Great shows last week Kid. After the Friday great show,Tommy my cat came out of our first-class sitting room. He had been listening to the great show while smoking Cuban cigars and drinking brandy. Even the dogs in the street knew that Tommy was pretending to be Sir Nicholas Winterton.
"I say old thing," said Tommy,"what a jolly good show that was. It was top hole old bean."
He sauntered over to the radio and turned it off by scoffing at its working class accent. The radio burst into tears and ran out the door crying,
"Cor blimey Gov, you upper class toffs is all the same. I know's my place and I ain't stopping where I ain't wanted. I'm going 'ome to 'ackney."
I brought Tommy down to earth with an uppercut and said,
"Did you put your little, frilly, pink knickers into the washing machine with my baggy grey bloomers?"
"YES! I did!" yelled Tommy. "And I will do it again because I am a maverick, a rebel, a loose cannon,a loner. I walk on the wild side. I am trouble. I will NOT conform to the norms of society. YES! I will put pink knickers in with grey drawers. I will WALK on the grass and I will cross when the green man is not flashing."
"Have you been consorting with David Ford and the Alliance party again?" I yelled.
"What if I have?" cried Tommy. "Sure, David Ford is a rough diamond. He eats peas with his knife and drops his H's. David Ford is a free spirit, a hippy. Does David Ford wear flowers in his hair? YES! but that doesn't make him a bad person."
I grabbed Tommy and myself by the scruff of the neck and sat both of us down on two swivel chairs rescued from Henry the 8th's prized coracle, the Mary Rose.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "What have you been up too? I command you to spit it out!"
Tommy spat a big blob of phlegm right up my kisser.
"Not that!" I yelled. "I command you to tell me what goes on at these hedonistic, Alliance party meetings."
Tommy tittered and said,
"Well, after tea and buttered scones, we all strip off and get into the jacuzzi."
"Men and women?" I screamed.
Tommy leered most horribly and said,
"I have every reason to believe so. Then!" said Tommy. "David Ford gets to his feet and leads us all, as we sing in unison, that old folk favourite,"Kumbaya"."
"This is worse than I thought," I said to Henry the hoover. "Why, this David Ford person, is another Timothy Leary. The old folkie wants everyone to drop out, get high and let it all hang out in the jacuzzi. TOMMY!" I yelled. "Does there ever come a time at these Alliance meetings, when the men and women drop their car keys into a fruit bowl?"
Tommy smirked and replied,
"YOU, may very well say that, but I couldn't possibly comment."
"Oh Tommy," I screamed, "little, innocent, thick, Tommy. Please tell me you did not put the key to the lock of your bicycle into the fruit bowl?"
Tommy leered at me and went out the door singing,
"Lets get it on. WOW! Lets get it on."
If I had a piece of my mind to give, I woud give it to old Pete Seeger-David Ford.
A corruptor of cats, that's what David Ford is and a potentate of the common or garden household pussy!
I see Tubby Nolan and Sir Nicholas Winterton are wrestling at the King's hall on Saturday night. That should be quite a draw. Tubby should have the support of the home crowd.
Ah-One, Ah-Two, Ah-THREE!
Only for the pies, Tubby could have been a contender.
Tommy my cat has really gone to pot. I wonder if he was bullied by Gordon Brown?
A lot of people were!
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
To sleep perchance to dream.
Great show yesterday Kid. When doctor Zhivago, or Mr Coyle as he is known to the staff of early morning Casualty, went into his never-ending Russian dream story,
the temperature in my home dropped. It began to snow and icicles hung from the window. Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"Comrade, we have no bread."
I looked out the window. All was rubble and devastation. (Had the cease fire broken down?) NO, it was Stalingrad. Jim Rodgers went by on a Russian motorcycle and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! Comrade, NIGH! is the Winter of our discontent. The people have no bread and are eating the dead horses. Tubby Nolan was seen running home with a hobby horse on his back."
"Comrade Rodgers," I yelled, "we will fight to the last man for mother Russia."
"Are you off your bap?" screamed Jim. "What we need here in Russia, is one man one vote."
"Good luck with that," I muttered, as I turned away from the window.
When Mr Coyle finished the great Russian dream saga Tommy landed at my side with a hop, skip and jump and said,
"That dream of Mr Coyle, Eh? Know what I mean? Say no more. Say no more. That dream of Mr Coyle. Did you notice anything odd about it? Eh? Say no more. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Nudge, nudge. Wink-wink."
I fired a World War Two shell through the ceiling, just to see if the mortar was working, (You get some dodgy stuff on ebay) and said,
"What are you getting at Tommy cat? Come on. Spit it out. Don't stand there like Fagin nodding and leering."
"In Mr Coyle's dream," said Tommy, "and remember Mr Coyle was asleep when he had the dream, there came a point in the story when Mr Coyle went to sleep standing behind Gerry."
"I see nothing strange in that," I said. "You must remember that Mr Coyle was very tired, waiting for Gerry to get his book, so Mr Coyle went to sleep! What's so odd about that!"
