Great show yesterday Kid. Just goes to show what you can do with two cheap microphones and a small ten watt amplifier. Tommy my cat and I tied a piece of cord to our radio, then we tied the cord to a rafter and let the radio swing like a pendulum. We got a great all round sound. After the show was over, Tommy turned off the radio by bashing it against the wall repeatedly. A little household tip there for the infirm and elderly, who may have trouble fiddling with tiny off switches.
As the day wore on, the glum look on Tommy's face got bigger. I decided an intervention was in order.
"Hey, baggy knickers!" I yelled. "What's got up your kilt?"
"I'll tell you what's got up my kilt!" yelled Tommy. "Are you aware that the South Bank Show, that great bastion of arts and culture is no more?"
"Yes! I am aware that the South Bank Show is kaput," I cried, "and I'm glad. Do you hear me-glad? Now we will have more time to watch fat people crying about being fat."
Tommy glared at me and yelled, "Are you really so shallow as not to care about arts and culture?"
"Yes, I am!" I yelled. "I don't care if I never hear another opera by Picasso, or look at another painting by Puccini."
"Bread and circuses!" yelled Tommy. "That's all you care about, bread and circuses."
"You got it in one Kid!" I yelled. "I want to be entertained. I don't want to be informed. If I see that old fool Sir John Betcheman wearing a raincoat and pointing up at old churches again I will scream."
"Do you not have a hunger for knowledge" said Tommy, "a desire to know?"
I pondered and said,"Well, I do like a good who done it. One of the wee blonde girls in Eastenders is going to have a baby and I want to know who done it."
Tommy went mad, oh yes, Tommy went clean mad. He leaped up on the sideboard and screamed, "The people of this country are turning into gigantic balls of lard. All they do is sit on the sofa, stuffing their faces and watching other balls of lard on TV crying and weeping about the vast amount of pies they shovel down their pie holes every week."
"I know," I giggled, "isn't it great. Have you seen Lorraine Kelly's new show "My big fat family? Lorainne gets the family expert help, writes out a diet routine and when she comes back in a weeks time, the family have put on another four stone. "Do youse know that youse is killing yourselves?" asked Lorraine. And one of the family puts down a pie long enough to say, "Aye we know Lorraine. But we can't help it. It's not our fault. People are so cruel. When I roll down the street people call me fat. It's the fault of society so it is. I would love to be thin. Why don't the doctors come up with a pill, so we could eat night and day and still be thin?"
Just then Tubby Nolan waddled in and felt the full force of Tommy's wrath.
"It's all YOUR fault!" yelled Tommy. "You are the Guru of fat, The Lord of lard and the Emperor of gluttony. You started all this, lard ball, mentality and now you have thousands of followers eating themselves silly."
"Biggest in the country!" roared Tubby.
"You are the anti-thin!" screamed Tommy. "You are the one with the golden spoon who is warned about in the book of Revelations. You are the mountain who would not come to Mohammed. You are a bun scoffer, a biscuit nibbler and a cake grinder."
"That's me to a T!" yelled Tubby. "And talking about tea, I have nine fish suppers in the boot of my car. Clear the table and let's have a feast."
And who was it who yelled, "I'll help you carry them in Tubby?" Yes, Tommy the cat. If there's one thing I hate more than Colin Murray, it's a hypocritical feline.
After a bumper feast we turned on the TV and watched, "I'm so fat it's not funny."
Oh how we laughed!
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Friday, 12 February 2010
Political Deadlock
What great shows you put on last week Kid. When Ulster was in a political gridlock, Gordon Brown and Brian Cowan arrived to shovel grit. -YES, I said-grit, but so far no grip. The wheels are still spinning. The engine is revved to max, blue smoke is billowing from the exhaust, but still no movement.
Tommy my cat came into the room wearing a lovely, paisley sweater which matched his little, tartan trousers and yelled, "WELL! Where are we at NIGH?"
"Still at the crossroads," I replied.
"Hot biscuits and dynamite!" yelled Tommy. "That means Tubby Nolan will have yet another week to slabber on about peace and justice."
"Tubby thrives on crisis," I said. "If a lasting peace were to break out, Tubby Nolan would be restricted to talking about wheelie bins and dog poo."
Tommy took a pink yo-yo out off his pocket, scrutinised it closely, put it back in his pocket again and said, "How right you are, my dear. Tubby Nolan is old madam guillotine, sitting knitting a blood-splashed gansy, as the severed heads fall into the basket like veritable turnips."
"Tommy," I chided, "are you not being a little harsh on lard for brains?"
"Harsh?" cried Tommy. "I despise Tubby Nolan. I loathe Tubby Nolan. I hate Tubby Nolan and the very ground he lumbers over."
"He's going on another diet," I said.
"Who is?" said Tommy, looking once again at his yo-yo.
"Tubby," I said. "Tubby Nolan is going on yet another diet."
