Great solo shows last week kid.
Great shows which sent the world's money markets into turmoil when it became known that Mr Coyle was being separated from his conjoined wallet.
"I'm going in!" cried Doctor Ripper. A swarm of ancient moths hit the doctor up the face and he was rushed to the maternity department where he gave birth to twin boys.
"Medicine has made great strides over the past ten minutes," said Doctor Ripper as he sat up in bed with a twin on each shoulder.
"SO!" said Tommy my cat. "As I predicted, America has lost its triple AAA credit rating."
"I'm afraid so," I replied. "There's no point phoning President Obama now if you find yourself broke by the roadside.". Tommy grabbed the phone and ordered his broker to move his ten pounds worth of Premium Bonds into gold Krugerrands. Tommy is a financial expert, a real Brian Cowan, without the arrogance and stupidity. I pulled an old black shawl over my head and cried, "What's going to become of us at all, at all, at all? 'Tis homeless we'll be, sitting by the side of the road eating nettles and dockens, and our menfolk boarding the boat to sail from Derry to Buncrana seeking work."
Tommy ran his hand over my face, checking for dust and said,
"Last week in the Dail,when asked if Ireland had enough money left to buy a fish supper, the bold Edna Kenny sprang to his feet, gave a Texas rebel yell and roared,
"THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN!"
"Rise again!" I yelled. "There's more chance, I say, there's more chance of the Titanic rising again!"
Tommy sprayed me all over with Pledge furniture polish and said,
"The South had their moment in the sun, their fifteen minutes of fame. I knew it was all over for the South when I first saw an Irishman on skis. An Irishman on skis is an affront to both God and nature. It's unnatural to see an Irishman on skis. An Irishman on skis is akin to seeing an Inuit on the moon, a Shinner wearing a poppy, or Tubby Nolan coming out of a clinic for anorexias."
"It's the way they stand," I cried,"upright and rigid, with the fear of God in their money-mad eyes!"
"If an Irishman must be seen on skis," roared Tommy, "let him sit! Let him sit like he would in a coracle. Times are bad," said Tommy. "But before we start blaming the banks, the credit crunch and reckless borrowing, let us remember the real reason we find ourselves in a doomsday situation is due entirely, ENTIRELY, to yuppie Irishmen, pissed on the piste wearing-skis!"
"So let it be written, so let it be done!" I cried, as I strapped on my Rottweiler lead and took myself for a walk.
Pooper-scooper??? I spit on your feelthy pooper-scooper!
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
The Hiccuping Sinn fein Letter.
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which, like the Rosetta stone, at last explained the meaning of the Ballymena expression, "It's a great,big supermarket boy!" Scholars on bicycles converged on Ballymena to decipher the strange hieroglyphics written on a Panadol tablet found in a secret cave by pot-holer and falsetto yodler, Rodney Mountebank. After a heated debate Professor Wiggins stood in front of a large, excited crowd and cried,
"My little Chick-a-dees, we have at last translated the secret language of the ancient Panadol tablet. I can now reveal that the inscription reads, "Not to be taken with alcohol!"
Suddenly the Plaza in Ballymena erupted with cheering, clapping, yelling, screaming, animalistic yelps and the throwing of flat caps high in the air.
"I can die in peace now," said an old codger running out in front of a bus. "Not to be taken with alcohol! Boys a boys, who would have thought it-Hi!"
"He just ran out in front of me," said the bus driver,"so I never bothered braking-Hi."
"Take him to the great,big cemetery outside Ballymena boy," said a policeman.
Tommy my cat coughed, pulled his Raith Rover's scarf round his neck, took a sip of Lemsip and said,
"There's a very nasty virus going about. In fact the Sinn Fein computer is suffering from it."
"Symptoms?" I yelled, reaching for my prescription pad.
"The symptom," said Tommy, "is a nasty, repeating hiccup. No matter what Sinn Fein type into their computer, the same letter shoots out of the printer."
"SNAP!" I yelled. "Everyone in Ulster got the same letter today from NIE."
