Rejected because he's a Cat....

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought out Mr Coyle's innate kindness, generosity and philanthropic nature. When I heard Mr Coyle had opened his car window and hurled a half-eaten cheese sandwich at a beggar, with an ignorant yell of, "Now bugger Off Smelly!" I fell to my knees before a statue of Charles Dickens and yelled, "God bless us, everyone!" The highlight of the week for me was Wednesday, when you talked to a 48 stone man with no ambition to lose weight and climb mount Everest! Old Jordie's views on nuclear physics were interesting, but not exactly ground breaking. Tommy my cat, sat in front of the radio all week, holding an empty jam jar, hoping to catch one of Emma's dainty little coughs. Alas, Benelin won the day and Tommy came away with an empty jam jar, which will now be sterilized and used to hold tadpoles. I like a tadpole or two around the house. They bring a Zen-like tranquility to a home. Hence the well known poster, "A home Is Not A home Without A Tadpole." They say Damian Hirst made thousands out of that!!
Tommy ran to fetch the mail and came running back with a brown envelope in his hands. I spilled some needles and pins on the floor and stood on them as Tommy tore open the letter with teeth, claws and a Swiss army knife. Tommy read the letter, let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed on the floor. I watched the second half of Countdown and then ran to his side. "TOMMY!" I shrieked. "Speak to me, even if it's only to say, "I can't talk now, come back later." Tommy raised his little head and cried, "Hello rejection, my old friend. You've come to talk with me again." Tommy looked all around for a cat to kick and yelled, "Once more I have been turned down for a job on the police commission. Once again, the reason is the same, it's because I'm a CAT!. A CAT.......A....."
"But Tommy," I yelled, "there are many catholics on that board and one or two of them even pretend to follow the tenets of their faith."
"CAT!" roared Tommy. "Not catholic! They turned me down because I'm a CAT!"
"You kept that quiet," I said. "I had no idea. I thought you were my aunt Flo's boy. Nevertheless, you have as much right to be on that board as any Tom, Dick or Saddam. Why, the very dogs on the street are on the police commission."
"I know," said Tommy. "Sammy the dachshund told me it's a cushy little number. All you have to do is listen to Matt Baggott, droning on and on and then get stuck into the tea and biscuits." I raised my clenched teeth in the air and cried, "By the revolutionary drawers of Che Guevara, I will take this to the European court for human and feline rights. Questions will be asked," I roared, "in parliament and in the back snug of Patel's shebeen!"
"Leave me," said Tommy. "I am irrelevant. I had hoped to do some good, but if Matt Baggott treats me like a second-class cat, then on his own head be it."
Tommy staggered to his chair in front of the fire, pulled an old horse blanket round him and sobbed, "The police commission is a cold house for cats!"
I concurred repeatedly, until my legs gave way and I fell in a crumpled, dishevelled heap on the floor!