It was a simple breakdown in communication.

Great show yesterday kid. The great show was sadly missed by Edwin Poots, who is on a factfinding mission to America, to find out how they deal with the clamour for road signs in Irish. "GEE!" said Hank H. Warmonger. "Better give those guys what they want, before they occupy honest jobs, houses and DUP-exclusive golf courses." "Shinners on the green!" screamed Poots. "Over my grey, stooped, strudel-fed body!" Tommy my cat, masonic mason and Jim Allister's, fashion consultant, hit me on the head with a small, brass, replica of the the Giant's Causeway and said, "I see Stroke City is pulling out all the stops for City of Culture, 2013. Phil Coulter AND Seamus Heaney! That's like having Big Daddy and Giant Hay Stacks on the same team! And ballet," said Tommy. "The Maiden City will be a veritable feast of jumping, leaping, knickers and tights." "Ballet is coming home!" I yelled. "In the 1940's, the Bogside was a hot bed of ballet. Many men were on the dole and spent their time ballet dancing at street corners." "Well bend me over and paddle my rear," said Tommy. "I never knew that! What about opera? Did opera have a big following?" "It did!" I replied. "But opera was confined to the Waterside. The city was divided. The taigs, leaping and jumping, celebrating ballet and the prods, roaring and guldering in praise of opera. Many culture wars broke out at interfaces. The taigs, leaping high in tights and the prods, roaring and shouting with black cloaks flying and Viking horns on their head.". Tommy ruminated and said, "No wonder they built a big wall round it to confine the loonies from normal people." I concurred, muttered, "Pardon!" and retired in confusion to the scullery. Tommy drew a rough sketch of Sammy Wilson's bum on my face with a felt tip pen and said, "Phil Coulter is writing a new song in honour of the occasion. For inspiration, Phil, is drinking numerous mugs of nettle tea and listening to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" on a continuous loop." "Seamus Heaney is writing a new poem," I cried. "There he stands in the bog, a lone solitary figure, a ragged sculpture of the wind, surrounded by snipe and crying out desperately for the muse." "If Seamus wants the muse," said Tommy, "why doesn't he turn on the TV and listen to the lovely, fragrant, Fiona Bruce, read the-news?" NO! NO! Hauld on! Hauld on! Tommy, is not stupid! It was a simple breakdown in communication. Ask the big wigs at the BBC, they know all about THAT!"