"Don't you SEE?" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle was already asleep. How could he go to sleep AGAIN in a dream?"
"By the sacred, green, boxer shorts of Mark Durkin," I yelled, "that stands reality on its head. Mr Coyle has taken us into the Twilight Zone."
"Come 'ere," said Tommy. "There's more." We have established that Mr Coyle went to sleep in a dream, which means that Mr Coyle went to sleep twice, once in reality and once in the dream. What we are talking of here, is sleep within-sleep."
"Don't Tommy!" I yelled. "STOP, you're scaring me. I have lost all sense of reality. Could we be in a dream now?"
"Who knows," said Tommy. "And who ain't talking. But come 'ere, there's still more. Mr Coyle is in his bed in Derry. Mr Coyle goes to sleep and dreams he is in Russia. In the dream Mr Coyle goes to sleep, but my question is, did Mr Coyle dream in the second sleep, the Russian dream sleep. Because if he did, not only would we have sleep within sleep but also a dream within a dream."
"ITS THE RUSSIAN DOLLS!" I screamed. "Every time you open a Russian doll you find a smaller doll and so on and so on,ad infinitum!"
Then a strange, weird thing happened. The radio came on by itself and Roy Orbison began to sing,
"In dreams I walk with you. In dreams I talk with you. But it's only in-dreams."
If you were passed on the fast lane on the M1 yesterday by a running woman and cat. It was Tommy and I. Many people flashed the lights at-ME! Why can Mr Coyle not go to sleep and just lie there, like the rest of us do??
Answers on a postcard to Lynda Byrons, UTV L-I-V-E.
the temperature in my home dropped. It began to snow and icicles hung from the window. Tommy my cat looked at me and said,
"Comrade, we have no bread."
I looked out the window. All was rubble and devastation. (Had the cease fire broken down?) NO, it was Stalingrad. Jim Rodgers went by on a Russian motorcycle and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! Comrade, NIGH! is the Winter of our discontent. The people have no bread and are eating the dead horses. Tubby Nolan was seen running home with a hobby horse on his back."
"Comrade Rodgers," I yelled, "we will fight to the last man for mother Russia."
"Are you off your bap?" screamed Jim. "What we need here in Russia, is one man one vote."
"Good luck with that," I muttered, as I turned away from the window.
When Mr Coyle finished the great Russian dream saga Tommy landed at my side with a hop, skip and jump and said,
"That dream of Mr Coyle, Eh? Know what I mean? Say no more. Say no more. That dream of Mr Coyle. Did you notice anything odd about it? Eh? Say no more. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Nudge, nudge. Wink-wink."
I fired a World War Two shell through the ceiling, just to see if the mortar was working, (You get some dodgy stuff on ebay) and said,
"What are you getting at Tommy cat? Come on. Spit it out. Don't stand there like Fagin nodding and leering."
"In Mr Coyle's dream," said Tommy, "and remember Mr Coyle was asleep when he had the dream, there came a point in the story when Mr Coyle went to sleep standing behind Gerry."
"I see nothing strange in that," I said. "You must remember that Mr Coyle was very tired, waiting for Gerry to get his book, so Mr Coyle went to sleep! What's so odd about that!"
"Don't you SEE?" yelled Tommy. "Mr Coyle was already asleep. How could he go to sleep AGAIN in a dream?"
"By the sacred, green, boxer shorts of Mark Durkin," I yelled, "that stands reality on its head. Mr Coyle has taken us into the Twilight Zone."
"Come 'ere," said Tommy. "There's more." We have established that Mr Coyle went to sleep in a dream, which means that Mr Coyle went to sleep twice, once in reality and once in the dream. What we are talking of here, is sleep within-sleep."
"Don't Tommy!" I yelled. "STOP, you're scaring me. I have lost all sense of reality. Could we be in a dream now?"
"Who knows," said Tommy. "And who ain't talking. But come 'ere, there's still more. Mr Coyle is in his bed in Derry. Mr Coyle goes to sleep and dreams he is in Russia. In the dream Mr Coyle goes to sleep, but my question is, did Mr Coyle dream in the second sleep, the Russian dream sleep. Because if he did, not only would we have sleep within sleep but also a dream within a dream."
"ITS THE RUSSIAN DOLLS!" I screamed. "Every time you open a Russian doll you find a smaller doll and so on and so on,ad infinitum!"
Then a strange, weird thing happened. The radio came on by itself and Roy Orbison began to sing,
"In dreams I walk with you. In dreams I talk with you. But it's only in-dreams."
If you were passed on the fast lane on the M1 yesterday by a running woman and cat. It was Tommy and I. Many people flashed the lights at-ME! Why can Mr Coyle not go to sleep and just lie there, like the rest of us do??
Answers on a postcard to Lynda Byrons, UTV L-I-V-E.
