ROSIE RYAN'S KRISTMAS LETTER.

Deer Gerry, as we approach the festering season, it is good to no that Clougher know longer celebrates Kristmas with a kuman sacrifice.
There was a brief return to the bad old daze in 2005, when a stranger was dragged from his bicycle and never seen again.
The hole grizzly hanlin' was hushed up by the parish priest, the town elders and wee Tommy Tucker, representing the loyal order of Druids.
Pounds of special mince are flying from the supermarket shelves, as Clougher prepares to welcome the birth of wee JC with a good feed.
Clougher Hi street is a veritable fairyland, with fore Christmas lites on wan side of the street and three lites on the other side.
The Christmas tree, may lean like the tower of pizza, but the wains of Clougher look at it with amazement. Not just the wains, those who drool from the mouth and wet their trousers with impunity point to the tree and babble some festive gibberish. The small, condemed shops are choc-ah-block with late nite shoppers splashing out on Biro pens, bags of dolly mixtures and gaily wrapped boxes of Preparation H. YES! the countdown to Kristmas has began. On Kristmas morning, every member of saint Judas mouth organ band that is sober, or able to walk will march from the graveyard too the chapel. The priests Kristmas sermon this year deals with the banking crisis. He will deliver the first lines, "Better had a millstone bean tyed round their neck!" in a bull-like gulder.The PINS, are standing by in case his inflamatory words leads to an attempt to burn down the bank of Ireland. We live in dangerous thymes Gerry. The disappearance of the spondulects has given rise to a caldren of anger that has yet to be vented. When the great Vent comes, woe to he, or she who is with child, or ploughing a field with a pear of bollocks. Don't turn back for your coat Gerry. You can always order another out of Kays katalogue.
I have my Kristmas all planned. After mid-nite mass, I wool slip in the back door of Patels pub and drink to ten o'clock on Kristmas morning. I will then stagger home and incinerate a duck for us Kristmas dinner.There wool sit my beloved sun Bon Jovi, wearing a paper hat and a black eye patch for his lazy eye. I will sing, "Amazing Grace" and then we will get stuck in. Elbows guarding our plates and growls, grunts and yelps guarding our food. We will knot leave the table until we are both glazzy eyed and bloated like poisoned pups. Bon Jovi wool turn on the Queens speech. I wool loyally agree with her Majesty by yelling, "You tell it like it is sister! I couldn't have put it better myself and fine girl you are!".
By now us digestive systems wool be in ferment. We will rectify this by a strenuous bout of violent rifting and ferocious farting. This wool make way for some chocolate cake and a cup of tea. Soon, Bon Jove wool crawl into his cardboard box. I wool retrieve the bottle of the crater from up the chimney and offer a toast to God, for a good, holy, christian Kristmas, were nobody got killed, scalded or received any deep cuts or gashes requiring stitches.
This is Rosie Ryan saying, Merry Kristmas Gerry, Sean boy, Emma, Janet and Ken.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling!
Deer Jelly, Walter Love or Lord Reith once said. "A weak is a wild long time in radio". Sediments witch I hearly endorse. Your weak has bean a tour de-farce in broadcasting. Your sav-eh-fair and Bon-a-me shone out of the radio like a shinning beacon. Your personality literally oozed out like Lyle's golden syrup. And your Kar-is-ma was made man-eh-fest every time you spoke. Give yourself a pat on the back and say, "Kelly, you're knot done yet!"
My sun, Bon Jovi, he with the big head and round shoulders, came in with an armfull of turf and said.
"Auld Coyle the interupter next weak. What a horrible prospect for a lump of a cub to have to put up with".
"This too shall pass" I said. The trouble with Sean Coyle is, his mouth is always running ten yards in front of his brane". Bon Jovi dropped the turf, looked into the cracked mirror and said. "WELL!, hello good looking. What's a pretty boy like you doing living on the outskirts of Clougher with an old head-banger?"
I stood there with my mouth open,like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the head-lites of a kar and roared.
