'Tis A Sign From On High.

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped pacify and reconcile Jedward when they fell out about the origin of the old saying, Lor love a duck. The thin twins were engaged in close,hand to hand fighting. Little childlike fists were flying and blond, Tintin quiffs flattened like corn in a hurricane. Ireland's not very bright answer to the Everly brothers were knocking seven bells out of each other when they heard Sean Coyle say,
"Explain to me, in minute, graphic detail, just how you take the top off your boiled egg?"
The twins reached for their combs and said, "There's always someone worse of than us." and made up with a big, kissy,kissy hug.
"Ugliness personified," said Tommy my cat,"would you describe Herr Coyle as a raconteur?"
"Old ricket limbs?" I yelled. "Mr Coyle is NOT a raconteur. But every year, come Wimbledon, Mr Coyle convinces himself he could have been a top class tennis player. Raconteur?" I snorted "More like a racketeer if you ask me. I've seen him," I said, "selling shop-soiled copies of the Messenger outside the chapel gate on Sundays."
"You can not be serious-man!" said Tommy. He gave a mock tennis serve and yelled,
"NEW BALLS!"
Oh how we laughed.
Tommy and I stared in amazement as a fire broke out in the middle of our Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa. While I ran from the kitchen tap to the sofa with cupped hands of water Tommy said,
"Who would have thought that sunlight refracted through your late mammy's glass eye could do that?"
"Dearest mummy gave me her glass eye on her way to her death bed," I sobbed. "I remember her standing in Rodent Street, pissed as a newt.
"Gingivitis," she said. That was mummy's little pet name for me."Dear, darling, dumboesque Gingivitis, I will not always be with you. Even as we speak the grim reaper is honing his scythe. Here, take my blood-red,glass eye and know that I will aways be watching over you." Then pre-dead mummy took a big slug of Mundies wine, slithered down the wall and lay in a drunken heap.
"And she died that night?" whispered Tommy.
"No," I said,"she lived for another 24 and a half years, BUT on that night in Rodent Street mummy knew her time on this earth was short."
"And now the drunken,old bag goes and sets fire to our good Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa!"yelled Tommy.
"'Tis a sign!" I cried. "'Tis a sign from on high!"
"Sign my ass with a felt-tip pen!" roared Tommy. "Your mother, old Ma Mundies set fire to our sofa with her bequeathed glass eye. What is that a sign of?"
"EUROPA!" I cried. "Run for the marshmallows and two forks. Mummy wants us to have a good tightener of toasted marshmallows before the sofa goes out!"
Later that night as I lay in bed Tommy giggled and said, "Goodnight John Boy, goodnight, Jim Bob, goodnight--Gingivitis."
Oh the satisfactory sound of a po bouncing off a fly, feline's head!
"Good night Edgar Allen," I giggled into my hessian pillow.

Taking The Top Off A Boiled Egg

Great show yesterday kid.
The highlight of the show was Mr Coyle's extensive monologue on how to decapitate the oval object which shoots out of a hen's bum like a discarded artillery shell.
I employed a complicated manoeuvre which involved swivelling my neck, focusing my eyes and suddenly, Tommy my cat sprang into sharp focus. I put my finger down my throat, plucked my vocal chords like a guitar string and said,
"Tommy, how do YOU cut the top off your boiled egg?"
Tommy, who could talk about eggs until the cows roost said, "When you talk about hot,boiled eggs,you talk of a dangerous task which should be approached with extreme caution. First," said Tommy, "I don heat resistant gloves. I then remove the egg from the hot, boiling H2o with a wooden spoon. Then, I cup the hot egg in my heat resistant gloves and sprint three miles to McGinty's sawmill. Mr McGinty, who is a dear friend of mine,then saws the top off my egg with a huge, circular saw. I then make my way home," said Tommy, "stopping to talk and shoot the breeze with policemen, traffic wardens and the men who are building a veritable labyrinth of peace walls across this fair city. When I get home my boiled egg is as cold as a witch's zit, so I chop some onions, get out the mayonnaise and make myself a sandwich."
I gazed at Tommy in wonder and awe.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "I take my hat off to you. You have just informed me and indeed the world the correct way to take the top off a boiled egg. You have made Mr Coyle look like a man who lacks breeding, gumption and education in the boiled egg department. Just one more question Tommy, do you like a runny egg in the morning?"
"Not under any circumstances!" roared Tommy. "The last thing I want to do in the morning is set off in hot pursuit after a run-a-way egg."
I looked at Tommy. Tommy looked at me. We both knew one of us was buck stupid, but as yet, neither of us was able to point an accusing finger.

