BATTERING ART'S AND KULTURE INTO A THRAN CUB

Bon Jovi and me sat at the kitchen table, the lite from the tillie lamp, illuminated us feces like wan of auld Van Goff's pictures, lots of shadow, kontrasting with pure,yella lite.
I was teeching the cub about art and kulture, so important in a world of filth, dirt and sex in the city. I wanted to expand the cubs horizons, open his eyes and ears two the beauty and refinement of the klassics.
"Are you ready Bon Jovi?" I said "Let her rip" roared the wee gulpin.
"Wan, too, three,fore" I yelled and both of us, put paper and comb two gub and got stuck into Vereman's, Nacht en morgendontwaken aan de Nete, wan of my favourite peaces.
As the shrill sound of paper and comb filled the house, the kat gave a Meew and leapt over the half door. Bon Jovi's eyes were bulging out of his head like a startled bull frog but the cub kept up with me, A trio of triplets, a clatter of crochets, diminished, minor, the flattened fifth and into the cresendo, with feces brusting and the sweat lashing off us. I finished with a flourish, spat out some fleas and said to my petite accompy-us. "Bon, Bon Jovi, that was gratis, you stuck with me like a veritable bandaid".
Bon Jovi, gasped and roared "It was some ride, full of sharp korners and dangerous bends, I nearly lost her a couple of thymes but I just put the foot down and kept going"
"What a lovely peace" I gushed "history tells us on the nite that auld Vereman rote that, he was so hapy he went out and got drunk and on the way home, he fell over a dead kat and cut the hole face of himself".
"What next" said Bon Jovi "more klassics, Hi-Den? Rack-man-enough? Burr-ach?".
"Know, my petite scallywag" I said. "Now we move on to art, look at this picture of a woman by Pee-saco and tell me what you sea". The cub took the drawing and squinted at it, then he held it upside down. "Well" I said "what do you think?".
Bon Jovi looked up and roared "The boy who drawed this, knot only could he knot tell his own arse from his elbow, he could knot tell anyones arse from their elbow".
I bridled, bristled and blustered, "You igorant,uncivilized wee Palestine" I roared. "That picture is a master-peace, look at the use of colour, look at the compesation"
"Look at the wan eye" roared Bon Jovi "its half way down her face, know women looks like that, knot even the weeman in Clougher".
"Its knot supposed to be a foto-graph" I yelled "its impressionism".
"Well, my impression" roared Bon Jovi "Is that that head-banger, should be locked up for his own good and indeed the good of the community".
"You-you-wee Pleb" I roared "Kulture is wasted on boys like you, you are an uncouth gulpin, an ignorant phesant and a-a-barbarian with the manners, looks and habits of a red-arsed babboon".
"I no what I like" roared Bon Jovi "and I don't like auld shitty Vereman or auld head the ball peesaco".
"What do you like?" I yelled "Pleese inform us what pleases the grate Bon Jovi Ryan".
Bon Jovi broke wind with a dunder and yelled "I like-Hugo Duncan, I grately admire his artistic use of the diddly-dee, I like komics and I like poems about bums and asses".
"Wholly mother of God" I shrieked,falling back against the up-turned wheel barrow.
"What have I reared, what malignat spawn has sprung from my lions?
"Ah, shut you big laddy-dah gub" roared the obnoxios gulpin "come down from your ivory tower,who do you think you are? Mervin Blagg? look at you, sitting in a bog outside Clougher, going on about art and klassics, like you no what you're talking about, you're kommon mother, kommon as shi.. muck, stop making a fool of yourself, sure the hole cunt'ry is laughing at you and it reflects on me. I am just a lump of a cub, let me henjoy my childhood and stop trying to make me out something I'm not. I no what I am, I am scum, kommon, you kan't make a silk purse out of a pigs ear, so desist please, desist and leave the lump of a cub to find his own way in life".
I stood there-speechless, all my dreams, all my ambitions for the cub, turned to clay. He wood never play the piano at the Albert Hall, he wood never don his hose to play auld Shakespeare-and me--me his mother, would never bask in his reflected glory, I wood never rite an article for the Thymes litteerary supplement. The fowl taste of ashes was in my mouth and the stench of disappointment was wafting up my hooter.
I turned sadely away and muttered "you kan stick that pee-saco painting up in the press".
And the ungratefull gulpin roared, "And you kan stick your paper and comb up your arse".
What have I reared? What wool be the end of him? I blame the skools and-Steven Nolan.
(Now go to-www.greatshowlastweekkid.com--for something completly different)