Noel Thompson! Don't Walk Away Like Shane! Come Back To Our Screens!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which led to a staggering increase in apathy among the lime kiln workers in Drumquin, with regard to membership of the EU and courting in the kitchen. Old Juniper McRoach, bounty hunter and life long member of "Our Boy's", appreciation society said, "Boys! Listen boys! I feel it incumbent on me to disassociate myself from everything Archduke Franz Ferdinand said in the House of Hadsburg, on Pancake Tuesday, 1894." This was greeted by wild cheering from the Drumquin lime kiln men, but one wee nuck at the back, lowered the somber tone of the occasion by yelling out, "Too Little! Too Late!" "The end of an era," said Tommy my cat. "The dogs bark and the caravan moves on. What strange, sad times we live in, when the foundations, the VERY rocks, which we cling to like veritable limpets, are taken away, leaving us bereft of truth, honesty and moral compass." I looked up from the floor, where I had been kicking and flinging and yelled, "We'll never see his like again! He was like a father to us. Anyways there in times of trouble. As rugged as the Mourne mountains, where he loved to walk. Leaping stiles with the sure footed expertise and bonamie of a mountain goat. NOEL!!" I screamed. "NOEL THOMPSON!!! Don't go! Don't walk away like-Shane. Come back NOEL! Return to our television screens. Sit once more, beside the lovely, fragrant Donna Traynor and reassure us that Ulster, in spite of its trouble, is still the 97th best place in the world!" "The dynamic duo!" roared Tommy. "Noel and Donna. John Steed and Emma Peel. George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Fred and Ginger." "George and Mildred!" I cried. "They had sexual chemistry. They had the trust of the people." "They could walk and talk at the same time," sobbed Tommy. They could sit on armchairs, with the poise, grace and dignity of royalty. And the way they looked at each other! Doe-eyed Donna and craggy, rugged Noel. News anchor and anchoress. Ulster's Posh and Becks!" Tommy, rendered his garments, pulled his hair out by the roots and screamed, "Who was the scurvy knave who decreed that Noel Thompson, should move to radio and Mark "Socks" Carruthers, should sit on his throne?" "Faceless men!" I cried. "Nameless, faceless men have intrigued to oust Noel Thompson, the King of Newsline and replace him with the pretender, Carruthers." "A cruel callous coup!" yelled Tommy. "In the dark, gloomy corridors of the BBC, plots have been hatched. Around the water cooler, traps and snares have been laid. Machiavellian machinations have been hatched by men with suits, cocking snoots at the people of Ulster, who stand proudly under the Noel Thompson banner." "To the streets!" I cried. "Today, we march on the bastille of the BBC. Heads will roll! Tumbrels will jolt and sway over cobblestones. Old crones will knit ganseys as heads fall into baskets like turnips." Tommy, ruminated and said, "Stall the tumbrel. I have a better plan. Let's write a sharp letter to the chairman of the BBC." And, that's what we did!. I will now read our razor sharp letter to the BBC. "Dear Boss, your horrid actions, we will not thoal. Please reinstate, stile jumper, Noel.". To make the letter sound more legalistic, Tommy, picked up a green crayon and scrawled at the bottom of the letter. PS. This is no cod!!!!!