Great show yesterday kid. Today, our thoughts go out to all the girls at the "Crusty Bakery". When the girls returned after the weekend, they found to their consternation that some bad man had put a bun in each of their ovens. "CRIKEY!" yelled big Maggie. "I took precautions, I stood bolt, upright against a wall."
Wee Nellie went into hysterics, fell to the ground, kicked and flung and screeched, "He told me it was the Heimlich maneuver!"
Tommy my cat rubbed Vaseline over his thighs to stop his deep purple, leder-hosen from chaffing and said, "Did you know the last thing Hitler said in the bunker was, "Either this wallpapers goes, or I do?"
"Liar, Liar, leder-hosen on fire," I yelled. "It was Oscar Wilde who said that!"
"Au contraire!" said Tommy. "Who are you going to believe? Old Oscar Wilde, who never fired a shot in anger, OR, Adolf Hitler, dog lover, cream bun eater and big Charlie Chaplin fan?"
"Wilde!" I yelled.
"Hitler!" roared Tommy.
"Let Wikipedia decide," I cried, running to our steam driven computer. Apparently we were both wrong! According to Wikipedia, the person who said, "Either this wallpaper goes, or I do!" was, Laurence Llewellyn Bowen! I looked at Tommy, Tommy looked at me, "WILDE!" I roared.
"HITLER!" screamed Tommy. Tommy looked slyly at me and said,
"Hey! you with the trout gub, let's play knock, knock jokes."
"YIPPEE!" I cried. "Knock, knock jokes are my favourite jokes." I adjusted my inflatable simmet and yelled, "Knock, Knock!"
To which Tommy replied. "Come on in, the door is open." I could have killed the curly tailed, little mouse catcher. Instead, I put a dirty look into an envelope and sent it to Tommy, first class.
Who's the fool now????
I found Mark Durkin, wandering round Belfast muttering. "Au contraire, Mr Trimble." I grabbed little Markus by the Adam's apple and said, "Long time no see kid. What brings you to Belfast? Still looking for the reality?"
Mark swung round and roared, "It was established at Sunningdale, that the reality, IS. Was, IS, and until a majority of the people on the island of Ireland hold a referendum saying otherwise, the reality will always be, IS."
"Riveting stuff," I said.
"You betcha," said Mark. "I could talk about the reality seven days a week, including Sunday."
"What first got you interested in the reality?" I asked. Mark's face darkened and he said, "Back in the bad, old days, a Unionist politician quoted something I had said out of context. Without thinking, without any prior planning, I leaped to my feet and yelled, "The reality, IS!" That was the birth of reality," said Mark. Others, David Trimble, Bob McCartney, remember him? Sammy Wilson and, it shames me to say it, but even my adopted son, wee Alex Attwood, have used the phrase, "the reality, IS." but, the reality, IS," said Mark, "I was the first man to point out that the reality, IS." Mark began to foam at the mouth and screamed, "IS! IS!. The reality IS! Beware of false reality men. When Mark Durkin, tells you, the reality, IS! you can take that to the bank! No man knows more about reality than Mark Durkin. Now, listen to this, straight from the horse's mouth. THE REALITY, IS! THE REALITY, IS! THE REALITY, IS! IS! IS! IS! THE REALITY, IS!!!!!!!
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Monday, 5 March 2012
Don't Just Stand There,Black Lead Something!
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought great comfort to Saint Deirdre's Nudist club in the hills above Drumquin. As you probably read in the papers, many club members are suffering from frost bite in the(ahem)extremities. At a special meeting on Saturday night, a buck-naked, old codger with two icicles hanging from his nose put forward a motion, proposing that all members be allowed to wear simmets until the weather improves. The motion was seconded by a blue, shivering, pot-bellied woman and passed without dissent. As the group cycled home,they gave the impression of many setting suns.
Tommy my cat, kicked the stuffing out of a Justin Beiber, life-size doll and said, "How I miss the old days. Days of culture and art. Tea on the lawn, a chukka of polo, dry sherry and the horse whipping of dirty, ugly, inbred servants."
"Shut your mouth, Brideshead Revisited!" I yelled. "Look at you, lounging about in baggy flannels, cricket sweater and a silver monocle stuck into your ocular. Change back into your overalls, and black lead that grate."
"We don't have a grate, old thing," said Tommy.
