Seven Into One Won't Go.

Great shows last week kid. Tommy my cat buttoned his battleship-grey cardigan and said, "The great shows last week will be remembered LONG after the zany, madcap, John Belushi, antics of Edwin Poots are but memories in the doting mind of old men."
I giggled and gurgled like a drain and said, "But, to give Poots his due, when he shrieks out, "Hey everybody, it's Teatime with Tommy!" and then does his little teapot impersonation,I laugh my Wigan Athletic, football socks off."
"Poots is a mere jester," said Tommy, " a fool, a buffoon, but underneath the clown's mask, Poots is crying like a baby."
I grabbed Tommy by the battleship-grey cardigan and cried, "Expand feline! Why would Edwin Poots, the minister of mirth, shed tears like an infant with nappy rash?"
"BECAUSE," yelled Tommy, "Edwin Thomas Poots wants to be a serious actor! Instead of playing the fool, Poots really wants to play Hamlet, Lear, Ali Baba and the old codger in Coronation Street, who sits in the corner mumbling, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb."
"That old codger in Coronation Street is a bridge too far for Poots!" yelled Tommy. "Were Poots to mumble, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb" in the throes of some misguided ambition to become legit, it would came over as the most rude, vile, repulsive double entendre of all time."
I rolled on the floor like a baby warthog, laughing my Wigan Athletic football socks off at the thought of Edwin Poots yelling, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb!"
Tommy walked to the window, looked towards Stormont, stuck up two fingers and said, "Down in the Free State, where everything is so expensive, The Magnificent Seven, seeking the Presidency of Ireland,are spurring on their mustangs as the finishing line draws ever closer."
"Margaret Thatcher. Bobby Charlton" I cried. "They sure took a hell of a beating."
"They sure did!" said Tommy. "Poor Senator Steven Norris got an awful mauling from big Miriam O'Callaghan. By the time big Miriam was finished with the dapper, little dandy he looked like a leprechaun who had lost his crock of gold." "Why do they do it?" yelled Tommy. "Why do they put their dignity on the line? Do they not know that seven into one won't go?"
"Now, you just hold on a doggone moment," I said. "Seven dwarfs went into SnowWhite's house!"
"NO! NO! NO!" yelled Tommy. "It was the other way about. Snow White went into the home of the seven dwarfs!"
Oh I do hate being corrected by a flea-ridden pussy. Out came my claws and soon Tommy's battleship-grey cardigan was rendered into thousands of little pieces.
The motto is, a cat should never correct a ratbag!!!