PUSSIES POLLYWOGS AND POLITICAL POLTOONERY

I slid down the banister yelling, "Big Chief Rain In The Face." I have never liked Geronimo since the day he scalped my bald Grandfather and stole his bag of brandy balls. I put the handbrake on the banister and peeped into my living room. Something was-wrong, something just wasn't-right, something was-missing. It was me, so I did a cart wheel and landed in the middle of the room. I looked around by using my eyes and swiveling my neck. Over in the corner, Tommy my cat had a small mouse by the throat and was yelling into its face, "Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist party?" "Unhand that rodent," I yelled "that is Bertie, a lifelong member of the Alliance party. I have often seen Bertie and David Ford together discussing policy." "Sorry mate," said Tommy, putting little Bertie down and dusting him off, "can't be too careful these days. The reds are on the march again, threatening the very fabric of our free, Democratic society." "Shut up, Senator McCarthy," I yelled, "since you became the only other member in Bob McCartney's party, there has been no putting up with you." "Bob's the man." yelled Tommy. "Bob will built this country up again. A vote for Bob, is a vote for--Bob McCartney." "Shut your yapper Tommy," I screamed, "I have lost something, something very dear to me. I had it in my hand a minute ago and-now I can't find it anywhere."
Tommy sauntered over to a poof, shooed him off the chair and sat down.Tommy picked up the Bombay Times, crossed one furry leg over the other and said. "This-thing you have lost, what does it look like?" I ran up stairs for my teeth, bit my lip and stammered, "It's just a little-plaything that's all. It's pink and furry, just a little plaything that I use for relieving stress." "Aa-Ha," said Tommy, "just a little-plaything?" Then Tommy leaped to his feet and screamed, "Do you think I'm stupid? I know what that little furry plaything is. Its the trigger for a HYDROGEN BOMB that you bought on eBay last week for £5.59!" "Is it?" I yelled ."I had no idea, I thought it was just a little, pink, furry thing." "LIAR," screamed Tommy, "and I also know about the gigantic hydrogen bomb that you constructed in the tool shed. What's going on?" yelled Tommy, "come on, spit it out, you old reprobate of a rat bag!" "It's true," I shrieked, "I want a hydrogen bomb. I want to be a super power. Everyone has them, the Americans, the British, the French, the Indians and Pakistans. If Iran gets a hydrogen bomb before me, I'll me mortified. Please let me have a bomb Tommy, please-please, I swear I'll never ask for anything else. Please let me have a bomb Tommy, please-please-please!" Tommy put his hands on his slim hips and looked at me with disgust and puss in his yellow, slitted, feline eyes. "Well, well, well," said Tommy, "so you want to be a -super power? You want to join the arms race? You want to own a nuclear bomb?" "Yes Tommy," I pleaded "that's all. I just want to be-accepted. I want to make new nuclear friends. I never had any friends at school, because of my chronic BO and my habit of biting people."Tommy stood with his hands behind his back and thought. Then he said, "If I do let you have this nuclear bomb-and I haven't said yes yet, do you promise not to let it off?" "YES Tommy, yes, yes." I yelled "I only want the bomb for a deterrent. I mean when you think of it, its just like a girl carrying pepper spray or Mace isn't it?" "Well--all right" said Tommy, "but there are conditions. You must look after the nuclear bomb. You must keep it spick and span. If you don't," said Tommy, "don't expect me to look after it and you must also remember, that a nuclear bomb, like a little puppy, is not just for Christmas, it's for life." "I promise Tommy," I said, "I promise, I'll look after that massive nuclear bomb better than any nuclear bomb was ever looked after." I lowered my voice and whispered, "I have heard in nuclear circles that the Americans never dust their nuclear bombs.""Tut-Tut," said Tommy "that's the Americans for you, they put all the new, shiny stuff in the shop window, but God only knows what their store room is like." Later, after a light supper of pollywogs on toast, Tommy helped me to install the pink, fluffy nuclear trigger. Now, we could sleep content. Tommy and I were a nuclear power. No one would mess with us now. I was leaving very positive feedback on eBay for the man who sold me the little, pink, fluffy, nuclear trigger, when Tommy stuck his head round the door and said. "Oh bye the bye, the clocks go back on Saturday night, so you will have to get up at two o'clock and reset the timing clock on the bomb.". "SIR, yes-SIR," I yelled leaping to my feet. Oh how we laughed. "Tommy," I whispered, "are you awake?" "Yes," whispered Tommy. "I just want to thank you Tommy," I said, "I just want to thank you for letting me keep the nuclear bomb." "No probs," said Tommy "Now go to your bed and get your beauty sleep. We don't want you scaring the milkman again.". "How is Bert?" I whispered. "Still climbing the walls," whispered Tommy, "but his jibbering has greatly reduced in volume.". "Good," I whispered, "I like Bert."
