Advice For Gerry

Deer Gerry, 'Tis I, the Clougher enchantress Rosie Ryan 'ere. When I heard you were running the Knew York marathon my hart swelled with pride and my knees turned too Chivers jelly.
"Gerry Anderson, 26 miles?" yelled my sun Bon Jovi.
"That does knot compute.
"I fear uncle Gerry may sucumb to fatigue and lie down on the road like a dead badger".
"Rubbish!" was my retorter.
"Gerry has ran before, from the law and crowds of angry dancers looking for their money back".
"That was different" yelled Bon Jovi.
"A marathon is 26 miles, that's nearly half way too the moon!".
I lifted my foot and gave Bon Jovi a riser that brought a yell of, "CARAMBA!" from the doubting little gulpin.
Gerry, I am nitting you a pear of running drawers.
Its the least I kan do.
The drawers wool come down to below your knee and I have chosen the colour white.
When the drawers are nitted, I wool embroider them with green shamrocks round the fork and on the backside a likeness of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
There will be too pockets to hold your fags and mobile fone.
You don't want to be restricted when running, so there wool be ample room round the fork.
Pace yourself Gerry. A marathon is all about-pace.
Don't set off like a blue-arsed fly when you hear the gun.
And liquids are very important. On the weak before the race, drink a bottle of vodka a day. This could be upped to a bottle and a half on the day of the race.
If you require a pee as you run, go ahead, the heavy woollen material wool soak it up like a sponge.
I wool send the drawers up to you by Parcel Force so hang around the house to sign for them.
We are all behind you Gerry. So do your best.
Don't give Bon Jovi the satisfaction of lying down on the road like a dead badger.
Remember the words of the grate Chuck Berry.
"Run, run, Gerry, you got to make it to town
Run, run, Gerry, keep them drawers from falling down"
From your friend and amigo, Rosie Ryan xxx

Old Folk and Bed Baths

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped in no small way, to quell the riot at Plumbridge Old Folks's Home. The old folk were up in arms about the lack of waterproof nappies and the rough way nurse Paula Pot was inserting catheters.
The leader of the riot, an old codger who wishes to remain anonymous said,
"We is over the moon. All our demands have been met. As a sign of good faith, we, the old folks promise to keep our caterwauling to a minimum when our catheters are being inserted."
Tommy my cat drew a picture of Hitler on the wall, blasted it with a burst of machine-gun fire and said,
"Hey rubber lugs,from the 16th to the 22nd of January-inclusive I will not be available to spoon gruel into your gaping, cavernous gub."
"Hauld on!" I cried. "Hauld on! You are my helper. You get carer's allowance for looking after me."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "On the 16th of January I shall dress in stout all-weather clothing,hiking boots and rucksack and travel the highways and byways looking for the first snowdrop of the year."
"And what shall you do when you find the first snowdrop," I yelled,"place it in your button hole, or press it between the well thumbed pages of your Koran?"
"I shall enthuse," cried Tommy. "I shall-exult,depending on the terrain. I will mount a small mound, hillock, or raised feature in the landscape and proclaim my thanks to the great God Ra. Winter is over, soon the Lagan will flood its banks and catholics and protestants alike shall walk like an Egyptian as they till the fertile soil with bullocks and straining buttocks."
"Sounds like a firm of solicitors" I giggled. "Have you had an accident at work? If so,phone Bullocks and Buttocks NIGH!"
Tommy flicked a speck of dust from his spleen and said,
"Apropos to someone stuffing nourishment down your gannet gullet, while I go snowdrop hunting I have made arrangements."
"Not Steven Nolan!" I yelled. "The last time Tubby looked after me I lost three stone and the oval one nibbled all the hems of my curtains."
"I speak not of bucketbake," said Tommy. "The man I have hired to look after you is a paragon of virtue his name is....."
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers leaping into the room dressed in a nurse's uniform, complete with flat shoes and upside-down watch pinned to his manly bosom.
The next thing I knew, Jim had me down at the carwash giving me a bedbath!
I don't care if Tommy "Snowdrop" ever comes back. Jim Rodgers is looking after me like a baby. All I have to do is wink and Jim will leap to his feet, grab me by the scruff of the neck and run me to the carwash for another bedbath. He has very tender hands as he applies the Lifebouy soap.
Splish-splash I was having a bath
Lord I thought that I would die
Jim Rodgers, was lathering my back
While screaming out, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!"

