's play knock, knock jokes."
"YIPPEE!" I cried. "Knock, knock jokes are my favourite jokes." I adjusted my inflatable simmet and yelled, "Knock, Knock!"
To which Tommy replied. "Come on in, the door is open." I could have killed the curly tailed, little mouse catcher. Instead, I put a dirty look into an envelope and sent it to Tommy, first class.
Who's the fool now????
I found Mark Durkin, wandering round Belfast muttering. "Au contraire, Mr Trimble." I grabbed little Markus by the Adam's apple and said, "Long time no see kid. What brings you to Belfast? Still looking for the reality?"
Mark swung round and roared, "It was established at Sunningdale, that the reality, IS. Was, IS, and until a majority of the people on the island of Ireland hold a referendum saying otherwise, the reality will always be, IS."
"Riveting stuff," I said.
"You betcha," said Mark. "I could talk about the reality seven days a week, including Sunday."
"What first got you interested in the reality?" I asked. Mark's face darkened and he said, "Back in the bad, old days, a Unionist politician quoted something I had said out of context. Without thinking, without any prior planning, I leaped to my feet and yelled, "The reality, IS!" That was the birth of reality," said Mark. Others, David Trimble, Bob McCartney, remember him? Sammy Wilson and, it shames me to say it, but even my adopted son, wee Alex Attwood, have used the phrase, "the reality, IS." but, the reality, IS," said Mark, "I was the first man to point out that the reality, IS." Mark began to foam at the mouth and screamed, "IS! IS!. The reality IS! Beware of false reality men. When Mark Durkin, tells you, the reality, IS! you can take that to the bank! No man knows more about reality than Mark Durkin. Now, listen to this, straight from the horse's mouth. THE REALITY, IS! THE REALITY, IS! THE REALITY, IS! IS! IS! IS! THE REALITY, IS!!!!!!!

Don't Just Stand There,Black Lead Something!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought great comfort to Saint Deirdre's Nudist club in the hills above Drumquin. As you probably read in the papers, many club members are suffering from frost bite in the(ahem)extremities. At a special meeting on Saturday night, a buck-naked, old codger with two icicles hanging from his nose put forward a motion, proposing that all members be allowed to wear simmets until the weather improves. The motion was seconded by a blue, shivering, pot-bellied woman and passed without dissent. As the group cycled home,they gave the impression of many setting suns.
Tommy my cat, kicked the stuffing out of a Justin Beiber, life-size doll and said, "How I miss the old days. Days of culture and art. Tea on the lawn, a chukka of polo, dry sherry and the horse whipping of dirty, ugly, inbred servants."
"Shut your mouth, Brideshead Revisited!" I yelled. "Look at you, lounging about in baggy flannels, cricket sweater and a silver monocle stuck into your ocular. Change back into your overalls, and black lead that grate."
"We don't have a grate, old thing," said Tommy.
"Don't old thing me!" I yelled. "Black lead something. Don't just stand there, black lead our super-dooper, Hi-tech, stereo system, with surround sound, cigarette lighter,Sat Nav and heated rear view mirror."
Tommy went to a saucepan where an old flat cap had been boiling for two hours, dipped two cups into the hot liquid and brought them back to the table.
"AAH!" I said. "There's nothing like a cap-punnino to brighten you up in the morning!" Responding to a knock on the door, I was met with a big, grey wall which turned out to be Steven Nolan's ill fitting suit. "Stand back fat boy," I said. "I can't see your face." AAAAAAAGH!" I screamed, as a round, mellow, harvest moon face glared down at me. Tubby danced from foot to foot and whimpered, "Can I use your loo?"
"Certainly NOT!" I cried. "This house does not have industrial sewage pipes." "I'm brusting!" cried Tubby. "If I wet my trousers again, big Audrey might think I am regressing and make me wear a giant, sumo nappy."
I looked all around and said, "Next door's wheelie-bin is empty and the owners are away to see Dickie Rock preform without a zimmer frame." I picked up a hose pipe, nipped over the fence and stuck one end into the wheelie-bin, handed the other end to Tubby and said, "Go ahead! Pretend you are a B52 tanker refueling an F16 fighter plane." I then retired to bake a potato cake and avoid seeing anything which might frighten me, or make me laugh.
45 minutes later, Tubby knocked at the door with a big smile and a wet fork. It was then Tommy, opened the lid of the neighbours wheelie-bin and said with a giggle, "I'm going to sit in this empty wheelie bin and pretend I am a Chilean miner." SPLASH!!!!
Tommy bobbed to the top twice before we dragged him out, using a garden rake and a pitch fork. OH, he did look pale. Tommy spluttered and said, "I don't know why the wheelie-bin was filled with water, but the strange thing is, it tasted of prawn cocktail crisps!" I looked at Tubby, Tubby looked at me and the Universe, went on spinning on its merry way.
(Note to self. Burn hosepipe)

