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."