I Am The Walrus!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which largely went unnoticed at a morning tea dance in Saint Clint's parish hall for the over 90's. Consternation broke out when it became known that newcomer, Harry Tinkle, was only 74 and was fraudulently attending the tea dances with a false birth certificate so he could enjoy the sugar coated paris buns. "Off with his head!" yelled sprightly centurion, Rocky Cragg. Ancient relic, Mary Ann McSpalter, borrowed a pair of false teeth and shrieked, "To think I have been dancing with a toy boy! What would my dead husband, Jello, say if he could break out of his lead lined coffin and speak?" "Throw the lump of a cub out!" roared old 200 years old Midge Sassoon, who could remember the days of the Showbands! Nappies bulged as a motion was passed and old Harry Tinkle was given a riser and cast out into eternal darkness. I looked at Tommy my cat and said, "Let's see if I've got this right. When Gerry is away, Thunder Thighs, Gerry Kelly, will stand in for the first week and the Eyebrow, Sean Coyle will then take over the hot seat." "Correcto!" said Tommy. "In the event of either gentlemen, or indeed, both of them, getting run over by a headless horseman, Ken will step up to the plate and play the accordian for two weeks." "It's all good!" I said. "It's a win, win situation. Mind you, I wouldn't mind two weeks of wheezing, amateur accordian music." "We can but hope," said Tommy. As I walked down the Donegall Road, a large, grey suit emerged from a pie shop. I knocked on the giant suit and cried, "Come out Tubby Nolan, I know you're in there." A giant head appeared and the oval one roared, "Be off with you! Can a Zeppelin not stop for a lard rush?" "If you get any bigger," I cried, "it's the bum's rush you will be getting from the BBC!" "I am the BBC!" roared Tubby. "It may be sacrilegious to say it, but I am bigger than, JEYES FLUID!" Right on cue a busker sang, "I am the walrus, Goo-Goo-G'Joob."

Vive La Difference!

Great show yesterday kid, which proved Mr Coyle is NOT the chosen one who will lead his people down the Strabane road to the land of milk and honey at Zion--mills. "Mr Coyle, is not the chosen one," said Tommy my cat. Ancient manuscripts describe a man with a bald head and a distinctive speech pattern. My money is on Eamon McCann." "Praise the Lord!" I yelled, as I gazed at a picture of bonny, haggis-plump, Lord Laird. I put down the phone, burst out crying and yelled, "Vidal Sassoon, the First World War poet is dead. Who can forget his memorable lines, "There were rats, rats, as big as bloody cats, in the quarter master's store." Tommy snorted and said, "Vidal Sassoon was a hairdresser,very big in the 60's. His main claim to fame was the, one eye look. Before you could say "Anything for the weekend Sir?" young women all over Britain were stumbling about half blind with a big fringe of hair hanging over one eye. Doctors were run of their feet treating dolly birds, who had walked into a wall, or fallen down an open manhole." "Women," said Tommy, "surprise me! When it comes to running a house they are very capable but, when it comes to style and fashion, they let men dress them up like freaks and clowns." "It's the, "Does my bum look big in this syndrome?" I said. "When it comes to fashion women are very insecure. When some weirdo called, Teezy-Weezy, Herr Cutts, or Gok Wan comes along they follow them like rats after the Pied Piper. Men don't care how they look. They will wear anything. Men hate shopping. Men hoard certain magazines under the bed, but they don't hoard shoes. Men like to feel comfortable. Women are not content if they are not perched up on two six-inch heels and wearing a dress two sizes too small for them." "The mystery of the sexes," said Tommy. "Men are dirty old brutes and woman are highly scented, strait-jacketed, insecure manikins with their faces tanned and painted like a new cart." "VIVE, La Difference!" I yelled, slipping into a two inch, orange, mini skirt and a bright, yellow boob tube. "Tommy," I said, "Does my bum...........?" "YES!" yelled Tommy. "YES! YES!YES!"

Any Sign Of Recovery In The Free State?

