Great show yesterday kid
A great show which gave British Foreign Secretary,William Hague,time to reflect on his failed SAS mission into Lybia.
Small-dome Hague, standing under big dome, Saint Paul's said,
"Apart from the outcome the mission was a complete success. We owe a great debt to the brave, intelligent men who refused to go. If I had to do it all over again, then I'd do it all over you."
Mr Hague was then wheeled away on a small trolley yelling and roaring,
"BRINK BACK MAGGIE!"
Speaking from a rented tent somewhere in the Libyian desert,President Muammar Gadaffi said,as he grilled some goat chops,
"The mission was ill conceived, poorly planned and embarrassingly executed, but apart from that, the mission was a complete success."
As he opened yet another tin of Heinz baked beans the President went on,
"I is not a bad man, a crazy dictator, or the anti- Christ, I is just a crazy, mixed up kid,who has spent too long alone in the desert with my goats, camels and sheeps. I is the Libyian Jordie Tuft!"
Gadaffi then pulled off his horrible, rubber,face mask to reveal the smirking, stoned face of Charlie Sheen."
"I knew it!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"It's another black operation by the CIA. Mark my words, the price of goat meat will rocket in the world market and Tubby Nolan will be storing food like a big, fat squirrel."
"Don't just stand there!" I yelled. "Run down to the corner shop and buy 37 pan loaves and half a pound of butter."
A British foreign secretary once said.
"A wind of change is blowing across Africa."
I feel that same wind blowing again, but it's only Gadaffi farting after all the goat chops and Heinz baked beans he lives on. Very loud farts I grant you, but hardly weapons of mass destruction.
My advice is,
"GO HOME--AND PREPARE FOR-BED!"
(This has been a home office bulletin, issued by the department of farts)
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Monday, 7 March 2011
Passing The Budget
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which acted as a lubricant to our MLAs as they strained, grunted and groaned with bulging eyes and red faces to pass a budget up at Stormount.
"Piss or get off the pot!" yelled Tommy my cat, who has no time for dilatoriness or procrastication.
"Tommy," I chided,"don't be so crude. A budget is a big thing to pass. Our estemed MLAs seem to be suffering from Elvis syndrom, but I am sure that Sammy Wilson will huff and puff until Stormont gives birth to a budget."
"I blame the floaters," yelled Tommy,"the SDLP and the UUP! Cheeky-chappie Michael McGimpsey said,a budget would only be passed over his dead body."
"Then why the big hold up?" I yelled.
"Michael McGimpsey isn't exactly-dead," said Tommy."Michael belongs to that band of merry men known as the undead."
"Silly, stupid, semantics!" I yelled."Mark my words,semantially brings naught but trouble and strife."
"KNOCK, KNOCK" said Tommy
"WHO'S THERE?" I cried.
"THE GESTAPO," said Tommy.
"THE GESTAPO WHO?" I asked.
"VEE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!" cried Tommy and he lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter.
Oh how we laughed!
I met Tubby Nolan coming out of the chemist. Seeing no bottle of Lucozade in his hand I thought the blimp had at last summoned up the courage to go in and ask for them himself. But it was not so. Tubby glowered at me like a bison on Bisto and yelled,
"I got a selection of photographs taken in the chemist for my Face Book page! Tell me what you think. How do I look in profile?" said Tubby.
"Like Arthur Hitchcock." I replied.
"Face on?" said Tubby.
"Christopher Biggins. Listen Tubby old chap," I said,"your Face Book photograph is very important. It says who you are. Take a tip from the great Holywood stars.
You could pose in jeans and tee-shirt with a rifle behind your head like James Dean.
You could stand over an air vent and let your frock billow up, or you could copy Marlon Brando and pose,looking tough with both legs astride a Harley Davidson."
Tubby held on to a lamp post as a gust of wind billowed his huge Patrick Moore suit and whined,
"But I don't know any men called Harley Davidson."
I went home with despair in my heart and Tubby went home with my shoe in his rear.
Like the owner of the Flamingo dance hall used to say
"How will they get it- OUT? How will they get it-OUT?"
Great shows which acted as a lubricant to our MLAs as they strained, grunted and groaned with bulging eyes and red faces to pass a budget up at Stormount.
"Piss or get off the pot!" yelled Tommy my cat, who has no time for dilatoriness or procrastication.
