Great show yesterday kid.
A great show in which fearless, intrepid, investigative reporter Gerald Michael Anderson exposed the shameful, sordid mess known as 'Cat-Gate' and Mr Coyle's evil, reprehensible part in it.
"Justice has been done." said Tommy my cat. "Tricky Dicky Coyle takes his place with Mary Bell the woman who put a pussy in a wheelie-bin."
"Don't be too hard on the eyebrow." I said. "Coyle suffers from pussy phobia. When nowt but a young Thaddeaus a cat jumped into his pram and nicked half a gallon of buttermilk that infant Thaddeaus had secreted under his pink pillow."
"I will not condemn him" said Tommy. "There, but for the grace of Ghandi.........."
Later Jools Holland looked in and we both looked on sadly at little Tommy crooning,
"Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair. You certainly know the right drawers to wear."
I picked up a HB pencil, drew two chairs near the table and said with a sob,
"Sit down Tommy lad. I want to have a talk with you."
"What about" said Tommy.,"the birds and bees?"
"No, not the birds and bees." I said. "This time I want to talk about the worms and maggots. Tommy lad," I said. "I won't always be here."
"I should hope not." said Tommy. "You are well by your sell-by date as it is."
"When I go," I said pointing up, while Tommy looked down. "I want to leave everything to you."
"EVERYTHING?" cried Tommy.
"Everything." I said,"the whole kit and caboodle."
"Well thank YOU!" yelled Tommy leaping to his feet. "I don't want your rubbish. This house would make Steptoe's house look like an ideal home. I'll be out a fortune paying for skips to take your old junk and rubbish to the dump."
After noting carefully how Tommy had leaped to HIS feet I leaped to MY feet and yelled,
"The deals off! I'm not going to die! I will out-live you Tommy cat and dance on your grave!"
"GOOD!" screamed Tommy into my face. "Because I'm getting buried at SEA!"
More heated words lead to whammeling and soon Tommy and I were sharing an ambulance on our way to casualty.
All night both of us yelled.
"Nurse, Nurse, the screens, the screens!" but not ONE angel of mercy brought either of us a film projector.
The cuts and bruises in the health service are really starting to bite.
(THADDEAUS! PUT THE CAT DOWN!)

Booker is the

Great show yesterday Kid. Even Sir Reg Empry and Peter Robinson were seen to smile when Mr Coyle made reference to your 'Hanging basket'. I believe Mr Coyle is not as green as he is cabbage looking and is well aware of his 'innocent' double entendres. Tommy my cat has christened Mr Coyle the Charles Hawtrey of Radio Foyle.
"Oh hello! Has anyone seen my sausage roll?"
Mr Coyle is the sultan of smut, Radio Foyle's answer to Lennie Bruce. I believe Mr Coyle gets most of his one liners from Ireland's Own and Our Boys.
Tommy blew a John Coltrane riff on his saxophone, looked at me and said,
"I say old thing, I wonder who shall win the Booker prize this year?"
I stuck the poker into my ear to get my brain working and said,
"Tommy, enlighten me. What is the Booker prize?"
Tommy winked at a wino peeping in the window and said,
"The Booker prize is a competition to find a book that no one will ever read."
"That doesn't make sense!" I yelled. "I have a sneaking suspicion that the Booker prize comes under the banner of Arts and culture."
"Indeed it does," said Tommy. "What a thrill it is! What a thrill it is to be sure to see the great and good dressed up to the nines, to applaud a book so oblique, so-so unreadable. Thousands of copies of the winning book will be sold and thrown, still wrapped, straight into the wheelie bin. It really is the highlight of the literary calendar. All the great writers will be there--and Melvin Bragg."
"The Emperor's new clothes!" I yelled. "It's the Emperor's new clothes all over again. Oh for some child, some dirty urchin to walk into the Booker competition and cry,
"See youse? Youse is all mad in the head so youse are!"
"But WHERE" cried Tommy, "can one find an urchin at this time of the night?"
I just went back to reading the Beano. You know where you are with the Beano. The Beano may not be art or culture, but it makes me chuckle.
And that's what we all want, a good chuckle--chuck!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought meaning and clarity to the down-trodden, blighted lives of Paul Gascoigne, Sir Alan Sugar and our own royal correspondent Frank Mitchell.
Did you see Frank and the Queen on UTV? Wee Frank hauled and pushed her Majesty around like a bag of spuds. How proud the Queen's family must be to see her in a photograph with Frank Mitchell.In her royal diary the Queen described Frank as humorless, erratic, ruthless, tidy and very,very clean.
Tommy my cat found out the hard way that a cat can not look at a Queen,when a lady in waiting, big Bertha, hit Tommy a thump up the gub with her handbag.
Tommy is now plotting the downfall of the house of Windsor.Keep it under your hat but Tommy had a hand in the fall of the house of Usher
It was Tommy who put the Edgar Allen under Vincent Price's bed.
Tommy hit me over the head with a hammer like he does every morning to test my reflexes and said,
"What a bummer to see arts and culture cut by 15%!"
"Shocking!" I yelled.
"This Christmas poor May McFetteridge had to slash......."
"I wonder how she does that?" said Tommy.
"Probably standing up or sitting down according to what mood she's in," I replied thoughtfully.
"This year, because of the cuts, poor May's Pantomime is called,"Snow White and the three dwarfs.
And not only that. Seamus Heaney has only one snug pen to hold twixt finger and thumb!"
"When great civilizations fall," said Tommy, "the first thing to go is arts and culture followed my meals on wheels and lolly-pop men. I saw the writing on the wall when jovial George Jones and 'The hole in the wall gang' were axed. The next step," screamed Tommy "is debauchery! The people of Ulster will lie around the filthy, dirty streets in Hogarthian poses drunk as newts and twice as vicious.
Morality will go to the wall and how's your father, is your mother still working will emerge from the sinister shadows and stalk the land like a foul, evil pestilence."
"Great balls of DUPers!" I cried. "Does this mean......?".
"YES!" cried Tommy. "Ulster will never say, NO again!"
I gave a hop, skip and jump like the Sion Mill's kangaroo and ran out to buy a copy of 'Debauchery for beginners'.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which greatly helped old man Zimmer get over the sad, sudden death of Fergus, his pet ferret. "Fergus, was more than a ferret!" cried the the old man. "He was also a friend. What will I stick down the front of my trousers NIGH?" he screamed. A kindly, caring, district nurse made the old man forget his sorrow by hitting him over the head with a child of Prague statue. "The power of religion," croaked old Maggie, who was sitting in the corner teaching crickets how to sit, beg and roll over and play dead. Tommy my cat, sporting a tattoo of Jim Allister on his right buttock, opened a packet of rich tea biscuits with a controlled explosion and said, "We should go to the city of culture at the weekend and see the amazing, "Nitro Five" dancing troupe from Salford put on a display of clog dancing which will leave you bewitched, bothered, bewildered and breathless." "Listen, Tommy lad," I said, "If thee thinks I want to see clog dancing then thee must be barmy, so, think on lad. Think on!" "Eeh by gum!" said Tommy. "Thee has changed. Ever since Mr Hardcastle made thee foreman at mill thee has come over all la-di-dah. Thee makes me sick!" said Tommy. "It's an awful thing to say but sometimes I pray for, trouble at mill." "Trouble at mill!" I yelled. "Wash thee mouth out with carbolic soap. Another outburst like that and thee will hit cobble stones with thee flat cap, moleskin trousers and clogs. I won't have thee bad mouthing mill. If it weren't for mill our gruel wouldn't have little bits of pigs' whiskers floating it it. So, think on lad. Pigs' whiskers, aye, aye and bread and dripping don't grow on trees." At twelve o'clock Wendy Austin nearly burst my eardrums when she guldered, "Well folks, it's The BIG day in America. Bronco Obama and Mike Roomy will be battling it out to become the next President of America. Tell us what you think. Later I shall be talking to Jim Allister about his strange, secret hobby of running after butterflies with a big net shouting, "Come back you wily varmints!" The door opened and Jim Rodgers screamed, "Nigh Nigh, a thousand times, Nigh to yous all!" Tommy looked up and drawled, "Well if it ain't the old tomato jumper. What brings you round these here parts stranger?" Jim stood there steely eyed, hands on hips and replied, "I've come for my toy." "You been eating loco weed?" said Tommy. "Let me explain!" screamed Jim. "I was playing with my remote control toy helicopter and it went in to your back yard. Can I have it back--please?". "Sure partner." said Tommy. "Just mosey on out there and get it." When Jim was in the back yard Tubby Nolan burst it roaring,"Did you see it? Did you see the UFO? It seemed to disappear into your back yard." In came Jim with a low hanging sheet from the clothes line tangled round his head. "ALIENS!" guldered Tubby. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "It's trying to communicate!" yelled Tubby. "Yous keep it talking, while I run for a camera crew."."I'm sure most of you saw it on the news. Jim Rodgers with a sheet over his head, waving his arms like crazy and screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!"   Mark Carruthers, ever the professional, looked into the camera and said, "Well folks it seems an alien invasion is imminent. I for one am looking forward to it!" "Never nothing worth watching on TV." said Tommy, as he put on a CD of Hugo Duncan's Christmas hits. NOW that was scary!

