Sport's Commentator is Running out Of Superlatives!!

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Olympic superstar, Usain Bolt, wonder if Mr Coyle could be his long-lost uncle, Rusty Bolt, who stowed away on the good ship Sabrina en route to Derry. Tommy my cat, sitting glued to the television screen, wearing a very skimpy vollyball outfit yelled, "These are the BEST Olympic games I have seen in the last four years. The running and leppin' are a joy to watch and team GB, has made the BBC forget all about Syria, Iran and the debt crisis. It almost seems all our troubles have gone away and been replaced with men and women in knickers running, swimming and leppin' like veritable gazelles and dolphins!" "It will all end in tears!" I cried. "Mark my words. It was a bad omen when busty, blonde Boris Johnson, hung from a wire like a village idiot. It was a portend for hunger, poverty and hard times. Therefore I say onto thee Tommy cat, Go home and prepare for instant, insidious insolvency! The yoke of poverty and misery will be placed round your neck like an albatross. And men, now abed, will rise and cry forth, "This is some hanlin'" Tommy roared, "Stop standing there like the very ancient mariner and go tell your tale of woe to someone who cares!" So I did! I told Nigel Dodds and Nigel is going to set up a select committee. Who said our MLAs just sit up at Stormont twiddling their thumbs? When I burst into Nigel's office, neither of his thumbs were a twiddle. He was reading, "50 shades of Grey" and whistling, "Happy days are here again." "Poor Steven Watson, has had a busy year," said Tommy. "How many times have we seen young Steven, standing drenched to the skin on a cold, windy golf course? How many times has he built up our hopes, only to dash them later with sad, woeful tales about bunkers and bad luck?" I threw a rotten tomato in the general direction of Iran and said, "At the start of the year, Steven Watson had a store of superlatives which any sporting commentator would give his eye teeth for. He even had a superfluous of super, smart superlatives stored in his garden shed. Now, the man who tells us what is going on, even though we can see it with our own eyes, is down to just seven superlatives, AND, one of the superlatives is bent and may be a counterfeit!" "Thundering, galloping Usain Bolts!" yelled Tommy. "This is serious! What will poor Steven do if he runs out of superlatives when Rory McIlroy, is putting on the 18th green to win the match AND a selection of superlatives from a very excited, Steven Watson. What is Steven supposed to DO? Stand flapping his gums, with his mouth open?" "Not if I can help it," I cried. "Today, I want everyone who listens to the Gerry show, to send superlatives to, Steven Watson, Care of the BBC, Belfast. So, come on folks, search the attic, the garage and the cubby hole under the stairs. If you were hoarding superlatives, now is the time to send them to a worthy cause. SSS. Send Superlatives to Steven. "Great idea!" yelled Tommy, "But may I address Mr Jordie Tuft. Jordie, old pal, please don't send in, "Keep her lit, 'till we get out". It is not really appropriate for sporting events. Hope your bum is healing nicely. Yours sincerely, Tommy the cat."

