Time Does Not Exist.

Great shows in 2011 kid. Last year's great shows brought a degree of respectability to crude, cornerboy antics and greatly advanced the cause for making National Slapper day a bank holiday.
"Who goes there?" I yelled, as Tommy my cat came downstairs wearing a 1954 Burton's suit and a superior look on his sensitive, classical, feline features. "I go there!" roared Tommy. "The name's, Cat, Tommy Cat. I have a licence to do my business in flower beds and sit in front of the fire with my leg up in the air."
"Tommy, my little feisty feline," I shrieked. "Happy New Year! May your wee lum reek and your bawbees jingle in the coming year. May your kilt swing, your sporran dance, your haggis prosper and your wee breeks cling like limpets to your two, bonny, wee, scrawny hips."
Tommy spat the seed from a Cox's Pippin in the general direction of Iran and said, "Wheest your auld bleather woman. This is not the New Year, it is not Sunday and it is not half past ten in the morning."
I fell back against the wickerwork aquarium, like Dave "Boy" McCauley used to do and yelled, "Hold on there a cotton-picking moment. How dare you stand there spouting rubbish like Galleio Galleio, or Boris Johnson. Explain yourself or, by the Lady Gaga, I'll tickle the backs of your legs with a sally rod."
Tommy put one foot up on an imaginary step and said, "Time is an abstract, it is not a reality. In fact, time does not exist. Take the singularity of a black hole. There is no time there. You will never hear a black hole saying,"What time is it?" or, "Happy New Year."
"But Tommy," I cried. "I see the hands on the clock move. I hear the church bells proclaim it to be Sunday."
"Man-made manifestations of stupidity and fear," laughed Tommy. "Man has never understood time and space. In an effort to understand and harness time, man has come up with childlike names like hours, days, weeks, months and years. Can you see time, touch it, smell it? NO! Time does not exist and yet men go around asking, "Hi sir, have you got the correct time?" The fools!" said Tommy. "The poor, stupid, thick, innocent-fools."
Driven to distraction by the abstraction of time I yelled, "Why does a woman take more time to get ready than a man?"
"I haven't got time for this nonsense," said Tommy. "I'm off for a game of snooker at the British Legion. What time do you want me home for dinner?" "Why don't you ask the singularity in your black hole!" I yelled, as I ripped the calender from the wall and broke every clock in the house!