Did You See It?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which greatly helped old man Zimmer get over the sad, sudden death of Fergus, his pet ferret. "Fergus was more than a ferret!" cried the the old man. "He was also a friend. What will I stick down the front of my trousers NIGH?" he screamed. A kindly, caring, district nurse made the old man forget his sorrow, by hitting him over the head with a child of Prague statue. "The power of religion," croaked old Maggie, who was sitting in the corner teaching crickets how to sit, beg and roll over and play dead. Tommy my cat, sporting a tattoo of Jim Allister on his right buttock, opened a packet of rich tea biscuits with a controlled explosion and said, "We should go to the city of culture at the weekend and see the amazing, "Nitro Five" dancing troupe from Salford, put on a display of clog dancing which will leave you bewitched, bothered, bewildered and breathless." "Listen, Tommy lad," I said, "if thee thinks I want to see clog dancing, then thee must be barmy, so, think on lad, think on!" "Eeh by gum!" said Tommy. "Thee has changed. Ever since Mr Hardcastle made thee foreman at mill, thee has come over all laddy-dah. Thee makes me sick," said Tommy. "It's an awful thing to say, but sometimes I pray for, trouble at mill." "Trouble at mill!" I yelled. "Wash thee mouth out with carbolic soap. Another outburst like that, and thee will hit cobble stones, with thee flat cap, moleskin trousers and clogs. I won't have thee bad mouthing mill. If it wern't for mill, our gruel wouldn't have little bits of pigs' whiskers floating it it. So, think on lad. Pigs' whiskers, Aye! Aye! and bread and dripping don't grow on trees." At twelve o'clock Wendy Austin nearly burst my ear drums when she guldered, "Well folks, it's The BIG day in America. Bronco Obama and Mike Roomy will be battling it out to become the next President of America. Tell us what you think. Later I shall be talking to Jim Allister about his strange, secret hobby of running after butterflies, with a big net shouting, "Come back you wily varmints!" The door opened and Jim Rodgers screamed, "Nigh Nigh, a thousand times, Nigh! to yous all." Tommy looked up and drawled, "Well, if it ain't the old tomato jumper! What brings you round these here parts stranger?" Jim stood there, steely eyed, hands on hips and replied, "I've come for my toy." "You been eating loco weed?" said Tommy. "Let me explain," screamed Jim. "I was playing with my remote control, toy helicopter and it went in to your back yard. Can I have it back--please?" "Sure partner," said Tommy. "Just moosey on out there and get it." When Jim was in the back yard, Tubby Nolan burst in roaring. "Did you see it? Did you see the UFO? It seemed to disappear into your back yard." In came Jim, with a low-hanging sheet from the clothes' line tangled round his head. "ALIENS!" Guldered Tubby. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "It's trying to communicate!" yelled Tubby. "Yous keep it talking, while I run for a camera crew." "I'm sure most of you saw it on the news. Jim Rodgers, with a sheet over his head, waving his arms like crazy and screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" Mark Carruthers, ever the professional, looked into the camera and said, "Well folks, it seems an alien invasion is imminent. I for one am looking forward to it!" "Never nothing worth watching on TV," said Tommy, as he put on a CD of Hugo Duncan's Christmas Hits. NOW! that was scary!!!

