Great Saint Patrick's Day show kid and kudos to Mr Coyle for wearing the long, ragged,green gansy. Janet and Emma wore something green too,but it was discreet, very discreet.
"That crazy,mixed-up music has got me in a tizzy!" yelled Tommy my cat.
"I don't know if I should dance,sing,or yodel."
"Some early gardeners would agree with you," I said. "As they hear the strange music drift out of the kitchen window they find themselves digging with the wrong foot."
"You can do strange things with a CD," said Tommy,looking at me oddly.
I pursed my lips,wiggled my hips and replied,
"Well,try it sideways first Tommy,you'll never get a doctor to come out on Saint Patrick's Day."
"There are some people," said Tommy,"Kate Bush and Jordie Tuft being two,who believe if you play a CD backwards you can hear messages from the dead."
"Who wants to listen to Michael McGimpsey?" I cried. "Now slip into these old,ragged,torn,dirty clothes. You and I are going to the big parade as, Ireland Bankrupt and Broke but ready to Boke."
Never again! My head is killing me. Tommy looked at me with two red eyes and said,
"How did you get out of the Holy Lands last night?"
"By the heels," I groaned. "Some kind student who is studying alcohol, drugs and tobacco pulled me home by the heels."
"I saw a policeman give you a right batter," giggled Tommy.
I turned into Ronnie Flanagan and said in a dead, monotone voice,
"I have no recollection of having received any such batter."
"That old guff may have fooled Nuala O'Loane," said Tommy, "but it don't fool me!"
And the horrible feline hit me over the head with a bog oak shillelagh harvested in the bogs around Drumquin by none other that Seamus Heaney himself!
Tommy is lethal with the shillelagh. He gets his stance right,never takes his eyes from the noggin and always follows through.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Monday, 21 March 2011
A CLOSE SHAVE
Great shows last week kid.
Tommy my cat and I greatly enjoyed the "NEW", improved Gerry Show NOW containing 47% Spring-fresh,lemon aroma. How lucky you are,compared to poor Jim Davidson, who cancelled the play he wrote and starred in due to lack of interest.
The play is called,"Stand up and be counted." It is centered around an aging, racist comedian played by Jim. Jim said to Mohammad Muldoon, editor of the Messenger,
"It's a bit of a stretch playing a big mouthed racist, but I worked like a white man to get it right."
Tommy attracted my attention by pulling out the velcro waistband of my prototyle, space-age,aluminium slacks and pouring in five gallons of thick,Canadian molasses.
"Attend me scurvy knave!" yelled Tommy. "Why have the amalgamated union of winos and newts not taken off their red noses?"
I yelled, "PERUVIAN PLUMS!" and fired off a salvo of Motherwell molluscs in the general direction of the pertinacious pussy.
Then Tommy,scardy cat that he is,ran to the United Nations and got them to issue a no flight zone over his head. The horrible feline had Gadaffied me.
I went into my tent where I pondered and farted for ten hours.
On Friday Tommy and I donned matching harris tweed suits and went to Bushmills to see how whiskey is made. As we watched swearing,sweating men roll big barrels up a ramp,Tommy grabbed me by the harris tweed and yelled,
"Look at barrel five! Does it not look familiar?"
"Stall the distilling!" I cried. "Among your massive casks is one known as Tubby Nolan. Release him! Release him-NIGH!" I roared.
"PHEW!!!" said Tubby. "That was a close shave. I was standing minding my own business when two men threw me to the ground and began to roll me away."
"I have told you before Tubby," I said, "a man of your size and girth needs to keep on the move to avoid being thrown into the back of a wheelie-bin lorry,or hoisted into the hold of a foreign ship."
"I'm off to Stormount!" Yelled Tubby.
"I am the only persecuted minority left in Ulster."
Tubby lumberd off yelling,
"What do I want?
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
When do I want it?
NIGH!!!!"
Respect from Sammy Wilson? I think the plump one is peeing up the wrong tree!
Tommy my cat and I greatly enjoyed the "NEW", improved Gerry Show NOW containing 47% Spring-fresh,lemon aroma. How lucky you are,compared to poor Jim Davidson, who cancelled the play he wrote and starred in due to lack of interest.
The play is called,"Stand up and be counted." It is centered around an aging, racist comedian played by Jim. Jim said to Mohammad Muldoon, editor of the Messenger,
"It's a bit of a stretch playing a big mouthed racist, but I worked like a white man to get it right."