"Tommy," I chided,"don't be so crude. A budget is a big thing to pass. Our estemed MLAs seem to be suffering from Elvis syndrom, but I am sure that Sammy Wilson will huff and puff until Stormont gives birth to a budget."
"I blame the floaters," yelled Tommy,"the SDLP and the UUP! Cheeky-chappie Michael McGimpsey said,a budget would only be passed over his dead body."
"Then why the big hold up?" I yelled.
"Michael McGimpsey isn't exactly-dead," said Tommy."Michael belongs to that band of merry men known as the undead."
"Silly, stupid, semantics!" I yelled."Mark my words,semantially brings naught but trouble and strife."
"KNOCK, KNOCK" said Tommy
"WHO'S THERE?" I cried.
"THE GESTAPO," said Tommy.
"THE GESTAPO WHO?" I asked.
"VEE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!" cried Tommy and he lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter.
Oh how we laughed!
I met Tubby Nolan coming out of the chemist. Seeing no bottle of Lucozade in his hand I thought the blimp had at last summoned up the courage to go in and ask for them himself. But it was not so. Tubby glowered at me like a bison on Bisto and yelled,
"I got a selection of photographs taken in the chemist for my Face Book page! Tell me what you think. How do I look in profile?" said Tubby.
"Like Arthur Hitchcock." I replied.
"Face on?" said Tubby.
"Christopher Biggins. Listen Tubby old chap," I said,"your Face Book photograph is very important. It says who you are. Take a tip from the great Holywood stars.
You could pose in jeans and tee-shirt with a rifle behind your head like James Dean.
You could stand over an air vent and let your frock billow up, or you could copy Marlon Brando and pose,looking tough with both legs astride a Harley Davidson."
Tubby held on to a lamp post as a gust of wind billowed his huge Patrick Moore suit and whined,
"But I don't know any men called Harley Davidson."
I went home with despair in my heart and Tubby went home with my shoe in his rear.
Like the owner of the Flamingo dance hall used to say
"How will they get it- OUT? How will they get it-OUT?"
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
An Audio Masterpiece
Great show yesterday kid.
"The Gerry show," said Tommy my cat,"runs with the precision of a Swiss watch or a small,lime-green detonator for a hydrogen bomb. The Gerry show," said Tommy,"is a jigsaw made up from several different but highly important interlocking pieces.
Each piece of the jigsaw is nothing on its own, but when fitted together they make up an audio masterpiece, a listening experience and a good place to find a lost dog or a rare petrol can."
I stood at the sink cleaning my tooth with a Brillo pad and cried,
"And music, don't forget the music, music like what you will never hear in your darkest nightmares."
"And another thing," cried Tommy,"the Gerry show comes with detachable oracle in the likeness of Jordie Tuft."
"If Jordie can't cure you, you haven't got it," I said. "Many an auld buck goat owes its virility to old Jordie. From aardvarks to zebras, from ponies to piles Jordie Tuft is the must see guy."
"AND, never forget," said Tommy,"old Jordie was first with product placement with regard to Jeyes Fluid."
"What's that horrible noise out in the street?" I yelled.
I ran out and saw a herd of unseated Fianna Fail TDs looking for free orange juice and prescriptions. One of the wild-eyed TDs saw me and roared,
"DETENTE Missus, DETENTE!"
"DEPART!" I yelled. "DEPART and take your empty piggy bank with you!"
"That settled his hash," giggled Tommy,as he patted a gnome on the head,had a slash in the rose bed and stole a bottle of milk from next door to make a nice cup of tea.
I envy the way Tommy can multi-task.
POST SCRIPT
The word in the hood is that Mark Carruthers has been invited to the royal wedding.
I predict MAYHEM in the Newsline office!
"The Gerry show," said Tommy my cat,"runs with the precision of a Swiss watch or a small,lime-green detonator for a hydrogen bomb. The Gerry show," said Tommy,"is a jigsaw made up from several different but highly important interlocking pieces.
Each piece of the jigsaw is nothing on its own, but when fitted together they make up an audio masterpiece, a listening experience and a good place to find a lost dog or a rare petrol can."
I stood at the sink cleaning my tooth with a Brillo pad and cried,
"And music, don't forget the music, music like what you will never hear in your darkest nightmares."
"And another thing," cried Tommy,"the Gerry show comes with detachable oracle in the likeness of Jordie Tuft."