Monday, 8 March 2010
A Literary Critique
Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat turned off the radio by framing it for the Great Northern bank robbery and said,
"Eeh, a great show like that fair sets me up for the day.I feel like doing a clog dance or sticking a ferret down the front of my trousers."
"Don't stick Clarence the ferret down the front of your trousers again!" I yelled.
"You know poor Clarence suffers from claustrophobia."
"What's the point of keeping a ferret" Tommy roared, "if you can't stuff it down the front of your trousers?"
"Clarence is NOT a pet!" I yelled. "Clarence is a member of the family. People used to say that my late daddy was a right little weasel."
"I was unaware of that fact," said Tommy. "I now feel it incumbent on me to apologise to Clarence, to your late daddy, your good self and to any vermin who may be listening to the Gerry show."
In the silence that followed, the price of gold soared and the price of pig iron slumped on the Dow Jones. Tommy picked up a double barrelled shotgun and fired both barrels at a tiny fly on the wall, which turned out later to be a speck of soot.
Tommy strolled over to the window, broke a pane of glass with his elbow, took a big sniff of clean fresh air and said,
"I love this time of year. The sap is rising in the trees. You can hear the grass grow and the Spring flowers are immune to any glass ceilings that Nature may impose on them. Soon," said Tommy, "I shall be able to stretch out on top of the dust bin in the back yard. I shall soak up the sun's rays, put my leg high in the air and lick.....2
"STOP!" I yelled. "In the name of all that's holy, STALL THE WEDDING!"
"Please allow me to finish!" thundered Tommy. "I shall put my leg high in the air and lick my PAW, prior to turning the page of the book I was reading."
"And what book would you be reading Tommy?" I said. "Great Expectations by Tubby Nolan or No country for old men by Jackie Fullerton?"
"Neither," said Tommy, "This Summer I shall be reading, or rereading, for I have read it many times before, Ulysses by James Joyce. Even though I say it myself," said Tommy "I am the leading light on the works of Joyce at the Malone Road book club.".
"Is James Joyce a quare good writer Tommy?" I asked.
"Is he Tommy? Is he? Does Joycle tell a good story and rattle along at a good pace sort of thing? Does he Tommy? Does he?"
Tommy inspected his nails and replied,
"James Joyce is not for everyone. Joyce can be hard going. You need to have a good brain, like what I have to appreciate Joyce. I would not recommend Joyce to the first time reader or the buck stupid like yourself."
I sucked a thumb which someone had stuck through the broken window and said,
"A critique Tommy. Come on, give us a critique on James Joyce. Come on Tommy. No one can critique like you Tommy. Come on Tommy. Give us an auld critique on James Joyce."
Tommy smiled and replied,
"Well, as dear Oscar Wilde would have said, if he were here, and just between ourselves you understand, I sometimes find that Joyce is interested more in comma rather than content."
And Tommy went into a fit of giggling, while muttering,
"Oh dear, what a wit I am to be sure."
But I had what I wanted. I raced outside and wrote with chalk on every gamble wall I could find.
"Tommy cat says James Joyce is CRAP!"
Let's see how Tommy gets on at the Malone Road book club NIGH, when he struts in wearing a three quarter length, sheepskin coat and his Gucci gutties!.
Poor Tommy will be raced out of the Malone road, by a baying pack of
Shitzus.
"Eeh, a great show like that fair sets me up for the day.I feel like doing a clog dance or sticking a ferret down the front of my trousers."
"Don't stick Clarence the ferret down the front of your trousers again!" I yelled.
"You know poor Clarence suffers from claustrophobia."
"What's the point of keeping a ferret" Tommy roared, "if you can't stuff it down the front of your trousers?"
"Clarence is NOT a pet!" I yelled. "Clarence is a member of the family. People used to say that my late daddy was a right little weasel."
"I was unaware of that fact," said Tommy. "I now feel it incumbent on me to apologise to Clarence, to your late daddy, your good self and to any vermin who may be listening to the Gerry show."
In the silence that followed, the price of gold soared and the price of pig iron slumped on the Dow Jones. Tommy picked up a double barrelled shotgun and fired both barrels at a tiny fly on the wall, which turned out later to be a speck of soot.
Tommy strolled over to the window, broke a pane of glass with his elbow, took a big sniff of clean fresh air and said,
"I love this time of year. The sap is rising in the trees. You can hear the grass grow and the Spring flowers are immune to any glass ceilings that Nature may impose on them. Soon," said Tommy, "I shall be able to stretch out on top of the dust bin in the back yard. I shall soak up the sun's rays, put my leg high in the air and lick.....2
"STOP!" I yelled. "In the name of all that's holy, STALL THE WEDDING!"
"Please allow me to finish!" thundered Tommy. "I shall put my leg high in the air and lick my PAW, prior to turning the page of the book I was reading."
"And what book would you be reading Tommy?" I said. "Great Expectations by Tubby Nolan or No country for old men by Jackie Fullerton?"
