Tuesday, 26 August 2008


Under a battleship grey sky, I made my way into Clougher, the Soddem and Begorragh of Tyrone. My slim, lithe, slender 18 stone figure was konsealed by my late mammies brown duffle koat, with the wooden toggles on it. Autumn, a thyme of mists and mellow fruits was almost upon us. The bracken in the shucks was brown and withered, there was a hint of gun metal blew in the still air and an over all feeling of mellon-golly. A falling leaf, the hint of wood smoke in the air and up on Hi, wild gooses, flying South in a V shaped formation. The wains were back at skool, getting stuck into sums, spelling and reeding. Only the holly and ivy were thriving, showing off their Lincon green, glossy leaves, like wreaths at the death of another year.
I whistled as I walked, and threw my too sturdy knees out from under my duffle koat like too red-faced bald-headed dwarfs. As I approached the city limits of Clougher, I was swinging my arms and shrilly whistling, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore." An old tradional, Irish air, which catalogues, in a humorus way, the sad demise of a pear of red flannel drawers, beloging two a collen called--Maggie, hense the title of the song.
I was in Clougher, Sin City, two get a pound of streaky bacon, too pan loaves and a wick for the tilly lamp. As I sauntered down the street, with decorum and fin-s, a drunk man came rolling out of a pub, and hit me a dunt on the fork of my drawers with his bald head. I gasped and recoiled. The drunken brute lay at my feet, looking up with a drunken leer on his ugly gub. "Give us a kiss" he slurred, "Go on yeh wee beauty, give us a kiss".
I bridled and retorted in a genteel way, "Get too hell you drunken auld brute, if you want a kiss, you kan kiss my arse". The drunken brute grinned and said, "OK, a kiss on the arse it will be" and he got to his knees and came towards me slurring, "Hold out that big, fat rump, 'till I plant a big smacker on it". I was revolted by revulsion, the drunken brute was on his knees, with his auld lips pursed out like a goldfish, it was plane that his retention was two kiss my petite derriere. Action was called for and I took it, I lifted my fist and hit him a batter on the side of the skull, he rolled over on his back, giving me ample oppertunity too kick the fork of him with my hobnailed boots. He was rolled up in a ball, shouting "Ah my nackers" as I flounced off, with decorum, grace and wild, fierce gentility. I new the auld brute, his name was Mandrake O'Toole, he was named after a hip-ta-nist, his auld father was well nown round Clougher as a piss pot. The peeple called him Peter the pisser, he had know kontrol over his bladder, and the number of sheets, blankets and pears of drawers on the cloths line gave credence to the story.
His wife, wee Mona Lisa tried everything she could think of two cure his erratic pissing. Wee Mona new auld Peter was a pisser when she married him, but like all women, she thought she could change him. "I'll soon put the pissing out of that boy" she declared before the wedding, but like many a woman before her, she found it was hard to change a man who urinated with impunity when ever he felt like it. Wee Mona tried everything, doctors, quacks and peeple living up mountains, who claimed to have the gift of curing persistant pissing. They all took his money, but no wan could cure auld Peter, if you ask me, they were all fly boys taking the piss out of poor, auld Peter. In desperation, wee Mona deceided to take auld Peter two Lourdes two seek a cure for the unnatural urnitation. When they got two Lourdes, wee Mona heeled him into the pool. lifted both arms to heaven and roared, "Oh Lord, if it be thy will, cure thy servant Peter Paul O'Toole from the affliction of pissing, that has befell him".
And the Lord heard and auld Peter was cured, in a kind of way, poor, auld Peter got a chill in the kidneys from being heeled into the cold water and passed away too weaks later, praising the Lord and yelling, "HALLELUIAH". And the undertaker said, when they lifted auld Peter out of the bed too put him in the coffin, the bed was as dry as toast. Just goes two show, the power of prayer.
Cold blue the wind, as Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me, hunkered in our love nest in the middle of the wet rushes. Curlew and snipe looked on as Chuck planted a smacker on my upturned, rose bud lips. I nibbled at Chuck's ear, like a dormouse, Chuck broke wind, with a plantive drone like the bagpipes and ran his rough, callas hands, threw my matted, mass of luxurant red hare. I shrieked like a mountain hair, Chuck growled like a donkey on steroids.
