CITY OF CULTURE

Great shows last week Kid. Tommy my cat, poet, deep thinker and renowned philosopher is convinced that Stroke City was awarded the City of Culture 2013 for just one reason and that is the highly intellectual, scholarly conversations you have conducted with Jordie Tuft over the years.
"When it comes to culture," said Tommy, "old Jordie is up there with Chas and Dave, Dolly the cloned sheep and Chubby Brown."
"How right you are, my little, scaldie snatcher," I said. "Old Jordie should be cast in brass, marble or, at the very least, papier-mache and to hell with the expense."
Tommy brought his pink stiletto down hard on my foot and said,
"There's a stamp, write to the proper authorities immediately."
That's how we do things at our house. No sending it out for consultation, or setting up special committees. We just get on with it.
Tommy and I were playing hop-scotch outside the house, when Phil Coulter cycled down the street on his Betterware round.
"Hark!" muttered Tommy. "Yon gloomy visaged peddler approaches."
"Verily," I said. "Ne'r have I seen such a gloomy countenance, since the Thane of Cullybaccy caught his doublet and hose in the mangle."
I looked at the little, bearded man who had immortalised the words, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and said,
"Congratulations, little resident from the city of culture."
"Seamus Heaney has stolen my thunder!" screamed the little, tin pan alleyer. "I am a REAL Derry man. Heaney is nothing but a blow-in from the country. Seamus Heaney is a-CULCHIE! A clod hopping, bog tramping, snipe loving Culchie. Yet there he was on Friday night, hogging the limelight and uttering prose poems of ubiquitous banality. Heaney is an impostor!" screamed Phil. "I am the rightful King!"
Then Tommy pipped up with this gem,
"Could you not share the honour like Ant and Dec?"
Wee Phil turned purple and cried,
"Not ever. Not ever. NOT EVER!"
He pulled a crumpled Derry Journal from his pocket and yelled,
"To celebrate Derry's great honour, Heaney and I composed two wee poems. Heaney's poem is on the front page in bold black type. Mine is hidden away on page 17 with births, marriages and deaths. I will now read both poems and ask you which is better.
Heaney's poem is called, "North Star" and goes like this.
Rain washed cobblestones
Greyhound men and spires
Shirt workers huddle round
Little coal fueled fires."
RUBBISH!" screamed Phil.
"Complete rubbish! Where is the essence of Derry in that rubbish?
Now listen to my poem, which is called, "Music City".
"Showband stars, throng the bars
With money, jingle-jangle
Dressed in Burton's best, they take their rest
Wearing ties that dingle-dangle."
"Well!" screamed Phil."Did I not nail it? Did I not make it my own?"
I gazed at Phil like a startled stoat and yelled,
"Give me my lavatory brush!" and I went in and slammed the door.
Jingle-jangle? Dingle-dangle? My granny's, pink, Parisian, store-bought pantaloons.
As little Phil peddled sadly away, Tommy yelled after him,
"BOOM-BANG-A-BANG BANG I LOVE--YOU!"