Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which brought a smile to the cheeks of a naked man bent over looking for moths by the side of the M1. Well, that's what he told the police.
If moths are eating your clothes, do what I do, dress in cheap polyester.
After your great show I was sitting staring at the wall, which was staring angrily back at me. Tommy my cat was twiddling a pair of thumbs he had found outside a pub.
Suddenly, Wendy Austin shrieked,
"Do you believe that capital punishment is too good for smokers?"
"NO!" I yelled, lighting up two Benson and Hedges and running to check on my secret stash of illegal Lambert and Butler king size. I looked at Tommy who was softly singing,
"4,000 holes in Blackburn Lancashire."
Tommy stopped singing and said,
"Did you know the whole town is talking about you?"
"Are they?" I said.
"Yes they are," said Tommy. "The whole town is talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at-you."
"Are they?" I said.
"Yes they are," said Tommy. "The whole town is talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at you,24/7."
"Why is the whole town talking, pointing, laughing and sneering at me?" I asked.
"Because of your appearance," said Tommy.
"When was the last time you bent down to look at your reflection in a dirty, muddy, puddle hole?"
"NEVER!" I yelled. "My late daddy was dragged into a puddle hole by something horrible with tentacles."
"Let me put it in a nut shell," said Tommy.
"NO!" I roared. "The last time you did that,I thought you would never stop crying."
"You need help," said Tommy. "But who can we turn to? Gok Wan,or Trinny and Suzanne wouldn't touch you with a barge pole,neither would Thelma or Louise.
You're all bent out of shape," said Tommy. "You're like a condemned building, ready to topple over any minute. You need to be broken down and reassembled. I'm taking you to Harland and Wolff."
So, here I lie in dry dock. It's not too bad. The crack is good. Oh bananas and buttercups, here comes wee Sammy with a rivet gun.
"Get back yeh boy yeh! No man has been in that locality since the night Barry McGuigan beat Eusebio Pedroza for the world, featherweight boxing championship at Loftus Road stadium."
Barry's fight went the distance. I went down in round one.
Monday, 30 May 2011
Friday, 27 May 2011
Post Apocalypse Paradise
Great pre-apocalypse shows last week kid.
As you probably know by now, the world ended at six o'clock on Saturday night.
This event was prophesied by evangelist broadcaster 89 year old Harold Camping.
Harold,or 'Arold as he is know in some parts of London,came to the conclusion the world was about to end,by delving into Biblical texts and taking more than the recommended dose of prescription medication
"The day of rapture is coming!" yelled Harold as he hitched up his blue, polyester,Velcro,waistband pants.
Then Hank made his way slowly indoors to pee while yelling,"GET OFF MY LAWN" to some young children.
And true to form the world did end,not with a bang but a whimper. Tommy my cat and I heard a distinct-whimper on the dot of six o'clock and we both knew the world had ended.
"Oh dear," I muttered.
"Bummer!" said Tommy.
Then two burly heaven's angels appeared and roared,
"Listen up you two mugs and listen good. Big computer screw-up in heaven. Many rooms were double, even treble booked. The truth is,there is no room in heaven. You two mugs just carry on as before and we'll drop you an email in 50 or 60 years time when a double room with sharing bathroom is available."
"Oh thank you angelic gentlemen," said Tommy brown nose.
I leaped to my post-dead feet and yelled,
"Forgive me winged gentlemen,on which floor will the Ballymena contingent be housed?"
"Ballymena?" said one angel looking at another. "I ain't got no-Ballymena on my list. What about you Fred?"
"No Ballymena here either Bert," said the second angel,"and if ain't on the list, they ain't getting into heaven."
"Stall the wedding!" I roared.
"You can't have a heaven without Ballymena. Ballymena is the bible belt, braces and galluses of Northern Ireland."
Then Tommy yelled,
"Look on the Ulster/Scots page!"
And there it was,sitting all on its own----------------Ballymena.
Heaven without Ballymena would be like a po without a handle.
"Heaven boy! It's a great big paradise up in the air-Hi!"
As you probably know by now, the world ended at six o'clock on Saturday night.
This event was prophesied by evangelist broadcaster 89 year old Harold Camping.
Harold,or 'Arold as he is know in some parts of London,came to the conclusion the world was about to end,by delving into Biblical texts and taking more than the recommended dose of prescription medication
"The day of rapture is coming!" yelled Harold as he hitched up his blue, polyester,Velcro,waistband pants.
