Great show yesterday kid. When the great show was translated into Iranian, President Maw Dinner Jacket, shut down his nuclear reactors and went back to turf, ignited with Sunny Jim fire lighters.
When told the good news, President Obama said, "I hope he keeps her lit 'till we get out!"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Milligan's goose, leaped from his reclining chair and yelled, "J'accuse the BBC and UTV of-COLLABORATION!"
I put down the chicken I was plucking a tune on and cried, "If this is true it's going to be bigger than the scandal involving Tubby Nolan and the pie lady."
"I have just watched Newsline and UTV Live!" yelled Tommy. "Both had the same content, BUT, both channels had a different lead story!!!"
"Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia and the foot of our stairs," I cried. "This is bigger than the headline the Belfast Telegraph was going to run years ago.
TITANIC REACHES NEW YORK SAFELY!!! "Northern Ireland workers should be proud!" said Mayor of New York".
Tommy, spat out a fur ball and screamed, "J'aCCUSE THE BBC AND UTV OF BEING COLLABORATIONISTS!"
I looked at Tommy like a cat might look at a Queen and said, "Tommy, A chara, how does one spell, Collaborationists?"
Tommy himmed and hawed and replied, "One Collab, one rat and as many ionists as you can get on the same line."
I ran to the kitchen and gave Tommy the last bun in the bread box. Tommy spat at me and took the bun under the table where he ate it with his back to me.
NEVER go near Tommy when he's eating.... or Steven Nolan! You could lose more than a finger!!!!
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Poor Tara! That's tarra.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which came as a great surprise
to an old codger who was being waked at home in the good room. The old
codger, leaped out of the coffin and ran through the town in his
shroud yelling, " Barnyard fowl and tawny owl, I've missed two Gerry
Anderson shows!" When told that Mr Coyle's interrupting had increased
by 37% the old codger ran home, leaped into the coffin and closed the
lid with a bang!
Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "The well spring of ugliness in
your family must run fast and deep."
"It does," I chortled. "When I was born the doctor and midwife would only handle me with tongs. My sister Suzie, was fined for being knowingly and persistently ugly in a public place. My brother Sunk, who was named after the Titanic could
kill a goatee beard just by looking at it. When my late daddy died, the man who came to shave him took one look and yelled, "In the name of God!" turned him over on his face and covered him with bubble wrap."
Tommy picked up his pea-shooter, fired a salvo of peas in the general direction of Iran and said, "Your family would made the Adam's family look like the Osmonds. Your combined ugliness must have been a great drawback to tourism."
"Oh it was," I said. "Tourists, especially the Japanese, used to take one look at us and get right back on the plane. We did our bit in the war!" I yelled. "Oh yes, we did our bit in the war. Old Winston Churchill, reeking of cigars, self importance and cooking sherry, lined the whole family up on the cliffs of Dover and ordered us to pull faces for God, King and country."
Tommy flicked a speck of dark matter off his gansey and muttered under his
breath. "So, that was why Hitler, never invaded Britain!"
Under the spreading chestnut tree, the lovely, blonde, Tara Mills,sat eating corn on the cob, washed down with Listerine mouthwash. "TARA!" I yelled. "Lovely, wee political Tara. It must be tarra for you to have to sit up in Stormount,listening to the sound of baying jackals and the inspiring, unforgettable oratory of Jim
Allister."
Little Tara, wrung her hands, wept and cried, "OH woe is me. You knee
Noel Thompson just ONCE in the groin and the BBC send you off to Stormount. SIBERIA, the political correspondents' graveyard. How I would love to sit on the sofa, talking about the Titanic and interviewing important people like Sue Pollard, Les Dennis and little old wine drinker me, Brian Kennedy."
"TARA!" I cried. "That's tarra. You only kneed Noel Thompson once. One day you will be set free. But what in tarnation did big Jim Fitzpatrick do to be sent to Stormount for LIFE?"
"That I can not say," said Tara. "Let's just say it involved Donna Traynor, a box of Ferraro Rocher and a feather duster."
NO!" I cried.
"YES!" said Tara--in the broom cupboard! GO" said Tara. "Make haste and go. The BBC have spies everywhere.
I looked around just in time to see Tubby Nolan, hiding behind some
wheelie-bins, like Orson Wells. The thin man? I think NOT!!!!!
to an old codger who was being waked at home in the good room. The old
codger, leaped out of the coffin and ran through the town in his
shroud yelling, " Barnyard fowl and tawny owl, I've missed two Gerry
Anderson shows!" When told that Mr Coyle's interrupting had increased
by 37% the old codger ran home, leaped into the coffin and closed the
lid with a bang!
Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "The well spring of ugliness in
your family must run fast and deep."
"It does," I chortled. "When I was born the doctor and midwife would only handle me with tongs. My sister Suzie, was fined for being knowingly and persistently ugly in a public place. My brother Sunk, who was named after the Titanic could
kill a goatee beard just by looking at it. When my late daddy died, the man who came to shave him took one look and yelled, "In the name of God!" turned him over on his face and covered him with bubble wrap."
Tommy picked up his pea-shooter, fired a salvo of peas in the general direction of Iran and said, "Your family would made the Adam's family look like the Osmonds. Your combined ugliness must have been a great drawback to tourism."
"Oh it was," I said. "Tourists, especially the Japanese, used to take one look at us and get right back on the plane. We did our bit in the war!" I yelled. "Oh yes, we did our bit in the war. Old Winston Churchill, reeking of cigars, self importance and cooking sherry, lined the whole family up on the cliffs of Dover and ordered us to pull faces for God, King and country."
Tommy flicked a speck of dark matter off his gansey and muttered under his
breath. "So, that was why Hitler, never invaded Britain!"
Under the spreading chestnut tree, the lovely, blonde, Tara Mills,sat eating corn on the cob, washed down with Listerine mouthwash. "TARA!" I yelled. "Lovely, wee political Tara. It must be tarra for you to have to sit up in Stormount,listening to the sound of baying jackals and the inspiring, unforgettable oratory of Jim
Allister."
Little Tara, wrung her hands, wept and cried, "OH woe is me. You knee
Noel Thompson just ONCE in the groin and the BBC send you off to Stormount. SIBERIA, the political correspondents' graveyard. How I would love to sit on the sofa, talking about the Titanic and interviewing important people like Sue Pollard, Les Dennis and little old wine drinker me, Brian Kennedy."
"TARA!" I cried. "That's tarra. You only kneed Noel Thompson once. One day you will be set free. But what in tarnation did big Jim Fitzpatrick do to be sent to Stormount for LIFE?"
"That I can not say," said Tara. "Let's just say it involved Donna Traynor, a box of Ferraro Rocher and a feather duster."
NO!" I cried.
"YES!" said Tara--in the broom cupboard! GO" said Tara. "Make haste and go. The BBC have spies everywhere.
I looked around just in time to see Tubby Nolan, hiding behind some
wheelie-bins, like Orson Wells. The thin man? I think NOT!!!!!
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Pies, Pies, Chocolate and Fries.
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was mostly ignored in and round the Bricklands area. When a naked Jordie Tuft rode into town on a donkey protesting at the spiraling cost of cooking sherry, the Mother's Union and the Legion of Mary had a whip round and sent old Jordie home wearing, French, satin knickers, fishnet stockings and a double D bra, all of which were hidden under a wee, blue top and a charcoal-grey pencil skirt.
"Don't he look lovely?" cried old Ma Clampet. "He looks just like my granny, the night before she died."
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the bow tie and yelled, "How would you describe the mood of Mr Coyle today?" Tommy gave me a voucher for a head butt and said, "Buoyant! Buoyant, is the only word to describe Mr Coyle's mood." I stared hard at a green tomato until it turned red and said, "Something isn't right."
"Then it must be left," said Tommy. "Anyway, what's amiss?"
"A young, unmarried woman," I replied. "I can't quite put my finger on it," I said.
"Want me to get the wooden spoon?" said Tommy.
"It's a puzzler," I said. "Mr Coyle plus a good mood equals..what?"
"DRUGS!" yelled Tommy. "Old Popeye went to see the doctor before dropping into the studio for a rest. The doctor must have used eye drops consisting of sterilized water and LSD! Mr Coyle was as high as a kite, pumped up to the eye balls with hippy, trippy, acid."
"GOTCHA!!!" I yelled. "Quick Tommy, the phone number for big, Jim McDowell at the Sunday World."
I found Steven Nolan, sitting in an old, abandoned warehouse singing this little ditty over and over again, "PIES, PIES, CHOCOLATE AND FRIES."
"Hey Bro," I cried, "what's up? Eat anything good lately?"
