The World of Twitter

Great show yesterday kid. The saga of the long poem continues. Was it really Seamus Heaney, as many people think? I greatly liked the poem. I would compare it to the Tour de-France. Good in bits but a little too long. People can only laugh so much. By the time the poem was over, I feel the audience were like a rat in a sewer pipe, simply going through the motions. What was the name of the saga and will it ever be made into a film? Tommy my cat came in, put down his brief case and said, "I heard the great show in a taxi. Mr Coyle is in a bad way. I fear he may never see another millennium. One eye has gone, rickets have played havoc with his legs and now he has a sore throat." "Swinging the lead!" I cried. "I am on to Mr "put it in the bin" Coyle. Mr Coyle, knows that Gerry will soon be entering the world of Twitter. Coyle knows that will entail more work for him. What Mr Coyle is doing is laying the ground work, so he can absent himself from Twitter on the grounds of ill health and a caterpillar eyebrow." "Tommy sighed and said, "I love Twitter, I wonder what Stephen Fry is doing at this moment." I put on a Stephen Fry voice and said, "Just met the lovely, fragrant Fiona Bruce at the Beeb. She flashed me a smile and threw me a rainbow trout, which I caught in my mouth like a seal." "Fiona Bruce would never stink up her handbag with fish!" yelled Tommy. "Maybe a tin or two of corned beef, but never fish!" To avoid a fight, we disagreed to agree. "Tommy!" I said, pointing to a Mayan calendar, you have been working for the past six months as a political adviser to UUP leader, Mike Nesbitt. How goes that work? Mike has a small Unionist base, I suppose the hunt is on for floaters." "It's a hard slog," said Tommy. The big hurdle for Mike Nesbitt and the Unionist party is the back woods men. We can't get them out of the woods. We have tried sheep dogs, low flying helicopters, stick and carrot, but the back woods men will not leave the woods. Last week we got a glimpse of Ken Maguinnes, grazing in open pasture, but before we could sedate him with a dart gun he was gone." "What about Napalm?" I said. "Defoliage the trees and the back woods men will be revealed in all their dinosaurian glory." "I shall bring it up with Mike at our next working breakfast," said Tommy. "Tommy," I whispered, "what does the lovely Lynda cook for your dinner." "Classified!" yelled Tommy. "Top Secret! If I told you what Lynda makes for dinner, I would be carted off to the Tower in Blackpool. And, further more," cried Tommy, "if I told you dinner was followed by stewed prunes and custard, Turkish coffee, Jacobs cream crackers and a choice of six cheeses, I would be sacked on the spot.". Loose lips sink ships. Loose lips also lose many sets of false teeth.

I Blame Sebastian Coe!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which livened up no end old Musha McCree, from the hills above Drumquin. For the past four years old Musha has been leaping shucks and bog holes hoping to be picked for the Northern Ireland team at the Olympic games in London. Musha was on the short list, but failed a drug test. Apparently he was pumped full of suelugs and magic mushrooms. Old Musha, took it badly. He jumped on his bicycle and roared, "The Iranians will be glad of me!" Tommy my cat, wearing a French maid's costume came in with two cups of tea and some Jaffa cakes on a plate. I leaped to my feet, dashed the plate to the floor and cried, "Tommy, do you want to end up in the tower? How dare you arrange the five Jaffa cakes in the sacred symbol of the Olypmic games. Have you not heard of the stringent branding law. No five circles shall be so arranged as to imply, or copy the five precious rings of the London Olympic games." "We live in a police state!" cried Tommy. "I want to be FREE, to arrange my Jaffa cakes how I like. Blonde beauty, Boris Johnson. said the branding law was foolish and draconian in the extreme." "Boris, is a fool," I said. "Anything relating to five rings is out until the end of the Olympics. In London, just yesterday, riot police stood by as a busker sang the twelve days of Christmas. When he dared sing , "FIVE golden rings" the riot squad pounced. The busker has been sentenced to 27 life terms in jail, after he gets out of hospital." "I blame snaggle tooth Sebastian Coe!" yelled Tommy. "The little sporting Tzar has gone power mad. Steve Ovett would never have turned the Olympic games into the Spanish inquisition." Just then a Papal nancio burst in yelling, "The Pope is not pleased with you. Don't make the Pope angry. You wouldn't like the Pope, if you made him angry." "Tommy, pointed to a picture of Martin Luther eating a lollypop and said, "We are not Catholics, we is Protestant." "Every one is a Catholic in the eyes of the Pope!" shrieked the wee Roman hitman. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Food, glorious food!" yelled Tubby Nolan. "The reality IS!" roared Mark Durkin, standing at a street corner with Alex Attwood and a couple of hard nuts from the SDLP. "The President is NOT a crook!" guldered Nigel Dodds. "I just don't know what to do with myself," sang Mike Nesbitt. "Turned out nice again!" snarled David Ford. I turned to Tommy and roared, "Look what you started with your five Jaffa cakes." "JAFFA CAKES!" yelled Tubby and the Lardman ran into my house, like Patrick Moore on speed. As Tubby lumbered past me I yelled, "Five Circles! Five circles of fat round Tubbies neck!" Jim Allister went by on a hobby horse, pulled by a donkey and roared, "I shall not take it lying down, standing up, sitting, or hanging by my heels from a banana tree." "Jim, ain't gonna take it!" said Tommy. "Then, let him eat cake!" I replied. "CAKE!" yelled Tubby Nolan, as he burst out of my house, taking half the gable wall with him.