"What are the dear directors of NIE up to?" said Tommy.
"Dear customer," I read, "we at NIE were feeling a little bored, so we decided to change our name from, NIE to, Power NI. This change of name and logo will be very expensive, but we, at NIE/Power NI are not worried because YOU, dear customer, will be paying for it. Missing you already, from all the guys and gals at NIE/Power NI."
"What a lovely letter to get," said Tommy. "When this old world is getting you down and people are not around anymore."
"The infamous Sinn Fein duplicating letter!" I cried. "How are Sinn Fein dealing with it?"
"Very well," said Tommy. "Gerry Adams came out yesterday and said,
"This auld letter hanlin' is down to a glitch in our little Dell computer. But, as President of Sinn Fein,I hold my hands up and say,"We alone ourselves are responsible for the hiccuping, repeating letter. Sinn Fein, we, ourselves alone, are responsible."
Then the bold Eamon Mally yelled out, "What did you think of Kate Middleton's wedding dress Mr Adams?"
"Devine, Eamon," said Gerry Adams. "Simply-devine! Now if you will excuse me, I have the Sky man coming round today, so I will need to be at home."
"Just one more question Mr Adams," roared the troublesome Eamon Mally."What do you think of my blonde hair?"
"Devine Eamon," said Mr Adams getting into his car"Simply--Devine!"
A great show which, like the Rosetta stone, at last explained the meaning of the Ballymena expression, "It's a great,big supermarket boy!" Scholars on bicycles converged on Ballymena to decipher the strange hieroglyphics written on a Panadol tablet found in a secret cave by pot-holer and falsetto yodler, Rodney Mountebank. After a heated debate Professor Wiggins stood in front of a large, excited crowd and cried,
"My little Chick-a-dees, we have at last translated the secret language of the ancient Panadol tablet. I can now reveal that the inscription reads, "Not to be taken with alcohol!"
Suddenly the Plaza in Ballymena erupted with cheering, clapping, yelling, screaming, animalistic yelps and the throwing of flat caps high in the air.
"I can die in peace now," said an old codger running out in front of a bus. "Not to be taken with alcohol! Boys a boys, who would have thought it-Hi!"
"He just ran out in front of me," said the bus driver,"so I never bothered braking-Hi."
"Take him to the great,big cemetery outside Ballymena boy," said a policeman.
Tommy my cat coughed, pulled his Raith Rover's scarf round his neck, took a sip of Lemsip and said,
"There's a very nasty virus going about. In fact the Sinn Fein computer is suffering from it."
"Symptoms?" I yelled, reaching for my prescription pad.
"The symptom," said Tommy, "is a nasty, repeating hiccup. No matter what Sinn Fein type into their computer, the same letter shoots out of the printer."
"SNAP!" I yelled. "Everyone in Ulster got the same letter today from NIE."
"What are the dear directors of NIE up to?" said Tommy.
"Dear customer," I read, "we at NIE were feeling a little bored, so we decided to change our name from, NIE to, Power NI. This change of name and logo will be very expensive, but we, at NIE/Power NI are not worried because YOU, dear customer, will be paying for it. Missing you already, from all the guys and gals at NIE/Power NI."
"What a lovely letter to get," said Tommy. "When this old world is getting you down and people are not around anymore."
"The infamous Sinn Fein duplicating letter!" I cried. "How are Sinn Fein dealing with it?"
"Very well," said Tommy. "Gerry Adams came out yesterday and said,
"This auld letter hanlin' is down to a glitch in our little Dell computer. But, as President of Sinn Fein,I hold my hands up and say,"We alone ourselves are responsible for the hiccuping, repeating letter. Sinn Fein, we, ourselves alone, are responsible."
Then the bold Eamon Mally yelled out, "What did you think of Kate Middleton's wedding dress Mr Adams?"
"Devine, Eamon," said Gerry Adams. "Simply-devine! Now if you will excuse me, I have the Sky man coming round today, so I will need to be at home."
"Just one more question Mr Adams," roared the troublesome Eamon Mally."What do you think of my blonde hair?"
