Flies on the wall.

What a great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat had just time to mutter, "For the great show we are about to receive today, may the Lord make us truly thankful."

Then you got stuck into Tubby Nolan and the fly ones were bouncing off the walls like brandy balls, the striped brandy balls, which Tommy and I love with a passion so intense, it's frightening.

Tommy and I giggled, elbowed each other in the ribs and pulled faces that would get any sane man confined to Broad moor. After the show, Tommy wiped the tears from his eyes with a pair of knickers he had found on our garden gnome's head this morning. Probably some sane, sober, woman, had decided to pull a little prank last night on her way home from her house of worship. And why not, I say.?

Did not a singer, or it may have been a kennel maid sing. "Life gets tedious don't it?"

After the show, Tommy dug a hole behind the sofa, lined it with mallard feathers and snuggled into it.

I, on the other hand, tied a rope to my left ankle. The rope was attached to a pulley on the ceiling. I pulled myself up by the left ankle, tied a granny Smith knot and swung gently, while the band played, Waltzing Matilda.

After a period of silence, lasting 18 hours and 19 minutes Tommy said, "I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall."

"A fly on the wall-where?" I yelled from the ceiling.

" A fly on the wall in Saint Elmo's church hall," said Tommy.

"Why?" I said. "What is going on in Saint Elmo's church hall?"

"A meeting," said Tommy, "A great big meeting."

"Who or Whom is holding this meeting?" I yelled.

"The F.G.M.B." said Tommy.

"Who in the name of Edwin Poot's IQ is the F.G.M.B.?" I yelled.

"It's a union," yelled Tommy, "the National Amalgamated Union of Flies, Gnats, Midges and Bluebottles!"

"A very reputable union" I roared.

"What do they want? More pay or shorter hours?"

"Neither!" yelled Tommy. "They want to save the planet. The F.G.M.B. insist that the spray from pest killers destroys the ozone layer and doesn't do them much good either."

In the time it takes to shave a donkey Tommy and I were marching round Stormont, carrying banners which read,

"FLIES IS PEOPLE TOO!"

And, "YOU'RE NEVER ALONE WITH A BLUEBOTTLE!"

Round and round Stormont we marched, until a very red faced, Sammy Wilson, came storming out and sprayed us with DDT.

"Hop it," roared Sammy, "you couple of chancers!"

But Tommy got the last laugh. He stood in the middle of the road and yelled, "Hi, wee Sammy, go and get your hair cut."

"Let's see how he likes them apples," sniggered Tommy.

"You fixed his wagon Tommy," I chortled. "You fixed his wagon, but good!"

All this and more have I seen, as Frank Mitchell crawled out of a rabbit hole. He was testing out the ten best ferrets in Ulster. I will say no more! Frank knows my feelings. On his own head be it, but it's all going to end in tears.

What is lilting???

What a great Wednesday show Kid. Tommy, my cat, and I always think that the great show on Wednesday, is the ham between a sandwich of great shows. Other people may disagree but it's that kind of attitude that starts wars.

Tommy was in fine fettle before the show, dancing, singing, telling jokes, but after the great show,he sat atop his spiked, world war two mine, engrossed in meditation and moroseness.

I twisted my lips like an elastic band, released my finger and thumb and speech came pouring out of my vibrating mouth, "Tommy," I utterised, "Tommy old son, what is the matter with you? You appear down. You seem strangely quiet and, if you don't mind me saying so, uncommunicative!. Are you training to be a--loner Tommy? Oh Tommy, don't turn into a-loner. You know the first time something bad happens round here, the police will lift you and Lynda Byrons will describe you as a--loner, a cat who kept to himself."

Tommy seemed to snap out of a trance. I saw fear in his eye and a slight discharge of pus. His tail was oh so limp. I have known him for a long while and the limpness in his tail was unprecedented.

Then Tommy spoke,but as through a glass-darkly. "What was that woman doing?" said Tommy.

"What woman?" I said.

"The woman who came on to talk about, "The maid of the sweet brown NIGH!".What was that strange, unnatural sound she was making?"

I curled my knees up under my chin, by the use of block and tackle and said through a veritable hurricane of laughter, "The woman was-lilting."

"Lilting?" said Tommy. "What, in the name of Michael McGimpsey's familiar, is-lilting?"

"It's a sound some Irish people make," I said.

"So--lilting is not universal?" said Tommy.

