CAKES, CATS, CRACKERS AND CHRISTMAS

I was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting the top of my egg with a chainsaw when Tommy my cat walked in. I looked at Tommy and yelled.
"Hello, you mangy, old flea-ridden excuse for a cat"
Tommy smiled and yelled back.
"Hello to you, you old hump-backed, duck-arsed old slapper"
I smiled and yelled.
"Hello-again, you foul-breathed, stinking, bleary eyed, knock kneed filthy feline"
Tommy stuck his tongue out and yelled back.
"Shut up, you hairy faced, toothless, cross-eyed, pot-bellied, wart covered, ugly, crazy, old bag".
"Well" I said "That's the pleasantries over, but now, down to the serious business, what do you want for Christmas Tommy?"
"I demur" said Tommy, and he did, right there in front of me and he never even lifted his tail."I demur" said Tommy "I think old ugly bags should go first, so-what do YOU want for-Christmas?" I was caught on the hop, I didn't expect to go first, I mused in my muesli, it dilutes the taste of the nuts and replied. "What I would like this Christmas, what I would really, really like, is to appear younger looking". "No trouble" said Tommy "I'll get you a 90 year old man, then when you take him for a walk, you will look-younger"
"Now, that's what I call thinking with a capital-THI" I yelled. "But Tommy, if you do get me a 90 year old man, please make sure he has all his faculties--and elbows, I like-elbows".
"Faculties I can guarantee" said Tommy "But not teeth".
"Don't worry about teeth" I said "He can use my late daddy's teeth".
"Are you not making a lot of work for yourself?" said Tommy, with a worried frown.
"Not at all" I yelled "It's just a matter of getting two shovels, cycling to the graveyard, digging my dead daddy up, opening the coffin and reaching in to get the false teeth. It's simple, even a child could do it". "I suppose you're right" said Tommy. "The hardest part will be getting on to the bicycle while carrying a shovel. Now" said Tommy, clapping his hands, "That's you sorted, now, do you want a bog standard 90 year old man,or would you like the deluxe model?"
"Bog standard" I said "But I would like him to be small and compact, with working elbows that can carry the morning newspaper, none smoker with flat cap and if at all possible, easy on the juice". "I'll just make a note of that" said Tommy and he dipped his finger in soot and began to scrawl on my newly painted jet black wall.
"RIGHT" I yelled, turning to the left and banging my face against the wall. That's me taken care of, now for you, what would you like for Christmas? What would my little Tommy-Pommy like for-Christmas?". Tommy flushed bright red and began to dance from one paw to the other. "What's wrong?" I said "Need a slash?". "I certainly do NOT" yelled Tommy "and I do wish you would stop going on about-slashing and you know, the-other, number two".
"It's a fact of life Kid" I said "as natural as eating, breathing or sticking two corncrakes under your oxters and pretending to be the Queen of Siam". "I know" said Tommy "It's me, I just don't like talking about things like that, I'm sensitive you know, anything to do with-toilets--well, it turns my stomach". "It's a good job you're not George Michael then" I screeched. "Now, come on Tommy, don't be a big girl's twinset, what do you want for-Christmas?" "Oh, I'm too shy to say" giggled Tommy "can I hide behind the curtain and tell you from there?" "If you must" I yelled "But hurry up, that Greek ship docks at ten o'clock tonight and I must be there to greet the little Greek sailors with a smile on my face and a ripcord on my drawers". I stood for five minutes watching the curtain, then, the curtain began to speak. "This Christmas" mumbled Tommy "I want something I have wanted for a long,long time" I heard the hidden feline-gulp then he went on. I want a--Barbie doll, a-boxed-Barbie doll, with blue eyes, a peaches and cream complexion and long, long-blonde hair". I stood there, open mouthed and-transfixed, my trans had been broken for a long time, but now it was-fixed! I felt a thump on the mouth and realised that I had also been-gobsmacked. Transfixed, open-mouthed and gobsmacked I gazed at the quivering curtain. I found my voice under the blacksmith's anvil and yelled.
"And what colour dress should this Barbie doll have?"
"Pink" whispered the voice from behind the curtain.
"And what colour shoes?" I said
"Pink" whispered the hidden voice.
"And what colour--under-things?" I roared.
"Pink" whispered the voice, in a sibilant, sinister Scots/Irish dialect.
"Come out" I yelled "Come out from behind that curtain, you-you-disappointing, discommodious, discomforting, disembodied-dir'tee,lit'le cat".
"Tommy crept out from behind the curtain, with his tail between his legs. I towered over him and yelled, "I have just one thing to say to you, if I let you play with my 90 year old man on Christmas day, will you let me play with your Barbie doll?" "YES" yelled Tommy "Oh, yes, yes, YES!" Then Tommy and I clasped hands and danced the Walls of Limerick to the sound of police batons thumping off little hoodie heads down at the corner. Irish Culture? sure it's all we have left, along with a million pigs that no one wants to eat! Kay-ME-AH-Fault-Yah! Paddy and after you with the shamrock painted PO.

