Woman With Cat

How Do You Spell Collaborationists?

2012-03-01T03:42:00.001-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. When the great show was translated into Iranian, President Maw Dinner Jacket, shut down his nuclear reactors and went back to turf, ignited with Sunny Jim fire lighters.
When told the good news, President Obama said, "I hope he keeps her lit 'till we get out!"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Milligan's goose, leaped from his reclining chair and yelled, "J'accuse the BBC and UTV of-COLLABORATION!"
I put down the chicken I was plucking a tune on and cried, "If this is true it's going to be bigger than the scandal involving Tubby Nolan and the pie lady."
"I have just watched Newsline and UTV Live!" yelled Tommy. "Both had the same content, BUT, both channels had a different lead story!!!"
"Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia and the foot of our stairs," I cried. "This is bigger than the headline the Belfast Telegraph was going to run years ago.
TITANIC REACHES NEW YORK SAFELY!!! "Northern Ireland workers should be proud!" said Mayor of New York".
Tommy, spat out a fur ball and screamed, "J'aCCUSE THE BBC AND UTV OF BEING COLLABORATIONISTS!"
I looked at Tommy like a cat might look at a Queen and said, "Tommy, A chara, how does one spell, Collaborationists?"
Tommy himmed and hawed and replied, "One Collab, one rat and as many ionists as you can get on the same line."
I ran to the kitchen and gave Tommy the last bun in the bread box. Tommy spat at me and took the bun under the table where he ate it with his back to me.
NEVER go near Tommy when he's eating.... or Steven Nolan! You could lose more than a finger!!!!

Poor Tara! That's tarra.

2012-02-29T01:23:00.002-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which came as a great surprise
to an old codger who was being waked at home in the good room. The old
codger, leaped out of the coffin and ran through the town in his
shroud yelling, " Barnyard fowl and tawny owl, I've missed two Gerry
Anderson shows!" When told that Mr Coyle's interrupting had increased
by 37% the old codger ran home, leaped into the coffin and closed the
lid with a bang!
Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "The well spring of ugliness in
your family must run fast and deep."
"It does," I chortled. "When I was born the doctor and midwife would only handle me with tongs. My sister Suzie, was fined for being knowingly and persistently ugly in a public place. My brother Sunk, who was named after the Titanic could
kill a goatee beard just by looking at it. When my late daddy died, the man who came to shave him took one look and yelled, "In the name of God!" turned him over on his face and covered him with bubble wrap."
Tommy picked up his pea-shooter, fired a salvo of peas in the general direction of Iran and said, "Your family would made the Adam's family look like the Osmonds. Your combined ugliness must have been a great drawback to tourism."
"Oh it was," I said. "Tourists, especially the Japanese, used to take one look at us and get right back on the plane. We did our bit in the war!" I yelled. "Oh yes, we did our bit in the war. Old Winston Churchill, reeking of cigars, self importance and cooking sherry, lined the whole family up on the cliffs of Dover and ordered us to pull faces for God, King and country."
Tommy flicked a speck of dark matter off his gansey and muttered under his
breath. "So, that was why Hitler, never invaded Britain!"
Under the spreading chestnut tree, the lovely, blonde, Tara Mills,sat eating corn on the cob, washed down with Listerine mouthwash. "TARA!" I yelled. "Lovely, wee political Tara. It must be tarra for you to have to sit up in Stormount,listening to the sound of baying jackals and the inspiring, unforgettable oratory of Jim
Allister."
Little Tara, wrung her hands, wept and cried, "OH woe is me. You knee
Noel Thompson just ONCE in the groin and the BBC send you off to Stormount. SIBERIA, the political correspondents' graveyard. How I would love to sit on the sofa, talking about the Titanic and interviewing important people like Sue Pollard, Les Dennis and little old wine drinker me, Brian Kennedy."
"TARA!" I cried. "That's tarra. You only kneed Noel Thompson once. One day you will be set free. But what in tarnation did big Jim Fitzpatrick do to be sent to Stormount for LIFE?"
"That I can not say," said Tara. "Let's just say it involved Donna Traynor, a box of Ferraro Rocher and a feather duster."
NO!" I cried.
"YES!" said Tara--in the broom cupboard! GO" said Tara. "Make haste and go. The BBC have spies everywhere.
I looked around just in time to see Tubby Nolan, hiding behind some
wheelie-bins, like Orson Wells. The thin man? I think NOT!!!!!

Pies, Pies, Chocolate and Fries.

2012-02-28T04:28:00.002-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was mostly ignored in and round the Bricklands area. When a naked Jordie Tuft rode into town on a donkey protesting at the spiraling cost of cooking sherry, the Mother's Union and the Legion of Mary had a whip round and sent old Jordie home wearing, French, satin knickers, fishnet stockings and a double D bra, all of which were hidden under a wee, blue top and a charcoal-grey pencil skirt.
"Don't he look lovely?" cried old Ma Clampet. "He looks just like my granny, the night before she died."
I grabbed Tommy my cat by the bow tie and yelled, "How would you describe the mood of Mr Coyle today?" Tommy gave me a voucher for a head butt and said, "Buoyant! Buoyant, is the only word to describe Mr Coyle's mood." I stared hard at a green tomato until it turned red and said, "Something isn't right."
"Then it must be left," said Tommy. "Anyway, what's amiss?"
"A young, unmarried woman," I replied. "I can't quite put my finger on it," I said.
"Want me to get the wooden spoon?" said Tommy.
"It's a puzzler," I said. "Mr Coyle plus a good mood equals..what?"
"DRUGS!" yelled Tommy. "Old Popeye went to see the doctor before dropping into the studio for a rest. The doctor must have used eye drops consisting of sterilized water and LSD! Mr Coyle was as high as a kite, pumped up to the eye balls with hippy, trippy, acid."
"GOTCHA!!!" I yelled. "Quick Tommy, the phone number for big, Jim McDowell at the Sunday World."
I found Steven Nolan, sitting in an old, abandoned warehouse singing this little ditty over and over again, "PIES, PIES, CHOCOLATE AND FRIES."
"Hey Bro," I cried, "what's up? Eat anything good lately?"
Tubby snarled like a Komodo dragon and said, "I feel my position as King of the airways is in danger. I have heard strange tales of treason and intrigue relating to Alan Simpson and William Crawly. I am surrounded by enemies. I must protect my flanks and cover my rear."
"The only way for you to cover your rear,"I giggled, "is to reverse into an aircraft hanger."
"Begone!" yelled Tubby. "I must prepare for battle! My visage must be grim and my loins girded."
"Oh Sir Tubby," I cried, "May I gird your mighty loins?"
"YOU?" roared Tubby. "You are a mere rat bag. It requires six strong men to gird MY massive loins."
For some strange reason I was reminded of a cowboy film I saw when just a cuttie.... HOLD UP AT TWISTED FORK!!!

Magicians and Cannibals

2012-02-27T04:43:00.002-08:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly amazed sinister, spinster, old Maud Muppet, when she went to the woodshed and found Jordie Tuft sitting on an upturned bucket wearing the full regalia of a Captain in the Spanish navy. Old Jordie, who was under the impression he was in the crow's nest of the Constantia, yelled, "Hello wee woman. How sets the wind for France?" Old Jordie, was taken away by the police to be washed, sanded,varnished and polished. Tommy my cat, wearing the away colours of Plymouth Argyle, finished a lovely, charcoal drawing of Ghandi, wearing a lime-green three piece suit and said,
"Ageing magician old Paul Daniels, is so deranged he cut off his own finger thinking it was the head of the lovely Debbie Magee."
"Not a lot do I like that!" I yelled. "It is high time and indeed, low time that the ancient magician was hog tied and taken to secure accommodation."
"Paul Daniels should see this as a wake-up call," cried Tommy. "It was a finger this time, but next time it could be a John Bobbit. Now you see it, now you don't."
"I wonder at the lovely Debbie Magee," I said. "She's no Spring chicken herself. When she saw the deceiving, old relic get off the commode with a groan and reach for an electric, circular saw, she must have known the old, bald, dimwit would climb into bed that night minus this or that."
"The lovely Debbie Magee was lucky this time," said Tommy. "The doddering, old fool only cut off this, but it could so easily have been-that!"
"And they don't grow on trees," I said. "They don't grow on trees!"
Tommy looked at me, like a biologist looking at a newt with two heads, and said,
"Why did you never get married?" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and stammered, "I had my chances. Don't you worry, I had my chances. There was a time men used to fall at my feet."
Tommy sneered and said, "Yes, they do say the rank, putrid smell of athlete's food can drop a man quicker than a bullet." I ignored the spiteful, hateful slur and went on, "When I was a gal, living in the country, men used to drive out from Belfast just to gaze at my beauty, grace and deportment. Dear Mama, would serve tea on the lawn. Darling papa would whip out his kazoo and I would throw back my head, exposing my soft, slender, swan-like neck and sing, "She was only a farmer's daughter, but she always got her oats."
"There must have been someone special," said Tommy. "Whom was the special boy in your life?" I blushed, threw my arms about me, until my knuckles grazed the floor, kicked the coal bucket with a pink flip-flop and replied, "The special boy in my life was, little Willie Snot. Willie, was only the son of a vicar, but he meddled not with hymns. Little Willie, said he would marry me after two years working as a kilt salesman in the Congo, but, but, but.......... "
"What happened?" cried Tommy. "What happened to little Willie?"
"Eaten," I sobbed. "Eaten by cannibals."
"Oh no!" cried Tommy.
"Oh yes!" I shrieked. "Eating little Willie, was bad enough, but it was what they said afterwards that has remained with me to this day."
"What did they say?" cried Tommy. I tore clumps of hair from my head and screamed,
"The cannibals, described my little Willie, as a tasty little snack." I fell back then on my bustle, kicking my legs and pulling faces of the most hideous and repulsive ugliness.
Tommy went out the door singing, "She was only a cannibal's daughter, but she wouldn't eat her granny's ass.!!!

In Other Words.

2012-02-24T03:42:00.002-08:00

"What a great show that was!" said Tommy my cat. "And what a lot of subjects were covered. Poetry, swans, Gerry's great love for his fellow man, Mr Coyle's pussy phobia and how hateful and awful Steven Nolan is."
I coughed. Tommy said, "What's up? Is a small doctor examining you below the Mason, Dixon line?"
"Don't be crude!" I yelled. "Sometimes you can be as crude as Iranian oil, which we ain't going to get no more, thanks to Porgy and Bess, Aka William Hague and David Cameron. If you must know," I said, "I have something stuck in my craw."
"Spit it out," said Tommy. "Don't stand there like Tubby Nolan without a pie in his hand."
"The reason for my blocked craw," I said, "is-COYLE!" Suddenly the sky darkened. A flash of lightening split the heavens and a busker played a discordant, Hammer House of Horror chord on a mouth organ. Tommy blessed himself with some holy water from the river Boyne and said through chattering teeth, "We promised never to mention that name in this house."
"I have to!" I yelled. "Coyle's interrupting is one thing, but when he disagrees with every thing Gerry says, well, he's walking on the fighting side of me."
"You're right!" cried Tommy. "Or as they would say in Eastenders, "Hoi son, come 'ere you Muppet. You wuz bang,right out of order there!"
"OR," said Tommy, "if we were in Coronation Street, it would be, "Nay lad. Nay, nay lad. Stop mithering our Gerry. Go to foot of stairs and think on!"
"OR," said Tommy, "If it was Fair City, it would be, "AH, come on Charley. Another auld pint won't hurt you, by janey, begorragh and be jesus."
"OR," said Tommy, "if it was Hollyoaks, it would be, "I think Jason likes me, he vomited all over me last night."
"IT must STOP!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle must allow Gerry to tell a story without roaring. "There's nothing about that! I don't believe a word of it, or, AAH, your drawers!" "A time is coming," I said. "Oh, yes my friends, a time is coming, when Gerry will say, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is, Gerald Michael Anderson and Mr Coyle will roar, "Ah, your drawers! There's not one word of truth in that statement. You're a liar! I demand to see your birth certificate and a photograph of you with Gerald Michael Anderson."
"The Twilight Zone," said Tommy. "Mr Coyle is talking us into a place where time doesn't exist. A place where the truth is bent and twisted like a licorice stick. A place where the one-eyed man is King. A place known as, The Twilight Zone."
Frightened beyond belief, I was too scared to concur!!!

I love George Clooney.

2012-02-23T04:09:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. The great show was much appreciated by the widow of old 87 year old Jingo Mumbles. Just a week ago old Jingles had glued chicken feathers all over his body and leaped off a steep cliff. As old Jingo plummeted to the ground he cried out in a shrill, piercing scream. "Well, back to the drawing board!" Old Jingo was buried quickly in the dark of night in a five minute ceremony befitting a crazy, old head banger. Tommy my cat, looked at me and said, "I have known Jordie Tuft all my feline life. In all that time I have never seen a shorter phone-in than the one old Jordie did on Tuesday morning. I wonder what is the matter with the rural, rustic Oracle?"
"Hefted?" I said.
"No!" said Tommy, "old Jordie has many cures for that condition." Tommy giggled and said, "I think old Jordie had a lady friend in and was in a rush to get back to her. I think old Jordie put his lady friend on the back burner, so to speak, had a brief talk with Gerry, and then returned to steamy,lecherous shenanigans, not seen since the days of Caligula."
"Pork salad Annie!" I yelled. "I heard old Jordie is often seen in the company of a lady called, Pork Salad Annie. She's not as green as she's cabbage looking. Old Jordie better watch out. If the DHSS hear about it they could cut off his cold weather payment."
Tommy smiled grimly and said, "If this romantic dalliance is to be nipped in the bud, they may cut off a lot more than THAT!" I pulled my masonic apron over my face and screamed, "You don't mean........?
"Oh yes!" said Tommy. "If old Jordie doesn't stop his fluffing and futtering they may cut off his electricity! People in and around Bricklands say that women of a certain age are attracted to the light in old Jordie's window, like wanton moths to a flame."
I put on an Etta James false face, threw back my head and sang, "I'd Rather Go Blind!"
"George Clooney," I said, hugging myself with delight. "What a man! So handsome, so intelligent, so hunkable. I love him. I love him. I want the whole world to know that I love George Clooney. I love George Clooney, with a love so strong, so deep, so everlasting. NOTHING could take away my great love for George Clooney."
"Is that a fact?" said Tommy.
"It is a fact," I said.
"So be it," said Tommy. "I will now take away your love of George Clooney by asking you one simple question."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "NOTHING will take away my love for gorgeous George." "Tommy looked deep into my eyes and said, "What hand does George Clooney use to clean his bum? I ran down the street screaming and pulling my hair, with the sound of Tommy's evil laughter ringing in my ears.

Rejected because he's a Cat....

2012-02-21T14:53:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which brought out Mr Coyle's innate kindness, generosity and philanthropic nature. When I heard Mr Coyle had opened his car window and hurled a half-eaten cheese sandwich at a beggar, with an ignorant yell of, "Now bugger Off Smelly!" I fell to my knees before a statue of Charles Dickens and yelled, "God bless us, everyone!" The highlight of the week for me was Wednesday, when you talked to a 48 stone man with no ambition to lose weight and climb mount Everest! Old Jordie's views on nuclear physics were interesting, but not exactly ground breaking. Tommy my cat, sat in front of the radio all week, holding an empty jam jar, hoping to catch one of Emma's dainty little coughs. Alas, Benelin won the day and Tommy came away with an empty jam jar, which will now be sterilized and used to hold tadpoles. I like a tadpole or two around the house. They bring a Zen-like tranquility to a home. Hence the well known poster, "A home Is Not A home Without A Tadpole." They say Damian Hirst made thousands out of that!!
Tommy ran to fetch the mail and came running back with a brown envelope in his hands. I spilled some needles and pins on the floor and stood on them as Tommy tore open the letter with teeth, claws and a Swiss army knife. Tommy read the letter, let out a high, piercing scream and collapsed on the floor. I watched the second half of Countdown and then ran to his side. "TOMMY!" I shrieked. "Speak to me, even if it's only to say, "I can't talk now, come back later." Tommy raised his little head and cried, "Hello rejection, my old friend. You've come to talk with me again." Tommy looked all around for a cat to kick and yelled, "Once more I have been turned down for a job on the police commission. Once again, the reason is the same, it's because I'm a CAT!. A CAT.......A....."
"But Tommy," I yelled, "there are many catholics on that board and one or two of them even pretend to follow the tenets of their faith."
"CAT!" roared Tommy. "Not catholic! They turned me down because I'm a CAT!"
"You kept that quiet," I said. "I had no idea. I thought you were my aunt Flo's boy. Nevertheless, you have as much right to be on that board as any Tom, Dick or Saddam. Why, the very dogs on the street are on the police commission."
"I know," said Tommy. "Sammy the dachshund told me it's a cushy little number. All you have to do is listen to Matt Baggott, droning on and on and then get stuck into the tea and biscuits." I raised my clenched teeth in the air and cried, "By the revolutionary drawers of Che Guevara, I will take this to the European court for human and feline rights. Questions will be asked," I roared, "in parliament and in the back snug of Patel's shebeen!"
"Leave me," said Tommy. "I am irrelevant. I had hoped to do some good, but if Matt Baggott treats me like a second-class cat, then on his own head be it."
Tommy staggered to his chair in front of the fire, pulled an old horse blanket round him and sobbed, "The police commission is a cold house for cats!"
I concurred repeatedly, until my legs gave way and I fell in a crumpled, dishevelled heap on the floor!

The Proud Tradition of Cutting across the Fields.

2012-02-21T03:39:00.002-08:00

Great Saint Valentine's day show kid. If you can't say it with flowers, say it with bullets like Al Capone.
I saw an old fakir, trying to raise his pecker, in a field near Malin Head, his old pipe was wailin' the magic was fadin' alas, his old snake was dead!
Don't you just hate it when that happens!!!
Tommy my cat, wearing a pair of wrinkled tights, leaped into the room like Rudolph Nurevyev and cried,
"On pointe de toes, here I go, watch me pirouette. En dehors, en dehors, shut them doors, for petit, feline pet. Pas de chat, the step of the cat, I leap high in the air, bourree, bourree, I bend my knee and stick out my derriere!" "Bravo!" I yelled. "Encore, encore!"
"I can't encore, there is no more," said Tommy, changing back into his grey, flannel trousers and blue blazer with the crest of the Greta Garbo school for wayward boys and girls on the front. Where did Tommy get the blazer? I don't know. Probably Manfred woman, or Manfred Mann.
Tommy stood at the window, stuck out his tongue in the general direction of Iran and said, "Up at Stormount, bonny wee Sammy Wilson is spending money hand over fist."
"I know!" I yelled. "For the first time in history, Co Tyrone is going to have a road, a big road, which goes places! How great is that!"
Tommy drew a picture of a parrot, placed it on his shoulder and said, "Not everyone is over the lunar landscape. Just seventeen minutes ago, by my H Samuel, ever-right watch, be-spectacled, Sinn Feiner, Barry McElduff, leaped to his feet and made this impassioned speech. "(Irish Intro) Mr Speaker, I thank the minister for his offer of the first road in Co Tyrone. But does the minister know that this will sound the death knell for a grand old tradition in that county? I refer of course to cutting across the fields. Since time began the people of Tyrone have been cutting across the fields. I myself, cut across the fields to get to school. My father, cuts across the fields to get to the bog and my sainted mother, cut across the fields to by me a new, secondhand suit when I first entered Stormount. Cutting across the fields is a proud tradition that the people of Tyrone will fight to retain. I shudder to think of a generation of Tyrone cubs and cutties, who may NEVER know the great thrill of cutting across the fields. If this new road leads to trouble on the streets, I must warn the minister, that I will cut across the fields to lead the protest. UP TYRONE and UP cutting across the fields!"
Sammy Wilson, got to his feet with a pained expression on his face, (piles or indigestion?) and said,
"Barry, do you want the flipping road or NOT?"
The bold Barry leaped to his feet and yelled, "YES! I do want the road, but with stipulations. When the big road is built, I insist that everyone in Tyrone be issued with a licence, a licence to cut across the fields!"
"CARRIED!!!" roared Jim Allister, who was sitting with a red face brusting for a slash!

Life is like a pigeon with one wing.

2012-02-17T02:49:00.002-08:00

Great shows last week kid, and hats off to Mr Coyle, who manipulated his
fader brilliantly with just one good eye.
Birdman, Dickie Crowe, wishes it to be known that he has crossed a parrot
with a rooster which shouts, "Are you going to lie in bed all day?" at
break of dawn. What a boon for house-bound honeys and the fox hunting
fraternity. Do you ken John Peel? No! but I ken his sister Emma Peel!
Tommy my cat, picked up his shoe shine box and said, "I'm off to work. I
have a pitch just outside the BBC. Oh yes, I know them all. Dear Donna
Traynor, with her blue gutties, Noel Thompson, with his hiking boots and
debonair, Mark Carruthers, with his super-dooper, leather shoes made by a
saddle maker in Barnsley."
"Eeh, it's grim up North," I said. "Our Eli said cobble-stones are no friend of clogs. Eeh, by gum, Michael Parkinson said in book, "I were so hungry I ate food out of whippet's bowl. Trouble at mill lay over Barnsley like a dark satanic cloud. My ambition were to be a gas lamp lighter like our mum, but gift of the gab decreed I be a talk show host. Eeh, I don't know! Life is like a pigeon with one wing. You never know which direction it's going to go. It were only going to foot of our stairs on a regular basis that stopped me from going barmy. A lot of folk go barmy in Barnsley thee knows."
Tommy hit me over the head with a bronze bust of Louis Spence, picked up
his shoe shine box and set off for the BBC to polish the hooves of the
great and the good. Finding myself on the floor, I decided not to waste the
opportunity and began to clean the carpet with my tongue. I ran out of
spittle behind the sofa and lay there like an old bag with a dry mouth.
"So, Mr Nolan, we meet again," I said. Tubby took his little piggy eyes
away from the pies in the window and yelled, "Clear off you old bedlamite.
Every food outlet I go to, there you are, mumbling and cackling like an
old crone."
"Don't be like that," I said. "Let's be friends. Chase me round the wheelie-bins like you used to do before you became famous." Tubbylooked towards the Black Mountain and said. "Fame lies heavy on my shoulders. I carry a great responsibility. Like Caesar's wife I must be whiter than white. Like Lot's wife I must never look back and like King Henry's wife I must keep my head, while all around me are losing theirs."
"MARRY ME!" I shrieked, falling to my knees. "Marry me! I will give you
many offspring."
Tubby looked at me with scorn and replied. "YOU! give birth to children? You are too old, too ugly and too crazy."
I retreated like a scalded warthog and screamed, "Do you think I would have children with YOU in the conventional way? You shall never lay a finger on me, oval man. The lights may be going out all over Europe, but this midden, I mean,
maiden intends to keep her lamp LIT!" Then it suddenly hit me, Jordie
Tuft, too must be a child of God, why else would he cry on high.
"KEEP HER LIT, 'TILL WE GET OUT!" As for the children I promised Tubby,
I simply meant I would steal five or six sprogs from an orphanage. Lips which taste lard, shall never taste mine. I go now, to put more oil in my lamp and trim my wick. I like a well trimmed wick!

Give me a bite baby!

2012-02-09T03:15:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. Old, blind Pugh stumbled around pressing the dreaded, black spot into the hands of Ken and the Undertone. "AHOY ship mate!" yelled Mr Coyle, as he was helped into his chair by Emma. "Man on one, sighted off the main bow. Ho-Ho-Ho, and a bottle of blue nun." Emma brought Mr Coyle to his senses by hitting him repeatedly over the head with a rolled up copy of, "Pregnant and Proud."
Tommy my cat dropped lightly from the ceiling where he had been pretending to be Spiderman and said, "The Free State economy is in a bad state when Eamon Dunphy is reduced to flogging Kentucky Fried Chicken."
"I saw him!" I yelled. "I saw his big, ugly, reflected face saying, "Give me a bite baby."
"He was on the Late, Late show," said Tommy. "When asked by the brilliant Brian Turbidy why he sold out, Dumphy laughed with his new teeth and said, "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Johnny Giles, would never do that!" I yelled. "IF, heaven forbid, circumstances ever forced Johnny Giles into doing commercials on TV, Johnny Giles' honesty and gravitas would lead him into DIY products, or hardware appliances."
"I can see Johnny Giles now," said Tommy, "standing behind the counter of a hardware shop. Johnny, would stare into the camera, with both hands on the counter and say, "You want buckets? We got buckets! We got plastic buckets, iron buckets, zinc buckets, wooden buckets, even glass buckets. If you want buckets, we got buckets!"
"What a great pitch!" I yelled. "I feel compelled to run out and buy a bucket." Tommy snorted and said, "Eamon Dumphy, with his, "Give me a bite baby" really rattles my cage, bunches my shorts and curls my whiskers."
"What are you going to do about it?" I yelled to Noel Thompson, as he came out of the newsagents with the Exchange and Mart under his arm. "YES you, Mr Thompson. What are you going to do about it?" I roared. Noel glanced down at me and muttered, "Oh, it's you again, Les Miserable. What am I going to do about WHAT?" "How soon they forget," I said to a policeman, who was sleeping against the wall. "Last night, on Newsline, you, yes you, Mr Thompson predicted nothing but doom, gloom and despondency for the people of Ulster."
"I, am not responsible for the news," said Noel, "I merely report it."
"Not so fast Anchorman," I yelled. "Your, so called, reporting has the people of Ulster on the edge of a nervous breakdown. It would seem to me that the man who delivers all the bad news, has a moral duty to do something about it. So once again Mr Thompson, I say onto you, what are you going to do about it?"
Noel collapsed like a cheap suit and began to snivel, "I can't cure unemployment. I can't round up all the hoodies. I can't repair all the potholes on the M1."
"Perhaps not," I said. "In that case you should keep silent and not go scaring the good, Ulster folk. However, there is something you can do. Last night, you reported on a broken sewer pipe in Poleglass." I stood over Noel, until he dug up the old pipe and replaced it with a new one. As Noel staggered away, I yelled after him, "If you can't fix it, keep your mouth shut and that goes for Donna Traynor too."
I hear tonight's, "Newsline" is reduced to just three minutes. "Give me a bite baby! Give me a bite baby!"