No More Enquiries

"Hurry up feline," I yelled to Tommy my cat, "Gerry is back after his salubrious sabbatical!"
"I'm just finishing Mr Coyle's report card," said Tommy.
I watched as Tommy scrawled, "Could do better" sealed the report in a brown manila envelope and handed it to our alternative postman who was wearing spiked running shoes and clutching a cleft stick.
Tommy looked at me, threw up and said,
"Did you know that the Northern Ireland assembly have just placed a big order for enquires with a firm in China?"
I threw a plate of tatties and neeps at a framed photograph of would-be Irish President,Senator Steven Norris and yelled, "How did this vile, ugly situation come about? Please explain using drawings, graphs and,if need be, a scale built model of the situation. How did Stormount, the apex of democracy and soda bread, run out of enquires?"
"It came about thus," said Tommy. "After a heated debate as to whether "The green, green grass of home" should be classed as a rebel song, Nigel Dodds, debonair with sleeked-backed hair went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
In spite of all my will-power a corner boy yell of, "THE PRESIDENT IS NOT A CROOK!" burst out of my cracked, chaffed, cold-sore infested lips.
"When Nigel returned to the chamber," said Tommy, "he was ashen faced, gobsmacked and wild-eyed and legless.
"We have no sugar!" screamed Nigel. "This den of democracy and dim-wits has run out of-SUGAR!"
Little Barry McElduff, sensing a conspiracy, immediately leaped to his little Sinn Feet and called for an-enquiry.
Not to be outdone, Jim Allister leaped to his marching feet and called for an enquiry to inquire if Barry McElduff should be allowed to call for an enquiry.
"Wee Sammy," said David Ford to a wee man wearing a flat cap and a woodbine,
"Go out to the backyard and bring me in two enquiries from the enquiry bunker, there's a good chap."
Wee Sammy returned and said,
"I regret to inform the house that we have no enquiries. The lock on the enquiries bunker is busted and all the enquiries-nicked. Gentlemen, Stormount has run out of-enquiries."
The MLA's went clean mad. Every member was on his feet demanding an enquiry into the theft of the enquiries.
"HOW," I appealed to three giraffes flying up the wall,"can Ulster survive without an enquiry?" I grabbed Tommy by the neck and roared,
"Who stole our enquiries?"
"Hoodies, scumbags, ne'r-do-wells and low achievers!" cried Tommy. "The young entrepreneurs who are demolishing old working class houses brick by brick and then selling the red bricks to ostentatious yuppies, who use the bricks to build fireplaces, barbecues and bidets, are also selling enquiries on every street corner."
Crestfallen I staggered towards the front door.
"Hey!" said Tommy with a girlish giggle, "Did you know that Mad Max, Mel Gibson has sacked all his PAs and now does all his talking through a-beaver?"
"I'm not in the mood Tommy," I sighed as I went out to the garden to see how the lads were getting on with my red brick vomitorium!
But it is a sin, my aunt Jane used to take me in and make me tea in her wee tin, in those red brick houses, long, long ago.

