Two pennies to rub together.

What a great show the Tuesday show was Kid and, coming so soon after the Monday show, one could be forgiven for getting the cock-a-many idea that you were trying to put the shows out in sequence! As if you would! Anyone who knows your wild child, rebel, cock a snook at the world attitude, would know that conformity is not a trait of Gerald Michael Anderson.

Tommy my cat and I listened to the show, peeping out of a giant bubbling saucepan. We were pretending to be two old boilers. After the show, I turned the radio off, by placing it behind the back wheel of a reversing juggernaut. I looked at Tommy the cat, who as luck would have it was looking at me and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle start the show with a long monologue about marrying for money?" "I did," said Tommy,"And I was disgusted, repulsed, outraged and filled with vile repugnance." "Not so fast young Thomas," I said. "Take my late daddy now." "Not in broad day light," said Tommy. "I'll creep down to the cemetery later tonight and dig him up." "NO!" I yelled, "Take my late daddy as a model. My late daddy!" I sobbed, with eyes in my tears. "My late daddy never had two pennies to rub together. Then he read a self help book called, "NIGH is the hour." That book changed his life. He ran out and got six jobs. Then two years later, my late daddy skipped into the house yelling, "Wife, children, gather round, at last I've go two pennies to rub together!" My late daddy, skipped-gaily over to a lime green bean bag and began to rub the two pennies together." "How happy he must have bean," said Tommy. "By sheer hard work and the fact that no buses had run over him, he could sit like a King in his castle and rub two pennies together. Did your late daddy have a big smile on his face?" said Tommy. "Did he? I bet he had, Did your late daddy have a big self satisfied smile on his face, when he rubbed the two pennies together?" "Not really," I replied. "The friction caused by rubbing the two pennies together, caused a spark, setting fire to the lime green bean bag and before you could say, "Silly old sod!" the house had burned to the ground."

"Bummer!" said Tommy. "Tell me about it," I said, "And we were only insured for elephant stampedes or external damage done by frivolous fairyies."

"Double bummer!" said Tommy, "and add three!"

All this and more have I seen from behind the creaking, groaning waistband of Tubby Nolan's Kelvin Klein's.

All Songs Are Lies.

What a great Monday show Kid. Tommy my cat and I listened to the show sitting on the sofa with pliers, hammers, knives knuckle-dusters and an electric drill. We were pretending to be the Kray brothers, but we only ever hurt each other. Tommy is a diamond geezer, a diamond geezer, you won't find a better cat in the East End of West Belfast. When the woman came on looking for a bath to put flowers in, Tommy and I looked at each other and yelled-in unison, "YOU-REEK-AH!" So today Kid I want you to find me an old toilet that no one is sitting on. I plan to put the toilet in the garden and fill it to over-flowing with sweet peas. On a more serious note, Tommy and I were sorry to hear that you were--heckled in Omagh. Tommy looked at me and said, "Was this a consensual--heckling?" I shook my head. Tommy drummed his fingers on the small Costa-Rica dwarf we keep by the fire and said. "This is bad. Who knows what will come from this? What did the pretty little girl from Omagh have to say about it?" "Not a lot," I said. "She was looking for her false teeth. She's 94 you know and walks with the aid of a zimmer frame." Tommy yelled, "But Brian Coll said..." "Brian Coll my Aunt Eugene!" I yelled. "It was lies, nothing but lies. All songs are-lies! No one ever took Kathleen home, Maud never set foot in the garden and Chuck Berry never yelled, "Nadine, it that you?" because Nadine Coyle was not even born at the time." "Hey," yelled Tommy, "This is bigger that Watergate, or Steven Nolan." "And there's more!" I yelled. "I was talking to Jennie, light brown hair my Londonderry air, she's as bald as a coot. She got a bad dose of mange from a Doberman Pincher called Rasputin the second." Tommy's lip began to tremble and he whispered, "And--Rhonda?" "Rhonda never needed any help!" I yelled. "Rhonda is 24 stone, arms like a navvy, built like a brick lighthouse and works as a bouncer for Janet Summers." "We wuz sold a bill of goods," said Tommy "We cert-ainly were," I replied. "We wuz took to the cleaners," said Tommy "We cert-ainly were," I said. "We wuz led up the garden path," said Tommy. "Listen Tommy cat!" I exploded, "There's no need to labour the point." "You swine!" roared Tommy. "How dare you bring politics into a friendly argument." Tommy and I ran to the sofa, picked up the pliers, the hammer, the knife, the knuckle-dusters and the Black and Decker drill and in true Kray brothers' tradition did some serious hurting. But, only to each other. Tommy's a diamond geezer, Tommy is my bruvver."

All this and more have I seen from behind the false, insincere smile of Jonathan Ross at the BAFTAS.

Tommy's Verdict On The Budget

I yelled, "Karamba!" and turned off the TV by throwing a brick through the screen. I walked over to the fire, put my legs, or was it my hands behind my back and said to Tommy the cat, "Well Tommy, that's another budget over, please give me your feline informed opinion." Tommy took off his eye shade, laid his calculator down and replied, "TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE." I stood there in amazement. Never had I heard a more decorous or debonair summing up of a budget from a cat. I breathed on my nose, polished it with a Brillo pad and said, "And what would you say is bonny wee Gordon Brown's greatest fault?" Tommy took a pinch of snuff from the eight stone bag in the corner of the room and said, "Mr Brown is reactive, but what he really should be is-proactive." "How so?" I said as I counted my feet, divided by two and found to my surprise that the answer was-one. "Mr Brown put up the price of drink," said Tommy, "but I say, too little, too late. The time to put up the price of drink, was on Saint Patrick's day, when the students in the Holy Lands, were lying in gardens like veritable newts. Mr Brown is a follower, not a leader," said Tommy, "He reminds me of the General in the French revolution, who, looking out of the window said, "There go my men, I must follow, because I am their leader." I cut my knuckle so I could pick at the scab and said, "Why are you so smart Tommy?" "I read a lot," said Tommy, "Keep my ear to the ground, my tail in the air and my money in the Post Office. I must go out," said Tommy, "To listen at eves, talk to strangers at street corners and meet Sore Throat in the under ground car park." When Tommy had gone I felt so-alone, so-unwanted. So I set fire to the house and soon was laughing and talking to a group of black-faced firemen. You've got to use your noodle in this life, but you can't use a noodle to set fire to a house. Oh no, that's where a match comes in handy. All this and more have I seen at Nolan Manor, where the cobble stones are made from pastry and the swimming pool is full of ice cream soda. When it comes to using the noodle, Steven Nolan is streets ahead of the common man.

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