Any News For Gerry?

Welcome back from Syria kid where you spent the last two weeks as a peace observer. When asked by CNN what you thought of the situation, you pushed back a lock of hair, adjusted your aviator sun glasses and said, "Syria is very much like Derry. The people are open and friendly. Another thing Syria has in common with Derry, is that everyone can sing. Beat combos cris-cross the desert like veritable dung beetles. This Friday, I hope to have in the studio Syrian's top group, the "Damascus Melody Tones". When asked if he had brought home a souvenir for 1960's hipster, Mr Coyle, Mr Anderson replied, "Yes, I have as a matter of fact. Wrapped up in the Syrian Chronicle, I have a large piece of dried,camel dung which Mr Coyle can use as a paper weight." According to the Derry Journal, Mr Coyle was gob smacked to receive the gift and yelled out in a strange, falsetto voice, "Oh Mr Anderson, with this dried camel dung you are spoiling me!" Tommy my cat, emerged from the cubby hole under the stairs, where he had been pretending to be a Dyson Vacuum cleaner and said, "NEWS! we must inform Gerry of anything strange, or startling which happened while he was away." I scratched a shrunken head and said, "We could tell him about the Titanic celebrations which caused a panic stricken Jim Rodgers to scream out, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! Woman and wains first!" "The Titanic!" snorted Tommy. "Gerry doesn't want to hear about a debacle which vies for prominence with the Hidenburg Zeppelin disaster,the Tower of Babel and the Derry U-boat, which turned out to be a pile of supermarket trollies.". I threw another log on the electric fire and said, "I wonder if Gerry knows that, fire bug, Jordie Tuft, was taken to hospital suffering from piles and smoke inhalation?" "It's the Lough Brickland fire brigade I feel sorry for," said Tommy. "Every week, those brave men have to pull old Jordie out from a smoke filled den, full of livestock, Jeyes fluid and empty cooking sherry bottles." "I wonder what happened this time?" I said. "What means did the arch-arsonist employ to achieve ignition and conflagration?" "Leave it to Gerry," said Tommy. "Sit back and listen as ace reporter Gerry Anderson phones old Jordie and asks pertinent questions relating to the latest bout of instantaneous spontaneous combustion." "Can't wait," I said. . drawing up a chair and pressing my ear to the radio.

Which Flag Should Fly At Stormont?

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, looked in at the small, replica Titanic, lying at the bottom of the gold fish bowl and said,
"What a lovely human being Phil Coulter is! A great pianist, middling singer and rollicking raconteur. I want the record to show that Tommy Cat, is a big fan of Phil Coulter."
"Me too!" I yelled. "I was one of the few who followed him through his, Boom, Bang-a Bang years. Phil Coulter brought tranquility into my life. What's more," I roared, "I will be lobbying her Majesty with a view to conferring a knighthood on the elephant,ivory tinkler."
"Sir Phil Coulter," mused Tommy. "It doesn't have a ring to it, but it will have to do!"
I couldn't put it off any longer. I sat Tommy down on his classical, guitar stool and said, "Tommy, I have a question of the utmost importance to ask you. Your answer could well determine the future of Ulster. Your answer could kill the Titanic cash cow and send the price of special mince and licorice shoe laces through the roof."
Tommy, popped a Librium and said, "Bring it on!" I paced the floor, stopped when I came to the wall and yelled,
"Tommy cat, which flag should fly over Stormont???"
Quick as a flash Tommy replied, "The only flag which should fly over Stormont is.....The Skull and Crossbones." Tommy continued, "Stormont is a safe haven for pirates, be it Jack Sparrow, aka, Peter Robinson, Orlando Bloom, Martin McGuinness or blind Pugh, Jim Allister.".
Once again Tommy had came through and cracked it with a capital K.
Street parties flared up like bush fires when the news came through that Northern Ireland Nil, were rated the 100th best football team in the world.
"It's all good!" reported Steven Watson. "The way I see it, the glass is 100% empty. This gives Northern Ireland Nil, time to rebuild, regroup, regenerate and read, "Football for Dummies.".
As the skull and crossbones flew over Stormont, Tommy and I stood with wooden legs, parrots on our shoulders and yelled, "OOH ARR, Jim lad!"
Jim Rodgers, going by on a ride on lawn mower, lifted his cloth cap and drawled, "Morning Neighbour."