Tubby snarled like a Komodo dragon and said, "I feel my position as King of the airways is in danger. I have heard strange tales of treason and intrigue relating to Alan Simpson and William Crawly. I am surrounded by enemies. I must protect my flanks and cover my rear."
"The only way for you to cover your rear,"I giggled, "is to reverse into an aircraft hanger."
"Begone!" yelled Tubby. "I must prepare for battle! My visage must be grim and my loins girded."
"Oh Sir Tubby," I cried, "May I gird your mighty loins?"
"YOU?" roared Tubby. "You are a mere rat bag. It requires six strong men to gird MY massive loins."
For some strange reason I was reminded of a cowboy film I saw when just a cuttie.... HOLD UP AT TWISTED FORK!!!
"Don't he look lovely?" cried old Ma Clampet. "He looks just like my granny, the night before she died."
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the bow tie and yelled, "How would you describe the mood of Mr Coyle today?" Tommy gave me a voucher for a head butt and said, "Buoyant! Buoyant, is the only word to describe Mr Coyle's mood." I stared hard at a green tomato until it turned red and said, "Something isn't right."
"Then it must be left," said Tommy. "Anyway, what's amiss?"
"A young, unmarried woman," I replied. "I can't quite put my finger on it," I said.
"Want me to get the wooden spoon?" said Tommy.
"It's a puzzler," I said. "Mr Coyle plus a good mood equals..what?"
"DRUGS!" yelled Tommy. "Old Popeye went to see the doctor before dropping into the studio for a rest. The doctor must have used eye drops consisting of sterilized water and LSD! Mr Coyle was as high as a kite, pumped up to the eye balls with hippy, trippy, acid."
"GOTCHA!!!" I yelled. "Quick Tommy, the phone number for big, Jim McDowell at the Sunday World."
I found Steven Nolan, sitting in an old, abandoned warehouse singing this little ditty over and over again, "PIES, PIES, CHOCOLATE AND FRIES."
"Hey Bro," I cried, "what's up? Eat anything good lately?"
Tubby snarled like a Komodo dragon and said, "I feel my position as King of the airways is in danger. I have heard strange tales of treason and intrigue relating to Alan Simpson and William Crawly. I am surrounded by enemies. I must protect my flanks and cover my rear."
"The only way for you to cover your rear,"I giggled, "is to reverse into an aircraft hanger."
"Begone!" yelled Tubby. "I must prepare for battle! My visage must be grim and my loins girded."
"Oh Sir Tubby," I cried, "May I gird your mighty loins?"
"YOU?" roared Tubby. "You are a mere rat bag. It requires six strong men to gird MY massive loins."
For some strange reason I was reminded of a cowboy film I saw when just a cuttie.... HOLD UP AT TWISTED FORK!!!
Monday, 27 February 2012
Magicians and Cannibals
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly amazed sinister, spinster, old Maud Muppet, when she went to the woodshed and found Jordie Tuft sitting on an upturned bucket wearing the full regalia of a Captain in the Spanish navy. Old Jordie, who was under the impression he was in the crow's nest of the Constantia, yelled, "Hello wee woman. How sets the wind for France?" Old Jordie, was taken away by the police to be washed, sanded,varnished and polished. Tommy my cat, wearing the away colours of Plymouth Argyle, finished a lovely, charcoal drawing of Ghandi, wearing a lime-green three piece suit and said,
"Ageing magician old Paul Daniels, is so deranged he cut off his own finger thinking it was the head of the lovely Debbie Magee."
"Not a lot do I like that!" I yelled. "It is high time and indeed, low time that the ancient magician was hog tied and taken to secure accommodation."
"Paul Daniels should see this as a wake-up call," cried Tommy. "It was a finger this time, but next time it could be a John Bobbit. Now you see it, now you don't."
"I wonder at the lovely Debbie Magee," I said. "She's no Spring chicken herself. When she saw the deceiving, old relic get off the commode with a groan and reach for an electric, circular saw, she must have known the old, bald, dimwit would climb into bed that night minus this or that."
"The lovely Debbie Magee was lucky this time," said Tommy. "The doddering, old fool only cut off this, but it could so easily have been-that!"
"And they don't grow on trees," I said. "They don't grow on trees!"
Tommy looked at me, like a biologist looking at a newt with two heads, and said,
"Why did you never get married?" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and stammered, "I had my chances. Don't you worry, I had my chances. There was a time men used to fall at my feet."
