McCrea's Trip To San Diego.

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which unfortunately, failed to prick the conscience of Basil McCrea and the cabal of MLAs who are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense. Tommy my cat and I attended the press conference up at Stormont.
"Mr McCrea," yelled a very blonde and very irate Eamon Mally, "can you explain why YOU, and a number of other MLAs are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," replied Basil McCrea. "This trip to San Diego is NOT a junket. We are going on a fact finding trip, which could in time, bring great rewards to the hard working and non-working people of Ulster."
"With all due respect Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "that is bunkum and balderdash! People see this as a group of MLAs setting off on a free holiday."
"I resent that!" cried Basil McCrea. "This will be a business trip, not a pleasure trip. If I wanted pleasure I would go home at dinner time."
(Tommy and Ken Reid giggled and sniggered at this reply.)
"Mr McCrea," roared the ever genial Ken Reid,"what will you be studying while in San Diego?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," said Basil McCrea. "We shall be studying San Diego's unemployed and comparing them to our own unemployed. We will spend our time studying dole queues. We will travel to every street corner in San Diego to see how the San Diego cornerboys comport themselves. I have noticed in Ulster, a tendency for our cornerboys to slouch, scowl and yell fly wans after members of the general public.".
Eamon Mally, elbowed Ken Reid in the guts and yelled,
"I am dumbfounded Mr McCrea, completely dumbfounded, that you would seriously think an all expenses paid trip to Sad Diego could in any way help our unemployed!"
"Well that's where you're wrong Mr Smarty Pants!" roared Basil McCrea. "Only today, I have put out for consultation a bill that will compel all the unemployed to be compulsory spray-tanned to make them appear more healthy and pleasing to the eye.".
"Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "you are a-tube!"
"Mr Mally," yelled Basil McCrea, "so are YOU!!!!"
"Democracy at work," said Tommy, "is like a sausage factory. It's much better in the long run not to see what's going on behind the scenes." Without warning, I instinctively-concurred!
When we got home Tommy donned a Gladstone death mask, leaped up on the mantle-piece and yelled, "The word, epochal is tossed about lightly in boardrooms, whaling ships and Ann Summer's parties. YET, on Saturday, first minister Peter Robinson, made a speech that was truly epochal, truly ground-breaking and historical. Peter Robinson, who used to follow Martin Luther and now follows Martin Luther King, called for an end to sectarianism. "No more, them and us!" yelled Peter. "Go home and prepare for peace, prosperity and prose from Seamus Heaney."
"All very well and good,"I yelled, "but we don't want to turn into a nation of pacifists, Quakers or Amish. If there's no them and us, where will we fight?" "AT HOME," yelled Tommy, "where God fearing,hard working, decent, honest people have been fighting since the dawn of time behind closed curtains!" I let out my face to an evil grin and said, "Tommy, you're not one of us." Quick as a flash Tommy replied, "Well you are certainly one of them!" I retired, hoist, pierced, run through and skewered by my own petard!!!

THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused a great change in Jim Allister. Jim or, Jimmy boy, as he likes to be called, morphed into a happy, cheery chap and ran out and embraced first minister Peter Robinson and second minister Martin McGuinness. Both men ran to the high court and took out an injunction on Sunny Jim, alleging sexual molestation and vexing and annoying Bonnee amie.
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat in the corner playing solitaire and cheating like a riverboat gambler.
"Attend me Tommy," I said. "I desire one of your brilliant, smashing, professional critiques. You heard sick bag Sally sing and play the banjo, how would you sum up her performance?"
Tommy threw the devil's play things from him and said,
"Sick bag Sally nailed it! She made it her own! I predict that Sickbag Sally will be Ulster's answer to yon Susan Boyle. I heard on the grapevine that Simon Cowell has slipped into a figure-hugging t-shirt and is on his way to sign Sick bag Sally and promote her musical and vocal talent on the worlds stage."
"Cor Slimy!" I cried. "Sick bag Sally could be another Alma Cogan, Kathy Kirby or Captain Sensible!"
"She could indeed!" said Tommy. "HOWEVER, it would be remiss of me not to point out one glaring fault."
"What fault Tommy?" I yelled. "Her clothes? Her appearance? Her catholic upbringing?"
"Neither!" cried Tommy. "If I were Sick bag Sally, I would take the banjo to someone who CAN play it and get it tuned!" I looked at Tommy in wonder and awe. What a cat! Tommy cut right to the chase and pointed out that all musical instruments have to be tuned. I bet Phil Coulter doesn't know that! Listen carefully to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and you will find the crash cymbal is flat.
Tommy and I lay in front of the fire, like two lurcher dogs, talking about the good old days. "Powdered eggs," said Tommy. "Birds instant custard took two days to make. The clip-clop of clogs. The rattle of rickets and the shrill, piercing cries of tapeworms."
"The sound of cart wheels on cobble stones," I said. "The shrill cry of, "Bring out your dead" Boils, Buboes and blackheads."
Tommy smiled and said, "It was a golden age. A golden age for pus."
"THEN!" I cried. "Old Alexander Fleming left his half-eaten bap on the window sill and invented penicillin and pus was defeated."
"Could old Alex not let things alone?" Tommy yelled. "We were poor, filthy and disease ridden, but we were happy."
Tommy looked at me and said, "Did not Alex Fleming also invent phlegm in the chest?"
"Yes he did," I said. "He also invented the annual check-up and the repeat prescription."
"Who invented the DLA?" said Tommy.
"Daniel Larry Assburger," I replied. "He also invented malingering, malaise and the malignant mallet."
"The wonders of science," said Tommy, as he injected 1,000mg of Novacine into my rear. As yet, there is no cure for a numb bum!!!

The New Captain Of The SS.SDLP.

Welcome back kid. Kelly and Coyle, the Burke and Hare of the airways, did good. Both men played to their strengths. Kelly played interesting music and conducted probing interviews with people I have never heard of before. Coyle's contribution was a pot-smoking, drug-fueled orgy of,peace man,flowers in your hair,free love, flared trousers,hippy, happy drug feast.
Let me bring you up to speed with what happened in Nor'n Ireland while you were away.
There is a new, thrusting, swash-buckling captain aboard the SS SDLP.
His name is, Doctor Alasdair McDonnell. I know, I never heard of him either! Alasdair, or Big Al, as he likes to be called, has big plans for the party which made such a political break through with, the reality is!!!
"There are SDLP voters out there!" yelled big Al. "My job is to beat them out of the heather and bracken and back into the voting booths!"
"What about, WOMEN?" shrieked former leader, Margaret Richie.
"There will always be room in the SDLP for women!" roared big Al. "The reality is, someone has to make the tea."
"RESIGN!" yelled Alex Attwood, a man who does not take defeat lightly.
Now for news closer to home. Tommy my cat passed the cycling proficiency test last week. The instructor said Tommy negotiated the intricate maze of red cones like Tubby Nolan on the scent of a fish supper. As Tommy was cycling furiously home to tell me the good news, he was overcome with feline exhilaration, bordering on hysteria. Forgetting every thing he had learned, Tommy raised both hands high in the air and yelled, "TOP OF THE WORLD MA!"
Those who saw the accident say Tommy tumbled over the handle-bars and cut the whole face off himself on the unforgiving asphalt. At first I was furious, but it's hard to stay cross with a cat who is sitting glumly in the corner with two black eyes and missing a front tooth. To say Tommy looks like a cross between Dusty Springfield and Terry Thomas would be putting it mildly. Around Tommy's neck hangs a bib stating, NIL BY MOUTH!
OH the fun Tommy and I have with the tuna suppositories four times a day!
You should segue-way now into, "Stick your job where the sun don't shine!"