"Balderdash and gerkins!" yelled Tommy. "Why must you addle my brain with chit-chat about Tubby Nolan? I care not for what Tubby Nolan does. Ne'r a fig do I care for the gross shenanigans of the jolly green giant. Let Tubby Nolan eat cake!" screamed Tommy and he stormed out of the room, once AGAIN, inspecting his yo-yo. I wonder if all is well with Tommy's yo-yo. Women talk about these things and see about them in time, but the male of the species, just hide their heads in the sand and hope the trouble will go away. I don't like to do it, but when Tommy is asleep tonight I will creep into his room and have a good look at his yo-yo. Prevention is better than cure.
In the afternoon Tommy and I set up a Red Bull stall outside Hillsborough.
"GET YOUR RED BULL HERE!" I roared.
"DON'T BE DULL, DRINK RED BULL!" yelled Tommy.
Soon we were surrounded by hordes of sleepy eyed MLA's. They stood there yawning and scratching themselves, knocking back the Red Bull like there was no tomorrow.
I sat down on a fallen log and lifted little Sammy Wilson up on my knee.
"Gottle of gear," said Sammy.
"No Sammy," I said. "This time I want you to be serious. I want you to tell me why you can not reach accommodation with Sinn Fein."
Little Sammy looked all around and whispered, "It's our own fault. In the past the DUP demonised Sinn Fein. How can we face our electorate if we turn round now and work with the demons?"
"Easy-Peasy!" I yelled. "What you must do now is de-demonise Sinn Fein."
"But how can we do that?" cried Sammy.
"You must show Sinn Fein in a new light," I said. "I happen to know that Gerry Adams takes a walk by the river Lagan every night. What you must do is watch from a high bridge. When you see Gerry coming, you grab the first wee Protestant woman you see and throw her over the bridge. Gerry will hear the splash and leap into the river and rescue the wee Protestant woman. Headlines next day."SHINNER SAVES DEPRESSED PROD."
And so the plan was hatched.
You probably saw the headlines.
"SHINNER ATTACKS SWIMMING PROD"
I blame the media. I blame the likes of big Jim McDowell and Walter Love.
How many wee Protestant women must we throw into the Lagan before we have peace?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell, 27 Primrose Dell, Belfast.
HEY KID. How many blue tits did YOU save this Winter? And putting your coat round Janet or Emma doesn't count. Is that Mr Coyle I see, coming into the studio with the bible under one arm and Mein Kamp under the other?
Tommy my cat came into the room wearing a lovely, paisley sweater which matched his little, tartan trousers and yelled, "WELL! Where are we at NIGH?"
"Still at the crossroads," I replied.
"Hot biscuits and dynamite!" yelled Tommy. "That means Tubby Nolan will have yet another week to slabber on about peace and justice."
"Tubby thrives on crisis," I said. "If a lasting peace were to break out, Tubby Nolan would be restricted to talking about wheelie bins and dog poo."
Tommy took a pink yo-yo out off his pocket, scrutinised it closely, put it back in his pocket again and said, "How right you are, my dear. Tubby Nolan is old madam guillotine, sitting knitting a blood-splashed gansy, as the severed heads fall into the basket like veritable turnips."
"Tommy," I chided, "are you not being a little harsh on lard for brains?"
"Harsh?" cried Tommy. "I despise Tubby Nolan. I loathe Tubby Nolan. I hate Tubby Nolan and the very ground he lumbers over."
"He's going on another diet," I said.
"Who is?" said Tommy, looking once again at his yo-yo.
"Tubby," I said. "Tubby Nolan is going on yet another diet."
"Balderdash and gerkins!" yelled Tommy. "Why must you addle my brain with chit-chat about Tubby Nolan? I care not for what Tubby Nolan does. Ne'r a fig do I care for the gross shenanigans of the jolly green giant. Let Tubby Nolan eat cake!" screamed Tommy and he stormed out of the room, once AGAIN, inspecting his yo-yo. I wonder if all is well with Tommy's yo-yo. Women talk about these things and see about them in time, but the male of the species, just hide their heads in the sand and hope the trouble will go away. I don't like to do it, but when Tommy is asleep tonight I will creep into his room and have a good look at his yo-yo. Prevention is better than cure.
In the afternoon Tommy and I set up a Red Bull stall outside Hillsborough.
"GET YOUR RED BULL HERE!" I roared.
"DON'T BE DULL, DRINK RED BULL!" yelled Tommy.
Soon we were surrounded by hordes of sleepy eyed MLA's. They stood there yawning and scratching themselves, knocking back the Red Bull like there was no tomorrow.
I sat down on a fallen log and lifted little Sammy Wilson up on my knee.
"Gottle of gear," said Sammy.
"No Sammy," I said. "This time I want you to be serious. I want you to tell me why you can not reach accommodation with Sinn Fein."