Tommy attracted my attention by pulling out the velcro waistband of my prototyle, space-age,aluminium slacks and pouring in five gallons of thick,Canadian molasses.
"Attend me scurvy knave!" yelled Tommy. "Why have the amalgamated union of winos and newts not taken off their red noses?"
I yelled, "PERUVIAN PLUMS!" and fired off a salvo of Motherwell molluscs in the general direction of the pertinacious pussy.
Then Tommy,scardy cat that he is,ran to the United Nations and got them to issue a no flight zone over his head. The horrible feline had Gadaffied me.
I went into my tent where I pondered and farted for ten hours.
On Friday Tommy and I donned matching harris tweed suits and went to Bushmills to see how whiskey is made. As we watched swearing,sweating men roll big barrels up a ramp,Tommy grabbed me by the harris tweed and yelled,
"Look at barrel five! Does it not look familiar?"
"Stall the distilling!" I cried. "Among your massive casks is one known as Tubby Nolan. Release him! Release him-NIGH!" I roared.
"PHEW!!!" said Tubby. "That was a close shave. I was standing minding my own business when two men threw me to the ground and began to roll me away."
"I have told you before Tubby," I said, "a man of your size and girth needs to keep on the move to avoid being thrown into the back of a wheelie-bin lorry,or hoisted into the hold of a foreign ship."
"I'm off to Stormount!" Yelled Tubby.
"I am the only persecuted minority left in Ulster."
Tubby lumberd off yelling,
"What do I want?
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
When do I want it?
NIGH!!!!"
Respect from Sammy Wilson? I think the plump one is peeing up the wrong tree!
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Death Warmed up
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which rewrote the rules for great shows everywhere. Tommy my cat looked at me by focusing his eyes on my person and said,
"May I compliment you on your untiring efforts to make extreme ugliness chic and fashionable."
"Thanks kid," I said,"one day every woman will look like me."
"You look," said Tommy,"like death warmed up. I greatly admire your ambition to make zombieism acceptable to women on a low budget."
I hitched up my shroud and said,
"The essence of a pretty woman is a grey face,grimacing out of a black duffle coat.
Stella McCartney wants to copy my designs. We are hoping to sign up supermodel Kate Moss,if we can get the fag out of her gub."
"Jolly good show!" said Tommy,turning to go.
"OH TOMMY," I cried,"before you go,there is something I wish to bring up with you.
Please refrain from secreting old tuna tins under your mattress."
"OK!" said Tommy."OH, before you go there is something I wish to bring up with YOU."
And the filthy feline vomited profusely over my carpet slippers for four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Shocked beyond belief I stood in a large lagoon of cat puke,my bedroom slippers full to the gunnels.As the cat made good his escape I roared,
"You dirty rat.You dirty,stinking,rotten-RAT!"
Tommy stuck up two finger behind his back and went on his merry way. Then the postman looked at my carpet slippers and said,
"Are YOU pregnant? That's the worse case of morning sickness I have ever seen!"
And all because the lady likes milk in her tay.
A great show which rewrote the rules for great shows everywhere. Tommy my cat looked at me by focusing his eyes on my person and said,
"May I compliment you on your untiring efforts to make extreme ugliness chic and fashionable."
"Thanks kid," I said,"one day every woman will look like me."
"You look," said Tommy,"like death warmed up. I greatly admire your ambition to make zombieism acceptable to women on a low budget."
I hitched up my shroud and said,
"The essence of a pretty woman is a grey face,grimacing out of a black duffle coat.
Stella McCartney wants to copy my designs. We are hoping to sign up supermodel Kate Moss,if we can get the fag out of her gub."
"Jolly good show!" said Tommy,turning to go.
"OH TOMMY," I cried,"before you go,there is something I wish to bring up with you.
Please refrain from secreting old tuna tins under your mattress."
"OK!" said Tommy."OH, before you go there is something I wish to bring up with YOU."
And the filthy feline vomited profusely over my carpet slippers for four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Shocked beyond belief I stood in a large lagoon of cat puke,my bedroom slippers full to the gunnels.As the cat made good his escape I roared,
"You dirty rat.You dirty,stinking,rotten-RAT!"