"You ugly wee gulpin! I am the beauty in this house. You look like a wee troll. I wood say you fell off Gods pottery wheel wance or twice before he put you into the kiln". "You ugly old bag" roared Bon Jovi. "Standing there like a bag of hey tied in the middle. Why do you never look in the mirror anymore? You kan't handle the truth!. You look like a deformed auld goblin with that hump on your back". Its NOT a hump!" I yelled. "Its a curveature of the spine like what the gracefull ballerinas have. How dare you speak of poise and grace. If your head gets any bigger you will have to wear a neck brace". Then you came on the radio Jelly and mother and sun settled down to listen. I smiled at Bon Jovi and said. "You're knot really ugly, just-
different". Bon Jovi looked up at me and said, "And you're not an old bag, just- badly assembled". Thank you Jelly for restoring peace and tranquility to the home of Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi.
'Till the next time. ROSIE RYAN xxx

A Culshie In New York.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling!
Deer Jelly,what exquisitive joy to heer your strong, barry-tone voice waft over the rolling prairies and deep ravines of Co Tyrone. I thank you from the bottom of my hart for standing in for Gerry Anderson. And my sun, Bon Jovi thanks you from his bottom too.
I am sure Jelly that you are compes-mentos of the fact that Gerry Anderson is running round Knew York, wearing a very short simmet and a wee pear of blew nickers. I wood be the last person on earth too say anything dee-ogg-raty about Gerry, but I can't help but feel he left it a bit late to start acting the Master McGraw. A man in the twilight years of his life should be dozing in front of the fire and sucking champ through a straw.
Your golfing handicap, Mr Coyle is also in Knew York. Walking about like a culshie with his mouth hanging open. Staring up at big, tall buildings like a boy who was never out of the house and shouting, "Hello there! How's it going?" to everyone he meets. What must the American's think of him Jelly? Walking about like Forest Gump with a green gansey on him and his name and address pinned to his chest.
I kan't sea any inward investment coming from this ill-fated, ill-timed, puke retching trip!
How is you Jelly? Us, me and Bon Jovi are as happy as Alasdair McDonnell, in a dimly lit room. A knew, thrusting, elequent leader who kan't read with the lights on-just what the SDLP was crying out for. Wait 'till HE hits America! Bon Jovi, arrayed in "Joe Bloggs" dungarees, sends his love. As do I, arrayed in hob-nailed boots, tartan, drindle skirt, puce blouse and a laurel wreath of germaniums in my hare. If the good Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I may send you another epistile before the weak end.
It just remains for me to sign off with a rousing , "Come On Yeh Boy Yeh and Keep Her Lit!!!!! Rosie Ryan xxx

Bon Jovi And The Speed Of Dark.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling! Deer Gerry, Dee-Jay and my-strow of fun and frolics. 'Tis I, Rosie Ryan, beauty, phill-ossifier and bit of rough for the forestery workers. How is you Gerry? I and my sun Bon Jovi, is tickety-BOO!. "Tis with grate sadness and tarra grief that I retort the demigration of auld Ollie "Jump the shuck" Rambouillet. Auld Ollie was 91 and a half when his clogs went POP! He will be missed Gerry. He wool be sorely missed by those who new him before death cast its long shadow over him and left him bereft of life. Doctor Tony Tucker arose from the bed and said, "He has gone!". Auld Ollies wife Pandora, opened her mouth and shrieked. "KNOW! KNOW! Knot my little-Ollie! GONE!" she shrieked. "And never called me sweet cheeks" Then auld Pandora took a spalter and went down like a sack of spuds. As she fell her head made contact with the po. A chip flew off the po with a ZING! and auld Pandora got a nasty gash rite above her left eye. "LET HER LIE!!" yelled doctor Tucker. As auld Patsy Zanadoo hurried over looking for a crafty grope.
"She may have sustained spinal tap injuries when she fell" Doctor Tucker stuck a poker in the fire until it was red hot. Then he withdrew the poker by pulling it out of the fire. Doctor Tucker put the sizzling poker to old Pandora's bare feet and ejuclated. "Mrs Rambouillet, can you feel THAT!". Auld Pandora, gave a shriek like a banshee, leaped up like a March hair and threw the contents of the po (About a litre and a half) in the direction of doctor Tucker. The good doctor ducked and the golden contents of the po, glinting and glistening in the son went all over dead Ollie. After too rejections of sedatition, auld Pandora wiped her hands on her apron and sobbed. "My wee Ollie, lying in a bed saturated with pee--its how he wood have wanted to go".