Protect Ireland's Coastal Waters

Great show yesterday kid. Jim Allister, not to be confused with any person living or dead, leaped to his feet up at Stormont to make YET another point of order. "Mr Speaker!" he roared. "Are you aware that Gerry Anderson's great shows have been hi-jacked by Sinn Fein and the DUP? I have tried, on many occasions, to get a request played. Mr Coyle, who I am reliably informed is an unrepentant Rossville flats' stone thrower, has steadfastly refused to play, "Hello, hello, who's your lady friend" for me and my dog Victoria. YET! the same Mr Coyle, this very morning, passed on requests to Gerald Michael Anderson, from Sammy Wilson and John O'Dowd. Mr Anderson then played, "When I'm cleaning windows" for Mr Wilson and, "Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes" for Mr O'Dowd. This is a clear breach of the Good Friday Agreement (which I don't recognise) and proof, if proof were needed, that Ulster, is a cold house for Jim Allister." The speaker, in no uncertain terms, told Mr Allister to sit down, dry his eyes and stop his old incessant intrangience. Mr Allister refused and was carried from the chamber and dumped beside the wheelie bins. Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Herman's hermit, pulled up his polka dot, ankle socks and said, "AT LAST! The gridlock has been broken up at Stormont. Alex" It's my party and I'll cry if I want to" Attwood, will soon present a new bill to the house and attached garage.". "Expand Tommy!" I cried. "In the name of Aunt Jane, expand and tell what bill little Alex will bring forth." "A marine bill!" yelled Tommy. "Let me quote an article from the Poleglass Chronicle. "Mr Alex Attwood, minister for the environment, told our reporter yesterday at a car boot sale, "I plan to deliver policy and legislation to promote, protect AND sustain Northern Ireland's coastal waters." "About time!" I cried. "Our coastal waters are out there at the mercy of the elements." Tommy coughed and said, "Mr Attwood, who had just bought 12 CDs of Big Tom at the car boot sale, continued, "When I think of our coastal waters, I think of the wealth of resources, the splendour of its biodiversity, the simple fact of it being a HUGE natural resources to be engaged. This means, it is vital that we concentrate our efforts to protect AND sustain it." "What a speech!" I cried. "It's up there with Churchill's, "We will fight them on the beaches" speech, or General De Gaulle's, "We surrender" oratory. But, what does it mean?" I cried. "What does it mean for the man, woman, child and dog in the street? "Rationing!" Yelled Tommy. "When the bill is made law, the average family will be rationed to building only two and a half sand castles when they go to the seaside." "About time!" I yelled. "Did you know, there are as many grains of sand as there are stars in the sky. Last night, I looked up at the sky and saw only seven stars. So, to Mr Attwood, I say, "Good, but no cigar. Too little, too late! The sands of time are disappearing from our coasts. Ration by all means, but also import sand from Belgium, Switzerland and other countries with a thriving marine coast policy!" Tommy concurred, filthy little feline!

Fake Shenanigans and Red Glitter

Great show yesterday kid. In the hills above Drumquin, the lime kiln men listened to the great show before hibernating for the Winter. To the shouts and yells of, "Goodnight, Jim Bob, Goodnight Pio McSpalter, Goodnight John boy!" the lime kiln men climbed into tea chests, pulled straw over them and went to sleep. When they awake, on the 20th of March, they will be spoonfed royal jelly and the soft flesh of American pumpkins. May the good Lord protect them from hungry bears and frustrated spinsters. Tommy my cat, poster boy for Lyles' granulated sugar, hung his little, blue blazer up on the hook of a song that was playing on the radio and said, "Rambling Joe Mahon must know every road, lane and short cut in Ulster." "Rubbish!" I roared. "The wandering Joe lies sleeping in the back of a UTV, people carrier, after a feed of hotdogs, Muller yogurt and jelly babies. Joe has no idea where he is! He is hauled out of the back seat, plopped down in the middle of rushy ground, handed a microphone and told to get on with it." "The fake, sham, shennigans behind television programmes," said Tommy,"leads me to believe that Jedward may well be cartoon characters." "Of course they are!" I cried. "No human twins could look like THAT!" "I was listening to the lovely Karen Patterson read the six o'clock news. Karen was reporting on Jim Allister's shambolic attempt to jump over the river Boyne dressed as Lord Carson. Suddenly, Tommy my cat rushed in, grabbed the radio, held it high above his head and smashed it on the floor. "I interrupt this programme," yelled Tommy, "to bring you some, breaking news! A weather warning, just issued, has warned the public about fierce turbulence round the back of Tubby Nolan's massive trousers. Motorists, are advised to avoid the area, BUT, if caught in the turbulence, stay in the car and pray." "The tail end of Hurricane Sandy?" I cried. "NO!" roared Tommy, "The tail end of Tubby Nolan!" Two hours later Tommy looked at me, as I stood there wearing a sheepfarmer's body warmer and red, sparkling knickers. "So," said Tommy, "you are determined to go to the Halloween party, dressed as the overweight Lady Gaga?" "Yes, I is," I replied as I pulled the phone off the wall and glued it to my head. "You look-awful!" said Tommy. "You look like Tubby Nolan in drag. How did you get your bust so big?" "Turnips!" I cried. "Two huge turnips painted in delicate skin tones." "You'll be rumbled," said Tommy. "This whole Lady Gaga malarky is going to end in tears." "Utter rubbish!" I replied, as I sailed off into the night with my red knickers glinting under the street lights. OH, the disgrace! Brought home by Matt Baggott and two of his, left, but came back coppers. Tommy, wearing a lovely, paisley dressing gown, stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded and said. "Well, well, well! If it isn't Lady big gub! What happened? Come on, spit it out. Don't just stand there like a witch with an itch." "I was-mugged!" I shrieked. "Mugged, by a gang of little hoodies. They stole my turnips and, right in front of my eyes, hollowed them out and made two horrible macabre, diabolical faces." "Go to bed," said Tommy, "and I'll bring you up a nice cup of diluted, foam rubber. It's supposed to be good for shocks." I pulled the phone off my head and screamed, "I shall never sleep-AGAIN! I was, molested. I got a horrible molestation!" "What on earth did they DO?" cried Tommy, turning pale under the brilliant light of a 5 watt light bulb. I wrung my hands. When the sound of the bells had died down I said, "Oh Tommy, one of the little hoodies, took out a trowel and-and-and........" "Yes? Yes?" Said Tommy. "What did the little hoodie do with the trowel?" I stood there, wild eyed, knees knocking, hot flushes running all over my face, mouth agape and screamed, "The little hoodie scraped all the glitter off my red knickers with the trowel!" Then I collapsed in a twisted, ugly heap. Tommy put on a dear stalker hat, put a pipe in his mouth, began to play the fiddle and said, "Now, what would a little hoodie want with red glitter at this time of night? Something is afoot. Something deep and dangerous is going on. I sense the hand of Professor Moriarty in this!" And before I could stop him, Tommy ran out the door, leaped into a hackney coach and disappeared into the fog. I lay crying into the sheepskin rug. Than the rug said, "BAA!" and ran into the scullery.

