Tuesday 28 August 2012

The Lad Was Only Having A Bit Of Fun!

Welcome back kid. Tommy my cat and I are desperately seeking great shows this week. While you were away in Nepal, looking for the elusive, sabre toothed Nepal washer woman,two men stepped up to the plate. First up was, Gerald Michael Kelly. Gerry Kelly played good music and conducted tough, hard hitting, Paxmanesque interviews. "When did you first appear on stage?" he snapped to a young, female singer. "What did you have for your dinner on Sunday?" he yelled to Anthony Toner. Then, along came Coyle, all pleasing Coyle, slow talking Coyle, slow walking Coyle, along came, I'll play anything, Shawney Coyle. Coyle's musical choices were many and varied, ranging from, "The French Marseillaise" to, "How much is that doggie in the window. Bow Wow." Mr Coyle, came over as a man well versed in the art of radio. His voice was strong and confident. His posture, regal. Just by listening, one could tell that this man had studied at the feet of Hugo Duncan. "Ah, hello Kathleen, And how are you this fine morning? You what Kathleen? You want me to play "Killing the pigs in Kerry" by Willie John McCracken? What's that Kathleen? Willie John, goes by the name of the "Goose Man". Aye, I did know that Kathleen. Goodbye. Goodbye! Goodbye! Good luck. Good luck." Tommy my cat, looked and me and said, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" "I am not responsible for the wrongs of Mr Coyle," I answered. "I speak not of Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I refer to Prince Harry, soldier, ginger nut and third in line to the throne. Did you not see the shameful photographs in the Sun? There he was, playing pool, naked as a jay bird, smiling, laughing. The camera flash illuminating his ginger fuzz. The whole world is laughing. Everyone is calling him, flash Harry. The pound has dropped lower than the Yen for 24 years. The stock market is in turmoil. Old ladies, wearing lace cuffs and smelling of lavender, are lying on hospital trolleys all over the country. The DUP have called a special, secret meeting. Jim Allister's face got so red he looked like a tomato and Jim Rodgers, took a running jump and leapt over him. All police leave has been cancelled and Mark Durkin, is running round in circles yelling, "Is THIS the reality?" I looked at Tommy, standing there like a feline Cromwell and said, "Be off with you cat and your puritanical plotting for the tumbrel, the pillory and the ducking stool. The lad was only having a bit of fun. NEVER, have so many called so loudly, over something so little!" Tommy slouched away muttering, "I thought everything that happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas." "NO MORE!" I cried. "This is the age of Aquarius! Away with clothes! Let the dog see the rabbit and the devil take the hindmost!" I then threw off all my clothes and ran naked through Belfast, pursued by a cabal of Chinese dry cleaners, brandishing smoothing irons. I don't have wrinkles, just stretch marks, after swallowing a beach ball. It's a long story. Perhaps, some other time.

Tuesday 14 August 2012

Noel Thompson! Don't Walk Away Like Shane! Come Back To Our Screens!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which led to a staggering increase in apathy among the lime kiln workers in Drumquin, with regard to membership of the EU and courting in the kitchen. Old Juniper McRoach, bounty hunter and life long member of "Our Boy's", appreciation society said, "Boys! Listen boys! I feel it incumbent on me to disassociate myself from everything Archduke Franz Ferdinand said in the House of Hadsburg, on Pancake Tuesday, 1894." This was greeted by wild cheering from the Drumquin lime kiln men, but one wee nuck at the back, lowered the somber tone of the occasion by yelling out, "Too Little! Too Late!" "The end of an era," said Tommy my cat. "The dogs bark and the caravan moves on. What strange, sad times we live in, when the foundations, the VERY rocks, which we cling to like veritable limpets, are taken away, leaving us bereft of truth, honesty and moral compass." I looked up from the floor, where I had been kicking and flinging and yelled, "We'll never see his like again! He was like a father to us. Anyways there in times of trouble. As rugged as the Mourne mountains, where he loved to walk. Leaping stiles with the sure footed expertise and bonamie of a mountain goat. NOEL!!" I screamed. "NOEL THOMPSON!!! Don't go! Don't walk away like-Shane. Come back NOEL! Return to our television screens. Sit once more, beside the lovely, fragrant Donna Traynor and reassure us that Ulster, in spite of its trouble, is still the 97th best place in the world!" "The dynamic duo!" roared Tommy. "Noel and Donna. John Steed and Emma Peel. George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Fred and Ginger." "George and Mildred!" I cried. "They had sexual chemistry. They had the trust of the people." "They could walk and talk at the same time," sobbed Tommy. They could sit on armchairs, with the poise, grace and dignity of royalty. And the way they looked at each other! Doe-eyed Donna and craggy, rugged Noel. News anchor and anchoress. Ulster's Posh and Becks!" Tommy, rendered his garments, pulled his hair out by the roots and screamed, "Who was the scurvy knave who decreed that Noel Thompson, should move to radio and Mark "Socks" Carruthers, should sit on his throne?" "Faceless men!" I cried. "Nameless, faceless men have intrigued to oust Noel Thompson, the King of Newsline and replace him with the pretender, Carruthers." "A cruel callous coup!" yelled Tommy. "In the dark, gloomy corridors of the BBC, plots have been hatched. Around the water cooler, traps and snares have been laid. Machiavellian machinations have been hatched by men with suits, cocking snoots at the people of Ulster, who stand proudly under the Noel Thompson banner." "To the streets!" I cried. "Today, we march on the bastille of the BBC. Heads will roll! Tumbrels will jolt and sway over cobblestones. Old crones will knit ganseys as heads fall into baskets like turnips." Tommy, ruminated and said, "Stall the tumbrel. I have a better plan. Let's write a sharp letter to the chairman of the BBC." And, that's what we did!. I will now read our razor sharp letter to the BBC. "Dear Boss, your horrid actions, we will not thoal. Please reinstate, stile jumper, Noel.". To make the letter sound more legalistic, Tommy, picked up a green crayon and scrawled at the bottom of the letter. PS. This is no cod!!!!!

