IMPERSONATION.

gerry.anderson@bbc.co.uk

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It had everything. The mime artist was a stroke of genius.

I looked at Tommy my cat who was tying my shoelaces together and trilled, "Tommy, my old banana, what a great show that was!" "A cracker! cried Tommy, "One of Gerry's best, it's no wonder all other radio personalities are copying him. In fact, some of them are pretending that they don't know how to use the studio equipment." "I told Gerry to patent that trick," I cried, "But he looked at me with a saintly christian brother's smile and said "Impersonation is the sincerest form of flattery." And tubby Nolan who was lumbering by yelled, "Yes, and fish and chips is the sincerest form of-fattery!"

Tommy drew his cloak round him and said, "It is not of the knave Nolan that I wish to speak. I must ask you a question, that is of the most singular importance to me." You could have cut the air with a knife. I grabbed a big spoon and began to carry air from one room to the other. Tommy peeped out of his dark cloak and hissed. "Try a whisper Tommy," I said, "It doesn't leave a stain on the carpet." Tommy peeped, yet again from his dark cloak and whispered, "Is English Mr Coyle's first language?" I blanched like the old woman in Coronation Street and replied, "I hate to gossip, but they do call Mr Coyle-WOLF BOY!" Outside the window, a street urchin played a discordant chord on a mouth organ. "Of course!" said Tommy, rubbing his paws together. "Of course, little baby reared by wolves, his first language would be growls, yelps, barks and snarls and his second language would be-English!" Once more the urchin put the mouth organ to his chapped and cracked lips.

"Tommy," I said, with a shaking reedy voice I found in Hugo Duncan's glove compartment, "Why do you ask these, never before asked-questions?" We both waited, but the small urchin must have gone home for his dinner. Tommy walked slowly to the window, spun on a sixpence that just happened to be lying there and said, "Have you heard Mr Coyle speak?" "Of course I have," I said, "And far too much for my liking." "Today," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle began a sentence, then he stopped, as if searching for the next word. I half expected him," said Tommy, "To revert to his first language and snarl, bark, or yelp." I laughed and said "Tommy, my fine feathered friend, you are mewing up the wrong tree. Mr Coyle was born in the Bogside and where would one find a Bogside?" Tommy made use of his feline noggin and replied, "Beside a bog?" "Exactly!" I cried. "Now, as a small boy, Mr Coyle used to play in the bog and he discovered that if one was careful, one could cross the bog, using clumps of rushes as stepping stones. So when Mr Coyle stops talking after a few words, mentally, Mr Coyle is seeking the next word, just when, as a boy, he used to seek the next safe clump of rushes." "Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!" said Tommy. "And when you're there!" I yelled, "See if the postman has delivered a postcard from Tubby Nolan. I can't wait to see El-Plumpo spill out of a G-string."

All this and more, more, more have I seen in a darkened cinema where little Jeffrey Donaldson sits with his coat collar up, looking furtively all around him.

He need not have bothered. It was a wholesome family film. A complete waste of money!. When I left the cinema, I kicked an usher!!!

Lynda versus Nolan

"Tommy!" I shouted to my cat "Give me a she-ite when Lynda McCauley comes on. I want to see how she measures up to Tubby Nolan." "I think Tubby is much more gigantic than Lynda," said Tommy. "I think Tubby would have trouble getting into Lynda's bra." "Stop that old corner boy talk!" I yelled. "You've been watching too much channel 4 my lad. From now on you are grounded from watching channel 4." "That's not fair!" screamed Tommy. "That means I won't see Alan Carr.""That's right!" I yelled. "You are not allowed to listen to the rude, vulgar, utterances of a man who looks like the love child of Ken Dodd and Janet Street Porter." "Alan Carr is not vulgar!" screamed Tommy, "he is ground breaking, he pushes the envelope, and any filth is in the mind of the viewers." "Snotters,dumplings and balderdash!" I yelled. "The man is a veritable Lenny Bruce." "Lenny Bruce is a comic legend!" yelled Tommy. "Only because he's dead!" I shouted."When Alan Carr dies, you can watch all his DVDs, safe in the knowledge, that what once was filth is now acceptable and historic." "You old witch!" screamed Tommy. "How do you sleep at night? HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT??" "DIAZEPAM!" I yelled, "Washed down with a big mug of vodka." There was no answer to that, so Tommy made none and kept stum.