Mike's A Real Politician.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made a young secretary leap to her feet up at Stormount and turn the radio off. Apparently her boss, Tom Elliott was showing signs of acute agitation and hysterical excitement.
"Just in time," joked Michael McGimpsey, "or old Tom would have donned rooster feather wings and flown off towards the sun like Icarus."
And they say politics is dull and boring!
Tommy my cat, little prankster that he is, made a circle with his finger and thumb, put it to his eye, looked at me and said,
"AHOY ye scurvy landlubber! Did you hear farmer Giles,in the form of Mr Coyle,go on and on about farming yesterday?"
"I DID!" I yelled. "What is the maid---I mean, the knave of the maiden city up to?"
"Aar Jim lad," said Tommy, "'tis a ploy. Aye,'tis a ploy to hang around with bulls without raising suspicion."
A wave of revulsion swept over me(I really must get that upstairs toilet fixed.) and I uttered with great ire,
"I knew it! I knew it! Taking Mr Coyle to the Balmoral show was like taking a culchie from County Tyrone into the hot, seedy, sexy heart of Soho."
"For ever and a day," roared Tommy, "this Balmoral show shall be known as the immoral Balmoral show!"
I concurred behind the sofa where no one could see it.
When I saw him come out of a high class chocolatier I took after him yelling, "Are ye right there Michael? Are you right?"
For it was indeed dashing, debonair MLA, Michael Nesbitt.
"SO!" I yelled. "The gamekeeper has turned poacher."
"I suppose you could say that," said Mike. "You look well after your electric shock treatment."
"I am Mike," I gushed. "Thanks to the electric shocks I feel-brilliant! Tell me Mike," I said,grabbing his arm and taking him down a dingy alley. "How will you feel when Paul Clarke, or Noel Thompson come over all Jeremy Paxman with you?"
Mike smiled and said with a laugh,
"Who's the daddy? I AM Mr TV. I cut my teeth on cameras and my knees on trailing electric cables. I will swat Clarke and Thompson like flies and Steven Nolan like a big, fat bluebottle."
"Mike," I yelled, grabbing him by the knees of the trousers. "I have a problem with a toilet, could you help me?"
"SURE!" smiled Mike. "No probs. Just make an appointment with my secretary and the first open window that appears on my calendar, you can climb in through it."
I watched in awe as Mike walked away. He had made it! Mike was a REAL politician who could give you the brush off with a sincere smile. I ran off to tell Hugo Duncan about my brush with fame. Poor Hugo, he doesn't get out much these days. But his love, his love, keeps cascading down.

A Girl's Night Out

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which drew a grudging, "Let's not get too excited. We'll see how it goes" from Tom Elliott when I asked him if he would attend my funeral.
Michael McGimpsey is going. I hope the King of comedy doesn't ruin my funeral with merry japes and frivolous tom-foolery. Steven Nolan will be there, to make the crowd look bigger than it is.
Tommy my cat came in, threw me a dead mouse and said, "Her at number 27 with the curlers and the elastic stocking wants to know if you're up for a girls' night out."
"A girls' night out?" I echoed. "What night club in its right mind would let me and that old rat bag in? Both of us are, BR, (botox resistant) and our chronic incontinence is the talk of corner boy innuendo and every fashionable, social gathering."
"Alas that is true," said Tommy. "I have heard you refered to as, "Old Drippy" at a cocktail party in Stormount."
"That was Margaret Ritchie, head wrangler at the SDLP!" I yelled. "Margaret promised to bring women up to the same level of stupidity as men and yet she calls me, "Old Drippy" in the company of respectable gentlemen AND Sammy Wilson! MAGGIE, MAGGIE, MAGGIE! OUT! OUT! OUT!" I screamed.
Tommy picked me up, put me under his arm and said,
"It's time you had your nappy changed Drippy."
"Your teeth are like tombstones in an abandoned graveyard," said Giles Guano my former Gestapo dentist. "What in the name of the Dehaunt principes have you been eating?"
I hitched my hessian dress up a few inches to increase my chances of being interfered with and said,
"Since I gave up smoking I have been sucking on a WW2 hand gerenade to ease the tobacco craving."
"A hand grenade?" roared Herr Guano, like it was something unusual. Come on, we've all done it!
"What would have happened if the pin came out?" he said.
I simpered up at Giles from my recumbant position and coyly replied,
If the pin came out, my drawers would have fallen round my ankles. With a merry flick of my toe I would have flipped them into the gutter and walked on with a merry, devil-may-care attitude singing, "I got the bare arse blues from my head to my shoes. .The pin done come undone and my knickers I did lose.
Play that slide guitar Bosco. Bring it on home Willie John.
Oh yeh. Take me on home! Take me on home for grits, gumbo and black-eyed peas."
Yours Respectfully,
Old Drippy

Is John Ginger?