The BBC Coverage of The Olympic Games Is just Too Much!! Blanket Coverage Leads to Suffocation!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows, which brought back memories of the great depression, when an old codger, in a battered model T Ford, was stopped on route 66 out of Derry and charged with vagrancy. The codger, who insisted his name was Tom Joad, was found to be pissed on the grapes of wrath. "GOLD!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Another gold medal for team GB. Britain, has hit the mother lode. What a bonanza! It's a veritable Klondike! GOLD!!! Yet another Gold medal for team G!" I dusted the baby grand accordion, breathing heavily through my nose, yet saying nothing. "Stall the weddin' " yelled Tommy. "What's got up your hooter, why are you not cheering on team GB?" I spun round, duster in hand and yelled, "How can you sit there and give credence to an Olympic games, which is clearly under the influence of, DRUGS?" Tommy reeled back like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah and cried, "How dare you! How dare you, accuse the athletes of being on drugs!" "I speak NOT of the athletes!" I yelled. "Every athlete is as drug free as Tom Cruise, at a Scientology, Saturday night, fish fry." I quickly assembled an Ikea, flat pack podium, mounted it and roared, "J'accuse the sports commentators of broadcasting, while being high as a kite on illegal substances, which induce frantic excitement, bordering on hysteria." A small worried frown, with a ball, played over Tommy's face. "Have you heard them?" I yelled. "Have you heard the over-the-top, excited shrieks, yells and screams coming from our sports presenters? Every other word is, ""stunning, amazing, stupendous and world beating. I heard one drug fuelled moron scream out in a frenzy, "Britain doesn't have a competitor in this race, but if we did, I'm sure they would shatter the world record and win by a mile!" "So they gloat a little," said Tommy. "Let them have their day. The games got off to a bad start. Remember Boris Johnson, hanging from a wire, like a male version of Barbara Windsor?" "It's not just that," I moaned. "The BBC coverage is just too much. Wall to wall coverage and instant replays ad infinitum and ad nauseum. And, being ad free, no commercials to break up the continual, running, swimming, cycling, and leppin'. Oh, what I would give to see the loathsome tenor from, Go Compare. The Olympic games," I shrieked, "is nothing but a glorified school sports day! The BBC has lost all sense of balance. Blanket coverage leads to suffocation. I can't take anymore!" I yelled. "Tommy, in the name of Allah, put on a DVD of "The Quiet Man" or, "2,000 leagues under the sea". "NO!" roared Tommy. "Sebastion Coe, has worked hard for seven years. You will not be excused from the Olympic games. You will sit there for three weeks and enjoy it like the rest of us." "Joe Mahon!" I yelled. "Put on Joe Mahon! How I would love to see the bold Joe shear a sheep, or try his hand at quilt making." "NO!" cried Tommy. "These Olympic games cost eleven billion pounds and you will sit there and enjoy them, or I will tie you to the chair." I gave in. I sat in a stupor, as a voice, quivering with hysterical excitement screamed, "And here comes the British competitor in eighth place! What an amazing, stupendous performance from an athlete, giving his all for Britain. And LOOK! Boris Johnson, has left his seat and given the glorious Briton a big, wet kiss on the mouth. What a story he'll have to tell his grandchildren, if he's that way inclined. Simply amazing, stupendous, brilliant, magical! Now, sit back in your seat and enjoy the whole excited, amazing, stupendous race over again, in slow motion!"

The Weather Forecast from Frank Othello Mitchell as Wee Chinese Cutties win more Swimming Medals.

Great show yesterday kid, which greatly helped team GB, in their quest for gold in the Olympic games. "It's all good!" said David Cameron, as he was shown round a state-of-the-art sewage works in Cullybaccy. The little man, who gave Mr Cameron the guided tour, kept roaring, "I eat, drink and sleep sewage Mr Cameron, like my father before me." It was obvious the wee man was hoping for an OBE. Obnoxious, boring egidt. Tommy my cat came down the stairs in a state of languidness. I have seen Tommy in a languid state before, but this was bordering on lethargy. Tommy, wearing cherry red doublet and laddered hose put one hand to his head and opined, "Let us sit on the sand and talk of the death of Kings. The year goes on a pace and odds bodkins, the nights are drawing in. 'Tis August. The dog days of Summer. All too soon the sun, the great shining orb in the sky, will chart a course, taking it away from mortal man. Dark then, will be the day and of short duration. To frolic in the dark day, will be seen as a sign of madness. The prancing of a fool, who, devoid of brain, is seen by all as a weather vane, a stopped clock. His dance has all the jollity of a corpse on the gibbet. Then, will old men slumber before Winter fires, telling stirring tales of battle and merry romps in my lady's chamber. Old grey heads, chattering nonsense, like the crickets in the hearth. Men of youth, men of vigour, will champ at the bit. Confined indoors, they will verily punch and batter their nagging spouse. Children, now abed, will dream of sunlit streams, pigs' bladders, flying high into the bright blue yonder and picking flowers with the beauty and radiance of the jewels in the King's crown. Apart from that," said Tommy, "the Winter will be generally mild, with little or no snow or frost." "Thank you Frank Othello Mitchell!" I roared. "Attend me here! Hold this duck's legs wide open while I stuff it with onion, sausage meat and herbs." At the mention of the word, stuff, the duck gave a Quack and flew out the open door. Tommy opened a tin of beans, poured them out on the table and went to make some toast. Yes, it would be toast on beans-again! Tommy and I sat watching wee Chinese cutties win all the swimming medals at the Olympic games. "Well done Chew You!" yelled Tommy, as a Chinese child of four, broke the world record by two hours. "Swimming is very boring," I said. "To make it more interesting, take away the water and make the competitors swim on bare concrete. It would be quite jolly to see all the blood from cuts and grazes on knees and elbows." Tommy, pondered, ruminated and said, "Would you also take the water away from divers?" "Of course!" I replied. "If divers had to land, headfirst on hard concrete, there would be less showing off on the way down!". Just then, a herd of prowlers thundered down the street, followed by Edwin Poots, firing a double barrel shotgun into the air. "Hey up!" said Tommy. "It's our Edwin on prowler duty." I stood smartly to attention as the Chinese national anthem was played again and again and again!