"Neither," said Tommy, "This Summer I shall be reading, or rereading, for I have read it many times before, Ulysses by James Joyce. Even though I say it myself," said Tommy "I am the leading light on the works of Joyce at the Malone Road book club.".
"Is James Joyce a quare good writer Tommy?" I asked.
"Is he Tommy? Is he? Does Joycle tell a good story and rattle along at a good pace sort of thing? Does he Tommy? Does he?"
Tommy inspected his nails and replied,
"James Joyce is not for everyone. Joyce can be hard going. You need to have a good brain, like what I have to appreciate Joyce. I would not recommend Joyce to the first time reader or the buck stupid like yourself."
I sucked a thumb which someone had stuck through the broken window and said,
"A critique Tommy. Come on, give us a critique on James Joyce. Come on Tommy. No one can critique like you Tommy. Come on Tommy. Give us an auld critique on James Joyce."
Tommy smiled and replied,
"Well, as dear Oscar Wilde would have said, if he were here, and just between ourselves you understand, I sometimes find that Joyce is interested more in comma rather than content."
And Tommy went into a fit of giggling, while muttering,
"Oh dear, what a wit I am to be sure."
But I had what I wanted. I raced outside and wrote with chalk on every gamble wall I could find.
"Tommy cat says James Joyce is CRAP!"
Let's see how Tommy gets on at the Malone Road book club NIGH, when he struts in wearing a three quarter length, sheepskin coat and his Gucci gutties!.
Poor Tommy will be raced out of the Malone road, by a baying pack of
Shitzus.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Measuring Intelligence
Great show yesterday Kid. After the soft feminine voice of Tubby Nolan, after his weekend transgender operation, it was good to hear your strong, male voice and the testosterone gulders of Mr Coyle as he chased wee baldy Ken round the the photo copier.
"Run, Ken run, old Red neck's got a gun and he's aiming it at your head," sang Tommy my cat. Tommy threw a boomerang and cut the top off his egg with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Being a bit more--retarded than Tommy, I picked up a ten pound hammer and left my boiled egg looking like a minute Humpty-Dumpty. Tommy looked at me, shook his head and said,
"And they allow YOU to adopt a cat?"
"Yes they DO!" I yelled. "And Jim Rodger's told me, if I study hard, I may get a licence to carry MLAs from their car into Stormont."
Tommy popped a toasted soldier into his mouth and said,
"The cold, hard truth is that you are stupid, stupid, thick and lacking the intelligence of the humble fruit fly."
"Oh is that right?" I yelled. "And would the powers that be, allow a stupid, thick person to carry wee Sammy Wilson in their arms like a baby?"
Tommy wiped his lips with a lace napkin and said,
"Let's have a little test. Let's see just how many lonely marbles are rattling about in that big head."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "Bring it on. Ask me anything, general knowledge, sargent english or private education, bring it on! Bring it on, you smarty cat."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Could you tell me please, what is the capital of China?"
My brain went blank. All I could think of was Arthur Askey singing, "The busy, busy bee."
Tommy drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and said,
"Oh come, come!"
"That's right!" I yelled "The capital of China is, Come-Come. I was just going to say that."
Tommy bent a bronze figurine of typhoid Mary over my head and went out singing Willie Nelson's version of-'CRAZY'. Crazy for being so stupid. CRAZY, crazy for being so thick."
I met Tubby Nolan as prearranged outside an all-night tights,knickers and steel girders' complex. Tubby stood there, clear proof that John Dunn was wrong when he said,
"No man is an island."
Tubby Nolan IS an island, the Isle of Man.
"Hey my man," I jived, "yo' sure is looking good. Yo' is thriving like a baby on dem ol' pork and beans."
"Cut the slabber bucket bake," growled Tubby. "Up until I was 21, mummy used to waken me every morning by singing, "How's the wee man the day?" I have searched everywhere to find a recording of that song, but no joy. I wonder would Anderson and Coyle come to Belfast every morning and sing that wee song to me?"
"I don't think so Gluttonous," I said. "It's too far to travel and Coyle gets homesick when he leaves Derry city limits. BUT WAIT!" I yelled. "I will be talking to Gerry and Sean tonight at the drag racing."
"Them two tubes go to DRAG racing"? said Tubby.
"In a way," I said. "After dark, both of them change into women's clothing and they race round and round a wee secret pasture at the rear of The Shantallow school for blind bats and moles."
So Kid, if you have ANY regard for your plump chum, I want you and Sean to sing,
"HOW'S THE BIG MAN THE DAY?" For your friend and mine. Ladies and gentlemen in the yella corner it's,
Steven "Fat Boy" Nolan.
Is your friendship real, Or just a cheap, showbiz facade?
My money's on-facade!
"Run, Ken run, old Red neck's got a gun and he's aiming it at your head," sang Tommy my cat. Tommy threw a boomerang and cut the top off his egg with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Being a bit more--retarded than Tommy, I picked up a ten pound hammer and left my boiled egg looking like a minute Humpty-Dumpty. Tommy looked at me, shook his head and said,
"And they allow YOU to adopt a cat?"
