Will Dana Have A Late Surge?

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Senator Steven Norris drop a small dog he was about to kiss, in the mistaken belief it was a baby, and exclaim, "By Jove, that great show follows in the footsteps of Joyce, Beckett and Celica Aherne."
The campaigning Senator, wiped the rain off his glasses with the tail of his shirt, sniffed the air like a pack rat and carried on with his doomed quest to be the next Irish Presidente. Tommy my cat, came away from the table where he had been playing snooker with brandy balls and said, "As sure as pigs are pigs, the next Irish President will be Michael D Higgins, poet, scholar and accordion player, OR Sean Gallagher, the burly, bald bouncer."
"Don't be so sure my precious pussy," I cried. "Dana, wife, mother and her own worst enemy, might get a late surge."
"Late surge my Granny's cabbage patch dol!l" roared Tommy. "Dana derailed her own train. Dana put the mockers on her campaign and gave the newspapers a field day."
"Don't underestimate the late surge!" I cried. "A late surge can come out of no where and astonish the media, who abhor a late-surge."
"Let me refer you to a night in 1972," said Tommy. "Dana, then but a lump of a cuttie, never mentioned a late surge in her list of all kinds of everything."
"Snowdrops, daffodils, things of the night," I muttered. Alas, Tommy was correct. Dana had completely forgot to include a late surge in her list of everythings which reminded her of you.
"Don't forget Gay Mitchell!" I yelled. "Gay Mitchell has all the charisma and eloquence of Tom Elliott, the silver-tongued devil from the UUP."
"And therein lies his downfall," said Tommy. "Gay Mitchell and Tom Elliott have been cursed with the gift of bubbling exuberance, exhilarating oratory and an electrifying, rapier-like wit bordering on the unnatural."
"You're right Tommy," I said. "The world is not yet ready for the computer-like,quick-silver minds of Gay Mitchell or Tom Elliott."
Tommy sucked my thumb and said, "What is old Tom Elliott up to these days?" "Still leading the UUP" I said. "Still leading the UUP in ever decreasing circles."
"Bummer!" said Tommy. "Don't you just hate it when THAT happens?"
I did a reluctant-concur.

The Big Bang.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show, some might say, with a few teething troubles over the volume levels. Tommy my cat and I were sitting on the sofa wrapped up snug and warm in the national flag of Liberia when the house shook, ornaments leapt off the TV and a frantic, flashing message on the screen advised us, "To press the red button-NIGH!!!"
"In the name of Tubby Nolan's bulging Y-fronts!" yelled Tommy. "What was THAT???"
I retrieved my dry, thread-bare, ginger wig from the top of the Welsh dresser and shrieked, "It sounds like Hitler making a blood-curdling speech at a rally in Nuremberg, but why would Hitler be guldering, "HELLO EMMA! HELLO EMMA!"
"I know dear Emma," said Tommy, "and Emma is no more in the Gestapo than you are in the Brownies. Mark my words," said Tommy, "the day is yet young. Before dusk, news of great calamity will be made known." And Tommy was right! Traffic accidents, window-cleaners falling off their ladders, old codgers tumbling down open manholes, were just some of the stories a wild-eyed and frightened Noel Thompson and Donna Trainor had to deal with on Newsline. Donna popped another Valium and said, "Old folks' homes were the worst hit. Catheters and colostomy bags were wrenched from their moorings and flew through the air like shrapnel." Donna gasped, swooned and rugged anchorman Noel Thompson carried on.
"Perhaps the worst incident happened at Saint Corky's old folks' home in Cullybaccy. 104 year old Miss Candy McStump,who had served as a wren and bit of rough during two world wars, was just lowering herself on to the toilet when the BIG BANG occurred. Old Candy had a flashback, well, two if truth be told, and charged out of the little girls' room shrieking, "INCOMING!!!" Old Candy ran to the broom cupboard, grabbed a bisum shaft and went on an orgy of bayoneting never seen before in any theatre of war."
Donna Trainor came out of her swoon with a yell of, "Get back yeh boy!" and continued. "A PSNI spokesman said just 13 minutes ago, "I can confirm that four people are being held in Strand Road police station in relation to the, "BIG BANG!" The four are, Gerry Anderson, Sean Thaddeaus Coyle, Emma and Screwdriver Ken. Chummy Coyle has lawyered up and is claiming he was on a pilgrimage to Knock."
Tommy looked and me and said, "I wonder what Gerry's levels will be like tomorrow?"
"Gerry will be in Belfast tomorrow," I said,"where some wee Sammy or Mick will be twiddlin his knobs."
"OH MATRON!" shrieked Tommy.

Seven Into One Won't Go.