Wednesday 8 August 2012

Sport's Commentator is Running out Of Superlatives!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Olympic superstar, Usain Bolt, wonder if Mr Coyle could be his long-lost uncle, Rusty Bolt, who stowed away on the good ship Sabrina en route to Derry. Tommy my cat, sitting glued to the television screen, wearing a very skimpy vollyball outfit yelled, "These are the BEST Olympic games I have seen in the last four years. The running and leppin' are a joy to watch and team GB, has made the BBC forget all about Syria, Iran and the debt crisis. It almost seems all our troubles have gone away and been replaced with men and women in knickers running, swimming and leppin' like veritable gazelles and dolphins!" "It will all end in tears!" I cried. "Mark my words. It was a bad omen when busty, blonde Boris Johnson, hung from a wire like a village idiot. It was a portend for hunger, poverty and hard times. Therefore I say onto thee Tommy cat, Go home and prepare for instant, insidious insolvency! The yoke of poverty and misery will be placed round your neck like an albatross. And men, now abed, will rise and cry forth, "This is some hanlin'" Tommy roared, "Stop standing there like the very ancient mariner and go tell your tale of woe to someone who cares!" So I did! I told Nigel Dodds and Nigel is going to set up a select committee. Who said our MLAs just sit up at Stormont twiddling their thumbs? When I burst into Nigel's office, neither of his thumbs were a twiddle. He was reading, "50 shades of Grey" and whistling, "Happy days are here again." "Poor Steven Watson, has had a busy year," said Tommy. "How many times have we seen young Steven, standing drenched to the skin on a cold, windy golf course? How many times has he built up our hopes, only to dash them later with sad, woeful tales about bunkers and bad luck?" I threw a rotten tomato in the general direction of Iran and said, "At the start of the year, Steven Watson had a store of superlatives which any sporting commentator would give his eye teeth for. He even had a superfluous of super, smart superlatives stored in his garden shed. Now, the man who tells us what is going on, even though we can see it with our own eyes, is down to just seven superlatives, AND, one of the superlatives is bent and may be a counterfeit!" "Thundering, galloping Usain Bolts!" yelled Tommy. "This is serious! What will poor Steven do if he runs out of superlatives when Rory McIlroy, is putting on the 18th green to win the match AND a selection of superlatives from a very excited, Steven Watson. What is Steven supposed to DO? Stand flapping his gums, with his mouth open?" "Not if I can help it," I cried. "Today, I want everyone who listens to the Gerry show, to send superlatives to, Steven Watson, Care of the BBC, Belfast. So, come on folks, search the attic, the garage and the cubby hole under the stairs. If you were hoarding superlatives, now is the time to send them to a worthy cause. SSS. Send Superlatives to Steven. "Great idea!" yelled Tommy, "But may I address Mr Jordie Tuft. Jordie, old pal, please don't send in, "Keep her lit, 'till we get out". It is not really appropriate for sporting events. Hope your bum is healing nicely. Yours sincerely, Tommy the cat."

