A normal humdrum day.

Great shows last week Kid and it was good to see young Michael, Sean Coyle's replacement putting out such a great show on Thursday. "That lad will go far," said Tommy my cat, as he lay curled up under the bed, pretending to be a lost sock. I looked at Tommy and said, "Do you know something Tommy, I've never lived this long before." "And you probably never will again," said Tommy, "So enjoy each day as it comes." "That's what I like about Tommy, it's not just the mice at the door, the hair balls in the soup, the puke under the bed, what I like about Tommy, is his tenuous grasp of reality. If Tommy was a pen, I would be proud to wear him in the breast pocket of my electric blue simmet. "Tommy," I said, "Run down to the corner shop and get a packet of assorted yells, shrieks and screams. I am going to pluck my eyebrows." "What about a small bag of expletives?" said Tommy. "Oh sugar," I said. "I forgot all about the expletives. Ask Manuel the shop girl if they have any President Nixon expletives, if not, just get the Gordon Ramsey expletives." After Tommy had gone, I did something I have always wanted to do. After I did what I've always wanted to do, I cleaned up, using plenty of hot water,dettol, and jeyes fluid, danced the Walls of Limerick with a trio of cock roaches, sang a verse of Mother McCree and lubricated my oxters with axle grease. Just the normal, humdrum antics that every woman with a cat gets up to. I grew bored waiting for Tommy to come back, so I passed the time by putting a bun in the even and crying, "Oh musha allana, what am I going to do at tall, at tall, at tall? Sorry indeed I am to have a bun in the oven and my Danny far, far over the sea, clubbing baby seals to death!" Tommy rushed in tripped and spilled the President Nixon expletives all over the floor. In the midst of all the effing and blinding Tommy cried, "The police are coming, the police are coming. They have thrown a cordon all over the neighbour hood and every house is going to be searched from top to bottom." "WHY?" I yelled. "Is there a bomb scare?" "NO!" cried Tommy. "It's worse that that. Some one broke into Steven Nolan's house and stole a raisin from his bun!" "This is big!" I cried. "This is-huge! Nolan will wreck Belfast looking for that raisin" "Tubby is standing in the middle of the street," said Tommy, "stripped to the waist. He says he will fight any man who interfered with his bun." "Quick!" I yelled. "I have a bun in the oven. Take it out and give it to Nolan." Soon Tubby was cradling the bun, cooing into its face and the bun was looking up and saying, "Daddy, what a big belly you have." I stood at the door, with my apron over my face, keening like I've never keened before. "As sad indeed it is today, what will my seal clubbing Danny say at tall, at tall, at tall, when he finds out my bun in the oven calls another man-daddy?"

All this and more have I seen from behind Sammy Wilson's bowl of porridge. Sammy's porridge is very temperate, not too hot, not too cold. It's just right.

Tommy and the election.

What great shows Gerry is putting out this week!" I said to Tommy my cat. "You're so right," said Tommy, as he arose daintily from his bubble bath in front of a roaring fire. "Ah, the luxury of a bubble bath!" said Tommy. "I feel pretty and witty and....."

"Hold on there Kid," I said. "All these bubble baths you've been having, the new cravat and the tangerine shorts. Do you not think it's a bit, you know--fey?"

