THE MYSTERY OF TOMMY THE MYSTICAL CAT

At the first cheep of a hungry scaldie, I leapt out of bed yelling, "Morning has broken, time to stop boaking". I gave Henry the vacuum cleaner a map of the floor and told him to get on with it. As Henry's little motor burst into life, I yelled, "By the sacred simmet of Nigel Dodds!" and leapt out of the way, as little Henry set off, with his rubber hose slithering round the floor like a python. I pulled the blinds by yanking them from their rings and found myself face to face with the rising sun. "Shine on!" I yelled. "Shine on, you spinning orb. Shine on you, crazy diamond. Send down your light on we Paddies as you did on the Egyptians, the Mayan's, the Aztecs and old Hughie McPooter, who had his chronic piles cured by your healing warmth!
The sun responded by sending down a beam of radiation which removed the ugly wart from the end of my nose. I grabbed a torch and tried to communicate with the sun by Morse code. The great shining disc told me it was fed up being the sun. It said it would rather be the moon. No one every wrote songs or poems about the sun. It also said that people behaved themselves in the daylight. It was at night, when the moon shone down, that people got up to all sorts of sexual shenanigans and hankie-pankie. The sun asked me what I wanted out of life. I clicked my torch and told the sun that I wanted to bring world peace, help little children and jump naked out of a cake at a DUP convention. The sun wished me well and said it had to go and get Steven "Tubby" Nolan out of his pit. "Imagine!" I said to the coal shovel. "Me!, talking to the sun. Me!, who always thought the eleven plus should be called-twelve." As I swaggered past a large mirror on the wall, which someone must have hung there as it could not get up there itself, I saw my reflection and shrieked, "GERONIMO!" I looked like a red Indian. The crafty knave of a sun, had engaged me in conversation and cruelly and craftily had burned the whole face of me. "You give your affection to easily," I muttered, as I sank my burning visage in a five gallon drum of Wall's vanilla ice cream, which just happened to be sitting between my tuba and a life size cutout of Ossian the legendary Gaelic poet, who had written the ancient saga, "Tadpoles In My Buttermilk."
By now it was time to get Tommy my cat out of bed. This was soon accomplished by hurling five live hand grenades into the feline's room. "Did you have to do that?" yelled Tommy. "Could you not just knock on the door, like most ugly, smelly old bags do?" "Listen Kid," I said, "I didn't get where I am today by knocking at doors. I got where I am today my hurling hand grenades and wearing my drawers back to front every Tuesday." There was no answer to that, so Tommy kept silent. By now it was pretend time so for the next hour and thirty seven and a quarter minutes, Tommy and I lay panting on the floor, with our tongues out, pretending to be two huskies in the Sahara desert who had taken a wrong turn!
Lunch was a simple buffet. I lured the simple buffet into the house, by telling it I had sweets for it, hit it over the head with a bronze bust of Manfred Man and popped it into the micro wave.
As I dozed in my bean bag, sleeping off the simple buffet, Tommy ran in yelling, "Horrible accident. Horrible accident, out in the street! Come on!". I slipped into a mauve strait-jacket and ran out the door. "WHERE?" I yelled. "Where is the horrible accident?" "There!" yelled Tommy, as he pushed me under a bus. With the help of that lovely man, Will Power, I got to my feet, counted my broken bones, added seven, divided by the number I first thought of and said to Tommy. "Tommy, you're a psychic! You said a horrible accident would happen in the street and it-did!" "It's a gift," said Tommy. "My granny could foretell the future. One day she said, "I see great danger in maternal excessive self-esteem." And Granny was right," said Tommy, "Later that day, she was run over by a Mother's Pride lorry." "Tommy!" I yelled, grabbing him by the lapels of his trousers. "With your psychic gift, we can make a mint. We will tour the country. I can see it now, PSYCHIC TOMMY THE MYSTIC MEG OF THE FELINE WORLD. We'll be rich!" Tommy I yelled, "Rich!, I tell you". Tommy kicked a stone, spat in the gutter and said "Nah!" "Why not Tommy?" I shrieked "Why not?" "I have looked into the future," said Tommy "And it is not written in the stars." "Bummer!" I muttered, as I hobbled into the house. Later that night, as I lay in bed, I thought, "How did Tommy know I would have a horrible accident out in the street?" As I slowly climbed out of bed to consult the po, I got a funny feeling that it would pour all day tomorrow. Psychic or psycho? I leave it up to you.