Tommy stuck up two finger behind his back and went on his merry way. Then the postman looked at my carpet slippers and said,
"Are YOU pregnant? That's the worse case of morning sickness I have ever seen!"
And all because the lady likes milk in her tay.
Monday, 14 March 2011
A Difference of Authorship.
Great shows last week kid
On Friday Tommy my cat and I jived along to the Commitments like one cool cat and one old rat bag. Tommy stopped mid-jive and yelled,
"Hey man, stall the wedding! What's the difference between the Commitments and the Commandments?"
"The Commandments were written by God," I said,"and the Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle."
"So it's just a difference of authorship?" said Tommy.
"Let me add a small caveat," I replied,picking up a little pair of roncelled, plywood, sugar tongs. "The Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle and directed by Alan Parker."
Tommy stood there wearing 37 petticoats under his frock, screwed up his little face like Bronagh Gallagher,the Etta James of Derry and said,
"Who directs the Commandments then?"
"Any headbanger with a big mouth and a bible," I replied non-ambiguously.
A few seconds later I yelled,
"Now let's Rock. I feela James Brown moment coming on. I'm going to boogie on down and bring it on home.".
Tommy ran for the po,but alas,too late!
Not wishing to be seen as too eager I never applied for the job of chief stoker at Black and Whites foundry. Needless to say, when the job went to Mrs Aruba Cuba from Rodent Street I was fit to be tied.
"What kind of world do we live in," I roared,"where one has to apply for a job to have any chance of getting it?"
I picked up my BT cordless,toothless,cross community phone to give the Ombudsman 1.5% of my mind. His wife said, he was out in the garden kicking next door's cat because he never applied for the job EITHER!
"VENT! yelled Tommy.
"VENT! For too long you' been toting that 'ol bale of cotton behind you.
I hear the Freedom train a'coming!" roared Tommy.
"Oh Lord," screamed Tommy,"lead us to the water and make us drink! Let me sit on the bonnet of the bus.OH LORD!" screamed Tommy. "Someone knocking on my door,it's ol' man trouble!"
"I wasn't always like this!" I yelled. "I used to live on cloud nine and what happened?"
"They took it away on the back of a lorry in the dead of night," shrieked Tommy.
"Jim Rodgers said it was a traffic hazard."
"Please take me away," I roared. "I can't live in a world without love."
Tommy threw back his outraged,feline head,stood there like Etta James and roared,
"I'D RATHER GO BLIND!"
I threw a big, black blanket over the soulful Tommy and went to my bed.
You CAN get too much of a bad thing!
On Friday Tommy my cat and I jived along to the Commitments like one cool cat and one old rat bag. Tommy stopped mid-jive and yelled,
"Hey man, stall the wedding! What's the difference between the Commitments and the Commandments?"
"The Commandments were written by God," I said,"and the Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle."
"So it's just a difference of authorship?" said Tommy.
"Let me add a small caveat," I replied,picking up a little pair of roncelled, plywood, sugar tongs. "The Commitments were written by Roddy Doyle and directed by Alan Parker."
Tommy stood there wearing 37 petticoats under his frock, screwed up his little face like Bronagh Gallagher,the Etta James of Derry and said,
"Who directs the Commandments then?"
"Any headbanger with a big mouth and a bible," I replied non-ambiguously.
A few seconds later I yelled,
"Now let's Rock. I feela James Brown moment coming on. I'm going to boogie on down and bring it on home.".
Tommy ran for the po,but alas,too late!
Not wishing to be seen as too eager I never applied for the job of chief stoker at Black and Whites foundry. Needless to say, when the job went to Mrs Aruba Cuba from Rodent Street I was fit to be tied.
"What kind of world do we live in," I roared,"where one has to apply for a job to have any chance of getting it?"
I picked up my BT cordless,toothless,cross community phone to give the Ombudsman 1.5% of my mind. His wife said, he was out in the garden kicking next door's cat because he never applied for the job EITHER!
"VENT! yelled Tommy.
"VENT! For too long you' been toting that 'ol bale of cotton behind you.
I hear the Freedom train a'coming!" roared Tommy.
"Oh Lord," screamed Tommy,"lead us to the water and make us drink! Let me sit on the bonnet of the bus.OH LORD!" screamed Tommy. "Someone knocking on my door,it's ol' man trouble!"
"I wasn't always like this!" I yelled. "I used to live on cloud nine and what happened?"