The Big Daddy of the Airwaves.

2012-02-08T03:19:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made many people ponder and ruminate on the logistical effort required in putting on a great show.
Here are just a few of the tweets I received after the great show. "It made me want to yank out my catheter and dance." (Old Bob Tanner)
"I felt as if my gizzard would explode." (Mrs A.Tuna)
"It brought a smile to my cheeks, front and back." (Doctor Billy Bunting) "The great show goes down well with cooking sherry." (Jordie Tuft) High praise indeed, especially from old Jordie who is discombobulated beyond belief at the soaring price of old, buck goats.
Tommy my cat, took a ball of string and ran outside. Five minutes later he came running back and said, "Nine feet and seven inches."
"What is?" I said."
How long is a piece of string?" said Tommy. I made a note on my Mayan calender, which for some strange reason ends abruptly on the fifth of May and said, "Let's have a little treat. Peel a banana while I do the splits."
From a distance Tubby Nolan looked like a dust storm. Soon he stood before me, quivering all over like a highly-strung, Arab stallion. I slipped a piece of sugar into his mouth and said, "Hey Bluto, there is a rumour going round the coffee houses and DLA offices, that your radio show is going down the tubes, faster than a particle in the higgs boson, hydron collider."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tubby. "I am a household name here and on the mainland. I am the biggest thing to hit radio since the cat's whiskers. Groups of middle aged woman follow me everywhere I go screaming, "Steven! Make a farting sound with your oxter again!" Who could replace me? I am the Big Daddy of the air waves."
I borrowed a stool, clambered on to it and whispered in the fat boy's ear. "There is a whisper going round Broadcasting House, that the BBC have Walter Love up on a ramp, where he is being oiled and greased by a group of ancient broadcasting enthusiasts."
"INFAMY!" roared Tubby. "If Walter Love dares to take the food out of my mouth I will inform the BBC about Walter's nefandous flirting with Nell Gwynn in the back seat of the Globe theatre in London, in the year of our Lord, 1625." I went on my way, happy in the thought that soon Tubby Nolan and Walter Love would be fighting like a manatee and an old pike.

The Flamingo Gang. How did they GET IT OUT?

2012-02-07T03:00:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat looked at me with his wee, sincere, feline face and said, "My heart goes out to Mr Coyle, who is suffering from severe, chronic, ocular trouble. Gadzooks, the lad is stumbling about like an old banger of a car, with just one headlight."
"Old Keyhole Kate!" I cried. "Peeping through keyholes will give you an eye infection. J'accuse Mr Coyle of peeping AND gleeking through keyholes. J'accuse Mr Coyle of being a serial voyeur, which is French for Nosey-Parker."
Tommy unrolled an old, aged, faded parchment, which gave him permission to drive geese up the stairs at Stormount and said, "This coming year, is chock-a-block with anniversaries. There is the signing of the Ulster covenant, sponsored by BIC pens, the 1916 hanlin' at the post office in Dublin, sponsored by Murphy's stout and O'Toole's pigs' cheeks and the big one on the first of September, when good, old Jackie, (One two and you're in) Fullerton, will clock up one hundred years on the old speedometer."
"Let's hear it for Ballymena's finest!" I yelled. "Jackie has come a long way since he first played football on the village green with a pig's bladder."
"Jackie Fullerton is a legend," cried Tommy, "an institution! Jackie Fullerton, is a model to any young man contemplating entering the highly skilled world of football commentary. Jackie has proved, time and time again, that no matter how hard you try, you never quite get it right."
"Remember his howler at Windsor Park," I giggled., "Fowler, the Glentoran keeper has run amok in the six yard box, flapping his arms ineffectually like a headless chicken."
Tommy laughed and said, "My favourite Jackie-Bite is, "Lennon has his head between his knees, but I don't think he'll find the ball there!"
"Old Jackie Fullerton," I said. "It seems only yesterday he was playing football in the street wearing only his underpants."
"It was only yesterday!" said Tommy. "Old Jackie, sold the nurse a dummy and escaped from secure accommodation. He dribbled his way through the main gate, nut-megged a policeman and kicked an empty tin of coke through Eason's window. Then old Jackie pulled his simmet over his head, croaked, "GOOOOAL" and ran into a lamp post. As he was taken away in an ambulance the genial, crooner sang, "I Did It My Way!"
Tommy stood over a terrified, bound and gagged Jim Rodgers and yelled,
"It has come to my attention that you, Jim Rodgers, and some of your friends stole the flamingo from the Flamingo ballroom way back in the day when you could have a good night out for a tanner." Tommy yanked the old sock out of Jim's mouth and yelled, "Confess Rodgers! I have you bang to rights.
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim, "You shall never hear from my lips the names of the Flamingo gang."
"I don't want names!" roared Tommy. "I just want to know one thing about the great flamingo heist and that is,
HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT? HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT?? HOW DID YOU GET IT OUT?????"

What's a Resolution Centre?

2012-02-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which sadly went unnoticed in a secluded hamlet in the hills above Drumquin. Amateur escapologist, the self styled, The Great McGenie, lay at the bottom of a deep lake, shackled with chains and confined in a steel casket. It was four days since the great McGenie had been lowered into the lake. A large crowd stood on the shore, waiting for the bold, McGenie to bob up at any minute. The parish priest approached McGenie's wife and said, "Muriel, do you not think four days is a long time for your husband to be at the bottom of the lake?" Wee Muriel, flicked ash from her cigarette and replied, "Ah, not at all father. Sure my Willie John, is just building up the suspense."
And so a fifth day passed without any sign of the great McGenie. But the people of Drumquin and surrounding districts are quite sure it's only a matter of time before the great McGenie escapes from his chains, opens the steel casket, swims to shore and runs into the loving arms of wee Muriel.
Tommy my cat, threw the Newsletter from him and yelled, "Nothing ever changes! 150 million will be spent in Belfast and diddly-squat for Clogher, Augher and Cullybaccy. Why do our culshie cousins, never get a piece of the pie?"
I laughed, clapped my hands and cried, "What would the Clampets in Clogher, Augher and Cullybaccy do with the money, but buy new wellingtons and produce even bigger middens. You have to have a them and us!" I yelled. "We fly, city folk are the "us" and the naked savages West of the Bann are "them."
"I suppose that's right," said Tommy. "It all goes back to Darwin's theory of evolution. Survival of the fittest. Why give money to Tyrone, where fierce, bloody, factional, infighting still goes on under the name of Gaelic football." "Tyrone!" I said with a shudder. "The last outpost of barbarity, uncultured, uncivilized , unwashed, where skulduggery and vile, villainy is perpetrated by men AND women, wearing flat caps and animal skins!"
"Tyrone!" said Tommy with fear in his eyes. "Thank God it's surrounded by bushes."
"Tommy," I said, "what's a resolution centre?"
"Darned if I know," said Tommy. "Why do you ask?"
I picked up the Newsletter and cried, "It says here, in black and white, that 18 million will be spent on creating a resolution centre on the site of the Maze prison."
"OH! I know now," said Tommy. "It's a big thing like the Post Office tower in London. Up on the top will be a restaurant serving the best food this side of the Pecos. Outlaws will gather from all parts of the country and seek closure for their past crimes-Capiche?"
"I still don't understand why it's called a resolution centre!" I yelled.
Tommy looked at me like a fool and roared, "The restaurant on top of the Post Office tower in London goes round and round when you're eating. Fanny by gaslight!, did the word, resolution, not give you a clue?"
I slunk away like the stupid, thick, low down dog I was. Resolution, the answer was staring me in the face!

Poor Mike Nesbitt!

2012-02-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. In spite of a multitude of prayers from all over
Northern Ireland, Mr Coyle turned up before the 11 o'clock news. "Is this
why my granny fell at Ypres?" yelled an old codger, as he threw a one kilo
bag Of McKinney's, pure and natural granulated sugar at his radio. (You can
pick up McKinny's sugar at any good supermarket, or go to Sandyford
Business Estate, Dublin 18. McKinney's is part of the Nordzucker company.)
I looked at Tommy my cat who was weaving a wickerwork teapot and said, "Did
you see David McNarry on TV last night?"
"STOP!" roared Tommy. "Enough with the old David McNarry talk. The world does not revolve around David McNarry, or farmer Tom Elliott. Do not intrude on private grief. Leave the UUP to sort out their own shambles. It is not for you or I to meddle in the boring, self induced wounds which afflict a party in decline."
After rumination, I concurred with vigor and 100% 24 caret enthusiasm.
Later that night, Tommy and I were standing at the door with a pile of
stones at our feet. We were both ready to open fire if the pesky, Aurora Borealis appeared. Round the corner came a smiling Mike Nesbitt. Mike smiled at us like
a man who was looking for something and said, "I hope I can depend on you two
come the next election?"
"Of course you can Mr Nesbitt," I gushed.
"Not so fast!" yelled Tommy. "What are you going to do for US?"
Mike pulled out a UUP ukulele and began to sing,
"OH, I'd do anything, for you dear, anything, I'd do anything, anything for you." "Congratulations Mr Nesbitt," I cried, "on becoming the assistant,deputy,
second in command, assistant on the education committee."
"Mike smiled and said, "First rung on the ladder, just got to keep climbing."
As Mike walked away whistling "House Bound Honey" Tommy shook
his head and said, "How sad to see Mike Nesbitt, brought down so low. Once he was a media star and now he is reduced to begging for votes from the likes of me and you."
"Scum!" I said.
"The dregs of society," said Tommy.
"The down and outers!" I yelled.
"The untouchables," cried
Tommy.
"The lowest of the low!" I roared.
"Rat bags," screamed Tommy.
"Complete wasters," I shrieked.
"Poor Mike Nesbitt," said Tommy,"forced to
consort with the likes of US!"
When Tommy and I went indoors, we thought we saw an
elephant in the room, but it was only, David McNarry!.

David McNarry's as mad as hell.

2012-01-30T06:01:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid. I just heard the dreadful news that Mr Coyle lost his first communion money while out on a solitary, nocturnal stroll. All police leave has been cancelled in Derry and a helicopter, fitted with a metal detector, is patrolling the lonely highways and bye ways traversed by the night hawk. Mr. Coyle, heavily sedated, keeps mumbling in his sleep, "There was a big half crown, a bright silver shilling, two tanners and a threepenny bit. OH! and two farthings, from Mrs Doherty." Wee Sean, is not taking the loss well. He chased a grief counsellor away with a rolled-up copy of the Derry Journal. The doctor said wee Sean should be left alone to deal with his grief. Let's hope that someday, Mr Coyle, will find closure.
Tommy my cat, looked up from his shredded tweet, which contains 59% scaldie and said, "He's mad as hell and he's not going to take it anymore?"
"Of whom are you talking feline?" I yelled.
"David McNarry," said Tommy. "I saw him barging out of Stormount yelling, "Up with this I shall not put!"
"Dave boy," I said putting my arm around him, "What's up kid? Who has annoyed you?"
"Tom Elliott, that's who," yelled David. "Tom Elliott, our magnetic, silver-tongued leader, called me into his office and said, "McNarry, you have been spouting off to the press. That displeases me. You don't want to make me angry. You wouldn't like it when I'm angry. You are on the education committee. I am taking you off that committee. You have a big mouth McNarry. You are a viper in my bosom. I shall replace you on the education committee with someone who knows piles more about education than what you do. Go now and don't let the door hit you on the arse on your way out." I turned my baseball cap back to front, pulled up my hoodie and said, "And did McNarry take all that dogs' abuse from farmer Tom?"
"Well, yes and no," said Tommy. "When David McNarry reached the gates of Stormount, he turned around and roared, "Elliott, you sod buster, I hope the slurry in your tank takes on the consistency of congealed porridge and brusts the rivets on your dung spreader!"
"What a great come back!" I cried. "I must commit it to memory and then forget all about it."
Tommy cast a dirty look in the general direction of Iran and said, "How close Sinn Fein and the DUP have become. Did you see Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness at the McKenna cup final on Saturday?"
"Ground breaking!" I yelled. "Historic! Mind you, Peter doesn't know much about Gaelic football. He kept leaping up and yelling, "HANDBALL!" and asking Martin, what time the fight started.".
"It was a very generous gesture by Peter Robinson," said Tommy. "McGuinness, will have to respond in kind."
I flicked a locust off the butter and said, "Martin said he will shake hands with the Queen and MAY attend a poppy day parade."
"It will take more that that!" said Tommy. "There is a rumour going round Stormount that, come July, Martin McGuinness, will beat a big orange drum as he leads a parade of black hats down the Garvaghy road."
Overcome with the historical significance of it all, I grabbed the clock off the wall and ran down the street yelling, "PEACE IN OUR TIME!!! PEACE IN OUR TIME!!!!"

Where did the stile jumping get Noel Thompson?

2012-01-26T06:45:00.000-08:00

Tommy my cat, dragged my head out of the oven and yelled, "Gerald Michael Anderson is back on his feet and ready to go!"
"GREAT!" I cried. "Now we can have some Wing, Chilly Bagpipes and Mongolian, nose flute music, instead of the happy, clappy songs Mr Coyle plays.
Tommy who, for some reason was dressed up as Brigham Young, the founder of the Mormon religion. said, "Now, we are a family again! I never close my eyes until I hear Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet come in at night."
"Stop your old brown-nosing!" I yelled. "If you think Gerry Anderson will send you a CD, think again! Poor, old Jordie Tuft has been waiting for a Christmas parcel for twenty years."
"You're right there, wee woman," said Jordie, as he came into my house smelling of Jeyes Fluid, cooking sherry and mature manure. "JORDIE!" I screamed. "What brings you to Belfast?"
"Urination," said Jordie. "I have came to Belfast with one purpose in mind and that is to urinate on Gerry Anderson's tree. Twenty long years I have waited at my front gate, hoping, praying that Gerry Anderson, would send me a wee parcel full of whiskey, Christmas cake and Pecker Dunn Cds. What I got," roared Jordie, "was diddly-squat! Diddly-squat boy, wrapped up in nothing. Not even wan of them auld fairy rashers. You know fairy rashers? The wee woman says at the party, "OOH! Mr Ambassador, with these fairy rashers, you are spoiling us." If that wee woman was at a party in Gerry Anderson's house, she would wait a long time for her fairy rashers!" Old Jordie, did a practice urination behind the sofa and then set off to vandalize the tree which bore the name, Gerry Anderson.
"Where did it get you?" I roared to Noel Thompson, at the other side of the street. "Where did all your stile-jumping get you? Have you increased your life span by one second? NO! Are you any healthier? NO! Amen, amen, I say on to you. Better had you lay in bed, than thundering round the mountains of Mourne like a buck goat looking for something to jump over. So, once more I say on to you, Where did it get you?"
"BE off with you," said Noel Thompson. "I must hasten to the BBC. I have a very important bulletin to read."
"Oh yes!" I yelled. "You're very good at talking about other people, BUT when it comes to stile-jumping, you clam up and have nothing to say. You will not fob me off Mr Thompson. As a woman who is considering paying for a TV licence I ask you once again.
All this stile-jumping?. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? NO! I will not go away. I demand to know, WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU? You know the stile-jumping I'm talking about Mr Thompson. WHERE DID IT GET YOU? WHERE DID IT GET YOU????

How Radio Used To Be.

2012-01-18T12:08:00.000-08:00

Tommy my cat looked at me and said, "What a great, strange show that was."
"Just two guys hanging out," I said. "Just two guys shooting the breeze."
"No structure," said Tommy, "no script, no idea what they were going to say next. Just two guys talking."
"That's how radio should be!" I yelled. "Communication, conversation, speech!
There is far too much loud music on radio," I cried. "People are crying out for sane, intelligent conversation and if Sean Coyle had not been there yesterday that is what we would have got!"
"Just two guys talking," said Tommy. "What a great name for a show! That's how radio used to be. I remember Gilbert Harding, Bernard Levin, Malcolm Muggridge, Alan Titchmarsh."
I broke in and cried, "I remember old Marmaduke or was it, Marmite Hussy, standing on the back of a wee, blue, Fergie tractor yelling........."
"Who stole my leg?" ventured Tommy. "NO!" I cried. "Old Marmaduke stood there, a bit lop-sided and yelled, "More speech! Capiche!"
"I remember that," said Tommy. "Then old Marmaduke's parrot flew up a woman's skirt and there were questions asked in the House of Commons."
"There were questions asked," I said. "Bob Brick, representing the boiler makers' and stokers' union called out, "Mr. speaker. Hey up, Mr speaker, my members demand to know parrot's name, by gum."
When the speaker replied, "Polly" the honorable members threw their order papers in the air and began to sang, "She was as beautiful as a butterfly, proud as a Queen, was pretty, little, Polly Perkins, from Paddington Green." Tommy picked up a Queen Ann po and roared, "Order in the house, or I'll clear the chamber!"
I threw back my head and sang, "She was only a milkmaid's daughter, but udders stole her cream."
Tommy cried, "Look at me, I'm Arkle!" and cut the whole face off himself when he tried to jump over the half door.
I grabbed Tubby Nolan, coming out of a "Pies For All Occasions" outlet and roared,
"Listen up butter-ball, I want the name of your tailor and I want it quick. Tommy's birthday is coming up soon and I want to order a large tent."
"Don't squash my pies," shrieked the oval one.
"Enough with the old sexy, love talk," I growled. "Who, whom, or what makes your gigantic trousers?"
Tubby ruminated, a horrible sight to see, especially in broad daylight, and slabbered,
"I have a little man,".
"Listen punk," I yelled, "I told you to cut out the old, sexy love talk."
"You don't understand," cried Tubby. "The little man lives in America. His name is Mr Boeing."
"Boeing?" I said. "Doesn't he make...........?"
"Yes," said Tubby. "Mr Boeing makes aeroplanes as a sideline. His main job is making clothes for me."
"Did he make that horrible "Thing" you're nearly wearing?" I asked.
"Yes, he did," replied Tubby. "Note the sweptback sleeves, the stream-lined gusset and the air intake just above my fork."
"What's that thing attached to your belt?" I asked.
Tubby giggled and said, "That's my black box, mind you, in reality, it's an orange box."
Seventeen little hoodies, wearing Celtic football shirts pricked up their ears at the word-orange.
The last thing I saw, was Tubby, sprinting down a buslane, laden down with pies and hotly pursued by a pack of baying, sports' fans, all ardent devotees of, the beautiful game!

Some Cocoon!

2012-01-17T07:25:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought little joy to an old codger, who had pushed a peanut up a hill with his nose. As the old codger stood smiling for press photographs with his hands up in the air, news suddenly broke that the old codger had failed a drug test. Officials said the old relic was found to be full of pumpkin puree, a well known illegal stimulant taken by old codgers who push peanuts up hills with their nose. The cup was snatched out of the old codger's hand and he was banned from taking part in any more pushing a peanut up hills with your nose events.
The poor old man, with his nose almost worn away, broke down and cried, "I don't know what came over me. I used to be an altar boy, you know."
Tommy my cat, yelled, "Winegate!" and lashed a glass of wine into my face like a wellknown singer did recently to Paul Martin and said, "Did you hear Mr Coyle gloat, YES! I repeat it, gloat when he heard poor Gerry was sick?"
"I did!" I said. "How can a christian man, who believes in Limbo AND Purgatory, have such little compassion?"
"The more I hear of Mr Coyle," said Tommy, "the more I am convinced he was the youngest member of the Gestapo."
"There are pictures," I said, "pictures of Mr Coyle, as a very small boy, sitting on Hitler's knee."
"The next time Mr Coyle complains about his eye," said Tommy, "Gerry should whip out a pea-shooter and ping Mr Coyle right in the afflicted ocular."
Tommy kicked a scatter cushion all around the room. As the cushion flew through an open window, Tommy pulled his gansey over his head and yelled, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"OFF SIDE!" I roared. "The wardrobe moved up the floor leaving you in an off-side position."
"RUBBISH!" yelled Tommy. "The coffee table was between me and the window."
I pulled out a red card, handed it to Tommy and said, "Take that to her at number 27, with the bad perm. The postman mistakenly left it here seventeen years ago."
As I slithered through Belfast, like some hideous, repulsive, creature of the night, I found to my surprise I was singing, "I Enjoy Being A Girl" at the top of my voice. I saw a glint, a flash and I was on him like a lurcher. "Mr John Daly, I presume," I cried, pulling off the mauve, beanie hat and revealing the celestial dome in all its naked, nude glory.
"Get off!" yelled nein Herr Daly. "You're squashing my blackberry."
"Do I look bothered?" I said. "Face, bothered?" I wrapped my prey in a sticky, gooey substance and spun him into a cocoon. Back home I scurried and hung Mr Daly up with my other cocoons.
If you haven't seen John Daly, John Bennet, George Jones, Lord Laird, or Mark Durkin on TV recently, well now you know why!
The big prize would be to capture the giant, all eating, Tubbyious Nolanious, but it's going to take some web. Boy, that would be some cocoon!!!!!

Something Will Have To Be Done About Wee Frank.

2012-01-16T05:23:00.000-08:00

GREAT SHOWS LAST WEEK KID. GREAT SHOWS WHICH LARGELY WENT UNNOTICED AT
UTV. PAUL CLARKE AND PAMELA BALLENTINE WERE HUDDLED IN A CORNER OF
THE CANTEEN WATCHING IN FEAR AS FRANK MITCHELL WENT ON AN ORGY OF
PLATE SMASHING BECAUSE THERE WASN'T ENOUGH JAM IN HIS DOUGHNUT. "EASY
THERE BIG BOY," SAID PAUL CLARKE.
"PUT DOWN THAT TEA SPOON FRANK!" SCREAMED PAMELA BALLENTINE.
"DRAT! DRAT! AND TRIPLE DRAT!" YELLED THE ENRAGED WEATHERMAN. "DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM? WHEN I ORDER A DOUGHNUT, I EXPECT THE JAM CONTENT TO COMPLY WITH THE LATEST EUROPEAN DIRECTIVES. THIS JAMLESS DOUGHNUT IS A DISGRACE!!! I DEMAND A JAMMY DOUGHNUT BEFITTING A MAN OF MY IMPORTANCE AND STATION."
AS FRANK STOMPED OUT TO PREDICT SPITS AND SPOTS, A WHITE-FACED PAMELA
BALLENTINE LOOKED AT A WHITE HAIRED PAUL CLARKE AND WHISPERED, "PAUL,
WE REALLY MUST PUT A MUZZLE ON WEE FRANK." PAUL CONCURRED, WHICH IS
NOT UNUSUAL FOR A GREY-HAIRED MAN.
TOMMY MY CAT, SPRANG INTO THE ROOM DRESSED AS LADY GAGA'S OLD AUNT
BERTHA AND CRIED, "ALL HANDS TO THE PUMPS! STEVEN NOLAN HAS SPRUNG A
LEAK AND IS GOING DOWN!"
"GOOD RIDDANCE!" I YELLED. "MAYBE DAVY JONES CAN PUT THE SLABBERING
OUT OF THE LARD CONNOISSEUR."
TOMMY PUSHED HIS BUSTLE ROUND TO THE BACK AND SAID,
"I FAIL TO SEE HOW THE SMALLEST MEMBER OF THE MONKEYS CAN SALVAGE THE
ROTTEN HULK OF THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN." THEN, AN OLD CODGER STUCK HIS HEAD
THROUGH THE WINDOW AND BEGAN TO MAKE CLICKING SOUNDS WITH HIS FALSE
TEETH. "MORSE CODE!" CRIED TOMMY. "THE S.S. TUBBY NOLAN HAS RUN AGROUND
ON A SAND BANK AND WILL BE PULLED OFF TOMORROW, AT HIGH TIDE, BY THE
SCOTTISH TUG, "THE BONNY WEE MAID FROM FIFE."
"TOMMY!" I SAID. "NEVER USE THE WORDS, STEVEN NOLAN AND RUN IN THE SAME SENTENCE."
"HEY GRINGO!" I YELLED TO MARTINA PURDY, "THAT SURE IS A NICE LITTLE
TOP."
"BUCKSKIN," DRAWLED MARTINA,"ME AND THAT JED CLAMPET GUY, JORDIE TUFT, STALKED THAT BUCK FOR THREE HOURS BEFORE I BROUGHT HIM DOWN WITH A BULLET PLUMP RIGHT BETWEEN HIS LITTLE, OL EYES. OLD JED, OR JORDIE YELLED, "GOOD ON YE WEE WOMAN. NOW KEEP HER LIT 'TILL WE GET OUT!" LATER, OLD JORDIE TOOK ME HOME AND SHOWED ME HIS FIRST WORLD WAR MEDALS WHICH HE BOUGHT ON EBAY. OLD JORDIE IS SURE ONE FUNNY POSSUM."
"MARTINA!" I YELLED, "DID OLD JORDIE TRY ANY FUNNY STUFF?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. "BUT THINGS DID GET A LITTLE HOT WHEN HE WAS OVERCOME
WITH A COMPELLING COMPULSION TO SET FIRE TO HIS HOUSE."
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" I CRIED. "DID YOU PHONE THE FIRE BRIGADE?"
"HECK NO," SAID MARTINA. " I BITCH SLAPPED HIM UNTIL HIS OVERWHELMING COMPULSION FOR FIRE BECAME BUT A SMOULDERING EMBER."
I STOOD BACK IN WONDER AND AWE AND CRIED, "YOU AMERICANS ARE SO CAPABLE. I WOULD HAVE CALLED IN APACHE HELICOPTERS FOR AIR SUPPORT."
"SIT DOWN FRANK!" CRIED PAUL CLARKE. "YOU'RE NOT GOING OUT THAT DOOR
FILLED WITH ANGER.".
"DO PLEASE SIT DOWN FRANK," PLEADED PAMELA BALLENTINE. "PAUL AND I WOULD NEVER FORGIVE OURSELVES IF YOU CUT UP ROUGH AND WENT ON A MAD RAMPAGE." FRANK SIPPED HIS HERBAL TEA AND SAID, "I'M ALL RIGHT NOW. WHEN THE WEE HOODIE CALLED OUT, "HEY, OLD SCHOOL AROUND THE CORNER, MY DA SAID YOU GET THE WEATHER FROM GOOGLE", A RED MIST CAME OVER MY EYES. I WANTED TO WRECK, SMASH AND DESTROY
EVERYTHING IN MY PATH. I SWEAR TO GOD PAUL, IF YOU HADN'T CALLED OUT,
"HEEL FRANK! HEEL!" THERE'S NO KNOWING WHAT I MIGHT HAVE DONE."
"IT'S ALL RIGHT NOW FRANK," SAID PAMELA. "HERE, WIPE THE FOAM OFF YOUR
MOUTH WITH THIS TISSUE AND HAVE A WEE BRANDY BALL. A WEE BRANDY BALL
WILL HELP TO COOL YOU DOWN." AS FRANK CYCLED OFF HOME, PAUL LOOKED
AT PAMELA AND SAID, "HE'S GETTING WORSE,"
"I KNOW," SAID PAMELA. "SOMETHING WILL HAVE TO BE DONE. IT'S LIKE WORKING WITH MAD FRANKIE FRAZIER". PAUL CONCURRED, BUT LIKE I SAID BEFORE, IT'S NOT AT ALL
UNUSUAL FOR A MAN HIS AGE WITH GREY HAIR.