"Indeed and begorrah it is not," I replied. "You will only find lilting in the Emerald Isle, so you will, so you will."

"Why do people do it?" said Tommy. "Why do people-lilt?"

"So they can push back the dresser and dance yeh boy yeh," I replied.

"I feel like Mork the alien," said Tommy. "I have so much to learn about you people and your strange customs."

"Ah, get away with you, you wee gobeen!" I cried, as I danced the "Tube of Tyrone" to my own hysterical-lilting.

"That's a Rolex," said Tubby Nolan, pointing to his chubby wrist.

I peered closely at the huge paw and cried, "There's nothing there! I can't see a Rolex watch."

Tubby blushed like a barn on fire and said, "It's hidden. The wild, expensive watch is hidden under the folds of, ah, of-muscle, on my arm."

"Tubby!" I yelled. "If you want to show off your wealth in a vulgar display of jewellery..........."

"I DO! I DO!" yelled Tubby.

"Then what you must do," I said,"is to get a massive, big gold ring, like the ring farmers put in a bull's nose. Heat a poker until it is white hot and ram it through both nostrils of your gigantic honk. Then, snap the ring into place, before the holes have time to heal up, or seek compensation."

"And will people notice me?" said Tubby.

"They will!" I said.

"Will they stop in the street and point at me?" cried Tubby.

"Without a doubt!" I replied. "People will see the glint of your massive, gold, nose ring from afar and cry as one, "Stand in! Mind the children! Here comes Bully Nolan!"

"Steven smiled with delight and said, "Well, I'll be jiggered."

"Not on Radio Ulster," I said, "but I can't speak for radio Five."

All this and more have I seen, as Lynda Byrons raced Frank Mitchell out of UTV with a broom,

yelling, "NO! I will not be included, in your ten best totties in Ulster!"

No matter what I say, Frank just keeps on going! He seems to have a self destruct button. Tears, are what I see, tears and much gnashing of McCrory teeth!

Siberian Sighs and Steven's sorrow.

Great show yesterday Kid. To hear Mr Coyle tell the harrowing tale of Eamon Mc Cann kicking sand in his face brought tears and funny green stuff to the eyes of Tommy my cat. Tommy is sending Mr Coyle his bullworker, so Mr Coyle can muscle up and knock the revolutionary zeal out of Comrade Mc Cann.

When the man came on looking for an 18 inch wrap round boiler, Tommy and I yelled, "GIDDY UP!" and leaped up from our unplugged Sing Sing electric chairs and ransacked the house. We found many strange, weird and bizarre things, but, alas, no 18 inch wrap round boilers. As a consolation, Tommy and I are sending the poor man, the ejector seat from a Russian Mig jet fighter plane. Tommy found the ejector seat in the grounds of Stormont castle. There was a Russian sitting in the seat, but Tommy, who is fluent in Russian and Ulster/Scots, pushed the Russian off the seat, yelled, "Bugger-off comrade!" and ran merrily home with the ejector seat clutched under his oxter. As he ran, little Tommy was singing the big Russian hit from the 80's.
"I sigh when I see Siberia.

Frost bite in the Urals, I fear-E-A.

Brass monkeys don't appear-E-A

For things fall off in Siberia.

I hope I've made it clear-E-A

I sigh when I see Siberia."

(Copywrite Lenin and Stalin)

I was standing at a street corner with Lynda Byrons. We were talking about girlie things, like twin-sets, rows of pearls and how difficult it is to put an oily chain on a bicycle. SuddenlyLynda yelled. "Hunk alert at two o'clock!"

I followed her blue eyed gaze and saw-Jackie Fullerton. Oh he did look cute, in his little grey suit. The dapper, debonair, little crooner was singing, "Fly Me To The Moon" and kicking wheelie-bins as he walked to pick up the beat, just like the big swing bands used to do.

Lynda and I screamed and hid behind a wino to change into our bobby socks.

Then, a cloud blocked out the sun and Tubby Nolan lumbered out of an entry. He stood there in a fury. Jam rolled through his chubby clenched fists, as he squeezed two buns to death. Tubby opened his gigantic mouth and roared, "FULLERTON! Why do you always run away when you see me coming?"

"It's not you Steven," drawled Jackie, "But every time I see you, you remind me of Giant Haystacks and I run away."

Tubby calmed down and said, "I wish I were like you, dapper, slim, a hit with the ladies. Why is it that Haystacks like me never get the girls?"