Tommy sneered and said, "Yes, they do say the rank, putrid smell of athlete's food can drop a man quicker than a bullet." I ignored the spiteful, hateful slur and went on, "When I was a gal, living in the country, men used to drive out from Belfast just to gaze at my beauty, grace and deportment. Dear Mama, would serve tea on the lawn. Darling papa would whip out his kazoo and I would throw back my head, exposing my soft, slender, swan-like neck and sing, "She was only a farmer's daughter, but she always got her oats."
"There must have been someone special," said Tommy. "Whom was the special boy in your life?" I blushed, threw my arms about me, until my knuckles grazed the floor, kicked the coal bucket with a pink flip-flop and replied, "The special boy in my life was, little Willie Snot. Willie, was only the son of a vicar, but he meddled not with hymns. Little Willie, said he would marry me after two years working as a kilt salesman in the Congo, but, but, but.......... "
"What happened?" cried Tommy. "What happened to little Willie?"
"Eaten," I sobbed. "Eaten by cannibals."
"Oh no!" cried Tommy.
"Oh yes!" I shrieked. "Eating little Willie, was bad enough, but it was what they said afterwards that has remained with me to this day."
"What did they say?" cried Tommy. I tore clumps of hair from my head and screamed,
"The cannibals, described my little Willie, as a tasty little snack." I fell back then on my bustle, kicking my legs and pulling faces of the most hideous and repulsive ugliness.
Tommy went out the door singing, "She was only a cannibal's daughter, but she wouldn't eat her granny's ass.!!!
"Ageing magician old Paul Daniels, is so deranged he cut off his own finger thinking it was the head of the lovely Debbie Magee."
"Not a lot do I like that!" I yelled. "It is high time and indeed, low time that the ancient magician was hog tied and taken to secure accommodation."
"Paul Daniels should see this as a wake-up call," cried Tommy. "It was a finger this time, but next time it could be a John Bobbit. Now you see it, now you don't."
"I wonder at the lovely Debbie Magee," I said. "She's no Spring chicken herself. When she saw the deceiving, old relic get off the commode with a groan and reach for an electric, circular saw, she must have known the old, bald, dimwit would climb into bed that night minus this or that."
"The lovely Debbie Magee was lucky this time," said Tommy. "The doddering, old fool only cut off this, but it could so easily have been-that!"
"And they don't grow on trees," I said. "They don't grow on trees!"
Tommy looked at me, like a biologist looking at a newt with two heads, and said,
"Why did you never get married?" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and stammered, "I had my chances. Don't you worry, I had my chances. There was a time men used to fall at my feet."
Tommy sneered and said, "Yes, they do say the rank, putrid smell of athlete's food can drop a man quicker than a bullet." I ignored the spiteful, hateful slur and went on, "When I was a gal, living in the country, men used to drive out from Belfast just to gaze at my beauty, grace and deportment. Dear Mama, would serve tea on the lawn. Darling papa would whip out his kazoo and I would throw back my head, exposing my soft, slender, swan-like neck and sing, "She was only a farmer's daughter, but she always got her oats."
"There must have been someone special," said Tommy. "Whom was the special boy in your life?" I blushed, threw my arms about me, until my knuckles grazed the floor, kicked the coal bucket with a pink flip-flop and replied, "The special boy in my life was, little Willie Snot. Willie, was only the son of a vicar, but he meddled not with hymns. Little Willie, said he would marry me after two years working as a kilt salesman in the Congo, but, but, but.......... "
"What happened?" cried Tommy. "What happened to little Willie?"
"Eaten," I sobbed. "Eaten by cannibals."
"Oh no!" cried Tommy.
"Oh yes!" I shrieked. "Eating little Willie, was bad enough, but it was what they said afterwards that has remained with me to this day."
"What did they say?" cried Tommy. I tore clumps of hair from my head and screamed,
"The cannibals, described my little Willie, as a tasty little snack." I fell back then on my bustle, kicking my legs and pulling faces of the most hideous and repulsive ugliness.
Tommy went out the door singing, "She was only a cannibal's daughter, but she wouldn't eat her granny's ass.!!!
Friday, 24 February 2012
In Other Words.
"What a great show that was!" said Tommy my cat. "And what a lot of subjects were covered. Poetry, swans, Gerry's great love for his fellow man, Mr Coyle's pussy phobia and how hateful and awful Steven Nolan is."
I coughed. Tommy said, "What's up? Is a small doctor examining you below the Mason, Dixon line?"