"Don't old thing me!" I yelled. "Black lead something. Don't just stand there, black lead our super-dooper, Hi-tech, stereo system, with surround sound, cigarette lighter,Sat Nav and heated rear view mirror."
Tommy went to a saucepan where an old flat cap had been boiling for two hours, dipped two cups into the hot liquid and brought them back to the table.
"AAH!" I said. "There's nothing like a cap-punnino to brighten you up in the morning!" Responding to a knock on the door, I was met with a big, grey wall which turned out to be Steven Nolan's ill fitting suit. "Stand back fat boy," I said. "I can't see your face." AAAAAAAGH!" I screamed, as a round, mellow, harvest moon face glared down at me. Tubby danced from foot to foot and whimpered, "Can I use your loo?"
"Certainly NOT!" I cried. "This house does not have industrial sewage pipes." "I'm brusting!" cried Tubby. "If I wet my trousers again, big Audrey might think I am regressing and make me wear a giant, sumo nappy."
I looked all around and said, "Next door's wheelie-bin is empty and the owners are away to see Dickie Rock preform without a zimmer frame." I picked up a hose pipe, nipped over the fence and stuck one end into the wheelie-bin, handed the other end to Tubby and said, "Go ahead! Pretend you are a B52 tanker refueling an F16 fighter plane." I then retired to bake a potato cake and avoid seeing anything which might frighten me, or make me laugh.
45 minutes later, Tubby knocked at the door with a big smile and a wet fork. It was then Tommy, opened the lid of the neighbours wheelie-bin and said with a giggle, "I'm going to sit in this empty wheelie bin and pretend I am a Chilean miner." SPLASH!!!!
Tommy bobbed to the top twice before we dragged him out, using a garden rake and a pitch fork. OH, he did look pale. Tommy spluttered and said, "I don't know why the wheelie-bin was filled with water, but the strange thing is, it tasted of prawn cocktail crisps!" I looked at Tubby, Tubby looked at me and the Universe, went on spinning on its merry way.
(Note to self. Burn hosepipe)
Tommy my cat, kicked the stuffing out of a Justin Beiber, life-size doll and said, "How I miss the old days. Days of culture and art. Tea on the lawn, a chukka of polo, dry sherry and the horse whipping of dirty, ugly, inbred servants."
"Shut your mouth, Brideshead Revisited!" I yelled. "Look at you, lounging about in baggy flannels, cricket sweater and a silver monocle stuck into your ocular. Change back into your overalls, and black lead that grate."
"We don't have a grate, old thing," said Tommy.
"Don't old thing me!" I yelled. "Black lead something. Don't just stand there, black lead our super-dooper, Hi-tech, stereo system, with surround sound, cigarette lighter,Sat Nav and heated rear view mirror."
Tommy went to a saucepan where an old flat cap had been boiling for two hours, dipped two cups into the hot liquid and brought them back to the table.
"AAH!" I said. "There's nothing like a cap-punnino to brighten you up in the morning!" Responding to a knock on the door, I was met with a big, grey wall which turned out to be Steven Nolan's ill fitting suit. "Stand back fat boy," I said. "I can't see your face." AAAAAAAGH!" I screamed, as a round, mellow, harvest moon face glared down at me. Tubby danced from foot to foot and whimpered, "Can I use your loo?"
"Certainly NOT!" I cried. "This house does not have industrial sewage pipes." "I'm brusting!" cried Tubby. "If I wet my trousers again, big Audrey might think I am regressing and make me wear a giant, sumo nappy."
I looked all around and said, "Next door's wheelie-bin is empty and the owners are away to see Dickie Rock preform without a zimmer frame." I picked up a hose pipe, nipped over the fence and stuck one end into the wheelie-bin, handed the other end to Tubby and said, "Go ahead! Pretend you are a B52 tanker refueling an F16 fighter plane." I then retired to bake a potato cake and avoid seeing anything which might frighten me, or make me laugh.
45 minutes later, Tubby knocked at the door with a big smile and a wet fork. It was then Tommy, opened the lid of the neighbours wheelie-bin and said with a giggle, "I'm going to sit in this empty wheelie bin and pretend I am a Chilean miner." SPLASH!!!!
Tommy bobbed to the top twice before we dragged him out, using a garden rake and a pitch fork. OH, he did look pale. Tommy spluttered and said, "I don't know why the wheelie-bin was filled with water, but the strange thing is, it tasted of prawn cocktail crisps!" I looked at Tubby, Tubby looked at me and the Universe, went on spinning on its merry way.