"They took it away on the back of a lorry in the dead of night," shrieked Tommy.
"Jim Rodgers said it was a traffic hazard."
"Please take me away," I roared. "I can't live in a world without love."
Tommy threw back his outraged,feline head,stood there like Etta James and roared,
"I'D RATHER GO BLIND!"
I threw a big, black blanket over the soulful Tommy and went to my bed.
You CAN get too much of a bad thing!
Thursday, 10 March 2011
An Old Odour
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which made professor Richard Dawkins re valuate his life and apply to Maynooth College for admittance,claiming a late vocation.
The Dean of Maynooth,one Herbie Hancock,refused the application,but gave professor Dawkins the phone number of a Mullah from Meath.
Tommy my cat looked at me, swallowed some boke and yelled,
"You smell of old!"
"How dare you!" I yelled. "Like Miss Jean Brody, I am in the prime of my life."
"If you're in the prime of your life,"roared Tommy,"then the Egyptian boy King Tutankhamen must just be having 40 winks. You smell of old," yelled Tommy,
"a sort of grey, musky, buttoned-up cardigan,clove rock sweets in the pocket,old dog stench!"
"I was voted Miss Clean Oxters in 1943!" I yelled.
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "Your oxters are a breeding ground for mushrooms and a nursery for frogspawn and tadpoles. You smell of the crypt, you smell of dank, cold,green mouldy cellars. You smell of the gansy that was thrown into the glory hole under the stairs 12 years ago. You smell of the lint in an undertaker's pocket. In short, you smell of old."
"What about you?" I yelled. "You smell of stale cheese,John West tuna tins and deceased mice and scaldies. You smell of dustbins, wino's puke, old men's farts and the piece of cardboard you put in your shoe to keep the water out. In short my lad, you smell of-cat!"
Later as Tommy and I sat in a piping,hot bath, lathering on the Lifebuoy soap, Tommy looked at me and said,
"I'm glad we brought that out into the open. We have found-closure and can now move on."
My answer to Tommy was a multitude of bubbles rising from the depth of the bath.
I like to have the last word!
A great show which made professor Richard Dawkins re valuate his life and apply to Maynooth College for admittance,claiming a late vocation.
The Dean of Maynooth,one Herbie Hancock,refused the application,but gave professor Dawkins the phone number of a Mullah from Meath.
Tommy my cat looked at me, swallowed some boke and yelled,
"You smell of old!"
"How dare you!" I yelled. "Like Miss Jean Brody, I am in the prime of my life."
"If you're in the prime of your life,"roared Tommy,"then the Egyptian boy King Tutankhamen must just be having 40 winks. You smell of old," yelled Tommy,
"a sort of grey, musky, buttoned-up cardigan,clove rock sweets in the pocket,old dog stench!"
"I was voted Miss Clean Oxters in 1943!" I yelled.
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "Your oxters are a breeding ground for mushrooms and a nursery for frogspawn and tadpoles. You smell of the crypt, you smell of dank, cold,green mouldy cellars. You smell of the gansy that was thrown into the glory hole under the stairs 12 years ago. You smell of the lint in an undertaker's pocket. In short, you smell of old."
"What about you?" I yelled. "You smell of stale cheese,John West tuna tins and deceased mice and scaldies. You smell of dustbins, wino's puke, old men's farts and the piece of cardboard you put in your shoe to keep the water out. In short my lad, you smell of-cat!"
Later as Tommy and I sat in a piping,hot bath, lathering on the Lifebuoy soap, Tommy looked at me and said,
"I'm glad we brought that out into the open. We have found-closure and can now move on."
My answer to Tommy was a multitude of bubbles rising from the depth of the bath.
I like to have the last word!
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Baby Blues
Great show yesterday kid.
It was dark when Tommy my cat and I staggered home after gawking all day at Prince William and Kate Middleton. We placed our two Union Jacks carefully beside our two tricolours and slumped down on the sofa. Tommy looked at me and said,
"If someone had told me that Prince William and Kate Middleton would be tossing pancakes HERE! in Northern Ireland today I would have said they were drunk, liars or crazy as a loon."
"When Kate Middleton looked straight at me," I gushed, "I felt so servile and common. It was like a fairy tale."