Little Sammy looked all around and whispered, "It's our own fault. In the past the DUP demonised Sinn Fein. How can we face our electorate if we turn round now and work with the demons?"
"Easy-Peasy!" I yelled. "What you must do now is de-demonise Sinn Fein."
"But how can we do that?" cried Sammy.
"You must show Sinn Fein in a new light," I said. "I happen to know that Gerry Adams takes a walk by the river Lagan every night. What you must do is watch from a high bridge. When you see Gerry coming, you grab the first wee Protestant woman you see and throw her over the bridge. Gerry will hear the splash and leap into the river and rescue the wee Protestant woman. Headlines next day."SHINNER SAVES DEPRESSED PROD."
And so the plan was hatched.
You probably saw the headlines.
"SHINNER ATTACKS SWIMMING PROD"
I blame the media. I blame the likes of big Jim McDowell and Walter Love.
How many wee Protestant women must we throw into the Lagan before we have peace?
Answers on a postcard to Frank Mitchell, 27 Primrose Dell, Belfast.
HEY KID. How many blue tits did YOU save this Winter? And putting your coat round Janet or Emma doesn't count. Is that Mr Coyle I see, coming into the studio with the bible under one arm and Mein Kamp under the other?
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
The Biggest Circus In Town
Great show yesterday Kid. The show clipped along at a good pace, like a pony and trap. There you sat at the reins, and beside you, Mr Coyle, Ireland's troll, the dead spit of Barry O'Sullivan. Sean--or--Barry would tip his hat to everyone he met and cry, "Good luck to you. Good luck to you now!"
Meanwhile the two lovely colleens were bent over their spinning wheels, spinning a strange,green yarn that is used to make suits for the little people. In fact Hugo Duncan is coming in for a fitting on Friday.
"Leave me plenty of room round the oxters girls. Your uncle Hugo likes plenty of room round the oxters. Ah, he does, he does, he does."
Tommy my cat is huffed with me because I would not let him go and see the big circus up at Hillsborough.
"Will there be wild animals?" asked Tommy.
I stared at the wall,where I'd love to have a window and replied, "Well,it depends on your definition of-wild animals."
"Does the circus have a high wire act?" said Tommy.
"Indeed they do," I said. "Every night Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson,clad in very revealing leotards,edge out on the high wire, hands outstretched,trying to reach each other. But they never do. At the last moment, one of them gets scared and retreats to his own corner."
"Do they have-clowns?" said Tommy.
"They have more clowns than you could shake a stick at," I said. "In fact, there are some who say that the circus is made up entirely of clowns. And at the weekend, two of the biggest clowns in the world flew in to join the circus. Gordeno from London and Biffo from Dublin."
"I bet the circus is packed every night," said Tommy.
"It used to be," I said. "Away back in the midst of time, the people used to tear down security fences and fight with the police to get into the circus."
"And now?" said Tommy.
"Now," I said, "no one gives a tinker's curse. The people stand looking on from afar and say, "HOW LONG CAN THIS CIRCUS GO ON FOR?"
"I don't want to go now," said Tommy. "I think I'll stay in and watch Wan Gok get some old bags to take their clothes off."
"Good idea," I cried. "We can laugh at the naked, wrinkly prunes with a bag of popcorn in one hand and a sick bag in the other hand.
Mamma, don't let your babies grow up to be circus clowns. There but for the grace of God go I. Oh yes, I would have joined the circus, only I didn't have the Latin, the Irish or the Ulster/Scots. Being buck stupid has its advantages. No one will point to me on TV and yell, "Look at that tube, getting well paid for sitting around acting the clown.".
Meanwhile the two lovely colleens were bent over their spinning wheels, spinning a strange,green yarn that is used to make suits for the little people. In fact Hugo Duncan is coming in for a fitting on Friday.
"Leave me plenty of room round the oxters girls. Your uncle Hugo likes plenty of room round the oxters. Ah, he does, he does, he does."
Tommy my cat is huffed with me because I would not let him go and see the big circus up at Hillsborough.
"Will there be wild animals?" asked Tommy.
I stared at the wall,where I'd love to have a window and replied, "Well,it depends on your definition of-wild animals."
"Does the circus have a high wire act?" said Tommy.
"Indeed they do," I said. "Every night Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson,clad in very revealing leotards,edge out on the high wire, hands outstretched,trying to reach each other. But they never do. At the last moment, one of them gets scared and retreats to his own corner."
"Do they have-clowns?" said Tommy.
"They have more clowns than you could shake a stick at," I said. "In fact, there are some who say that the circus is made up entirely of clowns. And at the weekend, two of the biggest clowns in the world flew in to join the circus. Gordeno from London and Biffo from Dublin."
"I bet the circus is packed every night," said Tommy.
"It used to be," I said. "Away back in the midst of time, the people used to tear down security fences and fight with the police to get into the circus."