(Note to self. Burn hosepipe)
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Would He bring Back The Cat?
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which had the old dears of Saint Wayne's Old Folks' Home leaping in the air when a lorry load of Chinese Catheters arrived. "One catheter each," roared head nurse, Nellie Hess. "Unless you walk around enveloped in a perpetual rainbow."
"Pee at last," yelled an old codger. "Thank God almighty, pee at last."
Tommy my cat, directly descended from the Queen of Sheba's pussy, threw his flat cap in the air and cried,
"Another Northern Ireland nil! What consistency! The mathematical odds against it must be staggering and yet, Northern Ireland keep coming up with, Northern Ireland nils."
"The answer is simple," I said. "Good management, excellent coaching and a fierce determination to play for the jersey. Not that it matters," I said, "but how many goals did Norway score?"
"Who cares?" yelled Tommy. "The big sporting news being flashed all over the world is, against all the odds, Northern Ireland, have added to their tally of nils."
"We're not Brisbane, we're Northern Ireland," I sang"
"Here we go, here we go, here we go!" roared Tommy. There was a thunderous knock on the door and there stood a smiling, Mike Nesbitt, with a sheaf of Tom Elliot's electrifying, sound bites in his hand.
"Hi Mike," said Tommy. "How is old Tom?"
"Radiant!" said Mike. "Last week, our esteemed leader made a speech of such power and energy that only 44% of the audience fell asleep."
"A tour de farce," Said Tommy.
"Indeed!" said Mike. "A real Tom Elliot zinger. A tour de farce as you said. Listen, come the next election...."
"Not so fast!" I yelled. "Mike Nesbitt, former presenter, current MLA, husband of Lynda and chicken farmer, answer me one question, if I vote for you, will you bring back the cat?"
"I can't possibly do that," stuttered Mike. "The country would never stand for it."
"Take a look at Tommy," I said.
"I am," said Mike.
"Take a really GOOD look at Tommy!" I yelled. "Are you telling me that if that cat went missing, you would not bring back the cat?"
"Of course I would," stuttered Mike. "When you said, bring back the cat, I thought you meant......"
"Political claptrap and SPIN!" I yelled. "You will get no votes from me and Tommy. That lovely boy, Jim Allister, has promised to bring back the cat, the dog, the budgie AND the goldfish."
As Mike walked sadly away, Tommy yelled after him, "I wouldn't eat your old eggs if you paid me!"
Trust wee Tommy, to come up with the clincher!!!!!
"Pee at last," yelled an old codger. "Thank God almighty, pee at last."
Tommy my cat, directly descended from the Queen of Sheba's pussy, threw his flat cap in the air and cried,
"Another Northern Ireland nil! What consistency! The mathematical odds against it must be staggering and yet, Northern Ireland keep coming up with, Northern Ireland nils."
"The answer is simple," I said. "Good management, excellent coaching and a fierce determination to play for the jersey. Not that it matters," I said, "but how many goals did Norway score?"
"Who cares?" yelled Tommy. "The big sporting news being flashed all over the world is, against all the odds, Northern Ireland, have added to their tally of nils."
"We're not Brisbane, we're Northern Ireland," I sang"
"Here we go, here we go, here we go!" roared Tommy. There was a thunderous knock on the door and there stood a smiling, Mike Nesbitt, with a sheaf of Tom Elliot's electrifying, sound bites in his hand.
"Hi Mike," said Tommy. "How is old Tom?"
"Radiant!" said Mike. "Last week, our esteemed leader made a speech of such power and energy that only 44% of the audience fell asleep."
"A tour de farce," Said Tommy.
"Indeed!" said Mike. "A real Tom Elliot zinger. A tour de farce as you said. Listen, come the next election...."
"Not so fast!" I yelled. "Mike Nesbitt, former presenter, current MLA, husband of Lynda and chicken farmer, answer me one question, if I vote for you, will you bring back the cat?"
"I can't possibly do that," stuttered Mike. "The country would never stand for it."
"Take a look at Tommy," I said.
"I am," said Mike.
"Take a really GOOD look at Tommy!" I yelled. "Are you telling me that if that cat went missing, you would not bring back the cat?"
"Of course I would," stuttered Mike. "When you said, bring back the cat, I thought you meant......"
"Political claptrap and SPIN!" I yelled. "You will get no votes from me and Tommy. That lovely boy, Jim Allister, has promised to bring back the cat, the dog, the budgie AND the goldfish."