Our seeking lips met with a smack, like some wan battering a cod against a brick wall. I was lost--lost in the moment, my eye lashes, were fluttering like venetian blinds, my teeth were chattering like castenets and my too plump, sturdy knees, were jerking spasmodically like a rodent with rickets. Love was in the air, the electricity of passion crackled and sparked, like a nail bomb. Then--Then--Then a crowd of bullocks run over us, leaving us konfused, bewildered and covered in skitter and we had to go home and wash us selves with Lifeboy soap and a good splash of Dettol. The moment had passed, the magic had-gone, leaving a distinct aroma of cow skitter.
Ah Lamore, the sugar in my tay, the salt on my poundies.
If you wood like two reed my letters two Gerry Anderson, kontact this boy....
And go now to..www,greatshowlastweekkid,blogspot.com
And funally, if you are having a good auld court, watch out for the bullocks. NO, its not a missprint, watch out for the--BULLOCKS. I'm not a complete fool. you know.

Wednesday, 20 August 2008


Mellow was the morn as I peeped out of my cobwebbed infested, suit stained window.
Aah, the beauty of the bog lay before me, in all its panoramaic, vista of unparrelled picturesqueness. How could one be down in the mouth, or suffer from innui on such a morn?
I gazed at the ancient, standing stones, so called because of their posture, they were-standing, knot sitting or lying down. I was filled with felicitous, felication bordering on fierce felicitousness.
I stood there, a slim,slender would-land nymhp, a world war too German army coat, with a bullet whole in the sleeve, covered my lithe, trembling, fragile, maidenly, girlish body. The bog was alive, I could feel it breathe beneeth my sturdy, hobnailed boots. The bog was giving off a strange, seditious, scary feeling, drawing on my knowledge of Gee-ometary, Gee-ology and physics, I new what it was, it was the transubstantion of the bog, the bog of turf was slowly transubstanting into coal, this wood then be transubstantioned into oil. Soon Clougher wood be the Sauda Arabia of Tyrone. This wood bring grate wealth but also grate-DANGER, America, wood put Clougher in the axis of evil and invade us for our oil. Clougher kouncil is aware of this and they have taken pre-cautionary steps. At the city limits of Clougher, lie grate bollards--know its knot a bad word, the priest said so on Sunday, When the invasion begins, these bollards will be dragged into the middle of the road by donkeys, there-bye stopping the American forces dead in their tracks. America, mite have toppled auld Saddam Hussien, but they wool meet their match when they take on Clougher kouncil, some of the gratest branes in Tyrone are on it.
But there's know need to worry yet, I have taken soil samples and I wood say that oil wool knot squirt from the bog, 'till seven or ate years from now.
The Summer has scene a grate change in my sun Bon Jovi, the cub who has inheirited my jean bank is coming along in leaps and bounds. The lump of a cub is trensubstanting into a grate big hallion. You should sea him leap round the bog like a viritable wilderbeast, dressed in short, grey trousers and a lovely magenta gansey, with a tasteful motief of a skull and cross bones on the front and underneath is rote, AC/DC, ON THE ROAD TO HELL. I am lead two believe that AC/DC are a beat combo from Austria. It wood knot be my kind of music, I like two lie with my eyes shut, listening two Shoe-Bert, how soothing, how restful. I lie on the sofa, with my hobnailed boots elevated at a 33% angle, it helps two keep trombones from forming in the legs, as the music washes over me, I gently-hum, all the cares of the day fall away and I drift away into sleep, with Proust lying on my chest. What a helegant site in a townland of gulpins and hallions. Why am I sew different? why was I given this grate brain and the wild, fierce hunger for Arts and Kulture? Why wood I rather have Brams than bingo? why do I prefer pee-caso two getting pissed? I am a--lite-house, a shi--a lite-house for the young, who may look at me and say, "I feel a--yern, a yern for knowledge and learning, how lucky I am two have Rosie Ryan as a model--a template, to follow as she strives-yes, strives two stuff more knowledge, more arts and kulture into her learnered noggin. Give me your young and I wool impart enthusium for learning and lead them on the long and winding road two the klassics. I should have bean a lecturer, but I diden't have the Latin or the leather patches on my jacket.