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And if your cat-or indeed-dog asks for a doll this Christmas, don't worry, it's just a sign of the times.

TOMMY THE CAT USES "MY" LITTER TRAY!

In the run down, condemned hovel I call-home, Christmas was in the air. A Festive extravaganza of coloured crepe paper, bells, bows and tinsel hung from the sagging ceiling. A big Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with twinkling lights and dangling condoms. I had some job getting the fairy up on top of the tree. He said,he had places to go to and people to see, but I slipped some Temazepan into his eggnog and he soon became pliable and less obstreperous. I love everything about Christmas. Santa Claus creeping into your home, followed two months later by the bailiffs. The feeling of-goodwill in the air, "Let go of that teddybear you tube, I saw it first". Carol singers, drunk drivers blowing into tubes, the little children-so excited, parcelling up stones in festive paper, before they throw them at the corners. The magic feeling of hope on Christmas day, the heavy feeling of constipation on Boxing day. But the thing I really love about Christmas is-Santa! Ah, dear old Santa Claus, the white beard, the red rosy cheeks and the massive expanse of red cloth, covering his ding-dong, merrily on high. When I was young, about 27 or 28, some naughty children told me there was NO Santa Claus!, they said it was my daddy.
But I proved them wrong, on Christmas Eve night, I crept softly into my parents' room and nailed both of them to the bed, with six inch nails. And Santa still came to me! On Christmas day I got a ride in a police car and a lovely assessment from the chief cook and bottle washer at the loony bin. No Santa? Kiss my ass, that's what I say! You tell me there's no-Santa, I tell you, "Go kiss my black ass-fool!"
I was softly humming--I really must get a bar of Lifebuoy soap, when Tommy my cat came in with a balloon tied to his feline tail. I looked at Tommy with love in my eyes and fleas in my drawers and said, "Well Tommy, old son, Christmas is coming." Tommy flashed a big, wide smile like Christine Blakely and cried, "And the goose is getting fat." In the awful, terrible silence that followed, you could have heard a jumbo jet crash through the roof. I said-nothing. I grabbed Tommy by the arm, led him outside, out the Lisburn road for seven miles,turned down a narrow, winding lane and stopped under a rare Atlantis fig tree. Under the spreading fig tree, I looked all around and whispered, "Tommy, this is for your own good. The reason I have asked you to meet me here tonight is--well, it's embarrassing, but it's for your own good. I looked all around again, lowered my voice and whispered, "Earlier tonight, I said to you, "Christmas is-coming" and what did you reply?" Poor Tommy, shook, trembled and shivered and whispered, "I don't remember.""Well, let me refresh your memory," I whispered. "When I said-to you, "Christmas is coming, you replied-and I quote, "And the goose is getting fat." "What's wrong with that?" whispered Tommy, "Lot's of people say, "And the goose is getting fat." "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," I whispered, "It's such old hat, it's out of fashion. How can you sparkle and be the life and soul at cocktail parties with out of date sayings like, "And the goose is getting fat?""I had no idea," stammered Tommy. "Oh my God, all my fly comebacks are out of date. I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry." "Easy lad," I said, patting his furry head. "It's not a putting down offence--THIS TIME, but you really must work on your add-libs and fly answers.""I will," spluttered Tommy, "I will, I swear I will." "Good boy," I said, "Now let's go home, have a nice cup of Oxo gravy and never talk about this again." As we walked up the long, winding lane, Tommy looked at me and said, "What would you say, if I said to you, Christmas is coming?" Quick as a flash, I replied, "I know, I see the Easter eggs are in the shops." Tommy looked at me with-awe, in fact he said, "I can't help it, I'm looking at you, with-awe." Just then, and not a minute before or after, Jim Rodgers leaped out from behind a whin bush screaming, "Nigh-Nigh-NIGH! Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat""Tommy and I grabbed Jim and headed back towards the fig tree. At half past two in the morning, I had 97 people swarming round the fig tree, as I tried to drill into their thick skulls, that in today's modern world, the fly answers of our fathers and grandfathers, just won't do. Poor, poor Jim Rodgers, the best he could come up with was, "Christmas is coming--I know-Hi, It's coming-NIGH, so it is." How did that man ever become Lord Mayor? He must know wild high up people-NIGH!
And with that I return you to the studio, where Mark Carruthers, has stripped down to his red socks, for Slappers In Need Night.
Get Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at all Eason shops and below.
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And to find out what Rosie is stuffing for Christmas, go to.
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Oh, if you're passing my little house at Christmas, just keep on going!