Red's Visit To Belfast.

2012-01-14T11:53:00.001-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought great relief to old Geronimo Mc Sioux, who has not had a bowel movement since Christmas Eve. old Geronimo, skipped out from the dilapidated outhouse, leaped high in the air, clicked his heels and yelled to his wife, "Yvette! That’sa big load off my mind!"
Yvette came out of the sandbag bunker where she had been hiding and cried. "Glory be, now maybe you'll stop eating them dammed auld ferrero rocher." Geronimo, did a somersault, landed in the splits position, threw his leg on the bicycle and sped off to tell the good news to the people of
Drumquin and surrounding districts. Tommy my cat came into the room and said, "I would like you to meet my cousin Red. As you can see Red is a ginger tom. Red came all the way from Tyrone to visit me.” What a difference there was between the two felines. Tommy looked immaculate in a mustard- yellow ,Italian suit, pale-blue shirt and yellow tie. Red, on the other hand wore blue overalls and a pair of green Wellingtons. "Red," I said, "You’ll have a cup of tea."
"Only if you’re making it," said Red. "I’ll have a cup of tay surely. Oh aye, I’ll have a cup of tay surely to God. It’s a wild, long run on the auld bus from Tyrone. Tyrone is were I live, sort of thing. Aye,
Tyrone among the bushes. Up Tyrone. Aye, up Tyrone sort of thing.”
"What do you think of Belfast?" I asked.
"It’s wild big," said Fred. "Aye, it’s wild big, so it is. Back in Tyrone, the traffic lights are still black and white. God the Tyrone boys would be lost up here, so they would. Lost, baffled and confused,
sort of thing. Aye surely. The pace of life, aye surely, the pace of life is a lot slower back in Tyrone, so it is. Oh aye, it is surely. You could lie in the middle of the road all day and devil a wan would come near you. But things will soon be livening up back in Tyrone. Livening up surely. Soon the lanes and byways will be grid locked with dung spreaders. Oh aye surely. Any man who has dung, will be spreading it with exuberance and fierce abandonment. There’s nothing better the Tyrone boys like than to sit on a stone ditch watching the shi--manure flying. Aye, flying surely, like a cloud of crows, rooks and pigeons." "How is your dear mum doing?” said Tommy.
"Doing fine," said Red. "Aye, doing fine surely to God. Still the best mouser in Tyrone boy. Still the best mouser in Tyrone and when she's at herself she can still catch the odd rat! Oh aye, surely to God, mammy can still put the fear of God into any kitten who is acting the gulpin. Oh, aye surely. Mammy abhors gulpins and gulpinish behaviour."
"Is there any thing you want to particularly see while you're in Belfast?" I said.
"There is by God," said Red. "Oh aye, there is surely. I want to see Tubby Nolan, the boy who struts around like the cat who got all the cream." That was easy to fix. So we fixed it!!!

MLAs Spielberg and a Laughing Cat!

2012-01-12T04:21:00.000-08:00

GREAT SHOW YESTERDAY KID. A GREAT SHOW WHICH DROVE THE MLAS OUT OF
THE SAUNA AND HOT TUBS. THERE THEY SAT, NAKED, EXCEPT FOR TWO PIECES
OF CUCUMBER OVER THEIR EYES. JIM ALLISTER, WHO HAD BEEN TAKING A SEA
WEED BATH, LOOKED LIKE NEPTUNE AS HE SAT THERE WITH RIBBONS OF KELP
HANGING FROM HIM. SAMMY WILSON, RUBBED E45 CREAM INTO HIS BABYSOFT
BUM AND CHUCKLED, "BOYS, THAT'S A GREAT AULD SONG ABOUT JOE MAHON."
GERRY KELLY, WIPED STEAM FROM HIS GLASSES AND MUTTERED, "I FEEL
VULNERABLE, A'CHARAS. I FEEL THE EYES OF BRITISH SECURICRATS ON MY NAKED,
CATHOLIC BODY." THEN NIGEL DODDS AND WEE BARRY McELDUFF, BEGAN TO FLICK
EACH OTHERS' BEHIND WITH WET TOWELS AND SOON THE HIGHLY-PAID
POLITICIANS WERE ROLLING ROUND THE FLOOR LIKE A LITTER OF YOUNG PIGS.
MICHAEL McGIMPSEY SLIPPED ON A PAIR OF UNDERTAKER-BLACK, BOXER SHORTS
AND MUTTERED, "THIS IS HOW THE ROMAN EMPIRE FELL. TOO MUCH FRIVOLITY
AND FUN. I DON'T LIKE-FUN!"
IN A FURY I THREW, "1,000,000 FILMS YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE" INTO
THE FIRE AND YELLED, "HAS STEVEN SPIELBERG LOST HIS COTTON-PICKING
MIND?" TOMMY MY CAT, PUT DOWN, "GREAT CRAIC IN SPAIN" by DANIEL
O'DONNELL AND SAID,
"WHAT'S GOT UP YOUR HOOTER THEN?"
"STEVEN SPIELBERG!" I YELLED. "HE'S ONLY GONE AND MADE A FILM ABOUT
PIPE TOBACCO CALLED,"WAR HORSE".
TOMMY SIGHED, AND SAID, "THE FILM,"WAR HORSE" IS NOT ABOUT PIPE
TOBACCO. "WAR HORSE", IS THE HEART-WARMING STORY ABOUT A YOUNG BOY AND
JOEY HIS PET HORSE. DURING THE FIRST WORLD WAR, JOEY, FUELED UP BY
ROUSING SPEECHES AND BRASS BANDS, DECIDES, HASTILY TO SIGN UP AND JOIN
THE HORSE CALVARY. THE FILM SHOWS THE LOVE BETWEEN A YOUNG MAN AND
HORSE EVEN IN THE MIDST OF WAR, CARNAGE AND A GREAT SHORTAGE OF WOMEN'S
NYLON STOCKINGS."
I PONDERED 50%, RUMINATED, 59% AND SAID,
"YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NOW. JOEY THE HORSE WILL BE ON THE
NEXT SERIES OF, "STRICTLY COME DANCING".
"SO WHAT?" SAID TOMMY. "WOULD YOU STAND BETWEEN A HORSE AND HIS
CHANCE OF FAME?" "BESIDES," SAID TOMMY, "I AM SURE JOEY, WILL BE MUCH
MORE GRACEFUL THAT EITHER JOHN SERGEANT OR ANN WIDDECOMBE!"
"TOMMY," I SAID, "WOULDN'T RUSSELL GRANT AND TUBBY NOLAN, MAKE A GREAT PAIR OF
BOOKENDS?"
TOMMY THREW BACK HIS HEAD AND LAUGHED, WHICH AS ANY VET WILL TELL YOU,
IS QUITE UNUSUAL FOR A CAT!

Patience, Practice and Martina Purdy.

2012-01-11T06:05:00.000-08:00

GREAT SHOWS LAST WEEK KID. GREAT SHOWS WHICH IGNITED MUCH CONTROVERSY
AMONG A SELECT GROUP SEEKING ILLUMINATION REGARDING HUMAN,
INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION.
"IT'S HEARTBURN WHAT CAUSES IT!" YELLED WEE SPARKY McRONSON.
"RUBBISH!" ROARED VESTA MATCH. "INSTANTANEOUS COMBUSTION IS BROUGHT
ABOUT BY DRINKING TOO MUCH WHISKEY AND METHYLATED SPIRITS."
HEATED WORDS LED TO FIERCE IN-FIGHTING. AS FISTS BRUST, FACES AND FEET SANK
INTO SOFT, YIELDING GROINS, THE PROTAGONISTS FAILED TO NOTICE THAT
FOUNDER MEMBER, OLD CALOR KINDLING, HAD BURST INTO FLAMES IN A DARKENED
CORNER. THE CORONER SAID THE CAUSE OF DEATH WAS DUE TO A FLAMMABLE
POLLOP IN THE GIZZARD. "GUTTED!" WAS THE ONLY REQUIEM, CHISELED ON
OLD CALOR'S TOMBSTONE.
TOMMY MY CAT, PICKED UP HIS RED, FENDER GUITAR, TRIED, CALAMITOUSLY TO
PLAY THE SOLO FROM, "SULTANS OF SWING" THREW THE GUITAR FROM HIM AND
YELLED, "YON GEORDIE, MARK SNUFFLER, MUST HAVE TWENTY FINGERS!"
"PATIENCE TOMMY," I SAID. "PATIENCE AND PRACTICE. UP AT STORMOUNT, THE
DIXIELAND COMBO, "THE MLA 5" ARE GOING FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH.
JEFFREY DONALDSON, IS REPUTED TO BE A VERITABLE VIRTUOSO ON THE FIVE
STRING BANJO AND EDWIN POOTS, AN ABSOULTE WHIRLWIND ON DRUMS."
"WHOM IS THEIR LEAD SINGER?" ASKED TOMMY.
"WHISPERING BARRY MCELDUFF," I ANSWERED. "NIGEL DODDS TOLD ME THAT WHEN
WHISPERING BARRY SINGS, "I'LL BE GLAD WHEN YOU'RE DEAD, YOU RASCAL
YOU" BIG TEARS RAN DOWN THE OBSTINATE, GRANITE FACE OF JIM ALLISTER!"
TOMMY PICKED UP HIS GUITAR AND WENT BACK TO BASICS WITH A STUMBLING
VERSION OF, "THREE BLIND MICE".
I MET MARTINA PURDY WALKING UP THE FALLS ROAD WITH A TOWEL AROUND HER
NECK. "HEY AMERICANO!" I YELLED. "WHERE YA ALL BEEN?"
"WE ALL BEEN DOWN AT THE CRICK," SAID MARTINA. "I HAD ME A SKINNY DIP AND CHASED A
DOGGONE POSSUM UP A TREE."
"ARE YOU SETTLING IN TO THE ULSTER WAY OF LIFE?" I ASKED.
"HECK SURE," SAID MARTINA. " I DONE GONE BUILT ME A LOG CABIN ON THE
MALONE ROAD. I GOT ME AN OLD YELLER DOG, A FIDDLE AND A STONE JUG. HOT
DOGGITY, WE ALL AS HAPPY AS A TICK ON THE REAR OF STEVEN NOLAN. HEY,
YOU WANT TO HEAR MY HOG HOLLER?"
AND BEFORE I COULD STOP HER MARTINA, THREW BACK HER HEAD AND WENT,
"SHOOEE! SHOOEE! SHOOEE!"
A WEE WOMAN OPENED THE DOOR AND ROARED, "OUR HUGHIE IS AT HIS DINNER.
HE'LL BE OUT AS SOON AS HE FINISHES HIS CHIVER'S JELLY, SO HE
WILL!"
"AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE PANTS," SAID MARTINA, AS SHE WENT OFF
DOWN THE TRAIL.

Cutting Edge Comedy

2012-01-09T06:21:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which sadly went unnoticed in Clougher, when a camel convey of aid from Sudan arrived in the town square. Soon the Clougherarians were arrayed in long,white night-dresses and Arab head gear. Saint Judas street looked like the old bazaar in Cairo. Unfortunately Rosie Ryan, the Miss Haversham of Clougher, arrived too late and had to make do with a sheepherder's smock and a pair of puce slippers with turned-up-toes, kindly donated by the ladies in the harem of the court of King Caractacus.Rosie turned the air blue and stomped off home, with the toes of her slippers staring up at her big, red, puce face. "What a hallion!" said Father Goodman, as he leapt on a camel and galloped down the street, shooting at his congregation with an imaginary colt 45.
Tommy my cat opened the last Ferrero Rocher, popped it into his mouth and said,
"I hold Mrs Brown, in the greatest esteem. There she is, a decent, christian woman trying to bring up her boys in a world of depravity and debauchery." I gave the thumbs up to Matt Baggott, who was wrestling with a run-a-way circus clown in the middle of the street and said, "It's always a sign of an early Spring when the clowns run away from the circus in January. BUT! getting back to Mrs Brown and her boys, that programme would NEVER have been commissioned by RTE when the Celtic Tiger was cock of the walk and tall buildings were springing up like Lego sets."
"I demand enlightenment!" cried Tommy. "Please clarify, in a transparent way, the reason behind your outrageous statement."
I climbed on to a Queen Ann computer desk and manoeuvred my gub up and down and from side to side to produce oratory. "Southern Ireland," I proclaimed, "is going through hard times. The country is broke and in debt to the eyes. The Celtic Tiger has gone! Slattery's goat has been restored to power. When a country is down, the first thing the people do is return to their roots. Ireland has returned to bogholes, famine, emigration, donkeys and the entertainment of long, long ago. "Mrs Brown's Boys" ticks all the boxes. It shows the Irish to be buckstupid and lacking the thinnest veneer of sophistication. Mrs Brown is a throw back to "Take the floor, The Kennedys of Castlerock and Walton's music--If you do feel like singing, do sing an Irish song. When the Celtic Tiger was in its prime," I yelled, "Mrs Brown's Boys would have been laughed out of RTE! But now, that's what the people want: A man dressed as a woman acting the fool and the English love it! They love it. Mrs Brown confirms all their stereotypical prejudices."
"How lucky are we," cried Tommy, "We live in Ulster, where comedy is cutting edge, new and exciting."
"Right on Bro.!" I yelled. "Let's drink to May McFedridge, Our William and Sketchy."

Regrets and Custard Creams.

2012-01-04T15:54:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which nearly brought a smile to the face of Michael McGimpsey, as he sat beside a dead Christmas tree decorated with two black balloons and a black armband instead of a fairy. Michael, shivering from the cold, drew a tattered shroud around him, peered into his crystal ball and moaned, "In the year 2012, I foresee doom, gloom, more doom and Jim Allister. Oh, dearie me! Oh, dearie me!" Michael, went back to polishing a gleaming, oak coffin and muttered, "The older I get the more I regret leaving Miss Gertie Haversham standing at the altar. Oh dearie me. Oh dearie me. It's only being so cheerful that keeps me going."
"BANG!" I jumped as Tommy my cat opened a plastic bubble containing his new toothbrush with a controlled explosion.
"Tommy," I said. "As long as you've got the Semtex out, please open a packet of air-tight, shock resistant, hobnobs for tea."
"Ja Mien Fuhrer!" roared Tommy. Sometimes I think Tommy may be an unrepentant NAZI. Small things make me think that, the way he struts about and the Panzer tank hidden in his bedroom. I decided to question Herr Tommy. "Tommy," I said. "Give me a word or phrase that would sum up Adolf Hitler."
Tommy sprang to his feet, stood smartly to attention, stuck his right arm up in the air and yelled out in a guttural voice, "High spirited!" I could have kicked myself for thinking little Tommy was a spy. Tommy's not a NAZI, he's a member of the golf club AND a practicing Catholic!
I found Hugo Duncan, being measured for a gold lame bathrobe in "Tiny Tim's" clothes for big boys and short men. "Hey, little man from Strabane," I yelled, "what have you been up to?"
Hugo gave me a low five and said, "When you're my size you don't get up to much. On my honeymoon, my wife had to lift me up to put out the light."
"Listen up, Shorty," I said. "You must remember Gerry Anderson going round Strabane in a wee van when he worked for social services."
"Did you say-worked?" roared Hugo. "I'll tell you what Anderson did in Strabane. Like a jackal he sniffed out all the auld wans in Strabane who were lonely. Once Anderson got his foot in the door he never left. Lying back smoking and eating the old dears out of house and home. He was a locust!" yelled Hugo. "A locust! When Anderson came to Strabane it was a thriving, middle-class town. By the time Anderson left it was a rundown slum with the highest unemployment rate in Europe."
Then Tiny Tim interjected to ask, "Mr Duncan, which side do you dress to?"
Hugo gave a leap and cried, "That's the Belfast boys for you. They can't wait to know your religion. "I'm a catholic!" roared Hugo, as he stormed out. "I'm a catholic and I dress right down the middle like the pope and the concave of holy cardinals."
"Touchy, little titch," said Tiny Tim.
"You must forgive him," I said. "Gerry Anderson, ate all his mother's custard creams."
"Ah! the day of the jackal," said Tiny Tim. "A time of great sorrow and hardship for the poor working class of Strabane."

Beware Holidy Brochures!

2012-01-03T07:06:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which spurred on an old codger, who for the past week had been trying to climb the nine steps leading to the office of, "Truss In Us" makers of surgical appliances since 1862.
"A small step for man," croaked the old codger. "A giant LEAP for an old relic with multiple hernias." The old codger's joy turned to sadness when he was informed his custom made, rhinestone-studded truss had failed the stress test,due to metal fatigue in the fork.
" Buttermilk and boulevards," croaked the old wrinkly, as he donned an oxygen mask and prepared to make the hazardous descent back down the nine steps.
I was fast asleep when Tommy my cat woke me with a piercing scream of, "HELP!" I leapt out of bed like a wayward husband. "FIRE! POLICE! AMBULANCE!" I shrieked. As I bounded down the stairs like a Tubby Nolan on a helter-skelter a horrible sight met my eyes. There lay Tommy, buried alive under an avalanche of holiday brochures.
"TOMMY!" I yelled. "Don't you dare die on me." as I removed quite resonable offers of holidays in the Seychelles and Desert martin with my bare hands. I found Tommy lying pale and still under a special offer for self catering holidays in the Sahara desert. "TOMMY!" I cried. "Speak to me! If you're dead, blink your eyes."
"My leg!" yelled Tommy. "My leg is trapped under a family holiday in Blackpool for only £199.00."
"That's very reasonable," I panted, as I grasped the brochure with both hands and rolled it off Tommy's leg.
As I bent to give Tommy the kiss of life, the rescued feline leaped to his feet yelling, "I'm all right! Don't come near me with that big,ugly, stuck-out gub."
I wasn't satisfied, so I put on a CD of, Bosco McBog singing "Father O'Flynn" at high speed and made Tommy river dance in the corner for three hours.
I stopped Pamela Ballentine coming out of a newsagents with a copy of, "Woman's Own Busts" under her arm and asked how playboy and jet-setter Frank Mitchell had got on over the holidays.
"Ah, you know Frank," laughed Pamela. "Nothing bothers him. We call him Mr Cool back at UTV."
We were joined by Tara Mills, who was taking Jim Fitzpatrick for a walk on the end of a chain.
While Jim sniffed a lamp post blonde Tara, wiped her nose with a perfumed tissue and said,
"I don't know why, but every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bojangles and want to dance."
"Funny you should say that," said Paul Clarke, with a pound of special mince sticking out of his pocket.
"Every time I see Frank Mitchell, I think of Mr Bow-Legs and want to laugh."
"Oh you're awful Paul," giggled Tara. "Isn't he awful Pamela?"
"Don't be awful Paul," said Pamela. "Frank, after all, is our collegiate."
"More like, village eegit," laughed Paul. I left them bent over laughing. I don't see anything funny about pouring scorn and distasteful derision on a national treasure.

Time Does Not Exist.

2012-01-02T02:51:00.000-08:00

Great shows in 2011 kid. Last year's great shows brought a degree of respectability to crude, cornerboy antics and greatly advanced the cause for making National Slapper day a bank holiday.
"Who goes there?" I yelled, as Tommy my cat came downstairs wearing a 1954 Burton's suit and a superior look on his sensitive, classical, feline features. "I go there!" roared Tommy. "The name's, Cat, Tommy Cat. I have a licence to do my business in flower beds and sit in front of the fire with my leg up in the air."
"Tommy, my little feisty feline," I shrieked. "Happy New Year! May your wee lum reek and your bawbees jingle in the coming year. May your kilt swing, your sporran dance, your haggis prosper and your wee breeks cling like limpets to your two, bonny, wee, scrawny hips."
Tommy spat the seed from a Cox's Pippin in the general direction of Iran and said, "Wheest your auld bleather woman. This is not the New Year, it is not Sunday and it is not half past ten in the morning."
I fell back against the wickerwork aquarium, like Dave "Boy" McCauley used to do and yelled, "Hold on there a cotton-picking moment. How dare you stand there spouting rubbish like Galleio Galleio, or Boris Johnson. Explain yourself or, by the Lady Gaga, I'll tickle the backs of your legs with a sally rod."
Tommy put one foot up on an imaginary step and said, "Time is an abstract, it is not a reality. In fact, time does not exist. Take the singularity of a black hole. There is no time there. You will never hear a black hole saying,"What time is it?" or, "Happy New Year."
"But Tommy," I cried. "I see the hands on the clock move. I hear the church bells proclaim it to be Sunday."
"Man-made manifestations of stupidity and fear," laughed Tommy. "Man has never understood time and space. In an effort to understand and harness time, man has come up with childlike names like hours, days, weeks, months and years. Can you see time, touch it, smell it? NO! Time does not exist and yet men go around asking, "Hi sir, have you got the correct time?" The fools!" said Tommy. "The poor, stupid, thick, innocent-fools."
Driven to distraction by the abstraction of time I yelled, "Why does a woman take more time to get ready than a man?"
"I haven't got time for this nonsense," said Tommy. "I'm off for a game of snooker at the British Legion. What time do you want me home for dinner?" "Why don't you ask the singularity in your black hole!" I yelled, as I ripped the calender from the wall and broke every clock in the house!

It's Ron Burgundy!

2011-12-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused quite a ruckus at Saint Cody's school for talented, old codgers with an IQ of 9 or higher. The ancient prodigies, expend much grey matter trying to invent something that is better than the sliced loaf. One old relic claimed to have invented perpetual motion. But tests showed it was just a chronic case of gastroenteritis with little or no regard for penicillin. "Drat!" croaked the old relic, as he was raised from the hunkering position and helped into bed. "For a moment there, I thought I had solved the world's energy crisis."
Tommy my cat came over to the chair where I sat, drew out the hair which grew from the mole on my chin, picked up a bow and played a haunting, plaintive refrain which tugged at the heart strings like a pale-faced,child-ghost looking out of an attic window. Tommy released the hair which sprang back like a coiled watch spring and said, "What about that then? Not bad for a lump of a cat!"
"OH Tommy," I enthused. "It was lovely, so eerily sad, so haunting, so beautiful in its sad, haunting, plaintive melancholia Pray enlighten one as to the name of the piece."
"The old buck goat's hind leg," said Tommy, as he broke three large eggs over my head and scrambled my brain into a maelstrom, a malevolent, malfeasant vortex, spinning, every spinning in the canyons of my mind. But it was just high spirits. I promised Tommy's mother I would never take him to see a psychiatrist, or a man who sold potatoes by the road side.
"FRANK!" I Yelled. "FRANK! FRANK" FRANK!"
Frank Mitchell stopped on his way out of the chemist, clutching a large bottle of "Honey-Voice" for broadcasters and hissed. I know, I couldn't believe it either. Frank Mitchell, of all people hissing in the street.
"Keep your voice down," hissed Frank. "You're making a show of me. I am not one of your saloon bar chums. I have my reputation to think of. I met the Queen you know. I am Mr Frank Mitchell. I am a meteorologist and dapper, little dandy. Go away. I don't consort with people like YOU!" I was stunned. My hero had spurned me. A red mist came over my eyes and I yelled, "Ron Burgundy! That's what you are, a thick-as-two-short planks, Ron Burgundy!"
"I AM NOT RON BURGUNDY!" roared Frank,to the amusement of passers-by. "If anyone at UTV is Ron Burgundy, it is "The Shoe Man" Paul Clarke. I AM NOT-RON BURGUNDY! I AM NOT, RON BURGUNDY!" Then a van with black windows pulled up and Pamela Ballentine said. "Get in Frank. A cup of tea and a gypsy cream and you'll be fine. Now what did I tell you about going out alone? Next time ask Paul or me and we'll take you by the hand to the chemist."
"RON BURGUNDY!" I yelled after the van. "RON BURGUNDY! And your name is not Frank Mitchell, it's--RON BURGUNDY!!!!"