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THE ANATOMICAL ANOMALIES OF THE COMMON OR GARDEN-CAT

Tommy my cat and I were sitting at home, pretending to be a woman and cat sitting at home. "This is fun," giggled Tommy, "I mean, sitting at home, pretending to be a woman and cat sitting at-home." "Yes," I said, "thank goodness both of us are at home or we couldn't have played this game". "If you were out" said Tommy "I could still pretend that I was a cat sitting at home." "Its not the same kid" I said "For years I used to sit at home pretending I was a woman sitting at home, but it's not the same. It was round about that time that I decided to get a cat for company." "Bye the bye," said Tommy "where did you get me? in a cat refuge? an advert in the paper? a strange meeting with an old crone in the woods?" "Neither," I said, "I found you in a Camay soap box drifting down the river Lagan." Tommy gulped and turned as pale as a black cat can". "It was a Saturday night," I went on, "around Halloween. I thought the box might contain a set of spanners or a crystal goblet with a rim of gold, so I reached out with my broomstick, I mean a-stick and pulled the box ashore and there you were, a small, wet pathetic kitten crying for your mummy, I was just going to set you adrift again, when I thought, "No, It was fate that made you find this feline, your destinies are intertwined, take the kitten home, nourish him, love him and you will never be alone-again". Tommy looked at me with tears in his slitted, yellow eyes and said "Was I alone in the box?" "Alone all alone," I cried, "except for a small rattle, six nappies and an ivory cameo of Lord Carson." "The same one I still wear round my neck," said Tommy, fingering his 18 carat rolled gold necklace. In the silence that followed, Richard Branson sailed round the world in a supermarket shopping bag, the price of oil fell to 10 pence a barrel and Steven Nolan ate his own weight in Jammy Dodgers. "I wonder where I came from" said Tommy "and why mummy gave me away? Was there-no clue?" "There was a note," I cried, "A note written in Sanskrit, but it gave no clue as to who you are or where you came from". "What did the note say? cried Tommy "What did the note-say?" I went up to the attic and dragged down an old chest, covered in rust and dust. I opened the chest with an ancient creak, not having the key, reached in and withdrew a cigarette. I lit the cigarette by applying flame to one end, took a little puff up to his bed and went on with my story. "The letter" I cried, "That was written in-Sanskrit, with pencil said-and I quote, "To whom it may concern, because it doesn't concern us, in this box is a kitten born out of wedlock. We are a respectable family, with two cars and sprinklers on the lawn. Our eldest daughter has just gone up to university, even though it's only down the road and our son-Orville can walk and talk, and he's just turned 28. As for this kitten, contained in the box, do with him what you like. He will never get a penny of our money, or dance at my daughte'rs wedding. He is an outcast, a homeless feline, we never want to see him again. All the best from Alma and Ernie Barrowfield, 23 the Hawthorns, Ann Street, Belfast, Northern Ireland, Great Britain, The world, the Universe, The Cosmos."
Tommy looked at me and said, "If we only had some clue." "I know lad," I said, "I know, but the man who wrote that wasn't giving anything away. Talk about-obtuse."