Team GB Find It Hard To Strike Gold.

Great show yesterday kid. The Olympic games were stopped so the large crown could listen to it on the big screen. Every time you put Mr Coyle down, a big Mexican wave went through the stadium. Tommy my cat, wearing scanty, vermilion,volley ball pants and a lime green bandeau looked at me and said, "Britain is finding it hard to strike gold in the Olympic games." "It's all good!" I replied. "Seb Coe has looked into it and found that other countries are swimming and cycling faster and generally trying harder than we are. Now the problem has been identified, a select committee will be set up to see what needs to be done." "Good!" cried Tommy. "I like select committees. I like the way they sit in horse shoe formation. Very pastoral, very John Constable." After a timid knock on the door, a very deflated Jim Rodgers entered, "Jim!" I cried. "You look, disgruntled. Why no, nigh, nigh, nigh, for your old friends?" "I haven't a nigh, nigh, nigh, left in me," said Jim. "I thought, after my world famous tomato jump, I would be a certainty for the high jump in London, but Seb Coe, said I would turn the whole thing into a circus, so he did." Tommy, threw both arms round Jim's knee and cried, "Turn the Olympics into a circus? You, Jim Rodgers? Never! Your day will come Jim. Bide your time. In the meantime, go home, and prepare for bed!" He sat on the corner of Donegal Street, astride of an old packing case. YES! it was Tubby Nolan, selling clothes pegs, combs and coloured ribbons. "Hey, Sir Alan Sugar Rush," I yelled. "Has it come to this? Mrs Nolan's little boy selling rubbish on a street corner. Why Tubby? In the name of Friar Tuck-WHY?" "I need the money," growled Tubby. "All the major airlines got together and issued a decree that I, Tubby Nolan, must pay for three seats before boarding an aircraft." "It was hardly unforeseen," I said. "After the squashing of the two gentlemen of Verona.". "There must be another way to travel," said Tubby. "How does a hovercraft work?" "It works by air," I said. A crafty smile appeared on Tubby's face and he guldered, "I can provide plenty of air, point me in the direction of the hovercraft shop."

How Would You Sum Up The Opening Ceremony Of The Olympic Games London 2012?

