Pragmatic to the core.

Great show yesterday Kid. Yesterday being ancient Rome day, Tommy my cat and I listened to the show wearing very short togas. We both had laurel leaves in our hair as we lay beside a portable vomitorium bought from the Argos catalogue. We splashed out and bought the chrome, Super 500A vomitorium, which comes with folding legs and twin plug holes for quicker emptying.
Tommy boaked into the Super 500A and said,
"The ancient Romans must have been veritable newts. When it came to wine they would lash it into you Cynthia."
"The Roman god of wine was called Bacchus," I gasped, as I too spewed into the Super 500A. "He was depicted as bald, fat, nearly naked pouring out a pitcher of wine."
"That description," said Tommy, "could apply to most winos in Belfast."
I concurred and then collapsed.
All afternoon Tommy sat fiddling with his calculator. At seven minutes past five he threw it from him and cried,
"APOCALYPSE-NIGH! According to my calculations, which, by the way, are backed up by the Wall Street Journal and the Economist, American is in debt to the sum of 14 trillion dollars. Next year the debt is expected to rise to a figure greater than the net worth of America, leaving poor old uncle Sam bankrupt!"
"Great balls of flibbertigibbets! " I yelled. "What will happen THEN? Is it the end of conversation as we know IT?"
"Not at all," replied Tommy. "America is in hock to China. The Chinese will simply take over America, Europe and, in time-Northern Ireland."
"GOOD!" I yelled. "Maybe the Chinese will get their finger out and do something about the Maze site AND the John Lewis situation in Lisburn."
Nil desperandum!" yelled Tommy
"On this day I feel the hand of history on my shoulder and I am proud to stand here and say, "I, too, am a Chineser."
Pragmatic is Tommy. Pragmatic to the core!

No More Repeats.

Great shows last week Kid. Great shows which cleared the deck for the World Cup and Big Brother. Tommy my cat crawled out from under the old, bullnose, Morris car he has been doing up for the past 27 years, cleaned his oily, greasy hands on my face and said,
"Hey, Al Jolson, I suppose Gerry's gog is all agog as he plans "Special" shows to celebrate the World Cup and the last ever, Big Brother."
"It's going to be a great Summer," I cried. "Thanks to the World Cup and Big Brother, we won't have to watch another repeat of, "Last of the Summer wine" until September."
Tommy whacked me over the head with a big spanner and said,
"What a pity Northern Ireland Nil will not be represented at the World Cup."
"Northern Ireland Nil have only themselves to blame," I yelled. "Northern Ireland Nil are unable to understand, that the main purpose in football is to score more goals than the other team."
"I fear it is too late for Northern Ireland Nil to change their tactics now," said Tommy. "But unlike England, Northern Ireland Nil have been very lucky regarding injuries, apart from the goal keeper, who slipped a disc lifting the ball out of the back of the net."
"Will you be watching Big Brother Tommy?" I said, as I plucked a pound of special mince prior to making Irish stew.
"I will," replied Tommy, "but only as a social, anthropology experiment. The Big Brother house is a microcosm of the world. Yet every year, people are shocked and surprised when the house mates, divide into groups and squabble and fight. FORGETTING," yelled Tommy, "that in God's Big Brother house, viz a vie the world, wars are raging and people will die to defend a border line drawn on a map."
I gazed at the impassioned pussy in wonder and awe.
Tommy kicked a turnip through the window and said,
"Brenda Behan once said,
"If there were only three Irish men left in the world, two of them would be in a corner talking about the other one."
"The old triangle," I said
"Went jingle jangle," said Tommy.
"Along the banks of the Royal canal!" roared Steven Nolan, as he stuck his massive head in the broken window.
"Patrick Kavanagh," said Tommy, "he of the poems you know and all that malarkey, said a man threw him into the Royal canal. Most Dubliners and the Furey brothers think Patrick fell into the canal after drinking too much of the great malt, which wounds, which wounds. The man blamed for throwing Patrick Kavanagh into the canal said,
"I am not the man who threw Paddy Kavanagh into the Royal canal, but the man I would like to get my hands on, is the fellow who pulled the old tube out!"
"Don't go spreading that story about Tommy," I said "It will get arts and culture a bad name and the Arts council will come down on you like a ton of bricks."
"Mum's the word," said Tommy, going outside to retrieve the turnip for the Irish stew.