"And now?" said Tommy.
"Now," I said, "no one gives a tinker's curse. The people stand looking on from afar and say, "HOW LONG CAN THIS CIRCUS GO ON FOR?"
"I don't want to go now," said Tommy. "I think I'll stay in and watch Wan Gok get some old bags to take their clothes off."
"Good idea," I cried. "We can laugh at the naked, wrinkly prunes with a bag of popcorn in one hand and a sick bag in the other hand.
Mamma, don't let your babies grow up to be circus clowns. There but for the grace of God go I. Oh yes, I would have joined the circus, only I didn't have the Latin, the Irish or the Ulster/Scots. Being buck stupid has its advantages. No one will point to me on TV and yell, "Look at that tube, getting well paid for sitting around acting the clown.".
Friday, 5 February 2010
Stalemate,and procrastination produces product.
Great show yesterday Kid and everyone,even the dogs in the street know that the Tuesday show is a strange little show. The Tuesday show can be unpredictable. The Tuesday show can be hard to control. It takes a light hand on the tiller and good all round vision to put on a great Tuesday show.
After the great Tuesday show,Tommy my cat yelled,"BISTO" and turned the radio off by running at it with his head. He got up from the floor where he had fallen,adjusted his grey flannel trousers and his navy blue button-down-the-front cardigan and said,
"In the political stalemate in which we find ourselves,a certain degree of sequesteredness is called for,but I feel compelled," cried Tommy,"I feel deeply compelled to point out,that the great show Gerry put on today will be remembered long after all the yahoos and hullabaloos at Stormont are but a distant memory in the minds of old men, who sit close to the fire on a Summer day, leering, drooling and singing the songs of yesterday,by such diverse artists as Tom Petty, Lily Allen and Lady Ga Ga."
I sat looking at Tommy with my mouth hanging open.Then I picked up a large Chambers dictionary and happed it off his head. I hate, loath, detest and despise a pretentious pussy.
As the day wore on and still no white smoke wafted from the exhaust pipe in Stormont, I leaped to my feet yelling, "Thunder bolt and lightning, very very frightening!"
I quickly super-glued a piece of cable to my hair brush and hurried off to Stormont. I was faced with a veritable George Melee of political correspondents.
"Get back yeh boy yeh!" I yelled, as I elbowed my way between the pride of UTV, Ken Reid and the Queen of the BBC, Martina Purdy.
Then the mates who were involved in the stalemate appeared on the steps of Stormont.
Ken Reid nearly deafened me when he guldered, "Is there still procrastination on the probable, probability of producing-product?"
And I knew, I just knew that Lynda Byrons had put Ken Reid up to ask that question and now Lynda was sitting laughing back at the studio, feet up on the desk and scoffing a wagon wheel.
"Hey you guys!" cried Martina Purdy."Will any guys with sashes be marching down the Garvaghy Road this year?"
I had enough. I put my hair brush to my mouth and yelled, "What about the working man? And how do we know he's not doing the double?"
"I saw big Brian Cowan whisper, "Head-banger" to Gordon Brown.
"Bring back the three day week!" I yelled.
"With regard to product!" guldered Ken Reid.
"With regard to my aunt Fanny," I roared,"Why does a pan loaf cost an arm and a leg?"
Sammy Wilson pointed at me and said, "I agree with that wee woman. I had a mother in my surgery last week, A CATHOLIC mother I might add, And she said the cost of wee baps is going through the roof."
So there you have it. The price of wee baps is coming down by a penny,but the battle for policing and justice still goes on.
This is woman with cat reporting for K.A.T. outside Stormount.
Back to you in the studio Gerry!"
Oh, would any of the girls have-product in their handbags?
I used to have-product, but I put it away somewhere safe and now I can't find it!
Do you have a nasty log jam in YOUR front garden? Time to use-Product.
NEW Improved Product contains 10% more product that other product makers. So remember! Ask for-Product and get things moving again!
(Another voice-over for James Nesbit)
After the great Tuesday show,Tommy my cat yelled,"BISTO" and turned the radio off by running at it with his head. He got up from the floor where he had fallen,adjusted his grey flannel trousers and his navy blue button-down-the-front cardigan and said,
"In the political stalemate in which we find ourselves,a certain degree of sequesteredness is called for,but I feel compelled," cried Tommy,"I feel deeply compelled to point out,that the great show Gerry put on today will be remembered long after all the yahoos and hullabaloos at Stormont are but a distant memory in the minds of old men, who sit close to the fire on a Summer day, leering, drooling and singing the songs of yesterday,by such diverse artists as Tom Petty, Lily Allen and Lady Ga Ga."
I sat looking at Tommy with my mouth hanging open.Then I picked up a large Chambers dictionary and happed it off his head. I hate, loath, detest and despise a pretentious pussy.