Talk of Sick Accordions and Upturned Turtles!

Great show yesterday kid. To hear Mr Coyle wax lyrically about egg spoons was delightful in the extreme. "The things which come into that man's head," said Tommy my cat, "would baffle anyone who ever passed the eleven plus." "Leave wee Sean alone!" I cried. "He is labouring under many handicaps His blind bats are in bed with rabies and the chain has come off his black, 1942, Raleigh bicycle." "He is irrelevant, leave him!" cried Tommy. I looked at the old accordion, lying in the corner, wheezing most horribly and covered with blankets. Tommy, stifled a sob and said, "That accordion is in pain, phone the vet and get it put down." "NEVER!" I cried. "My late daddy was presented with that accordion when he moved from the dole to the old age pension. For over twenty years dear daddy, tried and failed to play it. THEN! just before he breathed his last breath, he sat bolt upright in bed and cried. Eureka I should have un-fastened the two little straps which hold it together!" Dear mummy cried, "Praise the Lord! He has regained his sanity." The undertaker yelled, "What will he do, take the money, or go in the box?" And soon, dear pappa had shift shaped into a small grave with a tombstone asking, "WHY?" I squinted at the screen on my gooseberry, (it's just like a blackberry, only green) and said, " A text from the chubby little fingers of Tubby Nolan. He wants to meet us at the old abandoned mill." There was trouble at'mill. Tubby had slipped on wet grass, fallen on his back, like a giant turtle and couldn't get up again. "Don't just stand there!" yelled Tubby, "Help me to my feet!" Tommy and I sprang into action. We each grabbed a leg of Tubby's trousers and pulled like King Billy-oh. Tubby's massive trousers came down like an avalanche, revealing his giant Y-fronts, a complicated contraption of straps, belts and a fibre glass gusset. Only for the arrival of a bus load of Japanese tourists, we would never have righted the Easter island statue. A small Japanese man, pointed at Tubby with his trousers round his ankles and said, "AH SO" I nodded my head and said, "Yes, I would say about 90% AH SO!"

What is Gerry thinking about?

