Looking for a Bog

Great show yesterday Kid. I hooked the radio up to my 6,000 watt pa system so I could hear it better and listened to the show up on the roof, clinging on to the chimney, so none of the jokes would go over my head. Coyle hasn't changed, I say, Coyle hasn't changed. He listens to "A hard Rains Gonna Fall" and then jumps to the conclusion that the album must have a similar title. When they were giving out thickness, I say, when they were giving out thickness, Mr Coyle must have brought a transit van. And his flirting, I say, his flirting with the girls has reached epic preportions. Search him, I say, hold Mr Coyle down and search him and I think you will find Spanish Fly secreted about his person. Don't forget to search the turn ups on his trousers. I never heard anything like it, I say, I never heard anything like it and I've been to Manchester!

Damn those people at the N.I.E. I opened one of their letters addressed to me and got an awful shock, the letter must have been wired up to the mains.

I looked at Tommy my cat, who was posing in front of the mirror and roared, "Tommy lad, slip out of that Christine Dior cocktail dress and slip into your gingham overalls, you and me are going to cut turf!"

"WHY?" yelled Tommy. "Look at-THIS!" I yelled. "An electric bill for £2-78 pence. You may think I'm made of money, but let me tell you lad, I'm made from plastic and micro chips like everyone else."

Tommy and I sped through the countryside, on the 10cc moped, searching, ever searching for a bog. Suddenly Tommy bit my ear and gave a yell, "Bog at three o'clock Skipper." "That's not a bog." I yelled. "That's Ballymena. It may be a dump but it isn't a bog." And-then, we were out in bog country. Everywhere we looked bogs lay before us in abundance. Pea-wheet, snipe and the bog budgie swooped high in the air. The air was full of bog. Rich, brown flower strewn bog, as made by God in a small shed at the back of heaven. "LOOK!" yelled Tommy. I looked and saw a sign outside a small mud hovel. "I own bogs," it stated and was signed, Yousef, Muhammad Doherty. "Hey old timer!" I yelled to the old man who crawled out of the mud hut, "I wish to make a withdrawal." "Round the back," said the old geezer, "but watch out for my cannabis patch." "NO!" I yelled. "I want to make a withdrawal from your turf bank. Where do I sign my name?" "These here turf banks are protected," wheezed the old relic, "just like the blind bat, the otter and the girl with the strawberry curl." "Poots, Dodds and McGuinness," I roared. "Is there anything in this country you can get for free?" "Yes, there is," said the old man, "a knuckle sandwich." And he hit me a punch up the gub, that will set back for months my jews harp lessons.

"Bummer!" said Tommy, giving me a riser, while the balance of my mind was disturbed.

All this and more have I seen from the gift shop of U.T.V. where a pop-up book about Frank Mitchell was being seized by the vice squad. There's a lot more to Frank than meets the eye. A lot more!!! Or as Cilla Black would say, "A lorra' lorra' more." Frank Mitchell? Who would have thought it! No wonder the BBC failed to make any female signings over the Summer transfer season. Frank Mitchell? Well, I'll go to the foot of Lynda Byron's stairs.

PIRATES

Tommy my cat sat in a leather armchair, wearing a lovely vivid pink tank top and a pair of tight hot pants in a striking shade of tangerine and said,

"I'm worried about the two lads out there on their own. I hope they took enough salt pork and toilet roll."

"Don't you worry about Mason and Dixon," I said, "They are out in the USA, drawing a line across America with a pointed stick."

"'Tis not of those two I speak," said Tommy, "I am worried about Gerry and Sean. What if they were eaten by a woman eating shark, or held captive by naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates?"

I stood at the fireplace, with one arm raised in the air and the other two hanging by my side and said,

"If it be their lot to be captured by naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates- I-will cycle pell-mell to the local Credit Union and pay the ransom--MYSELF!!!"

"I wonder what ransom the naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates would demand for the two lads?" said Tommy.

I filed my nails under-N, pushed back my cuticles with a bulldozer and replied,

"I would say they would demand £37.50 for Gerry and another £2.50 for Sean, the interrupter Coyle."

"Making a grand total of-what?" said Tommy.

"£40.00 for the two," I said.