"Not at tall," said Tommy, wrapping himself in a primrose yellow bathrobe. "You may think it's perfectly natural to go about smelling like an old sheep, but I don't. Mummy always said to us kittens, "Cleanliness is next to godliness and Paul Daniels is next to the lovely Debbie McGee. By the bye," said Tommy, "Did you do anything with that radio? It's so clear, no background noise of any kind." "That's because Mr Coyle is away on holiday," I said. "Yes, Coylers is walking around Spain wearing a pair of World war two desert rats khaki shorts down to his knees and a knotted handkerchief on his head." "A real babe magnet," said Tommy with a giggle. "Yes," I laughed "The only thing Thaddeus will pick up in Spain is sweetie papers and chewing gum from the pavements." Oh how we laughed. Tommy cleaned out his ears with a blue Bic pen and said, "The DUP got a bit of a mauling at the recent election." "Indeed they did," I answered. "Their share of the vote, like Sammy Wilson's trousers was down." "Could Sir Reg Empty be on the way up?" said Tommy, as he blew the fluff out of his navel with Henry the hoover." "Don't write off little Reg," I said. "Little Reg is a stayer, a battler. Little Reg is an old dog and it takes an old dog for the hard road. People used to call little Reg, Joe Ninety and the Milky Bar Kid, well, they don't call him that now. Now they call Sir Reg the come back kid." Tommy looked all around and whispered, "Sinn Fein topped the poll for the first time." "They did," I said, "And it's all the fault of Mark Durkin. You remember Mark Durkin? He was the SDLP guy who kept going on about the reality-is, instead of telling the people want they want to hear."

"How would you describe Jim Allister said Tommy?" "Jim Allister," I said, "Has all the qualities of a bulldog or a pitbull, but he doesn't foul in the street."

"Which is always an advantage," said Tommy, "When you're running for high office." "Tommy," I said, "I have never asked you before, who is your favourite politician in Great Britain?" "Easy," said Tommy. "Little dumpy Hazel Blears. She's like one of those little dolls that you knock down and they always jump up again. Who is your favourite politician?" said Tommy. I mounted my soap box and cried, "Lemsip Opec, he's the man for me. He believes in flying saucers, Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. He also believes that the world is flat and often goes round the country yelling, "ONE MAN ONE CHEEKY GIRL and of course Lemsip is-Liberal." "I wonder if Lemsip is liberal in the sack," said Tommy with a loathsome horrible leer.

"GET OUT!" I roared. "You may well smell of lavender and primroses, but your heart is as black as pitch. GET OUT! and wash your mouth out with lifebuoy soap, you filthy little feline."

All this and more have I seen from a beach in sunny Spain, as Mr Coyle walks among bikini clad girls, wearing a long trench coat and singing lustily. "Nearer my God to thee."

A wife for Steven

As the sound of "Flowers on the wall" faded away, Tommy my cat sighed and said. "Ah, the Statler brothers, named after a well known American tissue. If they lived over here, they would be known as the Kleenex Brothers." "Yes," I said, "Or even the coat sleeve brothers." Tommy began to carefully pick between his little feline toes with a silver plated crowbar and said, "I saw Steven Nolan today. He was coming down a hill. He looked like an avalanche in a suit."

I bit my lip with a pair of false teeth I keep for the purpose and said, "I'm worried about Steve. He's in his 30's now, both years and stones. It's time the lad settled down and stopped all his high living and partying outside all night fish and chip shops." "Nolan is a wild child," said Tommy. "A hell raising son of a gun like Richard Burton, Peter O'Toole, Richard Harris and Olivia Newton John." "Nolan needs a wife," I said, "And when I finish knitting this goldfish bowl, I will dedicate my life to finding a wife for Steven "Tubby" Nolan." "What kind of girl will you look for?" said Tommy, as he blew the TV apart with a bazooka he got on eBay. The funny thing is, he was really looking for a balalaika after seeing Donal Lunny in concert. "The perfect wife for Steven Nolan," I said, "Would be a girl like Davina McCall." "You mean a cheeky hussy," said Tommy, "That roars and screams in the dark of the night?" "You've got Davina wrong," I said. "Actually Davina McCall is a patron of the arts and has an extensive library of Laurel and Hardy films." "What about Lisa Reilly formerly of Emmerdale?" said Tommy. "No, No," I said. "If they wanted to kiss, they would have to do it through a third party." "Kirsty Wark?" said Tommy. "No," I said, "Too bossy." "Kirsty Young?" said Tommy. "No," I said "Too saucy." "Then who?" cried Tommy. "Is there a woman in the world who will say, "I might" to Steven Nolan?" "There is--one," I said. "Who?" cried Tommy. "Who-Who-Who?" I smiled and said, "There's a girl who works in a chip shop that looks like Elvis!"

