Beware Holidy Brochures!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which spurred on an old codger, who for the past week had been trying to climb the nine steps leading to the office of, "Truss In Us" makers of surgical appliances since 1862.
"A small step for man," croaked the old codger. "A giant LEAP for an old relic with multiple hernias." The old codger's joy turned to sadness when he was informed his custom made, rhinestone-studded truss had failed the stress test,due to metal fatigue in the fork.
" Buttermilk and boulevards," croaked the old wrinkly, as he donned an oxygen mask and prepared to make the hazardous descent back down the nine steps.
I was fast asleep when Tommy my cat woke me with a piercing scream of, "HELP!" I leapt out of bed like a wayward husband. "FIRE! POLICE! AMBULANCE!" I shrieked. As I bounded down the stairs like a Tubby Nolan on a helter-skelter a horrible sight met my eyes. There lay Tommy, buried alive under an avalanche of holiday brochures.
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "Don't you dare die on me." as I removed quite resonable offers of holidays in the Seychelles and Desert martin with my bare hands. I found Tommy lying pale and still under a special offer for self catering holidays in the Sahara desert. "TOMMY!" I cried. "Speak to me! If you're dead, blink your eyes."
"My leg!" yelled Tommy. "My leg is trapped under a family holiday in Blackpool for only £199.00."
"That's very reasonable," I panted, as I grasped the brochure with both hands and rolled it off Tommy's leg.
As I bent to give Tommy the kiss of life, the rescued feline leaped to his feet yelling, "I'm all right! Don't come near me with that big,ugly, stuck-out gub."
I wasn't satisfied, so I put on a CD of, Bosco McBog singing "Father O'Flynn" at high speed and made Tommy river dance in the corner for three hours.
I stopped Pamela Ballentine coming out of a newsagents with a copy of, "Woman's Own Busts" under her arm and asked how playboy and jet-setter Frank Mitchell had got on over the holidays.
"Ah, you know Frank," laughed Pamela. "Nothing bothers him. We call him Mr Cool back at UTV."
We were joined by Tara Mills, who was taking Jim Fitzpatrick for a walk on the end of a chain.
While Jim sniffed a lamp post blonde Tara, wiped her nose with a perfumed tissue and said,
"I don't know why, but every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bojangles and want to dance."
"Funny you should say that," said Paul Clarke, with a pound of special mince sticking out of his pocket.
"Every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bow-Legs and want to laugh."
"Oh you're awful Paul," giggled Tara. "Isn't he awful Pamela?"
"Don't be awful Paul," said Pamela. "Frank, after all, is our collegiate."
"More like, village eegit," laughed Paul. I left them bent over laughing. I don't see anything funny about pouring scorn and distasteful derision on a national treasure.