The Donegal Dander

Great shows last week kid. Tommy my cat stood looking at his fake, Rolex watch, waiting for the minute when Andy Murray, would be knocked out of Wimbleton. It won't be long now," said Tommy. "Then I can get on with cataloguing Daniel O'Donnell's records, using the well known repulsive scale." "Which record is in last place," I asked. "Wooden Heart" by a mile," said Tommy. "Not only for the singing, but the little stilty dance Daniel performs while singing it." "The Donegal Dander?" I asked. "Indeed!" said Tommy. "When dancing the Donegal Dander, the feet never leave the ground. The illusion of dance is maintained by awkward bending of the knees and clapping the hands behind the beat, while smiling, or leering, in a scary, groovy, hip, grimace." "Enough of O'Donnell," I said. "What did you think of Richard the Second last night on TV?" "The best work Shakespeare never wrote," gushed Tommy. "What acting and what a relief it was, not to spot old faces from Eastenders, or the Bill." "A stellar cast!" I cried. "Though burdened down by scrap metal and looking sometimes like Ned Kelly, they put on a display of acting I have only seen bettered in Hollyoaks." "I was struck by the sparseness of the King's room" said Tommy. "No paintings, or posters on the wall. The floor devoid of linoleum. No TV, or radio. Nick nacks were noticeable by their absence." "It was very serious," I said."All talk was about war, treason and intrigue, but no small talk. No one ever said, "Yoiks! I see good Lady Hamilton is verily up the McDuff again." or, "My King, I got my doublet and hose saturated after yon Tempest last night, which has, not only wrecked havoc on my person, but has devasted my Hamlet and made my enemies Lear." There stood Tubby Nolan, talking to the fattest man I have ever seen. The two men stood belly to belly, but their heads were so far away they had to shout to be heard. "Did you ever try the Atkins diet!" yelled the very fat man? "I wanted to," roared Tubby, "but I couldn't find any packets of Atkins on the supermarket shelves!" "I went on a plum diet," bellowed the very fat man, but the police put me off it. Too many people got hurt. Matt Baggott, holy be his name, said I was like a gattling gun when I passed the stones.". "I must go!" roared Tubby. "You move three yards to the left, while I move three yards to the right, then we can squeeze past each other.". "Good thinking fat boy!" roared the very fat man. "Thank you, you obese Zeppelin!" yelled Tubby. "My My!" I said. "The things you see when you haven't got a gun!".

Historic Handshake Leaves The Air Clean.

Great show yesterday kid. "What a hand shake!" yelled Tommy my cat. "But Martin McGuinness ruined it by shouting, "Nice to see you, to see you nice!" The Queen knew how to handle the situation. She looked into Martin Maguinness's eyes and said, "Ah, Mr McGuinness, so we meet at last!" Then Prince Phillip , hands behind his back, said to Marty, "And what do you DO?" Martin turned white and replied, "I refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that I may incriminate myself!" And they all laughed! "Historic!" yelled Tommy. "Historic, with a capital Hiss." "All the boxes are ticked!" I cried. "No more mountains left to climb. No more hurdles left to leap. Messers, Transparancy and Clarity, have been acknowledged. Long, long ago, the leader of the Unionist Party, a certain Mr James Molly-nucks, called for a period of decontamination. The air is now clean and fresh. The good ship, Ulster, with a new crew, is set fair to sail into the sunset." "Just think," said Tommy, "no more fighting. Now, when we get up and face a new day, we will have no one to hate." "What a long, boring day that's going to be," I muttered, as I went outside and threw my last stone. "Peace in our time," said Tommy, "will not go down well with Ulster's premier blob, Steven Nolan. If people are not hating and fighting, Tubby will have nothing to talk about on radio, or TV. Sure, there's Eamon McCann and Jim Allister, but you can't put those two on every day like the Two Ronnies." "Tubby must retrain," I yelled. "He must learn how to cook, garden and DIY. Tubby, must became a smiling, brain dead, dull eyed, television morning presenter. Tubby, must fashion himself on, Eamon Holmes. Eamon Holmes, can talk about potholes in roads with wild exhilaration, bordering on hysteria." Tubby would make a wonderful cook," said Tommy. "He likes food. If Steven had a show called, "The Bubbly Tubby Chef" people would walk over broken grass to see it. Suckling pig with crisps. Boiled beef and smarties. Quail, stuffed with Mars bars. The world of cooking could be Tubby's lobster." "I think not," I said. "Steven Nolan will now turn his anger on the health service, education and why he finds it so difficult to find trousers with a 62 inch waist." On the count of three, Tommy and I concurred behind separate armchairs.

