Change from analogue to digital transmissions.

Great shows yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, leaped out of bed, rushed downstairs, grabbed me by the throat and yelled, "Today is the 24th of October. Today, is the day that ALL television transmissions change from analogue to digital. What steps have you taken to ensure continuity in our sphere of television watching?" I grabbed Tommy by the ear and lead him to our, the usual suspect's chair and cried, "Shut your scaldie hole and answer the following relevant, pertinent and wild intelligent questions. Question number one. What happens to a TV screen when the signal changes from analogue to digital?" "The picture disappears," said Tommy. "and is replaced with white noise and the screen takes on the appearance of a foggy day in London town." "Question number two, I cried, " Could you describe the sound of, white noise?" Tommy scratched his head and said, "The sound of white noise, could be described as a sort of cracking, sizzling sound." I glowered at the felonious feline and said, "May I refer you to bundle five now, page 157." Tommy grabbed the bundle of evidence and turned to the relevant page. "Question number three," I roared, "which television programmes are paramount in this house?" "That's an easy question," said Tommy. "Our preference for cooking, takes up 100% of our viewing consumption. We are cooking mad. We would be driven to mad, crazy, insane distraction if we were deprived of cooking programmes. COOKING!" yelled Tommy. "I love it! Boiling, frying, roasting, grilling, is my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning!" I spread a llama skin rug on the floor, looked at Tommy and said, "Sit beside me on this decorous floor covering and hark, as I explain why we don't need a digital TV." Tommy sat with his arms round his knees and said, "Your reasons for not going digital better be good, or I will batter the big turnip, you laughingly refer to, as your head." I laughed merrily at the feline witticism and said, "Tomorrow, when we turn on our TV we will be met with the sound of sizzling, crackling and sparking. What does that remind you off?" "COOKING!" cried Tommy. "EXACTLY!" I yelled. "From tomorrow on, we can sit in front of our TV, listening to the sound of white noise and pretending it is the sound of-cooking!" "Jumping jelly beans!" cried Tommy. "How lucky are we? Thanks to digital television, we will have wall to wall cooking on our analogue TV. Hold on!" said Tommy. "What about the loss of picture?" "Steam," I replied. "Clouds of steam wafting from pots, pans, grills and singed hair." "You crafty old crone," said Tommy. "Just one and a half brain cells and you come up with brilliant suggestions like that!" "I could have been a simpleton," I replied, "but I didn't have the Latin."

Bring Back Melody!

Great show yesterday kid. With unrestrained gusto, Mr Coyle got stuck into, "Dellaware" like a man who was searching frantically for his lost childhood. "THAT!" said Tommy my cat, is the sound of a flower child, trying to return to Strawberry Fields." "Take me home country roads!" I yelled. Tommy roared, "Down with hip-hop, rap, garage, grunge and house music! Bring back, Melody!" screamed Tommy. "Give me something I can whistle. Phrasing!" yelled Tommy. "A nice chord progression, a restrained drummer and a horn section, wearing snappy suits and giving off the whiff of grade A cannabis. Beautiful ladies, wearing evening dresses, men in tuxedoes and an absence of trainers, jeans and tattooed faces." "No slappers wearing mini skirts," I cried "which fail to hide thongs, many of which have disappeared up the great divide!" Tommy and I have an unusual way of watching TV. We place the TV in the centre of the room and Tommy watches the screen, while I sit on a milkmaid's stool watching the back. It's a brilliant system I came up with myself, after hearing that strange things happen at the back of TVs. While I watched a scart socket Tommy said, "Look who's on the Tubby Nolan show! Old Edwina Curry. I thought that old bag was dead, buried and forgotten." "What's she saying Tommy?" I yelled from the back of the TV. "She's telling us, the people of Northern Ireland, that we've never had it so good. She says, stop whinging. Start up small businesses. Get on your bike and stop complaining. OH, IT'S ALL KICKING OFF NOW!" yelled Tommy. "Some union members are on their feet. They are not pleased. They are yelling at old John Major's bit on the side, "GO HOME!" they roar. "Shut your big mouth!" "Do you want a riser?" yells another one. NOW, Tubby has intervened. "Shut up, or GET OUT!" he bellows. Oh dear! Oh, dear! Tubby Nolan has shown his true colours. He has denied free speech to the workers and taken sides with old Edwina, who is painted up like a new cart and smirking something horribly." "I KNEW IT!" I cried. "Tubby is a Tory. He has no time for the working man. Tubby Nolan has turned into Ulster's version of Boris Johnson. I bet Tubby hopes to run for parliament in a safe seat in the shires." "BOO!" yelled Tommy, from the front of the screen. "LACKEY!" I screamed at the scart socket. Tommy smirked and said, "One thing is sure, the police will open the big gate for Tubby and his bicycle. The oval one, would never get through the side gate outside, number 10.". Never taking my eyes of the scart socket, I laughed like a drain. Ha-Ha, gurgle-gurgle ha-ha.