"Yes they DO!" I yelled. "And Jim Rodger's told me, if I study hard, I may get a licence to carry MLAs from their car into Stormont."
Tommy popped a toasted soldier into his mouth and said,
"The cold, hard truth is that you are stupid, stupid, thick and lacking the intelligence of the humble fruit fly."
"Oh is that right?" I yelled. "And would the powers that be, allow a stupid, thick person to carry wee Sammy Wilson in their arms like a baby?"
Tommy wiped his lips with a lace napkin and said,
"Let's have a little test. Let's see just how many lonely marbles are rattling about in that big head."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "Bring it on. Ask me anything, general knowledge, sargent english or private education, bring it on! Bring it on, you smarty cat."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Could you tell me please, what is the capital of China?"
My brain went blank. All I could think of was Arthur Askey singing, "The busy, busy bee."
Tommy drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and said,
"Oh come, come!"
"That's right!" I yelled "The capital of China is, Come-Come. I was just going to say that."
Tommy bent a bronze figurine of typhoid Mary over my head and went out singing Willie Nelson's version of-'CRAZY'. Crazy for being so stupid. CRAZY, crazy for being so thick."
I met Tubby Nolan as prearranged outside an all-night tights,knickers and steel girders' complex. Tubby stood there, clear proof that John Dunn was wrong when he said,
"No man is an island."
Tubby Nolan IS an island, the Isle of Man.
"Hey my man," I jived, "yo' sure is looking good. Yo' is thriving like a baby on dem ol' pork and beans."
"Cut the slabber bucket bake," growled Tubby. "Up until I was 21, mummy used to waken me every morning by singing, "How's the wee man the day?" I have searched everywhere to find a recording of that song, but no joy. I wonder would Anderson and Coyle come to Belfast every morning and sing that wee song to me?"
"I don't think so Gluttonous," I said. "It's too far to travel and Coyle gets homesick when he leaves Derry city limits. BUT WAIT!" I yelled. "I will be talking to Gerry and Sean tonight at the drag racing."
"Them two tubes go to DRAG racing"? said Tubby.
"In a way," I said. "After dark, both of them change into women's clothing and they race round and round a wee secret pasture at the rear of The Shantallow school for blind bats and moles."
So Kid, if you have ANY regard for your plump chum, I want you and Sean to sing,
"HOW'S THE BIG MAN THE DAY?" For your friend and mine. Ladies and gentlemen in the yella corner it's,
Steven "Fat Boy" Nolan.
Is your friendship real, Or just a cheap, showbiz facade?
My money's on-facade!
Thursday, 4 March 2010
A Faux Pas
Great shows last week Kid, great shows, which even as we speak, are making their way through the vast cold dark Universe to bring joy and comfort to little aliens, who live thousands of light-and in some cases, heavy years from us. How the little aliens will laugh and shake their green tentacles, (I said-tentacles) when they hear old Jordie!
On Monday morning I got up early to prepare the living room for the great show. First, I chased everyone out who thought my home was a public convenience, then I showed the winos the door. The winos slurred, "Nice Door!" and went back to sleep again. AH, to sleep, perchance to shake as the DTs invade their nervous system. On a plain, pine table sat three new radios. One radio to listen to the great show and two for backup. All I could do now was-wait. I hung myself up behind the door and thought of cabbages and kings.
HARK! The pitter-patter of Tommy my cat's little paws coming down the stairs. Tommy appeared dressed all in white.
"And what are you supposed to be," I cried,"an angel?"
"No." said Tommy. "I'm a happy Goth."
Tommy squinted at me and roared,
"HOI!"
"Are you talking to me?" I said.
Tommy yelled, "YES! I am talking to the frizzy, permed, old ratbag hanging behind the door.
I want you," said Tommy, "to cast, what you laughingly call your mind, back to the Gerry show on Friday."
I gave my head four taps with Maxwell's silver hammer and said,
"Done! Now what do you want to know?"
"You may remember," said Tommy,"that I missed part of the show due to being...."
"Hefted," I said. "Yes, I remember you running upstairs, wearing a gold suit and matching fedora hat. You looked like a feline pimp."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "When I was coming back down the stairs, did I hear Gerry and old Jordie play a game of, Deal Or No Deal?"
"Deal Or No Deal," I scoffed. "You must be off your rocking horse. Gerry would never play, Deal Or No Deal with old Jordie."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "I thought I heard old Jordie roaring something about phoning the-banker.".
In the silence that followed, you could have heard a tower block collapse.
"Listen, Tommy," I whispered. "This is all very hush-hush. On the Friday show, old Jordie made, what the residents of the Malone road call, a faux pas."
"Ah!" said Tommy. "A fopas. A rare, exotic very expensive little dog."
"NO" I yelled. "Old Jordie made a mistake. He said something he didn't mean to say.