"YIKES!" screamed Tommy. "That's a bit steep isn't it?"

"It is!" I said. "But if we want more great shows, we will have to grin and bear it."

"I thought the naughty, juvenile Somalian pirates were only in it for the money," said Tommy.

"Don't worry, Tommy lad," I said "I shall bargain with the pirates and I may get both of the lads back for £38.00."

"A sort of buy one, get one free?" said Tommy.

"Exactly!" I yelled. "Now pick up that kettle, pop over to Iceland and put kettle on top of a hot steam gusher. I could murder a nice cup of tea." LATER, or was it SOONER?

Tommy thoughtfully began to stuff a briar pipe with Fairy liquid, blew a cascade of bubbles and said, "Bye the bye old dear, Whatever happened to that lovely boy Julian Symons and his driving lessons?" I leapt like a salmon for a passing bubble and replied, "The last I heard, the hysterical one was seen reversing into the Lagan.""Oh dear!" said Tommy. "The ignominy and infamy of ending one's career among discarded shopping market trolleys and bagged and weighed down family pets." "It's Julian's own fault," I said. "I distinctly heard Pamela Ballentine say to him in the UTV canteen, "Nay Julian lad, thee can't drive a car lad, thee is too thick. Stick to bicycle lad. Aye, stick to bicycle. Bosses might think thee doesn't know thy place. Stick to Bicycle Julian lad. Aye, stick to bicycle. Now would thee like a nice piece of bread and dripping?"

"How jolly nice it was," said Tommy, "To see Gary Lineker and his latest bit of stuff come over here to Northern Ireland to patronise the common people." "We pulled out all the stops," I said. "We dusted off the baps and soda bread and told thrilling stories about the Titanic." "We always do that for visiting stars," said Tommy. "It is what is known as a friendly Northern Ireland welcome."I replied. "Why do we do that?" said Tommy. "Simple lad," I said. "We feel inferior, so we resort to the past." "I wonder," said Tommy. "I wonder would Jimmy Cricket and his wife get the same welcome in the Shires of England?" "Not a chance," I said. "They would be chased by baying packs of beagles to the cry of, "Go home Paddy!" "Thought as much," said Tommy, going back to blowing bubbles.

All this and more have I seen, as I stood on a wheelie bin peeping through the bedroom window of Sarah Travers. What a lot of Teddy bears Sarah has! But not one doll to be seen! Teddy bears, no dolls? I think questions should be asked in the house, or at least at the haggard.

Come on Arlene.

Great show yesterday Kid. The crack was indeed mighty. Or as Hugo Duncan says during every outside broadcast he has ever done "It's all happening here folks, come on down and join in the fun."An Invitation, by the way, that no one has ever accepted. Tommy my cat was walking round the room, wailing and crying. Tommy was carrying a hangman's noose and looking frantically for a rafter. He was pretending to be Arlene Phillips the caustic female judge in Strictly Come Dancing. "What shall I do now??" screamed Tommy. "To dig I am not able, to beg I am too proud.". "Cheer up Arlene," I said, "There's always Celebrity Big Brother and many appearances on the One Show." My advice did not help matters. "Tommy emitted shriek after shriek and screamed, "Why, oh why, did old age ravage my face and turn me into an old bag?" I could see things were getting out of hand, so I lifted my toe and gave Tommy a riser that brought him back from his pretend state.

Tommy reached into the pocket of his navy blue cardigan for a valium and whispered, "Did you see the rioting on TV?" "STOP!" I yelled. "We don't want any of that talk in this house." Tommy reached into his pocket for another valium and whispered, "I hope Mr. Coyle was not involved." "Stop and cease that old talk," I said. "There was NO rioting, simply a bit of horse play. We live in a peaceful society, where ALL can celebrate their differences 24 hours a day." "Pretending it didn't happen won't make it go away," said Tommy. "Yes it will," I said. "We live in a pretend society. If we believe we can some day live in peace, we may wake up one day and see Martin Mc Guiness leading an orange parade down the Garvaghy Road."

"Not my idea of Chuckie-ar-la," said Tommy. At which point I lost the bap and whammelled Tommy behind the spin drier.