Creationism, Evolution or The Third Way??

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped old man Rooney, climb the three steps to the door of the transgender clinic. "Make me a woman" yelled old Rooney. "Woman live longer that men". After a full examination, a doctor informed the old codger that he had left it too late. "Ah, hoots mon" said the Scottish doctor. "Sure, you dinny leave us anything to work with". Tommy my cat, blood donor and close friend of Jim Allister said, "Where do you stand with regard to creationism versus evolution?" Knowing full well that my thinking cap was at the laundry, Tommy, had cleverly backed me into a corner. I strode about, with my hands not behind my back, looked out the window, coughed, blew my nose, cracked my knuckles and said, "With regard to creationism or evolution, I find myself in disagreement with both camps. Why limit our existence to just two choices? I am a fervent believer in the, Third Way." "What third way?" yelled Tommy. "You were either created by God, or evolved from, in your case, pond scum." "It ain't necessarily so," I replied. "Doctor Carl Junket from Geneva has written a book called, "The Third Way" In that book, written on the pages, Carl Junket, puts forward a theory that, nothing exists. You are a figment of my imagination and I am a figment of your imagination. In reality, neither of us exists. There is no planet called Earth. No time, no space, no gravity, no Titanic Quarter. All that exists is, nothing and in a state of nothingness, imagination runs riot. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. You, don't exist. Neither do I. So what I say to you is, "GO HOME and prepare for reality." "Hauld on! Hauld ON!" yelled Mark Durkin. "The reality-IS. Can you hold reality? Smell reality? See reality? NO, but if reality stands for anything, it stands for reality and the reality-IS, the reality always was-IS and always will be-IS." "Nigh! nigh! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "You boys are talking about, creationism, evolution, the third way and reality. Let me, as a simple ex mayor and life long Glentoran supporter, put forward another theory." Jim, sat on the floor in the lotus position and said, "Consider this Hi. Northern Ireland is at the crossroads between two parallel universes. That's why we never get on. Wan universe says this and the other universe says that. We are lost in space!" screamed Jim. "Our only solution is to find a wormhole in space and wriggle through it like wee blind mice. Time, is of the essence!" screamed Jim. "We must find a wormhole and we must find it-NIGH" "Evolution!" yelled Tommy "Creationism and the reality-IS! Roared Mark Durkin. "The Third Way!" I shrieked. "Wormholes!" screamed Jim. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" That was when the men in white coats arrived. It was pretty cramped in the back of the van.

If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?"

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat rearranged the deck chairs on his Airfix model of the Titanic and said, "It still annoys me and Randy Newman that Pluto ain't a planet anymore. If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?" I dropped my feather duster with a, CLANG! and cried, "Has anyone told Pluto that it's not a planet?" "NO!" cried Tommy "And Steven Watson doesn't know that the Irish league may go the way of Pluto.". "They must be told!" I yelled. "But whom will we tell first? How far is it to Pluto?" Tommy began to count on his fingers and said, "Pluto is nearly three thousand, million miles away." "And Steven Watson?" I said. "How far is it to his house?" Tommy got busy with his fingers again and said, "Two and a half miles." "Listen!" I cried. "You go and tell Pluto, while I tell Steven Watson and the first one back heats up last night's toad in the hole." "Sounds like a plan to me!" said Tommy, as we both ran for our coats. "Jim Allister should not listen to Steven Nolan, while driving his car," I said to Tommy. "On Monday, Jim got so angry, he pulled into the verge, put on his hazard lights, whipped out his mobile phone and got stuck into the fat boy about something or other. Motorists looked on in amazement at the solitary man in the parked car, roaring, yelling and shouting, with his neck swollen and his face as red as a turkey. Children, on their way to school, went into hysterics and talked all day about the "bad man." "No one should drive and listen to Tubby Nolan," said Tommy. "Figures just released, show a 56% increase in car honking when Tubby is on the radio." "There should be a warning!" I yelled. "Before the Nolan Show a calm voice should say, "Our next programme contains shouts, roars and gulders and sounds of graphic fatness. Motorists should be aware that their driving ability could be affected by fierce, tarra, fake anger and constant references to food." Tommy picked a peck of pepper off his pullover and said, "I prefer Nolan on TV. You can see what he's doing. When I listen to Nolan on radio, I always wonder what his hands are doing. Just think, the oval one, could be up to anything. Washing his smalls, while still wearing them. Plucking a chicken for a snack. Writing to Crisp makers, asking them if they ship by the ton, or even de-fluffing his massive belly button." After going through nine sick bags, I put Tommy, over my knee and beat him like a carpet, with a rolled up copy of the Syrian Sun. The paper was a little damp, leaving Tommy with some very trendy Arabic words and phrases on his feline rear. He looked very David Beckham, as he ran upstairs to cry.