Great shows last week kid. The Friday show caused uproar at Saint Bosco's Old Folks' Home when all the catheters came under the influence of the giant moon. A surging tide of urine engulfed the broom cupboard where the old folks go for a sedate snog. Two old codgers, who were getting it on, were swept out the front door and ended up in the middle of the street in a compromising position. As the dogs in the street ran for buckets of water, old blue haired Matti Harry yelled,"It was the moon! It was the MOON! The pull of the moon was tarra. I felt compelled to conjoin with old, bald, humpy Geraldo from ward 6." Old Geraldo, staggered to his feet and croaked, "It's a fair cop Guv. NEVER! has a man given so much for so little!" Both old codgers were dragged away and hung by the heels in the cold storage room. Tommy my cat, who was building a replica of the grand Titanic staircase out of egg cartons, turned and said, "Any signs of the green shoots of recovery in the Free State yet?" "None at all," I said as I watched a busy Lizzy scrub her doorstep at the other side of the street. Tommy added another egg carton and said, "The first sign of recovery in the free state will be the contentious and contemptible sight of Irish men and woman sking down the piste in Austria." "The Irish should not-ski!" I cried. "It is unnatural! An affront to God and man. To see an Irish man on skis is akin to seeing a dog playing a banjo, or Michael McGimpsey laughing." "I do so agree," said Tommy. "God made the Irish to be-plodders, heavy footed. The Irish man is not built for speed. He was fashioned from clay to plod after a horse and plough." "Do you know her at number 27?" I said. "Her with the bad perm and the rusty mangle in the back yard. Well, she told me, that someone told her, that the Irish were the laughing stock of the sking set. People were laughing and pointing as Paddy, came flying down the sky slope, blowing his nose with his fingers and trying to light a pipe! She said one old codger, wearing all the latest designer gear, came down the slope backwards, leaving a yellow trail behind him!" "You don't mean!!!" cried Tommy. "YES!" I yelled. "The old codger was having a piss on the piste!!!" "Well, I'll go to the foot of the Titanic staircase!" said Tommy.

Jordie Is On A Par With The Titanic!

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, pulled a Top Shop,burnt umber gansy over his head and said, "Given the content of yesterday's show, I thought I was listening to an episode of Casualty! A ground swell of good will for old Jordie has crashed the phone system at the Royal and pallets of grapes and cooking sherry are arriving non stop in big lorries." "Jordie is a national institution," I said, "on a par with the Titanic. The people of Ulster could not deal with another disaster. The rallying cry is, "DON'T LET OLD JORDIE GO DOWN LIKE THE TITANIC!" Tommy bit my bottom lip and said, "I worry greatly for the nurses. A few shots of vitamin B could send old Jordie into a groping frenzy." "How little you know about nurses," I said. "Even as we speak, nurses are clambering to be the first to give old Jordie a bed bath!" "Rather them than me," said Tommy. "I wouldn't venture down there without a miner's lamp and a canary." I grabbed some small animals, twisted them into the shape of a balloon and said, "I am greatly worried about Emma. I heard her give a little cough yesterday. I hope the two fly boys are aware she is with child and have not got the wee dote splitting wood with a hatchet, or carrying bags of coal up the stairs." "Of course not!" said Tommy. "Both Sean and Gerry have Emma wrapped in cotton wool. Very snug and warm, but a bit tricky when she cycles home." I painted a smiley face on the visage of Michael McGimpsey and said, "I hope Jordie's accident will have a somber effect on old codgers who get up from their reclining chairs, shuffle towards the open fire and pee on the glowing embers." "Any old Codger," yelled Tommy, "who willingly allows access to his forkal area in the vicinity of an open fire, deserves all he gets!" "HERE! HERE!" I cried. "The last thing I want to see in the doctor's surgery is an old man sitting with a gutted fork." "Looking for a tube job on the National Health?" said Tommy. "Gerry will never read that last line," I said. "Why not?" said Tommy. "I thought it was funny, a play on words." "If Gerry reads that line," I said, "I will stick a bell up a vicar's cassock and cry, "How about that for a ding-dong merrily on high!"