Judgement Day

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It was like a fried egg, with the sunny side up and we all got the yoke. Tommy my cat, was packing a small suitcase and singing "A policeman's lot is not an 'appy lot". |Tommy was pretending to be Sir Hugh Orde. Tommy looked at me and said "See that great show today, that great show would rank in the top five with other great shows I have heard".. Coming from Tommy, that is high praise indeed, Tommy could have been a critic, but he didn't have the Latin or the killer instinct. As Lynda Byrons flew past the window on a bicycle, wearing a bikini, followed by Paul Clarke, Frank Mitchell, Adrian Logue and Julian Symmons, similarly attired, I knew that the end of days was near. First, Sean Coyle had seen strange signs and wonders in the sky, Tubby Nolan had been seen break into a trot and now, the entire staff of UTV Live, were cycling round Belfast in bikinis. The day of judgement was upon us. Tommy and I grabbed our cloaks and staffs and headed for the Black Mountain, to get a good view of the fire and brimstone. "THE END IS--NIGH!" I yelled to Jim Rodgers, as he came round a round-a-bout on a maroon Raleigh bicycle, wearing an itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow polka dot bikini. "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim, "Avert your eyes from the elected official's seals of office." Suddenly, something huge and nude appeared. It was Steven "Tubby" Nolan, as naked as a promiscuous jay bird. "Hey Lard Boy!" I yelled, "Where is your judgement day bikini?" "Under my rolls of fat!" roared the chubby one. Want to feel?" "NO!" I yelled, "Lord Lucan could be hiding in there." Soon the Black Mountain was covered by the population of Belfast and surrounding districts, all wearing judgement day bikinis. As we waited for the end, James Galway, wearing a lovely silk bikini, whipped out his flute and began to play, "We Did It Our Way." Then the news filtered through, that the end was not-NIGH. It was a blink of sun that had driven the people mad and made them change into bikinis. Oh how we laughed, as little Angie the weather girl was chased out of town, leaving a trail of cloud symbols and spits and spots. To see some people in a bikini is a delight, to see others in a bikini, is a prelude to much boking. Nolan tramped back to town like a Sumo wrestler muttering, "If this gets back to Radio 5, what will they think of--STEVE?" All this and more have I seen from a dainty dimple on the right buttock of Madam-X--YES, she was there too!.

TEACHING A CAT ABOUT THE BIRDS AND BEE'S.