As Mike walked sadly away, Tommy yelled after him, "I wouldn't eat your old eggs if you paid me!"
Trust wee Tommy, to come up with the clincher!!!!!
I know a secret but I'm not goin to tell you!
Great show yesterday kid. It must be great when, like Biggles, you can fly the old crate solo, without Mr Coyle watching your every move and pulling you up every time you are economical with the truth.
Tommy my cat, sat behind the Cullybaccy Chronicle and said, "Ex Monkee, Davie Jones dies, age 66.
James Murdock, son of his daddy said, "The law is closing in. I'm getting out of here!
Bishop makes YET another apology.
Oh, here's a good public interest story. "Mother-in-law, made me run away from home." said a 67 year old business man, who was found hiding in a storm drain." Tommy bristled as he read. "Kitten FREE to good home."
"It's never PUPS!" yelled Tommy. "Always, kittens. What kind of world do we live in," roared Tommy, "when a canine who rolls in his own filth is preferred over a cuddly, fluffy, friendly pussie?"
"Read something else Tommy," I cried, as I sat in a wheelbarrow, eating curds and WAY-HEY! with a big spoon. "The rest is all Titanic stuff," said Tommy. "Where she was built. Where she sank and the old urban legend, that the band played on."
"Poor Titanic," I said, "lying in a watery grave, just like Joey, my first goldfish."
Tommy looked all around, shuffled his feet and whispered, "Sometimes, now don't get me wrong, sometimes, I hate the very name, Titanic!"
"I know what you mean," I said. "Unfinished business. A black cloud hanging over Ulster. OH!!" I shrieked. "Will we never find CLOSURE?"
"I was thinking last night," said Tommy, "as I lay for four hours in front of a mouse hole, "the only resolution and solution to the Titanic hanlin' is to build another Titanic!"
"Brilliant! Amazing!" I yelled. "The answer is to get back on the horse. Build a bigger, better Titanic and this time, don't stint on the rivets."
Tommy ruminated, not a pretty sight to see and said,
"But what if Titanic 2 goes down with huge loss of life?"
"Radio controlled!" I yelled. "On its maiden voyage, Titanic 2, will carry no crew or passengers. The steering, the brakes, the horn and the indicators will be worked by remote-radio control."
"You little grotesque!" yelled Tommy. "It's fool proof. Soon, Ulster will regain its pride. Just one thing," said Tommy. "What if the radio signals sent to the Titanic 2 are interfered with by taxis? We don't want Titanic 2, turning up at Spamount Street, to take some woman to the hairdressers."
"Damn you Tommy cat!" I yelled. "Why must you rain on my parade? Why must you drop my icecream in the mud? Why must you be so, sensible???"
"There, there," said Tommy. "Don't take on so. Dry your pretty little pus filled eyes. Tonight, when on mouse watch, I will invent a jamming device for the Titanic 2's radio. Cheer up my little muskrat, the Titanic shall sail AGAIN!"
Overcome with excitement and gross stupidity, bordering on thickness, I threw off my clothes and ran down the street singing, "I know a secret, but I'm not going to tell you!"
(The things we learn at school, never leave us)
Tommy my cat, sat behind the Cullybaccy Chronicle and said, "Ex Monkee, Davie Jones dies, age 66.
James Murdock, son of his daddy said, "The law is closing in. I'm getting out of here!
Bishop makes YET another apology.
Oh, here's a good public interest story. "Mother-in-law, made me run away from home." said a 67 year old business man, who was found hiding in a storm drain." Tommy bristled as he read. "Kitten FREE to good home."
"It's never PUPS!" yelled Tommy. "Always, kittens. What kind of world do we live in," roared Tommy, "when a canine who rolls in his own filth is preferred over a cuddly, fluffy, friendly pussie?"
"Read something else Tommy," I cried, as I sat in a wheelbarrow, eating curds and WAY-HEY! with a big spoon. "The rest is all Titanic stuff," said Tommy. "Where she was built. Where she sank and the old urban legend, that the band played on."
"Poor Titanic," I said, "lying in a watery grave, just like Joey, my first goldfish."
Tommy looked all around, shuffled his feet and whispered, "Sometimes, now don't get me wrong, sometimes, I hate the very name, Titanic!"
"I know what you mean," I said. "Unfinished business. A black cloud hanging over Ulster. OH!!" I shrieked. "Will we never find CLOSURE?"