After a lunch of religious salad, lettuce pray, I ran pell mell round Belfast emitting the well known cry of the corncrake. I was trying to lure Joe Mahon out of the long grass. But alas, no Joe! I hope the little chap is not extinct! The last I heard, there were just two pair of Joe Mahons breeding in the whole of Ireland. As I rounded a corner, I ran into Michael Leary of Ryan air coming out of the gents' toilet. "It's standing room only in there," said Michael. "As it will soon be on Ryan air!" I yelled. "Have you lost your mind Micky? How is a hijacker supposed to go about his business, if the aisles are blocked by standing passengers?" "I don't know," said Micky, "And what is more, I don't care! It's all money with me, money, money, money!" "You jumped up little Paddy!" I roared. "I remember you as a boy, bringing home turf from the bog in a donkey and cart and now it's all Boeings and Airbuses, where did it all go wrong? When did you lose your charming Hibernian innocence and become a money grabbing little Fagin?" "I remember it well," said Micky. "I was in the Palace cinema in Baggot street. I was just a boy,but when I watched, Fiddler On The Roof, and heard the guy singing, "If I Was A Rich Man," my whole life changed." "You little Celtic up-start!" I yelled. "You're just another Hitler, you blame the Jews for everything." Micky picked my pockets and went off singing, "They say the best things in life are free, but you tell that to the birds and bees, I want money, that's what I want."

All this and more have I seen from the studio of UTV, where Lynda Byrons was giving Frank Mitchell a pink stiletto riser for not warning her about approaching showers.Apparently, Lynda had a big washing out on the line. Frank might have at least have mentioned it!!! It could have saved him much pain in the McCrory derriere!

A New Week

Ten o'clock found me and Tommy my cat sitting on two burros, rented from Agnew's Mercedes Ltd.waiting for another week of great shows. Both burros had been offered the option of carrot or stick and both had opted for the carrot. So I can say in all honesty that there was no friction or disagreement in the quartet of woman, cat and two burros. It was a harmonious group of eccentric creations of God that waited the start of the Gerry Anderson show. I took off my cowboy hat, wiped the sweat from my brow, squinted into the far horizon of the scullery door and said to Tommy my cat, "Tommy my old compadre, what hopes, wishes and indeed desires do you have for the great shows we are about to partake of this week?" Tommy spit a glob of tobacco juice between the burro's ears and replied--laconically, "I have a hunch, a feeling in my water, a premonition, call it what you will, that the petrol can man will make another appearance today." I showed my surprise by emitting a yell of. "YIKES! Tommy!" I cried, "Don't tease me, don't play with me. Oh if only the petrol can man came on again, it would be like all my Christmases, birthdays and Pan-Cake Tuesdays rolled into one." "The petrol can man has been keeping a low profile," said Tommy. "He is probably a loner, yet gives no outward sign to the public about his secret abnormal perversions for-petrol cans." "He could be as normal looking as any man on the street!" I yelled. "Exactly!" said Tommy. "But I feel this Summer heat will make him try again. He can't help himself. He is addicted to petrol cans and-today, he could break cover and enlist Gerry in his never-ending quest for petrol cans.""We must block the airports, the railway stations, the roads, the-chimneys!" I yelled. "Sir Hugh Orde is on to it," said Tommy. "I was talking to him last night at an all night Ann Summer's knicker bonanza and he looked me straight in my slitted eye and said, "Evening Tommy. Mind how you go. If chummy tries anything tomorrow, my officers will nab him before you can say, " It's a fair cop Guv." Mind you, I could do with a helicopter."

At lunch time, Tommy and I went out into the searing heat and fried two eggs on a man's bald head. The alluring taste of dandruff, greatly added to the over all taste of the fried ova. In the afternoon I went round to Tubby Nolan's house to feed his giant, flesh eating Venus fly trap. The gluttonous plant nearly took the hand off me as I rammed 6 pounds of special mince down its hungry gullet. I could imagine Tubby and the fly trap arguing about the last packet of prawn cocktail crisps. They say men get to look like their dogs, well tubby is the dead spit of the Venus fly trap--all mouth! I had a little peep in Tubby's drawers. I found a "To Do" list which read thus, Get hair cut. Get all forks on trousers reinforced with sheets of corrugated iron. Hire man to put my shoes and socks on. Ask for--NO! demand raise from BBC, or threaten to go to UTV. Go on internet and try to find a po with a 60 inch circumference. And finally, think up fly things to say to Anderson during hand over.