Unable to find my door key in my multi coloured handbag, I squeezed through the letter box and entered the living room with a yell of, "Geronimo!"and a hop, skip and jump. Tommy, my cat, who was sitting on his "lazy Boy" chair, reading the garden supplement from the Dubai Gazette, looked up and yelled. "Well, bust my britches and call me Derek, that was some hop, skip and jump!" "Yes, it was," I said proudly, "I learnt how to hop from Howard the frog, how to skip from Prudence the kangaroo and how to jump from the management and staff of Centura Foods Ltd, who reside at, Blessington Road, Tallagh, Dublin 24, where they make BISTO, the original gravy powder, that can be used in roasts, beef, lamb, pork and-not forgetting-chicken." "Aah! BISTO!" said Tommy. "Aah! BISTO yourself!" I replied. In the short pause that followed, I wrote a book, chronicling the 5000 types of plums that are to be found in a small orchard just outside Kinshasa the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo. I then sat down to read it but it was rubbish, no plot and the characters were mere cardboard cutouts. "No substance!" I muttered, as I threw it from me in loathing and disgust. "Who writes these things?" I said, as I picked up my fiddle and had a quick plink. A good plink relieves tension, as long as no one is watching and the wind is coming from the right direction. I felt--uneasy, there was a strange feeling in the air, it was too quiet. I gently opened the window, stuck my head out and yelled, "WAAAAAAAH!" A police baton struck me a whack on the side of the head, drawing dandruff. I gently closed the window again. Everything was back to normal.
Suddenly, and with out any reason or prompting Tommy leapt out of his "Lazy Boy" recliner and yelled, "It's no good! I have to tell someone. The guilt is driving me mad. MAD! I tell you," he screamed, as he stood before me, a poor, shivering, trembling quivering feline. "Tommy lad," I yelled. "What's up lad? Is there-trouble at mill?" "It's worse than that," yelled Tommy, "Far worse. You know Florence the tabby cat next door, well I've got her in trouble." I lost the head. I ran round the room in an anti clock-wise direction yelling, "I'm going to need some clean sheets and plenty of warm water!" I came to my senses, by running head first into the wall and stood with my hands on my hips glaring at the reprobate that was Tommy cat. "You dirtee little cat," I screamed. "What have I told you about staying out late at night? But would you listen? Would you heck as like! And I blame her too. I blame that Florence next door, wiggling down the street, with her tail curled up in the air. And now look at you," I screamed, "going to be a daddy at your age. Well I warn you Tommy cat, no one from my side of the family will come to that kittling. How are you going to cope?" I screamed "Have you seen the price of Kitikat recently? "And there you stand," I screamed, "bold as brass, for that's what you are Tommy cat, bold as brass, telling me that you're going to be a-daddy." I collapsed in a chair and pulled the national flag of Burundi over my tear streaked face. "But I'm not going to be a daddy," said Tommy. I leapt up, grabbed the poker and shrieked, "Don't you dare ,Tommy cat. Don't you dare stand there and have the bare-faced gall to tell me that you're not going to be a daddy. You will be a daddy, or by the sacred simmet of Mark Durkin, I'll bend this poker over your feline skull." "I'm not going to be a daddy," said Tommy, "but I did get Florence in trouble. When the police caught me jay walking, with a jay bird I had caught, I panicked and instead of giving my name, I said I was Florence a tabby cat." Oh the relief. Oh the relief. No kitten sitting for me or changing nappies. No getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning, to open a tin of sardines. "Well, let that be a lesson to you," I scolded. "You got off easy this time." Tommy and I gave a hop, skip and jump, as someone knocked at the front door. I ran to open it and wee Ronaldo Smith stood there, leaning heavily on his zimmer frame. "Ronaldo, my old pal," I yelled ,"how's she cutting?" "I'll tell you how she's cutting," croaked Ronaldo. "I'm pregnant, up the duff and I'm blaming-YOU. You were the only woman I went with after my hernia operation." I looked at Tommy, I knew what was coming, Tommy looked at me with revulsion and said, "You dirtee little woman." Then he turned his back on me and walked away with his nose in the air.
But I don't believe Ronaldo. Tomorrow I'll go down to the dole office and demand a DLA test.

Get Rosie Ryan books and poem books from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
AND GO NOW TO...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com