"Sorted!" yelled Tommy, "With a capital-SOR."

All this and more have I seen from the beach towel of Sean Coyle in the Costa Packet. There little Sean lay, reading the Derry Journal, eating an ice cream and checking for the 100th time that the 20 pesos note was still secure in his dark blue gutties.

"Gargon, Gargon" cried Sean "Another slider for my wife, myself and my best pal-Joe".

Northern Ireland Nil Italy Three.

Monday morning found me in the coal bunker, curled up in the foetal position, whimpering like a baby with my thumb in my mouth. I was pretending to be Gordon Brown, a dour Scots man, who labours under the misconception that he is the Prime Minister!

Suddenly Tommy my cat banged a dustbin lid on the wall and yelled. "CARAMBA!. He's back! Gerry Anderson is back!" "I knew Gerry would come back for D- day," I said. "A lot of Andersons fell at Normandy" "Clumsy!" said Tommy. "Listen you feline fiend!" I roared, "Only for the brave men who fought at Normandy, we would all be Germans now. Can you imagine how horrible that would be?" "Of course I can," said Tommy. "We would win the World cup on a regular basis. Our car industry would be the envy of the world and we would drive on super high speed autobahns." "Just you remember that," I said, "when you eat your gruel tonight and thank Winston Churchill that you live in Northern Ireland where losing three nil to Italy is a reason for national rejoicing." "At least we got nil," said Tommy. "We had nil before the game and managed to hold on to nil. I call that a result."

"You're so right," I said, "But we must build on that result. We can't always expect to get-nil." "The team is in transition and has been for the last 100 years." "We were at a disadvantage," said Tommy. "The game was played with a round ball. We are more used to the long ball or the short ball."

"The boys did good," I said. "We were able to contain Italy in our half for most of the game." "We were unlucky," said Tommy, "If the ball had crossed the Italian goal line, we would have been well within our rights in claiming a goal." "It was a game of two halves," I said, "and ifs, buts and maybes." "We must not be down hearted," said Tommy. "Nil Desperandum. We can bank that nil, safe in the knowledge that F.I.F.A can not take it away from us." "I would like to see them try!" I yelled. "If they did, the Andersons would be on the beaches of Normandy before you could say, "One, two and you're in!"

All this and more have I seen in the Priory clinic, where Susan Boyle is busy sticking pins into an effigy of Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan, the slimy refugee from the world of tabloid journalism. "I don't know how he can look at himself in the mirror each morning," said Tommy, with a self righteous look on his little feline face. Welcome back Kid, time to dust off Mr Coyle and put out some great shows.