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Bow your head Kid, close your eyes, clasp your hands as I say, "Oh Lord, we thank you for the great shows we are about to receive this week-Amen." With the sort of help you get Kid from Mr Coyle and the girlies, you need all the divine assistance you can get.

Outside the hovel I laughingly call my home, the wind was blowing, with its two cheeks puffed out like a bullfrog or Dizzy Gillespie. As the wind blew through the letter box, Tommy my cat and I rolled around the floor pretending to be tumble weeds. As I rolled towards the foot of our stairs, I smiled at Tommy as he rolled into the scullery. Suddenly, I rolled to a halt and yelled, "STOP!" "What is it?" said Tommy. "Have you run out of puff?" "Look at us!" I yelled, "Rolling about like two tumble weeds. We have no goal in life, we lack direction, we have no moral compass, we have no ambition. All we do is......"

"Rolling along, like the tumbling tumble weed," sang Tommy. "Exactly," I said. "What have we ever done to help our fellow man?" I yelled. "We gave blood," said Tommy, "But they said the bucket we brought it along in was dirty, even though I washed it out with Jeyes Fluid the night before." I got up, using my feet, which were dangling at the bottom of my ankles. I banged my head against the wall, hoping the wall would say "OUCH!" before I did. I paced the floor, back and forward, back and forward. I cracked a walnut between my knees, furrowed my brow and planted some early potatoes, stuck out my hips and walked like Max Wall. I wriggled like a snake, waddled like a duck, but even I refused to do the Hucklebuck.

"TOMMY!" I yelled, "I've got it!" Tommy clasped a mask over his feline face and cried, "Unclean, Unclean, keep away! I don't want your old pig flu." I put Tommy right, by jabbing my left fist into his gub and bringing my knee up into his groin. Tommy went down like a sack of brussel sprouts. I helped Tommy to his feet with a riser and said. "We must help the under privileged, let's go to UTV LIVE and help the poor unfortunates who have to work there." When we got there...well, it would take tears from a stone. Poor Lynda Byrons was on her way out to sell matches. Logie was curled up in the foetal position in a corner, with his thumb in his mouth and a look of inexpressible fear and horror in his big Tyrone eyes. A ragged figure gibbering and jabbering like the ancient mariner, turned out to be poor Frank Mitchell. Paul Clarke was locked in a press yelling, "And then Nelson Mandela said to me." Tommy and I looked at each other in horror, "We got here too late," whispered Tommy. "They are beyond help." "Poor wretches," I murmered, "Poor pathetic-wretches." "Let's run over to BBC Newsline1" yelled Tommy. "We may be in time to help them." I put one foot forward to run, then I ordered it back and said, "NO, I refuse to help Noel Thompson over stiles in the Mournes. I will NOT wash Mark Carruther's red socks and as for Donna Trainor, she can fix the slow puncture on the back wheel of her bicycle herself. Let's run home, jump into the washing machine, put in on fast spin and pretend to be Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin on their way to the moon." Which we did. It was one small step for man, but a giant leap for a cat.

All this and more have I seen in the sally gardens, where even Lily, Rose, Iris and Daisy are called--Sally! Sign of the times I suppose, but I don't like it, like the late Brian Clough used to sing, "There may be trouble ahead!".

The MLAs

Well Kid, you've only gone and done it again. What a great show the Thursday show was! Tommy, my cat, who was wearing a mask to ward off Mexican swine flu and people stealing his false teeth, raised his fist in the air and yelled, "YESSSS! another great show, that's four in a row, how long can this winning streak go on for?" I turned off the radio by running sideways to the zoo and getting Steven the elephant to sit on it.