"I was thinking last night," said Tommy, "as I lay for four hours in front of a mouse hole, "the only resolution and solution to the Titanic hanlin' is to build another Titanic!"
"Brilliant! Amazing!" I yelled. "The answer is to get back on the horse. Build a bigger, better Titanic and this time, don't stint on the rivets."
Tommy ruminated, not a pretty sight to see and said,
"But what if Titanic 2 goes down with huge loss of life?"
"Radio controlled!" I yelled. "On its maiden voyage, Titanic 2, will carry no crew or passengers. The steering, the brakes, the horn and the indicators will be worked by remote-radio control."
"You little grotesque!" yelled Tommy. "It's fool proof. Soon, Ulster will regain its pride. Just one thing," said Tommy. "What if the radio signals sent to the Titanic 2 are interfered with by taxis? We don't want Titanic 2, turning up at Spamount Street, to take some woman to the hairdressers."
"Damn you Tommy cat!" I yelled. "Why must you rain on my parade? Why must you drop my icecream in the mud? Why must you be so, sensible???"
"There, there," said Tommy. "Don't take on so. Dry your pretty little pus filled eyes. Tonight, when on mouse watch, I will invent a jamming device for the Titanic 2's radio. Cheer up my little muskrat, the Titanic shall sail AGAIN!"
Overcome with excitement and gross stupidity, bordering on thickness, I threw off my clothes and ran down the street singing, "I know a secret, but I'm not going to tell you!"
(The things we learn at school, never leave us)
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Remake of "The Quiet Man"
Great show to start the week kid. The great show helped to alleviate the disappointment of the space-mad inhabitants of Drumquin and surrounding districts. Last Saturday the countdown began to launch Drumquin's first,un-manned, rocket to Saturn.
"Three, Two, One!" There was a BANG, cloud of blue, diesel fumes and the rocket took off like a bat out of hell. As the people of Drumquin danced in the streets, the bogs and the shucks, the rocket veered off course, knocking the chimney off the local pub. The Saturn bound rocket, tore through a hedge and nearly decapitated an old farmer who was planting a tin of Crosse and Blackwell marrow fat peas. Local,garage mechanic and space technician, Bert Yob yelled,
"Damn it! I was so busy fitting the diagonal steam trap, I clean forgot to fit a gyroscope."
An old codger cleaned his nose on his sleeve and roared, "Some day boys we will boldly go!"
Then an ice cream van went by playing the theme music from "William Tell" and the old codger raced after it like a whippet.
Tommy my cat, hurled a rare, Ming vase at my head and said,
"Well, the Oscars are over and the "Artist" swept the board."
"What a stroke of genius!" I yelled. "A silent, black and white film is a giant step into the future. I would not be surprised if best film next year is a magic lantern show."
"Do I sense a hint of cynicism in your outrageous statement?" said Tommy.
"YES, you do!" I yelled. "Years from now we will look back and wonder why a film from the 30's should create such excitement from the critics and the chattering classes. HYPE!" I yelled. "The critics hyped it up and the judges followed like sheep!".
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "I think the time is right to make a remake of, "The Quiet Man."
I reeled back on my heels and cried, "Bravo Tommy. Cometh the hour, cometh the cat. Whom in your opinion should play the part of John Wayne?"
"Noel Thompson," said Tommy. "Rugged, craggy-jawed Noel Thompson is the only man who could play that part with conviction."
"And the part of Maureen O'Hara," I said. "Who shall Noel Thomson drag through the village?"
"Ann Robinson," said Tommy. "Feisty, ginger nut, Ann Robinson is made for that part."
"The big fight scene Tommy," I yelled. "Who shall fight with rugged, craggy-jawed, Noel Thompson?"
"There's only one man alive who could play that part," said Tommy. "And that man is, Steven Nolan."
"What a cast!" I cried. "Tommy, you are another John Huston."
"Not so fast," said Tommy. "There is another part to be cast and that part is, Barry O'Sullivan, the Irish droll."
I racked my brain, stirred my brain cell, put on my thinking cap and yelled, "Why Tommy, the answer is staring you in the face. The only man to play the wily marriage maker is, wee Hugo Duncan. I can see him now, sitting in a little trap and yelling at the top of his voice, "Hi boys, if you'se want weemen, your uncle Hugo is the boy to go to. What about big Ethel? She has some of her own teeth and hair. Been around the block a few times, but goes like the clappers. Good headlights, bumpers and big end. Three month warranty. Very good for off-road Shenanigans."