Parity of Esteem

Great show yesterday Kid. I looked at Tommy my cat who was melting some strawberry jelly in hot water and said,
"Tommy, my old Comanchero, was that not a great, great show?"
Tommy flipped the butt of his cigarette into the melting jelly and replied,
"It grieves me and saddens me, but I can not, in all honesty, describe the show we just heard as a great show."
I reeled back, like a man who had caught his braces on a door knob and cried,
"Not a great show? Tommy, we have always agreed that all the Gerry shows are great shows."
"I know," said Tommy, "but this time I cannot concur. My heart is heavy," said Tommy, "My brain is in turmoil and my innards are all a quiver,but I can not, I will not, agree, that today's show was a great show. Because of my deep feelings for Gerry, I will go so far as to state, it was a middling show."
"A middling show!" I exploded. "By the red flannel drawers of Maggie Taggart have you lost your cotton picking mind?"
"I have not lost my cotton or polyester picking mind!" yelled Tommy. "What I expect from Gerry and the BBC is parity of esteem. Today's show was all about the canine species. Not one word about felines. Not a dicky bird about pussy cats. DISCRIMINATION!" screamed Tommy."Blatant, naked DISCRIMINATION!"
I looked at little Tommy, so sad, so downcast, so knocked into a heap.
"Have a sweet Tommy!" I yelled, taking a brandy ball out of my mouth and handing it to the deflated pussy.
"No thank you," replied Tommy. "I couldn't eat a thing. I think I'll go to bed and cry into my pillow."
THEN! an orange-faced Steven Nolan burst into the room.
"I came as soon as I heard Tommy!" roared the oval man. "How are you holding up?"
"Not too well," whispered Tommy. "I feel --unwanted. I feel like a fart in a diver's helmet. I think I will toddle off to bed and cry myself to sleep."
"Look at the shape Anderson has left that poor lump of a cat in!" roared Tubby.
"Anderson is dog mad. I saw the lovely Sarah Travers offer Anderson a piece of her Kit-Kat one day and Anderson yelled,
"Oh matron, take it away!"
Don't you worry Tommy lad!" roared Tubby. "When I return on Monday I will devote the entire show to pussy cats."
Then I saw Tubby glance at the bowl of jelly.
"Ah, jelly!" cried Tubby. "My favourite beverage. May one have a little sip?"
Tubby put the bowl to his gub and swallowed half the jelly,
He who is fashioned after the egg, smacked his lips and said,
"A cheeky little jelly, fruity, with just a hint of..........."
"Nicotine," I said.
"Yes," said Tubby."Nicotine, and if I'm not mistaken, it's Benson and Hedges."
Then Lardo put the bowl to his mouth and finished the jelly.
The fat boy burped, gave a belly gurgle and was sick all over me.
On my way back from the car wash, I went into the Linen Hall library and bought Tommy a lucky bag. You will never guess what was in it. A little plastic dog! Tommy went completely haywire and had to be super-glued to the bed for his own safety!
Mind your backs! Mind your backs! Let the man with the unicorn through.

Diamonds Are Not Forever.