Would He bring Back The Cat?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which had the old dears of Saint Wayne's Old Folks' Home leaping in the air when a lorry load of Chinese Catheters arrived. "One catheter each," roared head nurse, Nellie Hess. "Unless you walk around enveloped in a perpetual rainbow."
"Pee at last," yelled an old codger. "Thank God almighty, pee at last."
Tommy my cat, directly descended from the Queen of Sheba's pussy, threw his flat cap in the air and cried,
"Another Northern Ireland nil! What consistency! The mathematical odds against it must be staggering and yet, Northern Ireland keep coming up with, Northern Ireland nils."
"The answer is simple," I said. "Good management, excellent coaching and a fierce determination to play for the jersey. Not that it matters," I said, "but how many goals did Norway score?"
"Who cares?" yelled Tommy. "The big sporting news being flashed all over the world is, against all the odds, Northern Ireland, have added to their tally of nils."
"We're not Brisbane, we're Northern Ireland," I sang"
"Here we go, here we go, here we go!" roared Tommy. There was a thunderous knock on the door and there stood a smiling, Mike Nesbitt, with a sheaf of Tom Elliot's electrifying, sound bites in his hand.
"Hi Mike," said Tommy. "How is old Tom?"
"Radiant!" said Mike. "Last week, our esteemed leader made a speech of such power and energy that only 44% of the audience fell asleep."
"A tour de farce," Said Tommy.
"Indeed!" said Mike. "A real Tom Elliot zinger. A tour de farce as you said. Listen, come the next election...."
"Not so fast!" I yelled. "Mike Nesbitt, former presenter, current MLA, husband of Lynda and chicken farmer, answer me one question, if I vote for you, will you bring back the cat?"
"I can't possibly do that," stuttered Mike. "The country would never stand for it."
"Take a look at Tommy," I said.
"I am," said Mike.
"Take a really GOOD look at Tommy!" I yelled. "Are you telling me that if that cat went missing, you would not bring back the cat?"
"Of course I would," stuttered Mike. "When you said, bring back the cat, I thought you meant......"
"Political claptrap and SPIN!" I yelled. "You will get no votes from me and Tommy. That lovely boy, Jim Allister, has promised to bring back the cat, the dog, the budgie AND the goldfish."
As Mike walked sadly away, Tommy yelled after him, "I wouldn't eat your old eggs if you paid me!"
Trust wee Tommy, to come up with the clincher!!!!!

I know a secret but I'm not goin to tell you!

Great show yesterday kid. It must be great when, like Biggles, you can fly the old crate solo, without Mr Coyle watching your every move and pulling you up every time you are economical with the truth.
Tommy my cat, sat behind the Cullybaccy Chronicle and said, "Ex Monkee, Davie Jones dies, age 66.
James Murdock, son of his daddy said, "The law is closing in. I'm getting out of here!
Bishop makes YET another apology.
Oh, here's a good public interest story. "Mother-in-law, made me run away from home." said a 67 year old business man, who was found hiding in a storm drain." Tommy bristled as he read. "Kitten FREE to good home."
"It's never PUPS!" yelled Tommy. "Always, kittens. What kind of world do we live in," roared Tommy, "when a canine who rolls in his own filth is preferred over a cuddly, fluffy, friendly pussie?"
"Read something else Tommy," I cried, as I sat in a wheelbarrow, eating curds and WAY-HEY! with a big spoon. "The rest is all Titanic stuff," said Tommy. "Where she was built. Where she sank and the old urban legend, that the band played on."
"Poor Titanic," I said, "lying in a watery grave, just like Joey, my first goldfish."
Tommy looked all around, shuffled his feet and whispered, "Sometimes, now don't get me wrong, sometimes, I hate the very name, Titanic!"
"I know what you mean," I said. "Unfinished business. A black cloud hanging over Ulster. OH!!" I shrieked. "Will we never find CLOSURE?"
"I was thinking last night," said Tommy, "as I lay for four hours in front of a mouse hole, "the only resolution and solution to the Titanic hanlin' is to build another Titanic!"
"Brilliant! Amazing!" I yelled. "The answer is to get back on the horse. Build a bigger, better Titanic and this time, don't stint on the rivets."
Tommy ruminated, not a pretty sight to see and said,
"But what if Titanic 2 goes down with huge loss of life?"
"Radio controlled!" I yelled. "On its maiden voyage, Titanic 2, will carry no crew or passengers. The steering, the brakes, the horn and the indicators will be worked by remote-radio control."
"You little grotesque!" yelled Tommy. "It's fool proof. Soon, Ulster will regain its pride. Just one thing," said Tommy. "What if the radio signals sent to the Titanic 2 are interfered with by taxis? We don't want Titanic 2, turning up at Spamount Street, to take some woman to the hairdressers."
"Damn you Tommy cat!" I yelled. "Why must you rain on my parade? Why must you drop my icecream in the mud? Why must you be so, sensible???"
"There, there," said Tommy. "Don't take on so. Dry your pretty little pus filled eyes. Tonight, when on mouse watch, I will invent a jamming device for the Titanic 2's radio. Cheer up my little muskrat, the Titanic shall sail AGAIN!"
Overcome with excitement and gross stupidity, bordering on thickness, I threw off my clothes and ran down the street singing, "I know a secret, but I'm not going to tell you!"
(The things we learn at school, never leave us)