TITANIC OVERLOAD. It's all too much!!

Great show to start the week kid. A great show,greatly appreciated by nursing mothers and those with a penchant for cheap, costume jewellery.
Tommy my cat, my life long friend, and three-legged, race partner looked at me and said, "Would it not be ironic in the extreme if the MS Balmoral cruise ship, which is following in the path of the Titanic 100 years ago, were to hit an iceberg and sink?" I stood there speechless. When I found my voice I yelled, "What kind of deranged, twisted, evil mind do you have? Do you want to see a great catastrophe repeated? You are one sick cat. You are vileness personified.
You're the devil in disguise. Only a cat with no feelings could come out with a statement like that! What came over you to conjure up such a wicked, sick, unthinkable scenario?"
Tommy fell on the floor, kicked madly with his legs, beat his fists into the carpet and screamed,
"I can't take anymore! I can't take anymore-Titanic! I am Titaniced up to the gunnels.I can't take it anymore!"
I drew the curtains, lowered my voice and said,
"You think you'rE the only one? You think you'rE the only one? There are people all over Ulster, hoping, praying, that some day the BBC will not mention the word-Titanic. You must be strong. This too shall pass. Remember, way back in the mists of time when Northern Ireland nil scored a goal. Remember how long that celebration lasted: Street parties, Special songs and the lavish banquet at Spence's fish and chip shop. You must be strong. Grit your teeth, gird your loins and let the BBC throw as much Titanic at you as they want too."
"I'll try," said Tommy, drying his eyes. I turned on the radio just in time to hear some hystericAA screaming, "Breaking News! It has just been reported that the M1 is to be renamed, The Titanic Highway." Tommy and I leaped into the coal bunker and shut the lid with a slam.

It's Discrimination Against Cats!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought a modicum of hope to an old codger who has been waiting 55 years for the return of his homing pigeons.
Every morning, the old man slowly clambers onto to the roof and scans the skies. Finally, in a fit of desperation he yells, "Bert, Davy, Eileen, Frankie, Joe, Dermot and wee Julie, come home, your daddy is waiting for you!"
Greater love than that, no man has!
Tommy my cat, slipped into size zero blue overalls and said,
"Did you see the fantastic light show from the Titanic Quarter on Saturday night?"
"I did," I replied, "and I was shocked and stunned at the audacity of the Titanic quarter cabal. It was-lights which led to the sinking of the Titanic."
"How so?" said Tommy.
"Listen carefully," I said,"I will only say this once. On the terrible night the Titanic ran into the iceberg, she was not alone. There were many ships in the area who could have come to her aid. It was the early days of radio communication. SOS or Mayday had not been invented. Many ships received the garbled message for help. The captains of these ships scanned the horizon and said, "Well, it can't be that big ship with all the lights blazing. They must be having a party." "IT was-lights," I yelled, "that sank the Titanic. Do we need to be reminded of THAT by an unthinking quango, who won't have to pay the electricity bill?"
I glanced at Tommy slyly and said, "How proud the dogs in Northern Ireland must be to be the first to be compulsory micro chipped. It just goes to show how much people love their dogs."
"Double standards again!" yelled Tommy. "Cats get lost too, but we don't make a big fuss out of it, we just phone for a taxi. Discrimination!" cried Tommy. "No one gives a rat's ass if a cat goes missing for a few days, but when it's a dog, the tears start falling. Search parties are send out and weeping women make urgent appeals on the Gerry Anderson show."
"Dogs are SO lovable," I enthused. "And the tricks they can do!. Give a paw, roll over and act dead, fetch the paper AND your bedroom slippers, play ball, guard the house and sit beside you on the sofa watching Coronation Street. Cats are too aloof. Dogs give. Dogs give love. All you have given me is a half eaten mouse on the front doorstep."
"It's not the gift, it's the thought that counts!" roared Tommy, as he rushed outside and gave next door's little Shih Tzu a powerful riser up the tail bone. Ah, little Tommy is so like Thomas the tank engine, so easy to wind up!