THE CAT WHO DIDN'T BARK IN THE NIGHT

Tommy my cat and I sat at each side of the fire on elephant stools. We were crouched over, drooling, dribbling, gurning and wetting ourselves. We were pretending to be an old couple who had celebrated their 100th wedding anniversary last Saturday. Tommy looked at me, through red, watery eyes and croaked, "Wasn't it nice dear to see our 452 grandchildren, great grandchildren and great, great grandchildren on Saturday?" I broke wind-weakly and croaked, "452 grandchildren, great grandchildren and great, great grandchildren. That's a lot of-children. I bet if you laid all the umbilical cords end to end, they would stretch from here to somewhere else." "Where did all those children come from?" croaked Tommy. "I don't know," I croaked. "Long, long and even longer ago, I remember someone shouting-PUSH, but I don't know if I was giving birth or pushing a fat wombat up a narrow chimney." "My money would be on the wombat," croaked Tommy. "Everyone was pushing wombats up chimneys in the good old days." "I remember," I croaked. "What do you remember dear?" croaked Tommy. "I remember that I can't remember anything," I croaked. "I remember the first time I saw you," leered Tommy. "You were coming out of the outhouse at the bottom of the garden. I remember the sun glinting off your bonny, bonny big fat blazer of a face. You smiled at me like an angel, yes, like an angel and guldered, "If you're going in there, don't light your pipe or you'll be gathering up your arse in a bucket." "I was known for my charm," I croaked. "I was known for my charm and the tapeworm that lived in my large intestine.""We have seen some changes," croaked Tommy. "We have," I croaked, "the first motorcar, the second motorcar and if I'm not mistaken, the third-motorcar."
"Cha-Cha-changes," croaked Tommy, "the like of what I never thought I would see. Aeroplanes, lollies on sticks, open heart surgery and ointment for the pesky piles." "Yes," I croaked, "but not all changes were for the better. Take toilet roll. When toilet roll came in, people stopped reading and became illiterate." "True," croaked Tommy, "But who thought we would ever live to see, Kerry Katona making commercials for Iceland?" "It beats Bannager" I croaked. "It beats Bannager up down and sideways," croaked Tommy. "What's left for us to do?" I croaked, "We have lived through some rare auld times, but what's left for us to-do?" Tommy broke wind, but very-weakly and croaked, "The only thing left for us to do now, is-die." "Well, if that doesn't beat Bannager again!" I croaked ."Only yesterday, or was it five years ago, I scrawled in my diary, "Things to do tomorrow. Get up--with a lot of help, sit on armchair, drool, grunt, sleep, wet myself, drool some more and then-die." "It's a good thing you wrote it down," croaked Tommy, "otherwise we could have been sitting here for all eternity, like two right eejits."
Next morning, after Tommy and I had spent two hours hanging from a tramp's nose, pretending to be snotters, I skipped down Belfast dressed as, a zebra crossing. Its a mistake I won't make again. People walked all over me! I hailed a taxi to take me to a corner. As I walked round the corner, who did I meet but dapper little Mark Carruthers, he of the red socks, don't you know and all that malarkey. "Greetings little Marcus," I yelled, "Whence are you off to, perchance to visit your loyal garrisons in Gaul or Galway?""Neither," sniffed the little man who says, "Lets Talk." "If you must know, I am just out for a spot of lunch." "A spot of-lunch?" I yelled, "A big boy like you? Come, come Markus, you need more that a-spot of lunch. You must keep your strength up, to ward off Donna Trainor. "A spot of lunch is no good for a big man like you. You need to get your snout into a good trough of Irish Stew. Get your snout right in there and root about for mince, carrots, spuds and turnips. But you need to get right into it, put your hands in your pockets and sink your visage into a hot, steaming pile of Irish Stew." "The very thought!" sniffed Marcus. "You must be mistaking me for the tubby person, Steven Nolan." "Nolan gets his grub," I yelled,"but you, Marcus, need building up.What you should do, is hang a bucket of Mrs Baxter's Scottish broth around your neck and get right into it. You have to get right into it," I yelled. "Excuse me," said Marcus, "One is in rather a hurry. May I get past? I have a salad waiting for me and I don't want it getting cold. "Oh, so hoity-toity," I sneered. "A salad waiting-no less. You were not so hoity-toity on Monday night, when you were dancing the hokey cokey-ALONE in the corner of Big Bertha's bar and slash house." "That was NOT me!" yelled Marcus. "It was my half brother-Yasmin. We never talk about-him. Mummy said he is a bad boy.. I spread my legs, folded my arms, knitted my brows, clenched my buttocks and roared, "And I suppose it was half brother-Yasmin who cut me dead at the-Vatican?" "It was certainty not me," cried Marcus."I have never laid an expensive shoe at the Vatican. Noel Thompson gets all the good jobs." I ruminated, shook my leg and said-grudgingly, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. It may have been the Pope. All I saw were the-red socks.

Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson are available for Christmas, Passover and Pancake Tuesday at all Eason shops or from below.
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And to see what Rosie herself is up to, go to...
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OH, Mark never got his salad, Pat Rabbit from the Free State government got there first!
I don't know about you, but I would call that an-incursion!!!

CATTY REMARKS FROM A CRUEL CRAFTY-CAT

I looked at Tommy my cat, there he sat, the GREAT Tommy, eating larks' tongues and ice cream with an Edwardian silver spoon. Oh how I hated him, sitting there, with his wee furry paws, yellow slitted eyes and long curled tail. Little Lord Tommy, not a care in the world. He never did any work around the house. He never brought in coal or took out the ashes, apart from the time he threw my granny's urn into the dustbin. I had to dig through a mountain of rubbish at Belfast dump to get her again, and by the time I got there, the rats had made off with one of her legs. I felt my gorge rise. I got a shoehorn and pushed it back down again, giving myself a good dunt in the gizzard as I did so. I watched with mounting anger as Tommy picked up a glass of red wine, took a sip and said, "Aah, the fruit of the vine, simply-divine." I was shaking all over, with pent up anger. Blood was throbbing in my temples and my toes were curling and uncurling in my vivid pink Ugg boots. I could stand it no more. I put my brain into gear, pressed my foot on the pedal and roared.
"Tommy?"
"Yes, old girl?" said Tommy.
Did you hear that? The filthy feline said, "Yes, old girl?" What kind of cat goes round saying, "Yes, old girl?"
"Tommy," I said, "I hate you."
"I detest you," replied Tommy.
"I loath you," I yelled.
"I despise you," said Tommy.
"I dislike you," I roared.
"I execrate you," said Tommy.
" I-ah-I-ah-I contempt you," I yelled.
"No, no, old girl." said Tommy "It really won't do at tall, You have run out of verbs, leaving me the winner. If you want verbs, run up to my room and you will find a big cardboard box of verbs under my bed."
"Damn you, Tommy cat," I roared ,"You have beaten me again, but someday, someday, I will shove verbs down your throat until you end up as fat as Steven Nolan." Tommy just sniggered, picked up his banjo and began to play, "My Dixie Darling."
Next morning I got up with the crow, poured some liquid dog faeces into all four of Tommy's socks and set off round Belfast, dressed as John Daly's bald head. As I rounded a corner on one Ugg boot, who did I run into but little Hugo Duncan. The wee man from Strabane was bopping along singing, "Oh Lord, but it's hard to be humble, when you fall on your ass from a tumble." I put the warbling out of the wee man. I grabbed him by the throat, shoved him up against a wall and growled. "Listen punk, I ain't got a lot of time-see? I just want the facts-see?" "See-see," gasped Hugo ,"What do you want