The Christmas Blues

2011-12-29T07:26:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Prince Philip pick up his bed and growl, " TAXI, Taxi for the Prince! We had that Anderson chap round one night. The wife seemed greatly taken with him, but I still have some misgivings. I walked up to him with my hands behind my back, as is my wont and said, "Hello and what do you do?"
The silly ass looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and replied, "It's twenty five minutes to nine your highness! TAXI! TAXI for Phil."
Tommy my cat strolled into the room wearing his Christmas jumper. It was a vomit inducing extravaganza of snowmen, holly, robins and Santa Claus. As Tommy picked at the left over Chivers jelly in the fridge, I thought of all the poor men who were sitting in corners afraid to go out and face the scorn of the Christmas jumper jury. It's an awful experience for a man to go for a walk, or pop into the pub wearing the hideous creation their wives and girlfriends had given so much though to. Some men go to extremes to rid themselves of the Christmas jumper. Some set themselves on fire, leap into sewage tanks, or go to the police and report the theft of their Christmas jumper.
"Let's see if I've got this right," said the detective. "Two burly men jumped on you, forced you to take off your Christmas jumper and made off with it. You received no injuries. The jumper thieves never stole your money or mobile phone----just your jumper. The detective winked and said, "Leave it with us sir. I think we're dealing with an International gang of Christmas jumper thieves. Only yesterday sir, I was mugged and left bereft of my wife's lovely "Christmas in Lapland" jumper."
What an air of depression and sadness has settled over Belfast. You would think one of the giant cranes had died. It's a condition known as, the Christmas blues. Millies don't have the same arrogant strut to their fluffy, pink, bedroom slippers. The little hoodies huddle together for comfort. Old codgers don't spit their phlegm half as far. Shopping housewives walk round in circles like dead planets circling a dying sun. People burst into tears for no reason. Husbands cling on to their wives' ankles, begging not to be left alone.
Then, the dismal darkness is shattered by a cheery whistle. It's big Jim McDowell, sweeping the street with his giant stuck out feet. "How's about ye Belfast. Come on, snap out of it. It's nearly the New Year. Plenty of Northern Ireland nils to look forwards to. May McFetridge is still at the Opera House and Tubby Nolan will give us all a good laugh when he appears in a big Christmas jumper. Sticking out Belfast! Sticking out!!!"

Tommy's Loaded With Ferrero Rocher

2011-12-27T05:28:00.000-08:00

SO! It's all over! The tinsel has lost its glitter and the drains have stopped running with puke. OH! Christmas takes it out of you!
Tommy my cat and I were taken to casualty twice. Once to have our stomachs pumped out and then to have sprigs of holly removed from our rears. How they got there is a mystery to both of us.
I was bent over a bucket on Boxing Day when Tommy came downstairs leaning heavily on the banister. Oh, he did look pale. Oh, he did look wan, waif-like and knackered. Tommy came towards me on wee, tiny steps as if he was walking in a minefield. "Tommy," I croaked, "what ails thee lad? What peculiar circumstance has robbed thee of walking in a manner conductive of genteel, society which is demonstrated so professionally and graciously in Downton Abbey?"
"KEEP AWAY!" screamed Tommy. "I am a walking time bomb!"
I recoiled like the spring in a mouse trap and utterised, "Tommy, explain yourself before acute curiosity causes blood clots to form and head posthaste for my heart and leave me bereft of life."
"Yesterday!" yelled Tommy. " I ate 24 Ferrero Rocher. I regret to inform you that all 24 Ferrero Rocher are lined up like bullets in a magazine in my stomach. The slightest jolt could start a sequence of events which could lead to a fusillade of cluster bombs."
"Don't come near me!" I shrieked. "You're armed and dangerous. Keep looking straight at my face. Don't dare point your rear at me."
Tommy sighed and said, "You certainly know who your friends are when you're loaded with live Ferrero Rocher."
"Tip-toe out to the coal bunker," I yelled, "while I evacuate the house and send for the bomb squad!" It took me quite a while to clear the house. I dug in my heels and refused to go. Finally I convinced myself that I would be safer, bound and gagged and tied to a railway track.
It took the bomb squad two hours to disarm Tommy. I don't know what they did, but Tommy is walking funny and has a pathological fear of the coal tongs..
"Biggest in the country!" roared Tubby Nolan, as he lumbered down Bradford Street pulling a giant cracker behind him. The cracker was so long it had a red flag tied to the back of it. Soon a crowd gathered and the usual, good natured ribbing began. "Hey fat boy, your sack should be on your back, not your front. Hey giant Haystacks, have you any rooms to let in your trousers? Hey lard man, give me the crust from your pie."
It took two tractors to pull the giant cracker apart. There was a huge "BANG", a cloud of smoke and out staggered the most wanted man in the world. Higgs Bosum stood there with a black face, his trousers in tattered remnants and roared, " I am NOT the God particle. My name is Higgs Boson. Go away and leave me alone. I do NOT know the secret of a black hole. I am an accountant from Oslo in Norway, who has got caught up in some crazy nightmare!"
Tubby, hitched up his trousers with a complicated system of weights and pulleys and went off singing,
"Always look on the bright side of life."

Have We Enough Sprouts?

2011-12-21T02:03:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which made people ask, "Why is Alex Atwood always on TV recently? Is he taking advantage of Alasdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights?" I put that question to former SDLP leader Mark Durkin who said,
"The reality is, Alex Atwood is a fly, little skitter, who is always on the look out for a camera crew. When I was leader, the reality is, I used to hobble Atwood's feet like a circus pony to keep him from breaking into a gallop when he saw Ken Reid or Martina Purdy."
"Mark," I said. "Dear lovely Mark Durkin, do you miss the cut and thrust of premiership politics?"
"Indeed I do not!" said Mark "The reality is, I'm quite happy sitting at home in Derry. The reality is, is that the reality will always be-is. Knowing the reality will always be is, I am not going to upset the applecart, by claiming that the reality is this,that or the other, when I know fine well that the reality-is!" What a fine political brain, calling out for a home in a laboratory specimen jar.
Tommy my cat came in with yet another wheel barrow of brussel sprouts, tumbled them out in the corner and said,
"Is that all, or should I fetch in another load?"
"How many sprouts are in that pile?" I asked.
"517," replied Tommy.
"Bring in one more sprout," I said. "We don't want to end up fighting over the last sprout, or having to cut it in half."
"Good thinking," said Tommy. "That's why MENSA sent you a funny Christmas card. When you opened it up, two fingers shot out."
I looked around my tinseled hovel and said, "This is going to be the best Christmas EVER! We have a plump turkey, a fat plum pud, 2 gallon of cranberry sauce, a zinc bucket full of trifle, a stone of Flemish stuffing and 307 Christmas crackers. Now, what about our Christmas DVDs?"
"On the mantelpiece SIR! ready for inserting SIR!" yelled Tommy.
I sat down on a gnome and said, "Read out the titles Tommy. Everything must be perfect." Tommy cleaned his reading glasses with my tongue and yelled,
"The dog who saved Christmas. Wild trouble and strife at Christmas. My granny died at Christmas. Santa gets clamped at Christmas. Black plague strikes at Christmas. OH! what a cruel Christmas. The town that died from food poisoning at Christmas and Who shot Santa on Christmas Eve?"
"Tommy, Tommy," I chided, "No Christmas Carol?"
"I hate that film!" roared Tommy. "Why should an old miser be forgiven for buying ONE turkey on Christmas morning? And another thing," yelled Tommy, "if the turkey was SO great, why was it not sold BEFORE Christmas day?"
Two and a half hours. That's how long it took me to throw 517 brussel sprouts at a retreating cat with no respect for Christmas!

Holy,snow and a clanging bell.

2011-12-18T06:56:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. After listening to the great show, the inmates of Saint Wendy's Old Folk Home, slid down a steep, slippery, hill on their breakfast trays. The crack of broken bones was clearly audible over the excited yells and screams coming from the wrinkled, wizened, tobogganing relics. "I live in a-Wendy house," croaked one old codger as he was taken away by ambulance to be treated for concussion and the removal of an impaled catheter.
"Careful with that axe Eugene," he joked,as he was wheeled into the operating theatre.
Tommy my cat nailed a holy wreath to the toilet seat and said,
"That's the house decorated from top to bottom. Miles and miles of tinsel. A boat load of baubles. Fake snow up to the oxters. Reindeer on the roof. A giant, inflatable Santa and our last demand from VISA card pinned to the front door." I opened the window and yelled, "Look on my works and despair!" A voice from across the street roared back, "Look on my despair and fill me with Valium!" I watched with tears in my eyes as a small, thin, pale-faced workhouse urchin came round the corner on crutches. He looked up at me with a sad, pale face and said,
"HOI! rat features, how about some gruel for a lump of a cub!"
"Clear off four legs!" I roared. "Gruel doesn't grow on trees!"
"The cheek of it," said Tommy. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, there's too much charity and religion creeping into Christmas."
"Tommy!" I cried. "Is it snowing, or is it the local drug dealer shaking out his duvet again?"
"It's snow!" cried Tommy. "Real honest to goodness snow, which is made by God and most good film studios."
Then we both heard the clanging of a bell. It was the town crier, Jim Rodgers. "NIGH hear ye!" screamed Jim. "NIGH hear ye! Two o'clock and all is wrong. Just an hour ago, Tubby Nolan was blowing up balloons. The fat boy sucked instead of blowing and now has a gastric band in his large intestine. The blubber ball is locked in his bedroom and friends have taken away his belt, galluses and shoe laces."
Tommy looked at me and said. "So, this is the way the Tubby will end, not with a bang but a whimper!" Forgetting I was wearing my new flip-flops,I concurred enthusiastically!

Higgs Boson on The Run

2011-12-14T08:43:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid, which restored a degree of sanity after the Hugo Duncanesque excess of Black Monday. "Sean Coyle," said Tommy my cat, "is playing fast and loose with the Gerry Anderson doctrine of, "I'll pick the music I play. The listeners can like it or lump it!"
"That's what the public want!" I yelled. "A benign dictator. The smack of firm dee-jaying."
Tommy leaped up on the mantlepiece and yelled, "J'accuse Mr Coyle of Neville Chamberlain, appeasment tactics. Coyle would provide the public with bread and circuses when what they really want is mashups, Miles Davis and the little Honda 50."
"Coyle is a tube!" I yelled. "And like Mitt Romney, I'll bet ten grand that he wears tube socks!"
Later that night, when I was ironing a pair of kippers, Tommy came running in from the back yard. Oh he did look pale. Oh he did look discombobulated.
"Tommy!" I shrieked. "What is the cause of your obvious discombubulation?"
Tommy held on to the mantlepiece and stuttered, "A man has taken up abode in the confines of our coal bunker."
I ran out to the back yard and peeped into the coal bunker. In the dark and gloom I saw the figure of a man crouched in the far corner.
"Is that Alisdair McDonnell?" I asked.
"No," said the strange figure. My name is Higgs Boson. I am on the run. Strange weird people are after me. They claim I am the God particle. They say, erroneously, that I hold the secret of dark matter." Poor wee Higgs, burst into tears and yelled, "They even say I know how matter is formed. But I don't! I don't! I would like to know who is spreading all these lies about me."
"Tubby Nolan!" I yelled. "Tubby Nolan must have given the Hydron Collider boys your name. Tubby Nolan knows how matter is formed. Tubby Nolan, is a veritable mountain of matter. Tubby Nolan should be speeding around the Hydron Collider not you."
"I know not Tubby Nolan said Higgs Boson, but I loathe, hate and despise him. It is HE not ME who should be in the collider."
"And yet, he never shall," I answered sadly.
"WHY NOT?" screamed Higgs.
"If you saw the size of his head, you would not ask that question," I replied. Wee Higgs was gone in the morning, a wanted man, a man on the run. "Good luck Higgs Boson," I whispered. "Another victim of the unscrupulous, God particle, known through out the universe as--Tubby Nolan."

What Is A Pantomime?

2011-12-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which caused bubbly Tom Elliott and exciting, interesting, Alasdair McDonnell to exchange early Christmas presents.
Alasdair McDonnell gave Tom Elliott a a ventriloquist's dummy to deliver his sparkling, witty speeches and bubbly Tom gave exciting, interesting Alasdair a torch without batteries. Martin McGuinness and Peter Robinson exchanged dinky toys and David Ford bought himself a Pete Seegar record. (My comb-over is blowing in the wind)
Tommy my cat grabbed me by the lapels of my Harris tweed leotard and yelled, "HEY ugliness personified, what is a pantomime?"
I kissed my wickerwork, death mask of Peter Stringfellow and said,
"A pantomime is income support for actors, comedians and singers who have fallen on hard times. Kindly people go round old folks' homes pulling old relics out of their bed and saying, "Come with me. I have a job for you, which will keep you in bedsocks and peppermint sweets."
The old, burnt-out stars hitch up their rubber pants and croak, "What will I have to do? I was big in the 30s you know."
The kind-hearted people wipe away a tear and answer, " Pick up your catheter and follow me. YOU are going to star in a pantomime. All you have to do is shout, "Oh no it isn't!" and, "He's behind you!"
"I can do that," croak the old relics. "Oh no!, he isn't behind you! How was that?" "It's good," said the kind Samaritan, "but not right."
"HEY! I used to say that," says old Roy Walker, "a long, long, time ago."
"So," said Tommy, rubbing my chin, "a pantomime is out-of-door relief for faded stars. Just one more question," said Tommy, snapping the Harris tweed fork on my leotard, "why do the geese fly South in Winter?"
"Because it's quicker than walking," I answered.
Tommy grabbed a bass drum and went, BOOM! BOOM!
Belfast was a Winter wonderland as Tommy and I strolled round Shaftsbury Avenue dressed as Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie McGee. Drunken Santas were puking into litter bins. Small, pale faced urchins, with little, white faces on them like snowdrops were running about with bowls crying, "MORE! Please sir, I want MORE!" Girls, wearing very short mini-skirts were followed by leering old codgers singing, "Ding dong merrily on high." Tubby Nolan, was dancing around dressed as a giant turkey. "Holy God!" said a wee woman. "How would you like to have to stuff THAT?"
"Don't worry about that wee woman!" roared big Jim McDowell. "That turkey is called Tubby Nolan and he's been stuffing himself for years."
"Hang on Ethel," said the wee woman to her friend. "I have to run home and go to the foot of our stairs!!!"

The Christmas Madness Has Begun.

2011-12-09T16:02:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat and I were in Castle Court yesterday when we witnessed a fracas in Santa's grotto. A fat child, modelled along the lines of Tubby Nolan, leaped on to Santa's knee like a well fed hippo.
"AH! in the name of God!" yelled Santa. "Get off! You're squashing my baubles, you wee, fat gulpin!" The juvenile Haystacks burst into tears and wailed, "Mummy! mummy! mummy! Auld Santa, insinuated I was a wee fat gulpin!" People scattered as a big, fat woman thundered up like a run-a-way Blob. It was the fat boy's mum. Her face was purple with anger and her big, fat jowls shook and quivered like saddlebags on a long-eared mule. "Where's my little Willie?" she bellowed. "Who has dared to call my wee son a jelly belly?"
"I DID!" yelled the drunken Santa. "You have fed that cub until he looks like a poisoned pup. He is a danger to heath and safety. He leaped up on my knee like an over-weight manatee. I fear the wee, fat gulpin has done irreparable damage to my forkal area."
The mother of the oval boy sniffed the air like a stag and yelled, "You're drunk! You're a pissed Santa!"
"YES!" roared the man in red. "But I'll be sober in the morning and you and your son will still be blubber balls!"
"The straw that broke the camel's back," whispered Tommy.
"A bridge too far," I muttered.
All hell broke loose in the grotto. The massive mum pulled a golden horn from an angel's hand, lifted up Santa's red coat, gave a thrust and roared, "Ding Dong Merrily On High on-THAT!!!!" The drunk Santa, headbutted the irate mammoth mother right between her two little piggy eyes. And the juvenile Tubby sank his teeth into Santa's thin, dirty ankle with a look of relish on his fat face. Women screamed and children cried, as Santa and the duo of fatties over-turned the Christmas tree and sent elves scurrying for safety. The manager arrived, sacked the Santa and mollified the obese mum and her plump offspring with selection boxes and half a dozen large pies.
On the way home Tommy said, "It's only starting. The Christmas madness has begun."
I looked at Tubby Nolan, standing on a traffic island yelling, "This Christmas, I will eat my own weight in giblets" and concurred!!!!

Oracles and Dark Forces.

2011-12-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought some consolation to SDLP leader, doctor Alasdair McDonnell, as he sat in a darkened room, waiting for the sun to go down. Meanwhile, arch knave, Alex Attwood, arrayed in doublet and laddered hose, was spreading mischief. "He's a vampire!" yelled Attwood,
"Our esteemed leader Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire! He can't stand the light. He has no reflection and his eyebrows meet in the middle!"
"As a woman," shrieked Margaret Richie, "I can only say, Alasdair hasn't tried to bite MY neck!"
"It would take some fangs to bite through your auld scrawny, Deirdre Barlow neck!" yelled Attwood. "What are we going to DO? Alasdair McDonnell is a-vampire, a creature of the night, a blood-sucking monster. We must hammer a stake through his heart!" screamed Attwood. "THEN! I can claim my rightful inheritance."
"Don't stir the buttermilk," said Joe Byrne from Tyrone. "First we must consult the Oracle."
Mark Durkin, sat in a cobwebbed cave, wearing a rabbit-skin cloak. His long, tangled hair hung down to his waist and his dark, brooding eyes seemed to hold all the knowledge known to man.
"MARK!" screamed Attwood. "Don't you know me? It's wee Alex Attwood!"
"Come closer child," croaked the Oracle. "My how big and ugly you've grown. What can I do for you my son?"
Attwood opened his mouth and said, "The reality is..."
"STOP!!!" yelled the Oracle, holding his hands to his ears. "The reality is, is a false doctrine. Once I led my life by, 'the reality is', and look at me now! The reality is, is bunkum and balderdash. You must banish 'the reality is' from your life!"
"But Mark!" screamed Attwood. "You know better than most, that all members of the SDLP start their sentences with, 'the reality is'"
"Better then to be DUMB!" cried the Oracle, gathering up his rabbit-skin cloak and disappearing into a crevice.
SO! all SDLP political messages on TV, from on now, will be in sign language. As to whether Alasdair McDonnell is a vampire or not-we must wait and see. The first sign will be cases of sheep worrying all over Northern Ireland.
Tommy my cat, stirred the ashes in his mother's urn and said, "So, we still don't know! Here we sit with throbbing throats, still not knowing if Alasdair McDonnell is indeed a vampire. I will find out!" yelled Tommy. "I go now to consult with Michael McGimpsey and Nigel Dodds." With Tommy gone a great fear came over me. McDonnell, McGimpsey, Dodds. By Dracula's drawers, I was surrounded by dark forces! I wrapped a loaf of garlic bread round my neck and waited Tommy's return.
OH Lord, God almighty, send down your holy light and keep McDonnell, McGimpsey and Dodds confined to their rooms!!!.

Sammy's Brilliant Skit.

2011-12-07T10:55:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which provided much needed material for end of the pier comedian, Cheeky Sammy Wilson. Sammy has been low on patter recently, resorting at times to old gags about the troubles, mother-in-laws and knock-knock jokes. But, in his defence, Sammy did do a brilliant skit at the recent DUP conference about new SDLP leader Alisdair McDonnell's fear of bright lights.
"Alisdair McDonnell would make a great air raid warden!" laughed Sammy. "I can see him walking up the Falls Road shouting, "PUT OUT THAT LIGHT! PUT OUT THAT LIGHT!" And wee Alex Attwood running after him shouting, "NO! LET THERE BE LIGHT! LET THERE BE LIGHT! And what about poor Jim Allister?" said Sammy. "Aye what about poor Jim Allister missus? There he sits in Stormount, like the Ancient Mariner, spouting gloom, doom and despondency. A face on him like a bulldog chewing a wasp. A face on him like a Taig at the 12th of July. A face on him like David Ford at a Catweezle convention. Ah, poor wee Jim. It's not really his fault. When Jim was a baby, his mother, a very short sighted woman, used to powder his bum with a well known breakfast cereal. Wee Jim would sit in his playpen all day wearing a nappy, crying from one end and going snap, crackle and pop from the other end. So, don't blame him, life turned him that way."
Then, to the delight of middle-aged women from stout, hardy, farming stock, Sammy stuck a ferret down the front of his baggy trousers and finished with a soft, shoe shuffle. Poor Edwin Poots, was greeted with scorn and derision when he tried and failed to juggle three oranges while singing, "God Save The Queen."
"GET OFF you slabberer!" yelled a farmer from Tyrone. It was left to Nigel Dodds to rescue the show with a brilliant display of magic, which left the audience spellbound. When Nigel produced two eggs from his ears, the crowd went frantic. Gasps filled the hall as Nigel, with a little smile on his face, put the eggs behind his back, yelled, "CARAMBA!" removed his hands from behind his back, opened his fists and revealed two, empty, eggless hands.
"Where in tarnation did the eggs go?" muttered the crowd. The farmer from Tyrone roared, "Thon boy must have stuck them two eggs up............."
The stewards rushed in, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the Tyrone farmer was thrown out on his ear.
Tommy my cat is away giving evidence to the Levinson Inquiry. Tommy took umbrage to a headline in the Cullybaccy Chronicle which stated,
"Cat running across the road causes catastrophe! Catamaran careers carelessly, catapultin Catholic curate into caravan!" Watch the news tonight and see Tommy get stuck into the print media!

How To Look Absolutely Divine and Mysterious.

2011-12-06T11:45:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused fierce consternation at the Northern Ireland bird-watchers' club in Plumbridge. Old Dicky "bird" Santana, lost the plot, went haywire and ran out and ringed a young lady who was waiting for a bus. "She's a bird ain't she?" screamed old Dicky as he was taken away to be plugged into the national grid. Old Dicky's wife, big Pansy said, "I can't understand it. He's usually so quiet, even when I hit him with the coal hammer."
I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, ironing my face, when Tommy my cat sauntered into the room. Tommy looked immaculate in a chocolate-brown, swallow-tailed coat and an emerald-green posing pouch. Tommy looked at me, boaked and said, "Any beauty that was once in that old wrinkled face has long departed, obliterated by time, cigarettes, booze and your penchant for sniffing the exhausts of buses."
"I love the smell of diesel in the morning," I cried. "I have often run three miles with my hooter in close proximity to an exhaust. The bus drivers call me, @the old bag, with her honk up the exhaust'. But don't just stand there Tommy, like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the headlights of a car. Make haste and fetch the sander to remove the laughter lines which criss-cross my face like spaghetti junction." As Tommy tottered out of the room on 8 inch heel, pink stilettos I drank a mug of Doctor Quacker's fountain of youth elixir. It must be good. It was advertised in Exchange and Mart!
I never looked up as Tommy returned. Suddenly all the lights went out. Tommy pulled a coal bag over my head and laughed. "Now, you look absolutely divine, beautiful and mysterious. Soon gentlemen will be saying, "Who is that beauty with a coal bag over her head?"
Oh how we laughed!!!
Later at lunch which consisted of chops, mashed potatoes and 17 green peas, Tubby Nolan came in with a hammond organ under his oxter. Tubby flexed his fingers and went right into, "Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall. Just like Humpty Dumpty I may topple from a wall. But I'll get right back on my feet, and so I tell you all. Jesus is my parachute, so I will never fall."
Without a word Tubby picked up the organ and departed. A strange man and yet-I feel myself strangely drawn to him. It's either love, or gravity!!!!

Can A Swan Be Arrested For Jay Walking?

2011-12-06T06:46:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Basil McCrea jettison the junket to San Diego and join the Bogside branch of the Legion of Mary on their annual trip to Knock.
"I have seen the error of my ways!" cried Basil, as he waved a giant flag of Saint Emmanuel, the patron saint of people who refuse to go on junkets.
As soon as the great show was over, Tommy my cat, shivering all over like a nude seal, grabbed me by my Greek orthodox church cassock and yelled,
"There's a swan on the road! There's a swan on the road!"
"Just ignore it and it will go away!" I replied. "It's just showing off." Tommy calmed down, downed a litre of vodka and said in a much milder tone,
"I wonder if Chief Constable Matt Baggot would arrest a swan for jay waking?"
"NEVER!" I cried. "Matt Baggott's love of the swan is legendary. Matt Baggot loses all control when a swan appears in his line of vision. Matt Baggott would give up his life for a swan. Matt Baggott sleeps under a duvet cover embroidered with cute, little cartoon swans playing football. AND! the clincher is, every Christmas, Matt Baggott gathers a cabal of wooden-tops around him and sings, "Swany River."
"Golly!" said Tommy. "What a great film that would make. The heart warming story about the special love between a simple swan and a high ranking member of the PSNI. I bet Johnny Depp could give a great performance as the swan. He could really get under the feathers."
Later that day, at exactly nineteen minutes to four, big Jim Fitzpatrick ran in yelling,
"Hide the Marmite, Tubby Nolan is back in town!!!" I glowered at my Tubby Nolan early warning system and cried, "Man the lifeboats, women and cats first!"
Big Jim brought me to my senses by showing me an erotic photograph of Noel Thompson cavorting with a wooden stile and yelled in fluent gibberish,
"Hide all food! Disguise the bread bin as a small coffin. Turn all bottles of 7up upside down. Tubby never drinks 7down. Destroy all cookery books, menus, stale bread and that photograph of your big,fat aunt Bertha, lying on the beach in Portrush, with her legs in the air like a Christmas turkey!" Tommy hid a wine gum under the sofa muttering, "I would rather by far, be invaded by the Vikings." NOW! all we could do was-wait. Far away in the distance I heard the thud of giant Hush Puppies. Nearer, ever nearer! I couldn't stand it anymore. I crept to the window, peeped out, and there he was. He looked like, "AAAAH! AAAAH"! Will I ever get that horrible vision out of my head?????
Matt Baggott visited me in hospital. He brought me a stuffed, cuddly-swan! Told me to be careful and mind how I went. I just had time to mutter, "Evening all." before the morphine kicked in.

Coyle Refuses To Abdicate.