Then Hank made his way slowly indoors to pee while yelling,"GET OFF MY LAWN" to some young children.
And true to form the world did end,not with a bang but a whimper. Tommy my cat and I heard a distinct-whimper on the dot of six o'clock and we both knew the world had ended.
"Oh dear," I muttered.
"Bummer!" said Tommy.
Then two burly heaven's angels appeared and roared,
"Listen up you two mugs and listen good. Big computer screw-up in heaven. Many rooms were double, even treble booked. The truth is,there is no room in heaven. You two mugs just carry on as before and we'll drop you an email in 50 or 60 years time when a double room with sharing bathroom is available."
"Oh thank you angelic gentlemen," said Tommy brown nose.
I leaped to my post-dead feet and yelled,
"Forgive me winged gentlemen,on which floor will the Ballymena contingent be housed?"
"Ballymena?" said one angel looking at another. "I ain't got no-Ballymena on my list. What about you Fred?"
"No Ballymena here either Bert," said the second angel,"and if ain't on the list, they ain't getting into heaven."
"Stall the wedding!" I roared.
"You can't have a heaven without Ballymena. Ballymena is the bible belt, braces and galluses of Northern Ireland."
Then Tommy yelled,
"Look on the Ulster/Scots page!"
And there it was,sitting all on its own----------------Ballymena.
Heaven without Ballymena would be like a po without a handle.
"Heaven boy! It's a great big paradise up in the air-Hi!"
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Ciaran's A Good Egg
Great show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat hit me on the nose with an old Corgi,1960's,red London double-decker bus and said,
"What a lovely lad that Ciaran McMenamin is,so talented,so humble,so handsome and the word in the hood is,he makes a nifty hard boiled egg."
"Ciaran is an all-rounder," I said. "Ciaran is an educated,talented,all singing,all dancing,cosmopolitan actor stroke egg boiler."
Tommy bit his nails and muttered..,
"I hope Ciaran is not related to that premier tube,JP McMenamin."
I gave a shriek and yelled,
"Wash your mouth out with Camay soap! JP McMenamin is not worthy to tie the laces on Ciaran's sky, blue gutties."
"Sky blue gutties?" said Tommy. "Only Ciaran McMenamin could carry that off in Enniskillen!"
"Turn on the TV," I said. "There must be someone cooking,decorating or crying their eyes out on a talk show." Just by luck we came on an America show called, "FAT YANKS".
"Wall to wall blubber," said Tommy."A veritable herd of Tubbies."
The fattest man there was a 900 pound Obesity called, Hank Washington Lincoln Kennedy McSmack. After a strict three day fast Hank had lost half an ounce of lard and his temper. Tommy and I watched in horror as Hank lumbered towards pretty little Lindy Lou the aerobics instructor and sank his teeth into her tanned fleshy thigh. Only for the stun guns,tazers,pepper-spray and bucket of raw pig livers,little Lindy Lou would have been eaten alive! And she was SO purty, golden tan,blonde hair,blue eyes and a pair of you-know-whats, which cost $50,000.
I turned the TV off and sat glumly on my Ikea,flat-pack bull-groper's stool. As the seconds turned to minutes I lost my head and shrieked hysterically,
"Tommy,If I pulled my belly button out,would I fly through the air like a deflated balloon making horrible farting noises?"
Tommy leaped to his feet, picked up the fly swatter and give me a battering which no bluebottle could endure and survive. But he's a good cat. He drove me later to casualty in an old abandoned rusty pram.
"Ambulance not good enough for you two?" said Doctor Crippen.
"NO!" yelled Tommy. "Now get someone to throw this "Thing" on to a trolley."
Three days later I had to walk home. Someone nicked my pram!
Needless to say,suspicion has fallen on Doctor Crippen. A leotard never changes its spots.
Tommy my cat hit me on the nose with an old Corgi,1960's,red London double-decker bus and said,
"What a lovely lad that Ciaran McMenamin is,so talented,so humble,so handsome and the word in the hood is,he makes a nifty hard boiled egg."
"Ciaran is an all-rounder," I said. "Ciaran is an educated,talented,all singing,all dancing,cosmopolitan actor stroke egg boiler."