"Devine Eamon," said Mr Adams getting into his car"Simply--Devine!"
Monday, 8 August 2011
Remembering The Good Old Days.
Great show yesterday kid.
Freed of the dragging anchor called Mr Coyle.the S.S. Gerry skipped over the waves without interruption or equipment malfunction. It makes you wonder why nothing works when the eyebrow is around!!!. SABOTAGE is an ugly word, but in this instance is fully justified.
Tommy my cat lifted his head from under the bonnet of the old, bullnose Morris car behind the sofa and said,
"People who play mirrored accordions shouldn't throw stones."
"Right on Bro!" I cried. "And people who play the tuba should always carry the phone number of a reliable plumber."
"Polish?" said Tommy.
"Of course they polish their tubas!" I yelled. "Old Pete Postlewaite would have your garters for guts if you didn't polish your instrument in, Brassed Off."
"Ah the sound of the tuba," said Tommy,"and a little, ragged urchin walking on cobblestones to the corner shop to steal a Hovis loaf and five woodbine."
"A different world," I sighed. "I remember walking down a working class street. The sound of TB coughing coming from upstairs windows, and women, WOMeN with massive rumps raised in the air polishing their front steps.
"OLD CODGERS!" I yelled. "releasing pigeons and watching them fly high and free, while coal dust eats away at their lungs like a cancer."
"Cold tea and bread and dripping," said Tommy, "with a nice slice of ham on a Sunday."
"EEEH!" I said.
"EEEH!" said Tommy. "Them were the good old days. I walked down a working class street yesterday," said Tommy. "The vista, the tableau, the pictorial impression was oh so different. Little 50 inch women sitting on sofas, watching Jeremy Kyle on 56 inch TVs."
"When our TVs are bigger than our coffins," I cried, "we are on the road to ruin."
"BACK TO BASICS!" yelled Tommy. "Time to throw our drugs away and return to a time, a golden time, when life expectancy for a man was forty four and a half."
"Home births!" I yelled "And nits in the hair!"
"Black, rotten teeth!" cried Tommy. "The working class should have nothing to smile about."
"Borstal!" I roared.
"The Birch!" cried Tommy.
"THE ROPE!" I yelled as white foam ran freely from my lips. "Bring back the ROPE. It never did me any harm."
Then Tommy and I rang for a taxi and made our way to the Post Office in style to lift our DLA money!
Freed of the dragging anchor called Mr Coyle.the S.S. Gerry skipped over the waves without interruption or equipment malfunction. It makes you wonder why nothing works when the eyebrow is around!!!. SABOTAGE is an ugly word, but in this instance is fully justified.
Tommy my cat lifted his head from under the bonnet of the old, bullnose Morris car behind the sofa and said,
"People who play mirrored accordions shouldn't throw stones."
"Right on Bro!" I cried. "And people who play the tuba should always carry the phone number of a reliable plumber."
"Polish?" said Tommy.
"Of course they polish their tubas!" I yelled. "Old Pete Postlewaite would have your garters for guts if you didn't polish your instrument in, Brassed Off."
"Ah the sound of the tuba," said Tommy,"and a little, ragged urchin walking on cobblestones to the corner shop to steal a Hovis loaf and five woodbine."
"A different world," I sighed. "I remember walking down a working class street. The sound of TB coughing coming from upstairs windows, and women, WOMeN with massive rumps raised in the air polishing their front steps.
"OLD CODGERS!" I yelled. "releasing pigeons and watching them fly high and free, while coal dust eats away at their lungs like a cancer."
"Cold tea and bread and dripping," said Tommy, "with a nice slice of ham on a Sunday."
"EEEH!" I said.
"EEEH!" said Tommy. "Them were the good old days. I walked down a working class street yesterday," said Tommy. "The vista, the tableau, the pictorial impression was oh so different. Little 50 inch women sitting on sofas, watching Jeremy Kyle on 56 inch TVs."
"When our TVs are bigger than our coffins," I cried, "we are on the road to ruin."