"The Royals are not like the common people," said Tommy."They give off an aura. Dear Kate and Prince William were like two alien creatures surrounded by the dregs of humanity. They gave off an ethereal, airy, spirit-like glow. One can see them drinking ruby red wine from crystal goblets, eating larks' tongues from golden plates and never having to go to the loo."
"No lou for the Royals," I yelled, "and I'll fight any man who says different!"
Tommy slipped into a red, velvet,smoking jacket he had rescued from a bonfire and said,
"I'm worried about Mr Coyle. Did you hear him have a Les Dennis moment on the show yesterday with regard to impersonations?"
I knitted my eyebrows with two chopsticks and said,
"What age is Mr Coyle's youngest child?"
"Oh I don't know," said Tommy. "But I do know she has grown up into a fine young woman. What are you getting at?" asked Tommy.
"BABY BLUES!" I yelled. "Latent, very latent, but Mr Coyle is suffering from delayed baby blues."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy..
"Is it?" I yelled."IS IT? Remember old 97 year old Rubin Jones. Lying on his death bed, he was. Suddenly old Rubin was overcome with delayed baby blues for his 74 year old son Jasper. He pulled various tubes from his nose, mouth and you know what, leaped out of bed, down the stairs, out the door and down the street yelling,
"RUSKS! I must have rusks for my wee baby Jasper!"
" Then, RUSKS Mr Coyle shall have,"roared Tommy. "Tomorrow, I,Tommy cat,will send an abundance of RUSKS to Mr Coyle."
"Oh, don't forget the nappies Tommy," I said.
"Nappies?" said Tommy. "But Mr Coyle's daughter is......"
"The nappies are for Mr Coyle," I said. "He IS getting on and there are a lot of electrical cables lying round his feet."
"Does Mr Coyle not have a wee lightning rod?" giggled Tommy.
That's Tommy, always first with the crude, lewd, filthy come back.No more Mrs Brown's Boys for Tommy!
Sometimes I hate Tommy cat.
It was dark when Tommy my cat and I staggered home after gawking all day at Prince William and Kate Middleton. We placed our two Union Jacks carefully beside our two tricolours and slumped down on the sofa. Tommy looked at me and said,
"If someone had told me that Prince William and Kate Middleton would be tossing pancakes HERE! in Northern Ireland today I would have said they were drunk, liars or crazy as a loon."
"When Kate Middleton looked straight at me," I gushed, "I felt so servile and common. It was like a fairy tale."
"The Royals are not like the common people," said Tommy."They give off an aura. Dear Kate and Prince William were like two alien creatures surrounded by the dregs of humanity. They gave off an ethereal, airy, spirit-like glow. One can see them drinking ruby red wine from crystal goblets, eating larks' tongues from golden plates and never having to go to the loo."
"No lou for the Royals," I yelled, "and I'll fight any man who says different!"
Tommy slipped into a red, velvet,smoking jacket he had rescued from a bonfire and said,
"I'm worried about Mr Coyle. Did you hear him have a Les Dennis moment on the show yesterday with regard to impersonations?"
I knitted my eyebrows with two chopsticks and said,
"What age is Mr Coyle's youngest child?"
"Oh I don't know," said Tommy. "But I do know she has grown up into a fine young woman. What are you getting at?" asked Tommy.
"BABY BLUES!" I yelled. "Latent, very latent, but Mr Coyle is suffering from delayed baby blues."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy..
"Is it?" I yelled."IS IT? Remember old 97 year old Rubin Jones. Lying on his death bed, he was. Suddenly old Rubin was overcome with delayed baby blues for his 74 year old son Jasper. He pulled various tubes from his nose, mouth and you know what, leaped out of bed, down the stairs, out the door and down the street yelling,
"RUSKS! I must have rusks for my wee baby Jasper!"
" Then, RUSKS Mr Coyle shall have,"roared Tommy. "Tomorrow, I,Tommy cat,will send an abundance of RUSKS to Mr Coyle."
"Oh, don't forget the nappies Tommy," I said.
"Nappies?" said Tommy. "But Mr Coyle's daughter is......"
"The nappies are for Mr Coyle," I said. "He IS getting on and there are a lot of electrical cables lying round his feet."
"Does Mr Coyle not have a wee lightning rod?" giggled Tommy.
That's Tommy, always first with the crude, lewd, filthy come back.No more Mrs Brown's Boys for Tommy!
Sometimes I hate Tommy cat.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
He's not bad just mad.
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)
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)
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