All weekend the big cheeses at the BBC and Noel Thompson have been busy reeling in the words that went floating off into the ether. When all the words were captured, the BBC put them in a washing machine, turned on the "Soiled washing" programme and washed the words with a soap powder that is both NEW and IMPROVED!"
"I like old Jordie," said Tommy. "Old Jordie calls a spade a spade and a bucket some thing to carry water in."
Listen Kid, if I were you,I would put it all behind me,like Tubby Nolan does with most of his fat. Listen not to Hugo Duncan preaching the gospel of the wheel barrow. It is not all in front of you. It is all behind you. Let it lie Kid. Let it lie.
Do not wake up screaming with the image of Jordie Tuft haunting you like Gasper the ghost.
Gasper is a brother of Casper the ghost, but Gasper likes the odd cigarette. The odd cigarette. Let's not fool ourselves, Gasper the ghost is a chain smoker. Many people hear the clink of Gasper's chains as they lie on their death bed. Smoking can seriously damage your health and it leaves your net curtains looking like the Dead Sea scrolls. I know! Oh boy do I know. I live in a beige house. "Ha' you gotta light boy Ha' you gotta light?"
The singing postman, why does he never appear on Celebrity Big Brother? Being dead could well be the answer.
On Monday morning I got up early to prepare the living room for the great show. First, I chased everyone out who thought my home was a public convenience, then I showed the winos the door. The winos slurred, "Nice Door!" and went back to sleep again. AH, to sleep, perchance to shake as the DTs invade their nervous system. On a plain, pine table sat three new radios. One radio to listen to the great show and two for backup. All I could do now was-wait. I hung myself up behind the door and thought of cabbages and kings.
HARK! The pitter-patter of Tommy my cat's little paws coming down the stairs. Tommy appeared dressed all in white.
"And what are you supposed to be," I cried,"an angel?"
"No." said Tommy. "I'm a happy Goth."
Tommy squinted at me and roared,
"HOI!"
"Are you talking to me?" I said.
Tommy yelled, "YES! I am talking to the frizzy, permed, old ratbag hanging behind the door.
I want you," said Tommy, "to cast, what you laughingly call your mind, back to the Gerry show on Friday."
I gave my head four taps with Maxwell's silver hammer and said,
"Done! Now what do you want to know?"
"You may remember," said Tommy,"that I missed part of the show due to being...."
"Hefted," I said. "Yes, I remember you running upstairs, wearing a gold suit and matching fedora hat. You looked like a feline pimp."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "When I was coming back down the stairs, did I hear Gerry and old Jordie play a game of, Deal Or No Deal?"
"Deal Or No Deal," I scoffed. "You must be off your rocking horse. Gerry would never play, Deal Or No Deal with old Jordie."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "I thought I heard old Jordie roaring something about phoning the-banker.".
In the silence that followed, you could have heard a tower block collapse.
"Listen, Tommy," I whispered. "This is all very hush-hush. On the Friday show, old Jordie made, what the residents of the Malone road call, a faux pas."
"Ah!" said Tommy. "A fopas. A rare, exotic very expensive little dog."
"NO" I yelled. "Old Jordie made a mistake. He said something he didn't mean to say.
All weekend the big cheeses at the BBC and Noel Thompson have been busy reeling in the words that went floating off into the ether. When all the words were captured, the BBC put them in a washing machine, turned on the "Soiled washing" programme and washed the words with a soap powder that is both NEW and IMPROVED!"
"I like old Jordie," said Tommy. "Old Jordie calls a spade a spade and a bucket some thing to carry water in."
Listen Kid, if I were you,I would put it all behind me,like Tubby Nolan does with most of his fat. Listen not to Hugo Duncan preaching the gospel of the wheel barrow. It is not all in front of you. It is all behind you. Let it lie Kid. Let it lie.
Do not wake up screaming with the image of Jordie Tuft haunting you like Gasper the ghost.
Gasper is a brother of Casper the ghost, but Gasper likes the odd cigarette. The odd cigarette. Let's not fool ourselves, Gasper the ghost is a chain smoker. Many people hear the clink of Gasper's chains as they lie on their death bed. Smoking can seriously damage your health and it leaves your net curtains looking like the Dead Sea scrolls. I know! Oh boy do I know. I live in a beige house. "Ha' you gotta light boy Ha' you gotta light?"
The singing postman, why does he never appear on Celebrity Big Brother? Being dead could well be the answer.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
The Reality is Changing.
Great show yesterday Kid. Margaret Ritchie the Eva Peron of the SDLP, put CHANGE on the back burner and sat listening to the great show with a cup of coffee in one hand and a packet of custard creams in the other. When the show was over, she turned off the radio by hitting it repeatedly with a bronze bust of Mark Durkin and then got stuck into-CHANGE! Margaret opened a dictionary, looked up the word-CHANGE and said to an aide who was drinking lemonade,
"CHANGE.-- To alter or make different. Well I'll go to the foot of John Hume's Stenna stairlift."