The Hermit Syndrome.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made a furious Gregory Campbell yell, "Why is no one occupying the grounds of the Vatican Hi? Why are there no tents outside the Pope's window?" But let's draw a line under that.
Tommy my cat, put on a powdered wig and said, to a small, parish urchin who was peering in the window, "BOY! I say, boy! Run to the apothecary and get me a pint of laudanum, two tinctures of mercury and a box of mansize tissues. I feel an ague coming on." The small boy hit Tommy a thump up the hooter and cried, "What did your last, small, parish urchin die off?"
"Wretched child," muttered Tommy, as his nose bled like a drain.
"WHY?" I yelled into the dismal, darkness of a Belfast street. "WHY does old Jordie Tuft inspire such confidence in sane, intelligent people?
"It's the hermit Syndrome," said Tommy. "Since the dawn of time, people have convinced themselves that old codgers, living alone, are fonts of wisdom and wise sage-like figures. Kings have lavished gold on old codgers living in caves who couldn't tell you what day of the week it was. It is a security blanket," I cried. "Knowing not the answer ourselves, we think an old headbanger living in the wilds, wearing animal skins, can answer our quest for knowledge."
"I visited an old hermit-stroke-oracle," said Tommy. "I found him living down a well, eating nothing but weeds and mud. OH, great wise one," I hollered down, "why do you live in a well, cut off from home, family and society?"
"In a shrill, piping voice the aged one answered, "Because I can't fill in a DLA form you ugly tube!"
"It is a universal condition," I said. "We, who know nothing, like to think the Gods have given all knowledge to crazy, old fools, who never wash or comb their hair and smell like rancid stoats."
"Then we must be stupid!" yelled Tommy.
"We are!" I said. "It is part of the human condition to be stupid and to seek out old coffin-fodder looking for the meaning of life."
"What a world!" said Tommy. "Is it any wonder Queen's University is handing out phds to any Tom, Dick, or Darren Clarke?"
"Never mind," I said. "Let's open two tins of condensed milk and get the Ludo board out."
"Splendito!" cried Tommy. "A reason for life if ever there was one!!!"

Michael D's Only Worry.

Great shows last week kid. The subliminal message planted in the minds of Free Staters by Jordie Tuft, hidden in cooking -sherry -induced, yells, squawks, barks and animalistic mating cries, carried wee Michael D. over the winning line.
Old Jordie's subliminal message was, "The Old Dog For The Hard Road."
Tommy my cat, adjusted his comb-over and said, "Alas, Dana's 2% late surge was too little, too late. Senator Steven Norris, with the help of floaters did reasonably well. Gay Mitchell, may as well have stayed in the house. And Sean "The Bagman" Gallagher is still bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Here's to Michael D, the Barry O'Sullivan of Irish politics. Today, Michael D, has only one worry on his mind."
"And what would THAT be?" I yelled from the wardrobe, where I was pretending to be a coat hanger.
"His address," yelled Tommy. "Soon, Micheal D will live in a house called, THE ARAS!"
"In the name of the sacred brown envelope!" I cried. "Poor Michael D, must be as sick as Polly the parson."
Tommy stuck a wad of blue fluff into his navel and said, "It's the postman I feel sorry for. Imagine having to stuff thousands of letters through the letterbox of the Aras. I thank the good Lord that my house is called, "The Pissoir's Retreat."
As I came out of Easons clutching a copy of, "My wicked, wicked life" by Noel Beatty, I was just in time to see a confrontation between Tubby Nolan and the police. "Put the pie down Tubby and step away from it!" yelled Matt Baggott. "You'll never take me hungry copper!" roared Tubby.
"Shall I tazer the oval one Sir?" said constable Bluebottle.
"Are you mad?" yelled Matt Baggott. "Tubby is full of flamable gas! Do you want to start a roaring inferno?"
"I don't really care Sir," said constable Bluebottle. "I just want to fire my tazer gun."
As Tubby made good his escape with the pie, Matt Baggott gave constable Bluebottle a massive riser up the ARAS!

Plans To Hold An Intervention.