All this and more have I seen on the Ardoyne Road, where gangs of youths were throwing flowers at the police and the police were Morris-dancing to the sound of the Kinks singing, "Lazy, crazy, hazy days of Summer." It could happen. It could! I must throw a young pig up in the air to see if it flies!!!

NAME DROPPING

Great show yesterday Kid. All those people name dropping had Tommy my cat and me on the edge of our stolen Patrick Kavanagh Royal canal seat. We're going back next week for the statue.

The game started off simply enough with Mr Coyle informing us that he met his wife that morning making breakfast in the kitchen. "YIKES!" yelled Tommy, "That will be hard to beat." "Then out came Jimmy Cricket, Paddy Kielty, John Paul Sarte, Hitler, The Lone Ranger, the man on the moon and finally-Muhammad Ali. "Mabel!" yelled Tommy. "Give her the money." I hate to say it Kid, but you played a lousy game. Why did you not play your Queen? Remember, Buckingham Palace and how delighted the Queen was when you admired her wood-chip wall paper? Then Prince Phillip came over with someone's hands behind his back, it could have been his own, and gutturally growled, "Don't mention the war." No, what he said was, Mein Gott, what do you do then?" And you replied, "I keep an eye on Sean Coyle." and the Prince said, "Someone has to, it may as well be you."

The only famous people Tommy and I have met are Jim Rodgers and Tubby Nolan or Little and Large as they are affectionately known to the good people of Belfast and surrounding districts. Tommy looked at me, I mean he really looked at me and said. "You look awful, here, take my arm and we'll toddle down to Bob McCartney's office and you can make your will." "No way, Tom-Ay!" I yelled. "The only way you will get your greedy paws on this condemned hovel, is over my dead body." Tommy grabbed me in a loving headlock and said, "But did you not see June Whitfield and all the other out of work actors, imploring the old, the elderly, the knackered, to leave something to their loved ones?" "I'm as fit as a flea!" I yelled and to prove it, I came second to a flea in a 5 yard dash across the room. "Begone Rackman!" I yelled. "How dare you try and win me round with your honeyed Dr Shipman words." "I'm only thinking of you," said Tommy. "If you died and did not make provision for me, well--I might have to-eat you." "TAXI!" I yelled and soon I was sitting in the legal office of the silver fox signing all my debt away to Tommy my cat. On the way back, Tommy made numerous attempts to throw me under a bus. I clung on to the pebble-dash wall like lichen, until I once more was ensconced in my lime green bean bag with my legs resting comfortably on a poof. But Tommy is a good lad really. He hasn't been to the library for years, but today he went there and came back with six books all about poison. It's good to see the lad take an interest, I have always said that every cat should have a hobby, it keeps them out of mischief. And with that, we will stand and sing hymn 67, "Nearer My God To Thee."

All this and more have I seen from the anorak pocket of Lynda Byrons, a crumpled bookie's docket bears testimony to the fact that the wee blonde doat lost a pound each way on a horse called, Gerry's Delight! Gerry's Delight came last and had to be put down!!! But worse things happen at sea and B and D.

But funny enough, not-T-I like T-- and crumpets!

REVELATIONS

"I wonder what new revelations will surface on the Gerry show this week?" said Tommy my cat, as he sat bolt upright in an antique plastic Chippendale chair wearing a Donegall tweed three piece suit and a lovely pair of pink ballerina slippers. I got stuck into a big bowl of porridge, it's the only way I can get my oats these days and replied-merrily, "Don't you wonder about new revelations Kid, in time, Gerry will reveal the new revelations and the new revelations will be revealing and revolutionary." Tommy leaped-gracefully into the air in his Donegall tweed three piece suit, clicked his little pink ballerina slippers together and replied, "What a rhetorical and retrospective answer." In the silence that followed, I translated, "War and peace" into Ulster/Scots and Tommy drew a comprehensive ground plan of the ancient Mayan city of Ballygooglie, complete with round-a-bouts, off licences and public toilets."I wonder how jolly old Tubby is getting on on his hols?" said Tommy. "He hasn't gone for a swim, is all I know," I said. "Ah, you talk about the absence of tsunamis," said Tommy. "Got it in one my fine feathered friend," I replied. Tommy peeped into a mirror and said, "You know, I wouldn't mind a nose job." "Listen lad!" I yelled, "If I find thee wasting thy hard earned brass on cosmetic surgery, I'll give thee a nose job with my fist, so think on lad!" "I was only saying," said Tommy. "And I'm only saying, think on!" I roared. "If thee thinks that I'm going to stand idly by, while some butcher reshapes thee's hooter with a bread knife, then what I say to thee lad, is think on, think on, that's all I'm saying." "I was only saying," said Tommy. "And I was only saying, think on lad!" I yelled. "Eeh by gum lad, if thee gets thy hooter defaced, think on, that's all I'm saying, think on." "I am-thinking on," said Tommy. "Well think on a bit more lad," I roared. Suddenly, the radio burst into life and Lynda McCauley shrieked, "That's all for today, but don't forget to give me a she-ite tomorrow." And Tommy and I gathered round the radio, to find out what new revelations Gerry would reveal on the first show of the week.

