The Hair Of The Dog For The Cat.

Great show yesterday kid. After the Saint Patrick's Day celebrations, Tommy my cat, came down the stairs on trembling legs. Oh, he was pale and wan. Tommy staggered to a chair, slumped down and whimpered, "Tell the walls to stop screaming!"
"You dirty, dirty cat!" I yelled. "I will have to wash all your bedclothes and your Betty Boop pyjamas."
"I'm sick," moaned Tommy. "I must have got a bad fish supper."
"Bad fish supper, my Aristotle Onassis!" I yelled. "You were poured in here at four o'clock in the morning. You were singing, a dirty rugby song and wearing nothing but a tattered simmet and one sock. Where were you?" I roared.
"At the Holy Lands," whispered Tommy. "I fell in with some Tyrone culshies and ended up at a bottle party."
"Poor Saint Patrick!" I yelled. "That's a fine way to honour the man who made the snakes scarper. You should be ashamed of yourself," I cried. "You are nothing but a booze hound, a newt, a drunk, a bum, a wino and a cat who drinks to excess. Now, what do you want for your breakfast?"
"Vodka and white," muttered Tommy, gazing up at me with two, red, pus filled eyes.
"Good boy!" I cried, "The hair of the dog, will soon cure the cat."
"Stop talking," said Tommy, " and bring on the Smirnoff." Soon, little Tommy was up on his feet singing, dancing and telling jokes which would be banned on HBO.
I came upon Steven Nolan, reversing out of a sweet shop. "BEEP-BEEP!" went Tubby. "Keep her coming," cried an old codger, who was standing behind Tubby, directing the reversing mass out to the street.
"You just had to show off yesterday!" I cried. "Biggest show in the country and biggest bunch of shamrocks on Saint Patrick's Day."
Tubby burped, which make his eyes blink and his ears shoot out and said, "I couldn't find a bunch of shamrocks big enough for my massive suit, so I pinned on a large cabbage."
"Good thinking fat man," I said.
I looked at the oval one and said, "I heard your good, saintly mother being interviewed on the radio by Vinny. She said, as a boy, you were a real go getter, sweeping out a garage at the age of eight, selling sandwiches to orange men, mowing gardens, washing windows, working as a scarecrow for farmers, ANYTHING! to earn a penny or two."
"Big Audrey is right," said Tubby. "As soon as I was out of nappies, I was earning. I was a real Sir Alan Sugar."
"And another thing," I yelled. "Your dear, sainted mother said, that as a boy, you were very thin!"
"Tubby stood there, gobsmacked."
I lay at Tubby's feet, looked up at the quivering mass and said,
"Where did it all go wrong Steven? Where did it all go wrong?"

The UUP Grand National.