"BACK TO BASICS!" yelled Tommy. "Time to throw our drugs away and return to a time, a golden time, when life expectancy for a man was forty four and a half."
"Home births!" I yelled "And nits in the hair!"
"Black, rotten teeth!" cried Tommy. "The working class should have nothing to smile about."
"Borstal!" I roared.
"The Birch!" cried Tommy.
"THE ROPE!" I yelled as white foam ran freely from my lips. "Bring back the ROPE. It never did me any harm."
Then Tommy and I rang for a taxi and made our way to the Post Office in style to lift our DLA money!
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Wipe The Slate Clean!
Great shows last week kid.
The Thursday show in particular caused great consternation in comatose Castlederg when two Japanese soldiers staggered over the bridge with their hands in the air. Apparently the two old relics had been hiding in Killeter forest since World War Two.
Oh they were tattered, they were torn, at the webbing they were worn, the two Samurai from the rising sun.
When asked why they had decided to surrender the old warriors screamed,
"Jelly Anderson singing about a wee boy up a tree drove us out of our bunker and out of our mind!"
"HARI-KARI!" screamed the ancient enemy. "HARI-KARI!"
A kindly Castlederger said,
" Keep her lit boys. The Hari-Kari restaurant is on the Strabane Road, next door to the cat sanctuary."
The last I heard, the two Japanese soldiers were working as bouncers for Sammy Walls. A gang of hoodies who turned up wearing trainers, are now building a railway line from Castlederg to Clogher. In five or six years time, Rosie Ryan and her son Bon Jovi could be causing havoc and mayhem in the lanes and byways round Castlederg.
Tommy my cat put down the Financial Times and said,
"If America loses its triple AAA credit rating how will that affect the "special" relationship with Britain?"
"Britain is tied to America's coat-tails!" I yelled. "If America goes down the pan Britain follows like the tail of kite."
"Cor, Cor and thrice times, Cor Blimey!" roared Tommy. "It seems like the WHOLE world is in debt."
"The whole world IS in debt my fine feathered friend," I cried, "and every day the debt climbs higher and higher!"
Tommy drew a rough likeness of Tubby Nolan on the floor with lard and said,
"To whom is the world in debt to?"
I pondered deeply, which I wouldn't recommend on an empty stomach and said,
"Every country in the world is in debt to another country in the world."
"START A-NEW!" cried Tommy. "Clean the slate,wipe out all debt and start a-new! Print more money, it's only paper, that way no country will be in debt."
I looked at Tommy, so young, so innocent, so concerned about the fate of the world and yelled,
"Put your coat on lad, tonight I put you on a plane and tomorrow you address the world bank in New York with your brilliant, amazing, smashing monetary plan."
You may have seen Tommy tear Jeremy Paxman apart on Newsnight with his caustic wit and remarkable grasp of fiscal and monetary shenanigans.
The Thursday show in particular caused great consternation in comatose Castlederg when two Japanese soldiers staggered over the bridge with their hands in the air. Apparently the two old relics had been hiding in Killeter forest since World War Two.
Oh they were tattered, they were torn, at the webbing they were worn, the two Samurai from the rising sun.
When asked why they had decided to surrender the old warriors screamed,
"Jelly Anderson singing about a wee boy up a tree drove us out of our bunker and out of our mind!"
"HARI-KARI!" screamed the ancient enemy. "HARI-KARI!"
A kindly Castlederger said,
" Keep her lit boys. The Hari-Kari restaurant is on the Strabane Road, next door to the cat sanctuary."
The last I heard, the two Japanese soldiers were working as bouncers for Sammy Walls. A gang of hoodies who turned up wearing trainers, are now building a railway line from Castlederg to Clogher. In five or six years time, Rosie Ryan and her son Bon Jovi could be causing havoc and mayhem in the lanes and byways round Castlederg.
Tommy my cat put down the Financial Times and said,
"If America loses its triple AAA credit rating how will that affect the "special" relationship with Britain?"
"Britain is tied to America's coat-tails!" I yelled. "If America goes down the pan Britain follows like the tail of kite."