Great show yesterday Kid. It was a well set up wee show. It was a neat, tidy little show. The kind of show you would take home to meet mummy.
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the heels and pulled him out from behind the washing machine where he had been pretending to be a lost sock.
I sat him down on a Queen Ann bean bag and said,
"Tommy, did you hear Mr Coyle complaining about not having a screen?"
"I did!" yelled Tommy. "And I must say I was filled with great loathing and high octane revulsion."
"Who does Mr Coyle think he is?" I screamed. "Graham Norton?"
"Thank goodness for Ken," said Tommy. "Armed only with his trusty screwdriver, Ken made a dawn raid on the inner sanctum and left Mr Coyle-screenless."
"Kudos to Ken!" I yelled. "I know why Mr Coyle wants a screen. He wants to watch Jeremy Kyle while poor Gerry is slogging his guts out putting on a show."
"What a bad boy Mr Coyle has turned into!" said Tommy. "Oh, by the by, talking about early morning shows, did you know that the only place to see Ann Diamond is on the Matthew Wright show on Channel Five?"
I lifted my leg high in the air and said,
"Little Ann Diamond? That's a blast from the past. Little perky, cheeky, round-eyed Ann Diamond. I haven't seen her for monkey's years. What does she look like, Tommy, what does Ann Diamond look like? I gotta know. I just gotta know!"
Tommy opened the door. A smart Rhode Island hen marched up the floor and laid a wreath in front of the fireplace. Tommy blew the last second class post on his bugle and bellowed,
"Age has indeed withered her and the years condemned. Gravity," yelled Tommy, "has played havoc with her visage! Ann Diamond," yelled Tommy,"looks like an old boot, an old, baseball catchers mitt, a chamois leather than has been left out in the sun, the inside of a kangaroo's pouch. Gravity," screamed Tommy, "has pulled Ann Diamond's face hither and thither! Remember her cute, little, cupid, rosebud mouth? All gone. Her mouth has turned down to such an extent, the only way she can eat soup, is by wearing a sou' wester."
"And is she still opinionated Tommy?" I asked.
"Oh yes," replied Tommy, "and in my opinion has moved to the right. No matter what the discussion is, Ann Diamond is always to be found on the high moral ground. She grimaces, or girns out of the TV screen and says things like,
"WELL! My children don't do that!
WELL! My husband doesn't do that!
Or, WELL! My gardener has never flashed at ME!"
"I bet he has," I said, "when her back was turned, from the shelter of the cucumber patch.
Gardeners, in my opinion, are earthy, lusty sons of the soil.
Why, for a gardener not to flash, is akin to a dog that will not bark!"
"Bow Wow!" said Tommy.

