Too Much Churning.

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which bewitched Tom Elliott to such an extent, he ran out looking frantically for a catholic funeral he could attend.
But alas, not all were as enamoured with the great shows as uncle Tom. Tommy my cat has some complaints about the Thursday show. "Come on you pesky feline. Tell Gerry to his face why you didn't like the great Thursday show."
"I'm NOT saying I didn't like the Thursday show," said Tommy. "The Thursday show was a fine show. I'm just saying,in my opinion, there was too much talk about churning and churning is just a hop, skip and jump away from the vile, repulsive subject of--lactation."
I did an Ali shuffle in my Ugg boots and cried, "And what pray did lactation ever do to you?"
Tommy blushed bright red and said, "I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room the other day. Across from me sat a woman with a young baby. SUDDENLY! she opened her blouse and began to,---to,--front feed her baby."
"FRONT FEED!" I yelled. "Who are you, Oliver Cromwell or Sean Coyle? The mother was breast feeding her baby.It's quite natural. Even you were breast fed."
"I was not!" yelled Tommy. "Mummy had a big litter of kittens. I was the smallest and there was no teat for me. Only for United dairies I would have died."
"How odd," I mused. "And yet you support Manchester City! But tell me puerile, Puritan pussy, how did the episode with the lady who was breast feeding, or as you would say, front feeding, her baby end?"
"I told her to put them away," said Tommy, "and she bitch-slapped me across the face with them."
"What a boob," I laughed.
"There was more than one," replied the woe-begone feline.
After a lunch of under-cooked mutton,scallions, gooseberries and two sick bags, Tommy marched up and down beating his German swagger against his candy-pink fluffy,bedroom slippers. With a yell of, "Heil Nigel Dodds!" Tommy swung round and said,
"IF, Martin McGuinness is elected President of Ireland, will he turn it into another Cuba?"
"YES!" I yelled." The first thing Marty will do is shore up our hurricane defences by planting millions of palm trees all along the coast line."
"And about time too," said Tommy. "David "the beard" Ford promised to do that, but never got round to it."
"THEN!" I yelled. "Gallagher's factory will work 24/7 and 365 making giant cigars called, Titanics." Tommy ruminated, as cats do in a darkened corner and said,
"And will President Marty wear a drab, olive-green uniform and peaked cap like a petrol pump attendant?"
"Not only that!" I cried. "President Marty will dig silos in and around Cullybaccy and fill them with Russian missiles. Viva la Castro!" I yelled.
"Viva la Castrol!" roared Tommy.
And people say nothing exciting ever happens in boring old Northern Ireland!