"Cor, Cor and thrice times, Cor Blimey!" roared Tommy. "It seems like the WHOLE world is in debt."
"The whole world IS in debt my fine feathered friend," I cried, "and every day the debt climbs higher and higher!"
Tommy drew a rough likeness of Tubby Nolan on the floor with lard and said,
"To whom is the world in debt to?"
I pondered deeply, which I wouldn't recommend on an empty stomach and said,
"Every country in the world is in debt to another country in the world."
"START A-NEW!" cried Tommy. "Clean the slate,wipe out all debt and start a-new! Print more money, it's only paper, that way no country will be in debt."
I looked at Tommy, so young, so innocent, so concerned about the fate of the world and yelled,
"Put your coat on lad, tonight I put you on a plane and tomorrow you address the world bank in New York with your brilliant, amazing, smashing monetary plan."
You may have seen Tommy tear Jeremy Paxman apart on Newsnight with his caustic wit and remarkable grasp of fiscal and monetary shenanigans.
Monday, 1 August 2011
No Alien Invasion.
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped keep wee Ulster a phonehacking free zone. Wee Chlorine Sodsbury came into the living room just in time to see her Grandad about to hack into her mobile phone. Wee Chlorine slapped the chops off him and threw him a newspaper. The old codger said, "Thanks Petal" and coughed, spluttered and hacked into the Belfast Telegraph instead.
Tommy my cat pushed me up against a wall I had built to separate the armchair from the foot stool and roared, "I want the truth, the whole truth and I want it NIGH! Why was Steven Nolan tweeting hysterically last week?
I quickly assembled two Ikea milkmaids' stools and said,
"Sit down Thomas. It's all very hush-hush, but Edwin Poots told me that Tubby was abducted by aliens and probed to within an inch of his life."
"I bet the little aliens were tired," said Tommy. "That would be the biggest probe they have ever carried out."
"Come 'ere," I said. "There's more! Apparently an old Codger living in the hills above Drumquin, was futtering with his 1924 Cossar wireless trying to get Maureen Potter on Athlone when,clear as a bell he heard the leader of the aliens say,
"This is Zogo reporting to the mother-ship. We have really struck the mother lode this time."
Then the mother-ship responded, "Well bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of the Uranus Journal. Have you made a preliminary report on the subject?"
"We have," said the alien. "It appears to me some kind of mobile black hole that eats everything it comes across."
"Come on home boys," responded the mother-ship. "We don't want anything to do with that crazy sucker."
"Jolly Gosh!" said Tommy. "So Tubby saved the world from an alien invasion?"
"That he did!" I replied. "But the United Nations have decided not to tell him."
"WHY!" yelled Tommy. "Give me one good reason why Tubby should not be told he is the saviour of mankind?"
"They don't want to give the oval one a big head!" I roared.
"That's a GOOD reason," said Tommy and went back to writing begging letters to, Mrs Bunty Hovis, 27 Teabag Lane, Lisburn.
Great shows which helped keep wee Ulster a phonehacking free zone. Wee Chlorine Sodsbury came into the living room just in time to see her Grandad about to hack into her mobile phone. Wee Chlorine slapped the chops off him and threw him a newspaper. The old codger said, "Thanks Petal" and coughed, spluttered and hacked into the Belfast Telegraph instead.
Tommy my cat pushed me up against a wall I had built to separate the armchair from the foot stool and roared, "I want the truth, the whole truth and I want it NIGH! Why was Steven Nolan tweeting hysterically last week?
I quickly assembled two Ikea milkmaids' stools and said,
"Sit down Thomas. It's all very hush-hush, but Edwin Poots told me that Tubby was abducted by aliens and probed to within an inch of his life."
"I bet the little aliens were tired," said Tommy. "That would be the biggest probe they have ever carried out."
"Come 'ere," I said. "There's more! Apparently an old Codger living in the hills above Drumquin, was futtering with his 1924 Cossar wireless trying to get Maureen Potter on Athlone when,clear as a bell he heard the leader of the aliens say,
"This is Zogo reporting to the mother-ship. We have really struck the mother lode this time."