Great shows last week kid, which spurred on Irish mountaineer, Timmy Tucker from Trillick, as he struggled to climb Mount Everest with an Ikea, flat pack, cement mixer strapped to his back.
When Timmy, reached the summit he planned to build a giant statue of Padre Pio, standing with his arms out-stretched. Timmy giggled when he thought how mad the Dali Lama would be.
"I'll put the Zen out of the wee saffron boy," laughed Timmy.
Tommy my cat, swung round from the fire where he had been heating his feline fork and said,
"SO it's just going to be a two horse race in the upcoming UUP grand national. The favourite at the moment is Mike Nesbitt. Name recognition is a big plus for Mike. The other dark horse is, John McAllister.
Not much is known about John. No one has ever heard of him. Even his own mother, when asked how she thought her son would do in the election, gave a shriek and cried, "Our John? Are you sure it's, our John?"
"Tommy!" I yelled. "Put on a Jeremy Paxman face and highlight the political differences between the two contenders. Pretend you are interviewing John McAllister and Mike Nesbitt." Tommy, changed into a grey suit, put a sour gub on him and said,
"Well Mr McAllister, it's all falling apart, isn't it? No one knows you. You seem to be, Mr Nobody!"
"Not at all Mr Paxman, the reality is, I am quite well known by some members of my own family."
"What are your policies Mr McAllister? Suppose by some miracle you were elected the leader of the UUP, what would you do first?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question Mr Paxman. When I am elected leader, I will lead the UUP party into opposition.".
"Opposition to-what Mr McAllister?"
"Everything! Mr Paxman. When I am leader, the UUP party will oppose everything, everybody, and sit in a darkened room singing, "Nobody loves you when you're down and out".
"Go away Mr McAllister! Mr Nesbitt,I had high hopes for you. You could have been another ME! You could have been a contender. Where did it all go wrong Mr Nesbitt?"
"Au contraire Jeremy, when I am elected leader of the UUP, I will rejuvenate the party and stir the grass roots. Under my leadership young, sprightly, sixty year olds will be queueing up join the party."
"Come, come, Mr Nesbitt that's what Trimble, Empey and old Tom Elliott said. What have you got that makes you different from former leaders?"
"Well, Jeremy, I have dedication, enthusiasm, honesty and the finest flock of chickens this side of the river Bann."
"Well there you have it ladies and gentlemen. Who will lead the UUP? McAllister or Nesbitt? Quite frankly, I don't care. In my, far from humble opinion, the UUP are doomed to years of in-fighting, back stabbing and bickering, and will go gurgling down the drain in ever decreasing circles."
"Bravo Tommy!" I yelled. "That Paxman impersonation was so good I could feel the arrogance and superiority ooze out of you."
Tommy looked out the window at the little match girl and said, "Leadership of the UUP is a poisoned chalice. Many have fallen by the wayside, never to rise again. David Trimble was last seen prowling the house of Lords muttering, "Is this a dagger I see before me?" Sir Reg Empey, a brave and noble knight, has disappeared! Some say he has a hog farm in Utah, others say he dances every night at a certain venue under the name of, Valentino McGinty. Tom Elliott, poor old Tom Elliott, is a broken man. He sits alone in the barn, playing blues harmonica and watching out for political intrigue among his cows."
"Poor Mike Nesbitt!" I screamed. "All alone on the bridge of the Titanic, yelling "10% Starboard!" not knowing his ship has already been holed below the water line."
"The omens are not good," said Tommy. "Mike Nesbitt threw his hat into the ring on the ides of March!!"
"The Scottish play that shall not be named!" I shrieked.
"Ah, you talk of-Macbeth! said Tommy. At that moment the Gods turned against us. Jim Rodgers and Tubby Nolan appeared in our doorway. Jim was screaming, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" and the fat boy was singing,
"FOOD! glorious FOOD!"
"DOOMED!" cried Tommy, as he leaped into my arms and burst into tears.
Will it? Will it all end in-TEARS??????

So You Want To Be The Leader Of The UUP?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Mike Nesbitt think twice about running for the leadership of the UUP. After reading a heart-breaking petition from his chickens, pleading not to run, Mike told Rodney the rooster,
"I like hanging out with you guys. I love the clucking and clocking and the way the eggs pop out like little, white, rugby balls, but I have to think of my career. Sure it's fun rolling around with you guys in the dirt, under the apple tree, but if Ulster goes back to the crossroads, I want to be there calling for clarity and transparency and make sure that all agreements are copper fastened."
Rodney went over to a sandy spot and wrote with his beak, "David Trimble-Kaput! Sir Reg Empey, Kaput. Tom Elliott, Kaput. Mike Nesbitt, could also end up Kaputed!"
"Rodney," said Mike. "You have given me food for thought. I'll lay down under the apple tree. I got me a heap full of thinking to do."
Tommy, my cat, put his pink, clockwork mouse in his pocket and said, "Kudos to Janet for putting Mr Coyle in his place, when she told the nation that Mr Coyle was a bare faced liar."
"Gerry scare Janet?" I yelled. "Never, Trevor, Never!Gerry may be many things, but he is not a scarer of Janets!"
"The eyebrow is up to his old tricks," said Tommy. "He spends ever second of the show trying to malign Gerry. J'accuse Mr Coyle of being an unrepentant, serial maligner."
"He must be stopped!" I yelled. "Nuala O'Loane, must be called in to expose the eyebrow for what he is!"
Tommy stormed about, his little face red with anger and literally shrieked, "Put Coylers in the stocks! When the people see his big face staring out, he will get more than five pieces of fruit."
"Nice one Tommy," I said. "Give me a high five and a gangsta fist bump."
Tommy and I are cool when it comes to modern, hip talk. We use words and phrases like, "End off, Whatever! Wicked. Sorted! You betcha! Tickety-Boo and keep her lit".
Tommy unpeeled a banana, took a bite, zipped it up again and whispered soft and low, "I was talking to the lovely, tanned, Julian Symmons last night. Old Jaffa head told me that UTV, will soon be screening a new reality show called,
"SO, you want to be the leader of the UUP!"
"Goodie-goodie!" I cried. "Do you know any of the contestants?"
"The usual suspects," said Tommy. "John McCririck, Vanessa Feltz, the drummer out of Mud and a guy from Northern Ireland called, John McCallister."
"Never heard of him," I said. "Any American rappers? You can't have a reality show without a rapper. My favourite rapper is, Ice Lolly."
"No rappers," said Tommy. "But Julian said, there may be a few surprise canditates from Northern Ireland which may surprise you."
"John Daly!!" I cried. "That explains why the dome has been keeping a low profile."
Tommy sighed and said, "No matter how hard I try, my mind keeps going back to poor, old, Tom Elliott. The last I heard, old Tom had bought a banjo and was spending all his time sitting on the porch steps a plinking an a whittling."
"Old Tom, is still on a political high," I said. "In time, the aroma of cow dung will erase all memories of Stormont."
Tommy sighed again and said, "Will we never hear his exciting, exhilarating, silver-tounged oratory again?"
"No," I said sadly. "Only the cows and the hogs, the cats and the dogs, will ever hear Tom Elliott again!"
"Bummer!" said Tommy, pointing at my derriere.