A Free State with New Lords

Great shows last week Kid; five great shows which had Sony Award written all over them. You really should take the box of crayons away from Mr Coyle. It is not generally known, but Mr Coyle was the first man to write, "Free Derry" on a gable wall. It was not patriotic fervour which inspired Mr Coyle. Oh no! Oh no! Oh dearie me-no! It was the looters, staggering home burdened down with TVs and Burton's suits. At half past ten on the morning of April 2nd 1971, Mr Coyle came up with a humdinger of a political slogan which read thus.
" WE THE PEOPLE DEMAND A STATE WHERE ALL ARE EQUAL UNDER THE LAW.
A STATE WHERE MEN AND WOMEN CAN WALK FREE WITHOUT FEAR OF INJUSTICE.
A STATE WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME AND THEY'RE ALWAYS GLAD YOU CAME.
A STATE WHERE A MAN CAN EAT A SAUSAGE SUPPER IN PEACE. A STATE WHERE BLIND BATS SWOOP. A STATE WHERE DOGS ARE GIVEN FREE LEGAL AID. A STATE WHERE GOLFERS ARE NOT LAUGHED AT. A STATE AT PEACE WITH ITSELF. A STATE WHERE A MAN MAY STATE WHATEVER HE WISHES TO STATE IN THAT STATE.
OH, AND FREE EYE TREATMENT TOO."
Mr Coyle picked up a brush and a tin of black paint, but was unable to find a gable wall big enough to write his slogan on. After that he was never the same. He took to pulling clumps of hair out of his head and yelling, "STALL THE WEDDING!"
Eamon McCann could see that Mr Coyle was suffering from post traumatic stress. It was then Eamon McCann gently took the stones out of Mr Coyle's hands and pockets and sent him home to rest. For three years Mr Coyle lay in bed yelling,
"I did my bit! Hey girl, I been down to the river and paid my dues!"
As the coolie on the bike delivered the Tokyo Chronicle, I read the banner headline and yelled,
"He's only gone and done it! The Rev, Doctor Ian Paisley, is now Lord Paisley!"
"Tommy pulled my forelock and cried,
"Well done Governor! I knows my place. My place is to look up full of 'umbleness at the Peers of the Realm."
"Ian Paisley," I said, as I bricked up a wall where I would hang his Lordship's portrait. "Ian Paisley is like Frank Sinatra. Both hate the Kennedy family and both of them did it, "Their Way". Ian Paisley has no regrets. I heard him say that recently to Noel Thompson, who was wearing a cast on his arm after falling over YET another stile in the Mournes."
Tommy drank a bottle of brandy, burped and said,
"Do you not think the Russian hat was a bit of a faux pas, a faux pas that could have lead to a united Ireland?"
"Poppycock and fiddle sticks!" I yelled. "Ian Paisley is a big man. A big man can get away with wearing a Russian hat or a wind propeller on his head. Now, had it been Hugo Duncan!!!"
Tommy began to giggle and replied,
"Can you imagine little, tiny,teenie Hugo Duncan with a big Russian hat on his head?
Why it would look like an egg cosy."
I took another brick out of the wall, parcelled it up, addressed it to Pink Floyd and cried,
"If Strabane's smallest dared to wear a Russian hat on his head, the fashion police would come down on him like a ton of bricks and the wee man would end his days in a Russian gulag."
"Gulag?" said Tommy. "That's a funny name,Gu-lag. Is that where we get the term, old lag, meaning a long term prisoner?"
"Indeed it is, my fine spotted dick," I replied merrily. "And did you know that the first old lag in a Gulag was Irish?"
"I did not," said Tommy. "Please relate the circumstances as to how this strange state of affairs came about."
"It was the year 1547," I said. "Paddy Murphy from the Glenties, a self employed stone mason and part time ballerina, was on holiday cycling around Russia. It was an awful cold Winter. As Paddy cycled past the palace of Tsar Ivan Muscovite singing, "Mother McCree" he hit a patch of black ice and went flying over the handlebars. As poor Paddy lay there, Tsar Muscovite looked out from his palace window and laughed at him. Paddy, a man who had been thrown out of more public houses than Jordie Tuft, lost the bap and yelled,
"Hi you tube, why don't you grit this road or get the snow plough out?"
The police pounced. Paddy was dragged into a field and before you could say, "Another vodka and white please," a big Gulag was build round Paddy."
"History!" said Tommy. "I find history amazing, brilliant and boring. They do say," said Tommy, "that history belongs to the victors."
"Rubbish!" I yelled. "History belongs to David Starkey."
I then ran at the wall with my head, broke through into an entry, where I found six winos playing, Ring-a-ring-a-Rosie. Who says there is no night life in Belfast???
Oh to see Lord John Preston dressed in ermine, eating a pie and calling for HP sauce in the House of Lords!

A Storm in a Gravy Boat.

Great show yesterday Kid. Yesterday's show reminded me of little, well dressed men you see on a frosty Autumn morning, coming out of the newsagent's with the Newsletter under their arm. Their little shoes are shining, they have razor sharp creases on their little trousers, they wear kid gloves, a muffler and a flat cap. These clean, neat, tidy, little men never stop to talk to anyone. Home they go to a little apple-faced wife, who is wearing a white starched apron, baking an apple cake or drowning kittens in the sink. Who are these little men? And what do they want?
Noticing a window on the wall that wasn't there last night. I thought I would make use of it by looking out of it and there, in the garden was Tommy my cat. Tommy had just planted an acorn and was standing with hands on hips waiting for it to grow.
I tapped the window and yelled,
"Tommy, don't go climbing that tree while my back is turned."
Incandescent was the colour Tommy turned.
He came bursting into the house, like Sean Coyle's bull and roared,
"Why must you ruin everything? Why must you shatter all my dreams? Why can I not run my own life? You make everything I do turn into ashes. My dancing career? Ashes. My acting career? Ashes! Why yesterday, even the dinner you served up tasted of-ashes."
"That was ashes," I replied. "I had run out of Bisto."
"Run out of BISTO?" screamed Tommy. "What sort of person runs out of-Bisto? A house should be built around-Bisto. Bisto should be the first thing carried into a new home from the removal van. And yet," yelled Tommy, with his eyes leaping out of his head and the veins on his temple throbbing, "you ran out of--Bisto! What are you like?" hissed Tommy. "What are you like-eh? A creature!" cried Tommy.
"That's what you are. A slimy, creepy, repulsive, vile,cold blooded, loathsome creature, who has crawled out from some putrid cesspool of filth and decay."
"Stop bring up my Ballymena background!" I yelled.
"Come out to the back yard!" yelled Tommy.
"You what?" I said.
"You heard me!" roared Tommy. "Come out to the back yard and bring your face with you, because I'm going to brust it."
The last time Tommy and I fought,I ended up in very, very intensive care. I had to find a way to get out of the fight.
"Tommy!" I cried. "I know what Sean Coyle is looking for tonight."
"I care not a fig for Coylers or his wishes,wants or desires!" yelled Tommy. "Come out to the back yard!"
But the seed had been planted. I decided to add a little Wonder-Grow.
"Tommy," I said, "Sean Coyle is looking for something very special tonight and I know what it is."
Tommy stopped. His ears stood up straight on his head and his tail thrashed about like a snake.
I waited. Tommy turned and said,
"OK. What is Mr Coyle looking for tonight?"
"A little bit of Bully!" I yelled.
Then Jim Rodgers leaped out from the broom cupboard and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! You get nothing in this game for two in a shed."
It was the icing on the cake. It was the final touch. It was the end game. Tommy threw back his head and laughed and laughed. That was just before he knocked me out with a left hook up the kisser.
And all because the cat loves--BISTO!