All this and more have I seen as Lynda Byrons grabbed me in a headlock and threw me out of her bedroom AGAIN! But like I told Lynda before, I was just in there to see the woodchip wall paper. Did she believe me? Did she heck as like!!!

NEVER HURRY A MURRAY

I was busy dissecting a prehistoric man I had found behind the sofa, when there was a horrible scream from the living room. "TOMMY!" I yelled to my cat, "Are you all right? You haven't gone and accidentally hung yourself from the ceiling again?" Tommy rushed into the kitchen. Oh he did look pale. I swear I've never seen little Tommy so pale. His little face was ashen. "Tommy!" I yelled. "Speak to me lad, has the pound took a tumble, or is there trouble at mill?" Tommy looked at me, wide-eyed, oh I've never seen little Tommy's eyes so wide before, they were bulging out of his head, like two wide eyes. "He's-OUT!" yelled Tommy. "Who's out?" I said "Ronnie Briggs, or the Count of Monte Christo?" "Andy Murray!" yelled Tommy. "Andy Murray's-OUT!" "Out where? I said "Outside? Or out there! like in the X-files?" "Andy Murray is out of-Wimbledon!" screamed Tommy. "Serves him right," I said. "That's what he gets for going in." "You don't understand!" screamed Tommy. "The whole of Britain was depending on Andy Murray to win Wimbleton and now-he's OUT!" "Sit down lad," I said. "Have a nice cup of tea and a hobnob. Eeh Tommy lad," I said, "I don't know why you get yourself into such a state. Look at you! You're trembling and all because of a tennis match. For shame Tommy, for shame." Tommy put his head in his feline paws and whispered, "I don't understand. This was supposed to be Andy Murray's year and now he's-out! He was 30 love at one stage." "Don't call me love Tommy lad." I said "I don't mind, but people may not understand and point at me in the street, when I cart-wheel down the road dressed as Lloyd George." "Poor Andy," said Tommy. "Imagine how he's feeling tonight. He must be gutted." "No Tommy lad," I said. "It's only the tennis rackets that are gutted. Listen Tommy lad," I said, "Andy Murray may be over the moon. Now he won't have to walk about with a pocket full of tennis balls in the pocket of his bonny, wee, tight shorts." Tommy leapt to his feet and threw a rare Ming vase out of the window, knocking a singing nun off her bicycle. The tumbled sister got to her feet, let loose a litany of expletives and threw the holy grail through the hole in the window, knocking a rare Michelangelo charcoal drawing of a piece of charcoal out of its George the 5th silver frame. Tommy grabbed a Picasso drawing of a dog on a bicycle and happed it off the nun's habit. It's a bad habit to get into, but I don't think Tommy will do it again. The nun, who was by now full of the wrath of God and Red Bull, made a lassoo out of a Lourdes rosary, snagged a, by now furious, Tommy round the neck and dragged him out to the street. I ran to Tommy's aide, holding above my head a large granite Egyptian sculpture of the sun God Ra playing a bango and yelled, "Freeze Sister! Just put the rosary down and step away from it." Then, Jim Rodgers, wearing half a pair of knickers because of the heat rushed up and screamed, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH! What will people think when they see this on CNN? A nun and a cat, brawling in the street, like two politicians." "She started it!" yelled Tommy, pointing to the nun. "And indeed and be-dammit, I did not!" said the sister. "Jim," I cooed. "Dear little Jim Rodgers. The reason for this affray, lies square at the door of Andy Murray, who goes round the country, impersonating a tennis player." "A serious offencem" said Jim. "I had a cousin who got six months for impersonating a duck." "What was the lad's name?" I said. "Daffy," said Jim. "Daffy McParland." It all ended on a happy note, I took Tommy, the nun and Jim Rodgers indoors and we all sat and watched Andy Murray get beaten again. "The best man won," whispered Tommy. "Murray did his best!" screamed Jim. "Dat boy was hampered by da auld net," said the nun. "Some one should have taken da net away, Sure there's no need for dat yoke, at tall, at tall, at tall." Wiser words I have never heard. Why don't they take the net out of tennis? It would make the game so much easier to play. And who knows, Andy Murray could end up the winner!. Just kidding, Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. AH, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