to know?" "I want the answer to one question," I hissed. Hugo leaped back, but too late, his little Ugg boots were splattered. "Listen Punk," I said, "and listen good, just who was Martha the flower of sweet Strabane?" A look of fear appeared on Uncle Hugo's face. His new gnashers began to tremble. The little man looked all around and whispered "All right, I'll tell you, but you didn't hear it from me-right?" "Spit it out punk,"I growled, "and it better be good."
"What I'm about to tell you," whispered Hugo, "is a secret that Strabane has kept for many, many years. Strabane has a name as a tough town, a lot of hard men live there, and if this secret got out, it would make Strabane a laughing stock. The truth is--and remember you didn't hear this from me, the truth is, Martha the flower of sweet Strabane was a--MAN!"
"Get away," I yelled.
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
The petite Hugo looked all around and whispered, "Martha was really--Willie John McGarrigle, Strabane's first--transsexual!"
"Get away!" I yelled
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
"No wonder the citizens of Strabane want to keep that a secret" I said.
"You're not wrong," said Hugo, "but it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Wonder about what?" I said.
"Mary from Dungloe" said Hugo. "The pretty little girl from Omagh, Eileen, the girl who was taken home, Molly Malone, the pride of the old county Down, Kathleen, Kitty, and Maude, who was taken into the garden".
"You don't mean?" I shrieked.
"If I let you into a little secret," said Hugo, "Do you promise to keep it to yourself?"
"Sure Hugo, sure Hugo, sure, sure, sure," I yelled.
"All-MEN." said Hugo. "Every song in Ireland that is written about a woman--all transsexuals, transsexuals to a-man!"
"In the name of the ragged beard of David Ford," I yelled. "So no woman in Ireland, has ever had a song written about her?"
"Not one." said Hugo. "All the famous Irish love songs, were written about-MEN!"
"HUGO," I yelled grasping him by the toggles of his duffel coat. "We must remedy that! Someone must write a song about an Irish woman"
"But-WHO?" cried Hugo.
"YOU!" I yelled.
"ME?" said Hugo.
Yes-YOU!" I cried.
"But who, or indeed-Whom shall I write about?" screamed Hugo.
"Lynda Byrons!" I yelled. "I know for a fact that Lynda is a woman. I saw her reverse down a one way street."
"Lynda is a nice wee doat," agreed Hugo,"but no words rhyme with Lynda-or-Byrons."
"There must be someone." I yelled ."All famous Irish songs can not be the sole property of-transsexuals--not that I have anything against them."
Hugo clapped his little chubby hands and cried, "I know, Donna Trainor, I will write an Irish love song about-Donna Trainor."
"You wee cracker!" I yelled, planting a kiss on Hugo's chubby nose. "You wait here and I will run into this music shop for a quarter of, diddly-dees."
Hugo Duncan is no song-writer, four hours later, the best he could come up with was....