Over the Summer months, my boyfriend, Chuck Corona's gansey fisslin' has become more-vigerour, more-robust, I put it down to the auld dead heat, as the man said, its knot the heat--its the humanity. I decieded two have a talk with Chuck, about the increase in gansey fisslin' in my estimate, it has risen by 28% since Kristmas. A word two the wise is better that a punch up the gub or a good knee in the fork of the trousers. I sat deer Chuck down in a shady nook by a babbling brook and said, "Chuck, I am a female woman, as such, I have two keep a certain decorm, I am also a Mammy and an example two the young, I can't be found, in flagre-de-lecto in every hay-shed round Clougher. So I am asking you, begging you, two konfine your gansey fisslin' too the interiour of my abode." Deer Chuck, coughed, sighed, broke wind and replied, "Rosie my love, far be it from me two have you known far and wide as a slut and a slag, So, in deference two your wild Hi murals, I wool cut down-drastically on my gansey fisslin'.
I was so happy that deer Chuck understood, I flew two him like a heat-seeking missile and clamped my gub two his, when I got the sent of old spice and tuna I went mad, I grabbed Chuck round the knees and heeled him into a low-lying field, then I jumped in after him like a red-arsed babboon, hours later we staggerted out, rearranging us cloths and brushing big, black slugs from each other. Why is it that men have know kontrol over their feelings, why is it, that it is always the woman, who has two say--KNOW?
Reed my letters two Gerry Anderson, you kan get them if you kontact this boy...
And you mite want two go two..www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
Does any-wan no how two get slug slime from a puce gansey?


Friday, 15 August 2008


'Twas a beautifl morning betwixt Summer and Autumn, the wind was temperate and blowing from the metropolis of Gortin. I deceided too do my keep-fitt excercies alfresco. I stood out in the nettles and long grass, arrayed in brown nickers and a grey simmet, that had once bean white. I stood, sturdy legs akimbo, breathing deeply and exhailing the redundant air with a-Whoosh. I began with side bends, touch the rite knee, break wind, touch the left knee, break wind. My slender, girlish, maidenly, statuesque body was bending like a reed in the breeze.
Time for touch the toes, one, break wind, too, break wind, three, break wind. Ah, I felt better already, my bloated belly, was expelling air like a hot air balloon with a puncture.
Now for some sit-ups, Wan, break wind, too, break wind, three, break wind, always beeing aware and careful-knot two follow through. Running on the spot, my too sturdy, blew veined legs went up and down like the clappers and from my derriere, came a stuttering sound, knot unlike the sound of a 500cc Norton going round a sharp korner. By now the sweat was lashing off me and wee black spots danced in front of my eyes, I new it was doing me good, I felt like I was having a stroke or a hart attack, that's always a good sign. Then I took two the road for a bit of a jog, I had two stand in a shuck when three of Sean Quinn's big green cemente lorries flew bye, the drivers flashed their lites. hooted the horns and yelled out as one, "HELLO ROSIE, may hand on yer drawers". Ah, I still have it, never bean without it, a true test of beauty is lorry drivers yelling, "May hand on yer drawers". I bet Angelina Jolly doesn't get that out in Holly-Wood. Then I crawled, gasping and panting back two my abode, stuck my head in the rain barrel and sat down two a good tightener of too gooses eggs and the buttered heels of pan loaves, all washed down with a big mug of Punjana, the drink that cheers but does knot hibernate.
On the stroke of fore, my sun Bon Jovi came in from skool and hurled his skoolbag into the scullery like a bowling ball. "Sit down my bon cabellero" I said "and tell me what youse was getting stuck into at skool today".
Bon Jovi sat on a three-legged stool, crossed wan dirty and grazed knee over the other and said,
"Today we learned all about-IVF". "But you're a Cat-Lick, why were you learning about a loyalsist paramilitary orginsation?" Bon Jovi looked at the kat and said, "How sad, how-how-
exprobrative, that the lump of a cub comes home from his seat of learning and is met with stupidy and thickness bordering on cretinism" "Listen boy" I yelled "I'm going two look them words up tonight and if they were a slur on my intelligence, I wool nock the big, round, cannonball head of you, so don't sit there so smart, talking two the kat as if I wasn't here, now, what does IVF mean?" Bon Jovi recrossed his legs, clasped his hands, pursed his lips and said, "IVF stands for in vitro fertilisation" "Why are youse learning about dung?" I said "If you want to learn about fertilisation all you have two do is follow a dung spreader. Slurry" I roared "Slurry is the boy two bring on your rhubarb". You should have scene the look Bon Jovi gave two the kat, then he looked at me and said. "Ivf, in vitro fertilisation, is the creation of life, you get a test tube, throw in an egg, beat well, then add some sperm, from a sperm whale and-Voila-you get a wee sprog". I fell in a heap against the dresser, the cracked cups rattled like Catalan castenets.