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which gave 97 year old Sheldon Blutack the strength, perseverance and determination to climb Croagh Patrick. Unfortunately, old Sheldon did not have the strength, perseverance and determination to climb back down the holy mountain. He spent the night sheltering under a whin bush and is hoping and praying that today's great show will give him the strength, perseverance and determination to make the descent.
Tommy my cat came down the stairs wearing a teeny-weeny bikini, pushed-back sunglasses and feline mug plastered with sun cream.
"Too much Tommy," I said. "You look like a mime artist."
Tommy looked out at the searing heat and said, "It's the ginger toms I feel sorry for today. They can't stand the heat. They break out in hives and are driven mad by prickly heat."
"Ann Robinson must be scratching like a dog with fleas in weather like this," I laughed.
"It's not funny," said Tommy. "On a sunny day like today, my thoughts go out to, Ann Robinson, Chris Evans, Red Hurley and John Daly."
"John Daly?" I exclaimed. "John Daly is bald, not ginger."
"Oh he is!" said Tommy. "John Daly is as ginger as a ginger nut. I saw him naked."
"YOU saw the venerable John Daly NAKED?" I shrieked. "Where did you see John Daly bereft of clothes?"
Tommy winked, leered most horribly and began to sing,
"Down at the Y.M.C.A.
The Y.M.C.A.
I ran into John Daly, so nude and so bare
Looking down I saw a quick flash of dry, ginger hair.
Down at the Y.M.C.A
The Y.M.C.A."
Could it be true? Was John Daly a closet-ginger? There was only one way to find out. I grabbed my camera, binoculars and Ikea, fold-up ladder and sprinted to the home of John "Red" Daly. If I was lucky I would get him stepping out of the shower. I tingled all over with excitement as I saw the photograph and banner headline in the Sunday World..
"LOOK!!! Is this the reason John Daly wears trousers???

The Reality About Talent Shows

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show made all the more remarkable when news leaked out that Mr Coyle had his feet up on his desk and a bored look on his face for the entire show.
"Lack of commitment and an obsessive desire for gabardine underpants will be the end of Mr Coyle!" yelled Tommy my cat. "If I were Gerry,I would tie Mr Coyle to the wheel of a field gun, roll up my sleeves, pick up the cat-oh-nine tails and give Mr Coyle one lash."
"You're a hard task-master Tommy cat," I said. "It's YOU who should be sitting on judgement on the brain-dead, gibbering zombies who appear each week on American Idol."
"A job I would relish," said Tommy."I would leap to my feet and roar,
"YOU! you can't dance, you can't sing. What use are you? You're just a waste of space. You're just the holes in a bar of Crunchie. GUARDS! Take him away and shoot him." You may well laugh," said Tommy, "but the way talent shows are going and reality shows in general, that could be a reality in five years time."
"And About Time!" I yelled. "Who wants to hear, "Give Him The Money Mabel" and then see a pound, perhaps even one pound fifty handed over to some old,grey, mummified codger who just played, "Roll Out The Barrel" on the spoons."
I grabbed the bible, mounted a mound of lime-green beanbags and spoke thus,
"You speak of a far-off golden time," I yelled. "The potter's wheel, Tea time with Tommy. TV spared us from the harsh realities of life. Take childbirth, an actress entered an hospital and emerged one week later with a new born child who appeared to be two years old. We never saw the screaming, the yelling, the cursing, the over-acting and the masked choir of medics chanting, "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!"
"A golden age indeed," said Tommy. "But I always thought the cowboys were a bit, you know-funny. Take the Cartwright family in Bonanza. Three, single, grown up sons living at home with Pa. Not a woman in sight, even the cook was a Chinese male."
"Some of the horses were fillies!" I yelled.
"The Cartwright family had just two aims in life, shooting people and never changing their clothes."
Tommy leered and said, "The Sooty and Sweep Show was a bit near the knuckle. Old Harry Corbett had his hand right up Sooty's......."
"GET OUT!" I yelled. "And may flood, famine, pestilence and piles follow thee all the days of your life!"
I then stormed into the house to watch, "I have a 134 foot tapeworm in my large intestine."