Tommy shook his head and said,
"Hugo Duncan, could never be in a film called, "The Quiet Man."
Reluctantly, I concurred while pulling grotesque faces and kicking madly with my left leg.
"Three, Two, One!" There was a BANG, cloud of blue, diesel fumes and the rocket took off like a bat out of hell. As the people of Drumquin danced in the streets, the bogs and the shucks, the rocket veered off course, knocking the chimney off the local pub. The Saturn bound rocket, tore through a hedge and nearly decapitated an old farmer who was planting a tin of Crosse and Blackwell marrow fat peas. Local,garage mechanic and space technician, Bert Yob yelled,
"Damn it! I was so busy fitting the diagonal steam trap, I clean forgot to fit a gyroscope."
An old codger cleaned his nose on his sleeve and roared, "Some day boys we will boldly go!"
Then an ice cream van went by playing the theme music from "William Tell" and the old codger raced after it like a whippet.
Tommy my cat, hurled a rare, Ming vase at my head and said,
"Well, the Oscars are over and the "Artist" swept the board."
"What a stroke of genius!" I yelled. "A silent, black and white film is a giant step into the future. I would not be surprised if best film next year is a magic lantern show."
"Do I sense a hint of cynicism in your outrageous statement?" said Tommy.
"YES, you do!" I yelled. "Years from now we will look back and wonder why a film from the 30's should create such excitement from the critics and the chattering classes. HYPE!" I yelled. "The critics hyped it up and the judges followed like sheep!".
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "I think the time is right to make a remake of, "The Quiet Man."
I reeled back on my heels and cried, "Bravo Tommy. Cometh the hour, cometh the cat. Whom in your opinion should play the part of John Wayne?"
"Noel Thompson," said Tommy. "Rugged, craggy-jawed Noel Thompson is the only man who could play that part with conviction."
"And the part of Maureen O'Hara," I said. "Who shall Noel Thomson drag through the village?"
"Ann Robinson," said Tommy. "Feisty, ginger nut, Ann Robinson is made for that part."
"The big fight scene Tommy," I yelled. "Who shall fight with rugged, craggy-jawed, Noel Thompson?"
"There's only one man alive who could play that part," said Tommy. "And that man is, Steven Nolan."
"What a cast!" I cried. "Tommy, you are another John Huston."
"Not so fast," said Tommy. "There is another part to be cast and that part is, Barry O'Sullivan, the Irish droll."
I racked my brain, stirred my brain cell, put on my thinking cap and yelled, "Why Tommy, the answer is staring you in the face. The only man to play the wily marriage maker is, wee Hugo Duncan. I can see him now, sitting in a little trap and yelling at the top of his voice, "Hi boys, if you'se want weemen, your uncle Hugo is the boy to go to. What about big Ethel? She has some of her own teeth and hair. Been around the block a few times, but goes like the clappers. Good headlights, bumpers and big end. Three month warranty. Very good for off-road Shenanigans."
Tommy shook his head and said,
"Hugo Duncan, could never be in a film called, "The Quiet Man."
Reluctantly, I concurred while pulling grotesque faces and kicking madly with my left leg.
Friday, 2 March 2012
Toffee Apples and Pineapple Chunks. It's Discrimination!
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought a glimmer of hope to an old codger who had fallen down a deep well while out picking wild, exotic herbs for his champ. When the rescue crew arrived, the leader yelled down the well, "Hey, you down there. Did you break anything?" After what seemed like an eternity the old codger replied. NO! There was nothing down here!"
"Nutter!" muttered the rescue officer, as he lowered a trampoline down the well so the old codger could bounce to safety. As the old codger's head appeared above the well, a quick thinking rescuer threw a lasso round the old grey's neck and dragged the old codger to safety. "Stall the weddin'!" cried the old relic. "I have to go back! I left my free bus pass at the bottom of the well!"
Tommy my cat, hitched up his short, grey trousers, adjusted his old school tie and said, "Hey! droopy drawers, put down that lovable, African pygmy and attend to me." I carefully put little Terence back in his cardboard box and cried,
"Speak! A vast capacity of knowledge is stored in the canyons of my mind."