Great shows last week kid. The Tuesday show caused great consternation at the Royal, Accident and Emergency Department, when an old codger rode in on a bicycle claiming he was suffering from Coylus Interuptus. As nurses dragged him away to examine him, the old codger yelled, "Every time I hear Sean Coyle, I stop what I'm doing, which isn't good if you work in air traffic control. Last week I sent a Boeing 747 to Scotland and ordered Ryanair to land in a cow pasture outside Clogher." After a thorough examination, the old man was found to be suffering from senility, shingles and sea sickness. After two Panadol and a rub down with with a brillo pad, the old codger was released into the safe hands of Mrs Bunty Hoven, 27 Easy street. Ballymena. Tommy, my cat, put down, "Ventriloquism For Dummies" and said, "Come away from the window. You're scaring children, cats, dogs and every known species of bird life." "How dare you!" I yelled. "At high school I was voted the girl most likely to be a navvy. I had great big hands and could hold ten cigarettes behind my ear." "Which school did you go to?" asked Tommy. "Private or public?" "If you must know," I replied, "I went to an alfresco, hedge school. Me and two other pupils sat behind a whin bush for eleven years reading, "See Spot Jump" and "The rise and fall of the Roman Empire" written by a smart monkey called Gibbon. Our teacher, Ronaldo "Town Drunk" McWhacker said I had the looks of Einstein and the brains of Laurel and Hardy." "I wonder what Gerry is thinking about now," said Tommy. "Is he thinking, this is a cushy little number, or Mamma Mia, has it come to this!!!" I replied thus, in dolphin clicking sounds. "If I know Gerry, and I don't, he is planning the mother of all rickety-wheels for Christmas. Ken has cleared out a big shed, to hold all the bagpipies, broken cement mixers, stone jugs, surgicial appliances and woodchip wallpaper, which will pour in from a grateful public and recovering hoarders." Tommy clapped his hands and cried, "I propose that the burnt out hulk of Jordie Tuft, with his arse in a sling, spin the big wheel." "What a festive sight!" I cried. "A rickety-wheel, being spun by a rickety man." "And think how safe it will be for the public," yelled Tommy. "Should a fire break out, Jordie, will keep her lit 'till we get out."

This Higgs Boson Hanlin'

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which proved once again that Mr Coyle still has a hankering for the sea. "Do you hear old Barnacle Bill?" said Tommy my cat. "Why, a sniff of salt water would have him down on his knees, puking up his daily five." "Mr Coyle a sailor?" I laughed. "The man couldn't walk a dog, never mind a plank." "Leave him," said Tommy. "He's irrelevant!" I pulled the blinds, lowered my voice and said, "Tommy, how is the Higgs Boson hanlin' coming along?" Tommy, made a little arch of his fingers and said, "Ah, you talk of the God particle?" "QUIET TOMMY!" I whispered. "HE!" and I pointed on high with my finger, "HE, might be listening. Imagine how angry God would be if he knew you and I were talking about his particle." "Tommy laughed and said, "The God particle is not actually a particle of God." I leaped to my feet and yelled, "Then why call it the God particle? What are they really looking for, with the big Hydron Collider?" "I shouldn't really say this," said Tommy, "but the sole purpose of the Hydron Collider is, to see how much money they can waste before people see it for what it is. A folly! A white elephant! A fraud!" "The hat trick!" I yelled. "First the politicians, with their fraudulent expenses. Then the banks, with their Las Vegas style games and now the scientists, with their big underground sewer pipe. I bet it's not even there!" I yelled. "I bet the Hydron Collider, does not exist!" "Of course it exists!" roared Tommy. "We all saw it on TV." "Did we Tommy?" I yelled. "Did we really? All I saw was a nine inch television screen and a wee dot of light." "You don't understand," roared Tommy, "due to lack of schooling and stupidity bordering on extreme thickness." "It's a fraud!" I screamed. "A fraud thought up by the government to take our minds off the horrible, depressing things happening in Eastenders." "Rubbish!" roared Tommy. "If the government wanted to distract the people from dire, brain-dead stories in soaps, they would not choose Eastenders, Hollyoaks would be their first choice." "Hollyoaks," I muttered. "Where everyone is young, blonde, but yet, strangly, never happy. You've hit the head on the nail Tommy!" I cried. "The Hydron Collider, is really a ruse to take our minds off bad TV!" Tommy, threw himself on the floor and screamed, "Ill timed! Ill timed! Why was the Hydron Collider not used when, "Give my head peace" was on?"