"But they do Steven," said Jackie. "Believe me auld son-they do."

"Name one!" roared Tubby.

"Well," said Jackie, "there was Orson Wells,Burl Ives, Jackie Gleeson, Rod Steiger and, of course, Marlon Brando. Brando could pull the chicks, even when he couldn't pull his socks up."

"What about Alfred Hitchcock?" roared Tubby.

Jackie laughed and said, "Ah, you're pushing it a bit there auld son. Alfred Hitchcock walked about with his gub pursed out. He always looked like he was just after kissing the red arse of a baboon."

Then Lynda Byrons rushed forward screaming,

"May I have your autograph?"

Tubby smiled, pulled out a well bitten Bic pen and said, "Of course you can Lynda. Shall I sign it with-love?"

Lynda elbowed Tubby aside and cried, "Not YOU, fat boy! I want little cuddly Jackie's autograph."

Poor Steven sighed and went into a doughnut shop to drown his sorrow.

All this and more have I seen, as a very blackened and charred Frank Mitchell was carried down a ladder by a burly fireman. Poor Frank had been in bed, working frantically on the ten best cigarette lighters in Ulster to set fire to your duvet.

It's getting serious now. It really is. I think he should stop before something awful happens.

I remember the time that Frank Mitchell had a future. People said he would, given time, be Ulster's answer to Al Pacino! Looks more like Al Murray now!

The chosen One

Great show to start the week Kid and what a master stroke it was to have Charlie Landsborough as a guest. I like Charlie. Always have done, ever since the night, he rescued Tommy, my cat, from a tree on Guy Fawkes night. Charlie stopped in his big car, took the situation in at a glance and yelled out of the car window, "Will one of you tubes stop your gawking and send for the fire brigade to rescue that wee pussy?"

Then, like the true hero he is,he sped away into the darkness of the night, leaving just the scent of red diesel and Lynx for men, lingering in the cool night air.

When the show was over Tommy my cat sidled up to me and whispered, "Hi, see that Charlie Landsborough?"

"Yes," I said. "What about him?"

"He's the-one," whispered Tommy.

"What-one?" I said.

"The chosen-one," whispered Tommy.

"Chosen by whom?" I asked.

"Him," said Tommy, pointing up the stairs.

"The little sailor sleeping in my bed!" I exclaimed.

"No," said Tommy, "not him. God! God has chosen Charlie Landsbury to make the people repent before God goes into a fit of smiting. The smites that God will do will terrify the people and make all other smiting look tame in comparison."

"Sling your hook!" I yelled, which Tommy duly did and pulled in a cage full of red crab from the Bering sea round Alaska that would have the fishermen from Deadliest Catch, the hit show from the Discovery channel, green with envy and hopping with anger.

Tommy and I sat at the kitchen table going over our dire financial situation. I put my Bic pen in someone's pocket and got to my feet to make a statement to the house. I put one hand in my waistcoat and another in a waistcoat hanging up behind the door, took a sip of Lourdes holy water, muttered, "It looks good, tastes good and by golly it does you good." I looked all around the house, coughed, spat, blew my nose with someone's fingers and yelled, "Honourable members of this small, condemned terraced house,"

"Here. Here!" cried Tommy.

"The situation is grim but not hopeless. We are at a financial crossroads."

"You tell it like it is girl!" cried Tommy, getting stuck into a plate of grits and black eyed peas.

"Our backs are to the wall!" I yelled. "We are on our knees. Our shoulders are to the wheel. Our noses are to the grindstone and our elbows are hanging half way down our arms.

Our guts are in turmoil. Our eyes are leaping out of our head. Our backs are stooped. Our legs have buckled and our feet want to do a runner.

And YET," I cried, "we still have hearts, hearts of oak. If you prick us do we not scream, "Stop It?" Here is a nut shell!" I cried, holding it up so the house could see,"I will now sum up our situation in this nut shell. Our outgoings," I cried, "are in conflict with our incomings. There is only one thing to do and we must do it NIGH!

We must tighten our belts. Is the house agreed?"

"NO!" yelled Tommy, leaping to his feet. "I have a proposition to put to the house. I propose we go out and buy smaller trousers."

And that's what we did and it only put another £65 pounds on our credit card. So, people of Ulster and surrounding districts, I say onto you,

Why tighten your belts, when you can buy smaller trousers? You can now find small trousers in a myriad of colours ranging from tangerine to puce.