Remake of "The Quiet Man"

Great show to start the week kid. The great show helped to alleviate the disappointment of the space-mad inhabitants of Drumquin and surrounding districts. Last Saturday the countdown began to launch Drumquin's first,un-manned, rocket to Saturn.
"Three, Two, One!" There was a BANG, cloud of blue, diesel fumes and the rocket took off like a bat out of hell. As the people of Drumquin danced in the streets, the bogs and the shucks, the rocket veered off course, knocking the chimney off the local pub. The Saturn bound rocket, tore through a hedge and nearly decapitated an old farmer who was planting a tin of Crosse and Blackwell marrow fat peas. Local,garage mechanic and space technician, Bert Yob yelled,
"Damn it! I was so busy fitting the diagonal steam trap, I clean forgot to fit a gyroscope."
An old codger cleaned his nose on his sleeve and roared, "Some day boys we will boldly go!"
Then an ice cream van went by playing the theme music from "William Tell" and the old codger raced after it like a whippet.
Tommy my cat, hurled a rare, Ming vase at my head and said,
"Well, the Oscars are over and the "Artist" swept the board."
"What a stroke of genius!" I yelled. "A silent, black and white film is a giant step into the future. I would not be surprised if best film next year is a magic lantern show."
"Do I sense a hint of cynicism in your outrageous statement?" said Tommy.
"YES, you do!" I yelled. "Years from now we will look back and wonder why a film from the 30's should create such excitement from the critics and the chattering classes. HYPE!" I yelled. "The critics hyped it up and the judges followed like sheep!".
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "I think the time is right to make a remake of, "The Quiet Man."
I reeled back on my heels and cried, "Bravo Tommy. Cometh the hour, cometh the cat. Whom in your opinion should play the part of John Wayne?"
"Noel Thompson," said Tommy. "Rugged, craggy-jawed Noel Thompson is the only man who could play that part with conviction."
"And the part of Maureen O'Hara," I said. "Who shall Noel Thomson drag through the village?"
"Ann Robinson," said Tommy. "Feisty, ginger nut, Ann Robinson is made for that part."
"The big fight scene Tommy," I yelled. "Who shall fight with rugged, craggy-jawed, Noel Thompson?"
"There's only one man alive who could play that part," said Tommy. "And that man is, Steven Nolan."
"What a cast!" I cried. "Tommy, you are another John Huston."
"Not so fast," said Tommy. "There is another part to be cast and that part is, Barry O'Sullivan, the Irish droll."
I racked my brain, stirred my brain cell, put on my thinking cap and yelled, "Why Tommy, the answer is staring you in the face. The only man to play the wily marriage maker is, wee Hugo Duncan. I can see him now, sitting in a little trap and yelling at the top of his voice, "Hi boys, if you'se want weemen, your uncle Hugo is the boy to go to. What about big Ethel? She has some of her own teeth and hair. Been around the block a few times, but goes like the clappers. Good headlights, bumpers and big end. Three month warranty. Very good for off-road Shenanigans."
Tommy shook his head and said,
"Hugo Duncan, could never be in a film called, "The Quiet Man."
Reluctantly, I concurred while pulling grotesque faces and kicking madly with my left leg.

