Pretending to be Presenters

Great shows last week kid. Great shows powered by the best, illegal, red diesel you can buy in Donegall.
Tommy my cat put his prized Malachi Cush smile back into its velvet lined box and said,
"Things are so bad in Stroke City, people have been reduced to stealing manhole covers."
"Big YIKES!" I yelled. "But what do the little cloth-cappers use the manhole covers for, fuel?"
"Big coins for slot machines and telephone boxes," said Tommy. "One old couple who run a Ma' and Pa' store on Phil Coulter street,opened up the coin box on the pay phone and were flattened by five heavy manhole covers."
"What are the police doing?" I yelled. "What are Matt Baggott's lassies and lads doing about this horrible and dastardly crime?"
"Everything they can," said Tommy. "Every time the police come upon an open manhole, they look into it."
"BOOM-BOOM!" said the Russian Mig fighter plane flying overhead.
"Pull me by my feet," said Tommy. "Let's pretend I'm Gaza and you're taking me home."
"I have a better idea," I cried."Lock me in a small, steel cell with a po and I'll pretend to be Lyndsay Lohan."
But after much discussion, we both decided to sit much too close to each other on the sofa muttering, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb," as we pretended to host the "One Show." But Tommy ruined the game by running upstairs to change into a very tight skirt and blond wig. Then the perverted,little pussy showed far too much leg as he pretended to be Emily Maitland presenting Newsnight.
I slipped on a wrinkled, rubber Jeremy Paxman mask and yelled,
"I think we've had enough of that, don't you?" And I gave Tommy a fierce riser right up the pencil skirt.
After a lunch of tuna, caught and killed with tender love and affection,Tommy and I set out to find Tubby Nolan. We found the oval one at a soup kitchen for down and outs.
"Just topping up," slabbered Tubby,as he got stuck into a big bowl of ferret and lentil soup.
"Tubby!" Yelled Tommy. "Could you explain why you earn more than Dafydd Cameroon the Prime Minister?"
Tubby whipped out a portable soapbox, mounted it and roared,
"Judge me not by my station, personality or appearance! Judge me rather by my deeds.
The Prime Minister has just one thing to do and that is get a smile out of Jim Allister. Has he done that? NO! Jim Allister is still as glum as a bag of wet chooks. Now look what I have accomplished. Only last week I got a new wheelie-bin for an old biddy so she could throw her husband's ashes into it and use the urn as a receptacle for small change. The week before I got a white stick for an old codger with failing eyesight so he could find his wife in the dark. So "Amen, Amen I say onto to you. Who is more worthy to enter McDonalds?"
Tommy and I fell to our knees and answered,
"Verily you are Saint Tubby, the patron saint of slabberers and bucket bakes.
Here end'th the first lesson.
Now stand and sing,
"Why was he born so beautiful,why was he born at all?"