Great shows last week kid. Tommy my cat buttoned his battleship-grey cardigan and said, "The great shows last week will be remembered LONG after the zany, madcap, John Belushi, antics of Edwin Poots are but memories in the doting mind of old men."
I giggled and gurgled like a drain and said, "But, to give Poots his due, when he shrieks out, "Hey everybody, it's Teatime with Tommy!" and then does his little teapot impersonation,I laugh my Wigan Athletic, football socks off."
"Poots is a mere jester," said Tommy, " a fool, a buffoon, but underneath the clown's mask, Poots is crying like a baby."
I grabbed Tommy by the battleship-grey cardigan and cried, "Expand feline! Why would Edwin Poots, the minister of mirth, shed tears like an infant with nappy rash?"
"BECAUSE," yelled Tommy, "Edwin Thomas Poots wants to be a serious actor! Instead of playing the fool, Poots really wants to play Hamlet, Lear, Ali Baba and the old codger in Coronation Street, who sits in the corner mumbling, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb."
"That old codger in Coronation Street is a bridge too far for Poots!" yelled Tommy. "Were Poots to mumble, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb" in the throes of some misguided ambition to become legit, it would came over as the most rude, vile, repulsive double entendre of all time."
I rolled on the floor like a baby warthog, laughing my Wigan Athletic football socks off at the thought of Edwin Poots yelling, "Rhubarb. Rhubarb. Rhubarb!"
Tommy walked to the window, looked towards Stormont, stuck up two fingers and said, "Down in the Free State, where everything is so expensive, The Magnificent Seven, seeking the Presidency of Ireland,are spurring on their mustangs as the finishing line draws ever closer."
"Margaret Thatcher. Bobby Charlton" I cried. "They sure took a hell of a beating."
"They sure did!" said Tommy. "Poor Senator Steven Norris got an awful mauling from big Miriam O'Callaghan. By the time big Miriam was finished with the dapper, little dandy he looked like a leprechaun who had lost his crock of gold." "Why do they do it?" yelled Tommy. "Why do they put their dignity on the line? Do they not know that seven into one won't go?"
"Now, you just hold on a doggone moment," I said. "Seven dwarfs went into SnowWhite's house!"
"NO! NO! NO!" yelled Tommy. "It was the other way about. Snow White went into the home of the seven dwarfs!"
Oh I do hate being corrected by a flea-ridden pussy. Out came my claws and soon Tommy's battleship-grey cardigan was rendered into thousands of little pieces.
The motto is, a cat should never correct a ratbag!!!

Ode to The Milkman.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which showed in vivid detail the tragedy of buying cheap, Taiwan microphones. If the BBC must make drastic cuts, why don't they slash Steven Nolan's expenses? £500 for a secondhand Patrick Moore suit and a staggering £2,500 on prawn cocktail crisps!!! If the BBC carry on like this they will incur the wrath of the, "Occupiers." In America the occupiers have brought Wall Street to a standstill. No wall has left Wall Street for three weeks. The trucks can't get in to transport walls to Boston, Baltimore or Baghdad. Numerous Hanks and Ethels are left staring at three walls and thinking long and hard about joining the Tea Party. "Hank," said Ethel, "America is going down the toilet like a suicide floater!"
"Gosh, durn, dammit," growled Hank. "I got me a good mind to pick up my rifle, buy me a clown's mask and climb a tall building!"
"Well, you be careful Hank," Said Ethel. "You know for durn, tooting sure that Jesus loves you!"
Tommy my cat, sat reading an early copy of Alex Atwood's new book, "My Unsuccessful Bid To Lead The SDLP" and said, "Alex Atwood is a literary genius. His writing is well above the standard of most eight year olds. Listen to this impressive passage.
"When I heard old Maggie May was throwing in the dishcloth, I said to myself, "Alex yeh boy, NIGH is the time to don political G-string and climb the greasy pole. NIGH is the time to issue in the reign of Atwood. Your time is NIGH Alex. NIGH is the time to stamp your authority on Norn' Iron. Not sometime in the future Alex, but-NIGH!"
"What prose!" I yelled. "If Seamus Heaney had the brains to write good prose like what that is, he would call it poetry!"
"Did you know," said Tommy, "that a note Seamus Heaney left for his milkman has just won a prestigious poetry award in Finland?"
I gave a yelp and cried, "I must hear that ode before I die!" Tommy pulled a grubby piece of paper from his pocket and said, "And hear it you shall! I have in my hand a piece of paper. Written on this piece of paper is the poem that sent the literary world in Finland into a dog barking frenzy. Pin back your flappers and hark to the words of a genius.
"OH early-rising milk purveyor
Early minstrel of the dawn
Hark to my words, my hale, stout fellow
And then, just carry on.

I shall be away two days this week
So on these days, no milk I seek.
The days when I will not be here
Are Tuesday and Friday, now, is that clear?

All other days of the coming week
Two cartons of milk I verily seek.
Long gone is the fear of the small bluetit
Thank you my man and keep her lit."

The silence which followed the remarkable ode was profound, perplexed and prolonged!!!

Like an Orangeman with a faulty Sat Nav.