Luddites and Lignite

Great show yesterday Kid. A show, if I'm not mistaken, that had its face washed and hair combed by Janet, just before Micky Bradly yelled.
"Quiet in the studio please! Three-Two-One and-ACTION!" The show had, as Patrick Kavanagh would say, merit and proved that arts and culture was very much alive, West of the Bann.
Tommy looked at me, like only a cat can who is dismantling a live hand grenade can and said,
"Herr Coyler gave short shift to that poor man with the golfing story. Why was that? Do tell. One JUST has to know."
I readjusted my jet pack and replied,
"Huston! we have a problem." I then went on.
"The story was new, topical and up to date. Mr Coyle hates anything-new. Had the story been about making a pair of moleskin britches out of weasel skins back in the 1920's, Mr Coyle would have been all over it like a rash."
Tommy pulled a wee, red thing out of the hand grenade cried, "OOPS!" and quickly replaced it again. After the house didn't blow up, Tommy said,
Are you implying that Mr Coyle is a-Luddite?"
"I am!" I yelled. "Oh, how Mr Coyle would like to pick up his sledge hammer and go on an orgy of destruction. In the course of a night, Mr Coyle would smash every computer, mobile phone, photocopier and gameboy in the province."
"Lor love a duck!" said Tommy, picking up a very ugly, cross-eyed mallard drake and giving it a big kiss right on the beak.
"There is another word," said Tommy.
"There are many words," I replied.
"Another word that sounds like Luddite," said Tommy. "I think it is the name of a brown coal found in great quanties in Ulster and surrounding districts."
"LIGNITE!" I screamed. "Don't get me started on-Lignite. Fifty years ago a man came on TV and said,
"People of Ulster. Sit back. Relax ay voo and let it all hang out. I bring tidings of great joy. We have just discovered that Ulster is build on millions of tons of-lignite. Lignite is a brown coal found close to the surface. Our fuel problems are over. Lignite can be used as a coal, or converted into gas, petrol, moisturizer and margarine."
And what happened?" cried Tommy.
"ZILCH! I yelled. "Diddly Squat! Nothing! Experts found out that Lignite burns up faster than an old, dry wig of Dicky Rock and is not worth the trouble of mining."
"So," said Tommy, "there it sits. Lignite, a big pile of brown stuff."
"And that's what Lignite is!" I screamed. "A great big pile of-brown stuff."
I watched as Tommy opened a window and released the defused hand grenade back into the wild.
"Fly my little one," said Tommy. "Fly back to the flock of defused hand grenades that are swooping back and forwards over Tubby Nolan's house."
Plenty of crumbs at Tubby's house for hungry hand grenades.
Tubby is indeed the Saint Francis of hand grenades.
You got to love him. You just got to love him.