Plebeians to the Core.

Great show yesterday kid, which helped lower the blood pressure of Jim Allister, when he rushed to the toilet, only to find that the DUP and Sinn Fein had put superglue on the seat. As Jim returned to the chamber with the toilet seat under his trousers, Sammy Wilson sniggered and said, "Mr speaker, please ask the honorable member to take the seat out of his trousers, before he takes his seat in the assembly." Mark Durkin, put his head in his hands and screamed, "Is this reality I see before me, or a horrible dream, sponsored by Kraft cheese?" Tommy and I were bored. We walked up and down, hands behind our backs, thumbs a twiddle. Tommy looked out the window and said, "You know you're getting old, when the children seem to be getting younger." I pulled clumps of hair from someone's head and yelled, "Two fingers to this insufferable boredom. I feel like Sherlock Holmes, waiting for a case." I pulled my old fiddle from the wall and went into a frantic bout of playing. My right arm was going like a fiddler's elbow. Tommy, looked at me and said, "It might sound better if you reversed the instrument and had the strings at the front." "Rubbish!" I yelled. "I know what I'm doing. I studied under the great Fiddlero. Now there WAS a fiddle player! He could make the fiddle talk." "What did it say?" said Tommy. "Let me out of the case!" I replied. "Fiddlero, was also a ventriloquist." Tommy scrawled, "Kilroy wasn't here!" on the wall, turned to me and said, "What do you think of chief whip, Andrew Mitchell, and all this talk about effing and blinding and calling the police Plebs?" I jumped into an empty tea chest, picked up a bull horn and yelled out, "In Roman times, The Plebs, were the general body of FREE land owning citizens, as distinguished from slaves. The Plebs, were skillful people and usually quite wealthy!" "So, it wasn't an insult?" said Tommy. "Far from it!" I yelled from the tea chest. "Most people in Northern Ireland, farmers, shop keepers, teachers and policemen would come under the heading of, Plebeians!" "What about Gerry and Sean?" asked Tommy. "Plebeians to the core!" I yelled. "FREE, skilled men, making their living by the Roman art of, oratory." Tommy sucked my thumb and said, "SO, Mrs Coyle was right, when she wanted to call her sprog, Thaddeaus." "Well, not really," I said. "Calling a Plebeian Thaddeaus, could suggest illusions of grandeur and might well get up the nose of the Emperor. NO! Sean, was a good choice. A good, Plebeian name if I ever heard one.". "He would have suffered at school," said Tommy, "had he been christened, Thaddeaus. Can you imagine the names the other children would have called him. Thad, Thaddy, the Roman Emperor." ""I can well imagine," I said, climbing out of the tea chest. "Yet, Mr Coyle, still has a proud, Roman Plebeian name in the form of, Coylus Interuptus." "I never get that joke," said Tommy. "I hear Cardinals, Bishops and men of the cloth, going into gales of laughter, but it just goes over my head." "You'll understand when you're taller," I replied. " Tom!" I yelled to a friend across the street. "Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom!.....TOM!!!