FATWAHS,FAT BOYS, AND CONVERSATIONS WITH CATS

I was crouched in a darkened corner of my living room, I had my knees above my head. Every time I rubbed my knees together, I let little-chirps out of me. I was of course pretending to be a cricket. As my high pitched-chirps reverberated round the room a tear came to my eye as I remembered the late, great Buddy Holly. What a sad loss Buddy was to the cricket community. No cricket worth his salt will ever forget Buddy Holly and his stuttering, stammering, "Oh Boy." Buddy Holly did more for crickets than Sting ever did for the PSNI or Cliff Richard ever did for shadows. I sighed, sobbed, rubbed my knees together again and emitted a sad, forlorn, melancholy-chirp. My golly it was a melancholy-chirp.
I was just considering selling my honour and buying a melodian when I heard the scrape of a key in the lock of the front door. I scuttled behind a pale blue pouffeeand peeped over the pouffee by raising my eyes higher than the pouffee. The door opened on two hinges--I didn't know it could do that! I always left and came in by climbing up the chimney and down a rope ladder made from-rope. It was Tommy my cat. I watched as Tommy took off his little camel hair coat and hung it up carefully on a coat hook. What a prissy little pussy he is. Why could he not just throw the coat on the floor and walk over it? Tommy adjusted his little grey cardigan with the one pocket in the front, gave a little-prissy cough and sat down in an armchair to read the morning papers. I leaped up from behind the pouffee and yelled, "BOO!"Tommy never flinched, he just sat there and said, "Boo-Who?". I yelled, "Boo-Who! I'm sad because Buddy Holly is dead." Tommy looked at me over the paper and drawled, "That's not much of a Knock-Knock is it? It's not funny, it makes no sense and you ruined the timing. If I were you I would not give up the day job and Belfast does need a village idiot."Was that an insult or praise? Being stupid I had no way of knowing. I spun round like Wonder Woman to get my brain in gear and said. "Tommy, what's the headline in today's paper?" "The same as it has been for the last 50 years," said Tommy, holding up the paper with a banner headline that screamed. "ULSTER AT THE CROSSROADS!" "Still at the crossroads," I said. "When are we going to move on? When are we going to put our differences behind us? When are we going to spill our sweat and not our blood? When are we going to stop eating flags? And when are we going to help the old age pensioners and lift that stupid ban about, No Zimmer Frames On The Motorway?
Suddenly Tommy gave an effete, feline chuckle and cried, "Listen to this. "Fatwa Taken Out On Fat Boy Nolan.""In the name of all that's holey, torn and shredded," I yelled. "Read the article Tommy, read the article." "Late last night," read Tommy, "A fatwa was issued on one of Ulster's best known and hated radio presenters-Tubby Nolan. Speaking from a very thin house on the Malone Road, the Grand Thinee of Weight Watchers, Mr Orvile McDoodle said, "As from midnight tonight, all members of Weight Watchers are honour bound to rid the world of the biggest glutton that ever lumbered on two feet, Steven "Tubby" Nolan. We are sick sore and tired of Tubby thumbing his nose at us, with a cake in one hand and a fish supper in the other. In my capacity as the Grand Thin'ee of Weight Watchers, I have therefore issued a Fatwa on Tubby Nolan for persistent gloating, gobbling, munching, crunching, slabbering, babbling and I accuse Mr Steven "Tubby" Nolan of grand gluttony on a scale not seen since the good ship S.S. Moderation, carrying 500 vegetarians was washed up on a cannibal island just off the port of Cork. My dear wife Winnie should be standing with me tonight, but unfortunately, dear Winnie slipped down between a crack in the floor boards in our bed room. Even as I speak, the pest control officers are trying to get Winnie out by using metal coat hangers and dangling little pieces of sausage on the end of a stick. To all members of Weight Watchers I say, "The dragon of gluttony must be slain and to Tubby Nolan I say, remember the words of Brutus in the Senate when he stood up, pulled down his toga and screamed, Julius Caesar, do you here me? We're gonna hunt you down and smoke you out!"
Tommy looked at me with a trembling lip he found in a packet of Cornflakes and whispered, "Old jelly belly is in for it this time.". "Yes," I said. "The very name--Weight Watchers fills the stoutest heart with fear. Weight Watchers are worse than the Mafia, worse than Al Qaeda and nearly as bad as the Legion of Mary and you can't keep them out. They are so thin they can slither in of the least crack.""Poor old Tubby," said Tommy, "I wonder where he's hiding his obese body tonight?" "There is no hiding from,--Weight Watchers," I yelled. "They have spies everywhere."
Suddenly, there was a fierce pounding at the door, "Help me!" yelled a fat voice. "Help me, it's your little friend-Tubby, for God's sake let me in!"Tommy ran to switch off the light. We lay there in the darkness, listening to the frantic pounding of the Goodyear Blimp. Then, we heard his large shoes clump away, followed by the sinister pitter-patter of thin shoes, that could only belong to--Weight Watchers. Soon, they would be all over him, like ants on a big, fat grub. What a way to go-and he still has so little to give.

Get my books Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson and other books from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And you will find Rosie at. www. rosie-ryan.blogspot.com