Gangs and The Killer Queen

Great show to kick the week off kid. Mr Coyle seems in good nick, thanks to a combination of prayer and monkey glands. And the periodic screams and rattling the bars of his cage, did not impinge on the quality of the show in any way. Tommy my cat, friend, companion, next of kin and the son I never had said, "Just came from Stormont. Things are really buzzing up there! There they all were, out on the lawn, running, skipping, leaping and generaly having a good old time. In the corner of the play ground stood Jim Allister, like a young, surly, red faced Marlon Brando. "Hey, easy rider!" I said. "Why don't you join in the fun. Put this rope around your neck and I'll show you how to skip." "Look at them!" spat Jim. "Look at Sinn Fein and the DUP, holding hands while singing, "Ring a ring a rosy, Jim's got a great big nosey!" "Then things took a nasty turn when Sammy Wilson and Martin McGuinness sauntered up to Jim and demanded his dinner money. "So much for parity of esteem!" shrieked Jim, as he handed over 78 pence and a lint-coated brandy ball. "You got to join a gang Jim!" I said. "You can't exist on your own. Ask that nice, hairy David Ford if you can join his gang." "I am a rebel!" screamed Jim. "A maverick, a loose cannon. I am the Lone Ranger, minus Tonto. I am the ghost at the banquet, the watcher at the gate and the fool on the hill." Then.. the notorious, SDLP gang began to edge towards Jim. Jim took to his heels yelling, "I'm going to tell Mr Speaker about you!" "Alex Attwood laughed like a Mexican and said, "Speaker? We don't want your feelthy-Speaker." Mark Durkin threw back his head, laughed for eight and a half minutes and drawled, "Senor, the reality is, we are outlaws. If you want inlaws, go visit your ugly mother in law." I shook my head and said, "That nice Mark Durkin has gone to the dogs, woof-woof, every since he stopped reading, "The Messenger". Tommy, sprayed Pledge furniture on a small Norwegian dwarf, polished him up to a high lusture shine and said, "Isn't she lovely? So graceful, so regal." "You talking about the Queen?" I asked. "NO!" yelled Tommy sarcasticaly, "I was talking about May McFetridge! Of Course I'm talking about the Queen. Apparently when she met Lord Ken Maginnis in Enniskillen yesterday, she grabbed the rural knight by the lapels and yelled, "Oi, walrus face, Keep your big hooter out of the sexual orientation of my subjects, or I'll get Phil and the boys to whip your sorry ass. Capiche!!!" I wiped a spec of dust from the Norwegian dwarf and went out singing, "Caviar and cigarettes Well versed in etiquette Very fond of Corgie pets She's a killer Queen!"

They think It's All Over..It is now!!

Great shows last week kid. Ken Maguinness, who was raging against the pink machine, took time off to mutter through a soup stained moustache,"Thon Anderson boy puts on a humdinger of a show." Tommy my cat sat looking at the £12.79 he had withdrawn from his K2 tax shelter and said. "Just got it out before David Cameron labelled me another Jimmy Carr." I gazed at the glittering horde and said, "Where will you put your money now Tommy, derivatives, hedge funds, junk bonds,or your little pink, piggy bank?" "Neither!" replied Tommy, scooping all the money into a burlap sack. "I'm going back to the Post Office. No more high risk gambles for me! The Post Office girls are very sweet and friendly. Just last week, I asked for a second class stamp. The counter girl, a real little sweetie, said, "I don't have any second class stamps, but just for you, I'll tear a first class stamp in two. Now, that's thinking, that's using your head." "Tommy," I said. "Come into the war room, we have something important to discuss." I stood in front of the big map of Gortin and said, "Next Wednesday, the Queen, will shake hands with Mr Martin McGuinness. The country is waiting for our response. Today, we must release a press statement, outlining our views on the historic, hand shake. As secretary of state for this house, do you forsee any impediments or difficulties?" Tommy paced the floor, hands behind his back, and answered, "In my view, it's too soon. I smell intrigue in the air. I think the hand shake is a-ruse. A ruse by the house of Windsor!My spies tell me the Queen intends to grasp Mr McGuinness by the hand, pull him towards her and headbutt him right between the eyes. This could lead to apathy in the streets, a huge fall in sterling, the end of the fish supper, as we know it, and British warships, seizing the Giant's Causeway and carrying it off to Bristol." I ran to my writing desk and dashed off a letter to Mrs Bunty Hoven, 27 Pigs Lane, Ballymena. "TOP SECRET! It is the view of Tommy and I, that the hand shake should go ahead, with the proviso, that Mr McGuinness, wears a boxer's gumshield and a motorcycle helmet." I put the letter in an envelope and cried, "A stamp! A stamp! Time is off the essence!" Tommy, leapt to his feet and yelled, "I'll run down to the Post Office and ask the nice girl to tear another first class stamp in two!" NOW all we could do was-wait. Could we, would we, be in time to save the Giant's Causeway? Feeling the hand of history on my shoulder, I yelled, "The lights are going out all over Poleglass, due to unpaid bills!" P.S. I was nearly asleep when Tommy rushed in yelling, "THEY THINK IT'S ALL OVER, IT IS NOW!!!!" I yawned and said, "I told Woy Hodgeson, score a goal before the final whistle, or you will pay a penalty!" Tommy giggled, leapt into bed beside me, and put his ice cold feet on my back.