As the day wore on and still no white smoke wafted from the exhaust pipe in Stormont, I leaped to my feet yelling, "Thunder bolt and lightning, very very frightening!"
I quickly super-glued a piece of cable to my hair brush and hurried off to Stormont. I was faced with a veritable George Melee of political correspondents.
"Get back yeh boy yeh!" I yelled, as I elbowed my way between the pride of UTV, Ken Reid and the Queen of the BBC, Martina Purdy.
Then the mates who were involved in the stalemate appeared on the steps of Stormont.
Ken Reid nearly deafened me when he guldered, "Is there still procrastination on the probable, probability of producing-product?"
And I knew, I just knew that Lynda Byrons had put Ken Reid up to ask that question and now Lynda was sitting laughing back at the studio, feet up on the desk and scoffing a wagon wheel.
"Hey you guys!" cried Martina Purdy."Will any guys with sashes be marching down the Garvaghy Road this year?"
I had enough. I put my hair brush to my mouth and yelled, "What about the working man? And how do we know he's not doing the double?"
"I saw big Brian Cowan whisper, "Head-banger" to Gordon Brown.
"Bring back the three day week!" I yelled.
"With regard to product!" guldered Ken Reid.
"With regard to my aunt Fanny," I roared,"Why does a pan loaf cost an arm and a leg?"
Sammy Wilson pointed at me and said, "I agree with that wee woman. I had a mother in my surgery last week, A CATHOLIC mother I might add, And she said the cost of wee baps is going through the roof."
So there you have it. The price of wee baps is coming down by a penny,but the battle for policing and justice still goes on.
This is woman with cat reporting for K.A.T. outside Stormount.
Back to you in the studio Gerry!"
Oh, would any of the girls have-product in their handbags?
I used to have-product, but I put it away somewhere safe and now I can't find it!
Do you have a nasty log jam in YOUR front garden? Time to use-Product.
NEW Improved Product contains 10% more product that other product makers. So remember! Ask for-Product and get things moving again!
(Another voice-over for James Nesbit)
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Where Will We Get Sanctuary?
Great show to start the week Kid, but in the midst of all the fun and frivolous frivolity, you slipped in a piece of bad news that has Tommy my cat and I rendering our garments and gnashing each other's teeth. After the great show, Tommy turned off the radio by cutting off its supply of electricity. He was shaking all over and his little face was ashen.
"Tommy," I said, "your little face is-ashen."
"Did you not hear what Gerry said?" screamed Tommy. "Is it any wonder that my little face is-ashen?"
"Two weeks," I whispered.
Tommy gave a frantic,feline yell and shrieked, "Two long,never-ending weeks will Gerry be away, leaving us in the hands of the cruel,tyrannical and unjust-Thaddeus."
The very name send a shiver down my back and a rivulet down my leg. By now Tommy had completely lost the head. The agitated feline was running in circles screaming,
"SANCTUARY! In the name of all that's holy, grant me SANCTUARY from Mr Coyle and his high octane, hard core diddly-dee."
I could see Tommy was in shock, so I sprang forward and slapped him hard on the cheek. I had to do it!
Tommy lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter. Now,Tommy DIDN'T have to do that!
"Woe is me!" screamed Tommy. "I face a cataclysmic catastrophe and me only a lump of a cat."
"Nil Desperate-Dando!" I yelled and I ran to the phone and called old Jordie.
Old Jordie, he say-NO!
"NO!, I can not put you and Tommy up for two weeks," said the rugged son of the soil.
"The last time youse was here, youse scared all the wee animals and drank all my cooking sherry."
I looked at Tommy,shook what I laughingly call my head and said, "No room at the inn of the sixth happiness."
"We gotta get out of this place!" shrieked Tommy. "I know,we will hide in the wheel well of a Ryan air jet that's going to Lithuania. We can work as plumbers for two weeks and return home when Gerry gets back."
I glared at Tommy and said, "Have you any idea how much Michael O'Leary charges for hunkering in the wheel well of a Ryanar jet?"
Tommy sank to the floor and sobbed, "Then we're doomed, doomed. When daffodils bloom, birds sing and dung spreaders jam up roads and country lanes, you and I shall weep in the gloom as Mr Coyle plays-YET AGAIN!--"Come Down The Mountain Katie Daly."
I tried to call the Samaritans, but the phone lines were jammed.
What fear one little ricket-legged man can generate!..
And now for something completely repulsive.
"Make sure you wash my fragile pink oxters!" yelled Tubby Nolan.
"Tubby was sitting in a horse trough at the back of Nolan Manors getting ready for a Burn's night supper.
I held out a giant towel and cried, "Arise great Chieftain of the pudding race!" A crane lowered Tubby into his kilt and the fat boy was ready to get stuck into the tatties and neaps.
