What Is A Pantomime?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which caused bubbly Tom Elliott and exciting, interesting, Alasdair McDonnell to exchange early Christmas presents.
Alasdair McDonnell gave Tom Elliott a a ventriloquist's dummy to deliver his sparkling, witty speeches and bubbly Tom gave exciting, interesting Alasdair a torch without batteries. Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson exchanged dinky toys and David Ford bought himself a Pete Seegar record. (My comb-over is blowing in the wind)
Tommy my cat grabbed me by the lapels of my Harris tweed leotard and yelled, "HEY ugliness personified, what is a pantomime?"
I kissed my wickerwork, death mask of Peter Stringfellow and said,
"A pantomime is income support for actors, comedians and singers who have fallen on hard times. Kindly people go round old folks' homes pulling old relics out of their bed and saying, "Come with me. I have a job for you, which will keep you in bedsocks and peppermint sweets."
The old, burnt-out stars hitch up their rubber pants and croak, "What will I have to do? I was big in the 30s you know."
The kind-hearted people wipe away a tear and answer, " Pick up your catheter and follow me. YOU are going to star in a pantomime. All you have to do is shout, "Oh no it isn't!" and, "He's behind you!"
"I can do that," croak the old relics. "Oh no!, he isn't behind you! How was that?" "It's good," said the kind Samaritan, "but not right."
"HEY! I used to say that," says old Roy Walker, "a long, long, time ago."
"So," said Tommy, rubbing my chin, "a pantomime is out-of-door relief for faded stars. Just one more question," said Tommy, snapping the Harris tweed fork on my leotard, "why do the geese fly South in Winter?"
"Because it's quicker than walking," I answered.
Tommy grabbed a bass drum and went, BOOM! BOOM!
Belfast was a Winter wonderland as Tommy and I strolled round Shaftsbury Avenue dressed as Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie McGee. Drunken Santas were puking into litter bins. Small, pale faced urchins, with little, white faces on them like snowdrops were running about with bowls crying, "MORE! Please sir, I want MORE!" Girls, wearing very short mini-skirts were followed by leering old codgers singing, "Ding dong merrily on high." Tubby Nolan, was dancing around dressed as a giant turkey. "Holy God!" said a wee woman. "How would you like to have to stuff THAT?"
"Don't worry about that wee woman!" roared big Jim McDowell. "That turkey is called Tubby Nolan and he's been stuffing himself for years."
"Hang on Ethel," said the wee woman to her friend. "I have to run home and go to the foot of our stairs!!!"

The Christmas Madness Has Begun.

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat and I were in Castle Court yesterday when we witnessed a fracas in Santa's grotto. A fat child, modelled along the lines of Tubby Nolan, leaped on to Santa's knee like a well fed hippo.
"AH! in the name of God!" yelled Santa. "Get off! You're squashing my baubles, you wee, fat gulpin!" The juvenile Haystacks burst into tears and wailed, "Mummy! mummy! mummy! Auld Santa, insinuated I was a wee fat gulpin!" People scattered as a big, fat woman thundered up like a run-a-way Blob. It was the fat boy's mum. Her face was purple with anger and her big, fat jowls shook and quivered like saddlebags on a long-eared mule. "Where's my little Willie?" she bellowed. "Who has dared to call my wee son a jelly belly?"
"I DID!" yelled the drunken Santa. "You have fed that cub until he looks like a poisoned pup. He is a danger to heath and safety. He leaped up on my knee like an over-weight manatee. I fear the wee, fat gulpin has done irreparable damage to my forkal area."
The mother of the oval boy sniffed the air like a stag and yelled, "You're drunk! You're a pissed Santa!"
"YES!" roared the man in red. "But I'll be sober in the morning and you and your son will still be blubber balls!"
"The straw that broke the camel's back," whispered Tommy.
"A bridge too far," I muttered.
All hell broke loose in the grotto. The massive mum pulled a golden horn from an angel's hand, lifted up Santa's red coat, gave a thrust and roared, "Ding Dong Merrily On High on-THAT!!!!" The drunk Santa, headbutted the irate mammoth mother right between her two little piggy eyes. And the juvenile Tubby sank his teeth into Santa's thin, dirty ankle with a look of relish on his fat face. Women screamed and children cried, as Santa and the duo of fatties over-turned the Christmas tree and sent elves scurrying for safety. The manager arrived, sacked the Santa and mollified the obese mum and her plump offspring with selection boxes and half a dozen large pies.
On the way home Tommy said, "It's only starting. The Christmas madness has begun."
I looked at Tubby Nolan, standing on a traffic island yelling, "This Christmas, I will eat my own weight in giblets" and concurred!!!!