Great shows last week kid. The great shows gave Danny Boyle inspiration, as he slaved into mid morning to put on the grand opening for the London, 2012, Olympic Games. I turned to Tommy my cat, who has first class honours degrees in art and basket weaving and said, "Tommy, how would you, a cat with many artistic accomplishments behind you, sum up the opening of the Olympic games?" Tommy, who was painting the windows black to keep direct sunlight from fading the new carpet said, "Well, I do like a good, green, grassy knoll, but I would sum up the opening of the Olympic games as, turgid." I fell back against a Clydesdale horse, which was taking a short cut through my house and cried, "TURGID? "Explain yourself, in any language other than Ulster/Scots, you whiskery feline." Tommy yelled, "Shut that door!" to the horse and continued, "The dictionary defines turgid as, tediously pompous and bombastic. Film director, Danny Boyle, thought he was making a film which would won the Palme D'Or, at the Cannes Film Festival. It was a miss-mash, a cross between the Telly Tubbies and My Fair Lady. And topping it all off with old, wrinkly Paul McCartney, was the final insult. The old fool should have been in his bed." "Well, I loved it!" I roared. "To see the Queen jump from a helicopter, was a real kick up the pants for old codgers everywhere. The big factory chimneys, climbing up into the air, The dancing nurses, David Beckham, Mr Bean! I loved every minute. It was Britain at its finest. Britain is a hard taskmaster, a wily mistress, an errant child. And how proud I was to see our wee Billy, Kenneth Branagh,complete with stove pipe hat, recite a passage from Shakespeare's, King Lear, while dressed as Britain's finest composer of music hall ballads, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, known to his friends as Issy." "I will say this," said Tommy. "It was very well received all over the world AND in the Mexican quarter of Ballymena. I take back what I said," said Tommy. "Danny Boyle, should be made a knight of the realm and a day of the Triffids." I picked up the Newsletter, gave a yelp and cried, "Listen to this! Edwin Poots, MLA, and part time juggler, fired a shotgun into the air to scare off prowlers." "It's all right for some," said Tommy. "When we have prowlers, I have to go to the front door and bark like an alasian." "There's no point in having a cat and barking yourself," I replied. Tommy went outside, kicked a can further down the street, came indoors and said, "How many gold medals have Britain won so far?" "None" I replied. "Good!" said Tommy. "That's a good base to start from. The only way to go is up." "Tubby Nolan should pick up a gold medal in the sumo wrestling," I said. "The way I see it," said Tommy. "The only thing standing between Tubby and a gold medal is a nappy malfunction. If Tubby's nappy should rip asunder, the fat boy will be disqualified on the spot." "Not only that," I said. "Tubby would prove, to a world wide audience, that he is not the biggest in the country." "I never really thought he was," said Tommy. "Not since the night in the hot tub at Noel Thompson's house. What a night that was! Noel was drinking guinness out of Donna Traynor's wellington boot and Sarah Travers was belting out, "My little Honda 50. Edwin Poots, broke up the party at four o'clock by barging in and firing both barrels of a shotgun into the air!"

The World of Twitter

Great show yesterday kid. The saga of the long poem continues. Was it really Seamus Heaney, as many people think? I greatly liked the poem. I would compare it to the Tour de-France. Good in bits but a little too long. People can only laugh so much. By the time the poem was over, I feel the audience were like a rat in a sewer pipe, simply going through the motions. What was the name of the saga and will it ever be made into a film? Tommy my cat came in, put down his brief case and said, "I heard the great show in a taxi. Mr Coyle is in a bad way. I fear he may never see another millennium. One eye has gone, rickets have played havoc with his legs and now he has a sore throat." "Swinging the lead!" I cried. "I am on to Mr "put it in the bin" Coyle. Mr Coyle, knows that Gerry will soon be entering the world of Twitter. Coyle knows that will entail more work for him. What Mr Coyle is doing is laying the ground work, so he can absent himself from Twitter on the grounds of ill health and a caterpillar eyebrow." "Tommy sighed and said, "I love Twitter, I wonder what Stephen Fry is doing at this moment." I put on a Stephen Fry voice and said, "Just met the lovely, fragrant Fiona Bruce at the Beeb. She flashed me a smile and threw me a rainbow trout, which I caught in my mouth like a seal." "Fiona Bruce would never stink up her handbag with fish!" yelled Tommy. "Maybe a tin or two of corned beef, but never fish!" To avoid a fight, we disagreed to agree. "Tommy!" I said, pointing to a Mayan calendar, you have been working for the past six months as a political adviser to UUP leader, Mike Nesbitt. How goes that work? Mike has a small Unionist base, I suppose the hunt is on for floaters." "It's a hard slog," said Tommy. The big hurdle for Mike Nesbitt and the Unionist party is the back woods men. We can't get them out of the woods. We have tried sheep dogs, low flying helicopters, stick and carrot, but the back woods men will not leave the woods. Last week we got a glimpse of Ken Maguinnes, grazing in open pasture, but before we could sedate him with a dart gun he was gone." "What about Napalm?" I said. "Defoliage the trees and the back woods men will be revealed in all their dinosaurian glory." "I shall bring it up with Mike at our next working breakfast," said Tommy. "Tommy," I whispered, "what does the lovely Lynda cook for your dinner." "Classified!" yelled Tommy. "Top Secret! If I told you what Lynda makes for dinner, I would be carted off to the Tower in Blackpool. And, further more," cried Tommy, "if I told you dinner was followed by stewed prunes and custard, Turkish coffee, Jacobs cream crackers and a choice of six cheeses, I would be sacked on the spot.". Loose lips sink ships. Loose lips also lose many sets of false teeth.