"Don't be crude!" I yelled. "Sometimes you can be as crude as Iranian oil, which we ain't going to get no more, thanks to Porgy and Bess, Aka William Hague and David Cameron. If you must know," I said, "I have something stuck in my craw."
"Spit it out," said Tommy. "Don't stand there like Tubby Nolan without a pie in his hand."
"The reason for my blocked craw," I said, "is-COYLE!" Suddenly the sky darkened. A flash of lightening split the heavens and a busker played a discordant, Hammer House of Horror chord on a mouth organ. Tommy blessed himself with some holy water from the river Boyne and said through chattering teeth, "We promised never to mention that name in this house."
"I have to!" I yelled. "Coyle's interrupting is one thing, but when he disagrees with every thing Gerry says, well, he's walking on the fighting side of me."
"You're right!" cried Tommy. "Or as they would say in Eastenders, "Hoi son, come 'ere you Muppet. You wuz bang,right out of order there!"
"OR," said Tommy, "if we were in Coronation Street, it would be, "Nay lad. Nay, nay lad. Stop mithering our Gerry. Go to foot of stairs and think on!"
"OR," said Tommy, "If it was Fair City, it would be, "AH, come on Charley. Another auld pint won't hurt you, by janey, begorragh and be jesus."
"OR," said Tommy, "if it was Hollyoaks, it would be, "I think Jason likes me, he vomited all over me last night."
"IT must STOP!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle must allow Gerry to tell a story without roaring. "There's nothing about that! I don't believe a word of it, or, AAH, your drawers!" "A time is coming," I said. "Oh, yes my friends, a time is coming, when Gerry will say, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is, Gerald Michael Anderson and Mr Coyle will roar, "Ah, your drawers! There's not one word of truth in that statement. You're a liar! I demand to see your birth certificate and a photograph of you with Gerald Michael Anderson."
"The Twilight Zone," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle is talking us into a place where time doesn't exist. A place where the truth is bent and twisted like a licorice stick. A place where the one-eyed man is King. A place known as, The Twilight Zone."
Frightened beyond belief, I was too scared to concur!!!
I coughed. Tommy said, "What's up? Is a small doctor examining you below the Mason, Dixon line?"
"Don't be crude!" I yelled. "Sometimes you can be as crude as Iranian oil, which we ain't going to get no more, thanks to Porgy and Bess, Aka William Hague and David Cameron. If you must know," I said, "I have something stuck in my craw."
"Spit it out," said Tommy. "Don't stand there like Tubby Nolan without a pie in his hand."
"The reason for my blocked craw," I said, "is-COYLE!" Suddenly the sky darkened. A flash of lightening split the heavens and a busker played a discordant, Hammer House of Horror chord on a mouth organ. Tommy blessed himself with some holy water from the river Boyne and said through chattering teeth, "We promised never to mention that name in this house."
"I have to!" I yelled. "Coyle's interrupting is one thing, but when he disagrees with every thing Gerry says, well, he's walking on the fighting side of me."
"You're right!" cried Tommy. "Or as they would say in Eastenders, "Hoi son, come 'ere you Muppet. You wuz bang,right out of order there!"
"OR," said Tommy, "if we were in Coronation Street, it would be, "Nay lad. Nay, nay lad. Stop mithering our Gerry. Go to foot of stairs and think on!"
"OR," said Tommy, "If it was Fair City, it would be, "AH, come on Charley. Another auld pint won't hurt you, by janey, begorragh and be jesus."
"OR," said Tommy, "if it was Hollyoaks, it would be, "I think Jason likes me, he vomited all over me last night."
"IT must STOP!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle must allow Gerry to tell a story without roaring. "There's nothing about that! I don't believe a word of it, or, AAH, your drawers!" "A time is coming," I said. "Oh, yes my friends, a time is coming, when Gerry will say, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is, Gerald Michael Anderson and Mr Coyle will roar, "Ah, your drawers! There's not one word of truth in that statement. You're a liar! I demand to see your birth certificate and a photograph of you with Gerald Michael Anderson."
"The Twilight Zone," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle is talking us into a place where time doesn't exist. A place where the truth is bent and twisted like a licorice stick. A place where the one-eyed man is King. A place known as, The Twilight Zone."
Frightened beyond belief, I was too scared to concur!!!
Thursday, 23 February 2012
I love George Clooney.