Jim Rodgers gets A Makeover!

Great show yesterday kid, which never intruded on the feeling of loss and sadness suffered by retired Coco-Pops taster, Brian B. O'Brian, when Robert, his pet fruit fly died suddenly during the night. Speaking to reporters yesterday Brian said, "I would like to thank all who visited the tree hut where I live, or sent flowers. Life goes on. I am encouraged by the words of Rene Descartes who said, "See that bicycle? I got it for a fiver." After Tommy my cat and I got up, we listened intently for the sound of a reshuffle from Stormont and then got on with our lives. Carson, our butler came in with a silver tray bearing the business card of Jim Rodgers. "Send him in Carson," said Tommy, "but search him on the way out. I notice our private stock of Iron Brue is decreasing with every visit that man makes." Jim Rodgers crept in, twisting a flat cap between his nervous fingers. "I need help!" screamed Jim. "I feel I need a make-over to compete with the, cool, with-it MLAs, such as "Lucky" Barry McElduff and "Flash" Jim Allister." Tommy looked Jim up and down and said, "Your trouble my lad, is your, Nigh, Nigh, Nighs. You have been screaming triple nighs for years. It's time for a change. I suggest cutting back to two nighs, OR, increasing your nighs by one which would sound like, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" Jim mounted a small stool and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh!" Tommy and I both shook our heads. The duo of nighs, lacked conviction. Jim took a deep breath, threw back his head and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" "Nailed it!" yelled Tommy. "Made it your own!" I shrieked. "Yipee!" screamed Jim. "I have got my mojo back!" "GO HOME," yelled Tommy, "and prepare for reshuffles!" Tommy and I listened as Jim, raced through Belfast screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH NIGH!---------NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" "There goes a future minister for culture," said Tommy. I concurred! --

Has Mike Nesbitt, sacked anyone else yet?

Great show yesterday kid. Mr Coyle played some great music on Monday. As the hiss of vinyl spread over Northern Ireland, old codgers, lying on hospital trolleys, yanked out catheters and jived in the corridors to the pounding beat of Mud, singing, "Tiger Feet." Tommy my cat, still wearing his pyjamas, ran down the stairs with a look of concern on his pale, sensitive, feline face and cried, "" "Not yet," I replied, "but the day is still young." "Where is it all going to end?" yelled Tommy."How many members can a party leader sack, before he is the last card left in the pack?" "Mike Nesbitt," I cried, "has seen UUP leaders come and go. They all had one thing in common, Weakness! Mike Nesbitt will brook no dissent. Go off message, just one time and you're OUT! No second chances. No appeals. You cross Mike Nesbitt, at your peril. Mike has no wish to be liked. He rules with a rod of iron. Stern of face, he will race all malcontents who pee, into tents. If you're not with him, you're against him. "GO!" he will roar. "If you disagree with me, no room for you in the UUP. The UUP, is mine, all mine. Soon, trains and buses will run on time. Will I unite, with those on the right. I will not say, yes, or answer no. The answer to that question, only Lynda and my chickens know." Politics is SO exciting," cried Tommy. "It reminds me of a spade factory. Someone is always getting shafted." "Nolan is on tonight," I said with a shudder. "Put the splatter guard in front of the television. Last week, his roaring and ranting blew the speakers and wrenched the satellite dish from off the wall." "Fake, manufactured anger," said Tommy. "The Nolan show is like wrestling used to be. Light entertainment, disguised as hard hitting and ground breaking. Big daddy, Nolan, will huff and puff, but no houses will be blown down." "For a fat man," I said, "he sure can jump nimbly on many band wagons. I believe the BNP chappie is on tonight." "A bit late to be complaining about the cost of petrol," said Tommy. "If the BNP drill expensive oil wells, they should receive a reasonable profit for their investment." "It's the birds I feel sorry for," I said. "Covered in thick, stinking, oily, BNP sludge." "Yes," sighed Tommy. "Someone always has to clean up after the BNP." I decked the halls with boughs of holly and said, "Have you seen the "Must Have" toy this Christmas? "It's a Jim Allister doll. As soon as you open the box, it springs out and grabs you by the throat." "Hours of fun for young and old alike," said Tommy. "The Tubby Nolan doll never really caught on," I said. "People soon got tired of pressing its ass, just to hear it say, "Biggest in the country." "Remember the wind-up Noel Thompson," said Tommy, "that used to jump over a stile. Now, there was a toy! Strong, durable, made to last." "Do you still have it?" I asked. "No," said Tommy with a sob. "One day Jordie Tuft asked to see it and it burst into flames." "Pyrotechnics?" I asked. "Oh, no!" said Tommy. "It just went off like a firework". --