Oracles and Dark Forces.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought some consolation to SDLP leader, doctor Alasdair McDonnell, as he sat in a darkened room, waiting for the sun to go down. Meanwhile, arch knave, Alex Attwood, arrayed in doublet and laddered hose, was spreading mischief. "He's a vampire!" yelled Attwood,
"Our esteemed leader Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire! He can't stand the light. He has no reflection and his eyebrows meet in the middle!"
"As a woman," shrieked Margaret Richie, "I can only say, Alasdair hasn't tried to bite MY neck!"
"It would take some fangs to bite through your auld scrawny, Deirdre Barlow neck!" yelled Attwood. "What are we going to DO? Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire, a creature of the night, a blood-sucking monster. We must hammer a stake through his heart!" screamed Attwood. "THEN! I can claim my rightful inheritance."
"Don't stir the buttermilk," said Joe Byrne from Tyrone. "First we must consult the Oracle."
Mark Durkin, sat in a cobwebbed cave, wearing a rabbit-skin cloak. His long, tangled hair hung down to his waist and his dark, brooding eyes seemed to hold all the knowledge known to man.
"MARK!" screamed Attwood. "Don't you know me? It's wee Alex Attwood!"
"Come closer child," croaked the Oracle. "My how big and ugly you've grown. What can I do for you my son?"
Attwood opened his mouth and said, "The reality is..."
"STOP!!!" yelled the Oracle, holding his hands to his ears. "The reality is, is a false doctrine. Once I led my life by, 'the reality is', and look at me now! The reality is, is bunkum and balderdash. You must banish 'the reality is' from your life!"
"But Mark!" screamed Attwood. "You know better than most, that all members of the SDLP start their sentences with, 'the reality is'"
"Better then to be DUMB!" cried the Oracle, gathering up his rabbit-skin cloak and disappearing into a crevice.
SO! all SDLP political messages on TV, from on now, will be in sign language. As to whether Alasdair McDonnell is a vampire or not-we must wait and see. The first sign will be cases of sheep worrying all over Northern Ireland.
Tommy my cat, stirred the ashes in his mother's urn and said, "So, we still don't know! Here we sit with throbbing throats, still not knowing if Alasdair McDonnell is indeed a vampire. I will find out!" yelled Tommy. "I go now to consult with Michael McGimpsey and Nigel Dodds." With Tommy gone a great fear came over me. McDonnell, McGimpsey, Dodds. By Dracula's drawers, I was surrounded by dark forces! I wrapped a loaf of garlic bread round my neck and waited Tommy's return.
OH Lord, God almighty, send down your holy light and keep McDonnell, McGimpsey and Dodds confined to their rooms!!!.

Sammy's Brilliant Skit.