Tommy stood in front of me like a young David Dimbleby and said, "Noel Thompson appears in Newsline and also, Hearts and Minds. Paul Clarke, appears in UTV Live and also in UTV Live Extra. Mark Carruthers appears in BBC news programmes and also in Let's Talk. Donna Traynor appears in Newsline and only Newsline!"
Suddenly the enormity of Tommy's conjuncture hit me like a double-decker bus. Donna Traynor was being short changed, taken to the cleaners!
"Sex discrimination!" I yelled. "All three men have two jobs, but poor Donna Traynor has only one! What do we want?" I yelled. "One woman, two jobs. When do we want it? NIGH!"
"Not so fast Emily Pankhurst," said Tommy. "There could be a simple explanation."
"Toffee apples and pineapple chunks!" I yelled. "It's naked, blatant, sex discrimination. Man the barricades! storm the Bastille! Form occupy movements! Phone Eamon McCann!"
"Did you never think," said Tommy, "that Donna Traynor might have a fish and chip run at night?"
In a flash I saw it. Donna Traynor, wearing a neat, blue uniform, motoring round Ulster in a wee van with, "Donna's Chipper" written on the side. I saw Donna, standing in a cloud of steam, giving the chips a good rumble. Tubby Nolan, stands looking in, drooling at the mouth like a doberman. "A plethora of fish suppers," roars Tubby, waving a fifty pound note in the air. As quickly as Donna fries Tubby, gobbles them up and cries for, MORE! Finally, Donna yells, "Sling your hook fat boy, you've had your chips!". As Donna drives away, with steam rising from her lum, Tubby chases after her like a rhino on steroids. Tubby's fat, little fingers fly over the keypad of his mobile phone and soon a convoy of fish and chip vans stop beside the galloping, gluttonous gourmet.
"CHIPS!" yells Tubby. "In the name of Allah, chips, fish, sausages and PIES!"
"Nutter!" muttered the rescue officer, as he lowered a trampoline down the well so the old codger could bounce to safety. As the old codger's head appeared above the well, a quick thinking rescuer threw a lasso round the old grey's neck and dragged the old codger to safety. "Stall the weddin'!" cried the old relic. "I have to go back! I left my free bus pass at the bottom of the well!"
Tommy my cat, hitched up his short, grey trousers, adjusted his old school tie and said, "Hey! droopy drawers, put down that lovable, African pygmy and attend to me." I carefully put little Terence back in his cardboard box and cried,
"Speak! A vast capacity of knowledge is stored in the canyons of my mind."
Tommy stood in front of me like a young David Dimbleby and said, "Noel Thompson appears in Newsline and also, Hearts and Minds. Paul Clarke, appears in UTV Live and also in UTV Live Extra. Mark Carruthers appears in BBC news programmes and also in Let's Talk. Donna Traynor appears in Newsline and only Newsline!"
Suddenly the enormity of Tommy's conjuncture hit me like a double-decker bus. Donna Traynor was being short changed, taken to the cleaners!
"Sex discrimination!" I yelled. "All three men have two jobs, but poor Donna Traynor has only one! What do we want?" I yelled. "One woman, two jobs. When do we want it? NIGH!"
"Not so fast Emily Pankhurst," said Tommy. "There could be a simple explanation."
"Toffee apples and pineapple chunks!" I yelled. "It's naked, blatant, sex discrimination. Man the barricades! storm the Bastille! Form occupy movements! Phone Eamon McCann!"
"Did you never think," said Tommy, "that Donna Traynor might have a fish and chip run at night?"
In a flash I saw it. Donna Traynor, wearing a neat, blue uniform, motoring round Ulster in a wee van with, "Donna's Chipper" written on the side. I saw Donna, standing in a cloud of steam, giving the chips a good rumble. Tubby Nolan, stands looking in, drooling at the mouth like a doberman. "A plethora of fish suppers," roars Tubby, waving a fifty pound note in the air. As quickly as Donna fries Tubby, gobbles them up and cries for, MORE! Finally, Donna yells, "Sling your hook fat boy, you've had your chips!". As Donna drives away, with steam rising from her lum, Tubby chases after her like a rhino on steroids. Tubby's fat, little fingers fly over the keypad of his mobile phone and soon a convoy of fish and chip vans stop beside the galloping, gluttonous gourmet.
"CHIPS!" yells Tubby. "In the name of Allah, chips, fish, sausages and PIES!"
Thursday, 1 March 2012
How Do You Spell Collaborationists?
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!!!!
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!!!!
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