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!"

Change from analogue to digital transmissions.

Great shows yesterday kid. Tommy my cat, leaped out of bed, rushed downstairs, grabbed me by the throat and yelled, "Today is the 24th of October. Today, is the day that ALL television transmissions change from analogue to digital. What steps have you taken to ensure continuity in our sphere of television watching?" I grabbed Tommy by the ear and lead him to our, the usual suspect's chair and cried, "Shut your scaldie hole and answer the following relevant, pertinent and wild intelligent questions. Question number one. What happens to a TV screen when the signal changes from analogue to digital?" "The picture disappears," said Tommy. "and is replaced with white noise and the screen takes on the appearance of a foggy day in London town." "Question number two, I cried, " Could you describe the sound of, white noise?" Tommy scratched his head and said, "The sound of white noise, could be described as a sort of cracking, sizzling sound." I glowered at the felonious feline and said, "May I refer you to bundle five now, page 157." Tommy grabbed the bundle of evidence and turned to the relevant page. "Question number three," I roared, "which television programmes are paramount in this house?" "That's an easy question," said Tommy. "Our preference for cooking, takes up 100% of our viewing consumption. We are cooking mad. We would be driven to mad, crazy, insane distraction if we were deprived of cooking programmes. COOKING!" yelled Tommy. "I love it! Boiling, frying, roasting, grilling, is my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning!" I spread a llama skin rug on the floor, looked at Tommy and said, "Sit beside me on this decorous floor covering and hark, as I explain why we don't need a digital TV." Tommy sat with his arms round his knees and said, "Your reasons for not going digital better be good, or I will batter the big turnip, you laughingly refer to, as your head." I laughed merrily at the feline witticism and said, "Tomorrow, when we turn on our TV we will be met with the sound of sizzling, crackling and sparking. What does that remind you off?" "COOKING!" cried Tommy. "EXACTLY!" I yelled. "From tomorrow on, we can sit in front of our TV, listening to the sound of white noise and pretending it is the sound of-cooking!" "Jumping jelly beans!" cried Tommy. "How lucky are we? Thanks to digital television, we will have wall to wall cooking on our analogue TV. Hold on!" said Tommy. "What about the loss of picture?" "Steam," I replied. "Clouds of steam wafting from pots, pans, grills and singed hair." "You crafty old crone," said Tommy. "Just one and a half brain cells and you come up with brilliant suggestions like that!" "I could have been a simpleton," I replied, "but I didn't have the Latin."

Bring Back Melody!

Great show yesterday kid. With unrestrained gusto, Mr Coyle got stuck into, "Dellaware" like a man who was searching frantically for his lost childhood. "THAT!" said Tommy my cat, is the sound of a flower child, trying to return to Strawberry Fields." "Take me home country roads!" I yelled. Tommy roared, "Down with hip-hop, rap, garage, grunge and house music! Bring back, Melody!" screamed Tommy. "Give me something I can whistle. Phrasing!" yelled Tommy. "A nice chord progression, a restrained drummer and a horn section, wearing snappy suits and giving off the whiff of grade A cannabis. Beautiful ladies, wearing evening dresses, men in tuxedoes and an absence of trainers, jeans and tattooed faces." "No slappers wearing mini skirts," I cried "which fail to hide thongs, many of which have disappeared up the great divide!" Tommy and I have an unusual way of watching TV. We place the TV in the centre of the room and Tommy watches the screen, while I sit on a milkmaid's stool watching the back. It's a brilliant system I came up with myself, after hearing that strange things happen at the back of TVs. While I watched a scart socket Tommy said, "Look who's on the Tubby Nolan show! Old Edwina Curry. I thought that old bag was dead, buried and forgotten." "What's she saying Tommy?" I yelled from the back of the TV. "She's telling us, the people of Northern Ireland, that we've never had it so good. She says, stop whinging. Start up small businesses. Get on your bike and stop complaining. OH, IT'S ALL KICKING OFF NOW!" yelled Tommy. "Some union members are on their feet. They are not pleased. They are yelling at old John Major's bit on the side, "GO HOME!" they roar. "Shut your big mouth!" "Do you want a riser?" yells another one. NOW, Tubby has intervened. "Shut up, or GET OUT!" he bellows. Oh dear! Oh, dear! Tubby Nolan has shown his true colours. He has denied free speech to the workers and taken sides with old Edwina, who is painted up like a new cart and smirking something horribly." "I KNEW IT!" I cried. "Tubby is a Tory. He has no time for the working man. Tubby Nolan has turned into Ulster's version of Boris Johnson. I bet Tubby hopes to run for parliament in a safe seat in the shires." "BOO!" yelled Tommy, from the front of the screen. "LACKEY!" I screamed at the scart socket. Tommy smirked and said, "One thing is sure, the police will open the big gate for Tubby and his bicycle. The oval one, would never get through the side gate outside, number 10.". Never taking my eyes of the scart socket, I laughed like a drain. Ha-Ha, gurgle-gurgle ha-ha.