Tommy bit his nails and muttered..,
"I hope Ciaran is not related to that premier tube,JP McMenamin."
I gave a shriek and yelled,
"Wash your mouth out with Camay soap! JP McMenamin is not worthy to tie the laces on Ciaran's sky, blue gutties."
"Sky blue gutties?" said Tommy. "Only Ciaran McMenamin could carry that off in Enniskillen!"
"Turn on the TV," I said. "There must be someone cooking,decorating or crying their eyes out on a talk show." Just by luck we came on an America show called, "FAT YANKS".
"Wall to wall blubber," said Tommy."A veritable herd of Tubbies."
The fattest man there was a 900 pound Obesity called, Hank Washington Lincoln Kennedy McSmack. After a strict three day fast Hank had lost half an ounce of lard and his temper. Tommy and I watched in horror as Hank lumbered towards pretty little Lindy Lou the aerobics instructor and sank his teeth into her tanned fleshy thigh. Only for the stun guns,tazers,pepper-spray and bucket of raw pig livers,little Lindy Lou would have been eaten alive! And she was SO purty, golden tan,blonde hair,blue eyes and a pair of you-know-whats, which cost $50,000.
I turned the TV off and sat glumly on my Ikea,flat-pack bull-groper's stool. As the seconds turned to minutes I lost my head and shrieked hysterically,
"Tommy,If I pulled my belly button out,would I fly through the air like a deflated balloon making horrible farting noises?"
Tommy leaped to his feet, picked up the fly swatter and give me a battering which no bluebottle could endure and survive. But he's a good cat. He drove me later to casualty in an old abandoned rusty pram.
"Ambulance not good enough for you two?" said Doctor Crippen.
"NO!" yelled Tommy. "Now get someone to throw this "Thing" on to a trolley."
Three days later I had to walk home. Someone nicked my pram!
Needless to say,suspicion has fallen on Doctor Crippen. A leotard never changes its spots.
Monday, 23 May 2011
The Queen's Visit
Great Royal show yesterday kid.
Tommy my cat and I were filled with great anger, ire and outrage, when the rascally stone thrower from the Rossville flats tried to sabotage your heartfelt story about the Queen. Needless to say, steps have been taken at Buckingham Palace. Neither MBE, or OBE shall never grace the front of Mr Coyle's gansy.
After your show, Tommy and I waved the tricolour and the union jack as the Queen landed on the auld sod.
"Look at the Queen, all dressed in green.
Prettiest sight I've ever seen!" yelled Tommy.
He quickly changed into a tuxedo, mounted an Ikea, luminous-green, plastic chair and roared,
"This is indeed a historic occasion. On behalf of cats from every religion and indeed, none, I would like to welcome the Queen and her retinue to Dublin."
"Tommy," I whispered, "What's a-retinue?"
"It's a fancy name for suitcase," said Tommy. "The Queen will need a retinue to hold the green leprechaun and bog oak shillelagh which will be presented to her Majesty by Irish President, Mary McAleish after a marathon, 24 hour,Irish dancing ceremony on top of Tara hill."
I looked out the window at all the bunting. This is the day Mr and Mrs Bunting their eleven children and adopted son Pepe go to Portrush and said,
"Can the Irish afford such extravagant gifts? Will not the IMF protest?"
Tommy blew his nose on the end of his simmet and said, "What can an old lag do from a cold, damp cell on Rikers Island?"
That's what I like about Tommy, not always clean but extremely succinct!
"I bit my nails, pulled my nose hair and said,
"I wonder will Daniel, perhaps, Sir Daniel O'Donnell, sing for her Majesty tonight?"
"Are you mad!" roared Tommy. "This is supposed to be a friendly visit. A warble from Dan would set back Anglo/Irish relations for another 800 years. No, my guess is, the entertainment will be provided by Phill Coulter, Jedward, and the Furey brothers with Davie Arthur."
"They'll be dancing on the Liffy tonight!" I yelled, as I wrenched a picture of Prince Phillip off the wall and gave the ancient Greek a great big kiss.
I hope the damned auld corncrake doesn't keep the Queen awake at night.
Things look good for the Anglo/Irish. Stall the wedding! Didn't that used to be a-bank!!!!!