A knock on the door gave me a funny feeling that someone might be standing there wishing to speak with me. Something similar had happened way back in 1969.
I opened the door with a trembling handm clutching a trembling key.
YIKES! Mark Durkan stood there. But what a CHANGE had come over little Marcus. He was distressed, dishevelled and discharged from the SDLP. He stood there in his blue demob suit and said,
"Hello wee woman. My name is Mark Durkin and I am selling reality from door to door. In this battered suitcase I have reality to suit all occasions,a wedding coming up perhaps, the loss of a dear one, passing the driving test, or just a private dinner with a few close friends. Whatever the occasion, let me supply you with-reality and assure you that all my reality-is."
"Mark," I said, "look at you! How did you escape from home? Is there anyone with you to look after you?"
The reality is, that a tear came to Mark's eye and he whispered,
"The reality is, I used to have friends but they all deserted me."
"How are you going to get home Mark?" I asked.
He gave a little bitter smile and replied,,
"The reality is, at one time anywhere I hung my hat was home, but the sad reality is, that Sinn Fein stole my hat and now I am homeless. The Shinners stole my clothes!" screamed Mark. "The Shinners stole all my clothes! The reality is, that you see before you today, a man devoid of political policies, a man without an agenda and a man without a job."
"Margaret Ritchie is going for CHANGE," I said.
"CHANGE my --Arsenal shirt!" yelled Mark. "The reality is, this is Norn Iron and nothing every CHANGES here."
I watched sadly as he trudged slowly away, reduced to hawking reality from door to door. How different from the man who, just 11 years ago, had smiled up into President Clinton's face at a Saint Patrick's day reception in the White House and said of Monica Lewinsky,
"The reality is, Bill, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed either."
As Mark trudged off he was singing,
"The reality is, nobody wants to know you, when you're down and out."
Tommy my cat looked at me, made a face and said,
"Poor Mark, his singing is so out of tune. It pains me to say it, but the reality is, Mark didn't nail it."
AH!-Reality! You are the snipe of life. Always crying. Forever crying. Take it away! Take away-reality. AH! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE OF LIFE! PLEASE RELEASE ME, LET ME-GO!
AAAAAH!. THE SNIPE! THE DREADED-SNIPE!!!!!
"CHANGE.-- To alter or make different. Well I'll go to the foot of John Hume's Stenna stairlift."
A knock on the door gave me a funny feeling that someone might be standing there wishing to speak with me. Something similar had happened way back in 1969.
I opened the door with a trembling handm clutching a trembling key.
YIKES! Mark Durkan stood there. But what a CHANGE had come over little Marcus. He was distressed, dishevelled and discharged from the SDLP. He stood there in his blue demob suit and said,
"Hello wee woman. My name is Mark Durkin and I am selling reality from door to door. In this battered suitcase I have reality to suit all occasions,a wedding coming up perhaps, the loss of a dear one, passing the driving test, or just a private dinner with a few close friends. Whatever the occasion, let me supply you with-reality and assure you that all my reality-is."
"Mark," I said, "look at you! How did you escape from home? Is there anyone with you to look after you?"
The reality is, that a tear came to Mark's eye and he whispered,
"The reality is, I used to have friends but they all deserted me."
"How are you going to get home Mark?" I asked.
He gave a little bitter smile and replied,,
"The reality is, at one time anywhere I hung my hat was home, but the sad reality is, that Sinn Fein stole my hat and now I am homeless. The Shinners stole my clothes!" screamed Mark. "The Shinners stole all my clothes! The reality is, that you see before you today, a man devoid of political policies, a man without an agenda and a man without a job."
"Margaret Ritchie is going for CHANGE," I said.
"CHANGE my --Arsenal shirt!" yelled Mark. "The reality is, this is Norn Iron and nothing every CHANGES here."
I watched sadly as he trudged slowly away, reduced to hawking reality from door to door. How different from the man who, just 11 years ago, had smiled up into President Clinton's face at a Saint Patrick's day reception in the White House and said of Monica Lewinsky,
"The reality is, Bill, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed either."
As Mark trudged off he was singing,
"The reality is, nobody wants to know you, when you're down and out."
Tommy my cat looked at me, made a face and said,
"Poor Mark, his singing is so out of tune. It pains me to say it, but the reality is, Mark didn't nail it."
AH!-Reality! You are the snipe of life. Always crying. Forever crying. Take it away! Take away-reality. AH! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE! THE SNIPE OF LIFE! PLEASE RELEASE ME, LET ME-GO!
AAAAAH!. THE SNIPE! THE DREADED-SNIPE!!!!!
Monday, 1 March 2010
In Search Of Spangles
Great show yesterday Kid. What a pity it was marred by the animalistic,corner boy, saloon bar, guldering and roaring of Mr Coyle. Did the mask slip? Did the people hear, in full volume the real Mr Coyle? Great harm was done to young children, pregnant women and those with a nervous disposition. Mr Coyle may have cause to gulder and roar when the dry cleaning bills come flooding in.