Then the mother-ship responded, "Well bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of the Uranus Journal. Have you made a preliminary report on the subject?"
"We have," said the alien. "It appears to me some kind of mobile black hole that eats everything it comes across."
"Come on home boys," responded the mother-ship. "We don't want anything to do with that crazy sucker."
"Jolly Gosh!" said Tommy. "So Tubby saved the world from an alien invasion?"
"That he did!" I replied. "But the United Nations have decided not to tell him."
"WHY!" yelled Tommy. "Give me one good reason why Tubby should not be told he is the saviour of mankind?"
"They don't want to give the oval one a big head!" I roared.
"That's a GOOD reason," said Tommy and went back to writing begging letters to, Mrs Bunty Hovis, 27 Teabag Lane, Lisburn.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
I Blame Darren!
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which helped quell a riot at Saint Dymphna's Old Folks' Home.
The trouble began after breakfast when two old codgers fell out over ownership of a pair of false teeth. The trouble spread to the gym and soon the doors to the morgue were torn off and used as shields. Before you could say, "incontinent" a full scale riot erupted. Soon the air was full of bed-pans, catheters, colostomy bags and heavy, sodden, adult nappies.
It was then the matron, a hefty lump of a woman with more than a passing resemblance to Steven Nolan roared, "THE GERRY SHOW IS ON-NIGH!!!"
Soon the old relics were back in the day room pumped full of a liquid cocktail containing Valium, Diazepam and horse tranquilizers. Nothing brings an unruly old codger to heel like the liquid cosh!
Tommy my cat looked up from his knitting and said,
"I do declare, poor Steven Watson will wilt if another Ulster sportsman OR woman wins a major event."
"I blame Darren "The Cigar" Clarke!" I yelled. "Darren knew fine well that Steven Watson was exhausted after the Rory McIlroy jamboree. Knowing that, Darren could have done poor Steven a favour by dropping a few holes, but-NO! Darren only goes and wins the British open."
Tommy held his knitting up to the light and said,
"Now poor Steven will have to use the same words in the same sequence AND with the same emphasis to laud Darren Clarke as he lauded Rory McIlroy only a week ago."
"SHAMBOLIC!" I yelled. "It's like a singer coming on stage and singing the same song TWICE!"
Tommy picked up a stitch he had dropped and said,
"I think Steven should come on TV and just say, "Good on ye, ye boy ye!"
Needless to say I concurred. I really must get the doctor to change my tablets! My chronic concurring is not responding to treatment.
A great show which helped quell a riot at Saint Dymphna's Old Folks' Home.
The trouble began after breakfast when two old codgers fell out over ownership of a pair of false teeth. The trouble spread to the gym and soon the doors to the morgue were torn off and used as shields. Before you could say, "incontinent" a full scale riot erupted. Soon the air was full of bed-pans, catheters, colostomy bags and heavy, sodden, adult nappies.
It was then the matron, a hefty lump of a woman with more than a passing resemblance to Steven Nolan roared, "THE GERRY SHOW IS ON-NIGH!!!"
Soon the old relics were back in the day room pumped full of a liquid cocktail containing Valium, Diazepam and horse tranquilizers. Nothing brings an unruly old codger to heel like the liquid cosh!
Tommy my cat looked up from his knitting and said,
"I do declare, poor Steven Watson will wilt if another Ulster sportsman OR woman wins a major event."
"I blame Darren "The Cigar" Clarke!" I yelled. "Darren knew fine well that Steven Watson was exhausted after the Rory McIlroy jamboree. Knowing that, Darren could have done poor Steven a favour by dropping a few holes, but-NO! Darren only goes and wins the British open."
Tommy held his knitting up to the light and said,
"Now poor Steven will have to use the same words in the same sequence AND with the same emphasis to laud Darren Clarke as he lauded Rory McIlroy only a week ago."
"SHAMBOLIC!" I yelled. "It's like a singer coming on stage and singing the same song TWICE!"
