Some Cocoon!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought little joy to an old codger, who had pushed a peanut up a hill with his nose. As the old codger stood smiling for press photographs with his hands up in the air, news suddenly broke that the old codger had failed a drug test. Officials said the old relic was found to be full of pumpkin puree, a well known illegal stimulant taken by old codgers who push peanuts up hills with their nose. The cup was snatched out of the old codger's hand and he was banned from taking part in any more pushing a peanut up hills with your nose events.
The poor old man, with his nose almost worn away, broke down and cried, "I don't know what came over me. I used to be an altar boy, you know."
Tommy my cat, yelled, "Winegate!" and lashed a glass of wine into my face like a wellknown singer did recently to Paul Martin and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle gloat, YES! I repeat it, gloat when he heard poor Gerry was sick?"
"I did!" I said. "How can a christian man, who believes in Limbo AND Purgatory, have such little compassion?"
"The more I hear of Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "the more I am convinced he was the youngest member of the Gestapo."
"There are pictures," I said, "pictures of Mr Coyle, as a very small boy, sitting on Hitler's knee."
"The next time Mr Coyle complains about his eye," said Tommy, "Gerry should whip out a pea-shooter and ping Mr Coyle right in the afflicted ocular."
Tommy kicked a scatter cushion all around the room. As the cushion flew through an open window, Tommy pulled his gansey over his head and yelled, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"OFF SIDE!" I roared. "The wardrobe moved up the floor leaving you in an off-side position."
"RUBBISH!" yelled Tommy. "The coffee table was between me and the window."
I pulled out a red card, handed it to Tommy and said, "Take that to her at number 27, with the bad perm. The postman mistakenly left it here seventeen years ago."
As I slithered through Belfast, like some hideous, repulsive, creature of the night, I found to my surprise I was singing, "I Enjoy Being A Girl" at the top of my voice. I saw a glint, a flash and I was on him like a lurcher. "Mr John Daly, I presume," I cried, pulling off the mauve, beanie hat and revealing the celestial dome in all its naked, nude glory.
"Get off!" yelled nein Herr Daly. "You're squashing my blackberry."
"Do I look bothered?" I said. "Face, bothered?" I wrapped my prey in a sticky, gooey substance and spun him into a cocoon. Back home I scurried and hung Mr Daly up with my other cocoons.
If you haven't seen John Daly, John Bennet, George Jones, Lord Laird, or Mark Durkin on TV recently, well now you know why!
The big prize would be to capture the giant, all eating, Tubbyious Nolanious, but it's going to take some web. Boy, that would be some cocoon!!!!!