"Test tube babies" I roared, "But they wood be born with big, long thin heads"
"They wood fit in well with the people in Clougher" yelled Bon Jovi "All the men have faces like turf spades and the weeman look like hatchets".
"Its knot natural" I roared "Neither are you" yelled Bon Jovi "Sure it has its side effects, the weeman may get drowsy, break out in hives, or get ovarian hyperstimulation sin-drome, but that kan be cured bye a intracytoplasmic sperm rejection".
"That's it" I yelled "I'm going two tell the priest the kind of things you are learning at skool".
"Tell away" roared Bon Jovi "the priest was there and all he said was, "Children, don't try this at home" Now, if you'll excuse me, I am rather thirsty, I must get some h2o in vitro, in vitro, means-in glass" I made a note two use that in conversation, "Ah hello Nellie, I'm just going two the surgery, the doctor asked me two bring a sample of piss--in vitro".
"What's bacome of the cub?" I said two Chuck later that nite, as I lay with my head in his lap, counting the rivets on the fork of his jeans.
"'Tis just a faze the boy is going through" said Chuck. "Last weak he asked me for a reference, said he wanted two be a hangman in the Free State"
"If only he wood get a good steady job like that" I said "But what if he meddles with this damned auld UVF, what if the cub grows a sprog in a bottle?"
What evil, demonic,malignat spawn has sprung like a wild kat from my lions?
Have I? Could I? have given birth two the aunty christ? No,, I threw some wholly water on him this morning and he didn't scream or crackle with devilish electricity. Just a cub, just a cub going through a faze, next weak it mite me--trying too make gold out of turds--Al-ka-Me.
Two reed my letters two gerry anderson, try yer man, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com

Saturday, 9 August 2008


I was ensconced in my rural retreat, 13 the bog road, Clougher, surrounded by my favourite Phill-officers. Sarte, Nietzsche, Mervin Blag and Marcell Proust. Ah Marcell, my favourite Phill-officer, many a tite korner auld Proustie has got me out of. I really shoule rite and thank him, but under-neath my wild, fierce sophistication and air of elegant,highly complex,efficient wisdom, lies a soft, tender crater who is shy and diffident.
Oh how I wood love two rite a letter of thanks too deer Marcell, but there's know way I could walk into Clougher Post Office and ask for a French letter. Damn this shyness that I inheirited from my deer mammy, mammy was so shy, she could knot look at a duck without blushing.
Oh how different deer Pappa was, in the Summer, deer Pappa wood sit out on a three-legged stool, reading Ireland's Own, wearing nothing but a simmet and a pear of hobnailed boots.
Women used to cycle up and down the road just two get a look at his manly accouterments. Many a wan fell off and cut the hole face of herself,so many self induced accidents occured that Clougher kouncil came out and informed deer Pappa knot two sit alfresco in a short simmet, apparently the casuality department in Clougher hospital, couldn't cope with the number of weeman who were turning up with broken noses and gnashers nocked out. Deer Pappa simply said, "Pish tosh" and next week there he was again, sitting with legs akimbo reading Kitty the Hare, wearing a simmet, even shorter than before and nonchalantly whistling as bike after bike went flying into the hedge. Then Clougher kouncil came out and erected a big sign which red, "DANGER, accident black spot, beware of man in very short simmet".
Ah, deer Pappa was a mavrick a loose cannon, but short simmets were his downfall, he took a chill in the kidneys and 42 years later two the day, popped his clogs yelling, "ONE MAN, ONE SIMMET"
I looked round my smoke-stained abode and thought, "What is life? what is the essance of-life? How can I reach a state composed of pure thought? How kan I unriddle the riddle of life?