Great show yesterday kid. Would-be Irish President, Sean Gallagher, listened to the great show in his peat bunker, while throwing darts at a photograph of Martin McGuinness. Wizened leprechaun, Senator Steven Norris and matronly Dana, held hands and sang, "All kinds of Everything" to a bemused man and his dog in Bally-Faddle town square. What the other candidates did, I do not know and I have no wish to know!
Tommy my cat, yelled,"COBBLERS!" and threw the "Shoe Makers' Weekly" into the bin. Tommy, braced himself, looked at me, boaked and said,
"When old Jordie got the bums rush yesterday, was he.......?"
"AS A NEWT!" I yelled. "High as a kite and full as a po!"
"Tut-Tut," said Tommy. "What a shame to see a great, beautiful mind brought so low by early morning, cooking sherry. Has he no control at all?"
"Not where cooking sherry or his bladder is concerned," I replied. "Old Jordie gets up very early, feeds the livestock, lights the fire and sits staring out the window. The bare trees, the grey sky, the desolate landscape silently scream, "Have a drink. One little drink won't do any harm." and soon old Jordie is dancing a jig and singing a Pecker Dunn song."
Tommy wiped his dirty hands on my tongue and said, "I hate to see a good man go bad. We must do something. We must hold an intervention live, on the Gerry Anderson show."
"Back of the net!" I yelled. "What a great idea! Gerry, Sean, Ken, Emma and the Lough Brickland fire brigade will tell old Jordie how much they love him and beg him, on bended elbows, to to put the cork back into the sherry bottle."
"I will cater the event," yelled Tommy. "I will serve up a running buffet on the back of a running rottweiler."
"Set and match!" I cried. "Old Jordie will collapse in a blubbering heap and promise never to drink again!"
"Stall the weddin!" yelled Tommy. "What beverages does one serve at an intervention?"
"Thank goodness you remembered!" I shrieked. "Run to the off-licence and get six bottles of Black Bush, six bottles of vodka, twelve bottles of sherry and a small bottle of pineapple juice for Emma."
What an intervention THIS is going to be! I can see stomach pumps and intensive care being involved before this intervention is over!

Wild Heavy Rain But No Ringer For Gerry.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused the usually unflappable Wendy Austin to cry,
"I can't possibly go on after that GREAT show! All I have to talk about is-rain! Gerry's show was full of exciting things like, lost dogs, Jordie Tuft, the strange, weird world of Sean Coyle and then Gerry goes and tops it off with, wood-chip wallpaper!"
The director of Talkback tried to cajole Wendy by promising her a nail to hang her coat on.
"Give me another subject that isn't about rain!" screamed Wendy. "Can I not do half an hour on flags and emblems?" A tearful Wendy sat in the Talkback studio as the seventh caller described the rain as "wild heavy!" In desperation Wendy yelled, "One can't help but wonder if any flags or emblems got wet!"
Tommy my cat and I stood behind the sandbags watching garden furniture, gnomes and inflatable rubber men swept down the street as a result of the "wild heavy" rain.
"It's good for the garden," said Tommy.
"It will keep the dust down," I replied.
"The farmers will be glad to see it," said Tommy.
"And the fishermen," I replied.
"It's wild heavy," said Tommy.
"It is wild heavy," I agreed.
Tommy and I sat staring at each other. Tommy coughed and said, "We have to talk."
After making a roast warthog, peas and diced rice I said, "Lay it on me dude."
Tommy made a little tent out of his hands and said,
"The question on the agenda is, Can Gerald Michael Anderson run the New York marathon???"
I sucked my teeth, put them back in my pocket and said, "In my humble opinion, Gerry is venturing on an impossible mission. Gerry is sailing into deep waters. New York is the Mount Everest of marathons. The big question is, can Gerry do the New York marathon, or will the New York marathon DO for Gerry. In conclusion, I fear Gerry has set himself a task which could prove-fatal!!!"
"I agree!" said Tommy. "We must save Gerry, but without Gerry losing face."
"A RINGER!" I yelled. "We replace Gerry with someone who is a dead ringer for Gerry!"
"Great idea," said Tommy. "However there is a flaw in your plan. Fergal Sharkey couldn't run the New York marathon either!!!"
Sorry kid. I'm afraid you-and you alone, must hit the bricks!