EDWIN POOTS EMERGES FROM THE MAZE

When Monday morning came to our house, neither Tommy my cat nor I being loose cannons or mavericks, we got out of bed like everyone else. "I bet," said Tommy, struggling out of his Sex In The City pyjamas, "I bet James Nesbit is still in bed." "Of course he is," I said, "Lying with a wee cheeky smile on his Ulster gub and revelling in his maverickism and loose cannoness."
Tommy and I got to work. I scattered crumbs for the birds, while Tommy hoovered the room with little Henry the vacuum cleaner and good friend of both off us.
"Hoi!" yelled Tommy and Henry in unison, "you're supposed to scatter the crumbs in the front garden." "Oh Ryan Air!" I yelled, "where does it say in the Bible, the Koran or the new Littlewoods Winter catalogue, that I have to scatter the crumbs in the garden?"
"Any fool would know that." chirped a bald-headed vulture who was standing outside the door, with a knife and fork in his prehistoric claw. "Begone!" I yelled, "Did you not know that Patrick Kielty is dying at the Odyssey?" The vulture took off with a flap of leather parchment wings croaking, "Oh, I do like a good comic." So far the day had been uneventful, then, Edwin Poots burst from a sedan chair and rushed into the house like Tim Hitler, the younger and better behaved brother of Adolf. Oh, he were in a state. Tommy loosened his clothing, while I poured brandy down my gurgling gullet. Tommy held his feet to the fire, while I stuck his head into the refrigerator. Eventually the dear boy came round, "Pootsie" I yelled, "Pootsie my dear old friend, what in the world has come over-you?"
Poots sat in front of the fire, sipping a glass of Fairy lemon scented washing up liquid and mumbled, "It's true what they say you know, all great political careers, do end in failure."
"Well thank your lucky stars you didn't have one." I said "You were only Minister for Development and the only thing that developed was that you got the sack."
"Damn and blast that football field!" screamed Poots, It brought me down like a sack of spuds."
"You should have made a decision!" yelled Tommy "but no, you hummed and hawed and now look where you are, up excrement creek without a paddle!"
"What do you do all day up at Stormount?" I yelled, "Watch Jeremy Kyle and Countdown?"
"Yes" mumbled Poots "And we sometimes watch Blue Peter too."
"Sinn Fein are as bad!" I yelled in Irish, "When are they going to make a decision on education ? And in the mean time, children are leaving school as thick as two short planks and taking up low paid jobs in television." "Come on Pootsie!" yelled Tommy, "you used to have your ear to the ground. What are the Sinn Fein plans for education?"
"They want to go back to the old hedge schools." whispered Poots. Tommy and I took off for the foot of our stairs. "Yes" said Poots. "Sinn Fein want to put the clock back and have children staggering from mud cabins, rattling with rickets, with a turf under their arm"
"So that's their plan." I mused "And a damn good plan it is. That will stop the little hoodies from hanging round the corners and calling me, rat features".
"No one in the DUP came to my aid when I fell," moaned Poots, "not one."
"What about Iris Robinson?" yelled Tommy, "Where is her christian charity?"
"She keeps it under her bed in a shoe box," said Poots, "beside her broomstick."
Tommy giggled, turned red and said, "I don't know about you lot, but I find Iris damned attractive in a scary, unnatural sort of way." "Tommy cat!" I yelled, "go to the bathroom and wash your feline gub out with Camay soap."
"No, Tommy's right." sighed Poots, "There's something about Iris Robinson, she attracts by her very repellence,Iits the wicked witch of the West syndrome, the lure of-danger, the preying mantis effect. Would one kiss be worth one's life?"
"The love of which you talk," I yelled "Is the love that dare not speak its name. It is an abomination. Beware my little flies that you do not fly too close to the web of--IRIS."
In the silence that followed, Tommy wrote a book, I painted the house puce and Poots danced the Walls of Limerick with a gang of escaped lunatics from Southend-On-Sea.
I kicked a stone--I think it was Charlie Watts and said, "I suppose Sammy Wilson still wears belt and braces?" "Oh yes," muttered Poots, "It's mandatory since the---incident."
Then tubby Steven Nolan went past eating a roasted Hereford cow and Poots, Tommy and I took after him yelling,
"I may be right, I may be wrong
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
Steven Nolan ate a wildebeest
And left nothing but the hair!"
Ah they don't write them like that anymore. Now a days, it's all--BOOM-BOOM!
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And with that, I return you to the studio, where Noel Thompson and Donna Trainor are walking about. Ah, it wasn't like that in my granny's day.