To say yesterday's show was a great show would be the under statement of the Millennium. From the word-GO! the excitement just kept building. To say that yesterday's show was a-great show, would be like saying Sinatra was a singer, or Dracula was partial to the odd bloody mary. From the get go, Tommy my cat and I were on the edge of our seats. I have never seen Tommy so excited. "Gerry can't keep this level of excitement up!" yelled Tommy. "The show must hit a slump, this level of excitement is unsustainable." And still the excitement barometer kept rising. Old vintage tractors! A special machine for cutting long grass! By now, both Tommy and I had slipped off the edge of our chairs, but were still listening intently from a prone position on the floor. THEN! the peak, the pinnacle,the holy grail, HORSE SHOES!!! I gave a yell and rolled on the floor like a pot-bellied pig. Tommy LEAPT! to his feet, pulled clumps of hair out of his tail and screamed, "VALIUM! IN THE NAME OF GOD, VALIUM!" And come 'ere, there was more. Doctors Coyle and Janet then gave a full account of your physical and mental state which left some of us wondering if you were as stable as you look. Ken threw a wobbly and began to roar in your headphones. The front wheels were lifting off the ground, but the Undertone pulled back on the stick and kept the show on the road. What a great show.! That great show, knocked all other great shows into a cocked flat cap. After the show, I had to sedate Tommy, by hitting him over the head, with a non-stick frying pan. He'll thank me for it later.

In the afternoon, after a heated discussion with a highly educated and intellectual earwig about the preponderance of dark matter in the Universe, I skipped round to help Tubby Nolan pack for his holidays. "How many pairs of drawers are you taking with you?" I asked. "Six!" yelled the huge one. "They go into the six giant suitcases out in the hall." Even after rolling the drawers up tight, like parachutes, we still had to sit on the cases to get them locked. "Where's my teddy?" roared Lard Boy. "I can't go on holiday without my teddy." I seductively stuck my false teeth out, simpered and said, "I didn't think a big boy like you would wear a teddy in bed. I thought you would wear pyjamas, made from a striped shop awning." "My teddy bear," growled El-Plumpo. "I can't sleep without little Maraduke my teddy bear."We eventually found Marmaduke, buried under a mound of empty prawn cocktail crisp packets. "Well Steven," I said, "This is it. When you get to Atlantic City, keep away from Burt Lancaster. The last I heard, he was pushing drugs. What is it with drugs? You would think people were addicted to them or something! Steven," I said "Darling, chubby, tubby Steven, may I kiss you before you depart?" The oval one looked down his nose at me and said, "You may kiss my ring." "Here! that's enough of that auld chat." I said. "My mammy warned me about dirty auld brutes like you!"

All this and more I have seen through the window of Ken's house, where Ken was viciously sticking pins into an effigy of Gerry Anderson and pulling out what little hair he had left. Play an auld "come-all-yeh" Kid, just for little Ken.Think of his hair!!!

Oh, ask little Ken if he every heard this little ditty.

MY GRANNY WAS DOHERTY

SHE WAS THE BLOOD

SHE DROVE A STEAM ENGINE

THE TIME OF THE FLOOD

(Traditional)

SEAN'S SHORTS

Great show yesterday Kid. Full of wit and humour that Norman Wisdom or Jimmy Carr could only aspire to. "Tommy," I said to my cat. "Did my eyes deceive me, or did Sean Coyle say that he did not have any trousers on yesterday?" "That's what the man said!" said Tommy. "Do you mean to tell me," I said "that Mr Coyle was sitting among the girls, wearing his-knickers?" "That's the word on the street," said Tommy. "That's what he gets for going on foreign holidays!" I yelled. "The lad has gone native. Coyle has gone all-Latin. He'll be growing a wee Errol Flynn moustache next, just you wait and see." Tommy launched a long range missile towards North Korea and said, "I thought appearing in his knickers would be against Mr Coyle's strict Catholic upbringing. Does it not say in Leviticus, "Woe to he who throws off his strides and cavorts in public places, wearing only a smile and a pair of knickers?" "Of course it does!" I cried. "It's an-abomination! That's what it is, an abomination and for two pins I would jump on my bike and go tell Iris Robinson." Tommy sniggered and said, "I wonder what colour Mr Coyle's knickers are?" "I don't know," I replied, "But I'm sure at one time, they were white."