THE NICE WEE GIRL CALLED DONNA.

OH, BEAUTIFUL AND FAIR IS DONNA TRAINOR
MANY GIRLS ARE FAR MORE PLAINER
I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER SLENDER HAND
AND THANK THE LORD SHE AIN'T A-MAN.

I picked up my bag of diddly-dees and went home for supper, consisting of, home made bread, home made cheese and home make sausages. Don't ask about the sausages, believe me, you don't want to know!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to any Eason's or the guy below.
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And get Rosie's blog at. www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Wee Hugo never did finish the song, he was nicked by the police for busking and deported to-STRABANE!

TOMMY THE CAT,WHAT A LITTLE BELTER

I looked at Tommy my cat, sitting on an exercise bicycle in the middle of the room. He was wearing a yellow jersey with, "Tour De France" written on the back and black lycra pants.
Tommy was peddling furiously with his little furry legs, and was bent over the handlebars, staring straight ahead through a pair of dark shades. I watched with love in my eyes and wax in my ears, as Tommy indicated right and turned into some imaginary French street in his little feline brain. Ah, there he was, my little Tommy, my "raison d'etre", my life long friend, my little feline chum. Who brought me tea in bed? little Tommy!. Who left out clean knickers for me every morning? little Tommy! Who gave me first chance to catch a scurrying mouse? Yes, little-Tommy. There is nothing I wouldn't do for little Tommy. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, walk over broken glass,--NO, but I would do other things for little Tommy, such as, tying a tin can to his tail, so he could go faster when I send him to the corner shop for lollipops and buckets for diggers. I felt a tear enter my eye, I tore its ticket in half, got my torch and showed it to a seat. I began to-whimper, I gathered the whimpers in a bowl and put them in the fridge, they go very well with new potatoes and ice cream. I looked at Tommy, still peddling furiously and yelling, "Monsieur, how far to the, how you say? slash house?"
With no one to talk with, I found myself at a loose end. I looked at the clock, the clock stared back with it's big, round white face. I tried to out stare the clock, but after two minutes, my face got red and I averted my eyes. Damn that clock, with it's big white face, it had won again, but someday I will out stare the time-piece and make IT turn away first. I sat on a hard chair and pretended to be First Minister Peter Robinson. I spat venom from between my teeth and yelled, "NO, Mr Mc Guinness, you can not take the police home with you and play with them." "Jeffery, come in here you lackey and clean the dog muck off my shoes". "Iris-Iris, my little dumpling, wear the red dress tonight and I'll have roast duck, bamboo shoots and the raw heads from two herring, but none of them carrots that grow into obscene shapes, I find them an Abomination! Ester Ranzen, the buck-toothed Shinner may find them funny, but I-DON'T!" Then I got up, gave myself a pay raise and went to my bed for a nap.
As I skipped around Belfast, dressed as, the lady with the lamp, old Maggie Titanic from No 7 Rodent Street, who has just got her electricity cut off, I gazed in wonder at the gaggle of black Goths hanging round the city hall. "Greetings little Gothics" I yelled, "Why the long faces?"
A young man approached me, by walking towards me, he was dressed all in black, the only splash of colour was his green teeth. "Hi dude" he moaned, "What's the use man? we're all going to die anyway." "Come, come," I cried. "Where? where?" said the little Gothie. I sat the little Goth on my knee and began to croon.
"Climb up on my knee, wee black man
Think of a Christmas tree and hold my hand
When there are grey skies, get drunk and eat pies
You should be out joy riding,-black man
Friends may forsake you, never mind, sniff glue
But I still love you, wee, black-man".
The little Goth jumped of my knee and yelled, "I'm cured, I'm cured, I feel so-HAPPY!
The last I saw of him, he was skipping down the street, wearing a rainbow suit and singing.
"The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip- hip hooray
I'm going home to mammy for a lovely cup of tay".
"Well, well, well, has it come to this?" said a voice. "I know that smell," I cried and spun round to behold the massive face and figure of-Steven Nolan. "Push off Tubby," I yelled. "Do you not see I am about my granny's business, converting-Goths?" Suddenly, the fat boy fell to his chubby knees and roared. "I am a sinner, a dirty, low down sinner, I have sinned against pies by thought, word and deed. Convert me, I want to be--born again!" "It's going to take some pair of forceps" I muttered. "Come with me my son" I said. "Come with me to the holy river Lagan and I will baptise you" "Will I have to strip off?" said Tubby, fumbling with the mighty zip on the fork of his trousers. "No, No" I said "we don't want to frighten the fish". And low, it came to pass. I led the Tubby one to the river and verily did nearly drown him. But now, everyone is blaming ME for the giant tsunami that flooded most of Belfast! It's not easy doing the Lord's work. You make a lot of enemies. I get hate mail from Nelson Mandela AND the Samaritans!
But as I watched Tubby lumbering off rejoicing, with gallons of water spewing from the gigantic fork on his trousers, I knew, I had at last, found my vocation. From now on, you will find me at the side of the Lagan, plunging fat men into the water, giving them a holy riser with my toe and crying, "Go now, and eat no more!"
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson for Christmas? Go to any Eason book store or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie is up too, go to...
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There will be a mass baptism of Tubbies at the Lagan on Saturday. Everyone welcome. A silent collection in plastic buckets will be taken up later. Give generously, 5% of the collection goes towards the conversion of Tubbies! 'Tis the Lord's work I do.