"Tommy," I said, over a supper of a little fishie on a dishie, "Can you really see in the dark Tommy?" "Tommy looked all around and muttered, "I'm not really supposed to talk about this, but-yes." "How cool," I said, "can you not see the dark like the rest of us can?" "Of course I can see the dark" said Tommy "If I didn't see the dark, I would never know when to switch on the lights on my bicycle. I can-SEE in the dark. I have special lens in my eyes that allow me to see in the dark." "Did you go to Specsavers?" I said. "No," said Tommy, "nature provided them and I didn't have to fill a form in or anything." "I wish I could see in the dark" I said. "If I could see in the dark, I could sell my flash light and buy a stone of plums." I have another gift," said Tommy with a wink, "I can see the-wind." I broke wind with surprise. "I saw that." said Tommy. "Oh Tommy," I yelled "Oh Tommy Cat, I have always wanted to know the colour of the wind. Tommy, please tell me Tommy, please, what colour is the wind?" "It's hard to describe" said Tommy "It's a sort of silvery colour with tinges of aqua marine and just a hint of canary yellow." "Oh Tommy," I cried "How wonderful it must be to be a cat. To be able to see in the dark, to be able to see the beauty of the wind and to be able to fall from tall buildings and always land on your feet." Tommy burst out laughing and said, "Cats can't fall from tall buildings and land on their feet." "Yes they can." I yelled "Everyone says so.""No, No," said Tommy "It's an urban myth, put about by lucky, contortionist cats." Tommy and I were so happy in our snug, condemned wee home. We both gave a shriek, clasped hands and danced a four hand reel to the sound of Christine Bleakly on TV, whining on and on about global warming and the outrageous price of wee buns with sugar on the top. Then Tommy and I stood out in the cold and rain, pretending to be a woman and cat locked out of their house. I don't know, It's all-go, where does the time go? I mean, it seems only yesterday, I was wondering what would happen today! Life-eh? Cor Blimey! Where's it all going to end? and will there be a man to show us the way out? I don't know. I suppose there's no good carping on about it. Life-eh? it's some handlin', stone the crows, eh missus? I mean, it makes you think. And then you have to contend with monkeys on pogo sticks! What's all that about then-eh? I don't know, cor blimey and stone the bleeding crows--eh?
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Yeh, monkeys on pogo sticks? that's what we have to put up with now!

WHERE HAS ALL THE MONEY GONE?

"COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-NO!" I yelled, pulling the blankets over my head. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO-NIGH!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-your-ass!" I yelled. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. It was no good, I had to get up, but I got up with bad grace. How Grace got into my bed last night, I'll never know. She said she had an invite, but when pressed, couldn't produce it. Maybe she did. I remember sending out a bunch of invitations, inviting people to join me in bed. I searched under the blankets and the pillows, but no sign of Hugo Duncan. I suppose he thinks he's better that me now he's got the new false teeth. I sang as I dressed. "Giddy-up, giddy-up a ding dong!" I yelled as I stepped into my little black number. I just love that bin liner. I found it in a wheelie-bin on the Malone Road, so it's got class. Shoes, shoes, shoes, the same decision every morning, what shoes should I wear? I decided to compromise and slipped into a pink, 8 inch heel stiletto and a lime green wellington with the top rolled down. I stood at an angle, admiring myself in the mirror. "You got it girl!" I yelled to my reflection. "You don't need Trinny and Suzanna to tell you what to wear."I clamped a brown bonnet on my head, wrapped a West Ham football scarf round my gullet and I was ready. I tripped down the stairs like Maggie Poppins, the half sister of Mary singing merrily, "Hit me, hit me, hit me with your rhythm stick." I leapt over the banister yelling, "GERONIMO!" and burst into the living room and found my cat Tommy in a state of confusion, delusion, but devoid of any conclusion. Tommy was down on the floor on his hands and knees, shaking the money out of his