How can I enter the dark caverns of my brane and switch the lights on? I am, therefore I think, but how can I think more and unravel the mysteries of, time, space, life, death and where do snotters come from? There was only wan man who wood no the answer, so I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust and got stuck in. Once again, Marcell came up trumps.
"C'est le premier pas qui coute". Its the first step that counts, I couldn't have put it better myself, what a font of knowledge Marcell was, I could see Marcell walking by the West bank of the sane, wearing a berry and a stripped gansey,his grate brain going into overdrive as he got stuck into a bag of snails and French fries.
I shrieked in falsetto and ran like a nymph as Chuck Corona my boyfriend, raced me through the eggberries. I yelped like a pup, as I leaped over a rusty bicycle and made for the pig sties, Chuck caught me and pressed me up against the corrugated iron shed. I melted into his manly arms, like a tupperware bowl in a hot oven. Chuck kissed me and I responded with all the suction of a Dyson vacuume kleaner. Chuck was panting like an auld dog,I was gulping in air like a goldfish with Ass-Ma. I clung onto two Chuck's indigo yella fleece, in case I slipped on skitter and fell on my mouth and nose. Chuck was fissling at my gansey, with the throughness of a security guard at an American airport. I ran my fingers through Chuck's crew-cut head, Chuck tore the emerald green ribbon from my matted mass of red hare and let it fall over my alabaster shoulders. Chuck growled, "Bay Jeekers", I shrieked, "Merci", the sow gave a grunt and Chuck began two undo the safety pins on my gansey. "Know Chuck" I shrieked, "I kan knot throw my gansey before swine". Chuck sighed, like the back wheel going down on a bicycle, I adjusted my clothing, as my hart beat like a canary behind my rib cage. Suddenly, Chuck's hush puppies slipped on skitter, two keep from falling, Chuck made a grab for my skirt and pulled it down round my plumb, blew veined ankles. I gave a maidenly, girlish, feminine shriek and took off over the bog, wearing just my fair isle gansey and a pear of red flannel drawers. As I tore round a korner, who did I meet but the priest walking his King Charles spaniel dog, "Ah Mrs Ryan" said the priest, "Out for a bit of a jog are you? remember what the good book says, A healthey body makes for a healthy mind, God bless you my child" I charged on like a vixen persued by invisible hounds, as I leaped a shuck like a stag at bay I shrieked, "Bless me Father, for I nearly sinned". But that's between ourselves now, don't tell know wan or it wool be all round Clougher that Rosie Ryan is another Paris Hilton.
Want two reed my letters two Gerry Anderson? go too, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com and you kan buy my books.
Go now to..www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
and with that I return you to the studio, where Loggie is talking about Tyrone's chances of lifting the Sam Maguire,which are--diddly squat.

Tuesday, 5 August 2008


I was walking into Clougher, that rural outpost of sex, depravity and debauchery', 'twas a lovely day in the dog daze of Summer. Alas and indeed-alac, the Summer was drawing two a cloths.
The sons rays and the gentle downpours had created a bumper harvest. Nature seemed--tired, the grass at the side of the Hi-way know longer looked up two the son,but hung-listless and limp, the yella korn, so beloved by auld Van Go was harvested leaving only stubble, like what you wood find on some dirty slatterns measled legs. The swallows were lined up on the lectric wires, bags packed, ready to fly off two South Africa and bring joy and delight two Nelson Mandella and thousands of dancing piccaninnys. Even the very crows seemed tired and fatigued as they perched on a scarecrow doing their nails. The year had turned, you could feel it in the air, our salad daze lay behind us and before us lay, cold, rain, slush, sleet, hi-winds and slippery rhoades.
I felt-sad, melon-colly, I am a child of nature and I revel in the son, in the Spring, when the Queen of the May paints the hedgerows gay, I jettison the Winter drawers and positively-skip like a fairy through cuntry lanes festooned with whitethorn blossoms and green, swaying ferns.
I felt a-pang in my hart, a pang of sorrow for the departing year, how many of us wood live two sea another wan? how many clogs wood pop as Winter tightened its grip like the Boston strangler? The muse desended upon me, I stood in the middle of the road, raised my slender, girlish arms in the air and roared.
I made a menthol note two send that wee poem to Ireland's own and went on my way.