Tommy my cat and I were filled with great anger, ire and outrage, when the rascally stone thrower from the Rossville flats tried to sabotage your heartfelt story about the Queen. Needless to say, steps have been taken at Buckingham Palace. Neither MBE, or OBE shall never grace the front of Mr Coyle's gansy.
After your show, Tommy and I waved the tricolour and the union jack as the Queen landed on the auld sod.
"Look at the Queen, all dressed in green.
Prettiest sight I've ever seen!" yelled Tommy.
He quickly changed into a tuxedo, mounted an Ikea, luminous-green, plastic chair and roared,
"This is indeed a historic occasion. On behalf of cats from every religion and indeed, none, I would like to welcome the Queen and her retinue to Dublin."
"Tommy," I whispered, "What's a-retinue?"
"It's a fancy name for suitcase," said Tommy. "The Queen will need a retinue to hold the green leprechaun and bog oak shillelagh which will be presented to her Majesty by Irish President, Mary McAleish after a marathon, 24 hour,Irish dancing ceremony on top of Tara hill."
I looked out the window at all the bunting. This is the day Mr and Mrs Bunting their eleven children and adopted son Pepe go to Portrush and said,
"Can the Irish afford such extravagant gifts? Will not the IMF protest?"
Tommy blew his nose on the end of his simmet and said, "What can an old lag do from a cold, damp cell on Rikers Island?"
That's what I like about Tommy, not always clean but extremely succinct!
"I bit my nails, pulled my nose hair and said,
"I wonder will Daniel, perhaps, Sir Daniel O'Donnell, sing for her Majesty tonight?"
"Are you mad!" roared Tommy. "This is supposed to be a friendly visit. A warble from Dan would set back Anglo/Irish relations for another 800 years. No, my guess is, the entertainment will be provided by Phill Coulter, Jedward, and the Furey brothers with Davie Arthur."
"They'll be dancing on the Liffy tonight!" I yelled, as I wrenched a picture of Prince Phillip off the wall and gave the ancient Greek a great big kiss.
I hope the damned auld corncrake doesn't keep the Queen awake at night.
Things look good for the Anglo/Irish. Stall the wedding! Didn't that used to be a-bank!!!!!
Friday, 20 May 2011
BEWARE THE CAT!
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which proved beyond all reasonable doubt, if you multiphy the square root of the hysterical hydrogenous by eleven and a half, add five, divide by one,multiply by two, divide by one again, stir in a little Bisto and leave to settle overnight at room temperature the answer is always the same... a cable stitched, mauve cardigan with one sleeve longer that the other.
I know! You could have knocked me down with a feather too!
Once upon a time only three people in the world could solve Fermat's last theorem. The three were, Professor Max Shidner from Switzerland, myself and Tommy my cat.
NOW! thanks to the calculator, the very dogs in the street can work it out and talk of little else.
I looked at Tommy my cat plucking his lute in a darkened recess of the room and said,
"Tommy, why has every cat got a mysterious, I'm better than you look on its face?"
"Because cats are BETTER that you," replied Tommy. "Can you see in the dark? Can you fall from a great height and land on your feet? Have you the patience to crouch for seven hours by a mouse hole? NO!" yelled Tommy. "The answer is undoubtedly--NO! Beware the cat! The cat is a creature of the night. I can read your mind and see every sin on your old black soul."
I pondered furiously on my Ikea triangular chair and said,
"There is something you can do that I can do even better. I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my............."
"You disgusting, repulsive, dirty old ratbag!" yelled Tommy,as he put on scarf, gloves and padded parkka and went out to face the horror's of an Ulster Summer.
"My thumb Tommy!" I yelled. "I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my thumb!"
Too late, Tommy was gone! Instead of worrying about it, I conjured up an imaginary enemy and was soon rolling around the floor in an imaginary fight to the death.
"Who won?" I hear you ask.
I'll give you a clue.It was ME!
A great show which proved beyond all reasonable doubt, if you multiphy the square root of the hysterical hydrogenous by eleven and a half, add five, divide by one,multiply by two, divide by one again, stir in a little Bisto and leave to settle overnight at room temperature the answer is always the same... a cable stitched, mauve cardigan with one sleeve longer that the other.
I know! You could have knocked me down with a feather too!
Once upon a time only three people in the world could solve Fermat's last theorem. The three were, Professor Max Shidner from Switzerland, myself and Tommy my cat.
NOW! thanks to the calculator, the very dogs in the street can work it out and talk of little else.