piggy bank. There was a look of-madness in the feline, slitted eyes. "Tommy, Tommy!" I yelled. "What are you up too lad? Are you compos mentis? or are you in a state of do-lalliness, bordering on full blown, 24 caret, 100%-madness?" Tommy looked up, his eyes filled with horror and hissed,( he'll clean that up later), "I must get my life savings out of this bank," screamed Tommy. "Why Tommy?" I said. "Because this bank could go bust at anytime," shrieked Tommy. "Surely not," I said, "It looks like a good, strong substantial bank to me, made out of the strongest plastic." "You don't understand," screamed Tommy, "banks are falling like wino's on a Saturday night. American banks, UK banks, German banks and the last bank in Iceland fell during the night. Bank robbers, with guns are walking the streets, dazed and confused." "The poor wee doats," I said "I didn't know things were that bad. What can I do Tommy?" I shrieked. "What can I do to help? Tommy didn't answer, he pulled his hair out by the roots, rent his garments, kicked a poof and yelled, "Damn Freddie and Fanny, damn them I say." "Have Freddie and Fanny hurt my little Tommy?" I yelled. "Tell me where this Freddie and Fanny live and I'll go round there and punch them up the gub." "Freddie and Fanny are American banks," yelled Tommy. "They were the first banks to go bust and the rest followed like sheep." "But where did the money go Tommy?" I asked. "It-it-just disappeared," yelled Tommy. "No one knows where the money went. It went into a computer and never came out again." ""What is President Georgie Bush doing about all this?" I yelled, striking a Nelson pose. "George Bush, is acting like-George Bush," said Tommy. "What's the maverick doing," I cried. "What is old John McCain doing? He's a maverick, you know, surely he must be doing some mavericky things." "The maverick," yelled Tommy "is walking around in a daze, with a moose hunter from Alaska, calling everybody--my friend.". "Durn blast the hoggle-swoggle son of a gun from Arizona" I yelled. Tommy sat down and began to count his money, starting like every good mathematician with--"ONE." I paced the floor, banging one fist into the other. My eyes had a steely glint and my nose had a reddish hue. "It's all here" screamed Tommy, "its all here, every penny. I haven't been wiped out by the big crash." "How much did you have in the bank Tommy?" I said. "One pound and 87 pence," said Tommy and his little feline cheeks were glowing like apples. "Well done Tommy," I cried. "If you had another 13 pence, you would have even more money." "Put the TV on," yelled Tommy "put the TV on,.I want to laugh at the suckers who lost their shirts." Steven Nolan's great big face filled the plasma screen and the speakers vibrated as Tubby roared into the camera. "I lost it all, every penny I had. I lost my shirt, underpants and three pair of socks. I'm wiped out, I haven't even the price of a hamburger. And it's all down to Freddie and Fanny. I'm sorry for Freddie, but I should have known that tramp Fanny was a money grabbing harlot the way she pulled me up the stairs in Las Vegas." "Tommy killed himself laughing and chortled, "Fat boy not happy." "No indeedee" I said, "Fat boy not happy. Fat boy wiped out. Fat boy loose many spondulecks." Tommy and I sat watching as Steven "Tubby" Nolan sang into the camera with tears streaming down his massive face.
"No body know, da trouble I've seen
No body know my sorrow
No body know da trouble I've seen
By jeekers and begorragh."

As Fred Dibnah would say, "Did you like that?"
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HIGH FINANCE AND LOW FINESSE

As the sun broke over Belfast, it found the city exactly where it had been last night. It hadn't moved an inch, had not tried to make an escape during the hours of darkness. I think that says a lot about Belfast and the people of Belfast. Citizens of Belfast, stand up and take a bow. If you haven't got a bow, get on to eBay immediately. If you can't find a bow in your size, you could always buy a curtsy or a snappy salute. It's up to you, good people of Belfast, how you show pride in the populace. Far be it for me to dictate how you should celebrate your bravery. But, good people of Belfast, don't squander this glorious moment. Take a bow, pat yourself on the back and the next time you meet yourself, invite yourself in for a wee dram. Och-Aye.