A Good Spanking

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which brought a wave of pride and hope to clocking hens all over Ulster. One old rooster, wings dragging in the dust, limped slowly away muttering,
"My work here is done."
The clocking hens looked pensively and sadly after him. They knew, they KNEW deep in their hearts, feathers and parson's noses that in spite of his promises he wouldn't ring back. Just chooks that pass in the night.
A nice dinner, bottle of wine, a little Barry White, SQUAWK!!! and it's, "wham-bamn and thank you mam."
Tommy my cat pirouetted into the room wearing a Barcelona football shirt and a pair of very revealing ballet tights. He did a twirl with his arms above his head and said,
"How silver-haired Paul Clarke is getting. Why,one might very well take him for Pamela Ballentine's brother. When dear Paul was reporting from Dublin on the Queen's visit, I must say he appeared very Tom O'Connorish."
"Frank Mitchell, nee, McCrory!" I yelled. "Frank Mitchell has driven Paul and Pammy old before their time with his infernal, ten best of this and ten best of that!"
"What a naughty little Lego man Frank is." said Tommy.
"Why,for two pins I would put him over my knee and spank him until his bum looked like a pink blancmange."
I looked at Tommy strangely and said, "Hold on! Hold on! Do you and Frank Mitchell think I'm stupid? If you want to spank Frank Mitchell, or if Frank Mitchell wants to spank you, it won't happen under my roof. I may be hidey behind the sofa when the rent man calls, but I am no Heidi Fleiss!"
Spanking indeed! I have a good mind to put that cat over my knee and beat him like a dirty hearth rug.

JIM'S PLAN

Great show yesterday kid.
But a great show which FAILED to warn us about Michael McIntyre Night on the comedy channel on Saturday night. Yes! 14 hours of the chubby, chunky, posh, public school boy striding round the stage like a demented telly-tubby. Michael McIntyre, Gay McIntyre? No! No! - NAY!
It's unbelieveable that Gay McIntyre would have a love child, but stranger things happen. Who would have thought that speech challenged Cheryl Cole and Nadine Coyle would team up to play the flower pot men?
"Weed! Weed!" giggled Tommy my cat.
"Well clean it up!" I roared. "You know where the Jeyes Fluid is."
Filled with fried bread and sporting fervour I yelled, "Tommy, how can we stop the naughty Republic of Ireland stealing all our young football players?"
"Don't worry," said Tommy, "Jim Rodgers has a plan."
As I heard the name, Jim Rodgers,I felt a strange stirring in my loins and a hot flush spread over my face like a gorse fire.
"From the 1st of June," said Tommy,"every baby born in Northern Ireland, will be stamped, "Made in Northern Ireland" on its little pink bottom and will carry a special, personal, sprog number. Then in 20 years time if Jim has reason to believe that a young Northern Ireland lad is playing for the Republic, he will run on to the field, pull down the lad's shorts and look on both cheeks for the tell-tale tatoo."
"Brilliant, smashing and foolproof!" I cried.
"Soon," said Tommy, "mockers won't be calling our brave football team, Northern Ireland Nil."
"Fantastic!" I yelled. "Soon the cry will be, Northern Ireland ONE, the Republic of Ireland SIX!"
Tommy and I exchanged shirts and went off, arm in arm for a bath.
What would we do without Jim Rodgers? Her Majesty should knight him and knight him NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!!!

Nil Desperandum

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that Northern Ireland can not play football and should not be allowed anywhere near a football pitch.
Tommy my cat and I watched in disgust as Northern Ireland, with no guns blazing, went down 2-0 to a poor Welsh side.
And then,and then, Stephen Watson said, "Northern Ireland may not have scored any goals in this strange, weird, tournament which fluctuated madly between the sublime and the ridiculous, but they leave Dublin with their pride intact!"
KNICKERS!" yelled Tommy my cat." He picked up a rare rooster's egg given to him by Jordie Tuft on the day of his barMitzvah and threw it at Stephen Watson, hitting him right up the gub.
Tommy cried into a dirty tea towel and sobbed,
"Where are our George Bests, our Dennis Taylors and Alex Higgins? Where are our Joey Dunlops and Eddie Ervines. WHERE," yelled Tommy, "are our Mary Peters?"
I cleared my throat with a small, miniature chimney brush and said, "Nil Desperandum! We still have Jim Rodgers. No one in the world can leap over a woman dressed in a red, furry, tomato costume like our Jim."
Tommy wiped his eyes and said,
"Oh thank you, strange, ancient creature, I feel much better now."
With a bound and a skip the cheerful pussy picked up a battered, bent trombone and marched off in the direction of his shock proof, water resistant po, trousers hanging round his ankles and loudly playing, "When the saints go marching in."
When it comes to trombone playing, it's hard to beat a cat who has studied at Guilliard and practised religiously in the back yard.
With Tommy gone, I stripped naked, covered my body with honey and rolled all over the floor.
It's the best way I know to get fluff out of a carpet!
Go on, give it a go. Since I started rolling round the floor covered in honey, I feel much more confident and feminine.
Girl power, my big, fat bum! Give me old bag power anytime.