2011-12-05T05:46:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid.
When news of Mr Coyle's abdication came through on the radio, Tommy my cat and I put on matching, plum coloured duffel coats and headed for Shaftsbury Square. Thousands of people were dancing round their tents. Young women were making free with their affections and old codgers were grabbing old codgeresses and then dropping them like hot bricks when they couldn't remember what to do next. Jim Rodgers dressed as a giant, red tomato leaped on the back of a lorry and screamed,
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH! I can confirm that Sean Thaddeaus Coyle has-GONE!!! No more will the people live in fear of the tyrant-Coyle. The last I heard, Coyle was seeking refuge in Lifford."
An old codger, wearing the obligatory flat cap and muffler croaked, "I have seen the demise of Walter Love, John Bennet and now, the biggest rascal of them all, Sean Coyle!" The old codger fell to his knees to give thanks with tears and green puss running freely from his eyes. THEN! a loud, uncouth voice roared, "How's about yease? My name is big Jim McDowell, so it is and I have just got a tweet."
"Don't tell us!" yelled Sarah Travers from the crowd. "Go and see a doctor!"
"Hauld on wee woman!" roared big Jim. I have my finger on the pulse of wee Nor'n Ir'n and the latest news is, Coyle has REFUSED to abdicate!!! I will now read a communique from Herr Coyle."
"Dear subjects, there is a false rumour going round that I am leaving Radio Foyle. That rumour was spread by Gerald Michael Anderson. Anderson has been trying to get rid of me since the day I came here. Me leave Radio Foyle? Me leave a cushy number near my home? Let my answer ring out in Belfast, Stroke City, Strabane, Clougher, Lisburn, Gortin and Cullybaccy. NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! Now, go back to your homes before I set the PSNI on youse!" Tommy looked at me and said, "An Arab Winter, I think not effendi!!!!"
I kicked a lost camel with a notice round its neck stating, "I belong to Sheik Jordie Tuft!
Back home, Tommy and I got out a plate of cold liver and a six-pack of Andrews liver salts. I turned on the radio, just in time to hear Mr Coyle roar,
"Did you ever enter a talent contest?"
Tommy looked at me with surprise and said, "He hasn't lost it. What an astute observation!"
I handed Tommy an IOU for a concur and went to my bed!!!

McCrea's Trip To San Diego.

2011-11-28T04:55:00.000-08:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which unfortunately, failed to prick the conscience of Basil McCrea and the cabal of MLAs who are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense. Tommy my cat and I attended the press conference up at Stormont.
"Mr McCrea," yelled a very blonde and very irate Eamon Mally, "can you explain why YOU, and a number of other MLAs are flying off to San Diego at the tax payers' expense?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," replied Basil McCrea. "This trip to San Diego is NOT a junket. We are going on a fact finding trip, which could in time, bring great rewards to the hard working and non-working people of Ulster."
"With all due respect Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "that is bunkum and balderdash! People see this as a group of MLAs setting off on a free holiday."
"I resent that!" cried Basil McCrea. "This will be a business trip, not a pleasure trip. If I wanted pleasure I would go home at dinner time."
(Tommy and Ken Reid giggled and sniggered at this reply.)
"Mr McCrea," roared the ever genial Ken Reid,"what will you be studying while in San Diego?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," said Basil McCrea. "We shall be studying San Diego's unemployed and comparing them to our own unemployed. We will spend our time studying dole queues. We will travel to every street corner in San Diego to see how the San Diego cornerboys comport themselves. I have noticed in Ulster, a tendency for our cornerboys to slouch, scowl and yell fly wans after members of the general public.".
Eamon Mally, elbowed Ken Reid in the guts and yelled,
"I am dumbfounded Mr McCrea, completely dumbfounded, that you would seriously think an all expenses paid trip to Sad Diego could in any way help our unemployed!"
"Well that's where you're wrong Mr Smarty Pants!" roared Basil McCrea. "Only today, I have put out for consultation a bill that will compel all the unemployed to be compulsory spray-tanned to make them appear more healthy and pleasing to the eye.".
"Mr McCrea," roared Eamon Mally, "you are a-tube!"
"Mr Mally," yelled Basil McCrea, "so are YOU!!!!"
"Democracy at work," said Tommy, "is like a sausage factory. It's much better in the long run not to see what's going on behind the scenes." Without warning, I instinctively-concurred!
When we got home Tommy donned a Gladstone death mask, leaped up on the mantle-piece and yelled, "The word, epochal is tossed about lightly in boardrooms, whaling ships and Ann Summer's parties. YET, on Saturday, first minister Peter Robinson, made a speech that was truly epochal, truly ground-breaking and historical. Peter Robinson, who used to follow Martin Luther and now follows Martin Luther King, called for an end to sectarianism. "No more, them and us!" yelled Peter. "Go home and prepare for peace, prosperity and prose from Seamus Heaney."
"All very well and good,"I yelled, "but we don't want to turn into a nation of pacifists, Quakers or Amish. If there's no them and us, where will we fight?" "AT HOME," yelled Tommy, "where God fearing,hard working, decent, honest people have been fighting since the dawn of time behind closed curtains!" I let out my face to an evil grin and said, "Tommy, you're not one of us." Quick as a flash Tommy replied, "Well you are certainly one of them!" I retired, hoist, pierced, run through and skewered by my own petard!!!

THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE.

2011-11-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused a great change in Jim Allister. Jim or, Jimmy boy, as he likes to be called, morphed into a happy, cheery chap and ran out and embraced first minister Peter Robinson and second minister Martin McGuinness. Both men ran to the high court and took out an injunction on Sunny Jim, alleging sexual molestation and vexing and annoying Bonnee amie.
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat in the corner playing solitaire and cheating like a riverboat gambler.
"Attend me Tommy," I said. "I desire one of your brilliant, smashing, professional critiques. You heard sick bag Sally sing and play the banjo, how would you sum up her performance?"
Tommy threw the devil's play things from him and said,
"Sick bag Sally nailed it! She made it her own! I predict that Sickbag Sally will be Ulster's answer to yon Susan Boyle. I heard on the grapevine that Simon Cowell has slipped into a figure-hugging t-shirt and is on his way to sign Sick bag Sally and promote her musical and vocal talent on the worlds stage."
"Cor Slimy!" I cried. "Sick bag Sally could be another Alma Cogan, Kathy Kirby or Captain Sensible!"
"She could indeed!" said Tommy. "HOWEVER, it would be remiss of me not to point out one glaring fault."
"What fault Tommy?" I yelled. "Her clothes? Her appearance? Her catholic upbringing?"
"Neither!" cried Tommy. "If I were Sick bag Sally, I would take the banjo to someone who CAN play it and get it tuned!" I looked at Tommy in wonder and awe. What a cat! Tommy cut right to the chase and pointed out that all musical instruments have to be tuned. I bet Phil Coulter doesn't know that! Listen carefully to, "Boom-Bang-A-Bang" and you will find the crash cymbal is flat.
Tommy and I lay in front of the fire, like two lurcher dogs, talking about the good old days. "Powdered eggs," said Tommy. "Birds instant custard took two days to make. The clip-clop of clogs. The rattle of rickets and the shrill, piercing cries of tapeworms."
"The sound of cart wheels on cobble stones," I said. "The shrill cry of, "Bring out your dead" Boils, Buboes and blackheads."
Tommy smiled and said, "It was a golden age. A golden age for pus."
"THEN!" I cried. "Old Alexander Fleming left his half-eaten bap on the window sill and invented penicillin and pus was defeated."
"Could old Alex not let things alone?" Tommy yelled. "We were poor, filthy and disease ridden, but we were happy."
Tommy looked at me and said, "Did not Alex Fleming also invent phlegm in the chest?"
"Yes he did," I said. "He also invented the annual check-up and the repeat prescription."
"Who invented the DLA?" said Tommy.
"Daniel Larry Assburger," I replied. "He also invented malingering, malaise and the malignant mallet."
"The wonders of science," said Tommy, as he injected 1,000mg of Novacine into my rear. As yet, there is no cure for a numb bum!!!

The New Captain Of The SS.SDLP.

2011-11-23T03:46:00.000-08:00

Welcome back kid. Kelly and Coyle, the Burke and Hare of the airways, did good. Both men played to their strengths. Kelly played interesting music and conducted probing interviews with people I have never heard of before. Coyle's contribution was a pot-smoking, drug-fueled orgy of,peace man,flowers in your hair,free love, flared trousers,hippy, happy drug feast.
Let me bring you up to speed with what happened in Nor'n Ireland while you were away.
There is a new, thrusting, swash-buckling captain aboard the SS SDLP.
His name is, Doctor Alasdair McDonnell. I know, I never heard of him either! Alasdair, or Big Al, as he likes to be called, has big plans for the party which made such a political break through with, the reality is!!!
"There are SDLP voters out there!" yelled big Al. "My job is to beat them out of the heather and bracken and back into the voting booths!"
"What about, WOMEN?" shrieked former leader, Margaret Richie.
"There will always be room in the SDLP for women!" roared big Al. "The reality is, someone has to make the tea."
"RESIGN!" yelled Alex Attwood, a man who does not take defeat lightly.
Now for news closer to home. Tommy my cat passed the cycling proficiency test last week. The instructor said Tommy negotiated the intricate maze of red cones like Tubby Nolan on the scent of a fish supper. As Tommy was cycling furiously home to tell me the good news, he was overcome with feline exhilaration, bordering on hysteria. Forgetting every thing he had learned, Tommy raised both hands high in the air and yelled, "TOP OF THE WORLD MA!"
Those who saw the accident say Tommy tumbled over the handle-bars and cut the whole face off himself on the unforgiving asphalt. At first I was furious, but it's hard to stay cross with a cat who is sitting glumly in the corner with two black eyes and missing a front tooth. To say Tommy looks like a cross between Dusty Springfield and Terry Thomas would be putting it mildly. Around Tommy's neck hangs a bib stating, NIL BY MOUTH!
OH the fun Tommy and I have with the tuna suppositories four times a day!
You should segue-way now into, "Stick your job where the sun don't shine!"

The Hermit Syndrome.

2011-11-07T02:17:00.000-08:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made a furious Gregory Campbell yell, "Why is no one occupying the grounds of the Vatican Hi? Why are there no tents outside the Pope's window?" But let's draw a line under that.
Tommy my cat, put on a powdered wig and said, to a small, parish urchin who was peering in the window, "BOY! I say, boy! Run to the apothecary and get me a pint of laudanum, two tinctures of mercury and a box of mansize tissues. I feel an ague coming on." The small boy hit Tommy a thump up the hooter and cried, "What did your last, small, parish urchin die off?"
"Wretched child," muttered Tommy, as his nose bled like a drain.
"WHY?" I yelled into the dismal, darkness of a Belfast street. "WHY does old Jordie Tuft inspire such confidence in sane, intelligent people?
"It's the hermit Syndrome," said Tommy. "Since the dawn of time, people have convinced themselves that old codgers, living alone, are fonts of wisdom and wise sage-like figures. Kings have lavished gold on old codgers living in caves who couldn't tell you what day of the week it was. It is a security blanket," I cried. "Knowing not the answer ourselves, we think an old headbanger living in the wilds, wearing animal skins, can answer our quest for knowledge."
"I visited an old hermit-stroke-oracle," said Tommy. "I found him living down a well, eating nothing but weeds and mud. OH, great wise one," I hollered down, "why do you live in a well, cut off from home, family and society?"
"In a shrill, piping voice the aged one answered, "Because I can't fill in a DLA form you ugly tube!"
"It is a universal condition," I said. "We, who know nothing, like to think the Gods have given all knowledge to crazy, old fools, who never wash or comb their hair and smell like rancid stoats."
"Then we must be stupid!" yelled Tommy.
"We are!" I said. "It is part of the human condition to be stupid and to seek out old coffin-fodder looking for the meaning of life."
"What a world!" said Tommy. "Is it any wonder Queen's University is handing out phds to any Tom, Dick, or Darren Clarke?"
"Never mind," I said. "Let's open two tins of condensed milk and get the Ludo board out."
"Splendito!" cried Tommy. "A reason for life if ever there was one!!!"

Michael D's Only Worry.

2011-11-04T06:33:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid. The subliminal message planted in the minds of Free Staters by Jordie Tuft, hidden in cooking -sherry -induced, yells, squawks, barks and animalistic mating cries, carried wee Michael D. over the winning line.
Old Jordie's subliminal message was, "The Old Dog For The Hard Road."
Tommy my cat, adjusted his comb-over and said, "Alas, Dana's 2% late surge was too little, too late. Senator Steven Norris, with the help of floaters did reasonably well. Gay Mitchell, may as well have stayed in the house. And Sean "The Bagman" Gallagher is still bewitched, bothered and bewildered. Here's to Michael D, the Barry O'Sullivan of Irish politics. Today, Michael D, has only one worry on his mind."
"And what would THAT be?" I yelled from the wardrobe, where I was pretending to be a coat hanger.
"His address," yelled Tommy. "Soon, Micheal D will live in a house called, THE ARAS!"
"In the name of the sacred brown envelope!" I cried. "Poor Michael D, must be as sick as Polly the parson."
Tommy stuck a wad of blue fluff into his navel and said, "It's the postman I feel sorry for. Imagine having to stuff thousands of letters through the letterbox of the Aras. I thank the good Lord that my house is called, "The Pissoir's Retreat."
As I came out of Easons clutching a copy of, "My wicked, wicked life" by Noel Beatty, I was just in time to see a confrontation between Tubby Nolan and the police. "Put the pie down Tubby and step away from it!" yelled Matt Baggott. "You'll never take me hungry copper!" roared Tubby.
"Shall I tazer the oval one Sir?" said constable Bluebottle.
"Are you mad?" yelled Matt Baggott. "Tubby is full of flamable gas! Do you want to start a roaring inferno?"
"I don't really care Sir," said constable Bluebottle. "I just want to fire my tazer gun."
As Tubby made good his escape with the pie, Matt Baggott gave constable Bluebottle a massive riser up the ARAS!

Plans To Hold An Intervention.

2011-11-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. Would-be Irish President, Sean Gallagher, listened to the great show in his peat bunker, while throwing darts at a photograph of Martin McGuinness. Wizened leprechaun, Senator Steven Norris and matronly Dana, held hands and sang, "All kinds of Everything" to a bemused man and his dog in Bally-Faddle town square. What the other candidates did, I do not know and I have no wish to know!
Tommy my cat, yelled,"COBBLERS!" and threw the "Shoe Makers' Weekly" into the bin. Tommy, braced himself, looked at me, boaked and said,
"When old Jordie got the bums rush yesterday, was he.......?"
"AS A NEWT!" I yelled. "High as a kite and full as a po!"
"Tut-Tut," said Tommy. "What a shame to see a great, beautiful mind brought so low by early morning, cooking sherry. Has he no control at all?"
"Not where cooking sherry or his bladder is concerned," I replied. "Old Jordie gets up very early, feeds the livestock, lights the fire and sits staring out the window. The bare trees, the grey sky, the desolate landscape silently scream, "Have a drink. One little drink won't do any harm." and soon old Jordie is dancing a jig and singing a Pecker Dunn song."
Tommy wiped his dirty hands on my tongue and said, "I hate to see a good man go bad. We must do something. We must hold an intervention live, on the Gerry Anderson show."
"Back of the net!" I yelled. "What a great idea! Gerry, Sean, Ken, Emma and the Lough Brickland fire brigade will tell old Jordie how much they love him and beg him, on bended elbows, to to put the cork back into the sherry bottle."
"I will cater the event," yelled Tommy. "I will serve up a running buffet on the back of a running rottweiler."
"Set and match!" I cried. "Old Jordie will collapse in a blubbering heap and promise never to drink again!"
"Stall the weddin!" yelled Tommy. "What beverages does one serve at an intervention?"
"Thank goodness you remembered!" I shrieked. "Run to the off-licence and get six bottles of Black Bush, six bottles of vodka, twelve bottles of sherry and a small bottle of pineapple juice for Emma."
What an intervention THIS is going to be! I can see stomach pumps and intensive care being involved before this intervention is over!

Wild Heavy Rain But No Ringer For Gerry.

2011-11-03T09:27:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused the usually unflappable Wendy Austin to cry,
"I can't possibly go on after that GREAT show! All I have to talk about is-rain! Gerry's show was full of exciting things like, lost dogs, Jordie Tuft, the strange, weird world of Sean Coyle and then Gerry goes and tops it off with, wood-chip wallpaper!"
The director of Talkback tried to cajole Wendy by promising her a nail to hang her coat on.
"Give me another subject that isn't about rain!" screamed Wendy. "Can I not do half an hour on flags and emblems?" A tearful Wendy sat in the Talkback studio as the seventh caller described the rain as "wild heavy!" In desperation Wendy yelled, "One can't help but wonder if any flags or emblems got wet!"
Tommy my cat and I stood behind the sandbags watching garden furniture, gnomes and inflatable rubber men swept down the street as a result of the "wild heavy" rain.
"It's good for the garden," said Tommy.
"It will keep the dust down," I replied.
"The farmers will be glad to see it," said Tommy.
"And the fishermen," I replied.
"It's wild heavy," said Tommy.
"It is wild heavy," I agreed.
Tommy and I sat staring at each other. Tommy coughed and said, "We have to talk."
After making a roast warthog, peas and diced rice I said, "Lay it on me dude."
Tommy made a little tent out of his hands and said,
"The question on the agenda is, Can Gerald Michael Anderson run the New York marathon???"
I sucked my teeth, put them back in my pocket and said, "In my humble opinion, Gerry is venturing on an impossible mission. Gerry is sailing into deep waters. New York is the Mount Everest of marathons. The big question is, can Gerry do the New York marathon, or will the New York marathon DO for Gerry. In conclusion, I fear Gerry has set himself a task which could prove-fatal!!!"
"I agree!" said Tommy. "We must save Gerry, but without Gerry losing face."
"A RINGER!" I yelled. "We replace Gerry with someone who is a dead ringer for Gerry!"
"Great idea," said Tommy. "However there is a flaw in your plan. Fergal Sharkey couldn't run the New York marathon either!!!"
Sorry kid. I'm afraid you-and you alone, must hit the bricks!

Will Dana Have A Late Surge?

2011-10-27T01:37:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-26T02:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-21T03:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-10-11T02:39:00.000-07:00

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"!!!!!!!!!

What Is Love?

2011-10-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which proved for the record that Mr Coyle is alive and well and still sucking wine gums. Tommy my cat listened intently, but heard nothing which might prove that Mr Coyle had slipped Emma a sweetie. Tommy spat on his HB pencil point and wrote in his "Gerry" book.
10.31, Mr Coyle makes first interruption of the day.
10.37, Gerry says, "Did you hear me cough?"
10.43, Mr Coyle tells a long story about Tom Jones finding his bathrobe.
10 .50, Gerry calls Mr Coyle a liar.
10.51, Mr Coyle says,"Well may God forgive you!"
10.54, Gerry and Sean laugh at a secret joke, too blue to be told on air.
10.59.57, Gerry says, "We will be right back after the news."
Note to self. Three records follow the news. Extending the news slot to,15.47 minutes.
11. 19, Coyle makes veiled reference to handing in his notice.
Note to self. The nation holds its breath.
11. 21, Woman comes on looking for lost poem. Women gets the BR.--The bum's rush.
11.34, Old Jordie comes on and gives the distinct impression that he may be on the cooking sherry.
Old Jordie is in good form. Mr Coyle nearly kills himself giggling. Old Jordie, cures many animals and then departs with a "Keep her lit, till we get out."
11.45, The bailiff rushes in and repossesses the radio.
Tommy lay on the sofa, sucking an orange, rolling his eyes and curling his tail.
"This love thing," said Tommy, "what's it all about? Can you see love? Hear love? Touch love? People kill in the name of love AND YET! love can turn into great hate.
Why do we associate love with the heart when we know the heart is incapable of emotion or feelings?
So many kinds of love," muttered Tommy. "The love of children, animals, places, things, God, self and Daniel O'Donnell. LOVE!!!" yelled Tommy. "What's it all-ABOUT???"
I brought a huge saucepan down hard on Tommy head and yelled, "You left out, tough love!" and I brought the saucepan down time and time again on the feline's head. But, I did it in a loving way!

When I'm Dead.

2011-10-08T02:36:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which brought a blush to the face of Mrs Bunty Hovis, when her husband opened the back door and a blast of icy,cold wind rushed into her back passage. "'Oi!" yelled Bunty. "What's your bleeding game then?" Herbert, who uneasily wears the crown of Mr Hovis, knocked a flying duck of the wall and yelled, "Ah, stop your bleeding row, you ferret-faced, old rat bag!" Then the door bell rang and Herbert and Bunty Hovis began another day of marriage counselling.
Tommy my cat put down his copy of "Too Big to Fall" by Steven Nolan and said,"When you die, do you want to be used as a scarecrow, or stuffed and mounted on the wall?"
"Neither!" I yelled. "I want to be propped up on the Ballymena round-a-bout with a cardboard sign saying, CULLYBACCY, in my hands."
"Ah, you're a traditionalist," said Tommy. "I thought you might be one of those, freeze my head when I'm dead, modern-day types."
"Not me!" I cried. "When my clogs go-POP! I want to be displayed in a prominent place so passers by can say, "LOOK Ethel, that must be a new Damien Hurst." I utilised my eyeballs to look at Tommy and said, "And how do you want to be buried, my fine feathered friend?" Tommy coughed daintily into a French lace handkerchief and replied,
"I have lived a simple life. I despise flippery-flappery and ostentation. A simple shoe box will do me, BUT! before you bury me, please remove the words, "Clark's Shoes" from the box. I do not wish to suffer for all eternity for the sins of Paul Clarke." That's what I like about Tommy, his forward thinking and ability to play with a suffering mouse for hours.
As luck would have it I found myself walking into a tin whistle emporium, just as dapper, little Phil Coulter was coming out. I looked at the little manikin, laden down with whistles, recorders and oboes. Some little devil ignited a spark within me and I found myself singing,
"Steal away, steal away.
No reason left to stay.
How many windwind instruments
Can Derry's Pied Piper play?"
Well! Boom-Bang-A Bang! Wee Phil completely lost the head. The miniature composer took after me yelling,
"I'll brust your bake you stupid clown.
You do the hokey-cokey then you turn around!"
You can hear the rest of that little ditty next year, when it will be Ireland's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest.

The first Commissioner for the Elderly

2011-10-06T08:06:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. All the guys and gals at Saint Dymphna's Home for the Chronically Nonchalant drawled, "Way to go dude!"
Quick-fix fitters went into a frenzy of quick-fix fitting and the friars at Saint Nobbler's Priory, chucked chips, fish and sausages into a deep-fat frier. The deep, fat friar wishes to remain anonymous. And who can blame him? When you have a skylight in your hair the last thing you want is publicity.
Tommy my cat sat in front of the fire reading the Ulster/ Nova Scotia edition of the Belfast Telegraph.
"HEY ratbag!" yelled Tommy. "Listen to this!"
"If you utilise I will hark," I replied with a merry, throaty, phlegm-filled chuckle.
"THIS," said Tommy, "is a direct quote from Peter Robinson. "Delivering a strong, independent voice". AND this is a direct quote from deputy acting first Minister, John O'Dowd, "A strong voice to champion causes!"
I crawled under the sofa and screamed,
"Don't read any more Tommy. You're scaring me. What calamitous misfortune do your oblique words foretell?" Tommy sprang out into the middle of the room like a hairy, demented ballet dancer and shrieked,
"After much old-codger lobbying, Stormount has capitulated and employed a Commissioner for the elderly."
"Mustangs and melancholy!" I yelled. "Please tell me it's not--not--Jordie Tuft."
The first Commissioner for the Elderly," yelled Tommy, "is-Claire Keating! I don't know dear Claire personally," said Tommy, "but I am assured she is a fine upstanding woman, with principles as high as an elephant's eye who wears sensible, flat shoes."
"Imagine if old Jordie had been made Commissioner," I said. "Every Darby and Joan club would have its own dung-spreader. Old codgers would be encouraged to go on the tear and free cooking sherry would be provided for the over 65s."
Tommy looked lovingly at Orville his clockwork mouse and said, "Old Jordie was in the running for Commissioner, but he blew his chances when he made a drunken,spaltering grope at Nigel Dodds in the mistaken belief it was Catriona Ruane. "You're a nice wee dote," slurred Jordie, as he hung like a limpet to poor Nigel's tie."
"Fouled his nest again!" I mused. "A good job was in his grasp and old Jordie goes and man-handles the man who was a stand in on, Frost and Nixon." "Representable!" muttered Tommy. "Totally and thoroughly-Representable!"
Then! Wendy Austin diverted our attention with a yell of, "Prince Charles, Camilla and Bobby Davro to appear on platform with Martin McGuinness. What do you think?? Phone Talkback-NIGH!"

IT'S ALL GOOD.

2011-10-03T03:49:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid. Word is just filtering out that the great Tuesday show caused great consternation in the NASA control centre.
After working for ten years, at a cost of 25 trillion dollars, NASA were just about to launch top secret, red diesel fueled rocket, "Uncle Sam" towards Pluto if Goofy wasn't in. Hank Weinsteiner sat with his hand over the control panel as the countdown continued. SEVEN. SIX. FIVE. THEN!!! due to a freak wormhole in the ether, the voice of Mr Coyle came over loud and clear. "STALL THE WEDDIN!" Hank brought his hand down hard on the abort button and the "Uncle Sam" rocket exploded in a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks. Veteran Hank Weinsteiner looked at rookie, Burt Brick Outhouse and growled, "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at tall."
"SIR!, yes Sir!" yelled rookie captain Burt Brick Outhouse.
Tommy my cat clasped the hand of Spike our local burglar and softly sang,
"Steal away, Steal away.
No reason left to stay.
Burgle a house, quiet as a mouse.
And then, Spike, steal away."
I decided to teach Tommy a lesson, so I ran out and stole a driving instructor's car.
"MSM" I yelled. "Mirror, signal manoeuvre!" Tommy looked into the rear-view mirror, stuck two fingers up to me and ran straight into a wall.
But it was all good. That's the new buzz phrase now--"It's all good!"
When things go as wrong as things can go, a politician comes on TV and tells the people, "It's all good!" The police when they came, sixteen days later, were Pink Floyd fans and believed Tommy when he said, "All and all it's just another brick in the wall."
"Careful with that axe Eugene," I whispered to Eugene Massacre our new, trainee, madaxe man.
Then, home for honey, treacle, cod liver oil, Lyle's golden syrup and a hard boiled egg to protect the carpet from a Tsunami!!!