Prepare For Much Gloating If England Go All The Way!!!

Great show yesterday kid. Like the great magician you are, you produced coloured ribbons, flowers and rabbits out of thin air. Your assistant, the lovely Sean Coyle, wearing a pair of laddered fishnet tights, moved about gracefully, making strange, magic waves and passes with his rough, calloused hands. What a cheer went up when you put the lovely Mr Coyle in a box and made him disappear! What a groan when you brought him back again! Tommy my cat, kicked the asbestos out of a stuffed, cuddly toy, depicting, Jim Allister and yelled, "Did you see it? Did you see it? Bono, escorting the Burmese, Lady, San Suu Kyi, around Ireland and Russel Brand, being all pally with Tibet's finest, the Dali Lama?" "I could not believe my specsaver glasses," I cried. "How I cringed when Bono, described San Suu Kyi, as having an air of silent serenity around her." "Russel Brand," yelled Tommy, "called the Dali Lama, my old pal and Tibetan playmate!" "Worse is to come!" I roared. "It has just been announced that none other then Jimmy Cricket will escort the Queen round Northern Ireland. Can you imagine it? "Come 'ere your Majesty, there's more. It is my honour to introduce you to Mr Martin McGuinness. Come on McGuinness, don't stand there like Shay Given, shake the wee woman's hand.". "What next?" roared Tommy. "Jedward, dancing with the Pope in the Vatican Square?" "Thongs and standards are dropping," I said. "I blame George Galloway and Mrs Brown's boys.". "Mrs Brown's Boys, is a disgrace to Catholic Ireland. There's no sex in Ireland, never has been and never will be. Irish children are found under whin bushes. Hence the old saying. "Keep away from the whins, if you don't want a little prick!" To the holy, Irish nation, sex is just a number between five and seven." "What do we want?" cried Tommy. "Chastity! When do we want it? As soon as we lock our chastity belts!" "QUICK!" I yelled. "Turn on RTE, the returning football team are touring Dublin in an open-topped German troop carrier. Anglea Merkel will present each member of the team with a green, plastic, iron cross." "Bet Shay Given drops his!" said Tommy. I gritted my teeth, clasped my legs together, but was forced to concur in a darkened corner. "Tommy, trembled all over and whispered, "England have just beat the Ukraine. Wayne Rooney scored the only goal. What will happen if England go all the way and become European champions?" I leapt to my feet and yelled, "In that case, GO HOME! and prepare for-gloating!!!! Much, much-gloating!".

Ireland got Stuffed!!