But a word of WARNING. Because of their snug size, it takes five minutes longer to undo the zip. So factor that into the equation when you go for a long walk, because heftedness, like the poor, is always with us.

All this and more have I seen, as a frantic Frank Mitchell lay in bed, thinking up the ten best places in Ulster to hide, if attacked by an albino rhino with attitude.

Turned out nice again. Think I'll take some sweeties round to Wendy Austin and the pips. Boy, them pips are growing bigger day by day.

I wonder if Wendy breast feeds them?

(Hey Kid, does that last line pass the Russell Brand test?)

Search for New Characters

Tommy my cat sat atop a plastic replica of an Easter island statue. He held his breath until his face turned purple. Tommy was pretending to be a Catawba,which even the winos in the street know, is an American variety of grape. Any fool will tell you that the Latin name for Catawba is Vitis labrusca.

The Catawba grape, as any child will inform you, is found growing around the river Catawba in Carolina.

Tommy took a deep breath, which removed all resemblance to the catawba grape and said, "I wonder what great shows Gerry has in store for us this week?"

I climbed out of the 60 foot hole I had been squatting in and replied-merrily, "I heard from Marvin Gaye on the grapevine, that Gerry is holding auditions for new characters for the show."

"Well, bend me over and spank me!" cried Tommy.

"Sit down on that burlap sack of razor blades lad," I said, "and I will tell you a story. Once upon a time, the Gerry show had THREE characters."

"Eeeh!" cried Tommy. "I'm gonna lay down my burden,down by the riverside, by gum."

"One character sadly passed away," I said. "And another character, by the name of Michael, got too big for his gutties. He thought he was bigger than the show and was thrown into eternal darkness. ETERNAL DARKNESS!" I yelled. "Where the weeping and gnashing of teeth is tarra."

"Well don't that make my brown eyes blue," said Tommy.

"We are left with but ONE character!" I yelled. "And that character goes by the name of Jordie Tuft Esquire."

"A hard rain's gonna fall," said Tommy. "Frank Mitchell said so."

"ONE character to do the job of three!" I yelled. "Down at the Bricklands, Old Jordie is working day and night, forcing birds, mammals and animal to breed, so he can come on the Gerry show and announce, YET AGAIN! another birth."

"Well, fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars," said Tommy.

"We must ease old Jordie's burden!" I shrieked.

"Eeeh, by gum, if you see your brother standing by the road, with a heavy load," said Tommy.

"Exactly!" I yelled. "We need new characters before Jordie burns out."

"What about the petrol can man?" cried Tommy.

"Will you give over about the petrol can man!" I yelled.

"Where's our Eli?" said Tommy.

"I beg your pardon," I replied.

"Where's our Eli?" repeated Tommy.

"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out and never show your cats' whiskers in this house again."

"I can't find our Eli," said Tommy.

I grabbed my Basil Brush and raced the frivolous feline down the garden path.

As Tommy sprinted down the street, he broke wind with fierce ferocity and yelled back to me,

"Can you hear me mother?"

Listen Kid, I think the day of the amateur is gone. You need professional characters. May I suggest, Lynda Byrons, Sarah Travers and Maggie Taggart. They could be known as the Supremes and in time could form a very feminine quango.

Do I sense a little smile on Mr Coyle's unshaven face, as he daydreams about Maggie Taggart sitting on his ricket twisted, cotton picking knee?

All this and more have I seen as Frank Mitchell was carried from his home strapped to a stretcher, foaming at the mouth and yelling,

"The ten best darkened rooms in Ulster to lie down in!"

I knew it would end in tears!

Marches and Minutiae

Great show yesterday Kid. When the great show was over, I pointed dramatically at the radio and yelled, "You're Fired!" As I unwrapped a new radio for tomorrow's great show, I turned to Tommy my cat, who was waddling-slowly across the floor, pretending to be Mark Durkin, the lame duck, leader of the SDLP. Ah, remember the SDLP. Brian Faulkner. Paddy Devlin. Gerry (The Simmet) Fitt and a young vibrant, black haired Ian Paisley.

It was a golden age. Why did we let it slip away? It was a great time to be a cobbler. Everyone was out on the street, marching, marching, ever marching about something or other. Protest marches, legal marches, illegal marches and my favourite,-the spontaneous march. People would stop what they were doing and suddenly start marching up and down. And yet-we let it all slip away. A good march put clean fresh air in the lungs, a skip in your step, a glow to the cheeks and of course, it gave the people something to do and kept them off the street. Can you see the young hoodies and scum bags marching today? NO!. They haven't got the stamina. They haven't got the time and worst of all, they haven't got the inclination. Wasters! that's what they are. I wouldn't waste a stone on any of them.

