The Lad Was Only Having A Bit Of Fun!

Welcome back kid. Tommy my cat and I are desperately seeking great shows this week. While you were away in Nepal, looking for the elusive, sabre toothed Nepal washer woman,two men stepped up to the plate. First up was, Gerald Michael Kelly. Gerry Kelly played good music and conducted tough, hard hitting, Paxmanesque interviews. "When did you first appear on stage?" he snapped to a young, female singer. "What did you have for your dinner on Sunday?" he yelled to Anthony Toner. Then, along came Coyle, all pleasing Coyle, slow talking Coyle, slow walking Coyle, along came, I'll play anything, Shawney Coyle. Coyle's musical choices were many and varied, ranging from, "The French Marseillaise" to, "How much is that doggie in the window. Bow Wow." Mr Coyle, came over as a man well versed in the art of radio. His voice was strong and confident. His posture, regal. Just by listening, one could tell that this man had studied at the feet of Hugo Duncan. "Ah, hello Kathleen, And how are you this fine morning? You what Kathleen? You want me to play "Killing the pigs in Kerry" by Willie John McCracken? What's that Kathleen? Willie John, goes by the name of the "Goose Man". Aye, I did know that Kathleen. Goodbye. Goodbye! Goodbye! Good luck. Good luck." Tommy my cat, looked and me and said, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" "I am not responsible for the wrongs of Mr Coyle," I answered. "I speak not of Mr Coyle," said Tommy. "I refer to Prince Harry, soldier, ginger nut and third in line to the throne. Did you not see the shameful photographs in the Sun? There he was, playing pool, naked as a jay bird, smiling, laughing. The camera flash illuminating his ginger fuzz. The whole world is laughing. Everyone is calling him, flash Harry. The pound has dropped lower than the Yen for 24 years. The stock market is in turmoil. Old ladies, wearing lace cuffs and smelling of lavender, are lying on hospital trolleys all over the country. The DUP have called a special, secret meeting. Jim Allister's face got so red he looked like a tomato and Jim Rodgers, took a running jump and leapt over him. All police leave has been cancelled and Mark Durkin, is running round in circles yelling, "Is THIS the reality?" I looked at Tommy, standing there like a feline Cromwell and said, "Be off with you cat and your puritanical plotting for the tumbrel, the pillory and the ducking stool. The lad was only having a bit of fun. NEVER, have so many called so loudly, over something so little!" Tommy slouched away muttering, "I thought everything that happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas." "NO MORE!" I cried. "This is the age of Aquarius! Away with clothes! Let the dog see the rabbit and the devil take the hindmost!" I then threw off all my clothes and ran naked through Belfast, pursued by a cabal of Chinese dry cleaners, brandishing smoothing irons. I don't have wrinkles, just stretch marks, after swallowing a beach ball. It's a long story. Perhaps, some other time.