Cats don't surf
Miaoooow there, Keogh fans!
There's a new moggie on the block, and this one has made headlines - well, very small ones - in the local paper. That's not much to boast about: On page seven last night was a bloke who cycled home after his vasectomy.
This cat has a real shaggy dog story to tell. She's originally from a place called Cornwall - hence the strange accent - which sounds pretty dire: lots of rocks, plenty of sea. Only thing to do is surf, and cats don't surf.
A couple holidaying in the Godforsaken place - who wants to holiday in a place where the only pleasure is getting wet? - mistook her for a stray, took her back here and she did a runner.
Her Cornish owners found out and have been down hunting for her. They've also put up posters, which is a bit silly: she can't read. They've offered a reward: if it's fish, I'm going to grass her up.
Not surprisingly, the Cornish moggie has no intention of going home. There's a better quality of life here: a meals on wheels service, courtesy of the council binmen; the birds are a lot less vicious than seagulls; there's precious little sand to have kicked in your face and you don't have to climb a one-in-five gradient to find a decent spot to use as a toilet.
She's painted a nightmare picture of life in the resort. There's clotted cream, which is more solid than liquid: try setting a new lap record with that, crowds of drunken holidaymakers in the summer and streets so narrow you can't swing a cat: a point illustrated on a number of occasions by the drunken holidaymakers.
It may be a small place, but it has its own breed of pedigree cat - the Cornish Rex.
Wikipedia describes the breed as 'adventurous and very intelligent'.
I doubt it. If they were that adventurous they'd get the hell out of Cornwall. If they were that intelligent, they wouldn't be there in the first place.