A Poetic Loner

Great show yesterday kid.
You and Mr Coyle are indeed the Torville and Dean of the radio.
Tommy my cat hurled a hand grenade into his bed to kill the fleas and said,
"I stood all alone on the cliff-top
The night the Majestic went down
Wearing a gansy in yellow
And trousers, conspicuously-brown."
"Send that to Gerry!" I yelled. "It's much better than some of the rubbish he reads out."
Tommy looked out the window and said,
"I am a poetic loner, a vagabond rhymer. I have no wish for fame or success. I leave that to the Seamus Heaneys of the world."
"Give us another one Tommy!" I cried.
"Go on, go on Tommy,give us another auld poem."
Tommy put one foot up on the coal bucket, looked up at the ceiling and roared out like a town crier,
"They never did find her knickers
Though they searched from the dusk 'till the dawn.
It was plain that her knickers were purloined
By the red-headed stranger called, John."
"GET OUT!" I yelled. "GET OUT! and take your auld filthy poems with you, you vile, perverted,wee pussy!"
With Tommy out of the house I decided to write a wee poem myself.It couldn't be that hard. I screwed my face up like Seamus Heaney and wrote the following doggerel.
"He was old, he was frail and decrepit
He was Bosco who came from the Falls.
In a shrill voice he cried out, "Cajhones!"
Which I suppose is much better than, ba.....
NO! I will not go down the filthy, slimy, poetic path.
I washed out my mouth with Lifebuoy soap and sat down to read the bible.
"In the beginning was the word.
No men or woman or wee, wee bird
Then Eve went out some apples to gather
And that was the start of, how's your father?"
Filled with the holy spirit, I rolled round the floor, yelping like a dog. The spirit was in me.
What I needed now was rattle snakes. Lethal, poisonous rattle snakes writhing over my naked body.
PRAISE THE LORD!

A Sophisticated Lunch

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was much appreciated by Eli Stagbutt who goes out each morning to count the four thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire.
"Eeh!" said Eli. "That show has set me up for the day. If I were younger I would go to the foot of our stairs."
Then his moleskin trousers burst into flames and poor Eli was gutted before the fire brigade came,proving once again, never carry a cigarette lighter in your trouser pocket. How many more men must be burned to the ground before the message gets through?
Tommy my cat did a pirouette in his heavy, Winter,sheepskin ballet dress and said,
"Let's sit down to lunch, I'm starving. Piccalilli?"
"No thank you Tommy," I said, "I would rather pick my nose."
Lunch was a sophisticated, fashionable, Oscar Wilde affair.Fly ones were whizzing round the room like bullets. When the port was gone, we began to drink bottles of Starboard.
How I laughed when Tommy wittily commented,
"ME live in Ballymena? Frankly my dear,I would rather take up abode in the vast builder's crack on Tubby Nolan's massive bum."
"That's a cracker!" I shrieked. "A builders cracker!"
Then, like the wild Atlantic ocean,Tommy's mood changed. He put down his golden goblet of methylated spirits and said,
"Gerry and Sean never did find it."
"Find what?" I said. "The meaning of life? The lost chord, or Tubby Nolan's inside leg measurements?"
"The Bo-Weevil," said Tommy. "The elusive Bo-Weevil. The Scarlet Pimpernel of insects."
"The Bo-Weevil must have crawled into the fork of someone's trousers," I said.
"The naughty,little weevil likes to hide in cramped, hot nooks and crannies."
Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"That means Gerry or Sean are Bo-Weevil carriers. I must inform health minister Michael McGimpsey."
Which is why kid, you and Mr Coyle must lie in a designated field today, legs wide apart, eyes tight shut as a crop duster flies over you,spraying your forks with a lethal pesticide.
Oh Lordy, I sure does like to pick a bale of cotton.
Yes, siree Bob.
If that Bo-Weevil gets loose, there won't be a cotton boll left in Ulster.
(Hey kid, Play Bo-Weevil by Fats Domino. Fats co-wrote this song)

Beware The Bo Weevils!

Great shows last week kid.
When your great shows were on, the streets were deserted except for hoodies, zombies and Sean Coyle look-a-likes. These strange, weird, men walk alone surrounded by a cloud of eerie, ghostly, Gothic silence.
Matt Baggott, the man with the handcuffs and baton, said,
"Like our old friend Tubby Nolan, these strange, walking men are a growing problem."
When asked how the public could help, Matt Baggott shook his pom-poms, twirled his baton like a high school cheer-leader and replied,
"I would ask the public to remain calm and be vigorously, vigilant in spite of vile, vilification."
I looked at Tommy my cat who was reading, "Stars, Bars and Drawers" and said,
"Any gossip in your showbiz magazine Tommy?"
"Just a story about Lady Gaga", said Tommy. "Apparently, the little songbird went out wearing her meat dress and had to run for her life when she met a gang of cannibals out exercising their Rottweilers."
"Now that would only happen in LA," I said. "Sean Coyle often walks the roads late at night with a pound of special mince in his pocket and has never seen hair or hide of Rottweilers or cannibals."
"Mr Coyle is playing with fire," said Tommy. "The hedgerows in Ulster abound with Bo-Weevils who just love special mince. Should Mr Coyle inadvertently take a pregnant Bo-Weevil home with him, his house could be infested with the little rascals. And do you know the worst thing about a Bo-Weevil?" said Tommy.
"Their bite?" I said.
"No", said Tommy.
"Their sting?" I ventured.
"Negative," said Tommy. "The worst thing about a Bo-Weevil is, you never know where they've been all day!"
Tommy and I reformed our old skiffle group, "The Swinging Blue Simmets" and began to sing,
"BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
WHERE YOU BEEN ALL DAY
YOUR MOMMA'S BEEN A LOOKING
SHE HASN'T STOPPED A LOOKING
SINCE YOU WENT AWAY.

BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
THERE AIN'T NO NEED TO WINCE
YOUR MOMMA WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
SHE REALLY WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
A POUND OF SPECIAL MINCE!
(Tommy will add the tuba solo later)

SILENCE IN COURT!

Great shows last week kid.
You got the old gritter,Mr Coyle,out early and put on five great, icicle-dangling shows.
All week the burning question was, "Has old Jordie turned into an abominable snowman?"
I am glad to report,that Jordie's wee lum is still reeking,and his under-carriage, while frost-bitten,will not need any amputations. Praise the Lord and pass the doats! This state of affairs is mainly due to external heat from pallets,firewood and a lorryload of wooden legs that some kindly woman was good enough to send him after her husband,Long John passed away. Internal heat was maintained from Bush whiskey, cooking sherry, poteen and the fast downing of sloe gin.
I handed Tommy my cat a big cardboard box and said,
"Christmas is a time for thinking of others who are not as lucky as we are. Take this box to the guys and gals who appear in LOL."
"What's in the box?" said Tommy.
"One liners and punch lines," I said. "Lord knows they need them."
"I'm not going anywhere near the LOL'ers!" yelled Tommy. "They might make me laugh."
"I would like to see them try!" I yelled.
Silence in court, here comes the judge.
"Tubby Nolan," said the judge,"you find yourself in the dock today,NOT because you dressed up a snowman with coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. You do find yourself in the dock for the strategically placed SECOND carrot. How do you plead you rotund rascal?".
"INNOCENT!" roared Tubby. "I am as innocent as the new born snow and the driven baby.
It was not I who placed the second carrot South of the border down Mexico way. It was the work of hoodies, slabbers and bucket bakes. Your honour," yelled Tubby,"it is a well known fact that I haven't seen the area where the carrot was placed for over 20 years! Your honour," roared Tubby,"please release me, let me go!"
"Case dismissed!" cried the old judge, whipping off his syrup of figs.
"Then I can-GO?" cried Tubby.
"NO!" roared the judge. "I want you to take me home in your car, because,my fat, oval friend,I am as drunk as a judge!"

Magic Script Writers

Great show yesterday kid. A great show made all the more intriguing when Mr Coyle was heard to whisper in a throaty, husky, Barry White voice,
"Shall I show him Emma?"
And Emma, with a catch in her voice gasped, "NO!"
Tommy my cat and I leaped up from the two crouching Swedish dwarfs we were sitting on and ran around in circles.
"What in the Sam Hill blazes is going on in there?" I yelled.
"Coylers is weaving his magic!" Tommy cried.
"Rubbish!" I roared. "There's no magic left in Mr Coyle's old, bent wand. You need a good wand to weave magic."
"This will be on Wikileaks tonight," said Tommy,"under the heading, Emma says, NO!"
Talking of Wikileaks," I said as I went to the door and gave a polar bear half a pan loaf,"did you see Nigel Dodds still insist that the President is NOT a crook?"
"That dog don't hunt," said Tommy. "Nigel should listen to Seamus Heaney,
"What ever you say, say nothing."
"Tubby Nolan was on Wikileaks," I said. "During his last holiday he floated into North Korean waters and nearly started a third world war. The North Koreans were just ready to yell,
"Geronimo!" and press the red button when they saw Tubby's little periscope and fell about laughing."
"No one can laugh like a North Korean," said Tommy,"which is why the BBC have flown in 100 North Koreans to laugh at,Sketchy and LOL."
"Too little,too late!" I cried. "What the BBC should have done was hire Michael McGimpsey and Edwin Poots as script writers."
"Ah, McGimpsey and Poots," said Tommy. "They wrote for Tommy Cooper and Tony Hancock did they not?"
"Yes," I said, "but only after they were dead."
"A bridge too far," said Tommy. "First said by Phil Coulter when he got writer's block during,BOOM-BANG-A-BANG."
"What is little Phil doing now," I said, "tuning pianos?"
"No," said Tommy,"the little legend is working on an album about the famine. The album contains such smash hits as.
"Eating Grass"
"I'm Starving"
And "Who ate all the pies?"
I fired a double-barrelled shotgun at the middle plaster duck flying up the wall and said,
"If the Prince who turned into a frog, Andrew Lloyd Webber, gets his hands on that he will turn it into a musical."
"He must be stopped at all costs!" yelled Tommy.
"You phone the police and I'll get onto the Taliban."
Thank goodness for the Taliban. They hate anything to do with fun,which begs the question, where were the Taliban when Sketchy and LOL were wrecking havoc all over Ulster?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell under the bundle of old clothes outside the gates of UTV.
P.S. The Emma, Sean exchange was over an email to John Bennet!
A likely story!