I Blame Sebastian Coe!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which livened up no end old Musha McCree, from the hills above Drumquin. For the past four years old Musha has been leaping shucks and bog holes hoping to be picked for the Northern Ireland team at the Olympic games in London. Musha was on the short list, but failed a drug test. Apparently he was pumped full of suelugs and magic mushrooms. Old Musha, took it badly. He jumped on his bicycle and roared, "The Iranians will be glad of me!" Tommy my cat, wearing a French maid's costume came in with two cups of tea and some Jaffa cakes on a plate. I leaped to my feet, dashed the plate to the floor and cried, "Tommy, do you want to end up in the tower? How dare you arrange the five Jaffa cakes in the sacred symbol of the Olypmic games. Have you not heard of the stringent branding law. No five circles shall be so arranged as to imply, or copy the five precious rings of the London Olympic games." "We live in a police state!" cried Tommy. "I want to be FREE, to arrange my Jaffa cakes how I like. Blonde beauty, Boris Johnson. said the branding law was foolish and draconian in the extreme." "Boris, is a fool," I said. "Anything relating to five rings is out until the end of the Olympics. In London, just yesterday, riot police stood by as a busker sang the twelve days of Christmas. When he dared sing , "FIVE golden rings" the riot squad pounced. The busker has been sentenced to 27 life terms in jail, after he gets out of hospital." "I blame snaggle tooth Sebastian Coe!" yelled Tommy. "The little sporting Tzar has gone power mad. Steve Ovett would never have turned the Olympic games into the Spanish inquisition." Just then a Papal nancio burst in yelling, "The Pope is not pleased with you. Don't make the Pope angry. You wouldn't like the Pope, if you made him angry." "Tommy, pointed to a picture of Martin Luther eating a lollypop and said, "We are not Catholics, we is Protestant." "Every one is a Catholic in the eyes of the Pope!" shrieked the wee Roman hitman. "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Food, glorious food!" yelled Tubby Nolan. "The reality IS!" roared Mark Durkin, standing at a street corner with Alex Attwood and a couple of hard nuts from the SDLP. "The President is NOT a crook!" guldered Nigel Dodds. "I just don't know what to do with myself," sang Mike Nesbitt. "Turned out nice again!" snarled David Ford. I turned to Tommy and roared, "Look what you started with your five Jaffa cakes." "JAFFA CAKES!" yelled Tubby and the Lardman ran into my house, like Patrick Moore on speed. As Tubby lumbered past me I yelled, "Five Circles! Five circles of fat round Tubbies neck!" Jim Allister went by on a hobby horse, pulled by a donkey and roared, "I shall not take it lying down, standing up, sitting, or hanging by my heels from a banana tree." "Jim, ain't gonna take it!" said Tommy. "Then, let him eat cake!" I replied. "CAKE!" yelled Tubby Nolan, as he burst out of my house, taking half the gable wall with him.