Great show on a rainy Monday morning Kid. Her with the perm at number 27, who always puts out a nice clean washing said, "Eeh by gum, that great show set my clogs tapping, so it did. Our Eli, leaped out of bed shouting, "I'll see you later, our mum, I'm off to mill to start some trouble!" Eeh, he's always been an odd child. He was a forceps delivery, thee knows. Oh aye,daft as a brush. He don't know his, Eeh by gums, from his, Eeh, I'll go to foot of our stairs." Tommy my cat, my consort and personal trainer, strummed his ukulele and sarcastically sang, "You must have been a beautiful baby. You must have been a beautiful child. I bet the day you started, farting in the garden, you must have drove the other kids wild." I picked up a Queen Ann table with the tell-tale bow-legs and beautiful chestnut whatnots and threw it at the feline George Formby.
"OUCH!" cried Tommy, as his head and Queen Ann made contact. Tommy rubbed his throbbing noggin with an oily rag and said, "May the good Lord protect us from an angry woman complaining about music!"
"That shrewish woman yesterday was a disgrace to her sex AND her knickers!" I yelled. "How dare she come on and bombast Gerald Michael Anderson as to his choice of music!"
"Hear! Hear!" cried Tommy. "Bring back the cat!"
"Bring back the Iron Maiden!" I yelled.
"Bring back the birch!" roared Tommy.
I topped it all by screaming, "Bring back the McCooies AND the Kennedys of Castlerock!!!"
"Here! Here!" screamed Tommy. "Give her a blast of the McCooies and see how she likes them apples!"
I marched round the room like an Orangeman with a faulty Sat Nav and said, "Coyle is behind this! Coyle, the instigator of coups is trying to whip up an Arab Winter of discontent."
"BOO!" cried Tommy. "Why doesn't old mono eyebrow stick to his bats, vigilantism and compost box?"
"Sean Coyle," I cried, "is a serial, hardline, fundamentalist meddler! If I was Gerry, I would ostracize Mr Coyle."
"Tommy winced and replied, "A tad severe, don't you think and think of the irritating, "Helium Boy" voice?"
I sighed and sadly said, "Let's face it Tommy, Mr Coyle will be there until the cows come home, the swallows return to Capistrano and apples grow on an ivy tree."
"Indeed!" said Tommy. "Did not our Lord say, "The poor you shall have with you always and-Sean Coyle! Don't blame me! My father and I had very angry words about THAT!!!"

Desperately seeking-floaters.

Great shows last week kid. I suppose simple shepherd, Chuck E. Lavender, best summed up the great shows when he stood on a high, windy hill and proclaimed to the world, "David Cameron, Bobby Davro, Cilla Black, Mortimer and Reeves, Theresa May, Timmy Mallet, Alan Partridge, DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN DAN!, DANA!!!!, My sheep and I are filled with perfuse happy-happiness after listening to great shows. DAN! DAN!.......DAN!"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with the vulgar pussy from number 27, kicked the tin can further down the road and said, "After many self-inflicted wounds the Magnificent Seven, seeking the Irish Presidency, are still sitting tall in the saddle and desperately seeking-floaters." I opened the window, yanked the hat from a passing policeman, planted some early snowdrops in it and said, "AH! The floater is a wily customer. The floating voter goes to ground during elections. The floater may float for weeks before making his mind up. Floaters need to be handled with great care. Floaters are well aware of their importance during elections. Floaters respond to touch. Gingerly point a floater in the right direction and nine times out of ten, the floater will go off and leave his mark."
"It would seem to me," said Tommy, "that floating voters are a blight on society. The way they go about puffed up with their own self importance." I swung around, stern of visage, broad in the beam and cried,
"And yet, lovely, dainty Dana and Senator Steven Norris, the highly educated leprechaun, are grasping blindly here, there and everywhere for floaters!"
"Well, wrap me in bacon and call me a sausage!" yelled Tommy. "Someone should tell dainty Dana to keep well away from the self important, playing hard-to- get-floater!"
"I will!" I cried. I opened the door, filled my lungs with diesel fumes and roared,
"DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN! DAN--DANA!!!!! Beware of the--FLOATER"!!!

Give quantitative easing a chance.

Great shows last week kid, which caused great consternation in the hills above Drumquin. Every morning ragged, tattered, unwashed,unshaven, unshorn, lean, wiry men left their under-ground poteen stills and danced, gracefully to the sweaty tones of Christy Moore, singing, "My Little Honda 50."
"Gee Hank," said visiting American, Ethel Occupying-Force, "those guys would make the Bolshoi ballet hang its head in shame." Hank, who was keeping a wary eye out for the Taliban, grunted, "You betcha Ethel. You gosh, durned, betcha!"
Tommy my cat, wearing a fetching, off the shoulder string vest came away from the window, where he had been watching the chickens come home to roost after the collapse of the big housing bubble and said,
"It will take a third world war to get us out of this debt hanlin."
"At least give quantitative easing a chance," I said. "Even as we speak, 20 pound notes are flying off the printing presses like Smarties."
Tommy caught me in a headlock, micro-chipped me behind the ear and said,
"You can't spend your way out of a recession. What we need is a great, big, world-wide debt concert. Bob Geldoff, Bono, Lady Gaga and Declan Nerney are drawing up a list of the great and good, plus Michael Buble, who will sing our way out of debt.
I slipped on a bald wig like Harry Hill and yelled, "Well, I do like a big concert, but I also like a third world war, but which is the best? Only one way to find out-FIGHT"!!!!!!!!!