All this and more have I seen from the studio of BBC Ulster, where a pale faced Donna Trainor was hiding in the corner and a red faced Noel Thompson was shouting to a white faced Mark Carruthers, "Jump a stile? Eeh thee couldn't jump a stile lad. Thee would be afraid of getting thy lad-de-da red socks dirty. Jump a stile? you lad?Not you, I would advise thee lad to, "Think on," that's what I say to thee young Carruthers, "Think on!"

"I will--think on by gum," whispered Mark. "In fact I'm looking forward to--thinking on."

12th of July on the 13th, can only mean that Christmas falls on Boxing Day this year. Eeh, I don't know.

Old punks

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat said, "If Mr Coyle is looking for old jokes, why not look in the mirror?" Tommy can be quite caustic at times. Tommy claims to be bipolar, but I said to Tommy. "Listen Tommy lad, time enough to be bipolar when you're charged with a serious crime." Tommy concurred, I put that down to all the milk he drinks, it just goes right through him. There were a lot of women callers yesterday, was it Ladies Day on the Gerry show? All those women sitting in their kitchen wearing their Millie dressing gowns and big floppy hats. Tommy my cat peeped out of the oven, where he was pretending to be a scrag end of lamb. Tommy took the cooking apple out of his mouth and said, "What's the deal with Micky Bradly then?" "I know not of what you speak," I said, "But I think Mr Bradly prefers to be called-Michael." "Do you know-Michael Bradly?" asked Tommy. "No, I don't," I said. "But from what I have heard, from talking to friends, barmen and interlocutors he seems to be a nice boy." "He fell on his feet," said Tommy. "Who fell on their feet?" I said. "Michael Bradly," said Tommy. "Michael Bradly fell on his feet. No sooner was punk but a distant memory than he had his feet under a radio Foyle desk." "Michael is a Derry boy," I said."He probably wanted to get home and was lucky to get a job at Radio Foyle." "Or the fix was in," said Tommy. "The fix was in, did you ever think of that-eh? Michael Bradly just happened to know someone, who knew someone and Bob's your Aunt Fanny." In the silence that followed I bent over the old spinning wheel and spun enough yarn to make Gerry Anderson a sheep skin rug,big enough to cover the entire pitch at the Brandywell. "Is he a big cheese at radio Foyle?" asked Tommy "Is who a big cheese? I said. "Michael Bradly," said Tommy. "Is Michael Bradly a big cheese at radio Foyle?" "Dear Michael, lovely boy that he is,"I said, "is but one on the echelon, the hierarchy of power at radio Foyle."In the silence I could hear Tommy sizzle in the oven. Then the roasting feline yelled, "Where's Kevin Sharkey?" "I don't know where Mr Kevin Sharkey is!" I yelled. "The Undertones left poor Kevin behind!" roared Tommy. "They all came back and got good jobs and poor wee thin Kevin Sharkey is probably cleaning a pub toilet in the East End of London." "Come out of that oven!" I yelled. "The heat is making you go funny in the head," "But I want to pretend!" yelled Tommy. "I want to pretend!" "I gave Tommy a toe up the jacksy and shrieked, "Go sit on the chair and pretend you just got a good riser!" Which Tommy did-and he did it very well, even producing real tears. I must apologise for Tommy, I don't know what got into him, but there seems to be bad blood between Tommy and Michael Bradly. Tommy never did like punk music. Tommy used to say, " You could teach a monkey to play punk music,." Then he would point at Johnny Rotten and say, "I told you so!"

