Let's Wish Mike Nesbitt Well but...Sure Wasn't he grand?

Great shows last week kid, which made many people revalue their lives and take out home insurance against termites, death watch beetles and the big, fat tenor from, 'Go Compare'.
Tommy my cat, feline, friend and frequent flyer yelled, "It's NESBITT! by a landslide!!!"
I dropped the small duckbilled platypus I was grooming and shrieked,
"The big question now is, in what direction will Mike take the UUP?"
Tommy slipped into a green, surgeon's gown, prior to dissecting a small, purple frog and said,
"The UUP is a very old vehicle. It is quite difficult to maneuver. The big end has gone, the springs are bust and she is leaking oil. Both indicators are flashing, you never quite know which way she will turn. The bumpers are bent and twisted due to numerous crashes with the DUP. The first thing Mike Nesbitt must do is put her up on a ramp and get her roadworthy. THEN! it is imperative that Mike Nesbitt, face down the back woods men in the party."
"Tommy!" I shrieked. "I demand enlightenment. "What is a backwoods man?"
"A back woods man," said Tommy, "is a dour, humorless, bowler hatted, God loving, Ulster/Scot. The species is dying out, but examples are still to be found in heavily wooded areas of Fermanagh and Tyrone. These men," cried Tommy, "can not be coaxed or led. These men might see Mike Nesbitt as a fly city slicker, a carpet bagger. If Mike Nesbitt, does not knock some sense into the hard heads of the back woods men, then the UUP party is doomed."
"SAVE THE UUP!" I cried. "Build a giant crossroads in the wilds of Fermanagh leading nowhere!"
"And who would look at THAT?" said Tommy. I grabbed Tommy by the throat and roared, "If you build it, they will come!"
"No, no," said Tommy. "What Mike Nesbitt must do, is schmooze the backwoods men without ruffling their feathers. Invite the movers and shakers to his home to meet Lynda and have a meal."
"Go to work on an egg?" I said.
"Exactly!" cried Tommy. "When the backwoods men meet the lovely Lynda and taste her divine boiled eggs, they may take a tentative step into the twenty first century."
"Seems like a big job to me," I said. "Sure, wasn't he grand? Wasn't Mike Nesbitt grand, reading the news. The wee smile, the twinkling eyes, sure, wasn't he grand?"
"It is a big job," said Tommy. "But let's wish Mike Nesbitt well. Let's hope he doesn't end up like Trimble, Empry, or, God forbid, Tom Elliott, who is walking round Fermanagh in a dream-like state yelling, "A vote for Elliott, is a vote for Status Quo, rocking all over the world".
I never answered. I was too busy muttering, "Sure, wasn't he grand! Sure, wasn't he grand! Grand, he was! Sure, wasn't he grand!"