"If Jordie can't cure you, you haven't got it," I said. "Many an auld buck goat owes its virility to old Jordie. From aardvarks to zebras, from ponies to piles Jordie Tuft is the must see guy."
"AND, never forget," said Tommy,"old Jordie was first with product placement with regard to Jeyes Fluid."
"What's that horrible noise out in the street?" I yelled.
I ran out and saw a herd of unseated Fianna Fail TDs looking for free orange juice and prescriptions. One of the wild-eyed TDs saw me and roared,
"DETENTE Missus, DETENTE!"
"DEPART!" I yelled. "DEPART and take your empty piggy bank with you!"
"That settled his hash," giggled Tommy,as he patted a gnome on the head,had a slash in the rose bed and stole a bottle of milk from next door to make a nice cup of tea.
I envy the way Tommy can multi-task.
POST SCRIPT
The word in the hood is that Mark Carruthers has been invited to the royal wedding.
I predict MAYHEM in the Newsline office!
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Loose Women
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which passed the time for our hard working MLAs up at Stormount as they sat twiddling their thumbs waiting for Loose Women to appear on the TV.
"Loose Women?" sniffed Tommy my cat."I hate, loathe and despise Loose Women,so vulgar, so crude, so awful, so loud!"
I climbed up on the china cabinet that was made in Taiwan and said,
"The women you see on Loose Women are REAL women without any guile or pretence.
When women are around men they act all nicey-nicey, but when women are in a gang they turn into wild, feral creatures with knickers and claws."
"In the name of Slattery's auld buck goat," said Tommy,"are you saying that women are as bad as men?"
"Not as bad," I yelled,"wORSE! Have you ever seen a group of women out on a hen night,yelling and roaring, showing their drawers and molesting a poor old naked rubberman? THEN, in the morning a little,painted waif, dressed in virginal white will mutter demurely, "I DO" and another unsuspecting male will be drawn into the clutches of the black widow spider."
"If that be the case," said Tommy,"why do men GET married?"
"Many reasons," I said. "Love, wanting to settle down, pressure from their mothers and shotguns!"
"But women smell so nice," said Tommy.
"So does deadly nightshade," I replied.
"Women use scent as a lure. They also wear see-through nylon things and only fart after being married three months."
I then cried, "GERONIMO!", as I leaped down from the china cabinet, rolled like a paratrooper, pulled out my bayonet and opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish Sporran soup for dinner.
As I passed the abode of Steven Nolan I saw blubber and mouth out in the garden.
Tubby was wearing a giant pair of dungarees and cradling a hoe.
"Get rid of that painted, lady of the night!" I yelled.
"Do you want to see a giant headline screaming from the front page of the Sunday World "Ho down at Nolan Manor as Tubby dances the night away with painted slapper?"
"It's not my fault," whined Tubby. "She latched on to me at the chip shop when I flashed my big wad."
"Big wad,my Assyrian Alsatian!" I yelled. "I know your old trick,two twenty pound notes wrapped around a wad of toilet paper."
"How do you know that?" roared Tubby. "Have you been talking to Anderson?"
I tapped my nose and said,
"That's for me to find out and you to know."
"Clear off!" yelled Tubby. "I'm sowing an early crop of runner beans."
"Better get your front gate fixed then," I laughed. "You don't want the beans running away down the street."
"Good thinking, Blunder Woman," said Tubby.
And it was then I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt,that a man can be as stupid as he looks.
Great shows which passed the time for our hard working MLAs up at Stormount as they sat twiddling their thumbs waiting for Loose Women to appear on the TV.
"Loose Women?" sniffed Tommy my cat."I hate, loathe and despise Loose Women,so vulgar, so crude, so awful, so loud!"
I climbed up on the china cabinet that was made in Taiwan and said,
"The women you see on Loose Women are REAL women without any guile or pretence.
When women are around men they act all nicey-nicey, but when women are in a gang they turn into wild, feral creatures with knickers and claws."
"In the name of Slattery's auld buck goat," said Tommy,"are you saying that women are as bad as men?"
"Not as bad," I yelled,"wORSE! Have you ever seen a group of women out on a hen night,yelling and roaring, showing their drawers and molesting a poor old naked rubberman? THEN, in the morning a little,painted waif, dressed in virginal white will mutter demurely, "I DO" and another unsuspecting male will be drawn into the clutches of the black widow spider."
"If that be the case," said Tommy,"why do men GET married?"