When I got home suffering from jet lag and hives in the oxters I looked at Tommy and said, "The amazing thing is, Gerry has to do everything himself. Mr Coyle is sitting with his feet up reading the paper and Emma and Janet are tee-heeing over some foul, disgusting smut on the Internet." "I found out what they were looking at," said Tommy. "It's a new site called, MLA's as you have never seen them before. Apparently Michael McGimspy gets a lot of hits. He sits nude looking over the back of a chair like Christine Keeler and a bubble above his head reads, "You have to laugh, don't you?" "I knew there was something about Michael McGimspy!" I yelled. "All the laughing, the chortling and going round Stormount dressed as a jester, with a balloon on a stick." I licked my lips, gazed at Tommy and said, "Is the back of the chair made from bamboo strips by any chance?" "No," said Tommy. "The back of the chair is made from solid oak." "Bummer!" I muttered, as I punched the face off myself for entertaining bad thoughts.

"There's too much of it going on!" I yelled. "Everything today is lewd, crude and rude." Tommy laughed and said, "What's got up your hooter, is that you ain't getting any." "How dare you!" I yelled. "You youngsters think you invented sex, well you didn't. It was the BBC. When I think back to the things old Doctor Cameron and Janet got up to, I still blush. I can close my eyes and hear that old trollop Janet saying, "You're tea's ready Doctor Cameron. Would you like it in the kitchen?" Would you like it in the kitchen indeed! That's when the country began to go down hill. Then we had Rumpole of the Bailey. The very name's a give-a-way. But by far the worst was old Jess Yates. There he was every Sunday, sitting leering behind his organ and saying things like, "This is for Mrs Bunty Slack, who has been-bedbound for two weeks. Sodom and Begorrah!" I yelled. "That's where the BBC has brought us." Tommy grabbed me, pushed me down on a cucumber green bean bag and said, "Calm down, calm down, have a nice cup of James Earl Ray Jones tea and I'll put on this DVD called, "Everything you wanted to know about Steven Nolan but were afraid to ask." Filth, pure-filth!"

All this and more have I seen from behind the tinted glasses of Peter Robinson. "Iris, Iris, get this snowman out of here, he is an abomination of an abominable snowman. And bring me in the Messenger, I want to see how my adopted child in Africa is doing."

Tommy Has One Too Many

Great show on Wednesday Kid. That's three in a row, things are fairly rattling along. Do you ever feel that maybe things are going too well? Do you ever feel, as the song says, "There may be trouble ahead?" Mr Coyle could throw a wobbly, a wobbly so perverse and disgusting, that all other wobblies would be put in the shade. Watch him Kid, watch that giggling man who sits behind the glass. Is he planning some horrid Pol Pot plans with the girls. He has them eating out of his hand. That's why Emma said it was very important to wash the webbed V between thumb and index finger. Be aware Kid, be aware of Mr Coyle and his inexhaustible supply of--wobblies!

Tommy, my cat, came home very drunk. He lay against the door jamb with a stupid smile on his feline face and slurred, "Hic, there she is! There's the bestest wee woman in the world." Go to your bed Tommy," I said "You're drunk." "No," slurred Tommy. "No, not-hic-drunk, but I have drink taken." "Go to your bed now Tommy," I said, "You'll have a hangover in the morning." "She speaks!" yelled Tommy with a flourish, "The angel in human form speaks. Listen" said Tommy. "Come here, I love you, I do, I love you, what would I be without you? You are the wind beneath my wings and the-hic, the, the furnace in my boiler." "Go to bed," Tommy I said, "Before you fall down." "I shall go to bed!" said Tommy with a yell, "But before I do, I must put in on record, that I, Tommy cat, love you, woman with cat with all my heart and with all my soul"
Next morning Tommy staggered down the stairs as white as a ghost. I said nothing. Tommy lowered himself on to a gooseberry green bean bag and croaked, "Did I--ah--say anything last night?"

I gazed at the feline wretch and replied, "No, you just came in and went straight to bed." "Good," muttered Tommy. "Now listen, you ugly old rat bag, keep your big yapper shut today, because I have a tarra headache."
All this and more have I seen, as Lynda Byrons put my arm up my back and marched me out of her bedroom. I was only in there to admire the woodchip wall paper!

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.