Great shows last week kid. Some great guests on Friday, which made me think there just might be a residue of singers, who can put over a song without voice enhancing techniques and gallivanting dancers in the background. "BRAVO!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Those guys really nailed it to the old barn door." I looked out the window, whistled and played with the purple fringes on my burka. Tommy snapped his braces, ran his fingers through his hair and hitched up his 1970's denim hipsters. "It's no good!" I yelled. "We MUST talk about, Euro 2012." Tommy sobbed and said, "I do feel sorry for the Republic of Ireland. With the country in hock to the Germans the boys in green rowed all the way to the Ukraine, with packed lunches and Boy Scout tents, only to get stuffed twice AND with the threat of a third stuffing hanging over their humiliated heads." "I told them before they left!" I cried. I said, "Boys, stay at home and watch it on TV." Robbie Keane, said, "NO! We shall return in triumph with lots of Irish luck and eleven or twelve dodgy penalties, we can be AND will be, champions of Europe!" "And he looks so normal," said Tommy, "to be talking such gibberish!" "NEVER MIND!" I yelled. "We've still got the hurley. An Irishman with an ash plant in his hands is a horrible and fearsome sight." Tommy concurred behind the sofa and then blushed like Mr Coyle, in an Ann Summer's shop. "England!" I yelled. "Perfidious Albion. Anglo Saxonists, Sons of John Bull and Lady Thatcher, you've done it again! I doff my hat, tug my forelock and hope you get stuffed eight nil, in the quarter finals." Tommy kicked a small, shrunken head into the kitchen and said, "I don't like football, BUT I do like football pundits. To hear retired footballers talk about, man marking, getting behind the ball, keeping the shape and counter attacks, is sheer poetry to me. HOWEVER!" yelled Tommy. "I detest, loathe and despise, RTE's, Eamonn Dunphy!" "BIG MOUTH!" I roared. "Old Eamonn Dunphy, with his wizened face wrapped round a pair of brilliant, white, false gnashers, is a disgrace to man, beast and banjos." "Mr Know all!" screamed Tommy. "The great, I AM! interrupting, talking over people, why the man is a veritable, Mr Coyle!" "Two peewheets from the same pond," I cried. "seperated at birth. One sent to the North and the other to the South." "JEDWARDS!" Yelled Tommy. "HAULD ON!" I cried. "Let's have a cultural exchange. Mr Coyle joins the RTE sports panel and Eamonn Dunphy joins Gerry in the studio." "So let it be written, so let it be done," Said Tommy. "My people will talk to your people." "Let's do lunch," I cried, "or dinner, or supper, it's all the same to me." "A midnight snack would suit me better," said Tommy.

What Is The Big Question?

Alas, all good things must come to an end. HE'S BACK!!! It;s THAT man again! Mr Coyle, bat lover and vigorous, vigilante is back! Tommy, my cat, threw himself on the floor, kicked his little legs, screamed like a banshee with toothache and yelled, "Home is the sailor, home from the sea and the interrupter, home from the beach!" "He may have changed," I said. "Mr Coyle may have had an Epiphany. He may come back renewed, revigorated, with a new charismatic outlook on life." My hopes were dashed when Mr Coyle went into a long monologue about slippery Winter roads. I looked at Tommy and said, "Go home, and prepare for the Status Quo!" Tommy glared at me from under his eyebrows, like a certain member of the Gestapo and yelled, "OI! Will Martin McGuinness and the Queen shake hands?" I went on ironing my catholic, mason's apron and said, "In my day, the big question used to be, Will Liston, shake Ali's hand?" "Let's hope it doesn't come to fisticuffs," said Tommy. "I fear Martin McGuinness would be bewitched, bothered and bewildered by the Queen's lightening, fast footwork." Parroting every politician, with the sole exception of Jim Allister, I said. "We have come a long way. We still have a long way to go, but we shall never return to the bad, old days. The reality is, hate, violence and bloodshed is the sole prerogative of husband and wife. Violence has a place!" I cried. "But violence should be confined to the bedroom and not allowed to spill onto the streets." Tommy clapped his hands and cried, "That answer should be translated into Latin and inscribed on ever toilet seat at Stormount." "Half of the bums can't read!" I muttered. "Question number two!" yelled Tommy. "What is society going to do with the NEW!, IMPROVED!, Spring fresh, Jordie Tuft?" "The answer is simple!" I roared. "Dapper, shaved napper, Jordie Tuft, must be made a roving Ambassador-Immediately. The new Jordie, would command cross party support to junket to Alaska and Syria, drumming up support for the shipbuilding industry, linen teatowels and fresh baps." "Let me be the first to second that!" cried Tommy. "Just think," said Tommy. "Not that long ago, this used to be the build up to the battle of Drumcree. People used to get in such a fuss over the Garvaghy road. I really must take a trip to see the famous Garvaghy road." "It's not there," I said. "What's not there?" yelled Tommy. "The Garvaghy road," I replied. "It was taken up and is now a prized exhibit in the Ulster History museum." Tommy sat down, held his head in his hands and said, "No Garvaghy road. No Titanic. No Showbands. No Nolan light. This country is going to the dogs." "Woof-Woof!" said my next door neighbour, who can't afford to keep a dog. Like my neighbour says, "Why buy a dog when you can bark yourself!" Logic! That's what that is. Stone, cold logic, from a woman who has greatly improved after six years'electric shock treatment.