"Many reasons," I said. "Love, wanting to settle down, pressure from their mothers and shotguns!"
"But women smell so nice," said Tommy.
"So does deadly nightshade," I replied.
"Women use scent as a lure. They also wear see-through nylon things and only fart after being married three months."
I then cried, "GERONIMO!", as I leaped down from the china cabinet, rolled like a paratrooper, pulled out my bayonet and opened a tin of Mrs Baxter's Scottish Sporran soup for dinner.
As I passed the abode of Steven Nolan I saw blubber and mouth out in the garden.
Tubby was wearing a giant pair of dungarees and cradling a hoe.
"Get rid of that painted, lady of the night!" I yelled.
"Do you want to see a giant headline screaming from the front page of the Sunday World "Ho down at Nolan Manor as Tubby dances the night away with painted slapper?"
"It's not my fault," whined Tubby. "She latched on to me at the chip shop when I flashed my big wad."
"Big wad,my Assyrian Alsatian!" I yelled. "I know your old trick,two twenty pound notes wrapped around a wad of toilet paper."
"How do you know that?" roared Tubby. "Have you been talking to Anderson?"
I tapped my nose and said,
"That's for me to find out and you to know."
"Clear off!" yelled Tubby. "I'm sowing an early crop of runner beans."
"Better get your front gate fixed then," I laughed. "You don't want the beans running away down the street."
"Good thinking, Blunder Woman," said Tubby.
And it was then I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt,that a man can be as stupid as he looks.
Beware The Hucklebuck
Great show yesterday kid.
It's good to know one can still get back into the country by flashing an Iranian passport. All your callers yesterday gave every indication they were taking their medication religiously. All but one that is. I speak of course of the last caller who,it seemed, did not have a stop button. As he babbled on and on, Tommy my cat lay behind the sofa with a 1916, German World War one 3 inch, FK96 Krupp,Feldkanone howitzer pointing at his head.
"MAKE HIM STOP!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's sacred, holy and Divine, MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Put down that piece of light artillery," I yelled,"and have some compassion for your fellow man! That none-stopping,talking man may be a Trappist monk with a dispensation from the Pope to talk for one day only."
"Papal Bull!" roared Tommy,picking up a piece of chalk and drawing a line under the subject.
I looked at my prized painting of Henry The Eighth eating a suckling pig and said,
"That royal picture is old hat. Take it out and replace it with this lovely picture of Prince William and Kate Middleton walking hand in hand down the Mall carrying two jam jars of tadpoles."
When Tommy took the back off the picture he gave a shriek and yelled,
"Hey, there's a song written here in very olde, English script!"
"Sing it,Tommy!" I yelled. "Nail it and make it your own."
"I'll do my best," said Tommy."It's very difficult to read, but here goes.
Here's a minuet you should know--HEY!
When the candles are down low-HEY!
Grab your strumpet and then go."
TOMMY!!!" I screamed."Put the song down and back away.It's the dreaded Hucklebuck!
Had you sung all of that song, you and I would be going to George Jones' Show band revivals for the rest of our lives."
Tommy and I were put up in a school until men wearing anti-Hucklebuck suits came and took the song away.
Should you come on a copy of the Hucklebuck, get out, stay out and get the elite anti-Hucklebuck squad-OUT!
It's good to know one can still get back into the country by flashing an Iranian passport. All your callers yesterday gave every indication they were taking their medication religiously. All but one that is. I speak of course of the last caller who,it seemed, did not have a stop button. As he babbled on and on, Tommy my cat lay behind the sofa with a 1916, German World War one 3 inch, FK96 Krupp,Feldkanone howitzer pointing at his head.
"MAKE HIM STOP!" yelled Tommy. "In the name of all that's sacred, holy and Divine, MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Put down that piece of light artillery," I yelled,"and have some compassion for your fellow man! That none-stopping,talking man may be a Trappist monk with a dispensation from the Pope to talk for one day only."
"Papal Bull!" roared Tommy,picking up a piece of chalk and drawing a line under the subject.
I looked at my prized painting of Henry The Eighth eating a suckling pig and said,
"That royal picture is old hat. Take it out and replace it with this lovely picture of Prince William and Kate Middleton walking hand in hand down the Mall carrying two jam jars of tadpoles."
When Tommy took the back off the picture he gave a shriek and yelled,
"Hey, there's a song written here in very olde, English script!"