It Has A Ring To It!

Great show to start the week kid. The great show blew the cobwebs from the canyons of my wind, girded my loose loins and gave me a raison de-etre, which I pickled in cider and placed in a jar. The great show brought faith, hope and sanity to old Ruby Capsules, who had been trapped in her room for three days with both feet down one leg of her knickers. A quick thinking window cleaner dialled 999 and yelled, "I need an ambulance and a brace of vicars, old lady trapped in a pair of knickers!" The firemen cut old Ruby out of her mangled knickers and the chief fireman said, "I bet what you need right now is a good slash."
Old Ruby, smiled at him with her gums and cackled, "Oh contraire young man. I have had numerous slashes while waiting for you!"
Gas masks were immediately issued to all the crew!
Tommy my cat, turned off the radio by showing it naked pictures of me and said,
"Well, Mr Coyle has only gone and done it! He called Gerry a bare-faced liar on live radio."
"He's a bad boy," I said. "He needs a sharp, sally rod round the backs of his legs. If I had Mr Coyle now, I would put him over my knee and wring his neck!" "He called Gerry a liar!" said Tommy. "In the old West of Belfast, that was a prelude to gun play."
"Where will he go from here?" I screamed. "Will he call Gerry a robber, a murderer, or heaven forbid, an entertainer!" Tommy opened a packet of biscuits with a chainsaw and said,
"Mr Coyle blames his erratic, corner-boy behavior on a fall. According to Mr Coyle, while dodging rubber bullets, he fell from the roof of the Rossville flats and landed on his head."
"NO excuses!" I yelled. "No one has fallen on their head more than me and I am completely normal."
The Pinteresque pause which followed, lasted for three hours, then Tommy looked at me and said,
"Do you believe Gerry's story about sending a wee parcel free by bus?"
"Of course NOT!" I said. "It's just another lie, from the master of lies, Gerald Michael Anderson!"
Tommy finally caught the green pea he had been chasing round his plate with a knife and said,
"I wonder what old, ousted, former UUP leader Tom Elliott is doing now."
"Probably waiting for the result of a no confidence motion brought about by his cows," I replied.
"What," said Tommy, "if the cows, like so many in Northern Ireland, say-NO?"
"In that case," I said. "Old Tom will be thrown into a white van and taken straight to the house of Lords."
"The final indignity," said Tommy. "Oh the shame, the shame!"
"It will be a long time," I yelled, "before old Tom Elliott is seen in Joe Mahon's in Irvinestown on Karaoke night."
"What a come down!" said Tommy. "Old Tom sure liked to belt out "Rhinestone Cowboy". I wonder what name Lord Elliott would take?"
I ruminated behind the sofa and said, "How about, Lord Erne from Fermanagh?"
"I like it," said Tommy. "Like old Tom's bull, it has a ring to it!"

