Remembering The Good Old Days.

Great show yesterday kid.
Freed of the dragging anchor called Mr Coyle.the S.S. Gerry skipped over the waves without interruption or equipment malfunction. It makes you wonder why nothing works when the eyebrow is around!!!. SABOTAGE is an ugly word, but in this instance is fully justified.
Tommy my cat lifted his head from under the bonnet of the old, bullnose Morris car behind the sofa and said,
"People who play mirrored accordions shouldn't throw stones."
"Right on Bro!" I cried. "And people who play the tuba should always carry the phone number of a reliable plumber."
"Polish?" said Tommy.
"Of course they polish their tubas!" I yelled. "Old Pete Postlewaite would have your garters for guts if you didn't polish your instrument in, Brassed Off."
"Ah the sound of the tuba," said Tommy,"and a little, ragged urchin walking on cobblestones to the corner shop to steal a Hovis loaf and five woodbine."
"A different world," I sighed. "I remember walking down a working class street. The sound of TB coughing coming from upstairs windows, and women, WOMeN with massive rumps raised in the air polishing their front steps.
"OLD CODGERS!" I yelled. "releasing pigeons and watching them fly high and free, while coal dust eats away at their lungs like a cancer."
"Cold tea and bread and dripping," said Tommy, "with a nice slice of ham on a Sunday."
"EEEH!" I said.
"EEEH!" said Tommy. "Them were the good old days. I walked down a working class street yesterday," said Tommy. "The vista, the tableau, the pictorial impression was oh so different. Little 50 inch women sitting on sofas, watching Jeremy Kyle on 56 inch TVs."
"When our TVs are bigger than our coffins," I cried, "we are on the road to ruin."
"BACK TO BASICS!" yelled Tommy. "Time to throw our drugs away and return to a time, a golden time, when life expectancy for a man was forty four and a half."
"Home births!" I yelled "And nits in the hair!"
"Black, rotten teeth!" cried Tommy. "The working class should have nothing to smile about."
"Borstal!" I roared.
"The Birch!" cried Tommy.
"THE ROPE!" I yelled as white foam ran freely from my lips. "Bring back the ROPE. It never did me any harm."
Then Tommy and I rang for a taxi and made our way to the Post Office in style to lift our DLA money!