Great show yesterday kid. The great show was much appreciated by the widow of old 87 year old Jingo Mumbles. Just a week ago old Jingles had glued chicken feathers all over his body and leaped off a steep cliff. As old Jingo plummeted to the ground he cried out in a shrill, piercing scream. "Well, back to the drawing board!" Old Jingo was buried quickly in the dark of night in a five minute ceremony befitting a crazy, old head banger. Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "I have known Jordie Tuft all my feline life. In all that time I have never seen a shorter phone-in than the one old Jordie did on Tuesday morning. I wonder what is the matter with the rural, rustic Oracle?"
"Hefted?" I said.
"No!" said Tommy, "old Jordie has many cures for that condition." Tommy giggled and said, "I think old Jordie had a lady friend in and was in a rush to get back to her. I think old Jordie put his lady friend on the back burner, so to speak, had a brief talk with Gerry, and then returned to steamy,lecherous shenanigans, not seen since the days of Caligula."
"Pork salad Annie!" I yelled. "I heard old Jordie is often seen in the company of a lady called, Pork Salad Annie. She's not as green as she's cabbage looking. Old Jordie better watch out. If the DHSS hear about it they could cut off his cold weather payment."
Tommy smiled grimly and said, "If this romantic dalliance is to be nipped in the bud, they may cut off a lot more than THAT!" I pulled my masonic apron over my face and screamed, "You don't mean........?
"Oh yes!" said Tommy. "If old Jordie doesn't stop his fluffing and futtering they may cut off his electricity! People in and around Bricklands say that women of a certain age are attracted to the light in old Jordie's window, like wanton moths to a flame."
I put on an Etta James false face, threw back my head and sang, "I'd Rather Go Blind!"
"George Clooney," I said, hugging myself with delight. "What a man! So handsome, so intelligent, so hunkable. I love him. I love him. I want the whole world to know that I love George Clooney. I love George Clooney, with a love so strong, so deep, so everlasting. NOTHING could take away my great love for George Clooney."
"Is that a fact?" said Tommy.
"It is a fact," I said.
"So be it," said Tommy. "I will now take away your love of George Clooney by asking you one simple question."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "NOTHING will take away my love for gorgeous George." "Tommy looked deep into my eyes and said, "What hand does George Clooney use to clean his bum? I ran down the street screaming and pulling my hair, with the sound of Tommy's evil laughter ringing in my ears.
"Hefted?" I said.
"No!" said Tommy, "old Jordie has many cures for that condition." Tommy giggled and said, "I think old Jordie had a lady friend in and was in a rush to get back to her. I think old Jordie put his lady friend on the back burner, so to speak, had a brief talk with Gerry, and then returned to steamy,lecherous shenanigans, not seen since the days of Caligula."
"Pork salad Annie!" I yelled. "I heard old Jordie is often seen in the company of a lady called, Pork Salad Annie. She's not as green as she's cabbage looking. Old Jordie better watch out. If the DHSS hear about it they could cut off his cold weather payment."
Tommy smiled grimly and said, "If this romantic dalliance is to be nipped in the bud, they may cut off a lot more than THAT!" I pulled my masonic apron over my face and screamed, "You don't mean........?
"Oh yes!" said Tommy. "If old Jordie doesn't stop his fluffing and futtering they may cut off his electricity! People in and around Bricklands say that women of a certain age are attracted to the light in old Jordie's window, like wanton moths to a flame."
I put on an Etta James false face, threw back my head and sang, "I'd Rather Go Blind!"
"George Clooney," I said, hugging myself with delight. "What a man! So handsome, so intelligent, so hunkable. I love him. I love him. I want the whole world to know that I love George Clooney. I love George Clooney, with a love so strong, so deep, so everlasting. NOTHING could take away my great love for George Clooney."
"Is that a fact?" said Tommy.
"It is a fact," I said.
"So be it," said Tommy. "I will now take away your love of George Clooney by asking you one simple question."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "NOTHING will take away my love for gorgeous George." "Tommy looked deep into my eyes and said, "What hand does George Clooney use to clean his bum? I ran down the street screaming and pulling my hair, with the sound of Tommy's evil laughter ringing in my ears.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Rejected because he's a Cat....