No Farmer Tom To Kick Around Now?

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which should be produced as a boxed set and inflicted on the poor, unsuspecting public.
Speaking from his home in Lisburn, retired balloon-blower-upper, Sheriff McGinty said, "Yes, it is true, I am an expert on great shows. The great shows I heard last week, were, in my humble opinion, the greatest shows I have ever heard."
When asked about the swift departure of UUP leader, Tom Elliott, Mr McGinty slammed the door and yelled through the letter box, "You can't pin that on me! I was at home all night with a girl from an escort agency. You ain't pinning that on me! I know nothing about that man, Tom Elliott."
Tommy my cat, stood on a soap box and roared, "Ladies and gentlemen, in the up coming race for leader of the UUP, I am offering 7/4 Mike Nesbitt, 3/1 Basil McCrea and one zillion to two on David McNarry."
I pulled a Wells Fargo safe out of my pocket and cried, "I'll have a monkey on Nesbitt, a pony on McCrea and diddly-squat on McNarry."
Tommy gave a wicked grin a licence to play over his face and said, "Sorry, I can't accept diddly squats. The Dow Jones predicts, that by two minutes past four today, the bottom will have fallen out of the diddly squat currency."
"Freddy Mac and Fanny Hill!" I yelled, as in a panic, I ran home, grabbed all the diddly squats from under the mattress and sprinted to the bank to exchange them for spondulicks.
I looked at Tommy as he put the final touches to a beautiful, charcoal drawing of Lord Nelson's father, Full Nelson, yes, Nelson's daddy was a bit of a newt and said, "Will he go for it?"
Tommy wiped his hands on my tongue and said, "Will whom go for what?"
"Leadership of the UUP," I cried. "Will Mike Nesbitt, throw his hat, cap, or bonnet into the ring?"
"Leading the UUP," said Tommy, "is like minding mice at Captain Terence O'Neill's crossroads. The UUP, is a divided party. The UUP has more splits than the Bolshoi Ballet.".
"If that be the case," I yelled,"why do they call themselves, the UNITED! Ulster Party?"
"A misnomer if every there was one," replied Tommy.
"Leave wee Miss Nomer alone," I cried. "She's only trying to make a living. I saw her last night, standing under a lamp post, smoking a fag and bothering no one."
Tommy ignored me, looked out the window at the muffin man and said, "The upcoming election will be dirty in the extreme. Name calling will reach epidemic proportions. God help any man whose father, OR, grandfather, ever attended a Gaelic match, was seen in the vicinity of a chapel or cavorting at a gay pride march!"
I yanked out my last remaining wisdom tooth and screamed, "It's a battle for hearts and minds!"
Tommy, coughed up a fur ball and said, "Think of Ulster as a slaughter house. The best bits of meat are fought over by the DUP and Sinn Fein. What the UUP and the Alliance party get is meat that has been hoovered up from the dirty floor."
"Sausages and pies!" I roared. "It's awful that the UUP and the Alliance party are left with awful offal."
"In my opinion," said Tommy,"I think Mike Nesbitt, should bide his time. Let the hare sit. Let some other fool lead the UUP and THEN, leap in as the saviour of the party, the country and democracy."
"I concur!" I yelled. "To Mike I say, chuckie are lah!
And Mike's chickens will be soooo pleased. They look up to Mike as a role model and a father figure."
"So let it be written," yelled Tommy. "So let it be done!"
Are you happy now UUP'ers, you don't have farmer Tom Elliott, to kick around?????