The Magnificient Irish Seven

2011-09-30T03:36:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made the wizened denizens of the Betty Boop Old Folks' home form an impromptu conga line. Poor old souls. Age has indeed withered them and the years condemned. Everytime they put their right foot in, they had to have an injection of steroids before they could shake it all about. Poor old dears. Only for the Monday and Wednesday strip poker nights they would have nothing left to live for.
Tommy my cat, adjusted his paisley-patterned cowboy chaps and said, "Did you see them? Did you see Dana lead out the Magnificent Seven in Dublin? They were all there," said Tommy. "Dana, Gay Mitchell, Martin McGuinness and Senator Steven Norris bringing up the rear. Gay Mitchell took off his hat, wiped his brow and said, "I don't like it. It's too doggone quiet out there." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Martin McGuinness threw back his head and sang, "The Town I Loved So Well."
"That's not fair," screamed Dana, "I'm from Derry too, so I am!"
"Dana darling," gushed Steven Norris, easing himself up on the saddle. "Do us all the exquisite honour, my dear, of singing that little ditty so near to my heart "All Kinds Of Everything."
That was when the Mexicans appeared! It fell to poor Steven Norris to make the mistake of offering the Mexicans-badges! Well, you know what happened next. Why do Mexicans get so angry when they hear the word-badges?
"BADGES??? We don't want your feelthy-badges!"
"I say old chap," began Steven Norris, but Martin McGuinness roared out, "RAWHIDE!!! Head for the hills!"
"Let the Gringos go!" yelled a swarthy Mexican. "Seven rode away, but only one will return".
Then the Mexicans lay over their horses and laughed for 39 minutes. Once upon a time in the West, in the days of John Huston and John Ford, when one Mexican laughed-all Mexicans laughed. Then, along came football and the Mexican laugh, turned into the Mexican wave! Meanwhile, the magnificent Seven are camped at Big Fork, fearing tomorrow will bring, blazing saddles.
You couldn't make it up!!!

Money For Old Rope

2011-09-30T03:30:00.000-07:00

Great bald show yesterday kid. All over Ulster, slap-heads broke cover like snipe and poured their hearts out about their lack of thatch.
"At last," cried old, baldy Joe Pate, "I have found closure! No more sticking my head up the chimney when visitors call."
The exuberance of wee Kenny from Larne was beyond description. Wee Kenny pulled off the dry, dusty, ginger wig he had worn for 35 years and ran down the street yelling, "GO TO WORK ON AN EGG!"
All over Tyrone yesterday, old men could be seen lying over gates staring into fields. All hoping that Rhianna might turn up and loosen a button. That's what men do in Tyrone before they have a pee. They loosen a button. Zip on your fly? it makes no difference, you still, "loosen a button."
Tommy my cat knocked an arrow off my head with an apple and said,
"The recession is really beginning to bite. I saw a knife-grinder, a rag and bone man and a thin, pale, workhouse urchin today."
"OAKUM!" I yelled. "The future is, OAKUM!"
"What in the name of Rhianna's simmet is Oakum?" cried Tommy, as he launched a paper aeroplane in the general direction of Iran.
"OAKUM," I said, rolling the word round my mouth like a brandy ball, "Oakum is what you get when you unpick a rope. Oakum is fine hemp, just like human hair. Oakum is a sealant. Mixed with tar, or Chiver's thick-cut marmalade, oakum will seal any ship, pipe, or orifice leaking water."
Tommy mused, ruminated, pondered and said, "The word in the hood is, old Jordie stuffs his Christmas turkey with oakum. He says it keeps the juices in."
"Old Jordie is not as crazy as he looks," I said. "Way back in 1947 old Jordie invented the toothless comb for bald men." I went to the window, broke a pane of glass with my nose and shrieked,
"OAKUM! it's money for old rope!"

Water on The Brain.

2011-09-28T03:29:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which stopped an angry mob of old codgers from shuffling to the Royal hospital and demanding free catheters.
"Look at our Eli!" croaked an old codger. "His grey, flannel, 28 inch inside leg trousers are saturated beyond redemption." Tommy my cat sat and listened intently as Mr Coyle pulled and yanked at his ear.
"Water on the brain," said Tommy.
"Big red bus!" I yelled. "Mr Coyle's head has turned into a veritable reservoir. Is there NO cure known to man, beast, or insect??" Before Tommy could answer, an old codger took another brick from the wall and yelled, "Stick a catheter up his nose, it did wonders for our Eli!" SO! if you meet a man with two candles hanging from his nose, judge ye not!--it may be Mr Coyle.
I was hunkered down in front of Easons pretending I was very small when the sky darkened, bits of plaster fell from buildings, crows and seagulls took to the air and a hoarse, guttural voice began to roar,
" I am BIG in Tombstone City, I am BIG in Tennessee, I was BIG in Weight Watchers until they got shot of me!"
I leaped to my feet and cried, " Lo, what fat fiend approaches, arrayed in Patrick Moore suit and lavender ankle socks?" A smirk appeared on the vast, barren landscape that was Tubby Nolan's face and the oval one roared,
"Greetings yokel, 'tis I, Tubby Nolan, king of comedy and allround good egg. Riddle me this. What is the difference between Tubby Nolan and the Titanic?"
"I know not good sire," I replied. "What is the difference between the arch knave, Tubby Nolan and the good ship Titanic?"
Tubby tittered, well, it was Patrick Moore's suit and yelled,
The difference between Tubby Nolan and the Titanic is, I KEEP COMING BACK!!!"

Beware Cream Buns And Calpol.

2011-09-26T02:57:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
After the Friday show all the girls who work at the cream bun bakery checked their ovens before they went home for the weekend. A bun in the oven can lead to great agitation and loss of production.
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with the weird, hairy thing that lives under my bed, braced himself, looked at me, boked but did not vomit and made this utterance,
"Little Hugo Duncan had an awful fright last night when he got caught in the cat flap as he returned home from a late night gig."
"Well, I'll be a rhinestone cowboy!" I yelled. "How did they extricate the little warbler from the pussy portal?"
"Stick and carrot," said Tommy. "A family member held a Bounty bar six inches from Hugo's nose, while a neighbour pretended to attack Shorty's rear with a chainsaw."
"Ah the old bounty and chainsaw trick," I said. "Many a miner and pot-holer owe their life to that combination."
Tommy tossed a peanut high in the air, caught it with my mouth and said,
"What a rugged, handsome man Noel Thompson has become. Time, has stripped away all callow youth and left him craggy and worn like an old cartwheel left out in the sun."
"I do so agree," I enthused. "Women of a certain age must sit in front of the TV thinking, "I wouldn't mind a go at that craggy cove."
"And the lovely Donna Trainor," said Tommy, "so beautiful, so elegant, so good at keeping her hands of Noel."
I pulled the curtains, placed a black cloth over the mirror and said,
"Deep sadness lies at the heart of Donna Trainor. At the tender age of six months she won a bonny baby contest, ONLY to see it snatched away again."
"How did that happen?" cried Tommy, biting my nails furiously.
"It came about thus!" I cried. "After winning the bonny baby contest, the gurgling Donna was taken away for a drug test."
"OH NO!" cried Tommy.
"OH YES!" I shrieked. "Full as a kite on extra-strong Calpol, the rosette was torn off her bib and she was banned for life from the bonny baby circuit."
"How sad," cried Tommy, how terribly, terribly sad!"
"There is a bright side," I said. "From that day till this, Calpol has never passed the lips of Donna Trainor."
"BRAVO!" yelled Tommy. "Donna Trainor is a veritable role model for young girls everywhere, just like Kerry Katona!!"

Dana To Stand On What Platform???

2011-09-22T03:00:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat threw a handful of gravel on the table and yelled,
"I wish to make a statement to the house."
"Resign!" yelled Henry the hoover.
"ORDER!" I roared. "Order in the house!"
"I have been offered and accepted," yelled Tommy, "the post of gopher in Dana's campaign to be the next president of Ireland."
"Too little, too late," chirped Rodger the budgie.
I leaped to my feet and roared, "Would the right honourable cat tell the house on what platform the darling Dana will stand? ORDER! ORDER!" I yelled as Henry and Rodger began to boo, hiss-yes, hiss and cat call.
"They don't want to hear it!" yelled Tommy. "Both honourable members have little, or no regard for free speech."
"RESIGN!" yelled Henry. "Sling your hook!" chirped Rodger.
"In answer to the right honourable ratbag's question," yelled Tommy, "the delightful Dana's policies are, family values, the preservation of the wild mountain hare and sturdy,sensible,flat shoes."
I leaped to my feet and roared, "Where does dainty Dana stand on, all kinds of everything?"
"She's against it!" yelled Tommy. "Dana feels that, all kinds of everything is a charter for low lives, scum bags, hamster lovers and people over the age of 85 living in sheltered accommodation. On the day Dana is elected, she will provide every townland in Ireland with its own Kitty the Hare. SOON! little scuttling women, dressed in black, with shawls over their heads, will leap out from behind fairy trees on dark nights screaming, "Aah! musha-a-lana and Mother McCree!"
The house broke up then for cucumber sandwiches and a spot of grouse shooting.
Tommy sidled up to me and whispered, "HE!!! will be back on Monday. Mr Coyle,the agitator, interrupter and disruptor will be back on black Monday. I had hoped......." whispered Tommy.
"I know!" I hissed, yes! hissed. "I too had hoped that the little sailors from Somalia would have shanghaied old mono eyebrow."
"The word in the hood AND on the grapevine," whispered Tommy, "is the little sailors have-gone."
"BUMMER!" I yelled as the division bell rang to separate the right honourable Catholics from the right honourable Protestants.

A Duel For The Irish Presidency.

2011-09-22T02:55:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show in which old Jordie proposed, YET AGAIN!, leaving out bowls of beer to make snails and slugs blind drunk. "Is there not enough carnage on the roads Mr Tuft? Do you expect our hardpressed emergency services to rush to the scene of every accident involving a drunk snail, or slug? And who will donate the blood needed Mr Tuft-YOU? I thought not! What I say to you Mr Tuft is, go home, light a good fire and prepare for the fire brigade."
"That settled his hash," said Tommy my cat, sitting at the breakfast table, masticating furiously at a turgid heap of Snap Crackle and Pop. Tommy burped, got up, hit me a massive whack on the head with a silver, Georgian teapot and yelled, "Have YOU had an accident recently? Go to Claims Direct and you could get a nice little packet if you are prepared to lie your head off in the witness box."
I punched Tommy up the gub and cried, "Are you embarrassed by loose false teeth falling into your soup at dinner parties? Then YOU need Mrs Fixit's Farrier kit. Just four nails hammered into your upper and lower mouth will secure your dentures. Guaranteed to bite through steel, glass, plastic, wood and very strong, stubborn cardboard."
While I sat down to fill in a Claims Direct form, Tommy ran to the chemist for a Mrs Fixit's Farrier kit.
Tommy came away from the window where he had been counting ginger-haired winos and said,
"I feel it incumbent on me to reduce by 50% the number of people from Derry running for the Irish presidency."
"WHY???" I yelled to the coat bucket."Why is my little Tommy always two steps ahead of the crowd?"
"I propose a duel," said Tommy, "a paintball duel between Dana and Martin McGuinness, said duel to be held in Croke Park and televised by RTE. The first person hit will withdraw and the winner will go on to the grand final."
The coal bucket looked at me with a, "what a cat!" look on its zinc face.
"Tommy," I said, "could you tell me in minute and graphic detail what the President of Ireland does?"
Tommy picked up the Cairo Chronicle and replied, "Nothing! Zilch! Diddly-Squat!"
I winked at the coal bucket and said,
"Hence the stampede seeking the position!"

Too Much Churning.

2011-09-21T05:54:00.001-07:00

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which bewitched Tom Elliott to such an extent, he ran out looking frantically for a catholic funeral he could attend.
But alas, not all were as enamoured with the great shows as uncle Tom. Tommy my cat has some complaints about the Thursday show. "Come on you pesky feline. Tell Gerry to his face why you didn't like the great Thursday show."
"I'm NOT saying I didn't like the Thursday show," said Tommy. "The Thursday show was a fine show. I'm just saying,in my opinion, there was too much talk about churning and churning is just a hop, skip and jump away from the vile, repulsive subject of--lactation."
I did an Ali shuffle in my Ugg boots and cried, "And what pray did lactation ever do to you?"
Tommy blushed bright red and said, "I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room the other day. Across from me sat a woman with a young baby. SUDDENLY! she opened her blouse and began to,---to,--front feed her baby."
"FRONT FEED!" I yelled. "Who are you, Oliver Cromwell or Sean Coyle? The mother was breast feeding her baby.It's quite natural. Even you were breast fed."
"I was not!" yelled Tommy. "Mummy had a big litter of kittens. I was the smallest and there was no teat for me. Only for United dairies I would have died."
"How odd," I mused. "And yet you support Manchester City! But tell me puerile, Puritan pussy, how did the episode with the lady who was breast feeding, or as you would say, front feeding, her baby end?"
"I told her to put them away," said Tommy, "and she bitch-slapped me across the face with them."
"What a boob," I laughed.
"There was more than one," replied the woe-begone feline.
After a lunch of under-cooked mutton,scallions, gooseberries and two sick bags, Tommy marched up and down beating his German swagger against his candy-pink fluffy,bedroom slippers. With a yell of, "Heil Nigel Dodds!" Tommy swung round and said,
"IF, Martin McGuinness is elected President of Ireland, will he turn it into another Cuba?"
"YES!" I yelled." The first thing Marty will do is shore up our hurricane defences by planting millions of palm trees all along the coast line."
"And about time too," said Tommy. "David "the beard" Ford promised to do that, but never got round to it."
"THEN!" I yelled. "Gallagher's factory will work 24/7 and 365 making giant cigars called, Titanics." Tommy ruminated, as cats do in a darkened corner and said,
"And will President Marty wear a drab, olive-green uniform and peaked cap like a petrol pump attendant?"
"Not only that!" I cried. "President Marty will dig silos in and around Cullybaccy and fill them with Russian missiles. Viva la Castro!" I yelled.
"Viva la Castrol!" roared Tommy.
And people say nothing exciting ever happens in boring old Northern Ireland!

Jordie The Constant Countryman.

2011-09-19T15:17:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused an old codger to yank out his diamante studded catheter and proclaim to the world, "PEE AT LAST. PEE AT LAST. THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, PEE AT LAST!"
Tommy my cat hitched up his heavy-duty, industrial knickers and said,
"What an absolute joy to hear the gritty, hard-as-nails voice of old Jordie again! Old Jordie keeps me-grounded. he is a constant, always there when war looms or swallows revolt and fly upside down to show their contempt for mankind."
I spat on two hands that reached inside the broken window and cried, "Old Jordie is a man of the soil. He desires neither gold or silver. Old Jordie is never happier, than sitting atop a steaming midden sipping an early morning cooking sherry."
"Here's to him, who's like him, since the King of Tongo died!" yelled Tommy.
I got down on my knees on the floor to lower my voice and whispered, "Mind you, old Jordie has been under surveillance for over 50 years by the CIA,FBI,MI5,MI6 and the Legion of Mary."
"Why should these dark forces be interested in a simple countryman?" asked Tommy.
I looked all around,blessed myself, muttered, "Allah is good" and replied,
"Old Jordie is unable to recollect where he was on the 22nd of November, 1963."
Tommy's eyes opened wide, his black face turned white and he gasped, "Eeh by gum. Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs."
"SHIBBOLEH!" I cried. "Jordie Tuft has no alibi for the day President Kennedy was assassinated!"
"CHEROKEE CREEK!" yelled Tommy. "Could old Jordie have been the figure seen on the grassy knoll?"
"The grassy knoll, not at tall!" I yelled. "It is my hunch that on the 22nd of November, 1963, old Jordie was sleeping off a drunken debauch in a disused badger set."
"I agree!" cried Tommy. "It is a well known fact that when the cooking sherry runs out, old Jordie seeks refuge underground with the rabbits, foxes and badgers."
"Conspiracy?" I yelled. "What conspiracy?"
Then, buoyed up by a strange, hysterical exuberance bordering on Bedlam, I stuck my head up the chimney and yodeled for six hours. Everyone who complained to the police said it was Kenny Archer!

Breaking News

2011-09-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused an old codger to stop and think before sticking a wet finger into an electric socket. The old codger pondered, ruminated and considered. Then with a hoarse yell of, "GERONIMO" he rammed a wet digit into the socket and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
"It's how dad would have wanted to go," said the old codger's 69 year old son Jasper, who teaches belly-dancing twice a week at the local old folks' home.
Don't blame yourself kid. Just remember, life turned him that way.
Tommy my cat, wearing a lovely, off-the-shoulder cassock tripped gaily into the room and sang, "I'm gonna lay down a little burden, down by the riverside."
"Make sure you kick dirt over it when you're finished!" I yelled.
"I always do!" cried Tommy. "Unlike you, I don't pull the chain, laugh and say, "Well, it's the city's problem now."
With Tommy gone I ran at all four walls with my head, seeking any cracks or structural damage. I had some misgivings about wall No 3, so I lowered my head and ran at it time and time again. When I came round I was able to put a little tick for all four walls.
Just before the big hand reached two and the little hand lay on the broad of its back in the clock case, Tommy came running in, cassock flying behind him and shrieked, "Breaking news regarding old fatso, Tubby Nolan!"
"Do tell!" I screamed, while reclining gracefully on a rusty heap of scrap iron. "Well!" said Tommy, crossing both arms under his non-existent bosom, "Her at No 27, who is married to Manuel Garcia, who owns the Chinese restaurant on Rodent Street, was told in confidence by Maggie Hitler, the would be rat catcher, that Steven Nolan turned up at Ryan air with NO luggage and STILL had to pay for excess baggage.
"I warned him!" I yelled. "I told Tubby that Michael O'Leary issued a bulletin stating, "If Tubby Nolan puts on another stone, throw him in the cargo hold."
"Best place for him," said Tommy. "Should a Ryan air jet get into trouble it will be quite easy to jettison Tubby from the cargo hold. This would give the plane sufficient fuel to make a soft landing in Cullybaccy."
Tubby Nolan is eating in the last chance junk food outlet!

Tommy Delivers The News Stories Gerry Might Have Missed.

2011-09-12T02:47:00.000-07:00

Welcome back kid. Now we can face the Winter, warm and snug in the heat that radiates from great shows.
Tommy my cat, burdened down by a heavy, granite, stone slab, staggered to his Ikea, flat-pack, gold throne and gasped, "On this stone tablet I have chiseled all the news stories Gerry might have missed while on pilgrimage to India, where, rumour has it,he frolicked and wallowed like an otter in the sacred water of the river Ganges." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe, what a smart little chiseler he was!
"FIRST!" yelled Tommy. "Norn Iron-Nil, have two more defeats proudly tucked under their belt."
"Nigel Worthington must GO!" I yelled. "Make Jackie Fullerton manager. Jackie would play the old, spare man in the box, one, two and you're in formation."
"Second news story!" roared Tommy. "Margaret Richie, in spite of all her shrill denials, has-GONE!"
"YIPPEE!" cried a bug-eyed cricket from a dark, recess in the hearth.
"The big question is," roared Tommy,"Did dear Margaret jump, or was she pushed?"
"PUSHED!" I yelled. "I saw the palm prints of Patsy McGlone on the back of her brilliant, white, cashmere gansy."
"Good on ye Patsy ye boy ye," chirped the cricket.
"Third!" cried Tommy. "Steven Nolan, Christoper Biggins and Chris Moyle are to open a posh, exclusive restaurant in the West end of London called, "THE LARD BUCKET." Tommy laughed and said, "The only restaurant in London to be awarded three Michelin tyres."
"Tee-hee-hee," giggled the cricket in the hearth.
"Fourth news item!" yelled Tommy. "Paddy Doherty, traveller, bare-knuckle fighter and star of, "My big Fat Irish gypsy wedding" beat Kerry Katona and Jedward in the final of, "Celebrity Big Brother."
"A great day for the Irish," I cried, "but would you want either of the three to live next door to you?"
"Hauld on, hauld on!" yelled the cricket. "That remark is out of order. You should be ashamed of yourself, you old rat bag."
I picked up the poker to knock the Buddy Holly out of the cricket, but Tommy stopped me with a yell of, "Item Five! Jordie Tuft, sage, oracle, vintage sherry drinker and son of the soil is considering running for the Presidency of Ireland."
"On what platform will old Jordie stand?" Yelled the cricket and I in close, Everly Brothers harmony.
"Old Jordie will stand on a platform of pallets!" cried Tommy. "A platform of pallets piled high so the people can see his wee feathered hat, muffler round the neck and the safety pin holding the fork of his trousers together."
"A shrewd move," chirped the cricket. "The safety pin will bring in the women's votes"
"Where does old Jordie stand on alternative fuel?" I bellowed.
"On the broad of his back waiting for the Lough Brickland fire brigade!" yelled Tommy. Old Jordie's motto on fuel is, "BURN BABY BURN!"
VIVA LA PRESIDENTE!" cried the cricket.
"Go home and prepare for CHANGE!" yelled Tommy. "Soon old Jordie shall bring all factions together, under the stirring banner of, "UNITED IN DEBT!"
I went to bed then, but Tommy and the cricket stayed up all night discussing old Jordie's campaign strategy.
(OH! I made no mention of Kelly or Coyle, I will leave that to others)

Surviving Without Gerry.

2011-08-25T03:44:00.000-07:00

Great pre-going away show kid.
"Three weeks?" I yelled.
"Three long, long, weeks," said Tommy my cat.
"That's a fortnight and a half!" I cried. "Who, or whom is going to look after us when Gerry is away?"
"Tommy spat into the fire and said, "Sean Thaddeaus Coyle."
"Old STC?" I yelled. "That's like leaving the little pigs alone with the wolf! Mark my words, Sean Coyle will run that great show into the ground, not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a fortnight and a half, but-always." "Chins up," said Tommy. "If we are to survive this ordeal with our peckers up, we must be prepared for pain, dog's abuse, bossing and Danny Kaye singing, "The Three little fish fish swam over the dam."
"SENERITY NIGH!" I yelled. SENERITY NIGH!!!!"
Suddenly, YES! it was as quick as that, Jim Rodgers sprang into the room screaming,
"Nigh! NIGH! NIGH! Stop that racket. A shaking wino is trying to eat an egg at the corner of your house!"
"Highly exciteable," said Tommy, but a good man to have with you if you're ever playing poker in Austin Texas where heat is being packed."
"The only heat Jim Rodgers ever packed," I yelled,"was a fish supper in his coat pocket as he ran like a greyhound through the rain on his way home from the chip shop."
Tommy and I both concurred, which left a large stain on the carpet.
As Vera Lynn sang softly in the background. Tommy and I, both wearing tin helmets, settled down for the long fortnight and a half.
"The lights are going out all over Poleglass," whispered Tommy.
"Hold hard Everard, old chum, old pal," I crooned. "This too shall pass."
"Yes it will pass my dear old ratbag," whispered Tommy.
Tommy and I burst into tears as the plaintive Vera Lynn sang.
"And Jimmy Nesbitt will go to sleep, in his own little room again."
Safe journey kid. Missing you already!

Old Stile Jumper

2011-08-24T01:13:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which wiped the smiles off the faces of the clowns in Duffy's circus, when you announced that the price of large shoes for clowns was increasing by a staggering 59%. "Up with this I will not put!" yelled Bobo. From this day forward I call on all clowns to jettison the big shoes and adopt flip-flops!"
"Brilliant!" cried Mrs Bobo. "Cometh the hour, cometh the clown."
"Reel to reel tape-recorders," mused Tommy my cat. "How to read the code for traffic points. Bicycle accidents, The men Mr Coyle meets each night. It's entertainment Jim, but not as we know it."
"The Gerry show is from out of left field," I said. "It's off the wall. It's crazy man and groovy. It's niche radio and is fit for purpose."
"There are some," said Tommy, "including Mrs Bunty Hovis from Teabag Lane who compare Gerry to Howard Sterne."
"Howard Sterne my motorised umbrella stand!" I cried. "Gerry is a one off, a prototype, a John the Baptist who was sent to convert the devotees of Tubby Nolan, Hugo Duncan and Mark Patterson."
"The unholy trio," cried Tommy, "who were sent from the dark side to corrupt the children of God with bull-like guldering and enough diddly-dee to float the Titanic."
I bumped into Noel Thompson coming out of a mountaineering/adult book store. Poor Noel was burdened down with an ice axe, a coil of rope and a parachute.
"Out of my way, you crumpled, crumbling crone!" boomed Noel. "I am a busy man, I have work to do."
"Work to do?" I yelled. "You call reading the news for half an hour-work?"
"How dare you!" thundered Noel. "I arrive at the BBC at daybreak and work on my script all day, making changes, adding a bit, or talking a bit out. All day, every day it's drafts, drafts drafts!"
"You're in a rut No-El," I said. "Why don't you and Donna ring the changes and play a game of Ludo or Snakes and Ladders to pass the time?"
Noel's rugged, windblown visage turned purple and he took after me yelling,"Today in Belfast, an old ratbag was badly hurt by a strange man carrying an ice, a coil of rope and a parachute. The police have arrested Paul Clarke from UTV. While Pamela Ballentine yelled, "Leave him alone. He's irrelevant."
"Old Stile jumper!" I yelled, as I weaved in and out among the wheelie-bins.
"Old stile jumper, who sometimes reads the news as a side line. STILE JUMPER!!!" I yelled. "OLD STILE JUMPER!!!"

Drowning in a Sea of Ennui.

2011-08-23T02:19:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which brought little comfort to the lady motorist complaining about cyclists.
"Get off your fat ass!" screamed Tommy my cat, "and stop complaining about young, non-rioters who are out in God's fresh air improving their health with a cycle race. I know her type!" yelled Tommy. "Put her in a car and she thinks she owns the road. Effing and blinding at tractors, lorries, dung spreaders, donkeys, pedestrians, CYCLISTS and any other road user who isn't her! I know her kind!" roared Tommy. "When I worked in the Foreign Office I often had to deal with Kings, sheiks and dictators who thought they ruled the world. I brought them all to heel with a loud yell of, "KISS MY ASS!!!"
I looked at the little, irritated pussy and said,
"Not very diplomatic Thomas."
"Diplomacy is for PUSSIES!" yelled Tommy.
He picked up his five string banjo and stormed off into his study for a good PLINK!
I like a good plink myself, but never, until the sun is over the yard arm. Then and only then, do I get stuck into the plink!
And so the long, weary day wore on. Across the street old Jimmy Eiderdown had his head stuck out of the window yelling, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"
I knew the noise would stop when the valium suppositories kicked in.
Tommy yawned and said, "Let's go blindfold Tubby Nolan, push him into a china shop and stand back and watch the fun."
"We did that only yesterday," I sighed. "Oh Tommy," I said, " I am suffering from fierce languor and tarra ennui.".
"NUI doesn't spell anything, it's not even a word!" replied the pesky pussy. "Listen," said Tommy, "and hark to my tale. Apparently Kate Moss was so enamoured with the TV show, "My big Irish Gypsy Wedding" that she turned to her partner and cried, "LET'S DO IT!". And do it they did," said Tommy. "They tied the knot, got hitched, or if prefer, got married. Dear Kate said in OK magazine that she would love to be a gypsy and sell clothes-pegs from door to door."
I leaped to my feet yelling, " I am drowning in a river of ennui!" In desperation-Dan, I rammed a six hour tape called, "Great Irish Golfers" by Steven Watson into the CD player and collapsed like a potato on to the couch.
Next morning a new day knocked on the door seeking admittance. One look at its long, grey face and I knew it had ennui written all over it.

