What This Situation Needs.

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show, which after the sensational disclosures by ace reporter Jordie Tuft about illiterate, uneducated, street fish sellers, had herring men queueing up round the block for elocution lessons.
"Herrings Paddy. Not herons. Roll your R's Paddy, roll your R's."
Tommy my cat strapped a new flea collar on to my neck and said,
"After an extensive search of ALL TV listings, I regret to inform you that there are no special programmes about Rory McIlroy on TV tonight."
"How soon they forget!" I yelled.
"It's Steven Watson I feel sorry for," said Tommy. "There he is, complete with camera crew, hoping, praying, wishing and dreaming for a call to interview the curly one, but the phone, like a Trappist monk,remains silent. What is the lad to DO?" screamed Tommy.
I flicked a locust from off my nose and said,
"In a situation like that, the only thing to do is dig out the old Joey Dunlop and George Best tapes."
"It's either that," said Tommy, "or another interview with a man who nearly worked on the Titanic."
"What Ulster needs," I cried, "is another Charlie Witherspoon. A man who will get on his bike and reveal,in all their horrific glory, the veritable legion of grotesques who inhabit this fair land like fruit flies. How I long, how I pine to see a man staring into a field of rushes and reminiscence about working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Why do old men stare into empty fields?" said Tommy.
"This is no country for old men," I replied. "When an old man stares into a field, he is staring into the past. In that empty field lie all his hopes, loves, desires and accomplishments. Not standing proudly on plinths, shining and glittering with gold and silver, but trampled into the dust like manure by the big steam-roller of life. And that man staring into the field, knows deep in his heart, that life is nothing, but a sick joke, a con, a cheap bagatelle. Life's not a cabaret old chum, life is a caboodle of worry, fear and-death."
After a profound silence lasting two days Tommy looked at me and said,
"The old man must feel a right eejit for working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Ce monde est plein de fous," I muttered, as I made my way to the po.