"Sing it,Tommy!" I yelled. "Nail it and make it your own."
"I'll do my best," said Tommy."It's very difficult to read, but here goes.
Here's a minuet you should know--HEY!
When the candles are down low-HEY!
Grab your strumpet and then go."
TOMMY!!!" I screamed."Put the song down and back away.It's the dreaded Hucklebuck!
Had you sung all of that song, you and I would be going to George Jones' Show band revivals for the rest of our lives."
Tommy and I were put up in a school until men wearing anti-Hucklebuck suits came and took the song away.
Should you come on a copy of the Hucklebuck, get out, stay out and get the elite anti-Hucklebuck squad-OUT!
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Gerry's Back!
Tommy my cat danced round the room like Louie Spence singing,
"GERRY'S BACK, GERRY'S BACK.
GO HOME AND PREPARE FOR CRAIC."
I continued to knit a kipper tie from a basket of dead kippers at my feet. My face was dead pan, for all the world like a pan that had died, but inside my gorgeous gizzard, smashing spleen and pretty little pancreas were singing, dancing and throwing their little hats in the air.
Tommy glared at me like a gargoyle from Gortin and yelled,
"Come on, let's have it, who was the best stander-inner when Gerry was away? Painful eyes, or Thunder thighs?"
I leaped to my feet, overturning my basket of deceased kippers and roared,
"I refuse to play the blame game. Both men concerned have families to feed and addictive habits to maintain. YOU may point the finger," I yelled, pointing at Tommy,
"but I refuse to point the finger!"
Tommy looked at me like Kat Deely and said,
"I admire you for that, old, wizened ratbag! Let others cast slurs, aspersions and bits of breeze blocks, you and I shall rise above it and take the moral high ground."
In the silence that followed, Tommy and I listened intently to the rumble of the chimney tumbling slowly down the roof.
When the soot had cleared, I gracefully made my way to the window and said,
"Don't worry, the wee lum is still reeking."
Tommy faced me by turning his back to the wall and whispered,
"I think Gerry Anderson is a secret agent!"
"Get away!" I said.
"Every time Gerry goes away," yelled Tommy,"something major happens in the world. This time it was the downfall of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, another time it was the civil partnership between Cameron and Clegg. Now that I think of it," said Tommy, "I once heard Gerry say to a girl wearing a mini skirt at a street corner,
"The names-Anderson, Gerry Anderson."
"Get away!" I replied.
"Gerry Anderson is the new James Bond!" screamed Tommy. "He carries a hotplate and has a licence to grill."
"Get away!" I said.
"Come 'ere hi, there's more," said Tommy. "Did you ever notice the way Gerry stands, with his hand ready to go for his piece, his gnat, his-rod?"
I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of his scrawny neck, sank my toe into his furry rear and shrieked,
"Amen, Amen I say onto to thee, did I not tell thee thrice to get away? Now, get away and leave me alone. Tubby Nolan is coming over for tea. I have to trim my nose hairs and run out for a wheel barrow load of wee buns!"
"When Tubby Nolan comes to tea
All the mice and earwigs flee.".
It's a survival mechanism!
"GERRY'S BACK, GERRY'S BACK.
GO HOME AND PREPARE FOR CRAIC."
I continued to knit a kipper tie from a basket of dead kippers at my feet. My face was dead pan, for all the world like a pan that had died, but inside my gorgeous gizzard, smashing spleen and pretty little pancreas were singing, dancing and throwing their little hats in the air.
Tommy glared at me like a gargoyle from Gortin and yelled,
"Come on, let's have it, who was the best stander-inner when Gerry was away? Painful eyes, or Thunder thighs?"
I leaped to my feet, overturning my basket of deceased kippers and roared,
"I refuse to play the blame game. Both men concerned have families to feed and addictive habits to maintain. YOU may point the finger," I yelled, pointing at Tommy,
"but I refuse to point the finger!"
Tommy looked at me like Kat Deely and said,
"I admire you for that, old, wizened ratbag! Let others cast slurs, aspersions and bits of breeze blocks, you and I shall rise above it and take the moral high ground."
In the silence that followed, Tommy and I listened intently to the rumble of the chimney tumbling slowly down the roof.
When the soot had cleared, I gracefully made my way to the window and said,
"Don't worry, the wee lum is still reeking."
Tommy faced me by turning his back to the wall and whispered,
"I think Gerry Anderson is a secret agent!"
