Siberian Sighs and Steven's sorrow.

Great show yesterday Kid. To hear Mr Coyle tell the harrowing tale of Eamon Mc Cann kicking sand in his face brought tears and funny green stuff to the eyes of Tommy my cat. Tommy is sending Mr Coyle his bullworker, so Mr Coyle can muscle up and knock the revolutionary zeal out of Comrade Mc Cann.

When the man came on looking for an 18 inch wrap round boiler, Tommy and I yelled, "GIDDY UP!" and leaped up from our unplugged Sing Sing electric chairs and ransacked the house. We found many strange, weird and bizarre things, but, alas, no 18 inch wrap round boilers. As a consolation, Tommy and I are sending the poor man, the ejector seat from a Russian Mig jet fighter plane. Tommy found the ejector seat in the grounds of Stormont castle. There was a Russian sitting in the seat, but Tommy, who is fluent in Russian and Ulster/Scots, pushed the Russian off the seat, yelled, "Bugger-off comrade!" and ran merrily home with the ejector seat clutched under his oxter. As he ran, little Tommy was singing the big Russian hit from the 80's.
"I sigh when I see Siberia.

Frost bite in the Urals, I fear-E-A.

Brass monkeys don't appear-E-A

For things fall off in Siberia.

I hope I've made it clear-E-A

I sigh when I see Siberia."

(Copywrite Lenin and Stalin)

I was standing at a street corner with Lynda Byrons. We were talking about girlie things, like twin-sets, rows of pearls and how difficult it is to put an oily chain on a bicycle. SuddenlyLynda yelled. "Hunk alert at two o'clock!"

I followed her blue eyed gaze and saw-Jackie Fullerton. Oh he did look cute, in his little grey suit. The dapper, debonair, little crooner was singing, "Fly Me To The Moon" and kicking wheelie-bins as he walked to pick up the beat, just like the big swing bands used to do.

Lynda and I screamed and hid behind a wino to change into our bobby socks.

Then, a cloud blocked out the sun and Tubby Nolan lumbered out of an entry. He stood there in a fury. Jam rolled through his chubby clenched fists, as he squeezed two buns to death. Tubby opened his gigantic mouth and roared, "FULLERTON! Why do you always run away when you see me coming?"

"It's not you Steven," drawled Jackie, "But every time I see you, you remind me of Giant Haystacks and I run away."

Tubby calmed down and said, "I wish I were like you, dapper, slim, a hit with the ladies. Why is it that Haystacks like me never get the girls?"

"But they do Steven," said Jackie. "Believe me auld son-they do."

"Name one!" roared Tubby.

"Well," said Jackie, "there was Orson Wells,Burl Ives, Jackie Gleeson, Rod Steiger and, of course, Marlon Brando. Brando could pull the chicks, even when he couldn't pull his socks up."

"What about Alfred Hitchcock?" roared Tubby.

Jackie laughed and said, "Ah, you're pushing it a bit there auld son. Alfred Hitchcock walked about with his gub pursed out. He always looked like he was just after kissing the red arse of a baboon."

Then Lynda Byrons rushed forward screaming,

"May I have your autograph?"

Tubby smiled, pulled out a well bitten Bic pen and said, "Of course you can Lynda. Shall I sign it with-love?"

Lynda elbowed Tubby aside and cried, "Not YOU, fat boy! I want little cuddly Jackie's autograph."

Poor Steven sighed and went into a doughnut shop to drown his sorrow.

All this and more have I seen, as a very blackened and charred Frank Mitchell was carried down a ladder by a burly fireman. Poor Frank had been in bed, working frantically on the ten best cigarette lighters in Ulster to set fire to your duvet.

It's getting serious now. It really is. I think he should stop before something awful happens.

I remember the time that Frank Mitchell had a future. People said he would, given time, be Ulster's answer to Al Pacino! Looks more like Al Murray now!