TOMMY MY CAT IS FELINE FINE

"Cut me down Tommy," I yelled to Tommy the cat, "Cut me down!""Keep your drawers on!" yelled Tommy, as he flicked frantically through the Argos catalogue looking for a Swiss Army knife. When Tommy found a picture of a Swiss Army knife, he cut carefully around it with a small brass chainsaw, and then used the Swiss Army knife to cut through the rope that kept me suspended from the ceiling. As the last fibre parted, I yelled, "GERONIMO!" and hurtled towards the floor, with my face out in front of me, so I wouldn't hurt my hands. I tell you my friends, no matter what they say in the house of Lords, floors are not getting any softer. When I hit the floor with a THUD, my old paratrooper training kicked in and I bent my knees before I passed out. Tommy brought me round by pulling my hair and sprinkling two litres of cranberry juice over my feet. When I was as right as I'm ever likely to be, Tommy looked at me and said, "It's not as easy as it looks, is it?" I concurred with Tommy by saying, "No, it's not," and looked up at the hook in the ceiling. For three months I had swung from that hook, wearing nothing but green ankle socks and a strait-jacket. Tommy had bound me with chains and ropes and then hired four Egyptian dwarfs to hoist me up to the hook in the ceiling. I was trying to emulate my hero Houdini. Harry Houdini was an escapologist. He could escape from anything, except the horrible christian name his mother gave him. For three long months I had swung from that hook, kicking and flinging, flinging and kicking, trying desperately to escape from the ropes, the chains and finally-the strait-jacket. Three long months, trying everything, anything to escape my confinement and baffle Tommy my cat with my skill as a escapologist. But alas, it was not to be. No amount of kicking or flinging could loosen the ropes, chains or straight-jacket that bound me. I don't know how Houdini did it, but it was certainly not by kicking and flinging. "There must be a knack to it!" I yelled, looking hard at the key in the front door, "but what ever the knack is, only Houdini knows and he can't tell us now, because he is-dead. Ah, Harry, Harry, you got into one box too many!"Tommy looked at me with concern and said, "Three months hanging from a hook in the ceiling? Eeh, I don't know. You must be fair done in. Sit down and I'll make you a nice bit of toad in the hole. You like toad in the hole don't you? I know you like toad, so if I put toad in a hole, you'll like it even more, won't you?" I leapt to my feet, both of them and yelled, "I am neither hungry or thirsty. During the three months that I hung from that ceiling, like a 40 watt bulb, I existed on-will power, I ate and drank-will power.". "Eeh," said Tommy, "poor wee Will Power and him such a nice lad, what will I tell his mum?" "Tell her to--tell her to-eat cake!" I yelled with a dramatic flourish, that sent my beret flying from my head and my drawers falling around my ankles. After order had been restored, Tommy sidled over to me and whispered, "Look, after three months hanging from a hook from the ceiling, you must at least want a-pee, shall I go and fetch the...
"HALT!" I cried, "Do you not know that times are bad, banks are closing, the pound in your pocket, isn't even in your pocket any more. All over the country, people are going, "Ooh!" as belts are being tightened and galluses hitched higher and higher. The worst financial disaster in living memory and you have the gall to stand there and ask me if I want a-pee? It would be the height of irresponsibility and fiscal madness for you to go and open a tin, so that I could have one-pea." "I'm sorry," said Tommy. "So you should be," I thundered. "I won't do it again," muttered Tommy. "See that you don't" I yelled, "And another thing, in a climate such as this, you have to, think on.". "I am, thinking on," muttered Tommy. "It doesn't look like it to me," I yelled, "Let me see your face." Tommy came closer and stuck out his face. "That doesn't look like a face that is-thinking on," I cried. "Well, I am," said Tommy, "I'm thinking on." "Well, continue thinking on," I said, "and when you've done that, think on some more." "I will," said Tommy, "I promise to-think on." So we left it at that, then we joined hands and danced the Mason's apron to the sound of a threshing machine going past the house. Irish culture? You couldn't beat it with a big stick. Next morning it was all forgotten and Tommy and I spent a lovely time looking over the roof spouting, pretending to be two big clumps of grass. As I looked down the street, I saw a lot of people were doing the same. To those who say that little Ulster is finished, I say, "Have you not seen the number of people who peer over roof spoutings pretending to be big clumps of grass? With people like that, Ulster will never be finished. So, think on!"
After three hours with a Dyson, I had the crumbs in the pleats of Steven Nolan's massive fork all hoovered up. I lay in the long grass and nettles, gazing up at my Phoenician Adonis. What a sight, as he stood there, silhouetted against the Belfast sky with the two giant cranes. The Tubby one, flicked back a wisp of hair and sank his BBC gnashers into a suckling pig on a stick. What poise, what grace, what-beauty. I grabbed him by his chubby ankles and cried,
"THE BOY STOOD IN THE TAKE-A-WAY
TEARS RUNNING FROM HIS EYES
HE HAD JUST BEEN TOLD, TO HIS CHAGRIN
STEVEN NOLAN, ATE ALL THE PIES."
The sun sank in the West, and Tubby just stood there, mean, moody, magnificent and-FAT!
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LIFE WITH A FELINE IS PURR-FECT