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought out Mr Coyle's innate kindness, generosity and philanthropic nature. When I heard Mr Coyle had opened his car window and hurled a half-eaten cheese sandwich at a beggar, with an ignorant yell of, "Now bugger Off Smelly!" I fell to my knees before a statue of Charles Dickens and yelled, "God bless us, everyone!" The highlight of the week for me was Wednesday, when you talked to a 48 stone man with no ambition to lose weight and climb mount Everest! Old Jordie's views on nuclear physics were interesting, but not exactly ground breaking. Tommy my cat, sat in front of the radio all week, holding an empty jam jar, hoping to catch one of Emma's dainty little coughs. Alas, Benelin won the day and Tommy came away with an empty jam jar, which will now be sterilized and used to hold tadpoles. I like a tadpole or two around the house. They bring a Zen-like tranquility to a home. Hence the well known poster, "A home Is Not A home Without A Tadpole." They say Damian Hirst made thousands out of that!!
Tommy ran to fetch the mail and came running back with a brown envelope in his hands. I spilled some needles and pins on the floor and stood on them as Tommy tore open the letter with teeth, claws and a Swiss army knife. Tommy read the letter, let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed on the floor. I watched the second half of Countdown and then ran to his side. "TOMMY!" I shrieked. "Speak to me, even if it's only to say, "I can't talk now, come back later." Tommy raised his little head and cried, "Hello rejection, my old friend. You've come to talk with me again." Tommy looked all around for a cat to kick and yelled, "Once more I have been turned down for a job on the police commission. Once again, the reason is the same, it's because I'm a CAT!. A CAT.......A....."
"But Tommy," I yelled, "there are many catholics on that board and one or two of them even pretend to follow the tenets of their faith."
"CAT!" roared Tommy. "Not catholic! They turned me down because I'm a CAT!"
"You kept that quiet," I said. "I had no idea. I thought you were my aunt Flo's boy. Nevertheless, you have as much right to be on that board as any Tom, Dick or Saddam. Why, the very dogs on the street are on the police commission."
"I know," said Tommy. "Sammy the dachshund told me it's a cushy little number. All you have to do is listen to Matt Baggott, droning on and on and then get stuck into the tea and biscuits." I raised my clenched teeth in the air and cried, "By the revolutionary drawers of Che Guevara, I will take this to the European court for human and feline rights. Questions will be asked," I roared, "in parliament and in the back snug of Patel's shebeen!"
"Leave me," said Tommy. "I am irrelevant. I had hoped to do some good, but if Matt Baggott treats me like a second-class cat, then on his own head be it."
Tommy staggered to his chair in front of the fire, pulled an old horse blanket round him and sobbed, "The police commission is a cold house for cats!"
I concurred repeatedly, until my legs gave way and I fell in a crumpled, dishevelled heap on the floor!
Tommy ran to fetch the mail and came running back with a brown envelope in his hands. I spilled some needles and pins on the floor and stood on them as Tommy tore open the letter with teeth, claws and a Swiss army knife. Tommy read the letter, let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed on the floor. I watched the second half of Countdown and then ran to his side. "TOMMY!" I shrieked. "Speak to me, even if it's only to say, "I can't talk now, come back later." Tommy raised his little head and cried, "Hello rejection, my old friend. You've come to talk with me again." Tommy looked all around for a cat to kick and yelled, "Once more I have been turned down for a job on the police commission. Once again, the reason is the same, it's because I'm a CAT!. A CAT.......A....."
"But Tommy," I yelled, "there are many catholics on that board and one or two of them even pretend to follow the tenets of their faith."
"CAT!" roared Tommy. "Not catholic! They turned me down because I'm a CAT!"
"You kept that quiet," I said. "I had no idea. I thought you were my aunt Flo's boy. Nevertheless, you have as much right to be on that board as any Tom, Dick or Saddam. Why, the very dogs on the street are on the police commission."
"I know," said Tommy. "Sammy the dachshund told me it's a cushy little number. All you have to do is listen to Matt Baggott, droning on and on and then get stuck into the tea and biscuits." I raised my clenched teeth in the air and cried, "By the revolutionary drawers of Che Guevara, I will take this to the European court for human and feline rights. Questions will be asked," I roared, "in parliament and in the back snug of Patel's shebeen!"
"Leave me," said Tommy. "I am irrelevant. I had hoped to do some good, but if Matt Baggott treats me like a second-class cat, then on his own head be it."
Tommy staggered to his chair in front of the fire, pulled an old horse blanket round him and sobbed, "The police commission is a cold house for cats!"
I concurred repeatedly, until my legs gave way and I fell in a crumpled, dishevelled heap on the floor!
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