Monday 6 August 2012

The BBC Coverage of The Olympic Games Is just Too Much!! Blanket Coverage Leads to Suffocation!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows, which brought back memories of the great depression, when an old codger, in a battered model T Ford, was stopped on route 66 out of Derry and charged with vagrancy. The codger, who insisted his name was Tom Joad, was found to be pissed on the grapes of wrath. "GOLD!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Another gold medal for team GB. Britain, has hit the mother lode. What a bonanza! It's a veritable Klondike! GOLD!!! Yet another Gold medal for team G!" I dusted the baby grand accordion, breathing heavily through my nose, yet saying nothing. "Stall the weddin' " yelled Tommy. "What's got up your hooter, why are you not cheering on team GB?" I spun round, duster in hand and yelled, "How can you sit there and give credence to an Olympic games, which is clearly under the influence of, DRUGS?" Tommy reeled back like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah and cried, "How dare you! How dare you, accuse the athletes of being on drugs!" "I speak NOT of the athletes!" I yelled. "Every athlete is as drug free as Tom Cruise, at a Scientology, Saturday night, fish fry." I quickly assembled an Ikea, flat pack podium, mounted it and roared, "J'accuse the sports commentators of broadcasting, while being high as a kite on illegal substances, which induce frantic excitement, bordering on hysteria." A small worried frown, with a ball, played over Tommy's face. "Have you heard them?" I yelled. "Have you heard the over-the-top, excited shrieks, yells and screams coming from our sports presenters? Every other word is, ""stunning, amazing, stupendous and world beating. I heard one drug fuelled moron scream out in a frenzy, "Britain doesn't have a competitor in this race, but if we did, I'm sure they would shatter the world record and win by a mile!" "So they gloat a little," said Tommy. "Let them have their day. The games got off to a bad start. Remember Boris Johnson, hanging from a wire, like a male version of Barbara Windsor?" "It's not just that," I moaned. "The BBC coverage is just too much. Wall to wall coverage and instant replays ad infinitum and ad nauseum. And, being ad free, no commercials to break up the continual, running, swimming, cycling, and leppin'. Oh, what I would give to see the loathsome tenor from, Go Compare. The Olympic games," I shrieked, "is nothing but a glorified school sports day! The BBC has lost all sense of balance. Blanket coverage leads to suffocation. I can't take anymore!" I yelled. "Tommy, in the name of Allah, put on a DVD of "The Quiet Man" or, "2,000 leagues under the sea". "NO!" roared Tommy. "Sebastion Coe, has worked hard for seven years. You will not be excused from the Olympic games. You will sit there for three weeks and enjoy it like the rest of us." "Joe Mahon!" I yelled. "Put on Joe Mahon! How I would love to see the bold Joe shear a sheep, or try his hand at quilt making." "NO!" cried Tommy. "These Olympic games cost eleven billion pounds and you will sit there and enjoy them, or I will tie you to the chair." I gave in. I sat in a stupor, as a voice, quivering with hysterical excitement screamed, "And here comes the British competitor in eighth place! What an amazing, stupendous performance from an athlete, giving his all for Britain. And LOOK! Boris Johnson, has left his seat and given the glorious Briton a big, wet kiss on the mouth. What a story he'll have to tell his grandchildren, if he's that way inclined. Simply amazing, stupendous, brilliant, magical! Now, sit back in your seat and enjoy the whole excited, amazing, stupendous race over again, in slow motion!"

Friday 3 August 2012

The Weather Forecast from Frank Othello Mitchell as Wee Chinese Cutties win more Swimming Medals.

Great show yesterday kid, which greatly helped team GB, in their quest for gold in the Olympic games. "It's all good!" said David Cameron, as he was shown round a state-of-the-art sewage works in Cullybaccy. The little man, who gave Mr Cameron the guided tour, kept roaring, "I eat, drink and sleep sewage Mr Cameron, like my father before me." It was obvious the wee man was hoping for an OBE. Obnoxious, boring egidt. Tommy my cat came down the stairs in a state of languidness. I have seen Tommy in a languid state before, but this was bordering on lethargy. Tommy, wearing cherry red doublet and laddered hose put one hand to his head and opined, "Let us sit on the sand and talk of the death of Kings. The year goes on a pace and odds bodkins, the nights are drawing in. 'Tis August. The dog days of Summer. All too soon the sun, the great shining orb in the sky, will chart a course, taking it away from mortal man. Dark then, will be the day and of short duration. To frolic in the dark day, will be seen as a sign of madness. The prancing of a fool, who, devoid of brain, is seen by all as a weather vane, a stopped clock. His dance has all the jollity of a corpse on the gibbet. Then, will old men slumber before Winter fires, telling stirring tales of battle and merry romps in my lady's chamber. Old grey heads, chattering nonsense, like the crickets in the hearth. Men of youth, men of vigour, will champ at the bit. Confined indoors, they will verily punch and batter their nagging spouse. Children, now abed, will dream of sunlit streams, pigs' bladders, flying high into the bright blue yonder and picking flowers with the beauty and radiance of the jewels in the King's crown. Apart from that," said Tommy, "the Winter will be generally mild, with little or no snow or frost." "Thank you Frank Othello Mitchell!" I roared. "Attend me here! Hold this duck's legs wide open while I stuff it with onion, sausage meat and herbs." At the mention of the word, stuff, the duck gave a Quack and flew out the open door. Tommy opened a tin of beans, poured them out on the table and went to make some toast. Yes, it would be toast on beans-again! Tommy and I sat watching wee Chinese cutties win all the swimming medals at the Olympic games. "Well done Chew You!" yelled Tommy, as a Chinese child of four, broke the world record by two hours. "Swimming is very boring," I said. "To make it more interesting, take away the water and make the competitors swim on bare concrete. It would be quite jolly to see all the blood from cuts and grazes on knees and elbows." Tommy, pondered, ruminated and said, "Would you also take the water away from divers?" "Of course!" I replied. "If divers had to land, headfirst on hard concrete, there would be less showing off on the way down!". Just then, a herd of prowlers thundered down the street, followed by Edwin Poots, firing a double barrel shotgun into the air. "Hey up!" said Tommy. "It's our Edwin on prowler duty." I stood smartly to attention as the Chinese national anthem was played again and again and again!