How Radio Used To Be.

Tommy my cat looked at me and said, "What a great, strange show that was."
"Just two guys hanging out," I said. "Just two guys shooting the breeze."
"No structure," said Tommy, "no script, no idea what they were going to say next. Just two guys talking."
"That's how radio should be!" I yelled. "Communication, conversation, speech!
There is far too much loud music on radio," I cried. "People are crying out for sane, intelligent conversation and if Sean Coyle had not been there yesterday that is what we would have got!"
"Just two guys talking," said Tommy. "What a great name for a show! That's how radio used to be. I remember Gilbert Harding, Bernard Levin, Malcolm Muggridge, Alan Titchmarsh."
I broke in and cried, "I remember old Marmaduke or was it, Marmite Hussy, standing on the back of a wee, blue, Fergie tractor yelling........."
"Who stole my leg?" ventured Tommy. "NO!" I cried. "Old Marmaduke stood there, a bit lop-sided and yelled, "More speech! Capiche!"
"I remember that," said Tommy. "Then old Marmaduke's parrot flew up a woman's skirt and there were questions asked in the House of Commons."
"There were questions asked," I said. "Bob Brick, representing the boiler makers' and stokers' union called out, "Mr. speaker. Hey up, Mr speaker, my members demand to know parrot's name, by gum."
When the speaker replied, "Polly" the honorable members threw their order papers in the air and began to sang, "She was as beautiful as a butterfly, proud as a Queen, was pretty, little, Polly Perkins, from Paddington Green." Tommy picked up a Queen Ann po and roared, "Order in the house, or I'll clear the chamber!"
I threw back my head and sang, "She was only a milkmaid's daughter, but udders stole her cream."
Tommy cried, "Look at me, I'm Arkle!" and cut the whole face off himself when he tried to jump over the half door.
I grabbed Tubby Nolan, coming out of a "Pies For All Occasions" outlet and roared,
"Listen up butter-ball, I want the name of your tailor and I want it quick. Tommy's birthday is coming up soon and I want to order a large tent."
"Don't squash my pies," shrieked the oval one.
"Enough with the old sexy, love talk," I growled. "Who, whom, or what makes your gigantic trousers?"
Tubby ruminated, a horrible sight to see, especially in broad daylight, and slabbered,
"I have a little man,".
"Listen punk," I yelled, "I told you to cut out the old, sexy love talk."
"You don't understand," cried Tubby. "The little man lives in America. His name is Mr Boeing."
"Boeing?" I said. "Doesn't he make...........?"
"Yes," said Tubby. "Mr Boeing makes aeroplanes as a sideline. His main job is making clothes for me."
"Did he make that horrible "Thing" you're nearly wearing?" I asked.
"Yes, he did," replied Tubby. "Note the sweptback sleeves, the stream-lined gusset and the air intake just above my fork."
"What's that thing attached to your belt?" I asked.
Tubby giggled and said, "That's my black box, mind you, in reality, it's an orange box."
Seventeen little hoodies, wearing Celtic football shirts pricked up their ears at the word-orange.
The last thing I saw, was Tubby, sprinting down a buslane, laden down with pies and hotly pursued by a pack of baying, sports' fans, all ardent devotees of, the beautiful game!