I groaned wearily as I crawled out off the toilet bowl, I had been in there for two weeks, pretending I was the American economy. Tommy my cat was sprawled on the carpet, pretending to be the fallen dollar. Suddenly, Jim Rodgers stuck his nose through the letter box and screamed, "HI-big bail out for the American economy-NIGH!" Seven hundred billion. I could feel it doing me good already. Tommy jumped up, grabbed for a Cockney accent and began to sing in the oddest voice, "What do you want, if you don't want money?" I twirled myself round the room, then I grabbed my hand and danced The Walls of Limerick to the sound of the slapper with the hoover next door. What a relief! At one point I thought I was going down the pan and poor Tommy was so weak, the Japanese yen was battering the face of him. And now!-now we had got a transfusion of money from the American tax payer. I whipped out my wok, found it was a stone that Jonathan Ross had given me for my birthday, and grabbed the frying pan instead. In no time I had whipped up a celebratory banquet of cardboard, string and dust mites. As Tommy and I sat, toasting the financial bail -out with goblets of Fairy washing up liquid. I looked at Tommy and said. "Tommykins, you're a smart Cookie. What was the reason for the collapse of the American economy?" Tommy took a sip of Fairy liquid, boaked into his dinner and said, "GREED" "Greed?" I yelled, running to the foot of our stairs, bolting the door and drawing the blinds with a pencil. "GREED," said Tommy. "That's the cause of all the caffuffle. Nothing but good old fashioned-greed!" "It can't be!" I yelled to Pansy the parrot. "Oh yes it can," squawked Pansy. "I don't understand," I cried to the light bulb. "Hey man," said the light bulb, "Don't drag me into it. I'm just hanging around, minding my own business." "GREED?" I shrieked to the whispering grass, who tried to tell the trees, but the trees didn't want to know. "Tommy1" I yelled, "what can we do to make sure this, this-ah meltdown, this horlicks doesn't happen again?" Tommy wiped his feline lips with a sleeping kin, no, sorry, a napkin, got to his feet, stood at the fireplace, lit a cigar, put one thumb into the pocket of his canary yellow waistcoat and said. "Fiscal responsibility." "You what?" I yelled. Tommy sauntered over to the piano, tinkled on the ivories, filthy habit and said, "We must tighten our belts, cut our cloth to suit our means, knuckle down on credit, tie a knot in our galluses, always carry a clean hankie, keep our powder dry, never look a gift horse in the mouth and flush the toilet after using it." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe. What a smart little cat, what a cute little feline. Then Tommy's cigar exploded with a BANG, blew off his bow tie and left his little face all black. I just laughed like the gulpin I am, as I looked at Tommy, searching frantically for a banjo while singing, "MAMMY-MAMMY."
Two stone of biscuit crumbs had accumulated in the fork of Steven Nolan's huge trousers. There we lay, beside the landfill site, swatting flies and yelling-"Shoosh" to the hungry rats. I gazed at Tubby with my eyes full of passion and pus. Dear Steven gazed back and fluttered his eyelashes. My beret flew off my head and my wig slid over one ear. Steven eased up on one gigantic hip, broke wind so romantically and said, "Lie down Toots, I've got something for you." I shrieked like a rat in a trap, as dear Steven picked up a hurdy-gurdy and began to croon.
"I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
I'm so full I'm brustin, I'm gonna need some pos
So If you really love me
Have them lined up in neat rows."
As the haunting love song drifted up with the smoke from the landfill site, the sun slowly sank in the West, leaving the city of Belfast in darkness. But would Belfast be there in the morning when the sun rose in the East? I sighed and threw myself on Tubby, grabbing and groping at his little hurdy-gurdy.
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And remember, be good and if you can't be good--be bad.

THROW ANOTHER FAGGOT ON THE FIRE FANNY

As Dawn broke wind, sunlight streamed through the broken window of our house. Tommy my cat and I built a dam with sandbags but we couldn't keep it out. Soon my living room was up to the oxters in-sunlight. I stood with hands on hips and said, "Well, this is a right howdy-do."
Howdy-do to you too," said Tommy, surveying the damage. "How are we going to get this sunlight out of the house?" "Grab some brooms" I yelled "and sweep the sunlight out to the street!" "Good idea!" cried Tommy, grabbing a broom in his feline paws and sweeping furiously.