THE PARABLE OF THE PASSIVE PUSSY

I tried in vain to hide, but it was no good, dawn found me hanging from a coat hook on the back of the front door, I was pretending to be John Daly's camel hair coat, with a used tissue and a broken biscuit in the pocket. "You can't hide from dawn or dusk," I said, as I unhooked myself from the door and fell in an ungainly heap on the floor. As I struggled to get up, Tommy my cat attracted my attention, by hitting me over the head with a leather bound copy of, "How Piles Ruined My Life" by the right Rev Howard "sore bum" McHugh. I quickly drew a gun on a piece of paper and attempted to shoot Tommy. The gun went-click. In my hurry I had forgotten to draw any bullets. Tommy drew a stone and happed it off my head, I drew an OUCH in a balloon and held it above my head. Tommy drew a water pistol and pulled the trigger. The gun went-click. In his haste the wily feline had forgotten to draw any h20. I drew a net and flung it at Tommy who became entangled in the mesh. I leaped on Tommy and battered the head off him with a rubber mallet I had drawn on the back of a signed photograph of Joseph Stalin riding a donkey at Blackpool. I held on to the struggling Tommy and hissed, "Oi, what's your game then?" "Poker," gasped Tommy, so I hit Tommy over the head with the poker and it was goodnight Vienna. When Tommy came round he was still alive so I said to him, "What was all that about then?" Tommy rubbed the French bemp on his head and replied, "I was merely trying to inform you that tomorrow is the anniversary of your late daddy's demise".
A tsunami of latent grief overcame me. I rent my garments in a rendering machine, poured ashes on my head from my late granny's urn and began to bawl, lament, keen and cry.
"Oh, daddy why did you go and die? Why did you decease yourself and make yourself dead? Why did you pass over? Why did you go up above? Why did you depart? Why did you shuffle of this mortal coil? You warned me about shuffling, "Pick up your big feet you ugly idigt" you would say, "And stop shuffling about there, like a donkey with turned up feet." Ah, daddy, daddy!" I yelled, "Why did you go? Why did you leave me? Why did you stand too close to a candle flame wearing a ragged kilt and leave me nothing to hold on to but a gutted sporran?"
Tommy ran to me, held me close and muttered "There, there." "Where? where?" I sobbed. "Time is a great healer," muttered Tommy. "I know," I sobbed, "and it's also good for boiling eggs, if you convert it into sand and confine it in a special glass container."
Next morning, dawn found me and Tommy at the graveyard, digging up my late daddy. Just as we reached the black bin liner that dear daddy was buried in, the grave digger ran up, full of ire and Scots porridge oats. "Oi!" yelled the keeper of the dead, "What are you two doing with that dead cadaver?" "This is the remains of my late, dead daddy," I yelled, "Today is the anniversary of his death, so we are taking him to the cinema as a special treat." "That's all right," said the planter of cadavers, "But have him back by ten o'clock. I lock the gates at ten o'clock and if he isn't back in his grave, I will have to make a note of it in the register."
What a great day we had! Tommy and I hauled my late daddy onto a number 37 bus and headed for the cinema. We bought my late daddy popcorn, sweets and crisps and took our seats. The film was called, "They Walk By Night" It was a very scary film, Tommy and I hid behind the seats, but my late daddy just sat there, stoically and impassive.What a brave little cadaver my dead daddy is. During the intermission, I saw lots of family's with dead cadavers sitting among them. It's good to know that death is no hindrance to a good night out. As Tommy and I came away from the graveyard, I felt-good. I felt a strong bond with my late daddy, I never really got to know him when he was alive, but now we could--bond, find-closure and perhaps, in time, I would feel less guilty about all the times I had pushed him down the stairs.
Later that night, as Tommy and I sat drinking old times and talking about coco I looked at Tommy and said, "Tommy, you are very-passive, where as I am very-ratty, how so?" Tommy took a sip of old times and said, "When I was a young kitten, I was veritable weather vane.My mood changed from minute to minute.""NO!" I yelled. "Oh yes," said Tommy, "but I took myself in hand. I travelled to darkest Gortin to study with the Guru of passivity, Willie John McGrundle." "Not--THE Willie John McGrundle?" I cried. "The very one," said Tommy. "For five long years I studied the art of passivity and today I am proud to say, I am as passive as Mr Passivity, who lives in No 27 Passivate cottage, in Passiveville." "Well I never!" I said, as I crossed my legs and gave birth to a welp of ankles. Tommy and I just sat there, staring into the fire and listening to the crickets chirp, "Oh Boy." Five, or was it six days later? I looked at Tommy and said, "What ever became of Willie John McGrundle, the Gortin Guru of passivity?"
"Dead," said Tommy, blessing himself, "Yes, Willie John McGrundle, the Gortin Guru of passivity is dead. He was caught doing the double by the Dole people," said Tommy, "Flew into an awful rage and died from a massive heart attack, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog." We sat there in silence, then I said, "we could always go down to Gortin and take Willie John to the cinema."
"Nah," said Tommy "It's too far and besides, I just feel too doggone-passive to bother about him."

Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson and other books available at Eason's and below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com

Visit Rosie at.. www.rosieryan.blogspot.com

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.

Get Rosie Ryan's books and poetry books from Eason's or below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go to Rosie Ryan now, don't delay, go to Rosie at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
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.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to find out what Rosie is stuffing for Christmas, go to.
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
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.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie herself is up to, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
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!!!