I'm worried about Jim

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought much needed work to Clogher. An old codger was peacefully smoking his pipe and driving his tractor when, into his earphones, came a tarra gulder of Mr Coyle, singing, "Two Little Boys." The old codger, cried, "Yo Bro, Respect!" before demolishing a row of small houses built for pensioners and peewheets. It will take a gang of 50 men, five years to rebuild the houses. This will bring much needed trade to the local supermarket and Toots La Rue, who resides in, No 27, Bordello Road, Clogher. Any spare time Toot's has, is given over to looking after mice suffering from scurvy. Tommy my cat, looked at me, vomited and said, "Did you know, after the Gerry show, producer Mickey Bradly, takes Gerry, Sean and Janet into a broom cupboard and debriefs them?" "A gross misuse of power!" I yelled. "I know Gerry and Janet would be up for it, but does not Mr Coyle, protest at being de-knickered?" "You don't understand," said Tommy. "Debriefed, means to go over the show in detail." "Not in Africa!" I roared. "Debriefs, mean, de material dat covers de ass." Just then the door opened and Jim Allister trailed in. Jim, looking resplendent in Union Jack tank top moaned, "I have no one to play with. The other boys point at me and call me a dinosaur." "Man up!" I yelled. "Grow a pair of..of. ash plants and batter all around you. Take up body building. Learn the noble art of boxing. Don't stand there blubbering about having no one to play with. My late daddy, had no one to play with until he was on his death bed. Oh the joy on his face, as he and the undertaker threw darts at the lid of his coffin.". "Leave little Jim alone!" cried Tommy. "Jim is shy and sensitive." "Then why is he always roaring and shouting up at Stormount?" I yelled. Tommy patted Jim's sandy hair and replied, "Every roar and shout is a cry for help. It's Jim's way of saying, "I need a group hug." "More likely to get a group riser!" I said. "Peter Robinson called Jim the Ancient Mariner." Wee Jim, gave a scream and yelled, "Like one who on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread. And having once looked back walks on and turns no more his head. Because he knows Martin McGuinness doth close behind him tread." Jim, gave a horrible scream and rushed off to Stormount to raise, yet another, point of order. "I'm worried about Jim," said Tommy. as he picked up the milk and shut the door with a slam.

Ulster Bank Try Turning The Computers Off And On Again!!!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show, made all the greater when Barclay's, Bob Diamond, decided to pack his bags and get out of town. "Bob was a diamond geezer," said Tommy my cat. "He never hurt his own, only the general public." I looked at Tommy and said, "Did you know crooks are biting their nails, waiting for the Ulster bank to get their house in order so they can rob it?" Tommy, opened the window and yelled, "Get out of here! I'll tell your mother, you were playing football in the street!" "Young policemen again?" I asked. "Yes," said Tommy. "I blame the quota system, I bet 40% of them were Catholics." I stood on two tins of Lyle's golden syrup and cried, "The banks are on a suicide mission. One after the other, like lemmings and lemons they leap off the cliff. WHY?" I screamed, "WHY?" Tommy stood in front of the fire, stern of visage and cried, "There is only one man to blame and that man IS....."Tommy rolled a small drum down the floor and yelled, "Prime Minister, Harold Wilson!!!" I reeled back,fell against a nest of tables and cried, "Harold Wilson? Huddersfield's finest, pipe smoker of the year, the man who said things in Blackpool, THAT, Harold Wilson?" "YES!" cried Tommy. "The bankers of today, are blinded by the white, hot heat of technology, ignited by-Harold Wilson!!!" "Well, shave my head and call me slap head!" I roared. "Tell all Tommy!" I cried. "Lay bare the relevant facts which brought us to this tarra, banking crisis." "Computers!" yelled Tommy. "At first computers were a great help. Then, as computers got more intelligent and people became more stupid, the computers, began to talk to each other and in 1996, the computers carried out a coup on the banking industry. For the past 16 years," roared Tommy, "computers have been running the banks, without any human help!" "That's good," I cried. "Computers are very reliable." "They are," said Tommy. "Unfortunately, the computers became infected with human greed and began to pile up trillions of pounds in a virtual reality account. The computers, refuse to release the money and, even as we speak, are hacking into people's accounts and making off with their lives savings!" I tore my hair out, ripped my garments, scattered dust on my head and screamed, "Is there nothing we can DO?" Tommy, lit a candle to Saint Jude and said, "There is one thing we haven't tried. Next Monday, in a secret location, George Osbourne will try turning the computers off and on again." "SORTED!" I yelled as I ran off to the Ulster bank to see if the cash machine would accept my kidney donor card.