I watched as he threw his leg over his bicycle, (OH! Matron!) and cycled off, with a dirk stuck down his sock and a bar of Mars stuck behind his ear. As Tubby took a sharp right bend, his kilt got caught in the chain wheel and the oval one went derriere over bustier.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! screamed Jim Rodgers, running out of a shop that sold herrings and Old Spice aftershave.
"JIM!" I roared. "JIM! JIM! JIM!--JIM!, Is Tubby all right?"
"His kilt, sporran, caber and wee breeks are fine!" screamed Jim,"but his tam-o-chanter is bent at a 45 degree angle and may require surgery."
"What about his BAWBEES?" I yelled
"Both bawbees intact!" screamed Jim,"a ten pence piece and an old Victorian penny."
"Good golly Miss Molly," I said to Molly Strangeways. "Tubby really has Scottish blood in his veins."
Molly Strangeways put down the primrose yellow anvil she was carrying,glared at me with her wooden eye and said, "See you Hi, you're a head case, so you are!"
I concurred and went home for custard and cream.
"Tommy," I said, "your little face is-ashen."
"Did you not hear what Gerry said?" screamed Tommy. "Is it any wonder that my little face is-ashen?"
"Two weeks," I whispered.
Tommy gave a frantic,feline yell and shrieked, "Two long,never-ending weeks will Gerry be away, leaving us in the hands of the cruel,tyrannical and unjust-Thaddeus."
The very name send a shiver down my back and a rivulet down my leg. By now Tommy had completely lost the head. The agitated feline was running in circles screaming,
"SANCTUARY! In the name of all that's holy, grant me SANCTUARY from Mr Coyle and his high octane, hard core diddly-dee."
I could see Tommy was in shock, so I sprang forward and slapped him hard on the cheek. I had to do it!
Tommy lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter. Now,Tommy DIDN'T have to do that!
"Woe is me!" screamed Tommy. "I face a cataclysmic catastrophe and me only a lump of a cat."
"Nil Desperate-Dando!" I yelled and I ran to the phone and called old Jordie.
Old Jordie, he say-NO!
"NO!, I can not put you and Tommy up for two weeks," said the rugged son of the soil.
"The last time youse was here, youse scared all the wee animals and drank all my cooking sherry."
I looked at Tommy,shook what I laughingly call my head and said, "No room at the inn of the sixth happiness."
"We gotta get out of this place!" shrieked Tommy. "I know,we will hide in the wheel well of a Ryan air jet that's going to Lithuania. We can work as plumbers for two weeks and return home when Gerry gets back."
I glared at Tommy and said, "Have you any idea how much Michael O'Leary charges for hunkering in the wheel well of a Ryanar jet?"
Tommy sank to the floor and sobbed, "Then we're doomed, doomed. When daffodils bloom, birds sing and dung spreaders jam up roads and country lanes, you and I shall weep in the gloom as Mr Coyle plays-YET AGAIN!--"Come Down The Mountain Katie Daly."
I tried to call the Samaritans, but the phone lines were jammed.
What fear one little ricket-legged man can generate!..
And now for something completely repulsive.
"Make sure you wash my fragile pink oxters!" yelled Tubby Nolan.
"Tubby was sitting in a horse trough at the back of Nolan Manors getting ready for a Burn's night supper.
I held out a giant towel and cried, "Arise great Chieftain of the pudding race!" A crane lowered Tubby into his kilt and the fat boy was ready to get stuck into the tatties and neaps.
I watched as he threw his leg over his bicycle, (OH! Matron!) and cycled off, with a dirk stuck down his sock and a bar of Mars stuck behind his ear. As Tubby took a sharp right bend, his kilt got caught in the chain wheel and the oval one went derriere over bustier.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! screamed Jim Rodgers, running out of a shop that sold herrings and Old Spice aftershave.
"JIM!" I roared. "JIM! JIM! JIM!--JIM!, Is Tubby all right?"
"His kilt, sporran, caber and wee breeks are fine!" screamed Jim,"but his tam-o-chanter is bent at a 45 degree angle and may require surgery."
"What about his BAWBEES?" I yelled
"Both bawbees intact!" screamed Jim,"a ten pence piece and an old Victorian penny."
"Good golly Miss Molly," I said to Molly Strangeways. "Tubby really has Scottish blood in his veins."
Molly Strangeways put down the primrose yellow anvil she was carrying,glared at me with her wooden eye and said, "See you Hi, you're a head case, so you are!"
I concurred and went home for custard and cream.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Famous Generals
What great shows you put on last week Kid,shows that sent the stock exchange soaring and crime figures tumbling. Did you know that muggings of one legged, red haired Swedish dwarfs fell by a staggering 99%?
The word in the hood is, that Steven Baldwin was flown from the Big Brother house to Derry, where he spent the weekend with Mr Coyle,praying,fasting and comparing hair shirts. On Saturday night both men were seen praying in the vicinity of the river Foyle. A futile attempt to walk on water ended, with both men squelching homewards with heavy sodden forks. When questioned by the PSNI, Mr Coyle is reported to have resorted to biblical sayings when he told the police to go forth and multiply!