Creationism, Evolution or The Third Way??

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped old man Rooney, climb the three steps to the door of the transgender clinic. "Make me a woman" yelled old Rooney. "Woman live longer that men". After a full examination, a doctor informed the old codger that he had left it too late. "Ah, hoots mon" said the Scottish doctor. "Sure, you dinny leave us anything to work with". Tommy my cat, blood donor and close friend of Jim Allister said, "Where do you stand with regard to creationism versus evolution?" Knowing full well that my thinking cap was at the laundry, Tommy, had cleverly backed me into a corner. I strode about, with my hands not behind my back, looked out the window, coughed, blew my nose, cracked my knuckles and said, "With regard to creationism or evolution, I find myself in disagreement with both camps. Why limit our existence to just two choices? I am a fervent believer in the, Third Way." "What third way?" yelled Tommy. "You were either created by God, or evolved from, in your case, pond scum." "It ain't necessarily so," I replied. "Doctor Carl Junket from Geneva has written a book called, "The Third Way" In that book, written on the pages, Carl Junket, puts forward a theory that, nothing exists. You are a figment of my imagination and I am a figment of your imagination. In reality, neither of us exists. There is no planet called Earth. No time, no space, no gravity, no Titanic Quarter. All that exists is, nothing and in a state of nothingness, imagination runs riot. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. You, don't exist. Neither do I. So what I say to you is, "GO HOME and prepare for reality." "Hauld on! Hauld ON!" yelled Mark Durkin. "The reality-IS. Can you hold reality? Smell reality? See reality? NO, but if reality stands for anything, it stands for reality and the reality-IS, the reality always was-IS and always will be-IS." "Nigh! nigh! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "You boys are talking about, creationism, evolution, the third way and reality. Let me, as a simple ex mayor and life long Glentoran supporter, put forward another theory." Jim, sat on the floor in the lotus position and said, "Consider this Hi. Northern Ireland is at the crossroads between two parallel universes. That's why we never get on. Wan universe says this and the other universe says that. We are lost in space!" screamed Jim. "Our only solution is to find a wormhole in space and wriggle through it like wee blind mice. Time, is of the essence!" screamed Jim. "We must find a wormhole and we must find it-NIGH" "Evolution!" yelled Tommy "Creationism and the reality-IS! Roared Mark Durkin. "The Third Way!" I shrieked. "Wormholes!" screamed Jim. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" That was when the men in white coats arrived. It was pretty cramped in the back of the van.

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.

Jim Rodgers gets A Makeover!

Great show yesterday kid, which never intruded on the feeling of loss and sadness suffered by retired Coco-Pops taster, Brian B. O'Brian, when Robert, his pet fruit fly died suddenly during the night. Speaking to reporters yesterday Brian said, "I would like to thank all who visited the tree hut where I live, or sent flowers. Life goes on. I am encouraged by the words of Rene Descartes who said, "See that bicycle? I got it for a fiver." After Tommy my cat and I got up, we listened intently for the sound of a reshuffle from Stormont and then got on with our lives. Carson, our butler came in with a silver tray bearing the business card of Jim Rodgers. "Send him in Carson," said Tommy, "but search him on the way out. I notice our private stock of Iron Brue is decreasing with every visit that man makes." Jim Rodgers crept in, twisting a flat cap between his nervous fingers. "I need help!" screamed Jim. "I feel I need a make-over to compete with the, cool, with-it MLAs, such as "Lucky" Barry McElduff and "Flash" Jim Allister." Tommy looked Jim up and down and said, "Your trouble my lad, is your, Nigh, Nigh, Nighs. You have been screaming triple nighs for years. It's time for a change. I suggest cutting back to two nighs, OR, increasing your nighs by one which would sound like, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" Jim mounted a small stool and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh!" Tommy and I both shook our heads. The duo of nighs, lacked conviction. Jim took a deep breath, threw back his head and screamed, "Nigh! Nigh! Nigh! NIGH!" "Nailed it!" yelled Tommy. "Made it your own!" I shrieked. "Yipee!" screamed Jim. "I have got my mojo back!" "GO HOME," yelled Tommy, "and prepare for reshuffles!" Tommy and I listened as Jim, raced through Belfast screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH NIGH!---------NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" "There goes a future minister for culture," said Tommy. I concurred! --

Has Mike Nesbitt, sacked anyone else yet?