Toffee Apples and Pineapple Chunks. It's Discrimination!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought a glimmer of hope to an old codger who had fallen down a deep well while out picking wild, exotic herbs for his champ. When the rescue crew arrived, the leader yelled down the well, "Hey, you down there. Did you break anything?" After what seemed like an eternity the old codger replied. NO! There was nothing down here!"
"Nutter!" muttered the rescue officer, as he lowered a trampoline down the well so the old codger could bounce to safety. As the old codger's head appeared above the well, a quick thinking rescuer threw a lasso round the old grey's neck and dragged the old codger to safety. "Stall the weddin'!" cried the old relic. "I have to go back! I left my free bus pass at the bottom of the well!"
Tommy my cat, hitched up his short, grey trousers, adjusted his old school tie and said, "Hey! droopy drawers, put down that lovable, African pygmy and attend to me." I carefully put little Terence back in his cardboard box and cried,
"Speak! A vast capacity of knowledge is stored in the canyons of my mind."
Tommy stood in front of me like a young David Dimbleby and said, "Noel Thompson appears in Newsline and also, Hearts and Minds. Paul Clarke, appears in UTV Live and also in UTV Live Extra. Mark Carruthers appears in BBC news programmes and also in Let's Talk. Donna Traynor appears in Newsline and only Newsline!"
Suddenly the enormity of Tommy's conjuncture hit me like a double-decker bus. Donna Traynor was being short changed, taken to the cleaners!
"Sex discrimination!" I yelled. "All three men have two jobs, but poor Donna Traynor has only one! What do we want?" I yelled. "One woman, two jobs. When do we want it? NIGH!"
"Not so fast Emily Pankhurst," said Tommy. "There could be a simple explanation."
"Toffee apples and pineapple chunks!" I yelled. "It's naked, blatant, sex discrimination. Man the barricades! storm the Bastille! Form occupy movements! Phone Eamon McCann!"
"Did you never think," said Tommy, "that Donna Traynor might have a fish and chip run at night?"
In a flash I saw it. Donna Traynor, wearing a neat, blue uniform, motoring round Ulster in a wee van with, "Donna's Chipper" written on the side. I saw Donna, standing in a cloud of steam, giving the chips a good rumble. Tubby Nolan, stands looking in, drooling at the mouth like a doberman. "A plethora of fish suppers," roars Tubby, waving a fifty pound note in the air. As quickly as Donna fries Tubby, gobbles them up and cries for, MORE! Finally, Donna yells, "Sling your hook fat boy, you've had your chips!". As Donna drives away, with steam rising from her lum, Tubby chases after her like a rhino on steroids. Tubby's fat, little fingers fly over the keypad of his mobile phone and soon a convoy of fish and chip vans stop beside the galloping, gluttonous gourmet.
"CHIPS!" yells Tubby. "In the name of Allah, chips, fish, sausages and PIES!"

How Do You Spell Collaborationists?

Great show yesterday kid. When the great show was translated into Iranian, President Maw Dinner Jacket, shut down his nuclear reactors and went back to turf, ignited with Sunny Jim fire lighters.
When told the good news, President Obama said, "I hope he keeps her lit 'till we get out!"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Milligan's goose, leaped from his reclining chair and yelled, "J'accuse the BBC and UTV of-COLLABORATION!"
I put down the chicken I was plucking a tune on and cried, "If this is true it's going to be bigger than the scandal involving Tubby Nolan and the pie lady."
"I have just watched Newsline and UTV Live!" yelled Tommy. "Both had the same content, BUT, both channels had a different lead story!!!"
"Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia and the foot of our stairs," I cried. "This is bigger than the headline the Belfast Telegraph was going to run years ago.
TITANIC REACHES NEW YORK SAFELY!!! "Northern Ireland workers should be proud!" said Mayor of New York".
Tommy, spat out a fur ball and screamed, "J'aCCUSE THE BBC AND UTV OF BEING COLLABORATIONISTS!"
I looked at Tommy like a cat might look at a Queen and said, "Tommy, A chara, how does one spell, Collaborationists?"
Tommy himmed and hawed and replied, "One Collab, one rat and as many ionists as you can get on the same line."
I ran to the kitchen and gave Tommy the last bun in the bread box. Tommy spat at me and took the bun under the table where he ate it with his back to me.
NEVER go near Tommy when he's eating.... or Steven Nolan! You could lose more than a finger!!!!