Sport's Commentator is Running out Of Superlatives!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Olympic superstar, Usain Bolt, wonder if Mr Coyle could be his long-lost uncle, Rusty Bolt, who stowed away on the good ship Sabrina en route to Derry. Tommy my cat, sitting glued to the television screen, wearing a very skimpy vollyball outfit yelled, "These are the BEST Olympic games I have seen in the last four years. The running and leppin' are a joy to watch and team GB, has made the BBC forget all about Syria, Iran and the debt crisis. It almost seems all our troubles have gone away and been replaced with men and women in knickers running, swimming and leppin' like veritable gazelles and dolphins!" "It will all end in tears!" I cried. "Mark my words. It was a bad omen when busty, blonde Boris Johnson, hung from a wire like a village idiot. It was a portend for hunger, poverty and hard times. Therefore I say onto thee Tommy cat, Go home and prepare for instant, insidious insolvency! The yoke of poverty and misery will be placed round your neck like an albatross. And men, now abed, will rise and cry forth, "This is some hanlin'" Tommy roared, "Stop standing there like the very ancient mariner and go tell your tale of woe to someone who cares!" So I did! I told Nigel Dodds and Nigel is going to set up a select committee. Who said our MLAs just sit up at Stormont twiddling their thumbs? When I burst into Nigel's office, neither of his thumbs were a twiddle. He was reading, "50 shades of Grey" and whistling, "Happy days are here again." "Poor Steven Watson, has had a busy year," said Tommy. "How many times have we seen young Steven, standing drenched to the skin on a cold, windy golf course? How many times has he built up our hopes, only to dash them later with sad, woeful tales about bunkers and bad luck?" I threw a rotten tomato in the general direction of Iran and said, "At the start of the year, Steven Watson had a store of superlatives which any sporting commentator would give his eye teeth for. He even had a superfluous of super, smart superlatives stored in his garden shed. Now, the man who tells us what is going on, even though we can see it with our own eyes, is down to just seven superlatives, AND, one of the superlatives is bent and may be a counterfeit!" "Thundering, galloping Usain Bolts!" yelled Tommy. "This is serious! What will poor Steven do if he runs out of superlatives when Rory McIlroy, is putting on the 18th green to win the match AND a selection of superlatives from a very excited, Steven Watson. What is Steven supposed to DO? Stand flapping his gums, with his mouth open?" "Not if I can help it," I cried. "Today, I want everyone who listens to the Gerry show, to send superlatives to, Steven Watson, Care of the BBC, Belfast. So, come on folks, search the attic, the garage and the cubby hole under the stairs. If you were hoarding superlatives, now is the time to send them to a worthy cause. SSS. Send Superlatives to Steven. "Great idea!" yelled Tommy, "But may I address Mr Jordie Tuft. Jordie, old pal, please don't send in, "Keep her lit, 'till we get out". It is not really appropriate for sporting events. Hope your bum is healing nicely. Yours sincerely, Tommy the cat."