Tommy picked up a stitch he had dropped and said,
"I think Steven should come on TV and just say, "Good on ye, ye boy ye!"
Needless to say I concurred. I really must get the doctor to change my tablets! My chronic concurring is not responding to treatment.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Who's Been listening?
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept many directors of News Corp International from leaping out of the windows of skyscrapers. Sources close to News Corp said, old Rupert Murdock was slowly making his way towards an open window when he heard Mr Coyle say,
"If I had my life to live over again, I'd be a barnacle scraper in a marina."
Old Rupert stopped and said, "Now there's a man with more than his share of handicaps. A veteran of rickets. A man who was christened on the whim of a lump of a cuttie. Then in his formative years, the police were mean to him and took away his dog. If that man, above all other men can still dream, then by Ayers Rock I will stand my ground and see this thing through."
Old Rupert staggered back to his throne and yelled. "Bring the ginger minx to me!" Rebekah Brooks was dragged in and thrown at the Master of the Universe's feet.
"Rebekah," said the press baron, "you have been like a daughter to me, but I must throw you to the wolves. I must protect my son James. I will never give up my little Jimmy, do you hear me? Never-Never-NEVER!"
Tommy my cat paced up and down and said, "I wonder did the News of the World hack into my phone?"
"Who would want to listen to the banal babblings of a flea infested feline?" I scoffed.
Tommy coughed and said, "Over the years I have had secret and protracted conversations with-Tubby Nolan."
I looked Tommy up and down and said, "Were you in a-relationship with the oval one?"
"Platonic," said Tommy, "purely platonic. We would go out for dinner, maybe see a show and then go back to Tubby's house for crisps, chocolate and coke. Tubby would put on a little Barry White and we would just sit there, shooting the breeze and laughing at Gerry Anderson."
"You're playing a dangerous game Tommy cat," I warned. Tommy bit his nails and said,
"Do you think our innocent, purely platonic friendship could be-misconstrued?"
"Of course it could!" I yelled. "You must come clean. You must call a press conference."
Which is why you probably saw Tommy on TV, making rambling, veiled references to THAT man---Steven Nolan.
Great shows which kept many directors of News Corp International from leaping out of the windows of skyscrapers. Sources close to News Corp said, old Rupert Murdock was slowly making his way towards an open window when he heard Mr Coyle say,
"If I had my life to live over again, I'd be a barnacle scraper in a marina."
Old Rupert stopped and said, "Now there's a man with more than his share of handicaps. A veteran of rickets. A man who was christened on the whim of a lump of a cuttie. Then in his formative years, the police were mean to him and took away his dog. If that man, above all other men can still dream, then by Ayers Rock I will stand my ground and see this thing through."
Old Rupert staggered back to his throne and yelled. "Bring the ginger minx to me!" Rebekah Brooks was dragged in and thrown at the Master of the Universe's feet.
"Rebekah," said the press baron, "you have been like a daughter to me, but I must throw you to the wolves. I must protect my son James. I will never give up my little Jimmy, do you hear me? Never-Never-NEVER!"
Tommy my cat paced up and down and said, "I wonder did the News of the World hack into my phone?"
"Who would want to listen to the banal babblings of a flea infested feline?" I scoffed.
Tommy coughed and said, "Over the years I have had secret and protracted conversations with-Tubby Nolan."
I looked Tommy up and down and said, "Were you in a-relationship with the oval one?"
"Platonic," said Tommy, "purely platonic. We would go out for dinner, maybe see a show and then go back to Tubby's house for crisps, chocolate and coke. Tubby would put on a little Barry White and we would just sit there, shooting the breeze and laughing at Gerry Anderson."
"You're playing a dangerous game Tommy cat," I warned. Tommy bit his nails and said,
"Do you think our innocent, purely platonic friendship could be-misconstrued?"
"Of course it could!" I yelled. "You must come clean. You must call a press conference."
Which is why you probably saw Tommy on TV, making rambling, veiled references to THAT man---Steven Nolan.
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