Great show yesterday kid. Mr Coyle played some great music on Monday. As the hiss of vinyl spread over Northern Ireland, old codgers, lying on hospital trolleys, yanked out catheters and jived in the corridors to the pounding beat of Mud, singing, "Tiger Feet." Tommy my cat, still wearing his pyjamas, ran down the stairs with a look of concern on his pale, sensitive, feline face and cried, "" "Not yet," I replied, "but the day is still young." "Where is it all going to end?" yelled Tommy."How many members can a party leader sack, before he is the last card left in the pack?" "Mike Nesbitt," I cried, "has seen UUP leaders come and go. They all had one thing in common, Weakness! Mike Nesbitt will brook no dissent. Go off message, just one time and you're OUT! No second chances. No appeals. You cross Mike Nesbitt, at your peril. Mike has no wish to be liked. He rules with a rod of iron. Stern of face, he will race all malcontents who pee, into tents. If you're not with him, you're against him. "GO!" he will roar. "If you disagree with me, no room for you in the UUP. The UUP, is mine, all mine. Soon, trains and buses will run on time. Will I unite, with those on the right. I will not say, yes, or answer no. The answer to that question, only Lynda and my chickens know." Politics is SO exciting," cried Tommy. "It reminds me of a spade factory. Someone is always getting shafted." "Nolan is on tonight," I said with a shudder. "Put the splatter guard in front of the television. Last week, his roaring and ranting blew the speakers and wrenched the satellite dish from off the wall." "Fake, manufactured anger," said Tommy. "The Nolan show is like wrestling used to be. Light entertainment, disguised as hard hitting and ground breaking. Big daddy, Nolan, will huff and puff, but no houses will be blown down." "For a fat man," I said, "he sure can jump nimbly on many band wagons. I believe the BNP chappie is on tonight." "A bit late to be complaining about the cost of petrol," said Tommy. "If the BNP drill expensive oil wells, they should receive a reasonable profit for their investment." "It's the birds I feel sorry for," I said. "Covered in thick, stinking, oily, BNP sludge." "Yes," sighed Tommy. "Someone always has to clean up after the BNP." I decked the halls with boughs of holly and said, "Have you seen the "Must Have" toy this Christmas? "It's a Jim Allister doll. As soon as you open the box, it springs out and grabs you by the throat." "Hours of fun for young and old alike," said Tommy. "The Tubby Nolan doll never really caught on," I said. "People soon got tired of pressing its ass, just to hear it say, "Biggest in the country." "Remember the wind-up Noel Thompson," said Tommy, "that used to jump over a stile. Now, there was a toy! Strong, durable, made to last." "Do you still have it?" I asked. "No," said Tommy with a sob. "One day Jordie Tuft asked to see it and it burst into flames." "Pyrotechnics?" I asked. "Oh, no!" said Tommy. "It just went off like a firework". --

Covenants and Intrigues

reat shows last week kid. An old codger from the hills above Drumquin, told Reuters news agency, "Gerry Anderson and to a much lesser extent, Sean Coyle, saved my life last week. A terrible depression came over me last Sunday, when Danny, my pet banty rooster died from flu related symptoms. I hit an all time low. Thanks to the Gerry Anderson show, I am still here today after a sorrowful week. The wake and funeral for Danny, left me bereft of hope. I was ready to end it all, by over-dosing on Hugo Duncan. I nearly had the earphones on my head when fire bug Jordie Tuft roared, "Hi, come here ye boy ye! I was born in a tea chest!" "There are people worse off than me!" I cried, as I ran to the Post Office, to spend my life savings on wine, women and lilting. Tommy my cat, came in from the back yard, where he had been feeding the birds into his own mouth and said, "I lost touch with you, during the big covenant march. Where did you go?" I blushed and said, "I got lost. I found myself in a maze of back streets and next thing I knew, I was standing at the bar of the Felon's club, drinking a pint of Guiness." "How did the naughty little felons treat you?" said Tommy. "Like royalty," I answered. "They sat me up on the bar and bought me a four-green fields' cocktail. They called me, Maeve, their Celtic Queen. I sang, "Mother McCree, in Ulster/Scots, danced a jig and kept up a steady flow of, "Chuckie-ar-lahs." Tommy looked at me in anger and said, "What a tube you are! Drinking in the Felon's club on Covenant day. Why, you are once, twice, three times a Lundy!!" I cornered the lovely Sarah Travers, coming out of a second -hand potpourri shop. "SARAH!" I cried. "What's the matter? You never write. You never call. So, your old nanny isn't good enough for you anymore? Your old nanny, who used to throw you up in the air as a baby and only dropped you 27 times." "Oh, hello nanny Ferocious," said Sarah. "I am rather busy at work with the departure of Noel Thompson. Everyone is pitching in to do the work of the rugged, craggy faced, former anchorman." I looked around and whispered, "'Twas a horrible deed. A dastardly plot hatched when the blindbat flits on high and poisonous reptiles, slither like legless mice over blasted heaths. Cornered in the chamber, where he often ruminated Thompson cried, "IS this a dagger I see before me?" "No," said a man in a suit. It's your P45, now vacate that chamber, others are waiting to use it." "NO!, NO!" said Sarah. "It wasn't like that! It was all very amiable. Noel, just happened to pick up the poisoned chalice. It could have been any of us." "NOT Carruthers!" I cried. "Not the Thane of Socks. Carruthers is the favoured one. Why, the country is ready to follow Carruthers to war, if need be. Watch the moon, lady Sarah. See how she changes. So too, with the BBC. The BBC, is a place of intrigue and plots. A dark, gloomy edifice. The BBC is not a place where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you've came. INTRIGUE!" I cried. "Intrigue, piled on intrigue, until the intrigues take on the shape of a mountain of intrigueous intrigues. LEAVE!" I yelled. "Catch the night boat and flee to UTV. UTV, where the living is free and it's always time for tea." "I CAN'T!" shrieked Sarah. "Alas, I am betrothed to the BBC. They bought me young at a hiring fair in Strabane. HARK! Be careful. Something wicked this way comes!" "What a lovely day," said Tubby Nolan, from the interior of a massive, grey suit. "Sarah, my dear, get back to work. My smalls could do with a good sprinkling of DDT." "You lacky!" I cried. "Tubby Nolan, you are a craven-hearted lacky of Carruthers, the Thane of socks!" Tubby chuckled, rubbed his fat little hands together and yelled, "I am the power behind the throne! It was I who got rid of Thompson, with his rugged, craggy-faced good looks. Carruthers, is my puppet. Soon, others will follow. If the ancient one, Walter Love, doesn't pull his hose up--TO THE TOWER WITH HIM. I am the master NIGH!!!" I ran off screaming into the night, looking for two other witches to babble and gibber with.

