Fishing For Sardines

Great show yesterday kid. Price Phillip, listened to the show in his hospital bed and yelled, "I know that man, but I don't know what he does!!!" An Irish nurse said, "Ah, you poor man, you got foundered on that auld boat. Would you like a wee cup of tea in your hand?" "The absence of Mr Coyle," said Tommy my cat, "is akin to the workmen moving away from your front door." "It's so quiet and civilized," I said."No guldering, shouting, or raised voices." "Just like it must be in Prince William's and dear Kate's house," said Tommy. "OH! talking about Royality, what's on the menu today? Hot air balloons? Morris dancing? The Queen, leading the people of Britain in a conga dance?" "It's all over!" I said. "There ain't no more. It's back to the old routine, work, television and the spectre of debt looming over the country like Shylock." "All over!!!" screamed Tommy. "NO! I won't have it! The Queen should have her own reality show on TV. Forget Big Brother, let's hear it for, "Desperate Monarchs", or "I'm royalty, get me out of here!" I looked at Tommy with distase on my face and socks in my shoes. Tommy lit 75 candles, prayed that old Jordie would make a speedy and complete recovery and said, "What is Mr Coyle doing in Portugal, learning new skipping rhymes, or lecturing on blind bats and compost boxes?" "Neither," I said. "Mr Coyle, has a small tent pitched outside Braga. Every morning Mr Coyle sails with the fishing fleet, seeking the highly dangerous and elusive sardine. When he spots a lone sardine Mr Coyle yells, "Thar she blows!". Then the crew, lower a small tin box into the water and try to get the sardine to swim into it." "It's the only way to catch them," said Tommy. "Some fishermen use nets, but the sardines use the net to play tennis." A thought entered my head, I grabbed it, put it in a match box and said, "How come Mr Coyle knows so much about sardines?" "That information," said Tommy, "would be contained in Mr Coyle's medical record, which are sealed from the general public." I thought of Mr Coyle, fifty yards from shore, sheltering from a light breeze and yelling, "Captain, art thou sleeping down below?"