TOMMY THE CAT SPEAKS HIS MIND

It was the morning of the day that faithfully comes between Tuesday and Thursday every week. I don't know the name of the day. I used to have it written down on a piece of paper, in case anyone asked me, but like a fool, I went and left the piece of paper in the pocket of my strait jacket before I put it in the washing machine. DOH! What a fool I felt, when the day came round again and I got a text from the Queen asking what day it was!. I bluffed her by texting back that my computer was broken. When in a tight corner you've got to think fast and breathe shallowly.
Tommy my cat and I were bored out of our skulls. A skull is a very important thing, it keeps your face from falling in on itself. Over in the corner sat Howard Hughes our television set. We call it Howard Hughes because it never leaves the house or clips its nails. The TV, or-Howard sat there, all gloomy and dark. Due to the number of repeats it had spewed out over the years, it was suffering from acute indigestion. Until it got better, all we could do was let it rest, keep in warm and make sure it got plenty of liquids. Every two hours, Tommy or I would pour a pint of orange juice through the vents in the back.
Oh how we missed Howard the TV, he used to keep us amused with programmes like, "How clean is your coal shovel" and riveting documentaries like, "My granny ate my face."
For three days, Tommy and I had been sitting on two hard milkmaid's stools staring at each other. No words were spoken, just hard scrutinising stares. The pressure was getting to me. Anyone who has sat on a hard milkmaid's stool for three days, staring at a cat will know what I mean. I could take no more, I knocked my knees together and yelled, "STOP IT!"
"Stop what?" said Tommy.
"Stop looking at me!" I yelled.
"I'm not," said Tommy "you're looking at me!"
"You looked at me first!" I yelled.
"I did not," said Tommy, "you looked at me first."
"I did NOT!" I screamed."You looked at me first. I remember thinking to myself, Tommy is looking at me."
"I remember thinking the same," said Tommy. "I remember thinking to myself, as you do, she's looking at me."
"You're a liar!" I roared.
"So are you!" screamed Tommy.
In the silence that followed, we both stole a glance at Howard the TV, oh he didn't look well at tall. His screen was blank and the little red stand by light was still not flashing.
As Tommy and I went back to staring at each other, Tommy gave a little smile and muttered, "I never would have believed it."
"You never would have believed what?" I cried.
"How ugly you are," said Tommy. "Sitting here staring at you for three days on a hard milkmaid's stool, has made me realise just what an ugly, horrible, frightful old bag you really are."
"How dare you!" I yelled. "I will have you know that during the war I was crowned Miss Shrapnel 1942."
"How did you get so ugly?" said Tommy. "Did your mother wash you with ugly soap?"
"She did not!" I yelled. "Every Saturday night, dearest mummy and darling daddy would tear the clothes from me and my 16 siblings. Then dear mummy would hold us by the big toe, under the kitchen tap. She would then hand us to darling daddy, who would dry us by rolling us along the floor with his foot. Then they would sew us into pillow cases, pile us up in a big heap and fling us into our beds. As dearest mummy put out the light, by blasting the bulb with a shotgun she would smile and say, "Sleep tight children and do let the bugs bite, because fleas are God's creatures too."
"What an idyllic childhood you had," said Tommy.
"Yes!" I said. "Just imagine if I had landed up with the Christian Brothers?"
"Bummer," said Tommy.
"You're SO right," I replied.
In the silence that followed I whispered, "Am I really--ugly Tommy?"
"No," said Tommy. "No, your face has--character, the criss cross lines and furrows on your face, the freckles, the moles, the warts, the way one eye droops, all denote a certain kind of raw, savage, animalistic, horrible, terrible-beauty."
"Thank you Tommy," I said. "Every single line on my face is a laughter line."
"I never though life could be so funny," muttered Tommy.
Then Howard the TV gave a creak, a groan, a horrible crackle followed by a shower of sparks and burst into life. Tommy and I whooped and cheered and pulled our hard milkmaid's stools closer for a good dose of fun, frolics and merriment. But when we saw the Steven Nolan Show was on, we turned Howard off again and went back to staring at each other.

Get Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson and books of poems from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to....
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com