How The Ministe of Transport Came Up With the New traffic Regulations In Belfast.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which provided a rare insight into, "Born in a tea chest" Jordie Tuft. How Janet laughed when Jordie explained how to clip a chicken's wing. Old Jordie, is not only alive and well, but seems ready to carry out some strange, curious act which will grab the headlines and astonish the people of Northern Ireland. Having played with fire, Jordie may well turn his hand to flood, famine, or pestilence. When asked by big, Jim Fitzpatrick how he came up with the new traffic regulations in Belfast, Danny Kennedy, minister of transport, explained, "I simply played with my Dinky toys on the kitchen table until I found a solution. I then upgraded the kitchen table method to cover the whole of Belfast. Soon, a giant sugar bowl will be erected at the bottom of the Donegal road. Motorists must enter the sugar bowl from the left, giving way to on-coming traffic from the right. Large teaspoons on dual carriageways, will greatly reduce speed, leading to much greater safety for Lego men." Jim, was left speechless, so he and Danny, talked about Rinty Monaghan, to fill the remaining minutes of the interview. Cut away, to Donna Traynor, standing knee keep in clabber, talking about the poor potato harvest. I could see Tommy my cat was fuming, ready to explode. Suddenly Tommy kicked a small, stuffed, effigy of Steven Nolan and yelled, "This would never have happened under the rule of benign, dictator Noel Thompson. Noel Thompson would not stand by while poor Donna Traynor, was treated like a serf. There she is, standing in the cold, knee deep in mud, talking about the potato harvest, when everyone, even the dogs in the street, know that most potatoes are imported from warmer climes. It's a scare story! A non story! dreamed up by producers, who never ate a spud in their life. The lotus eaters!" cried Tommy."The prawn sandwich brigade. The veal and sushi merchants. Bring back, rugged, craggy jawed Noel Thompson, before Newsline, declines into a cheap version of, "The One Show." "Hear! Hear!" I cried. "Give that cat a lollipop. AND, my I also add, BBC comedy has hit an all time low. Citizen Khan, Not going out, Life with the Flynns and big, Miranda, are an insult to people who grew up with, Hancock, Steptoe and sons, Monty Python and Harry Worth." "Bring back Charlie Drake," yelled Tommy, "Tommy Cooper, Ken Dodd and hamster eater, Freddie Star!" After venting our fury on a lost scarecrow, Tommy said, "SO, Saturday is the big day. When the signing of the Ulster Covenant with Bic pens is remembered.". "I was there!" I cried. "I was only a cuttie of 28, but I remember Lord Carson saying, "Put your names down here boys. If you can't write, just put down an X. And a wee man at the back, with a fag in his mouth and a flat cap on his head roared, "My Lord, how do you spell, X?" "Tubby Nolan is cashing in," said Tommy. "He plans to have a chain of trestle tables along the way, selling tea, coffee, baps and wee buns. Big Audrey, has been baking for the past five years. The whole enterprise, is called, "Tubby's Tuck In" and all proceeds go towards the purchase of a large, industrial, gastric band from the Boeing company." "Too little, too late!" I cried. "Take Tommy to the shipyard and have his lips welded together. Then, and only then, will we see the inner core of rogue planet, Nolan."

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!!!

Mark Carruthers and The VIew

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly aided 79 year old Skipper O'Gill, as he set off on his epic voyage to cross the Atlantic in a kitchen sink. Skipper, seemed well prepared for the journey. He had two table tennis bats to row with and a sliced loaf and a hard boiled egg tied round his neck. When asked by a hard nosed hack from the Derry Journal, how he propsed to bail if water got into the sink, Skipper, laughed and said, "I will simply remove the plug and the water will run out. People watched as Skipper went in and out with the edd of the tide. By nightfall, Skipper could be heard under Derry bridge singing sea shanties and yelling, "Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink!" Tommy my cat and I leaped to our feet as Mike Nesbitt brought an hysterical crowd to fever pitch at the UUP convention with a defiant yell of, "GO HOME! and prepare for, opposition!" "A ground breaking speech!" cried Tommy. In the distance I heard a far away rumble as the back woods men in Tyrone and Fermanagh, broke cover and stampeded to the centre ground. Left alone in the back woods, Ken Maginnis, ambled off into the darkness like a brown bear, eating wild berries as he went. Tommy watched as I burned ticks from my body with a red hot poker and said, "What is your view of the View?" I looked out the window and said, "I can see clearly now the rain has gone." Tommy gave licence for his face to show exasperation and yelled, "I speak of the NEW, bespoke BBC, show, tailored for Mark "Socks" Carruthers. The new, talk show is called, The View, and features Mark, putting blunt, hard nosed questions to the same old faces we have seen and heard, over the past thirty years." "Oh, I saw that!" I cried. "Mark asked two gentlemen what Mike Nesbitt, needed to do to revive the UUP party. After talking about it for ten minutes both gentlemen said they didn't know AND, Mark said, he didn't know either! Next day, people talked of little else as stage coach horses were changed at great Victoria station." "The View," mused Tommy. "I don't think much of the name. Why not, the View from The Beeb? The View from the bridge, or the View from the rear window?" That's Tommy. Always pushing the envelope. Always thinking outside the box. Always getting behind the back four and passing to the extra man. Hungry drunks parted, like the Red Sea, in the chip shop as Tubby Nolan, burst through roaring, "Make way! Make way! Certified glutton coming through!" "Why Mr Tubby," said the owner. "Hungry again? It's not more that twenty minutes since you left with a barrow load of fish suppers." "Less talk and more frying!" yelled Tubby. "I want a quadruple chip and a pentagon fish. A plethora of mushy peas, two handfuls of salt and half a pint of vinegar." "Certainly Mr Tubby," said the owner. "Anything else?" "Yes!" roared Tubby. "Twenty toothpicks and a strong bucket guaranteed to withstand fierce, projectile vomiting." As Tubby made his way outside, pulling his snack behind him on a little red wagon, the owner said to his assistant., "Marcus, take a spade and a torch and go dig another acre of potatoes. I fear the galloping glutton, will be back!"