As I crested a hill like a JCB, I saw a figure on a bicycle approach, it was auld Nellie Granite, I recognised her big red drawers with the blew patch on the gusset. I went two skool with big Nellie, but we never really got on, she's kommon and stupid, while I am steeped in arts and kulture and wild smart. She was peddling along, with her too big fat knees going up and down like a steam engine, her big turnip face was bleezing and the sweat was lashing off her like a well raced pig. She leaped off the bike, like the big hallion she is and roared, "Ah its you Rosie, I didn't no you there, I said two myself, who's the auld woman walking with a funny striddle? Are you all-rite "down there" Rosie? are you sure nothing has slipped or prolasped?"
I bridled and said, "Nellie, I wood thank you two keep your thoughts two yourself and knot have them straying two my under-carriage, and if you must no, my under-carriage is A-wan. 100% and firing on all cylinders". "Well it wood have two be now" said Nellie, "now that's you've hooked up with the peeler from the Free State, I was just saying two my Ferdinand, Rosie wool have two sharpen herself up, now that she's got a man".
I shook like a badly hanged man and retorted, "You and your Ferdinand have little two do if you have two retort two talking about Chuck Corona and me".
"Know Rosie" yelled the big lump, "I'm pleased for you, many a nite I thought too myself, there's poor auld Rosie Ryan living ah'll alone in a bog and she kan't get a man for love or money, I never had that trouble, I could always fall back on my Ferdinand".
"If you fell backwards--or forwards on your Ferdinand, they wood be scraping him off the street with a shovel" I roared. "Now, now Rosie" said the big brute, "you used two give my Ferdinand sweets at skool and show him your auld patched and darned nickers".
"That's a damn kalamay" I roared, "If your Ferdinand saw my bloomers, it was because he was peeping through my winda, like his auld father, Peter The Peeper".
"Sure that's ah'll in the past" said Nellie "and now you've got a man of your own and a grate big man he is, I was just saying two my Ferdinand, that Chuck Corona is build like a brick shit house" then she sort of leered and said, "Mind you, some-thymes big men are knot that big when it comes down to it. many a woman has took a stray dog home, only two find that it couldn't wag its tale". I erupted like mount Vesivous and roared, "How dare you and your Ferdinand tal;k about the secret, hidden accouterments of my boyfriend Chuck Corona, if you must no, Chuck has got the qualifications two be a Chippendale or a porn star, the only thing that keeps him back is his natural modesty and a slowness in jettisoning his drawers, dew two a kick in the knee he got from Shane Magown. Get too hell" I roared, "Throw your big lump of a leg on that bicycle,or by the sacred apron of saint Lusinda from Letterkenny, I'll be dug out of you"
Big Nellie peddled off roaring, "living over the brush, that's what youse is doing, giving a bad example too the wains of the parish, its know wonder Cat-Lick Ireland is away two hell, when auld bags like you are shacked up with a crooked peeler that was run out of Dublin".
Full of ire, I searched frantically for stones, which I threw after the departing gulpin 'till she was out of sight. My hart was brusting out of my gansey,I was shaking like a leaf on a tree, in a bid two relieve the pressure, I broke wind like a thunder klap and spit half a cup of thick, green flem into the grass. When I had regained my deposure, I continued on my way, thinking pleasant thoughts about sticking big Nellie's head into a well, or letting her have both barrells as she was coming home from the bingo.
And yet, little did I no that my trouble with the Granite's was far from over. As I stood in Hussien's supermarket, holding a turnip in each hand to guage which was biggest, an auld voice said, "Ah Rosie, day-dreaming about Chuck Corona again"
I pirouetted and there stood Nellie Granite's Ferdinand with a disgusting leer on his ugly mug, I never spoke, I kneed him in the fork of the trousers and when he bent over, I battered the auld bald head of him with the too turnips. When he went down, like a sack of spuds, I kicked the be-jesus out of him with my hobnailed boots, if auld Nellie is feeling frisky two-nite, she wool just have two thoal, she won't have her Ferdinand two fall back on and if I'm any judge of the mail anatmony, it could be a long, long time before the swelling goes down--if ever.
The morale of this story is--don't meddle with Rosie Ryan.
If you wood like two reed my letters two Gerry Anderson go two..
Feel like a change? go now to www,greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
And that's all--for now. JP McMenamin.