TIE A YELLOW RIBBON ROUND THAT POOL OF PEE

After I had swept the darkness of the night out of the door with a sweeping brush, the light of the day crept softly and carefully into my home looking warily all around for trips, snares or gin traps disguised as small boys wearing short trousers. Finding none of the afore mentioned, the light flooded into darkened nooks and crannies, driving the dark out into the street, with shrill cries of, "Get out you remnants of the night and never show your black face in here again!" I patted the light on the head murmuring, "Good boy" and set down a saucer of Ribena and oil of Ulay. "Has it gone?" yelled Tommy the cat. "Has the horrible dark night departed?" "Yes, it has!" I roared in fluent Pinafore. "The night has gone and the light of another day is here, to guide our wayward step, as we turn, yet another page in the book of life". Tommy crawled out from under a blacksmith's anvil, gave a shudder and said, "I hate the night. The long, dark, never ending night. Each night," said Tommy, "I lie in bed, shivering, shaking, and trembling as I listen for the footsteps of the Bogey Man, who will put me in his deep, dark sack and take me away to his dark, gloomy house in the forest, where I will spend my time gathering faggots for the fire and cooking wombat stew for the Bogey Man, his bogey wife and his ugly brood of young bogies. I can't stand it!" yelled Tommy. "Do you hear me? I can't stand the night, when everything is, dark, dark, dark!" I threw a bucket of semolina round the quivering feline and yelled, "Pull yourself together Tommy cat. How dare you stand there on my Paisley patterned rug, exposing your phobias to the vulgar gaze of the rude and mocking multitude!" Tommy wiped semolina from his feline slitted green eyes and said. "Thanks for that. You are a true friend. Who else would throw a bucket of semolina over me when my fear of the night turns me into a slobbering, wretched, disoriented, vulgar grovelling wretch of a pussy?" "It's the least I could do Tommy," I said ."After seeing the state you were in, the bucket of semolina was your just-deserts." Oh how we laughed. Outside our window a group of workmen began to dig up the road with a large digger. As the house shuddered and nick-nacks flew from the tall boy, Tommy and I gave a WHOOP, clasped hands and danced the Mason's Apron as plaster from the ceiling fell on our jigging heads like snow. Ah, Irish dancing! What would we do without it? We would have to invent it by tarring the roads with tacks! In the afternoon, which always comes if you have patience, Tommy and I dressed up as Susan Boyle and set off round Belfast. "Come into the garden Maud!" I screeched, "The long dark night has gone!" "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!" screamed Tommy. A busker who was singing, "Sweet Caroline," picked up his guitar in disgust and thumbed a lift to Lisburn on a passing Chinese rickshaw driven by a sweating coolie called, One Hung Low. I threw back my head and shrieked like a cat kittling, "All I Want Is A Room Somewhere, Where I can Boke When I'm On The Tear! With One Enormous Po, Oh, Wouldn't It Be Luvvly!" Suddenly, a figure rushed out from behind some wheelie bins screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" It was little Jim Rodgers, complete with biros in the breast pocket and the crest of Belfast city tastefully embroidered on the fork of his Armani khaki shorts. "Stop that noise!" screamed Jim. "Belfast is a city of culture and not a city of catheter induced caterwauling." "How dare you, you phlegm filled Philistine!" I yelled, "I will have you know that I studied under Caruso." "Robinson Caruso couldn't sing for toffee!" screamed Jim. "Sling your hook, or by the sacred thong of Lady Silvia Herman I'll call the police." There was a deadlocked silence. Then Tommy began to softly sing, "Every breath you take." I snapped my fingers and joined in, "Every move you make." Tommy and I stood there like Peters and Lee warbling, "Every breath you take, every move you make." It was too much for Jim. He began to dance and scream, "I'll be watching-YOU!" So now, Tommy, Jim and I have formed a Police tribute band. You may well ask, who is-Sting. Well, it's the audience. They get stung every night Jim, Tommy and I take to the stage, wearing PSNI uniforms singing into microphones that look like batons. Jim is a bit hit with the chicks. Some put it down to his singing, but I think it is the exciting forkal gyrations the wee man goes through every night. We can't keep him in trousers! Well, Jim does get very excited!

Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson and books of poems available at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com