I was busy tramping turnips to make a nice turnip wine, when Tommy my cat rushed in, threw his flat cap like a Frisbee on a hook and yelled,
"Baton down the hatches! Sinn Fein are gathered at an Ard Chomairle and may go for the nuclear option."
"Great balls of Firestone tyres!" I yelled. "Radiant, radical radiation will be the order of the day. We must take radical action."
Seven and a half minutes later, Tommy and I slipped out the back door disguised as Burke and Hare and bought two shovels. In the time it takes to ponder on the word, "Product" we had built an underground bunker. By the light of the silvery moon we dug a 60 foot hole. Then we veered right for five feet and began to dig upwards. Soon Tommy and I were as snug as a bug in a rug, in a chamber just two feet underground and just five feet away from the first hole. I would like to see the radiation that could follow that convoluted confusing trail. Tommy and I are no dopes. We had brought enough food and water to last us four hours. The only problem was, we had to climb the tunnel every twenty minutes to use the toilet! Tommy has a very weak bladder. He has never been the same since, Give My Head Peace was cancelled. I hope big Tim McGarry is proud of himself for taking the piss out of a poor innocent lump of a cat. Yeh, you're a big man McGarry, when you've got your gang with you. I challenge you to meet me outside the sex shop on Ann Street and buy me the whip and handcuffs in the window.
Two nights ago--or was it in 1964? I found myself with hands on my time, so I decided to phone Brain Box. The clue was, Famous Generals and the presenter was the petite Danielle Fearon. To my surprise I got through.
"Hello," said the lovely Danielle. "Who do we have on the line?"
"Me," I replied.
"And who is-me dear?" said Danielle.
"Me! myself," I said.
Danielle made a funny face and said,"And where are you phoning from dear?"
"From the toilet," I said. "I drank a big bottle of cream soda and took short. I was hefted Danielle,fair hefted."
Danielle made another funny face and threw up her hands. "The clue is, famous Generals" she said."What is your answer dear?"
I flushed the chain and yelled,"General Motors!"
"General Motors?" said Danielle.
"Let's see if it's on the board. NO! I'm sorry dear, General Motors is not on the board."
"General handyman!" I yelled.
"No,sorry dear," said Danielle.
"General nuisance!" I yelled. "General hospital. General meeting.General agreement. General dogsbody. General....."
"Listen dear," said Danielle, "you've had a good go. Now sling your hook dear, all right?"
"General Hook!" I roared.
But Danielle had hung up. Then some tube phoned in and said General Patton and won my spondulects.
Brain Box? More like Money Box if you ask me.
Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? General store. General mayhem!.
The word in the hood is, that Steven Baldwin was flown from the Big Brother house to Derry, where he spent the weekend with Mr Coyle,praying,fasting and comparing hair shirts. On Saturday night both men were seen praying in the vicinity of the river Foyle. A futile attempt to walk on water ended, with both men squelching homewards with heavy sodden forks. When questioned by the PSNI, Mr Coyle is reported to have resorted to biblical sayings when he told the police to go forth and multiply!
I was busy tramping turnips to make a nice turnip wine, when Tommy my cat rushed in, threw his flat cap like a Frisbee on a hook and yelled,
"Baton down the hatches! Sinn Fein are gathered at an Ard Chomairle and may go for the nuclear option."
"Great balls of Firestone tyres!" I yelled. "Radiant, radical radiation will be the order of the day. We must take radical action."
Seven and a half minutes later, Tommy and I slipped out the back door disguised as Burke and Hare and bought two shovels. In the time it takes to ponder on the word, "Product" we had built an underground bunker. By the light of the silvery moon we dug a 60 foot hole. Then we veered right for five feet and began to dig upwards. Soon Tommy and I were as snug as a bug in a rug, in a chamber just two feet underground and just five feet away from the first hole. I would like to see the radiation that could follow that convoluted confusing trail. Tommy and I are no dopes. We had brought enough food and water to last us four hours. The only problem was, we had to climb the tunnel every twenty minutes to use the toilet! Tommy has a very weak bladder. He has never been the same since, Give My Head Peace was cancelled. I hope big Tim McGarry is proud of himself for taking the piss out of a poor innocent lump of a cat. Yeh, you're a big man McGarry, when you've got your gang with you. I challenge you to meet me outside the sex shop on Ann Street and buy me the whip and handcuffs in the window.
Two nights ago--or was it in 1964? I found myself with hands on my time, so I decided to phone Brain Box. The clue was, Famous Generals and the presenter was the petite Danielle Fearon. To my surprise I got through.
"Hello," said the lovely Danielle. "Who do we have on the line?"
"Me," I replied.
"And who is-me dear?" said Danielle.