"Get away!" I said.
"Every time Gerry goes away," yelled Tommy,"something major happens in the world. This time it was the downfall of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, another time it was the civil partnership between Cameron and Clegg. Now that I think of it," said Tommy, "I once heard Gerry say to a girl wearing a mini skirt at a street corner,
"The names-Anderson, Gerry Anderson."
"Get away!" I replied.
"Gerry Anderson is the new James Bond!" screamed Tommy. "He carries a hotplate and has a licence to grill."
"Get away!" I said.
"Come 'ere hi, there's more," said Tommy. "Did you ever notice the way Gerry stands, with his hand ready to go for his piece, his gnat, his-rod?"
I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of his scrawny neck, sank my toe into his furry rear and shrieked,
"Amen, Amen I say onto to thee, did I not tell thee thrice to get away? Now, get away and leave me alone. Tubby Nolan is coming over for tea. I have to trim my nose hairs and run out for a wheel barrow load of wee buns!"
"When Tubby Nolan comes to tea
All the mice and earwigs flee.".
It's a survival mechanism!
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Will He Stay Or Will He Go?
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept old 89 year old Reefer McBong company as he tilled his cannabis patch up at the city allotments.
Tommy my cat climbed out of a bunker looking remarkably like besieged Prime Minister Brian Cowan and yelled,
"OK, OK, lads, I will resign! But, using sacred,ancient Irish logic, I shall still be the leader of the party. Confused? How do you think I feel? I am not a quitter, but I have seen the writing on the wall. When you see "Cowan is a clown" written on every shebeen in Ireland, you know the jig is up. But as a good party man, I will work like a Polish asylum seeker in the weeks before the forthcoming massacre, I mean, election."
"What about all the debt you're in?" I cried. "What are you going to do about THAT?"
"Never fear," said Brian. "I have a cunning plan. I shall sell Ireland, county by county on eBay. Britain and America will compete against each other and I shall retreat to a mud hut in the wilds of Connemara and build a big wall around it."
I looked at the cornered Premier and said,
"Brian Cowan, you're not just a pretty face."
"Don't underestimate me!" yelled Brian. "I shall cling on to power like a barnacle
clinging on to a rock on the wild, stormy Western coast of Ireland."
"COWAN MUST STAY!" I yelled. "COWAN MUST STAY!"
Brian Cowan has been hunted like a hare through mountain, forest and glen. What horrible crime did this man COMMIT? Sure, he ran the country into debt and penury. But, even as we speak, famine ships are being built in every city, town and village in Ireland, bringing much needed work to those who shall sail far away from the green fields of Erin.
A vote for Cowan is a vote for prosperity-for bankers all over the world."
A week is a long time in politics AND purgatory.
Great shows which kept old 89 year old Reefer McBong company as he tilled his cannabis patch up at the city allotments.
Tommy my cat climbed out of a bunker looking remarkably like besieged Prime Minister Brian Cowan and yelled,
"OK, OK, lads, I will resign! But, using sacred,ancient Irish logic, I shall still be the leader of the party. Confused? How do you think I feel? I am not a quitter, but I have seen the writing on the wall. When you see "Cowan is a clown" written on every shebeen in Ireland, you know the jig is up. But as a good party man, I will work like a Polish asylum seeker in the weeks before the forthcoming massacre, I mean, election."
"What about all the debt you're in?" I cried. "What are you going to do about THAT?"
"Never fear," said Brian. "I have a cunning plan. I shall sell Ireland, county by county on eBay. Britain and America will compete against each other and I shall retreat to a mud hut in the wilds of Connemara and build a big wall around it."
I looked at the cornered Premier and said,
"Brian Cowan, you're not just a pretty face."
"Don't underestimate me!" yelled Brian. "I shall cling on to power like a barnacle
clinging on to a rock on the wild, stormy Western coast of Ireland."
"COWAN MUST STAY!" I yelled. "COWAN MUST STAY!"
Brian Cowan has been hunted like a hare through mountain, forest and glen. What horrible crime did this man COMMIT? Sure, he ran the country into debt and penury. But, even as we speak, famine ships are being built in every city, town and village in Ireland, bringing much needed work to those who shall sail far away from the green fields of Erin.
A vote for Cowan is a vote for prosperity-for bankers all over the world."
A week is a long time in politics AND purgatory.
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