Covenants and Intrigues

reat shows last week kid. An old codger from the hills above Drumquin, told Reuters news agency, "Gerry Anderson and to a much lesser extent, Sean Coyle, saved my life last week. A terrible depression came over me last Sunday, when Danny, my pet banty rooster died from flu related symptoms. I hit an all time low. Thanks to the Gerry Anderson show, I am still here today after a sorrowful week. The wake and funeral for Danny, left me bereft of hope. I was ready to end it all, by over-dosing on Hugo Duncan. I nearly had the earphones on my head when fire bug Jordie Tuft roared, "Hi, come here ye boy ye! I was born in a tea chest!" "There are people worse off than me!" I cried, as I ran to the Post Office, to spend my life savings on wine, women and lilting. Tommy my cat, came in from the back yard, where he had been feeding the birds into his own mouth and said, "I lost touch with you, during the big covenant march. Where did you go?" I blushed and said, "I got lost. I found myself in a maze of back streets and next thing I knew, I was standing at the bar of the Felon's club, drinking a pint of Guiness." "How did the naughty little felons treat you?" said Tommy. "Like royalty," I answered. "They sat me up on the bar and bought me a four-green fields' cocktail. They called me, Maeve, their Celtic Queen. I sang, "Mother McCree, in Ulster/Scots, danced a jig and kept up a steady flow of, "Chuckie-ar-lahs." Tommy looked at me in anger and said, "What a tube you are! Drinking in the Felon's club on Covenant day. Why, you are once, twice, three times a Lundy!!" I cornered the lovely Sarah Travers, coming out of a second -hand potpourri shop. "SARAH!" I cried. "What's the matter? You never write. You never call. So, your old nanny isn't good enough for you anymore? Your old nanny, who used to throw you up in the air as a baby and only dropped you 27 times." "Oh, hello nanny Ferocious," said Sarah. "I am rather busy at work with the departure of Noel Thompson. Everyone is pitching in to do the work of the rugged, craggy faced, former anchorman." I looked around and whispered, "'Twas a horrible deed. A dastardly plot hatched when the blindbat flits on high and poisonous reptiles, slither like legless mice over blasted heaths. Cornered in the chamber, where he often ruminated Thompson cried, "IS this a dagger I see before me?" "No," said a man in a suit. It's your P45, now vacate that chamber, others are waiting to use it." "NO!, NO!" said Sarah. "It wasn't like that! It was all very amiable. Noel, just happened to pick up the poisoned chalice. It could have been any of us." "NOT Carruthers!" I cried. "Not the Thane of Socks. Carruthers is the favoured one. Why, the country is ready to follow Carruthers to war, if need be. Watch the moon, lady Sarah. See how she changes. So too, with the BBC. The BBC, is a place of intrigue and plots. A dark, gloomy edifice. The BBC is not a place where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you've came. INTRIGUE!" I cried. "Intrigue, piled on intrigue, until the intrigues take on the shape of a mountain of intrigueous intrigues. LEAVE!" I yelled. "Catch the night boat and flee to UTV. UTV, where the living is free and it's always time for tea." "I CAN'T!" shrieked Sarah. "Alas, I am betrothed to the BBC. They bought me young at a hiring fair in Strabane. HARK! Be careful. Something wicked this way comes!" "What a lovely day," said Tubby Nolan, from the interior of a massive, grey suit. "Sarah, my dear, get back to work. My smalls could do with a good sprinkling of DDT." "You lacky!" I cried. "Tubby Nolan, you are a craven-hearted lacky of Carruthers, the Thane of socks!" Tubby chuckled, rubbed his fat little hands together and yelled, "I am the power behind the throne! It was I who got rid of Thompson, with his rugged, craggy-faced good looks. Carruthers, is my puppet. Soon, others will follow. If the ancient one, Walter Love, doesn't pull his hose up--TO THE TOWER WITH HIM. I am the master NIGH!!!" I ran off screaming into the night, looking for two other witches to babble and gibber with.