Tommy my cat was disgusted and has written to the BBC. Tommy said if he ever sees Mr Coyle sneaking around an Ann Summer's shop again, he will refuse to speak to him.
Martina Purdy, speaking to a big cheese in the BBC said,
"Hey guy, is it true you're gonna muzzle Coyle the redneck?"
And the big cheese said,
"We are ruling nothing out and ruling nothing in."
Ken Reid said in his report,
"Well Paul, the big question people are asking is,"Is this the end of Mr Coyle?" And the answer is, "It's just too early to know." Oh Paul, ask Lynda Byrons if she took a packet of Polos out of my coat pocket? I was standing like a tube up at Hillsborough and I didn't have a thing to suck."
Is it just me or is Hugo Duncan getting smaller? Yesterday, Strabane's finest, walked right between my legs, and he didn't even ring the bell!
"Hey, Nashville," I drawled, "Where you off to, Hoss, in such a gosh-durned hurry?"
"I'm in a wild hurry, so I am," said Hugo, in fluent Tyrone.
"I'm looking for spangles and I can't find them anywhere."
"You won't find Spangles sweets in this town friend," I drawled. "Spangles up and died and are buried in Boot Hill."
"I don't mean spangles the wee sweeties," said Hugo. "I mean the spangles that you stick to shirts to make them look country 'n' western. I want to look like Hank Williams and the other boy, oh what do you call him?"
"Kenneth Williams?" I drawled. "Listen kid, I took a hankering to you. I happen to know that boss Hogg, or Tubby Nolan as he is better known, used to put spangles round the fork of his gigantic Y-fronts. Let's mosey up to the Nolan ranch, the lazy tube and see how grizzly Adams is doing."
"NO!" yelled Tubby. "I have NO spangles. It is true that I used to decorate the fork of my Y-fronts with spangles. But one night I was taken short and had to relieve myself at the side of the road. It was a very dark night and when on-coming cars saw the reflection of my forkal spangles, they though it was cats' eyes and drove right into a hedge. Sir Hugh Orde at the time was raging and said I could be nicked for decorating a fork without due care and attention."
But I saw little Hugo all right. I took the petit Strabaner to Ann Summers and they fitted him out with some wee sparkly tops. Hugo also bought a pair of green, glow-in- the dark knickers. I don't know how they'll go down in Nashville when the lights go out as Hugo is singing
"The Pretty Little Girl From Omagh"
I suppose, don't ask, don't tell is the best policy.
YEH-HAW!!!
Tommy my cat was disgusted and has written to the BBC. Tommy said if he ever sees Mr Coyle sneaking around an Ann Summer's shop again, he will refuse to speak to him.
Martina Purdy, speaking to a big cheese in the BBC said,
"Hey guy, is it true you're gonna muzzle Coyle the redneck?"
And the big cheese said,
"We are ruling nothing out and ruling nothing in."
Ken Reid said in his report,
"Well Paul, the big question people are asking is,"Is this the end of Mr Coyle?" And the answer is, "It's just too early to know." Oh Paul, ask Lynda Byrons if she took a packet of Polos out of my coat pocket? I was standing like a tube up at Hillsborough and I didn't have a thing to suck."
Is it just me or is Hugo Duncan getting smaller? Yesterday, Strabane's finest, walked right between my legs, and he didn't even ring the bell!
"Hey, Nashville," I drawled, "Where you off to, Hoss, in such a gosh-durned hurry?"
"I'm in a wild hurry, so I am," said Hugo, in fluent Tyrone.
"I'm looking for spangles and I can't find them anywhere."
"You won't find Spangles sweets in this town friend," I drawled. "Spangles up and died and are buried in Boot Hill."
"I don't mean spangles the wee sweeties," said Hugo. "I mean the spangles that you stick to shirts to make them look country 'n' western. I want to look like Hank Williams and the other boy, oh what do you call him?"
"Kenneth Williams?" I drawled. "Listen kid, I took a hankering to you. I happen to know that boss Hogg, or Tubby Nolan as he is better known, used to put spangles round the fork of his gigantic Y-fronts. Let's mosey up to the Nolan ranch, the lazy tube and see how grizzly Adams is doing."
"NO!" yelled Tubby. "I have NO spangles. It is true that I used to decorate the fork of my Y-fronts with spangles. But one night I was taken short and had to relieve myself at the side of the road. It was a very dark night and when on-coming cars saw the reflection of my forkal spangles, they though it was cats' eyes and drove right into a hedge. Sir Hugh Orde at the time was raging and said I could be nicked for decorating a fork without due care and attention."
But I saw little Hugo all right. I took the petit Strabaner to Ann Summers and they fitted him out with some wee sparkly tops. Hugo also bought a pair of green, glow-in- the dark knickers. I don't know how they'll go down in Nashville when the lights go out as Hugo is singing
"The Pretty Little Girl From Omagh"
I suppose, don't ask, don't tell is the best policy.
YEH-HAW!!!
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