Welcome to the house of fun. At a time when fun is rationed and gaiety, merriment and jollification can only be procured with a nod and a wink from someone in the know, it is imperative that people know how to make their own-fun. Our parents and grandparents knew how to make their own-fun. Rickets, scabies, boils and two world wars, is historical proof that our ancestors were never at a loose end when it came to-fun. As this is a time of remembrance, let's remember those who have gone before us. Let us dress in black, pack a picnic hamper and make our sad way to the cemetery, partake of a small collation of colcannon and cranberries and as the sun sets in the West, salute, pull your simmet up over your belly button and sing lustily and loudly,
"YOU WENT AWAY AND LEFT ME, LONG TIME AGO
BUT NOW YOU'RE KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, BUT YOU CAN'T COME IN
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG."
The peace and comfort, that will come from this simple act, is unbelievable. You will leave the graveyard with a lilt on your face and a smile in your step.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was peeing into the coal bucket, as he reinacted the relief of Mafeking. I was rolled up in a ball in the corner, pretending to be a hibernating, Hibernian hedgehog dreaming of Jennie with the light brown hair. Time ticked slowly away, soot fell down the chimney, the television chose that moment to explode in shards of glass and there we were, woman and cat, united in the age old practice of making our own fun. Then a butler from Butler street, ran in and rang the dinner gong. Soon it was all go as Tommy and I peeled spuds, diced carrots, cut the hind quarters from a wildebeest, filled a large pan with Crisp and Dry cooking oil and then put on our coats and went out for a fish supper. After dinner, Tommy and I gathered round the old family piano, which was lying in the city dump full of woodworm and death watch beetles. There we stood, surrounded by rats and sang all the old songs. The songs we used to sing, when a wet nappy was a reality and the thought of having teeth--just an unfulfilled-dream. As we walked back home under the twinkling stars, I hooked my arm in Tommy's, looked deep into his little, yellow, slitted eyes and whispered.
"We are mad, aren't we?" "As two loonies in a bin," said Tommy, "as two loonies in a bin." What a great relief it is, to have one's worst fears confirmed by a common or garden-cat.
I met Steven Nolan at our usual place, down the entry behind the wheelie-bins. Lard for Brains was pacing up and down, cracking his knuckles and twitching like a hooker in a nunnery. "Did you get it?" hissed the Tubby one in his trousers. "Yes," I said, "keep your tent on." "Give it here," yelled the terror of weighing machines. I looked furtively up the ally, pulled a family size bottle of HP sauce from under my kilt and handed it to the trembling wretch. He who has mountains as cousins, grabbed the bottle and put it to his delicate, impish, rose-bud lips. "Ah, that's better" gasped Tubby, as he stumbled back into a group of Japanese tourists. "Ah, so" trilled a mandolin playing mandarin. "Listen, Toe-Joe,roared Tubby "any more jokes about the size of my bum and I'll brust you." I watched Tubby put the bottle to his mouth again. "You're hooked Kid," I said. "You have a monkey on your back, a monkey with a red arse and HP written on it." "NEVER," yelled Tubby ,"I could give up the sauce anytime. I just like a little nip every now and again. It makes me spicy and-fruity. I can't talk to girls without the sauce. I get tongue-tied, hog-tied and wide-eyed, but when I have the sauce in me, I turn into a silver tongued devil." "You lack confidence," I said. "You need to build up your self confidence and believe me Kid, the answer you're looking for, don't lie at the bottom of a HP sauce bottle." "But where can I get-confidence?" shrieked Tubby. "Listen Kid," I said, "I know a little trick that will build up your confidence. This little trick was shown to me by the Dali Lama, just after he read the Daily Mail. You stand there with your back to me, then when I yell, JELLY TOTS, you fall backwards and I catch you in my arms." "It's a trick," yelled Tubby, "a dirty rotten trick to see me fall flat on my bum." "No it's not Kid," I said, "You see, this is where the confidence comes in. You must be confident that I will catch you." "And you promise not to let me fall?" said Tubby, "or give me a riser as I topple backwards?" "Cross my heart and hope to lie," I said. "All right," said Tubby, "I'll try it, anything to get off the sauce. Big Audrey, my mammy, thinks I have turned into a vampire."Tubby Nolan stood there, staring at a brick wall, where someone had scrawled, "Nolan is a ball of lard." I braced myself and yelled, "JELLY TOTS." Steven creaked, groaned and then, like a giant redwood toppled towards me. It was four days before they found us. Four long days and nights, lying under the blubberous mass that was-Steven Nolan. I kissed the crane driver who lifted Steven off me. Steven lumbered to his feet, looked all around, smiled and cried, "I'm cured, I'm cured. Four days without even as much as a lick of HP sauce and I feel fine. The addiction for sauce has left me. Oh thank you, strange, weird creature," said Steven and he planted a big, wet, slobbery kiss on my upturned mouth. I watched him lumber off, FREE, free from the terrible addiction of HP sauce that had broken up so many happy families and turned parts of Cullybaccy into no go areas. I reached into my knicker pocket for my purse and skipped off to the Greasy Spoon for an Ulster fry, covered in HP sauce. See me Hi, I can hold my sauce.
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Turned out nice again, think I'll get a mirror and squeeze my spots, well, you're not going to do it, are you???