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which provided much needed material for end of the pier comedian, Cheeky Sammy Wilson. Sammy has been low on patter recently, resorting at times to old gags about the troubles, mother-in-laws and knock-knock jokes. But, in his defence, Sammy did do a brilliant skit at the recent DUP conference about new SDLP leader Alisdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights.
"Alisdair McDonnell would make a great air raid warden!" laughed Sammy. "I can see him walking up the Falls Road shouting, "PUT OUT THAT LIGHT! PUT OUT THAT LIGHT!" And wee Alex Attwood running after him shouting, "NO! LET THERE BE LIGHT! LET THERE BE LIGHT! And what about poor Jim Allister?" said Sammy. "Aye what about poor Jim Allister missus? There he sits in Stormount, like the Ancient Mariner, spouting gloom, doom and despondency. A face on him like a bulldog chewing a wasp. A face on him like a Taig at the 12th of July. A face on him like David Ford at a Catweezle convention. Ah, poor wee Jim. It's not really his fault. When Jim was a baby, his mother, a very short sighted woman, used to powder his bum with a well known breakfast cereal. Wee Jim would sit in his playpen all day wearing a nappy, crying from one end and going snap, crackle and pop from the other end. So, don't blame him, life turned him that way."
Then, to the delight of middle-aged women from stout, hardy, farming stock, Sammy stuck a ferret down the front of his baggy trousers and finished with a soft, shoe shuffle. Poor Edwin Poots, was greeted with scorn and derision when he tried and failed to juggle three oranges while singing, "God Save The Queen."
"GET OFF you slabberer!" yelled a farmer from Tyrone. It was left to Nigel Dodds to rescue the show with a brilliant display of magic, which left the audience spellbound. When Nigel produced two eggs from his ears, the crowd went frantic. Gasps filled the hall as Nigel, with a little smile on his face, put the eggs behind his back, yelled, "CARAMBA!" removed his hands from behind his back, opened his fists and revealed two, empty, eggless hands.
"Where in tarnation did the eggs go?" muttered the crowd. The farmer from Tyrone roared, "Thon boy must have stuck them two eggs up............."
The stewards rushed in, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the Tyrone farmer was thrown out on his ear.
Tommy my cat is away giving evidence to the Levinson Inquiry. Tommy took umbrage to a headline in the Cullybaccy Chronicle which stated,
"Cat running across the road causes catastrophe! Catamaran careers carelessly, catapultin Catholic curate into caravan!" Watch the news tonight and see Tommy get stuck into the print media!

How To Look Absolutely Divine and Mysterious.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused fierce consternation at the Northern Ireland bird-watchers' club in Plumbridge. Old Dicky "bird" Santana, lost the plot, went haywire and ran out and ringed a young lady who was waiting for a bus. "She's a bird ain't she?" screamed old Dicky as he was taken away to be plugged into the national grid. Old Dicky's wife, big Pansy said, "I can't understand it. He's usually so quiet, even when I hit him with the coal hammer."
I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, ironing my face, when Tommy my cat sauntered into the room. Tommy looked immaculate in a chocolate-brown, swallow-tailed coat and an emerald-green posing pouch. Tommy looked at me, boaked and said, "Any beauty that was once in that old wrinkled face has long departed, obliterated by time, cigarettes, booze and your penchant for sniffing the exhausts of buses."
"I love the smell of diesel in the morning," I cried. "I have often run three miles with my hooter in close proximity to an exhaust. The bus drivers call me, @the old bag, with her honk up the exhaust'. But don't just stand there Tommy, like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the headlights of a car. Make haste and fetch the sander to remove the laughter lines which criss-cross my face like spaghetti junction." As Tommy tottered out of the room on 8 inch heel, pink stilettos I drank a mug of Doctor Quacker's fountain of youth elixir. It must be good. It was advertised in Exchange and Mart!
I never looked up as Tommy returned. Suddenly all the lights went out. Tommy pulled a coal bag over my head and laughed. "Now, you look absolutely divine, beautiful and mysterious. Soon gentlemen will be saying, "Who is that beauty with a coal bag over her head?"
Oh how we laughed!!!
Later at lunch which consisted of chops, mashed potatoes and 17 green peas, Tubby Nolan came in with a hammond organ under his oxter. Tubby flexed his fingers and went right into, "Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall. Just like Humpty Dumpty I may topple from a wall. But I'll get right back on my feet, and so I tell you all. Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall."
Without a word Tubby picked up the organ and departed. A strange man and yet-I feel myself strangely drawn to him. It's either love, or gravity!!!!