I went to the door, banged a hammer against a bucket and my sun Bon Jovi, came out of the diplated hen shed he uses as a laboratory and ran into the house for his dinner.
"Get stuck into that curried road kill" I said "And enlighten me as to the X-perimants you were konducting in your Hi-Tec laboratory". Bon Jovi swallowed the tale of a stoat and said.
"Last weak, I worked out bye replied mathematics that lite travels at 47 miles an hour, but goes slower when going round korners, or approaching a major road. This week I am trying to work out the speed of the dark. I took the batteries out of a torch. Now when I send out a beam of dark, I race after it with a stop watch in my hand".
"What a cub!" I muttered. "What a cub!" Why have I bean choosen to be mammy of, "The Special One?"
"QUICK!" I yelled. "Eat your dinner and get back to your work. If the dark gets an inkling of what you're up to, it may slow down, OR put an inch to its step". "Good thinking Wonder Woman" said Bon Jovi. "The dark is a wily customer, but it won't beet master Bon Jovi Ryan".
After the cub had gone, I fell to my knees and gave thanks to the good Lord on Hi for sending me a cub who was fair brusting with branes.
AAH-Dew! from, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Dana Or Norris? Let The People Decide.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling! Deer Gerry, 'tis Rosie Ryan 'ere, beauty, brainic and barn-dancer.
What a gunk I got on Monday when I turned on the wireless and found you knot there.
"Whom is that Tube?" said my son Bon Jovi, as he got stuck into a goose egg with toasted civilians.
"That!" I said. "Is Sean Oil, a reprobate of unparelled villainy and a throughly, bad piece of work".
"I've said it before" said Bon Jovi. "And I'll say it again, the early release scheme was dangerous in the extreme. We have sown the wind" yelled Jon Jovi. "And now we reap the harvest of Sean Oil and his ilk".
I threw a rooster off my chair, sat down and said.
"Tell me my bon-a me. Have you changed your mind in relation to the preservation election in the free state?".
"I have knot and I shall knot!" roared Bon Jovi.
"I stand fore score square behind the distinguished, quaintly old fashioned, Senator Steven Norris". "So be it! I yelled. "and I stand, shoulder to shoulder with Dana, mother, singer and hotelier. I am a Danaees!" I yelled. "It wood seem to me" said Bon Jovi. "That the predatory of Ireland is a step too far for a woman who sang a simple,banal song when she was a cuttie back in 1972".
"What does senescent, Senator Steve Norris bring to the table?" I yelled.
"GRAVITAS!" roared Bon Jovi. "Can you imagine Dana meeting a head of state? "Ah, come on away in. You'll have a wee cup of tea, so you will. Excuse the mess. Phil Coulter was here last night with a clatter of chips to talk about old times".
"And how would that differ from auld Boris the Norris" I shouted. " Senator Norris" said Tommy. "Is a man of letters. He can speak Latin and Greek effuently. Imagine if President Obama visited Ireland in a pathetic, paper thin attempt to garnish the Irish vote in America. President Norris, probably wearing a swallow-tailed coat, would trip, elf-like down the steps, open the door of the Presidents car and exclaim. "Nice to see you, to see you nice. Kay-May-Ah-Fault-Yah Mr President. Follow me to the dining room for a repast of larks-tongues, caviare, concannon and champ". "Norris" I retorted. "Is too pompous. Too arrogant and too scary. Dana is from the people, by the people and beloved by the people. Dana could smile at little wains in prams, Norris would give them nightmares". "NORRIS!" yelled Bon Jovi. "DANA!" I roared.
THEN! ganseys were thrown off and mother and sun got stuck into a real knock down, drag out brawl.
I threw a long, loping right. Bon Jovi sunk his fist into my bread basket. I replied with an uppercut. Bon Jovi, snorted like Smoking Joe Frazier and cut my eye with a vicious left hook. I grunted and threw a right that caught Bon Jovi right on the hooter. Bon Jovi did an Ali shuffle and yelled, "What's my name?" before shaking every tooth in my head with a head butt. "FOWL!" I gasped, as I brought my knee up into Bon Jovi's already wet fork.