Tendons and News From Tinsel Town.

2011-08-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which nearly stopped Steven Watson going on and on about Rory McIlory's injured wrist.
"It's the tendons!" yelled Steven. "Rory hurt the tendons in his wrist. When the tendons are mended, I plan to do a two hour special called, "Will the damaged tendons in Rory McIlroy's wrist be as good as new or will Rory McIlory regret his decision to make a swipe at the golf ball which was right up against the branch of a tree?"
"Catchy Title," said Tommy my cat. " I wonder could I get it printed on a T-shirt?"
"YOU couldn't," I giggled, "but I know a man who could, Tubby "Mainland Bound" Nolan."
"Mainland Bound, I wish I was," sang Tommy.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, Tommy would have been a great addition to Simon and Garfunkle.
I looked at Tommy, leapt in the air, landed in the splits position and yelled,"What's new pussycat?"
"Big news coming out of tinsel town," said Tommy. "Former,"Friend" Jennifer Anison has kidnapped a cabal of masochists and is threatening to hurt them if she and Ben Stiller are not allowed to make YET another romantic/comedy film."
I grabbed my handbag, waved it above my head and yelled,
"If Margaret Thatcher taught me anything, it was how to take milk from very young children and NOT to negotiate with terrorists or ageing, so called actresses, who have appeared in a tad too many so called romantic comedyies."
"Too late," said Tommy. "Filming has already began on, "Single girl seeks romance, girl meets boy, girl hates boy, after two hours of so called, zany, madcap comedy, girl falls in love with boy and gets married."
"Catchy title," I said, as I pulled a pearl-handled derringer from my handbag and fired six bullets into the tyres of a cyclist who was singing, "Bullet Train".
Coincidence? Absolutely! and I'll shoot anyone who says different!
"How's that boil coming along?" I said as Tommy changed the poultice on my bum. "Very red," said Tommy. "Very, very angry. I really think I should lance it, before you take blood poison.".
"LANCE MY BUM? I yelled. "Over my dead........"
TOO LATE! Tommy whipped out his trusty, Swiss army knife and began stabbing and slashing at the angry, red protuberance on my throbbing rear.
As I shot towards the ceiling I grabbed a feather duster.There are a few big cobwebs up there I have been longing to get at for ages.

Irishmen On Skis!

2011-08-17T01:36:00.000-07:00

Great solo shows last week kid.
Great shows which sent the world's money markets into turmoil when it became known that Mr Coyle was being separated from his conjoined wallet.
"I'm going in!" cried Doctor Ripper. A swarm of ancient moths hit the doctor up the face and he was rushed to the maternity department where he gave birth to twin boys.
"Medicine has made great strides over the past ten minutes," said Doctor Ripper as he sat up in bed with a twin on each shoulder.
"SO!" said Tommy my cat. "As I predicted, America has lost its triple AAA credit rating."
"I'm afraid so," I replied. "There's no point phoning President Obama now if you find yourself broke by the roadside.". Tommy grabbed the phone and ordered his broker to move his ten pounds worth of Premium Bonds into gold Krugerrands. Tommy is a financial expert, a real Brian Cowan, without the arrogance and stupidity. I pulled an old black shawl over my head and cried, "What's going to become of us at all, at all, at all? 'Tis homeless we'll be, sitting by the side of the road eating nettles and dockens, and our menfolk boarding the boat to sail from Derry to Buncrana seeking work."
Tommy ran his hand over my face, checking for dust and said,
"Last week in the Dail,when asked if Ireland had enough money left to buy a fish supper, the bold Edna Kenny sprang to his feet, gave a Texas rebel yell and roared,
"THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN!"
"Rise again!" I yelled. "There's more chance, I say, there's more chance of the Titanic rising again!"
Tommy sprayed me all over with Pledge furniture polish and said,
"The South had their moment in the sun, their fifteen minutes of fame. I knew it was all over for the South when I first saw an Irishman on skis. An Irishman on skis is an affront to both God and nature. It's unnatural to see an Irishman on skis. An Irishman on skis is akin to seeing an Inuit on the moon, a Shinner wearing a poppy, or Tubby Nolan coming out of a clinic for anorexias."
"It's the way they stand," I cried,"upright and rigid, with the fear of God in their money-mad eyes!"
"If an Irishman must be seen on skis," roared Tommy, "let him sit! Let him sit like he would in a coracle. Times are bad," said Tommy. "But before we start blaming the banks, the credit crunch and reckless borrowing, let us remember the real reason we find ourselves in a doomsday situation is due entirely, ENTIRELY, to yuppie Irishmen, pissed on the piste wearing-skis!"
"So let it be written, so let it be done!" I cried, as I strapped on my Rottweiler lead and took myself for a walk.
Pooper-scooper??? I spit on your feelthy pooper-scooper!

The Hiccuping Sinn fein Letter.

2011-08-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which, like the Rosetta stone, at last explained the meaning of the Ballymena expression, "It's a great,big supermarket boy!" Scholars on bicycles converged on Ballymena to decipher the strange hieroglyphics written on a Panadol tablet found in a secret cave by pot-holer and falsetto yodler, Rodney Mountebank. After a heated debate Professor Wiggins stood in front of a large, excited crowd and cried,
"My little Chick-a-dees, we have at last translated the secret language of the ancient Panadol tablet. I can now reveal that the inscription reads, "Not to be taken with alcohol!"
Suddenly the Plaza in Ballymena erupted with cheering, clapping, yelling, screaming, animalistic yelps and the throwing of flat caps high in the air.
"I can die in peace now," said an old codger running out in front of a bus. "Not to be taken with alcohol! Boys a boys, who would have thought it-Hi!"
"He just ran out in front of me," said the bus driver,"so I never bothered braking-Hi."
"Take him to the great,big cemetery outside Ballymena boy," said a policeman.
Tommy my cat coughed, pulled his Raith Rover's scarf round his neck, took a sip of Lemsip and said,
"There's a very nasty virus going about. In fact the Sinn Fein computer is suffering from it."
"Symptoms?" I yelled, reaching for my prescription pad.
"The symptom," said Tommy, "is a nasty, repeating hiccup. No matter what Sinn Fein type into their computer, the same letter shoots out of the printer."
"SNAP!" I yelled. "Everyone in Ulster got the same letter today from NIE."
"What are the dear directors of NIE up to?" said Tommy.
"Dear customer," I read, "we at NIE were feeling a little bored, so we decided to change our name from, NIE to, Power NI. This change of name and logo will be very expensive, but we, at NIE/Power NI are not worried because YOU, dear customer, will be paying for it. Missing you already, from all the guys and gals at NIE/Power NI."
"What a lovely letter to get," said Tommy. "When this old world is getting you down and people are not around anymore."
"The infamous Sinn Fein duplicating letter!" I cried. "How are Sinn Fein dealing with it?"
"Very well," said Tommy. "Gerry Adams came out yesterday and said,
"This auld letter hanlin' is down to a glitch in our little Dell computer. But, as President of Sinn Fein,I hold my hands up and say,"We alone ourselves are responsible for the hiccuping, repeating letter. Sinn Fein, we, ourselves alone, are responsible."
Then the bold Eamon Mally yelled out, "What did you think of Kate Middleton's wedding dress Mr Adams?"
"Devine, Eamon," said Gerry Adams. "Simply-devine! Now if you will excuse me, I have the Sky man coming round today, so I will need to be at home."
"Just one more question Mr Adams," roared the troublesome Eamon Mally."What do you think of my blonde hair?"
"Devine Eamon," said Mr Adams getting into his car"Simply--Devine!"

Remembering The Good Old Days.

2011-08-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
Freed of the dragging anchor called Mr Coyle.the S.S. Gerry skipped over the waves without interruption or equipment malfunction. It makes you wonder why nothing works when the eyebrow is around!!!. SABOTAGE is an ugly word, but in this instance is fully justified.
Tommy my cat lifted his head from under the bonnet of the old, bullnose Morris car behind the sofa and said,
"People who play mirrored accordions shouldn't throw stones."
"Right on Bro!" I cried. "And people who play the tuba should always carry the phone number of a reliable plumber."
"Polish?" said Tommy.
"Of course they polish their tubas!" I yelled. "Old Pete Postlewaite would have your garters for guts if you didn't polish your instrument in, Brassed Off."
"Ah the sound of the tuba," said Tommy,"and a little, ragged urchin walking on cobblestones to the corner shop to steal a Hovis loaf and five woodbine."
"A different world," I sighed. "I remember walking down a working class street. The sound of TB coughing coming from upstairs windows, and women, WOMeN with massive rumps raised in the air polishing their front steps.
"OLD CODGERS!" I yelled. "releasing pigeons and watching them fly high and free, while coal dust eats away at their lungs like a cancer."
"Cold tea and bread and dripping," said Tommy, "with a nice slice of ham on a Sunday."
"EEEH!" I said.
"EEEH!" said Tommy. "Them were the good old days. I walked down a working class street yesterday," said Tommy. "The vista, the tableau, the pictorial impression was oh so different. Little 50 inch women sitting on sofas, watching Jeremy Kyle on 56 inch TVs."
"When our TVs are bigger than our coffins," I cried, "we are on the road to ruin."
"BACK TO BASICS!" yelled Tommy. "Time to throw our drugs away and return to a time, a golden time, when life expectancy for a man was forty four and a half."
"Home births!" I yelled "And nits in the hair!"
"Black, rotten teeth!" cried Tommy. "The working class should have nothing to smile about."
"Borstal!" I roared.
"The Birch!" cried Tommy.
"THE ROPE!" I yelled as white foam ran freely from my lips. "Bring back the ROPE. It never did me any harm."
Then Tommy and I rang for a taxi and made our way to the Post Office in style to lift our DLA money!

Wipe The Slate Clean!

2011-08-06T13:20:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
The Thursday show in particular caused great consternation in comatose Castlederg when two Japanese soldiers staggered over the bridge with their hands in the air. Apparently the two old relics had been hiding in Killeter forest since World War Two.
Oh they were tattered, they were torn, at the webbing they were worn, the two Samurai from the rising sun.
When asked why they had decided to surrender the old warriors screamed,
"Jelly Anderson singing about a wee boy up a tree drove us out of our bunker and out of our mind!"
"HARI-KARI!" screamed the ancient enemy. "HARI-KARI!"
A kindly Castlederger said,
" Keep her lit boys. The Hari-Kari restaurant is on the Strabane Road, next door to the cat sanctuary."
The last I heard, the two Japanese soldiers were working as bouncers for Sammy Walls. A gang of hoodies who turned up wearing trainers, are now building a railway line from Castlederg to Clogher. In five or six years time, Rosie Ryan and her son Bon Jovi could be causing havoc and mayhem in the lanes and byways round Castlederg.
Tommy my cat put down the Financial Times and said,
"If America loses its triple AAA credit rating how will that affect the "special" relationship with Britain?"
"Britain is tied to America's coat-tails!" I yelled. "If America goes down the pan Britain follows like the tail of kite."
"Cor, Cor and thrice times, Cor Blimey!" roared Tommy. "It seems like the WHOLE world is in debt."
"The whole world IS in debt my fine feathered friend," I cried, "and every day the debt climbs higher and higher!"
Tommy drew a rough likeness of Tubby Nolan on the floor with lard and said,
"To whom is the world in debt to?"
I pondered deeply, which I wouldn't recommend on an empty stomach and said,
"Every country in the world is in debt to another country in the world."
"START A-NEW!" cried Tommy. "Clean the slate,wipe out all debt and start a-new! Print more money, it's only paper, that way no country will be in debt."
I looked at Tommy, so young, so innocent, so concerned about the fate of the world and yelled,
"Put your coat on lad, tonight I put you on a plane and tomorrow you address the world bank in New York with your brilliant, amazing, smashing monetary plan."
You may have seen Tommy tear Jeremy Paxman apart on Newsnight with his caustic wit and remarkable grasp of fiscal and monetary shenanigans.

No Alien Invasion.

2011-08-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped keep wee Ulster a phonehacking free zone. Wee Chlorine Sodsbury came into the living room just in time to see her Grandad about to hack into her mobile phone. Wee Chlorine slapped the chops off him and threw him a newspaper. The old codger said, "Thanks Petal" and coughed, spluttered and hacked into the Belfast Telegraph instead.
Tommy my cat pushed me up against a wall I had built to separate the armchair from the foot stool and roared, "I want the truth, the whole truth and I want it NIGH! Why was Steven Nolan tweeting hysterically last week?
I quickly assembled two Ikea milkmaids' stools and said,
"Sit down Thomas. It's all very hush-hush, but Edwin Poots told me that Tubby was abducted by aliens and probed to within an inch of his life."
"I bet the little aliens were tired," said Tommy. "That would be the biggest probe they have ever carried out."
"Come 'ere," I said. "There's more! Apparently an old Codger living in the hills above Drumquin, was futtering with his 1924 Cossar wireless trying to get Maureen Potter on Athlone when,clear as a bell he heard the leader of the aliens say,
"This is Zogo reporting to the mother-ship. We have really struck the mother lode this time."
Then the mother-ship responded, "Well bend me over and spank me with a rolled-up copy of the Uranus Journal. Have you made a preliminary report on the subject?"
"We have," said the alien. "It appears to me some kind of mobile black hole that eats everything it comes across."
"Come on home boys," responded the mother-ship. "We don't want anything to do with that crazy sucker."
"Jolly Gosh!" said Tommy. "So Tubby saved the world from an alien invasion?"
"That he did!" I replied. "But the United Nations have decided not to tell him."
"WHY!" yelled Tommy. "Give me one good reason why Tubby should not be told he is the saviour of mankind?"
"They don't want to give the oval one a big head!" I roared.
"That's a GOOD reason," said Tommy and went back to writing begging letters to, Mrs Bunty Hovis, 27 Teabag Lane, Lisburn.

I Blame Darren!

2011-07-28T14:34:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which helped quell a riot at Saint Dymphna's Old Folks' Home.
The trouble began after breakfast when two old codgers fell out over ownership of a pair of false teeth. The trouble spread to the gym and soon the doors to the morgue were torn off and used as shields. Before you could say, "incontinent" a full scale riot erupted. Soon the air was full of bed-pans, catheters, colostomy bags and heavy, sodden, adult nappies.
It was then the matron, a hefty lump of a woman with more than a passing resemblance to Steven Nolan roared, "THE GERRY SHOW IS ON-NIGH!!!"
Soon the old relics were back in the day room pumped full of a liquid cocktail containing Valium, Diazepam and horse tranquilizers. Nothing brings an unruly old codger to heel like the liquid cosh!
Tommy my cat looked up from his knitting and said,
"I do declare, poor Steven Watson will wilt if another Ulster sportsman OR woman wins a major event."
"I blame Darren "The Cigar" Clarke!" I yelled. "Darren knew fine well that Steven Watson was exhausted after the Rory McIlroy jamboree. Knowing that, Darren could have done poor Steven a favour by dropping a few holes, but-NO! Darren only goes and wins the British open."
Tommy held his knitting up to the light and said,
"Now poor Steven will have to use the same words in the same sequence AND with the same emphasis to laud Darren Clarke as he lauded Rory McIlroy only a week ago."
"SHAMBOLIC!" I yelled. "It's like a singer coming on stage and singing the same song TWICE!"
Tommy picked up a stitch he had dropped and said,
"I think Steven should come on TV and just say, "Good on ye, ye boy ye!"
Needless to say I concurred. I really must get the doctor to change my tablets! My chronic concurring is not responding to treatment.

Who's Been listening?

2011-07-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept many directors of News Corp International from leaping out of the windows of skyscrapers. Sources close to News Corp said, old Rupert Murdock was slowly making his way towards an open window when he heard Mr Coyle say,
"If I had my life to live over again, I'd be a barnacle scraper in a marina."
Old Rupert stopped and said, "Now there's a man with more than his share of handicaps. A veteran of rickets. A man who was christened on the whim of a lump of a cuttie. Then in his formative years, the police were mean to him and took away his dog. If that man, above all other men can still dream, then by Ayers Rock I will stand my ground and see this thing through."
Old Rupert staggered back to his throne and yelled. "Bring the ginger minx to me!" Rebekah Brooks was dragged in and thrown at the Master of the Universe's feet.
"Rebekah," said the press baron, "you have been like a daughter to me, but I must throw you to the wolves. I must protect my son James. I will never give up my little Jimmy, do you hear me? Never-Never-NEVER!"
Tommy my cat paced up and down and said, "I wonder did the News of the World hack into my phone?"
"Who would want to listen to the banal babblings of a flea infested feline?" I scoffed.
Tommy coughed and said, "Over the years I have had secret and protracted conversations with-Tubby Nolan."
I looked Tommy up and down and said, "Were you in a-relationship with the oval one?"
"Platonic," said Tommy, "purely platonic. We would go out for dinner, maybe see a show and then go back to Tubby's house for crisps, chocolate and coke. Tubby would put on a little Barry White and we would just sit there, shooting the breeze and laughing at Gerry Anderson."
"You're playing a dangerous game Tommy cat," I warned. Tommy bit his nails and said,
"Do you think our innocent, purely platonic friendship could be-misconstrued?"
"Of course it could!" I yelled. "You must come clean. You must call a press conference."
Which is why you probably saw Tommy on TV, making rambling, veiled references to THAT man---Steven Nolan.

No More Piles.

2011-07-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great shop which helped fix the teething problems with the ejector seat on McLaren's new child buggy, The Sprogger 500XL. Now when mum arrives home with baby, no more struggling with twisted straps and tight buckles. Simply press the ejector seat pedal with your toe and the baby will shoot 50 feet up in the air and land safely in mum's maternal waiting arms. This new invention will give busy mums more time to smoke and open another bottle of wine. "The McLaren Sprogger 500XL baby buggy, leaving busy mums more time to paint their toe nails and squeeze black heads. Because you're worth it!"
Tommy my cat sauntered into the room dressed as Tom pick and Mix. "Ugly woman!" yelled Tommy,"are you trying to bring back the punk look?"
"WHY?" I yelled. " Has someone stuck a pin through my nose?"
Tommy snorted, measured out another line and said, "I am talking about the home made barbed-wire leggings you are wearing. What's the buzz? Speak up you old hempen container for rodents."
"Keep it down, Willie Brown!" I roared. "These barbed-wire leggings are to stop dogs from jumping up on me."
"Hang loose, ugly goose," replied Tommy. "Why would canines jump up on you, you old withered crone?"
"Hang on Willie John," I wittily replied. "The dogs are attracted to my liver."
"Five and two, Scooby-Do," said Tommy. "No dog, not even a bloodhound could smell your liver hidden deep in your big, fat gut."
"I refer," I said, "to the liver in my coat pocket."
"All the fours, shut them doors!" cried Tommy."Why are you tempting the dogs in the street with pockets of liver?"
"It's an old wives' cure for piles!" I yelled. "Have you never heard the old saying, "Pocket full of liver, make piles shiver?"
"Here's another old saying!" roared Tommy. "This too shall pass, with boot up ass."
And Tommy lifted his foot and gave me a riser of unparalleled, ferocity and unforewarned hurt and pain.
BUT!!! No more piles. Both my cheeks now wear smiles!

The Real News

2011-07-15T05:12:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday Kid.
A great show which caused much anger among the Taliban when they finally got Mr Coyle's book, "How to fight an occupying force" translated into Talabanese.
"Read Abdul!" yelled a fierce warlord with a black beard and a white kitten clasped in his arms. "Soon we will know the secrets of warlord Coyle, the Che Guevara of Stroke City."
Abdul turned to the first page and read,
"First, find a five story block of flats."
The fierce warlord put a secondhand stamp on a fatwa and sent it to Mr Coyle, care of Radio Foyle.
A man stuck his head up the plug hole in the sink and roared, "TAXI! for Tommy cat."
"I'm off to London," said Tommy. "I have been called to give evidence before the phone hacking enquiry. For many years I have been exchanging emails with Whiskers, the tabby cat of Rebekah Brooks. When I reveal what I know," yelled Tommy, "summonses, injunctions, and subpoenas will be flying like stones and bottles after a disputed parade in the Short Strand Road!"
"Can I come too Tommy?" I yelled.
"NO!" said Tommy. "You would be seen as a security risk, while I have been thoroughly and intimately--vetted."
I shrugged my knees and went back to the Real news on the Jeremy Kyle show.

Men In Kilts

2011-07-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

A great 12th of July show yesterday kid which sent the eager brethren off with a ringing, "KAY-ME-la- FAULT-YA" from your good self and a roar of, "ERIN GO BRAGH" from Mr Coyle.Then, with a BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! from the big bass drum, a RAT-A-TAT-TAT! from the side drums and a skirl of the pipes they were off.
"Look at the swirl of the kilts," yelled Tommy my cat. One can't help but wonder if every kilt has a wee pair of breeks under it?"
"May the road rise up to meet you," croaked an old codger, with flat feet, flat cap and a flat wheel on his zimmer frame.
I looked at Tommy with puss in my eye and sobbed, "As long as men in kilts are prepared to march to the, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the bass drum, the RAT-A-TAT-TAT of the side drums and the terrible, agonizing skirl of the bagpipes, the Ulster fry, the Ulster accent and the Ulster, dry sense of humour will survive."
"How's about ye?" yelled Tommy.
"Sticking out-Hi!" I shrieked.
Once again, like the flooding of the Nile, Mr Coyle's past comes back to haunt him. How good to know that the police are still keeping an eye on comrade Coyle to the extent that they will send a lady detective to a wedding.
"No head for heights my feline ass!" yelled Tommy. "I once saw Mr Coyle, complete with spangled tights as a trapeze artist with Duffy's circus. He was billed as the "Great Leaper from Lapland." When asked why he didn't use a net, Mr Coyle explained it interfered with his hair style."
Tomorrow is the rumble in the jungle, the thriller in Manila. I refer of course to the sham fight at Scarvagh. After studying form, Tommy and I have decided to bet the farm on King James. I know he's had a long string of defeats, but logic dictates that ONE day Lady Luck will smile on King Jimmy.
I got odds of 7/2 from Paddy Power. What a mug! Tomorrow Tommy and I will turn him over and clean him out.

So Young To Die

2011-07-12T15:35:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which led to the demise of the News of the World and the reincarnation of faction fights in Tyrone among the bushes. Last Friday night, Gortin City beat Drumquin United by five cracked skulls to four. It was a close game. Both managers agreed that the boys gave 110% and every man was fighting for the jersey. It's good to see the young men out in the fresh air instead of crouched over computers studying the curvaceous, female, anatomical form.
While we all try to get that mental picture out of our mind, here are The Celtic Four, Gerry, Sean, Emma and Janet to dance the Walls of Limerick.
Tommy my cat ran in holding a white handkerchief with his finger and thumb and yelled,
"LOOK! a wee dead ghost!"
Tommy lay the wee ghostie on the table and tried to blow death into it for over half an hour.
I led the sobbing feline away and said,
"It's no good Tommy. The wee ghost is-dead."
"WHY?" yelled Tommy, staring up at the sky. WHY? It was SO young! It had so much haunting to do. Why did God allow the wee ghost to die?"
"God has a reason for everything," I whispered.
"Well, it better be a good one," said Tommy, "for between you and me, people are beginning to ask questions."
There he was just a walking down the street, with a small, Vietnamese,pot-bellied pig at his feet.
Yes! it was Tubby Nolan out walking, Vince, this year's Christmas dinner.
A funny thing about pot-bellied pigs is, unlike turkeys they do vote for Christmas.We have President Nixon to thank for that and the futile Vietnam war. I leaned against a lamp post like George Formby and said,
"Well, if it ain't big me and little me. May one enquire where you two tubbies are going?"
Tubby and the pig scowled and yelled as one,
"We are going to have our portrait painted by blind Pugh, the famous, unknown Belfast piss artist!"
I laughed and said, "It's going to take a lot of vomit yellow to capture you two tubbies on canvas."
"SIC!" yelled Tubby and Vince the pot-bellied pig chased me to Ann Summer's shop and wouldn't go away until I bought Tubby and Vince the porker Micky Mouse boxer shorts.
I can see Vince the pig carrying off the look, but Tubby will just look like mobile wall-paper!

What This Situation Needs.

2011-07-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show, which after the sensational disclosures by ace reporter Jordie Tuft about illiterate, uneducated, street fish sellers, had herring men queueing up round the block for elocution lessons.
"Herrings Paddy. Not herons. Roll your R's Paddy, roll your R's."
Tommy my cat strapped a new flea collar on to my neck and said,
"After an extensive search of ALL TV listings, I regret to inform you that there are no special programmes about Rory McIlroy on TV tonight."
"How soon they forget!" I yelled.
"It's Steven Watson I feel sorry for," said Tommy. "There he is, complete with camera crew, hoping, praying, wishing and dreaming for a call to interview the curly one, but the phone, like a Trappist monk,remains silent. What is the lad to DO?" screamed Tommy.
I flicked a locust from off my nose and said,
"In a situation like that, the only thing to do is dig out the old Joey Dunlop and George Best tapes."
"It's either that," said Tommy, "or another interview with a man who nearly worked on the Titanic."
"What Ulster needs," I cried, "is another Charlie Witherspoon. A man who will get on his bike and reveal,in all their horrific glory, the veritable legion of grotesques who inhabit this fair land like fruit flies. How I long, how I pine to see a man staring into a field of rushes and reminiscence about working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Why do old men stare into empty fields?" said Tommy.
"This is no country for old men," I replied. "When an old man stares into a field, he is staring into the past. In that empty field lie all his hopes, loves, desires and accomplishments. Not standing proudly on plinths, shining and glittering with gold and silver, but trampled into the dust like manure by the big steam-roller of life. And that man staring into the field, knows deep in his heart, that life is nothing, but a sick joke, a con, a cheap bagatelle. Life's not a cabaret old chum, life is a caboodle of worry, fear and-death."
After a profound silence lasting two days Tommy looked at me and said,
"The old man must feel a right eejit for working 200 hours a week for one stalk of rhubarb."
"Ce monde est plein de fous," I muttered, as I made my way to the po.