Nostalgic for the past!

Great show yesterday kid, which caused great confusion and consternation up at Stormont. Wee Barry McElduff, was just about to put the kettle on for a cup of tay for everyone, except, Jim Alister, when Mr Coyle yelled, "There's nothing about that! You're a liar!" A great feeling of nostalgia swept over the MLAs. Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness, who were sitting on Alex Attwood's back, sharing a bap, stared into each other's eyes and said, "Remember when we used to carry on like that? The insults, shouting each other down. Each one calling the other a liar. So much time wasted on petty point scoring. Now, we live in harmony, each aware of the other's needs. Each ready to defend the other against brick bats, threats and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Jim Allister, sitting alone in a corner, with a jam sandwich in his hand and a red face on his shoulders roared, "Sean Coyle is my hero! I model myself on Sean Coyle. It was from him, I learned not to trust anything, or anybody." Jim leaped to his feet and screamed, "I follow Coyle, the way a hungry lion follows a missionary. Coyle, taught me to be rude, disruptive, unforgiving, loud, disparaging, annoying, boring, unremitting, bombastic and a right gulpin." Jim, crushed the heel of his jam sandwich under his foot and shrieked, "Here's to Coyle, a man with no insight, hindsight, and very little sight in his bad eye!" In the silence which followed Wee barry McElduff said, "Will I wet the tay boys? The burner is lit and I'm going to keep her lit!" All this happened, so Lord Laird could eat his porridge and make merry in an inn with plenty of room. We stand now and shake the pins and needles out of our legs. I looked at Tommy my cat having a cat nap in my chair and yelled, "Tommy, if you're going to make a habit of breathing, at least do it quietly." Tommy leaped to his feet, still wearing a black armband in memory of Noel Thompson and roared, "Ah, shut your mouth, you old harridan! All you ever do is complain. Go and get a job. Plenty of villages are looking for an idiot." "How dare you!" I cried. "I was at Queen's university." "Not as a student!" shouted Tommy. "When you were six years old, your father, who was a chimney sweep, took you to Queen's university and rammed you up all the chimneys." "It still counts!" I yelled. "I WAS, at Queen's university!" "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers, creeping out of the cubby hole under the stairs. "Is this any way to behave? You two, should be setting an example to the Sudan, Iran, Syria and the plethora of inter-faces we have here in wee Belfast." "Jim is right," said Tommy, putting the sledge hammer back in the corner. "I'm sorry," I muttered, lowering the battle axe. "That's better," said Jim. "Now come home with me and we'll jump over giant tomatoes until mammy calls us in for milk and cookies." You may have seen it in the sports pages and Steven Watson, put it well when he did a piece to camera. "Once again, ex lord Mayor, Jim Rodger's trailing foot let him down when he tried and failed to win the coveted, world tomato jumping championship, held at the moment by Mexican, Manuel Labour. Speaking after the leap, Jim said, "I'm working on the trailing leg and hope to bring the tomato jumping championship to 'Norn' 'Iron in the near future. If the good Lord's willin' and the creeks don't rise!"

MLAs must demonstrate they are hard workers.

Great show yesterday kid. The combined effort of you, Sean and Janet, helped quell a riot at Saint Jimmy's home for the old and infirm over a shortage of catheters. Old 98 year old Max Miller roared, " I stood toe to toe with Hitler, Albert Speers, Gorbals, Hess, Rommel and Hilda Brune and now, in the Autumn of my life, you expect me to go catheterless! Today, I stand proudly and unsteadily on this commode and cry, "Up with this, I shall not put!  I shall present myself today in the clinic in full dress uniform and demand that a catheter be inserted. If the answer is, NO!  I will stand smartly to attention, salute and pee my trousers, while singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary!" Old Max, was overpowered and taken off on a trolley while still roaring, "Even Hitler, for all his high spirited pranks, jolly japes and school boy foolishness, would not stand idly by and watch an old soldier pee his trousers!" 

Tommy my cat, prospective candidate for the Upper Bann constituency, read Mike Nesbitt's, new pamplet. "Going forward, while looking back" and said, "I see where Mike's coming from, but I've been there and the last bus out, is half past eleven in the morning!"

"The Back Woods!" I cried. "You talk of, the Back Woods in Tyrone and Fermanagh. Strange, weird tales emerge from the Back Woods. Not even the Discovery channel will venture in there. Did you not hear of the giant footsteps left by the Back Woods yeti?" 

"Rubbish!" cried Tommy. "It was merely Ken Maginnis, wearing a big pair of UDR boots."

I gazed at Tommy, as he sat on an upturned bucket, wearing a lovely, tartan, maternity dress, topped off with a snappy, red, Egyptian fez.

"Tommy," I said, "when you are elected by a veritable landslide in the next election, what do you plan to do?"

 "Hit the ground running," said Tommy. "First, I will put out a tender for the erection of a naughty step for Jim Allister. I will then propose, that ALL MLAs turn up for work at six o'clock  each morning, wearing overalls, or boilersuits. MLAS should look like real workers, not pampered pets.

Before MLAs leave the chamber at night, a small boy will smear dirt and grime over their faces. This, will demonstrate to the public and others, that MLAs  are as hardworking as coal miners, or ice cream men."

  "You're a hard task master Tommy cat" I said. "Hard as flint. Make buggers graft for their brass."   Tommy, drew himself up, put a clenched fist up in the air and roared,

"As the first cat elected to Stormont, I shall not pussy foot around!"     

--