Can A Swan Be Arrested For Jay Walking?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Basil McCrea jettison the junket to San Diego and join the Bogside branch of the Legion of Mary on their annual trip to Knock.
"I have seen the error of my ways!" cried Basil, as he waved a giant flag of Saint Emmanuel, the patron saint of people who refuse to go on junkets.
As soon as the great show was over, Tommy my cat, shivering all over like a nude seal, grabbed me by my Greek orthodox church cassock and yelled,
"There's a swan on the road! There's a swan on the road!"
"Just ignore it and it will go away!" I replied. "It's just showing off." Tommy calmed down, downed a litre of vodka and said in a much milder tone,
"I wonder if Chief Constable Matt Baggot would arrest a swan for jay waking?"
"NEVER!" I cried. "Matt Baggott's love of the swan is legendary. Matt Baggot loses all control when a swan appears in his line of vision. Matt Baggott would give up his life for a swan. Matt Baggott sleeps under a duvet cover embroidered with cute, little cartoon swans playing football. AND! the clincher is, every Christmas, Matt Baggott gathers a cabal of wooden-tops around him and sings, "Swany River."
"Golly!" said Tommy. "What a great film that would make. The heart warming story about the special love between a simple swan and a high ranking member of the PSNI. I bet Johnny Depp could give a great performance as the swan. He could really get under the feathers."
Later that day, at exactly nineteen minutes to four, big Jim Fitzpatrick ran in yelling,
"Hide the Marmite, Tubby Nolan is back in town!!!" I glowered at my Tubby Nolan early warning system and cried, "Man the lifeboats, women and cats first!"
Big Jim brought me to my senses by showing me an erotic photograph of Noel Thompson cavorting with a wooden stile and yelled in fluent gibberish,
"Hide all food! Disguise the bread bin as a small coffin. Turn all bottles of 7up upside down. Tubby never drinks 7down. Destroy all cookery books, menus, stale bread and that photograph of your big,fat aunt Bertha, lying on the beach in Portrush, with her legs in the air like a Christmas turkey!" Tommy hid a wine gum under the sofa muttering, "I would rather by far, be invaded by the Vikings." NOW! all we could do was-wait. Far away in the distance I heard the thud of giant Hush Puppies. Nearer, ever nearer! I couldn't stand it anymore. I crept to the window, peeped out, and there he was. He looked like, "AAAAH! AAAAH"! Will I ever get that horrible vision out of my head?????
Matt Baggott visited me in hospital. He brought me a stuffed, cuddly-swan! Told me to be careful and mind how I went. I just had time to mutter, "Evening all." before the morphine kicked in.

Coyle Refuses To Abdicate.

Great show yesterday kid.
When news of Mr Coyle's abdication came through on the radio, Tommy my cat and I put on matching, plum coloured duffel coats and headed for Shaftsbury Square. Thousands of people were dancing round their tents. Young women were making free with their affections and old codgers were grabbing old codgeresses and then dropping them like hot bricks when they couldn't remember what to do next. Jim Rodgers dressed as a giant, red tomato leaped on the back of a lorry and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! I can confirm that Sean Thaddeaus Coyle has-GONE!!! No more will the people live in fear of the tyrant-Coyle. The last I heard, Coyle was seeking refuge in Lifford."
An old codger, wearing the obligatory flat cap and muffler croaked, "I have seen the demise of Walter Love, John Bennet and now, the biggest rascal of them all, Sean Coyle!" The old codger fell to his knees to give thanks with tears and green puss running freely from his eyes. THEN! a loud, uncouth voice roared, "How's about yease? My name is big Jim McDowell, so it is and I have just got a tweet."
"Don't tell us!" yelled Sarah Travers from the crowd. "Go and see a doctor!"
"Hauld on wee woman!" roared big Jim. I have my finger on the pulse of wee Nor'n Ir'n and the latest news is, Coyle has REFUSED to abdicate!!! I will now read a communique from Herr Coyle."
"Dear subjects, there is a false rumour going round that I am leaving Radio Foyle. That rumour was spread by Gerald Michael Anderson. Anderson has been trying to get rid of me since the day I came here. Me leave Radio Foyle? Me leave a cushy number near my home? Let my answer ring out in Belfast, Stroke City, Strabane, Clougher, Lisburn, Gortin and Cullybaccy. NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! Now, go back to your homes before I set the PSNI on youse!" Tommy looked at me and said, "An Arab Winter, I think not effendi!!!!"
I kicked a lost camel with a notice round its neck stating, "I belong to Sheik Jordie Tuft!
Back home, Tommy and I got out a plate of cold liver and a six-pack of Andrews liver salts. I turned on the radio, just in time to hear Mr Coyle roar,
"Did you ever enter a talent contest?"
Tommy looked at me with surprise and said, "He hasn't lost it. What an astute observation!"
I handed Tommy an IOU for a concur and went to my bed!!!