The Hair Of The Dog For The Cat.

Great show yesterday kid. After the Saint Patrick's Day celebrations, Tommy my cat, came down the stairs on trembling legs. Oh, he was pale and wan. Tommy staggered to a chair, slumped down and whimpered, "Tell the walls to stop screaming!"
"You dirty, dirty cat!" I yelled. "I will have to wash all your bedclothes and your Betty Boop pyjamas."
"I'm sick," moaned Tommy. "I must have got a bad fish supper."
"Bad fish supper, my Aristotle Onassis!" I yelled. "You were poured in here at four o'clock in the morning. You were singing, a dirty rugby song and wearing nothing but a tattered simmet and one sock. Where were you?" I roared.
"At the Holy Lands," whispered Tommy. "I fell in with some Tyrone culshies and ended up at a bottle party."
"Poor Saint Patrick!" I yelled. "That's a fine way to honour the man who made the snakes scarper. You should be ashamed of yourself," I cried. "You are nothing but a booze hound, a newt, a drunk, a bum, a wino and a cat who drinks to excess. Now, what do you want for your breakfast?"
"Vodka and white," muttered Tommy, gazing up at me with two, red, pus filled eyes.
"Good boy!" I cried, "The hair of the dog, will soon cure the cat."
"Stop talking," said Tommy, " and bring on the Smirnoff." Soon, little Tommy was up on his feet singing, dancing and telling jokes which would be banned on HBO.
I came upon Steven Nolan, reversing out of a sweet shop. "BEEP-BEEP!" went Tubby. "Keep her coming," cried an old codger, who was standing behind Tubby, directing the reversing mass out to the street.
"You just had to show off yesterday!" I cried. "Biggest show in the country and biggest bunch of shamrocks on Saint Patrick's Day."
Tubby burped, which make his eyes blink and his ears shoot out and said, "I couldn't find a bunch of shamrocks big enough for my massive suit, so I pinned on a large cabbage."
"Good thinking fat man," I said.
I looked at the oval one and said, "I heard your good, saintly mother being interviewed on the radio by Vinny. She said, as a boy, you were a real go getter, sweeping out a garage at the age of eight, selling sandwiches to orange men, mowing gardens, washing windows, working as a scarecrow for farmers, ANYTHING! to earn a penny or two."
"Big Audrey is right," said Tubby. "As soon as I was out of nappies, I was earning. I was a real Sir Alan Sugar."
"And another thing," I yelled. "Your dear, sainted mother said, that as a boy, you were very thin!"
"Tubby stood there, gobsmacked."
I lay at Tubby's feet, looked up at the quivering mass and said,
"Where did it all go wrong Steven? Where did it all go wrong?"