The Reason Behind The Tolerance At Stormont.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought a modicum of sanity to Sunshine Sally from Strabane, who was attacked by a rare, Maltese falcon as she cleaned out the guttering on her home. As the falcon repeatedly dive bombed Sally, her husband, life-long, dole, claimant Uggy, who was holding the ladder yelled, "Sally, for God's sake stop playing with the wee birdie, that DLA form won't fill itself in!"
Sally yelled, expletives deleted, as the falcon flew off with her ear in its beak. "Dammit!" roared Sally. "That big scaldie has made off with my good, fake, emerald ear ring."
Tommy my cat, my friend, companion and mentor, threw a bucket of coal on the electric fire and said, "Things are very quiet up at Stormont. Does the white, dove of peace sit, fluttering its wings on the speaker's rostrum?"
"NO!" I yelled. "The reason for tolerance at Stormont can be summed up in three words: Prozac, Valium and Temazepam."
"You don't mean..,"Yelled Tommy.
"Oh, but I do!" I roared. "After Ulster at the crossroads again, and again and a plethora of roadblocks, Prime Minister, Tony Blair, with the help of MI5, MI6 and IKEA, decided secretly to spike all food and drinks at Stormont with tranquillizers!"
"Dopegate! yelled Tommy.
"Consider this," I cried. "look at the change that has come over, spitting cobra, Peter Robinson, Sein Fein bulldog, Martin McGuinnes and serial trouser dropper, Sammy Wilson."
Tommy ran to the dictionary and yelled, "Incredible!" Tommy turned to walk away, turned and cried,
"Hold on there! Hold on there! If all MLAs are drugged, how do you explain the red-faced, ire of Jim Allister?"
"A sad story," I said. "When just a lad, young Jim Allister fell out of his tree. I refer of course to the coconut tree that grew near the Allister residence. The doctor, who was high on snuff and Spangles, injected a very, strong, horse tranquillizer into the bum of wee Jim Allister, to take away the pain in his head. EVERY SINCE THAT DAY," I roared, "Jim Allister has been immune to all forms of sedation. NO drug can calm Jim Allister down! Jim Allister, will roar, shout and gulder until the grim reaper grabs him by his red, angry neck and leads him to eternal peace."
Tommy bowed his head and softly said, "Here's to Jim Allister, a man who tells it like it is, with logic garnered from the twisting canyons of his mind."
I raised my mug of 100% proof Ovaltine and yelled, "Here's to Jim, who's like him since Mr Angry died!"

Too Many Sick People Going To Hospital!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which helped ease the pain of the Clogher Ancient Ramblers' Club. After lunch on Monday, the ancient ramblers donned strong, hiking boots, all-weather, thermal clothing and set out to begin the long hike to the front gate of Saint Peter and Pauline's Old Folks' Home. At the dimming of the day, head nurse, Fred Crippin, became worried. A search party was sent out and discovered an old codger lying in the brambles, just ten yards from the front door. As the search continued, old relics were discovered lying by the wayside. Just a metre from the main gate, old Beano McDandy, was found crawling on his belly like a snake, with a trembling hand reaching out for the gate. After a nappy change, a hot bath and a good feed of champ, the old pre-deads, were able to sit girning and criticizing the "ONE SHOW".
Tommy my cat, removed his appendix with a tin opener and said,
"The health Service is in a bit of a mess." I picked up a DVD of, "Sex In The City" with the tongs, threw it on the fire and said,
"Edwin Poots said, the trouble is too many sick people are going to hopital to experience the thrill of lying on an hospital trolley for 48 hours. P, which stands for Poots, wants to ban sick people. From now on, if you want to be sick, you must go outside like the smokers do."
"Hold on!" yelled Tommy. "There will soon be more people standing smoking and puking outside, than there is inside."
"News Flash!" I cried. "From next Monday, drinkers, eaters and painters using toxic paint, must too stand outside."
"What about the library?" said Tommy.
"Outside," I said.
"Mothers giving birth?" said Tommy.
"Outside" I answered.
"Grave diggers?" said Tommy.
"Inside," I said. "With the exception of bank holidays, Pancake Tuesday and the Queen's two birthdays."
"Tiny, little tots of wains?" said Tommy.
"Outside" I said.
"Up with this I shall not put!" yelled Tommy. "I will not live in an alfresco society."
"OUTSIDE!" I yelled. "Anyone showing anger, envy, pride, or insufferable smugness must also go, outside."
As Tommy headed for the door he said, "What does Matt Baggott think of all this?"
"Let me read you a line from Baggott's briefs," I said.
"Anyone found milling about outside will be rounded up and banged up, inside." "STOP! the world, I want to get off!" yelled Tommy. I pressed down hard on the brakes and dropped Tommy off outside Eason's shop. What a lot of people I saw there, reading, smoking, eating, vomiting, painting and getting angry on the street. The big society? More like the big screw-up!!!!