Bonny Wee George.

Great show yesterday kid. A focus group in the hills above Drumquin, found the show to be high in Coylus Interuptus and low on diddly-dee.
Group spokesman, old Watt Tyler said, "I found the show to be wholesome, well produced and easy to open, due to the lack of cellophane."
Nellie Orbit described the show as a "Must" for the modern day woman with a drake and nine ducks.
Tommy my cat, sauntered in whistling merrily and said, "Nothing new on the political front until Mike Nesbitt announces that the UUP and George Galloway's Respect party are going into coalition."
"A wise move on Mike's part," I said. "It's the only way the UUP will ever get a voice in Westminster."
"And what a voice!" said Tommy. "George Galloway is loud, acrimonious and indefatigable in his quest for justice and free ice cream for the over 90's."
I reached for two bottles of Black and White whiskey, handed a bottle to Tommy and cried, "Let's drink a dram to bonny, wee George."
I must have blacked out first. I have no recollection of Tommy falling. I heard him before I saw him.
"Two lovely pork pies
Oh, what a surprise
Father and mother and sister and brother
Have two lovely pork pies!"
"What goes there?" I yelled.
"Tubbyus Nolanus," came the answer.
"Advance and be recognized!" I roared.
Out from a strange, billowing mist stepped Tubby Nolan wearing a very short toga with a Ben Sherman shirt. Tubby grasped one nipple and cried, "I must see Caesar tonight. Inform Caesar, that Tubbyus Nolanus is without."
"Without what?" I asked.
"Never you mind!" roared Tubbyus."Just tell Caesar I must see him!"
"Not so fast, frequent visitor to the vomitorium," I yelled. "State your business."
Tubbyus give a little, girlish squeal and cried, "There's a moose, loose about the hoose."
"Not so fast," I said. "Every word you say must go down in the scrolls. Now, you said something about a-moose."
"It's loose," cried Tubby. "About the hoose."
"Whose hoose?" I asked.
"My hoose," said Tubby, "has a moose, loose."
"Are you the registered owner of the moose?" I asked.
"I am not!" yelled Tubby. "I wouldn't have a moose about my hoose."
Seizing a window of opportunity I sprung the trap.
"AH, HA!" I yelled. "Then how can you, Tubbyus Nolanus, a self procaimed moose hater, have a loose, moose, about your hoose?"
"It's a wild moose," said Tubbyus. "It must have came in from the fields."
"That's what they all say!" I retorted. "Begone plump Baccus!" I yelled. "If you think I will waken noble Caesar, with some cock and bull story about a moose, loose about the hoose, then you must be as stupid as you are fat!"
Tubbyus, fell to his plump knees and roared, "Tell Caesar, there's a moose, loose about my hoose."
"Guards!" I roared. "Take this wretch to the cells. There he can sport and play with the mice and rats."
Tubbyus, snapped his fingers and yelled, "I care not a fig for mice or rats, it's moose I can't stand. They run up your toga, you know.
"CAESAR!" roared Tubbyus. "Caesar, big Audrey, Vinnie! There's a moose, loose about my hoose!"
Fat men should not go roaming in the gloaming!

No More Reality, Thanks To Mike Nesbitt!