"It's no good," gasped Tommy, "the more I sweep the sunlight out, the more it streams back in again.""Shut up and keep sweeping," I yelled, "before the sunlight ruins my one piece suite and damages my daddy's nick-nacks!" "Those nick-nacks should be in the coffin along with your dead daddy," cried Tommy. "What kind of monster are you, to send a man to meet his maker nick-nackless?" "He was my daddy," I yelled, "not your daddy. When my alive daddy died, I was heartbroken. I wanted something to remind me of dear daddy, so I took his nick-nacks."
"Could you not have cut off his tie instead?" roared Tommy, up to the waist in sunlight.
"My daddy loved that tie!" I yelled "It was the regimental tie of the Irish Guards and my late daddy would have joined the guards if his height and his IQ had been bigger."
"It's no good!" cried Tommy "The sunlight is streaming in. It's a deluge, a deluge of sunlight. Why did Frank Mitchell not warn people about a flood of sunlight on TV last night?"
"Frank Mitchell, my aunt Fanny!" I screamed, "Frank Mitchell was too busy trying to convince people that wet bag was Coleraine on the 'Name That Town' teaser last night." "I saw that," said Tommy. "Frank certainly fooled me. I thought wet bag was-Cullybaccy. Even the dogs in the street know that cully is Arabic for-wet and Baccy is Ulster/Mongolian for-BAG." "Shut up Tommy!" I screamed, as I grabbed a signed photograph of Steven Nolan before it was washed away by the sunlight. "It's hopeless," I yelled, "the sunlight is half way up the stairs now! There's only one thing to do." Tommy gasped and said, "You don't mean?..."
"YES!" I cried, "It's time to send for super hero--JIM RODGERS. Then Tommy and I sang the Jim Rodger's song, which goes after this fashion. Ah one, ah two, an three, ah four.....
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Jim Rodgers arrived on a bicycle, ringing the bell, his purple cape fluttering behind him.
"NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh Jim," I screeched, "thank goodness you're here! My house is flooded by pesky-sunlight."
"Stand back," screamed Jim "this is a job for super hero--JIM RODGERS!"
Tommy and I clapped, cheered and broke once more into the Jim Rodger's theme tune.
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, Jim Rodgers, super hero ran into the sunlit house and banished the sunlight by--pulling the curtains.
"MY HERO!" I cried as Jim rode off on his bicycle screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!"
Tommy began to sing, "IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF IN TROUBLE." I took the cuff off my sleeve and let Tommy have it round the ear. Tommy and I clasped hands, danced the Mason's Apron to the sound of a stone sliding down a corrugated tin roof and then skipped-gaily into our sunless abode. But for months after, I kept finding little bits of sunlight stuck down the back of the sofa. I cupped them carefully in my hands, ran to the door and threw them up into the sunlit sky. "Fly my little one!" I yelled. " Fly to the shinning orb up in the sky, that is made up from 72% hydrogen, 28% helium and just a little, teeny-weenie smidgen of carbon."a
Later that night, or was it tomorrow night? Tommy my cat looked on with disapproval as I went to bed with cocoa. "I don't care, I don't care what people think, let them talk. Sure Coco is a clown but when he takes off his big shoes and baggy trousers, he knows how to make a girl happy--and he makes me laugh. And do all women, not put at the top of their list for the ideal man--a good sense of humour? So ladies, if you want a man who makes you laugh, go out and grab a-clown. You will find lots of clowns in the circus--and up at Stormont.
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FLOGGING A DEAD CAT

Monday morning found Tommy my cat and I up to our old tricks. Tommy had me in a box and the wily feline was sawing me in half with a saw. Tommy stopped sawing after my 21st shriek and rushed me to casualty on the back of a Mexican burro called Anthony. The doctor patched me up, patched me down, rolled me over, took my temperature and said. "Goodness gracious me, what a crazy lady!" gave me a Bombay riser with his toe and yelled, "NEXT!" "Damn you doctor, Ali Murphy!" I yelled. "I'll bring down the Indian economy. I'll never eat curry again." "You fixed his wagon," said Tommy. "Let's see how he likes them apples." I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of the neck, found a darkened corner and gave him an enema he'll remember for the rest of his life. All that from one small cat? Amazing, truly-amazing.
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!