If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?"

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat rearranged the deck chairs on his Airfix model of the Titanic and said, "It still annoys me and Randy Newman that Pluto ain't a planet anymore. If the powers that be can relegate Pluto, imagine what they could do to Linfield, Glentoran and all the other world class teams in the Irish league?" I dropped my feather duster with a, CLANG! and cried, "Has anyone told Pluto that it's not a planet?" "NO!" cried Tommy "And Steven Watson doesn't know that the Irish league may go the way of Pluto.". "They must be told!" I yelled. "But whom will we tell first? How far is it to Pluto?" Tommy began to count on his fingers and said, "Pluto is nearly three thousand, million miles away." "And Steven Watson?" I said. "How far is it to his house?" Tommy got busy with his fingers again and said, "Two and a half miles." "Listen!" I cried. "You go and tell Pluto, while I tell Steven Watson and the first one back heats up last night's toad in the hole." "Sounds like a plan to me!" said Tommy, as we both ran for our coats. "Jim Allister should not listen to Steven Nolan, while driving his car," I said to Tommy. "On Monday, Jim got so angry, he pulled into the verge, put on his hazard lights, whipped out his mobile phone and got stuck into the fat boy about something or other. Motorists looked on in amazement at the solitary man in the parked car, roaring, yelling and shouting, with his neck swollen and his face as red as a turkey. Children, on their way to school, went into hysterics and talked all day about the "bad man." "No one should drive and listen to Tubby Nolan," said Tommy. "Figures just released, show a 56% increase in car honking when Tubby is on the radio." "There should be a warning!" I yelled. "Before the Nolan Show a calm voice should say, "Our next programme contains shouts, roars and gulders and sounds of graphic fatness. Motorists should be aware that their driving ability could be affected by fierce, tarra, fake anger and constant references to food." Tommy picked a peck of pepper off his pullover and said, "I prefer Nolan on TV. You can see what he's doing. When I listen to Nolan on radio, I always wonder what his hands are doing. Just think, the oval one, could be up to anything. Washing his smalls, while still wearing them. Plucking a chicken for a snack. Writing to Crisp makers, asking them if they ship by the ton, or even de-fluffing his massive belly button." After going through nine sick bags, I put Tommy, over my knee and beat him like a carpet, with a rolled up copy of the Syrian Sun. The paper was a little damp, leaving Tommy with some very trendy Arabic words and phrases on his feline rear. He looked very David Beckham, as he ran upstairs to cry.