TOMMY THE CAT TAKES ON THE ESTABLISHMENT

As I hung from a hempen rope in the sitting room, pretending to be Tom Dooley, I glanced into the kitchen and saw Tommy my cat hack at his ear with a butcher's knife, Tommy was pretending to be Van Gogh. What a restfull creak and groan the hempen rope made as I swung in the wind like a flypaper. Everything was so quite, so silent, just the creak of the rope and a hissing sound, as gouts of blood spurted from Tommy's mangled ear. I smiled at Tommy, Tommy smiled back. I winked at Tommy, Tommy winked back. I danced a horn-pipe in the air, Tommy threw his feline legs around him as he lay in a pool of blood and gore. As I swung gently to and fro, I looked out of the window. What a lovely day it was. The rain was pouring down from a slate grey sky. A freezing North West wind knocked over wheelie bins and old age pensioners. People ran from car to shop, holding small children over their head to keep from getting wet. The raging gutters were full of crisp packets, cigarette butts, old socks and smiling cadavers who had been washed out of their graves. There was no doubt about it. It was Summer, Summer in Belfast. Ah, Belfast, the last bastion of ignorant, stupid-bastions. I eased myself up on the hangmans rope and croaked. "Imagine Tommy, some fools are sunning themselves in Spain, when they could be at home enjoying the temperate climes of Northern Ireland".
"Fools! cried Tommy, as he tried to staunch the blood by holding the national flag of Burundi to his bleeding ear. All good things must come to an end and at 27 minutes to four I called a halt to the fun. I lay gasping on the floor, looking at Tommy who was getting paler by the moment due to loss of blood. "Tommy old son" I said "We find ourselves in the direst of straits. We need to go to casualty and we need to go-NIGH!" "Shall we go together?" asked Tommy "No!" I said "It would not look good and might frighten the earwigs. Why don't you go first and I will follow". "Why don't YOU go first" yelled Tommy "Why is it always me that has to go first?" "Oh all right" I roared "I will go first, stand back until I get the big 196 page book that tells you how to open the door". "Not so fast!" yelled Tommy "There's something funny going on here, not funny tee-hee, but funny as in GIVE MY HEAD PEACE". "Make up your mind" I yelled "One of us must go to casualty first". "And by the same token" roared Tommy "One of us must go-last" "Listen Tommy" I said "You can run faster than me. Why don't you speed off to casualty, sign in and then run home and get me?" "At last!" yelled Tommy "The voice of reason". I watched as Tommy ate a three course meal, changed into a lovely three piece pin-stripe suit, with white shirt, red tie and Italian shoes and gallop off, post haste to casualty. I whiled away the time until Tommy returned for me, by trying to pull my lips over my head. Once again my attempt ended in failure, it was the ears, it's always the-ears.
"Well, well, well then" said the doctor. What happened here? One of you half hung and the other one with the ear hanging off" "It was a freak gardening accident doctor" I lied. "Ah, very common at this time of the year" said the doctor. "Do you see that pile of amputated legs in the corner? I cut those off only this morning. All the result of strimming accidents" said the doctor "and the funny thing is, all the accidents happened near lupin beds". "How queer" said Tommy. "Two decapitated men were rushed in here" said the doctor. "Both were trimming their hedge, one man at one side of the hedge and the other man at the other. Well blow me down" said the doctor "If they didn't go and cut the head of each other". "Did you patch them up Doc?" asked Tommy "Oh yes" said the doctor, "Nothing to it, a little stitch here, a little stitch there. But the real problem was knowning which head belonged to which man. Only one man was white and the other was black, I would have to resorted to, Eenie, meenie, miney, mo" AS tommy and I skipped out of casualty, we met Tubby Nolan limping in. "Greetings blubber boy" I yelled "What happened to you then?" Tubby groaned and muttered "I had a nasty-freak gardening accident. I was carefully pruning my sweet pea". "A dangerous thing to do, if you don't have a mirror" I said "Hey Tubby!" yelled Tommy "Did you lop off something? Eh? did you lop off something lard boy?" "I did not lop off something" yelled Tubby "I was admiring my handiework, stepped on the spade and got an awful dunt in the hollyhocks". Tommy and I jeered and laughed, as Tubby climbed the steps of casualty, holding the fork of his trousers in both hands. Then a doctor, dressed as a Dalek, grabbed Tubby and yelled, "AMPUTATE, AMPUTATE, AMPUTATE". Some of those foreign doctors have a cracking sense of humor.

Get my poems and Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson from..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit Rosie at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com