Great shows last week Kid. Shows that will remain with us long after Michael McGimpsey has been recalled to the crypt. During the weekend Tommy my cat and I donned shorts and sun glasses and lay down in the front garden, but we were driven indoors again, by the thunderous roar of snow ploughs and fat, old men in red suits going, "HO-HO-HO". As Tommy said to me later, when we put a net across the living room, prior to playing lawn tennis, "Cor blimy gov, some coves out there, seem to fink it's Christmas or sumfink."
Later Tommy did something to me that he has not done for a very long time. He looked at me! Yes, Tommy the cat looked at me. Anyone who has ever been looked at by a cat will know what a terrifying experience it is. Then he spoke, yes, suddenly spoke.
"I have a tale to relate," said Tommy.
"But before I can relate said tale, I must ask you a question."
Tommy peered into my eyes and said, "Are-you-IRISH?"
"Aye, oh aye," I replied.
"Prove it!" said Tommy.
I sat down at the table, ate two kilos of champ, went to the door and threw a handful of stones and Irish danced in the corner for five hours and thirty seven minutes.
"Satisfied?" I gasped.
"Yes," said Tommy, "but I was expecting a little bit of gerrymandering."
The tale I am about to relate," said Tommy,
"is Irish in the extreme. One night I was sitting on the sofa. I had the remote in my hand and was idly flicking between channels."
"I NEVER flick," I roared. "I never flick between channels."
Tommy leapt to his feline feet and yelled,
"Let's put a stop to that old wives' tale once and for all. Everybody-flicks. Everyone flicks between channels."
He stood over me like a feline Perry Mason and said, "I put it to you that you flick. I put it to you that you are a frequent flicker and an implausible LIAR!"
I fell apart and yelled, "YES!, I admit it. I am a flicker. I am a freakish, freckled, fiendish, frequent flicker between television channels."
"As I was saying," said Tommy, "I was flicking between channels, when I flicked on BBC Two and happened on a show called, "Blas Ceoil."
"Blast Coyle?" I asked.
"No," said Tommy. "Blas Ceoil is Irish for, Come Into The Parlour. As I watched," said Tommy, "a woman, who, by the look of her red wind burned complexion, had spent the last 30 years on the west coast of Ireland staring out to sea. This buxom colleen began to sing a song, a song that tugged like a ferret at my heart strings. A song that grabbed me like a stoat by the throat. A song that floated my coracle."
"And what pray," I yelled, "was the name of the song that caused such a stirring in your gizzard, innards and bowels?"
Tommy sat down on a turnip mangler, closed his slitted eyes in ecstasy and softly whispered,
"The song that captured, enraptured and decapitated my heart was called,
"The Night The Goat Broke Loose."
"Catchy title," I said. "How does it go?"
"Never mind how it goes," yelled Tommy.
"I want Gerry to play it for me."
"Not a chance Kid," I said. "It's too middeny, too wellingtonish, too, Hello yeh boy yeh. In short-too Irish."
"I will not be thwarted!" screamed Tommy.
"I shall whip out my Bic and write to Edwin Poots immediately."
"Don't forget to take the top off the pen," I jeered. "Last time you wrote to Edwin Poots, you sent him a blank sheet of paper!"
Tommy stormed off to his study, head at a haughty angle and tail curled in fierce frustration.
After praying to meet a tall, dark handsome stranger God showed he has a sense of humour, when I ran into Tubby Nolan outside an all night knitwear and lolly pop complex.
The sagging pockets of his Patrick Moore suit, was stuffed with Mars bars and packets of prawn cocktail crisps. Instead of pens, Tubby's top pocket contained a row of Rolos. His challenge to be Ulster's premier glutton, was further enhanced by a large, family size carton of Pringles sticking out of his inside pocket. In spite of all the comfort food. Tubby seemed down.
"Get that pecker up Steven," I yelled.
Steven gave a wan smile and said.
"What's wrong with me? I am famous. I have enough money to buy a sweetie shop. And-yet, I feel empty inside. Unfulfilled. A husk. An empty shell. Why is that? What must I do to be happy?".
"Good works," I cried.
"Do good deeds. Give something back. Amen, amen I say onto you, no good deed goes unpunished".
"You're right! yelled Tubby. "I shall give of my time. I shall waddle down to the soup kitchen and help feed the hungry."
You probably heard about the great wino riot on the news. When the police battered down the door, they found Tubby, asleep with a big wooden spoon clutched in his greasy, chubby hand and all the Irish stew scoffed.
A new low, a new low even for Tubby Nolan.
"The poor you have with you always," yelled Tubby, as he was chased through Belfast by a baying mob of ragged, tattered, bewildered and confused hungry winos.
All this and more have I seen, as Frank Mitchell was given ten injections to cure his heredity listisis.
Ten to one he'll have a relapse!.
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