WORDS

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. First we had some new poets, wordsmiths, who painted scenes and images using only brain power and steroids. How I wish I was a poet, starving in a garret and yelling to the postman, "Hi Micky, what rhymes with methoxamine hydrochloride?" What are words, the building blocks of language, or the downfall of civilisation? I suppose a word is like--well, it's like a-fart, once uttered it can not be taken back. Words can charm, words can cajole and words can hurt. How many would gladly take back the words, "I DO!" uttered in haste in the midst of a forest of flowers and a bevy of creaking taffeta bridesmaids. They say words uttered in haste are repented at leisure. And anyone who has ever been rash enough to order a spicy curry will concur with that. So today I take off my bonnet, my simmet and one ankle sock to the new poets, who opened our eyes to the unseen vista of beauty out there, with words, honed, crafted and polished to a lustre that can only be found in the virgin, fallow mind of the amateur poet.

And I mean every word of that!

Tommy my cat slithered down the chimney. Tommy had been up there for nine days, pretending to be an African child hiding from Madonna. "Madge very bad woman," said Tommy in an Indian accent, which somehow ruined the whole premise of the pretend. I clipped Tommy's ears. I used to work on the buses and the skill never leaves you. Then! we heard a horrible bellow. "Let me in or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down!" It was Tubby Nolan, wearing a puce gansey, a trilby hat and a tattered ragged kilt. Tommy and I opened the door and widened it on both sides by five feet. Tubby lumbered in yelling, "I want a bag, Give me a bag. I want a bag and I want it NIGH!" "How dare you Jumbo," I said, "This is not a house of ill repute, well, not until 10 o'clock when I switch on the red light." "I'm having a panic attack!" yelled Tubby," "And I need a bag to blow into.My high flying life style has caught up with me. Wendy Austin warned me I was getting too big for my britches, but what did I do? I went out and bought bigger britches.""Eeh Lad," said Tommy, "Thee should be in Priory clinic. Aye, that's where thee should be, in Priory clinic, by gum." "NO!" yelled Tubby. "I refuse to share a room with Pete Doherty or Susan Boyle." "The hairy angel?" I said. "The hairy expletive deleted!" screamed Tubby. "Give me shelter!" cried Tubby. "In the name of all that's holy, give me-shelter!" What could Tommy and I do? The sight of Tubby in the ragged kilt would take tears from a stone. So Tommy took one arm, I took the other and we led him to the door, gave him a riser and slammed the door in his moon-like face.

All this and more have I seen from outside Sean Coyle's house, where gin traps and landmines wait for the nocturnal burglar. But his lupins are coming along well. I like-lupins. Very-lupinious.

The Birds!!!!

Great shows this week Kid. All dealing with important community issues and lost dogs. What is the greatest danger to society today? YES!, you're so right, crows scratching at windows early in the morning. That poor man. That poor, poor man. I could hardly sleep last night thinking about him. I could see him, sitting grey faced on the edge of the bed at four o'clock in the morning. Listening, ever-listening. THEN! the scratch, scratch, scratch, of crows claws on glass. He nudges his wife with a broken stick and screams. "Mildred, Mildred, the crows, THE CROWS!!!" A crying, talking, sleeping, walking nightmare with Hitchcockian overtones. (Not undertones-overtones) Mildred hits the quivering wretch over the head, with the empty po and yells, "Mien Gott, it's always crows with you! Go back to sleep or I'll kaput you!" What is the poor man to do? Faced on one side by the ever scratching crows and on the either side by a German wife with Nazi tendencies? "Tommy," I said to my cat, "Why do the crows scratch and scratch at that poor man's window?" "It's his own fault," said Tommy. "He built his house right slap dab in the middle of the crows' flight path. What he must do, is open the front windows to let the crows into his house and then open the back windows so they can continue on their flight path." "Simple!" I cried, pointing to myself in the mirror. "Simple and-sorted!" Tommy looked all around and whispered, "That man is lucky it's only crows that are bothering him, it could be--OWLS!" "What would the-OWLS do Tommy?" I said. "Never you mind," said Tommy. "I have seen men, aye-and indeed-women when the OWLS were finished with them and it was not a pretty sight. It was not a pretty sight," I tell you. "Beware of the--OWLS!"

Later that day, Tommy, I and Tubby Nolan were skipping with a high voltage cable in front of the house. Before Tubby got electrocuted in the fork, Tommy said to me, "Do you want to know something about-hair?" I pondered, ruminated and replied, "Yes Tommy, I would like to know something about-hair."

Tommy looked at me-straight in the eye and said, "It's never too young to go grey and it's never too old to go-blonde" "A Universal truth," I muttered. "All my life I have been searching for a Universal truth, not knowing that a Universal truth was under my nose all the time." "Tommy," I said "How do you know if a girl is a natural blonde?" Tommy smiled and said "Easy, what you do is........"

The sound of a giant lorry drowned out the rest of Tommy's reply so I guess I'll never know. Maybe it's better not to know. In my life I have had too many dreams shattered. I think I'll go to my grave, believing that all blondes are natural blondes. For the life of me, I can't think of any way that would separate the natural blondes from the bleached blondes, unless you were to... No, you couldn't do that! The police would be round before you could say, "Evening all, mind how you go."

All this and more have I seen as I sat up with Lynda Byron's rooster. The poor thing was under the weather. Lynda thinks it might be-egg bound!!!

Go now, but remember, beware of the--OWLS!!!

Coyle's Away!

Great show yesterday Kid. And when you told us that Mr Coyle would be away for another week, the nation went into rejoicing. The spitting cobra, first Minister Peter Robinson, announced that from this day onward, Monday the 15th of June would be known as, "Nil Interuptus" day. I looked at Tommy my cat who was washing his false teeth in a glass of high octane jet fuel and said, "What are we going to do with that unsightly hole in the wall of this room?" "Let's try and slide the walls together," said Tommy. But after much straining and pushing the opening was as big as ever. Tommy got on the phone and with the help of 118 118 got through to the Oracle of Delphi. "Have you tried switching the wall on and off?" said the Oracle. "Yes," said Tommy. "Smashing!" said the Oracle. "Have you taken out all the plugs?" said the Oracle. "Yes," said Tommy. "Brilliant!" said the Oracle. Then the Oracle showed why she earns the big bucks. "Have you tried to block the hole with bricks and cement?" said the Oracle. "No," said Tommy. "Nincompoop!" said the Oracle. So Tommy and I set to and blocked up the unsightly hole with plaster and wood chip paper. It was three weeks later, when I tried to go to the toilet, that I discovered Tommy and I had bricked up the only door out of the room. But I'm not worried. They found the boy King Tut, didn't they? "Oh Mr Carter! Mr Howard Carter! Cooee, Mr Carter!"

All this and more have I seen from Sunny Spain, where Mr Coyle has just bought a timeshare for £500.

Don't sign that cheque. Don't sign that cheque. AH, too-late!.

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.