Our Rory.Coming Soon To A Cinema Near You.

2011-07-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which kept piling the pressure onto the frail Scottish shoulders of tennis player Andy Murray until he lost the heid and collapsed like a cheap kilt.
I looked at Tommy my cat who was sitting polishing his extensive collection of surgical instruments.
Tommy removed my appendix one night, gave it a thorough cleaning, oiled the hinges and replaced it in the blink of an eye. And no nasty, ugly stitches. I stood outside the door and Tommy operated through the keyhole. Yes! Tommy invented key hole surgery.If I ever need a fifth frontal lobotomy I will put my head into the capable, healing hands of doctor Tommy Cat.
Tommy grabbed a passing mouse, lanced a boil on the back of its neck and said,
"Steven Speilberg is going to make a film about Rory McIlory. The film will be called, "Our Rory" and Jimmy Nesbitt will play the golfing legend."
"Well he's certainly got the hair for it," I said. "The last time I saw him he looked like a white Jimmy Hendrix."
"I saw a copy of the script," said Tommy. It follows the old, tried and tested Irish formula. Rory McElory, in the shape of Jimmy Nesbitt, will be challenged to a game of golf by Brian the King of the faeries. If Rory wins he gets a crock of gold, but should he lose, Rory will be condemned to sit for all eternity on the "One Show" sofa talking about what might have been."
"How does it end Tommy?" I shrieked. "Does curly Rory win the crock of gold?"
"That I can not tell you," said Tommy. "The last few pages of the script were missing, but I can say this, there will be plenty of Darby O'Gill shenanigans and donkey loads of lovable, Irish whimsy. The film abounds with fiddle playing, Irish dancing and enough, diddly-dee to satisfy any green-blooded Irishman."
"A sure-fire Oscar winner!" I yelled as I toppled the dresser and danced a frantic, frenetic Irish jig to the sound of breaking delft.

Stop Or Give Way?

2011-07-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which broke the news that, "Old dogs, children and watermelon wine" is the favourite song of Queen Juliana of the Netherlands.
How proud Tommy my cat and I were when you stood on the new bridge and declared to the world,
"Today, I too, am a Londonderry heir."
It was the Boston accent which gave the statement the ring of truth and the necklace of humbug and insincerity. Then you threw the butt of a cigarette into the Foyle, jumped up, clicked your heels and airguitar played, "Smoke on the water."
"Look at Anderson," said an auld wan burdened down with care and wrinkles. "You would think he built the bloody bridge himself."
"You're right there Hannah," said another auld wan with water on the knee and air that blew free. "My Willie said that Anderson, didn't even put one brick in the wall."
"Sure I know he didn't," said the first auld wan. "He was too busy sunning himself in Barbados and strutting round Derry like a Hottentot."
"I like wee Sean," said the second auld wan. "He could have been a priest ,you know, but he didn't have the Latin."
(Breathe--and--relax)
"Tommy my cat stormed in full of anger, ire and John West tuna chucks.
"It's gone again!" yelled Tommy. "The STOP! sign on Dead Man's Curve has been stolen--AGAIN!!! I'll swing for those hoodies!" roared Tommy.
"I blushed and said, "It wasn't hoodies who stole the STOP! sign. It was women of a certain age who nail the STOP! signs above their marriage beds when "how's your father, is your mother still working?" has become just another chore like scrubbing the floor."
"Well,knowing women the way I do," said Tommy, "they are not adverse to changing their minds. I would bet that the same women who erect STOP signs in the bedroom also have a GIVE WAY sign under the bed next to the po."
There was nowhere to hide, so I gritted my teeth and concurred right out in the open.
STOP! GIVE WAY! Who would be a married man these days? Not even George Cloony-apparently??

'Tis A Sign From On High.

2011-06-30T04:21:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped pacify and reconcile Jedward when they fell out about the origin of the old saying, Lor love a duck. The thin twins were engaged in close,hand to hand fighting. Little childlike fists were flying and blond, Tintin quiffs flattened like corn in a hurricane. Ireland's not very bright answer to the Everly brothers were knocking seven bells out of each other when they heard Sean Coyle say,
"Explain to me, in minute, graphic detail, just how you take the top off your boiled egg?"
The twins reached for their combs and said, "There's always someone worse of than us." and made up with a big, kissy,kissy hug.
"Ugliness personified," said Tommy my cat,"would you describe Herr Coyle as a raconteur?"
"Old ricket limbs?" I yelled. "Mr Coyle is NOT a raconteur. But every year, come Wimbledon, Mr Coyle convinces himself he could have been a top class tennis player. Raconteur?" I snorted "More like a racketeer if you ask me. I've seen him," I said, "selling shop-soiled copies of the Messenger outside the chapel gate on Sundays."
"You can not be serious-man!" said Tommy. He gave a mock tennis serve and yelled,
"NEW BALLS!"
Oh how we laughed.
Tommy and I stared in amazement as a fire broke out in the middle of our Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa. While I ran from the kitchen tap to the sofa with cupped hands of water Tommy said,
"Who would have thought that sunlight refracted through your late mammy's glass eye could do that?"
"Dearest mummy gave me her glass eye on her way to her death bed," I sobbed. "I remember her standing in Rodent Street, pissed as a newt.
"Gingivitis," she said. That was mummy's little pet name for me."Dear, darling, dumboesque Gingivitis, I will not always be with you. Even as we speak the grim reaper is honing his scythe. Here, take my blood-red,glass eye and know that I will aways be watching over you." Then pre-dead mummy took a big slug of Mundies wine, slithered down the wall and lay in a drunken heap.
"And she died that night?" whispered Tommy.
"No," I said,"she lived for another 24 and a half years, BUT on that night in Rodent Street mummy knew her time on this earth was short."
"And now the drunken,old bag goes and sets fire to our good Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa!"yelled Tommy.
"'Tis a sign!" I cried. "'Tis a sign from on high!"
"Sign my ass with a felt-tip pen!" roared Tommy. "Your mother, old Ma Mundies set fire to our sofa with her bequeathed glass eye. What is that a sign of?"
"EUROPA!" I cried. "Run for the marshmallows and two forks. Mummy wants us to have a good tightener of toasted marshmallows before the sofa goes out!"
Later that night as I lay in bed Tommy giggled and said, "Goodnight John Boy, goodnight, Jim Bob, goodnight--Gingivitis."
Oh the satisfactory sound of a po bouncing off a fly, feline's head!
"Good night Edgar Allen," I giggled into my hessian pillow.

Taking The Top Off A Boiled Egg

2011-06-25T06:01:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
The highlight of the show was Mr Coyle's extensive monologue on how to decapitate the oval object which shoots out of a hen's bum like a discarded artillery shell.
I employed a complicated manoeuvre which involved swivelling my neck, focusing my eyes and suddenly, Tommy my cat sprang into sharp focus. I put my finger down my throat, plucked my vocal chords like a guitar string and said,
"Tommy, how do YOU cut the top off your boiled egg?"
Tommy, who could talk about eggs until the cows roost said, "When you talk about hot,boiled eggs,you talk of a dangerous task which should be approached with extreme caution. First," said Tommy, "I don heat resistant gloves. I then remove the egg from the hot, boiling H2o with a wooden spoon. Then, I cup the hot egg in my heat resistant gloves and sprint three miles to McGinty's sawmill. Mr McGinty, who is a dear friend of mine,then saws the top off my egg with a huge, circular saw. I then make my way home," said Tommy, "stopping to talk and shoot the breeze with policemen, traffic wardens and the men who are building a veritable labyrinth of peace walls across this fair city. When I get home my boiled egg is as cold as a witch's zit, so I chop some onions, get out the mayonnaise and make myself a sandwich."
I gazed at Tommy in wonder and awe.
"Tommy!" I yelled. "I take my hat off to you. You have just informed me and indeed the world the correct way to take the top off a boiled egg. You have made Mr Coyle look like a man who lacks breeding, gumption and education in the boiled egg department. Just one more question Tommy, do you like a runny egg in the morning?"
"Not under any circumstances!" roared Tommy. "The last thing I want to do in the morning is set off in hot pursuit after a run-a-way egg."
I looked at Tommy. Tommy looked at me. We both knew one of us was buck stupid, but as yet, neither of us was able to point an accusing finger.

No More Enquiries

2011-06-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

"Hurry up feline," I yelled to Tommy my cat, "Gerry is back after his salubrious sabbatical!"
"I'm just finishing Mr Coyle's report card," said Tommy.
I watched as Tommy scrawled, "Could do better" sealed the report in a brown manila envelope and handed it to our alternative postman who was wearing spiked running shoes and clutching a cleft stick.
Tommy looked at me, threw up and said,
"Did you know that the Northern Ireland assembly have just placed a big order for enquires with a firm in China?"
I threw a plate of tatties and neeps at a framed photograph of would-be Irish President,Senator Steven Norris and yelled, "How did this vile, ugly situation come about? Please explain using drawings, graphs and,if need be, a scale built model of the situation. How did Stormount, the apex of democracy and soda bread, run out of enquires?"
"It came about thus," said Tommy. "After a heated debate as to whether "The green, green grass of home" should be classed as a rebel song, Nigel Dodds, debonair with sleeked-backed hair went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
In spite of all my will-power a corner boy yell of, "THE PRESIDENT IS NOT A CROOK!" burst out of my cracked, chaffed, cold-sore infested lips.
"When Nigel returned to the chamber," said Tommy, "he was ashen faced, gobsmacked and wild-eyed and legless.
"We have no sugar!" screamed Nigel. "This den of democracy and dim-wits has run out of-SUGAR!"
Little Barry McElduff, sensing a conspiracy, immediately leaped to his little Sinn Feet and called for an-enquiry.
Not to be outdone, Jim Allister leaped to his marching feet and called for an enquiry to inquire if Barry McElduff should be allowed to call for an enquiry.
"Wee Sammy," said David Ford to a wee man wearing a flat cap and a woodbine,
"Go out to the backyard and bring me in two enquiries from the enquiry bunker, there's a good chap."
Wee Sammy returned and said,
"I regret to inform the house that we have no enquiries. The lock on the enquiries bunker is busted and all the enquiries-nicked. Gentlemen, Stormount has run out of-enquiries."
The MLA's went clean mad. Every member was on his feet demanding an enquiry into the theft of the enquiries.
"HOW," I appealed to three giraffes flying up the wall,"can Ulster survive without an enquiry?" I grabbed Tommy by the neck and roared,
"Who stole our enquiries?"
"Hoodies, scumbags, ne'r-do-wells and low achievers!" cried Tommy. "The young entrepreneurs who are demolishing old working class houses brick by brick and then selling the red bricks to ostentatious yuppies, who use the bricks to build fireplaces, barbecues and bidets, are also selling enquiries on every street corner."
Crestfallen I staggered towards the front door.
"Hey!" said Tommy with a girlish giggle, "Did you know that Mad Max, Mel Gibson has sacked all his PAs and now does all his talking through a-beaver?"
"I'm not in the mood Tommy," I sighed as I went out to the garden to see how the lads were getting on with my red brick vomitorium!
But it is a sin, my aunt Jane used to take me in and make me tea in her wee tin, in those red brick houses, long, long ago.

Mike's A Real Politician.

2011-06-21T02:23:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made a young secretary leap to her feet up at Stormount and turn the radio off. Apparently her boss, Tom Elliott was showing signs of acute agitation and hysterical excitement.
"Just in time," joked Michael McGimpsey, "or old Tom would have donned rooster feather wings and flown off towards the sun like Icarus."
And they say politics is dull and boring!
Tommy my cat, little prankster that he is, made a circle with his finger and thumb, put it to his eye, looked at me and said,
"AHOY ye scurvy landlubber! Did you hear farmer Giles,in the form of Mr Coyle,go on and on about farming yesterday?"
"I DID!" I yelled. "What is the maid---I mean, the knave of the maiden city up to?"
"Aar Jim lad," said Tommy, "'tis a ploy. Aye,'tis a ploy to hang around with bulls without raising suspicion."
A wave of revulsion swept over me(I really must get that upstairs toilet fixed.) and I uttered with great ire,
"I knew it! I knew it! Taking Mr Coyle to the Balmoral show was like taking a culchie from County Tyrone into the hot, seedy, sexy heart of Soho."
"For ever and a day," roared Tommy, "this Balmoral show shall be known as the immoral Balmoral show!"
I concurred behind the sofa where no one could see it.
When I saw him come out of a high class chocolatier I took after him yelling, "Are ye right there Michael? Are you right?"
For it was indeed dashing, debonair MLA, Michael Nesbitt.
"SO!" I yelled. "The gamekeeper has turned poacher."
"I suppose you could say that," said Mike. "You look well after your electric shock treatment."
"I am Mike," I gushed. "Thanks to the electric shocks I feel-brilliant! Tell me Mike," I said,grabbing his arm and taking him down a dingy alley. "How will you feel when Paul Clarke, or Noel Thompson come over all Jeremy Paxman with you?"
Mike smiled and said with a laugh,
"Who's the daddy? I AM Mr TV. I cut my teeth on cameras and my knees on trailing electric cables. I will swat Clarke and Thompson like flies and Steven Nolan like a big, fat bluebottle."
"Mike," I yelled, grabbing him by the knees of the trousers. "I have a problem with a toilet, could you help me?"
"SURE!" smiled Mike. "No probs. Just make an appointment with my secretary and the first open window that appears on my calendar, you can climb in through it."
I watched in awe as Mike walked away. He had made it! Mike was a REAL politician who could give you the brush off with a sincere smile. I ran off to tell Hugo Duncan about my brush with fame. Poor Hugo, he doesn't get out much these days. But his love, his love, keeps cascading down.

A Girl's Night Out

2011-06-15T05:31:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which drew a grudging, "Let's not get too excited. We'll see how it goes" from Tom Elliott when I asked him if he would attend my funeral.
Michael McGimpsey is going. I hope the King of comedy doesn't ruin my funeral with merry japes and frivolous tom-foolery. Steven Nolan will be there, to make the crowd look bigger than it is.
Tommy my cat came in, threw me a dead mouse and said, "Her at number 27 with the curlers and the elastic stocking wants to know if you're up for a girls' night out."
"A girls' night out?" I echoed. "What night club in its right mind would let me and that old rat bag in? Both of us are, BR, (botox resistant) and our chronic incontinence is the talk of corner boy innuendo and every fashionable, social gathering."
"Alas that is true," said Tommy. "I have heard you refered to as, "Old Drippy" at a cocktail party in Stormount."
"That was Margaret Ritchie, head wrangler at the SDLP!" I yelled. "Margaret promised to bring women up to the same level of stupidity as men and yet she calls me, "Old Drippy" in the company of respectable gentlemen AND Sammy Wilson! MAGGIE, MAGGIE, MAGGIE! OUT! OUT! OUT!" I screamed.
Tommy picked me up, put me under his arm and said,
"It's time you had your nappy changed Drippy."
"Your teeth are like tombstones in an abandoned graveyard," said Giles Guano my former Gestapo dentist. "What in the name of the Dehaunt principes have you been eating?"
I hitched my hessian dress up a few inches to increase my chances of being interfered with and said,
"Since I gave up smoking I have been sucking on a WW2 hand gerenade to ease the tobacco craving."
"A hand grenade?" roared Herr Guano, like it was something unusual. Come on, we've all done it!
"What would have happened if the pin came out?" he said.
I simpered up at Giles from my recumbant position and coyly replied,
If the pin came out, my drawers would have fallen round my ankles. With a merry flick of my toe I would have flipped them into the gutter and walked on with a merry, devil-may-care attitude singing, "I got the bare arse blues from my head to my shoes. .The pin done come undone and my knickers I did lose.
Play that slide guitar Bosco. Bring it on home Willie John.
Oh yeh. Take me on home! Take me on home for grits, gumbo and black-eyed peas."
Yours Respectfully,
Old Drippy

Is John Ginger?

2011-06-08T03:00:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which gave 97 year old Sheldon Blutack the strength, perseverance and determination to climb Croagh Patrick. Unfortunately, old Sheldon did not have the strength, perseverance and determination to climb back down the holy mountain. He spent the night sheltering under a whin bush and is hoping and praying that today's great show will give him the strength, perseverance and determination to make the descent.
Tommy my cat came down the stairs wearing a teeny-weeny bikini, pushed-back sunglasses and feline mug plastered with sun cream.
"Too much Tommy," I said. "You look like a mime artist."
Tommy looked out at the searing heat and said, "It's the ginger toms I feel sorry for today. They can't stand the heat. They break out in hives and are driven mad by prickly heat."
"Ann Robinson must be scratching like a dog with fleas in weather like this," I laughed.
"It's not funny," said Tommy. "On a sunny day like today, my thoughts go out to, Ann Robinson, Chris Evans, Red Hurley and John Daly."
"John Daly?" I exclaimed. "John Daly is bald, not ginger."
"Oh he is!" said Tommy. "John Daly is as ginger as a ginger nut. I saw him naked."
"YOU saw the venerable John Daly NAKED?" I shrieked. "Where did you see John Daly bereft of clothes?"
Tommy winked, leered most horribly and began to sing,
"Down at the Y.M.C.A.
The Y.M.C.A.
I ran into John Daly, so nude and so bare
Looking down I saw a quick flash of dry, ginger hair.
Down at the Y.M.C.A
The Y.M.C.A."
Could it be true? Was John Daly a closet-ginger? There was only one way to find out. I grabbed my camera, binoculars and Ikea, fold-up ladder and sprinted to the home of John "Red" Daly. If I was lucky I would get him stepping out of the shower. I tingled all over with excitement as I saw the photograph and banner headline in the Sunday World..
"LOOK!!! Is this the reason John Daly wears trousers???

The Reality About Talent Shows

2011-06-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show made all the more remarkable when news leaked out that Mr Coyle had his feet up on his desk and a bored look on his face for the entire show.
"Lack of commitment and an obsessive desire for gabardine underpants will be the end of Mr Coyle!" yelled Tommy my cat. "If I were Gerry,I would tie Mr Coyle to the wheel of a field gun, roll up my sleeves, pick up the cat-oh-nine tails and give Mr Coyle one lash."
"You're a hard task-master Tommy cat," I said. "It's YOU who should be sitting on judgement on the brain-dead, gibbering zombies who appear each week on American Idol."
"A job I would relish," said Tommy."I would leap to my feet and roar,
"YOU! you can't dance, you can't sing. What use are you? You're just a waste of space. You're just the holes in a bar of Crunchie. GUARDS! Take him away and shoot him." You may well laugh," said Tommy, "but the way talent shows are going and reality shows in general, that could be a reality in five years time."
"And About Time!" I yelled. "Who wants to hear, "Give Him The Money Mabel" and then see a pound, perhaps even one pound fifty handed over to some old,grey, mummified codger who just played, "Roll Out The Barrel" on the spoons."
I grabbed the bible, mounted a mound of lime-green beanbags and spoke thus,
"You speak of a far-off golden time," I yelled. "The potter's wheel, Tea time with Tommy. TV spared us from the harsh realities of life. Take childbirth, an actress entered an hospital and emerged one week later with a new born child who appeared to be two years old. We never saw the screaming, the yelling, the cursing, the over-acting and the masked choir of medics chanting, "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!"
"A golden age indeed," said Tommy. "But I always thought the cowboys were a bit, you know-funny. Take the Cartwright family in Bonanza. Three, single, grown up sons living at home with Pa. Not a woman in sight, even the cook was a Chinese male."
"Some of the horses were fillies!" I yelled.
"The Cartwright family had just two aims in life, shooting people and never changing their clothes."
Tommy leered and said, "The Sooty and Sweep Show was a bit near the knuckle. Old Harry Corbett had his hand right up Sooty's......."
"GET OUT!" I yelled. "And may flood, famine, pestilence and piles follow thee all the days of your life!"
I then stormed into the house to watch, "I have a 134 foot tapeworm in my large intestine."

A Good Spanking

2011-06-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which brought a wave of pride and hope to clocking hens all over Ulster. One old rooster, wings dragging in the dust, limped slowly away muttering,
"My work here is done."
The clocking hens looked pensively and sadly after him. They knew, they KNEW deep in their hearts, feathers and parson's noses that in spite of his promises he wouldn't ring back. Just chooks that pass in the night.
A nice dinner, bottle of wine, a little Barry White, SQUAWK!!! and it's, "wham-bamn and thank you mam."
Tommy my cat pirouetted into the room wearing a Barcelona football shirt and a pair of very revealing ballet tights. He did a twirl with his arms above his head and said,
"How silver-haired Paul Clarke is getting. Why,one might very well take him for Pamela Ballentine's brother. When dear Paul was reporting from Dublin on the Queen's visit, I must say he appeared very Tom O'Connorish."
"Frank Mitchell, nee, McCrory!" I yelled. "Frank Mitchell has driven Paul and Pammy old before their time with his infernal, ten best of this and ten best of that!"
"What a naughty little Lego man Frank is." said Tommy.
"Why,for two pins I would put him over my knee and spank him until his bum looked like a pink blancmange."
I looked at Tommy strangely and said, "Hold on! Hold on! Do you and Frank Mitchell think I'm stupid? If you want to spank Frank Mitchell, or if Frank Mitchell wants to spank you, it won't happen under my roof. I may be hidey behind the sofa when the rent man calls, but I am no Heidi Fleiss!"
Spanking indeed! I have a good mind to put that cat over my knee and beat him like a dirty hearth rug.

JIM'S PLAN

2011-06-02T05:34:00.000-07:00

Great show yesterday kid.
But a great show which FAILED to warn us about Michael McIntyre Night on the comedy channel on Saturday night. Yes! 14 hours of the chubby, chunky, posh, public school boy striding round the stage like a demented telly-tubby. Michael McIntyre, Gay McIntyre? No! No! - NAY!
It's unbelieveable that Gay McIntyre would have a love child, but stranger things happen. Who would have thought that speech challenged Cheryl Cole and Nadine Coyle would team up to play the flower pot men?
"Weed! Weed!" giggled Tommy my cat.
"Well clean it up!" I roared. "You know where the Jeyes Fluid is."
Filled with fried bread and sporting fervour I yelled, "Tommy, how can we stop the naughty Republic of Ireland stealing all our young football players?"
"Don't worry," said Tommy, "Jim Rodgers has a plan."
As I heard the name, Jim Rodgers,I felt a strange stirring in my loins and a hot flush spread over my face like a gorse fire.
"From the 1st of June," said Tommy,"every baby born in Northern Ireland, will be stamped, "Made in Northern Ireland" on its little pink bottom and will carry a special, personal, sprog number. Then in 20 years time if Jim has reason to believe that a young Northern Ireland lad is playing for the Republic, he will run on to the field, pull down the lad's shorts and look on both cheeks for the tell-tale tatoo."
"Brilliant, smashing and foolproof!" I cried.
"Soon," said Tommy, "mockers won't be calling our brave football team, Northern Ireland Nil."
"Fantastic!" I yelled. "Soon the cry will be, Northern Ireland ONE, the Republic of Ireland SIX!"
Tommy and I exchanged shirts and went off, arm in arm for a bath.
What would we do without Jim Rodgers? Her Majesty should knight him and knight him NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!!!

Nil Desperandum

2011-06-01T02:48:00.000-07:00

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which proved beyond all reasonable doubt that Northern Ireland can not play football and should not be allowed anywhere near a football pitch.
Tommy my cat and I watched in disgust as Northern Ireland, with no guns blazing, went down 2-0 to a poor Welsh side.
And then,and then, Stephen Watson said, "Northern Ireland may not have scored any goals in this strange, weird, tournament which fluctuated madly between the sublime and the ridiculous, but they leave Dublin with their pride intact!"
KNICKERS!" yelled Tommy my cat." He picked up a rare rooster's egg given to him by Jordie Tuft on the day of his barMitzvah and threw it at Stephen Watson, hitting him right up the gub.
Tommy cried into a dirty tea towel and sobbed,
"Where are our George Bests, our Dennis Taylors and Alex Higgins? Where are our Joey Dunlops and Eddie Ervines. WHERE," yelled Tommy, "are our Mary Peters?"
I cleared my throat with a small, miniature chimney brush and said, "Nil Desperandum! We still have Jim Rodgers. No one in the world can leap over a woman dressed in a red, furry, tomato costume like our Jim."
Tommy wiped his eyes and said,
"Oh thank you, strange, ancient creature, I feel much better now."
With a bound and a skip the cheerful pussy picked up a battered, bent trombone and marched off in the direction of his shock proof, water resistant po, trousers hanging round his ankles and loudly playing, "When the saints go marching in."
When it comes to trombone playing, it's hard to beat a cat who has studied at Guilliard and practised religiously in the back yard.
With Tommy gone, I stripped naked, covered my body with honey and rolled all over the floor.
It's the best way I know to get fluff out of a carpet!
Go on, give it a go. Since I started rolling round the floor covered in honey, I feel much more confident and feminine.
Girl power, my big, fat bum! Give me old bag power anytime.

The Whole Town Is Talking.

2011-05-30T08:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Post Apocalypse Paradise

2011-05-27T03:24:00.000-07:00

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!"

Ciaran's A Good Egg

2011-05-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

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.

The Queen's Visit

2011-05-23T03:24:00.000-07:00

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!!!!!

BEWARE THE CAT!

2011-05-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

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!