Great show to start the week kid. Just two minutes into the show, Mr Coyle, who can't get an appointment at an eye clinic yelled,
"No, they don't! There's nothing about that! Your drawers!" The cause of Mr Coyle's hate and hostility was to do with how the people of Derry, pronounce, Ray Charles!
"How pedantic," said Tommy my cat. "The man with the ailing ocular is once again getting bogged down in the minutia of life." Five minutes later Mr Coyle was engaged in a heated exchange about-skipping rhymes!!!
Tommy my cat, took his stance by the fireplace, where he always stands to announce great events and yelled,
"The reality, is-over! Mike Nesbitt has hammered the last nail into reality's coffin. For too long we have laboured under the yoke of-reality. NOW! thanks to Mike Nesbitt, who comes from the shady suburbs, we can raise our heads, get up off our knees, stand straight, proud and tall and proclaim, "Reality, your day is over! We don't need you anymore. The reality is, reality, we want you to go away. We march now to the beat of Mike Nesbitt's drum. CHANGE!!!" yelled Tommy.
"The long, cold Siberian winter is OVER! We will have our place in the sun. I have a dream. I have a dream, that little children, protestant and catholic, will walk hand in hand, not to throw stones, but rather to SKIP, under the tutorage of Sean Coyle, the new minister for skipping!"
I met the lovely, blonde Tara Mills, coming out of the newsagents with a copy of the Beano and Welding for Beginners, under her arm. "TARA!" I cried. "Lovely blonde, compact, intelligent Tara, what is the secret when interviewing, wily, slippery politicians?" Tara smiled, a lark sang on high and a road-sweeper danced with a red-eyed wino.
"The secret," said Tara, "is never look a politician in the face, always talk to the suit."
"Of course!" I yelled. "No eye contact. A politician can smell fear like a Rottweiler."
Tara giggled and said, "I have seen more grey suits, tha, Tubby Nolan has had massive dinners. THEN! on Sunday, Mike Nesbitt, turned up with a lovely white suit, for a moment I thought it was Gerry Anderson, or Mr Delmonte."
I linked arms with Tara, as she set off to buy a little top and said, "And whom lovely Tara, would be your favourite politician?"
"Oh, that's easy," said Tara. "It would be Sammy Wilson."
"May one ask why?" I teased.
Tara giggled and said, "Everytime I see Sammy Wilson, I never know if Sammy is making fun of the moustache, or if the moustache is making fun of Sammy."

Let's Wish Mike Nesbitt Well but...Sure Wasn't he grand?

Great shows last week kid, which made many people revalue their lives and take out home insurance against termites, death watch beetles and the big, fat tenor from, 'Go Compare'.
Tommy my cat, feline, friend and frequent flyer yelled, "It's NESBITT! by a landslide!!!"
I dropped the small duckbilled platypus I was grooming and shrieked,
"The big question now is, in what direction will Mike take the UUP?"
Tommy slipped into a green, surgeon's gown, prior to dissecting a small, purple frog and said,
"The UUP is a very old vehicle. It is quite difficult to maneuver. The big end has gone, the springs are bust and she is leaking oil. Both indicators are flashing, you never quite know which way she will turn. The bumpers are bent and twisted due to numerous crashes with the DUP. The first thing Mike Nesbitt must do is put her up on a ramp and get her roadworthy. THEN! it is imperative that Mike Nesbitt, face down the back woods men in the party."
"Tommy!" I shrieked. "I demand enlightenment. "What is a backwoods man?"
"A back woods man," said Tommy, "is a dour, humorless, bowler hatted, God loving, Ulster/Scot. The species is dying out, but examples are still to be found in heavily wooded areas of Fermanagh and Tyrone. These men," cried Tommy, "can not be coaxed or led. These men might see Mike Nesbitt as a fly city slicker, a carpet bagger. If Mike Nesbitt, does not knock some sense into the hard heads of the back woods men, then the UUP party is doomed."
"SAVE THE UUP!" I cried. "Build a giant crossroads in the wilds of Fermanagh leading nowhere!"
"And who would look at THAT?" said Tommy. I grabbed Tommy by the throat and roared, "If you build it, they will come!"
"No, no," said Tommy. "What Mike Nesbitt must do, is schmooze the backwoods men without ruffling their feathers. Invite the movers and shakers to his home to meet Lynda and have a meal."
"Go to work on an egg?" I said.
"Exactly!" cried Tommy. "When the backwoods men meet the lovely Lynda and taste her divine boiled eggs, they may take a tentative step into the twenty first century."
"Seems like a big job to me," I said. "Sure, wasn't he grand? Wasn't Mike Nesbitt grand, reading the news. The wee smile, the twinkling eyes, sure, wasn't he grand?"
"It is a big job," said Tommy. "But let's wish Mike Nesbitt well. Let's hope he doesn't end up like Trimble, Empry, or, God forbid, Tom Elliott, who is walking round Fermanagh in a dream-like state yelling, "A vote for Elliott, is a vote for Status Quo, rocking all over the world".
I never answered. I was too busy muttering, "Sure, wasn't he grand! Sure, wasn't he grand! Grand, he was! Sure, wasn't he grand!"