A Golden Age

Great shows last week kid,great shows which brought back fond memories of,Jimmy Young,The McCooeys and Teatime with Tommy James.
"A golden age in broadcasting!" I yelled.
"Mrs Dale was worried about Jim and Jimmy Young was the man from Laramie."
Tommy threw a dartboard at three darts stuck in the wall and said,
"Playwright Sam Thompson broke new ground with his play, "Over the Bridge" and gave a very young Simon and Garfunkel the inspiration for, "Bridge over troubled water."
"A wonderful time to be alive," I cried. "Rationing kept the people slim as whippets. Women dyed their legs with Bisto and there were no Tubby Nolans lumbering about like veritable wheelie-bins."
Tommy looked at my dial and said,
"A quarter past ten. Up at Radio Foyle Gerry and Sean will be at the kitchen sink gargling with honey. The girls will be applying YET more lip gloss. Ken will be twirling his screwdriver like a gun-slinger and Micky Bradly will be whistling. Micky always whistles when he's nervous. One would have thought a man in his position would have a canary to do his whistling for him."
"The canary died," I said.
"May it rest in peace," said Tommy.
"How did the canary die? Did Micky Bradley take it down a coal mine?"
"The canary died of natural causes," I said. "Stress, brought on by the sound of Sean Coyle's voice."
"I hope the little chirper got a decent, shoe-box burial," said Tommy.
"All the Radio Foyle staff were there," I said.. "all dressed in black with the exception of Mr Coyle who was wearing garish, tartan plus-fores. As the little shoe-box was lowered slowly into the ground, Gerry played the last post on his Viking horn."
"A fitting tribute to a loyal friend," said Tommy as he kicked a two-stone haggis through the window.
"Watch where you're throwing your haggis!" yelled Dawn Purvis as she cycled by on a lovely, primrose yellow bicycle, with a carrier on the back and a wee wickerwork basket on the front for transporting pounds, or indeed kilos of "Special" mince.
Tommy swept all my Frank Mitchell memorabilia from the coffee table with his arm and said,
"As you know, my bar mitzvah is coming up, is everything ready?"
"Aye, Aye, sir!" I yelled.
"All the food and drink is ordered and yesterday I took possession of a very sharp Wilkinson sword razor blade and a bullet to bite on."
Tommy winced, crossed his legs and said,
"Good! Now I want you to hire Malachy Cush to sing at my bar mitzvah. But on no condition must he smile. My Jewish grandparents are flying in from Russia and a weird smile from Malachy Cush could finish them off."
"Don't worry Tommy," I said. "Even as we speak, Malachy Cush is at Duffy's circus where Coco, the circus clown is teaching him how to smile."
"What happened to Bobo the circus clown?" said Tommy.
"He died," I said,"from natural causes, stress, brought on by listening to Hugo Duncan and his diddle-dee."
"Bummer," said Tommy walking out the front door to converse with Jim Rodgers.
Jim, The Screamer, was down on his hands and knees singing,
"Little Sir Echo how do you do?" into an open manhole!
I know. I know. But what can you do? Jim used to be the mayor of Belfast!