"Me! myself," I said.
Danielle made a funny face and said,"And where are you phoning from dear?"
"From the toilet," I said. "I drank a big bottle of cream soda and took short. I was hefted Danielle,fair hefted."
Danielle made another funny face and threw up her hands. "The clue is, famous Generals" she said."What is your answer dear?"
I flushed the chain and yelled,"General Motors!"
"General Motors?" said Danielle.
"Let's see if it's on the board. NO! I'm sorry dear, General Motors is not on the board."
"General handyman!" I yelled.
"No,sorry dear," said Danielle.
"General nuisance!" I yelled. "General hospital. General meeting.General agreement. General dogsbody. General....."
"Listen dear," said Danielle, "you've had a good go. Now sling your hook dear, all right?"
"General Hook!" I roared.
But Danielle had hung up. Then some tube phoned in and said General Patton and won my spondulects.
Brain Box? More like Money Box if you ask me.
Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? General store. General mayhem!.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Thick as Two Short Planks
Great show yesterday Kid,ashow by the way that is quickly becoming known as, LAW AND ORDER by the residents of the Malone Road. I recently met a blue rinsed, Malone Road Lady. Before I could speak she yelled, "YES! I do have net curtains AND knickers!"
I saw the net curtains but not her knickers,so we only have her word for it.
I suppose Mr Coyle is attending the Pol Pot school for dictators today. Recently Mr Coyle's wife came in with two pound of onions and said, "Sean,Sean dear,Thaddeus, can you hear me? What will I do with these onions?"
Mr Coyle threw the Beano from him,leaped to his feet and screamed, "Tie them up and hang them from the ceiling!"
I was washing my feet in the soup for today's dinner when Tommy my cat ran in.
"Read all about it!" yelled Tommy."Stalemate at Stormount. Read all about it. Stalemate at Stormount!"
"Stale meat at Stormount," I giggled. "That could lead to an outbreak of salmonella. The drains could be blocked for a month.and I went into a fit of giggling, that had to be seen to be appreciated.
Tommy ran out to the back yard,came back with two short planks and yelled, "Say hello to mummy!".
"How Dan Dare you!" I screamed."I will have you know that between the wars,I was crowned Miss Congeniality." and I ran to fetch my manure brown sash.
Tommy took one look and cried, "This sash does not say, Miss Congeniality, it spells out, Miss Congealed."
"What does-congealed mean?" I shrieked.
"It means thick," said Tommy. "You were crowned Miss Thick."
I thought about it for a while and said,"It could have been worse. I could have been crowned Miss Stupid, but never mind all that Tommy. How are the talks going up at Stormont?"
"There has been a partial break through," said Tommy, "with regard to the police and justice bill. The people have been granted policing but no justice."
"Hooray!" I yelled. "Half a loaf is better that no bread. The glass is half full. What comes down must have gone up and never look at a gift horse with your mouth."
"Thank you Miss Thick," said Tommy. And then for no reason,no reason at tall, Tommy bent the coal shovel over my alluring head.
Now, why would Tommy do that???
I saw the net curtains but not her knickers,so we only have her word for it.
I suppose Mr Coyle is attending the Pol Pot school for dictators today. Recently Mr Coyle's wife came in with two pound of onions and said, "Sean,Sean dear,Thaddeus, can you hear me? What will I do with these onions?"
Mr Coyle threw the Beano from him,leaped to his feet and screamed, "Tie them up and hang them from the ceiling!"
I was washing my feet in the soup for today's dinner when Tommy my cat ran in.
"Read all about it!" yelled Tommy."Stalemate at Stormount. Read all about it. Stalemate at Stormount!"
"Stale meat at Stormount," I giggled. "That could lead to an outbreak of salmonella. The drains could be blocked for a month.and I went into a fit of giggling, that had to be seen to be appreciated.
Tommy ran out to the back yard,came back with two short planks and yelled, "Say hello to mummy!".
"How Dan Dare you!" I screamed."I will have you know that between the wars,I was crowned Miss Congeniality." and I ran to fetch my manure brown sash.
Tommy took one look and cried, "This sash does not say, Miss Congeniality, it spells out, Miss Congealed."
"What does-congealed mean?" I shrieked.
"It means thick," said Tommy. "You were crowned Miss Thick."
I thought about it for a while and said,"It could have been worse. I could have been crowned Miss Stupid, but never mind all that Tommy. How are the talks going up at Stormont?"
"There has been a partial break through," said Tommy, "with regard to the police and justice bill. The people have been granted policing but no justice."
"Hooray!" I yelled. "Half a loaf is better that no bread. The glass is half full. What comes down must have gone up and never look at a gift horse with your mouth."
"Thank you Miss Thick," said Tommy. And then for no reason,no reason at tall, Tommy bent the coal shovel over my alluring head.
Now, why would Tommy do that???
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