All this and more have I seen from the glove compartment of Julian Symmon's driving school car. What kind of man takes three clean pair of underpants on a driving lesson?

But one thing I will say about Julian, he does wear exceedingly nice knickers!!! Reinforced gusset! But who can blame him for that? We do live in uncertain times!

Strabane Dole Office

What a great show you put on yesterday Kid. It had everything bar the kitchen sink. I was surprised Janet gave your kitchen sink away to a man from Gillygoolly on Monday. I remember saying to Tommy my cat, "Gerry is going to miss that kitchen sink." The show galloped along at a good clip, no hurdles were tossed or horses or Mr Coyle put down. I looked at Tommy my cat, who was crouched on all fours behind the door. Tommy was pretending to be a swine flu germ ready to pounce. I know one should not brag about one's pussy, but I have seen Jim Rodgers pretend to be a swine flu germ and Tommy's swine flu germ pretend, would knock Jim's swine flu pretend into a loaded and cocked hat. Jim had the crouching stance all wrong. His knees were too far apart, leading one to believe that he was NOT a swine flu germ, but a lethal viral strain of Delly-Belly!

Tommy looked at me as cats do and said, "HI! what did you think of the man coming on and telling the same Daniel O'Donnell story for THREE times in a row? Does he think that the Gerry show is a round-a-bout, on which you can jump on and off when you feel like it?" "Quiet Tommy," I whispered. "That man has his troubles, he lived in Strabane for two years." "I'm so sorry," whispered Tommy. "I had no idea. Poor man. Poor wee man, imagine, living in Strabane for-two years!" In the silence that followed, I baked a sugar cake and took it out for all the boys to see. "Hi BOYS!" I yelled. "LOOK AT MY SUGAR CAKE!" When I came back, Tommy in the guise of the swine flu bug pounced on me, but I fought him off with an antidote of earwig urine, bog water and diluted Jeyes fluid. Tommy retreated into his corner and said, "Hi! What is Strabane famous for?" "Have you ever seen Strabane dole office?" I said. "It's like one of Saddam Hussein's palaces. High vaulted ceilings, marble floors, old masters hanging on the wall." "School teachers?" asked Tommy. "No, great works of art," I said."There is a full size Olympic swimming pool, bowling alley, snookerhall, ping pong tables and for lunch you can choose from some of the greatest dishes, the French chef can provide.". "Do they have a shooting range?" asked Tommy. "No," I said. "Not in Strabane, it's too near the border."

Six trotting policeman wearing lime green spandex catsuits pulled a small trailer containing a piano and Sir Hugh Orde in front of a ragged crowd of people, which included such luminaries as, Jim Rodgers, Barney Bottle the best dressed wino in Belfast, Frank Mitchell and the man who came up with the, "ULSTER SAYS NO" slogan. Sir Hugh pressed down hard on a C chord and began to sing, "Now is the time to say-goodbye, now is the time to yield a sigh, now is the time to wield away, until we meet again some sunny day." Then Sir Hugh grabbed a Shure 55 skull-head microphone, that seemed to have been modelled on Michael McGimpsey's head and addressed the crowd. "Evening all," said Sir Hugh. "Mind how you go," answered the crowd. "People of Belfast," said Sir Hugh, "It is time to say goodbye. I shall miss you all.But the one I shall miss the most is Tommy the cat. Tommy kept me informed of what was going on in the street. Tommy the cat was my eyes and ears." There were mutters from the crowd of, "Tout" and "Tommy steak-knife." Tommy's feline face was impassive, as he looked up at Sir Hugh with a look of love and adoration in his little yellow slitted eyes. On the way home, I said, "So, that's how you were able to afford a Ferrari bicycle with a carrier and a three speed." Tommy just smiled and said "Looks like the cat is out of the bag!"

All this and more have I seen from Lynda Byron's handbag, as I programmed my number into her mobile phone. You never know! One of these nights. "Beep-Beep, hello. this is-Lynda! Would you like to join Mike and me for soft boiled eggs and toasted soldiers?" RESULT!!!!