The big question now of course is, will Mark Durkin tell us what the reality is, before he leaves office? If he does not,the reality is, that we may never know what the reality was.

As Tommy and I sat in the gloom, leading, as all of you are, lives of quite desperation, we watched a large cobweb slowly detach itself from the ceiling and softly flutter to the floor.

Tommy looked at me, giving me the distinct impression that he had looked at people before.

"Have you ever noticed," said Tommy,

"how Mr Coyle is interested in the minutiae of life?" The rest of us take a broad view of life, but Mr Coyle seems to be irrepressibly drawn to the-minutiae. I have come to the conclusion," said Tommy, "that Mr Coyle is a--Minutiose!"

I slapped a knee that was near me and yelled,

"Expand Tommy, go on Tommy,-expand!"

"When Gerry is telling a story," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle always interrupts, seeking, always seeking to find the minutiae behind the story.

"For instance, Gerry might say, "I was talking to a man last night" and Mr Coyle will yell, "What side does he part his hair on? Was he wearing a duffel coat or does his granny have a black cat? The minutiae," said Tommy, "Mr Coyle is always searching for the minutiae."

"If Mr Coyle is always looking for the minutiae," I yelled, "let him look no further than his pay packet."

Tommy smiled, but did not laugh. He is a very serious cat.

All this and more have I seen, as the lovely Lynda Byrons helped me across a busy street, by pressing a long, sharp, pointy stick into the small of my back. And to look at her you would think McCowan's toffee, wouldn't melt in her mouth!

Turned out nice again. I think I'll hang my drawers on the line, but the big question is,... should I take them off first? Decisions! Decisions! Decisions!.

Vampires and Fly Fishing

Great show yesterday Kid, in the tradition of all great shows. The great show was a many faceted, highly polished gem. "What a great show!" said Tommy my cat, as he climbed out of the sink, where he had been pretending to be a dirty spoon.

I grabbed him by the neck and yelled, "Why does Mr Coyle get his blood checked so often?"

"Rabies," said Tommy, "because of Mr Coyle's close association, some might even say, special relationship, with blind bats. He has to get his blood checked regularly and report to the police every Monday and Wednesday."

"Is Mr Coyle a-vampire?" I screamed.

"Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "stands on the threshold of vampirism. He stands, legs akimbo, one foot in the land of the living and the other foot in the land of the undead."

"Which foot does Mr Coyle dig with?" I cried.

"Neither," said Tommy, "He hokes in the dirt like a wild boar. It's very sore on the finger nails, but the truffles come in handy."

"Poor Mr Coyle," I sobbed. "How does his condition affect his everyday life?"

"Well," said Tommy, "He sleeps most of the day and at night, his radar is so good, he never bumps into anything."

"The poor wee man," I sobbed "and him so.........so...so...."

I was still searching for the right word, when Jim Rodgers rushed in and put Tommy and me to bed.

"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim. "Go to bed, or Peter Robinson won't sign the new policing and justice bill."

I looked at Lynda Byrons as she stood in the Lagan wearing a pair of waders. She was casting a fly with the expertise of a professional fly fisher.

"COOEE Lynda!" I shrieked. "COOEE, did you catch anything?"

She looked down at her feet and replied, "Yes, I caught two shopping trolleys, a pram, a garden gate and a very large Sumo nappy which, I suspect, belongs to Tubby Nolan."

"Will you return the nappy to dear Steven?" I yelled.

"No way!" said Lynda. "I drive a large four by four, Toyota, Pedestrian Grinder. There's no room for that huge "Thing" in my car! Let Tubby wear a thong," cried Lynda. "If a thong is good enough for Paul Clarke, it's good enough for Tubby Nolan."

"And yourself, Dear Lynda?" I leered.

"Never you mind," laughed Lynda, as she pulled a piece of flesh from my cheek with a very large trout fly.

"What a little doat," I muttered,

as I ran crying, to casualty, to get my face stitched up.

All this and more have I seen as a frantic Frank Mitchell tried to think of the ten best places in Ulster to stumble upon a saber toothed tiger.

Belfast will win again! The whole thing is fixed!.