Tommy went to the window to see if there was any reply from North Korea and said, "Gerry has a lot to put up with. Did you hear the woman who came on and blamed Gerry because she found out that Tom Jones was 69 years old?" "I did," I said. "That's what you get for sitting in a darkened room, surrounded by cats, playing Delilah over and over again. You lose touch with reality." Oh, that reminds me," said Tommy, pulling out his mobile phone and punching in a number. "Hello, Hello, could I speak to Mr Mark Durkin please?-Thank you. Yes Mark, yes Mark, I understand Mark." Tommy snapped shut his mobile phone and said, "You will be glad to know that the reality still-is." "Thank goodness!" I cried. "I was afraid that the warm weather and the drop in the pound might make the reality-it! or horror of horrors--dumplings!" "Heaven preserve us!" said Tommy. "No, Mark Durkin assures me that the reality still-is and will remain-is as long as he is leader of the SDLP.""Who are the-SDLP?" I asked. "I'm not quite sure," said Tommy. "I think it stands for "Sausage Dinners Lead to Plumpness." "Of course," I cried, slapping a thigh that just happened to be passing. "I remember the SDLP, Their leader was Gerry Fitt. It was he who brought the simmet back from obscurity to the height of fashion.". "Lynda Byrons wears a simmet," said Tommy. "And Donna Trainor, but they don't call it a simmet, they call it a-wee top." "The intellectual ostentatiousness of our leading female newscasters make countless thousands weep," I said. "I've been saying that for years," said Tommy, "but the only one who listened to me was Micky Bradley!"

All this and more have I seen from a dark nook in Ann Summers, as Sean Coyle sneaks in and whispers, "A pair of knickers in lime green please, with plenty of room round the fork."

Oh, the rascal! Did that saintly man Leviticus die in vain???

COOL CAT

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. In spite of the heat, your good self, Senor Coyle and the girls sat sweltering on blocks of ice, attired in short simmets bearing the radio Foyle logo, two crossed ricket legs, and put out a show that had chipmunks clapping and the rare bald-headed corncrake rolling in the isles. Go to the front of the class and take out a photograph of a lollypop from the big glass jar. I looked at Tommy my cat, who was playing poker with Henry the hoover in the corner and said, "Put that poker down Tommy, I want to ask you a question. What did you think of the comical genius we sent to Scotland to represent Northern Ireland?" Tommy, screwed up his eyes and mused, Jeyes Fluid will soon clean that up, and replied, "Well, speaking for myself, I found him hysterically funny. He comes with a good pedigree, that particular lad of whom you speak, studied for 5 years at the comedic feet of none other than-Edwin Poots!" I staggered back until I came to a wall that someone had thoughtfully built there and exclaimed, "Not THE Edwin Poots who runs on stage yelling, "Hey missus, hey missus, did you know that I'm an MLA? That's right missus, I'm an MLA, Mad, Loony and Assine. Eh, I don't know, sometimes I make myself laugh." The very same!" said Tommy. "Edwin Poots! Ulster's premier comic, appearing every day at the Stormont Fun Palace, standing room only." The length of time Tommy and I spent at the foot of our stairs, was indeterminate and incalcuable, but you must remember we were paying humble homage to--Edwin Poots!

I watched Tommy prepare dinner, by throwing spuds up in the air and hitting them into a saucepan with a cricket bat and said, "Tommy, you never sweat. not even on the hottest day, do you drop one bead of sweat.. Why Tommy-why?" Tommy winked, which made him look, vile, rude, vulgar and repulsive and replied, "Every cat has a small built in fan. In the Winter the fan blows hot air, and on a warm day, like today the fan blows ice cold air, ergo, cats never sweat." "Where is it?" I yelled. "I want to see this feline fan. Where is it?" "You can't see the fan," said Tommy. "It's internal. But come over here and listen. What do you hear?" "Why Tommy!" I cried. "You're purring, you must be very happy and content." Tommy laughed and said, "That's not me purring, that's the sound of the little fan whirling round and round." "But for years," I cried ,"For years, people have thought...."

"I know!" cried Tommy, going into fits of mad feline laughter. For years people thought that cats showed pleasure by purring, but we don't, it's our little fans, whirling round and round." And the hysterical feline lay on his back, kicking his thin, scrawny legs in the air. I felt--cheated. All that petting, all the rubbing of ears and all I got in return was the whirr of a little feline fan. I glared at Tommy and said, "I hope your little internal fan is nowhere near your tail." "Why?" said Tommy and I gave him a riser with my toe which is still talked about yet, whenever cats gather round a campfire to tell scary stories to each other.

All this and more have I seen from behind Tubby Nolan's four poster bed. The Tubby one has notches cut in the headboard, one for each hundred-weight of Mars he has scoffed. And I saw his po, delicate pink with a picture of Chris Moyles on the bottom.