I looked at Tommy my cat plucking his lute in a darkened recess of the room and said,
"Tommy, why has every cat got a mysterious, I'm better than you look on its face?"
"Because cats are BETTER that you," replied Tommy. "Can you see in the dark? Can you fall from a great height and land on your feet? Have you the patience to crouch for seven hours by a mouse hole? NO!" yelled Tommy. "The answer is undoubtedly--NO! Beware the cat! The cat is a creature of the night. I can read your mind and see every sin on your old black soul."
I pondered furiously on my Ikea triangular chair and said,
"There is something you can do that I can do even better. I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my............."
"You disgusting, repulsive, dirty old ratbag!" yelled Tommy,as he put on scarf, gloves and padded parkka and went out to face the horror's of an Ulster Summer.
"My thumb Tommy!" I yelled. "I can sit with my leg in the air and lick my thumb!"
Too late, Tommy was gone! Instead of worrying about it, I conjured up an imaginary enemy and was soon rolling around the floor in an imaginary fight to the death.
"Who won?" I hear you ask.
I'll give you a clue.It was ME!
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Home Grown Music
Tommy my cat leaped in the air, clicked his heels together and cried, "TGF, thank God it's Friday. No inane, banal, babbling from Mr Coyle."
"Darn, dash and dandruff!" I yelled. "I was just in the mood for a long, monotonous monologue which would beat about the bush, lead us up the garden path and then take us the long way home."
"Well not today!" cried Tommy. "Today you will get a show which will set you back on your heels, or your toes, it all depends on which way you're standing. A show choc-a-bloc of precise English like what it should be spoken. A show which raises the bar for other shows. And have we got... music? AWAY, We've got music so far out it will knock your socks off and leave you lying under the kitchen sink like a discarded cabbage leaf."
"Looking forward to it," I said, as I pulled my tights up above my head,just for the hell of it.
"Today," said Tommy,"we will have home grown music. Ah! there's nothing like going out into the garden early in the morning and picking a basket of home grown music with the dew still fresh on it."
"I want more BASS!" I yelled. "I want a bass so loud it will rattle my bones, rumble my bowels and produce enough static electricity in my knickers to light up a small town, village or hamlet."
"Be careful of what you wish for," said Tommy. "That amount of electricity would melt the plastic gums of your National Health false teeth and leave you with a gub full of loose, rattling gnashers."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "I want to hear the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. I took precautions. I have a small lightning rod hanging from both legs of my knickers."
"On your own head be it!" yelled Tommy and he picked up a 1962, sunburst, Fender Precision bass guitar, serial number 2279 and hit me over the head with it!
I fell to the ground groggily singing,
"Hey Mr Bass man, I think you're really with it.
With your Boom-Bomb-Boomie-dee-A.
And your Boom-Boom-Boomie-dee-U.
Then,I saw Leo Fender beckoning me at the end of a bright, white tunnel, beckoning, ever-beckoning!
I like a nice rasher of-beckoning in the morning!
"Darn, dash and dandruff!" I yelled. "I was just in the mood for a long, monotonous monologue which would beat about the bush, lead us up the garden path and then take us the long way home."
"Well not today!" cried Tommy. "Today you will get a show which will set you back on your heels, or your toes, it all depends on which way you're standing. A show choc-a-bloc of precise English like what it should be spoken. A show which raises the bar for other shows. And have we got... music? AWAY, We've got music so far out it will knock your socks off and leave you lying under the kitchen sink like a discarded cabbage leaf."
"Looking forward to it," I said, as I pulled my tights up above my head,just for the hell of it.
"Today," said Tommy,"we will have home grown music. Ah! there's nothing like going out into the garden early in the morning and picking a basket of home grown music with the dew still fresh on it."
"I want more BASS!" I yelled. "I want a bass so loud it will rattle my bones, rumble my bowels and produce enough static electricity in my knickers to light up a small town, village or hamlet."
"Be careful of what you wish for," said Tommy. "That amount of electricity would melt the plastic gums of your National Health false teeth and leave you with a gub full of loose, rattling gnashers."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "I want to hear the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. I took precautions. I have a small lightning rod hanging from both legs of my knickers."
"On your own head be it!" yelled Tommy and he picked up a 1962, sunburst, Fender Precision bass guitar, serial number 2279 and hit me over the head with it!