Lefts, rights, upper-cuts, downer-cuts, heads, feet, biting, scratching, goughing and much pummeling of the under-carriage. Two hours later mother and sun lay in a bloody heap behind the door gasping.
"DANA!"
"NORRIS!"
"DANA!"
"NORRIS!"
SOON! the people will decide!

Beware Of A Sudden Malaise.

Deer Gerry and extended family, how excruciatingly merry it is to sea you back from the French Rivvy Aera. (The rich mans Cullybaccy) My sun Bon Jovi and me are worried about some rare, exotic, fatal disease you may have caught. "Bon Jovi" I ejeclated. "Gerry is of the opinon he was bit by a maurading mosquito and may have malevolent, malfeansant maleria". The cub immediately stopped picking his nose. A worried frown played over his headucated countance. The winda rattled as Bon Jovi roared. "I am reclined to think that uncle Gerry was bit, viciously and with callow disreguard bye a testes fly. Uncle Gerry should be on the look out for a sudden malaise". "What's a malaise sun?" I asked. "I don't NO!" yelled Bon Jovi, "But uncle Gerry should be on the look out for wan". "If a 'orribe testes fly has sunk its fangs into Gerry's lean, bronzed skin" I shrieked. "What Sim-toms should Gerry look out for, musha a lana and mother McCree?" Bon Jovi walked to the winda rattling mecurially six, silver washers from a bicycle wheel in his pocket and replied."The testes fly, as its name suggests can induce tarra testiness in the patient. Uncle Gerry may become tired, irritable, touchy and have an unbounded thirst for buttermilk. BUT!!! if Uncle Gerry begins to get dizzy, sea things that arn't there and drools uncontrolably from the mouth, he should pick up his bed and head for the casualy department in Alty-Galvin hospital--immediately!!! No messing about. Immediately!!!".I looked at the cub who had arrived so unexpectantly and "peculiary" into this world and thanked my lucky stars for having a cub like Bon Jovi.
A Bon Jovi went out he roared over his shoulder. "Uncle Gerry wool bee all rite. He is just jet-lagged and coming the old soldier".
Did you heer the wind yesterday Gerry. Wasn't it tarra in the extreme? Owling and owling round the house like a demented Damien. "Tis an evil portend!" roared Bon Jovi, as a shower of suit fell down the chimney.
In desperation Dan, I mean, Gerry. In desperation I threw the cub to the floor and we preyed loudly and franticlly to our lady of peculiar sucker. Lo, the wind calmed. Stars appeared in the sky. Mother and sun visited their respective po's and went to bed. Soon sleep, interupted by digestive dunderings fell on the house of Ryan.
From your curvicious, arvicious, pugnacious, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Bon Jovi's headucation

Deer Jelly, what exquisite joy too heer your dull-sit voice waft over the rolling tundra of Co Tyrone again.
As you no, Gerry Anderson is in hospital having bionic legs fitted two his chassie in preperation for the Borstal marathon in America.
All our hopes, prayers and expectations are resting, like a parrot on the stooped, frail shoulders of the little man with the thinning hare.
How is you Jelly? Us, myself and my son Bon Jovi are as well as could be respected. Bon Jovi's headucation is astonshing the professors and Don's at saint Judas primary skool in Clougher.
Knot only is the cub up to the oxters with adding and substraction. Bon Jovi is breaking knew ground in the highly and respected world of dark matter.
Every day Bon Jovi endevors too shine a light on the elusive dark matter which abounds in the Universe like specs of suit. The cub wool go far Jelly. The cloistered towers of academia in Gortin beckon.
Your golf club carrier, Sean Thaddeaus Coyle did a fare to middeling job. But as you no Jelly, Mr Coyle is stuck like a luddite in the past. Mr Coyle is the only man in Ulster who is eagery awaiting the return of kipper ties and flared trousers. Coyle did his best, but in Bon Jovi's opinion is, knot fit for porpoise.
I must away Jelly. It is imperitive I shave my big, thick legs with my late daddy's cut-throat razor.Too wee spiders have taken up abode behind my knees and are feasting abundably on the flies, gnats and daddy-long-legs that get entangled and snared in the hares on my Venus-like legs.
I is your 'umble serviette, Rosie Ryan. xxx