I fell to the ground groggily singing,
"Hey Mr Bass man, I think you're really with it.
With your Boom-Bomb-Boomie-dee-A.
And your Boom-Boom-Boomie-dee-U.
Then,I saw Leo Fender beckoning me at the end of a bright, white tunnel, beckoning, ever-beckoning!
I like a nice rasher of-beckoning in the morning!
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
No Hign Falutin Rubbish Here
Great shows last week kid,
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that migraines do not respond to dancing naked with a cut-out figure of Jim Allister. Nothing relieves a migraine like sitting, legs akimbo on a huge nude turkey basted with a high octane mixture of ferret liquid ear wax and turpentine.
Turp-en-tine, doesn't the word, turp-en-tine have a sensual, erotic sound?
Unlike garbage, which is just rubbish.
Oh yes! speaking of cures for migraine.
Always remember,if it's long, curly, with a tuft of dry, ginger hair at the tip, it's an old wives' tail.
Tommy my cat ran down the stairs wearing a cream,linen jacket, white trousers and cried,
"Anyone for tennis?"
"Shut up Brides head Revisited!" I roared. "Folks round here don't go in for all that highfalutin, rootin-tootin, cream teas on the village green rubbish. Folk round here are-hard. Aye, hard and gritty. Fallen women are lying everywhere.
Orphans abound and there's trouble at mill. The doffin spincters and shuttle grommits are out on strike. Not a wheel will turn at mill,'til workers get another farthing a week and gruel with the added ingredient- real gruel!"
"Well bend me over and spank me with a copy of, "Fox and Hounds," said Tommy.
"Won't those dirty, illiterate, ricket-legged paupers ever be satisfied?"
"Eeh you're hard Tommy cat," I said. "Hard as flint, but think on. Day is coming when workers will unite and people like Alex Maskey and Edwin Poots will sit in Stormont. AYE! sit in Stormont lad, with mufflers round their neck and hobnailed boots on their feet. You can't keep the working man down!" I yelled.
"POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"
Tommy took a pinch of Plumbridge snuff and said,
"And what will happen when the workers become the bosses?"
"SIMPLE!" I roared. "We will hire asylum seekers to do our work for a pittance and then lord it over THEM!"
"If it looks like a plan," said Tommy, "and swims like a plan, it is a plan."
"Heat up last year's soup," I growled.
"I'm going to kip to think on!"
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that migraines do not respond to dancing naked with a cut-out figure of Jim Allister. Nothing relieves a migraine like sitting, legs akimbo on a huge nude turkey basted with a high octane mixture of ferret liquid ear wax and turpentine.
Turp-en-tine, doesn't the word, turp-en-tine have a sensual, erotic sound?
Unlike garbage, which is just rubbish.
Oh yes! speaking of cures for migraine.
Always remember,if it's long, curly, with a tuft of dry, ginger hair at the tip, it's an old wives' tail.
Tommy my cat ran down the stairs wearing a cream,linen jacket, white trousers and cried,
"Anyone for tennis?"
"Shut up Brides head Revisited!" I roared. "Folks round here don't go in for all that highfalutin, rootin-tootin, cream teas on the village green rubbish. Folk round here are-hard. Aye, hard and gritty. Fallen women are lying everywhere.
Orphans abound and there's trouble at mill. The doffin spincters and shuttle grommits are out on strike. Not a wheel will turn at mill,'til workers get another farthing a week and gruel with the added ingredient- real gruel!"
"Well bend me over and spank me with a copy of, "Fox and Hounds," said Tommy.
"Won't those dirty, illiterate, ricket-legged paupers ever be satisfied?"
"Eeh you're hard Tommy cat," I said. "Hard as flint, but think on. Day is coming when workers will unite and people like Alex Maskey and Edwin Poots will sit in Stormont. AYE! sit in Stormont lad, with mufflers round their neck and hobnailed boots on their feet. You can't keep the working man down!" I yelled.
"POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"
Tommy took a pinch of Plumbridge snuff and said,
"And what will happen when the workers become the bosses?"
"SIMPLE!" I roared. "We will hire asylum seekers to do our work for a pittance and then lord it over THEM!"
"If it looks like a plan," said Tommy, "and swims like a plan, it is a plan."
"Heat up last year's soup," I growled.
"I'm going to kip to think on!"
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