Tuesday, 16 December 2008


Waiting! All day I had bean waiting, waiting paitently for the red Parcel Force van two drive up my lane. It was a Wintery seen that met my scrutizing oculars. A strange ghostly mist hung over the bog, it was on such a day, that the ancient standing stones wood get up and move about, to help with their circulation. Up on Hi, a lone crow cawed, a sheep went-Baa and the wind whistled threw the electric wires, playing a sad plaintive melody, akin to a celestical beeing blowing into an obo. Strange things were afoot on a day such as this, boys got up from their graves and went for a bit of a dander, with wild looks on their long dead faeces. Faeries sat on toadstools, grooming their fragile wings and shaking faerie dust under their tiny oxters. The old man of the forest, bent over with age, hobbled over a carpet of fallen Autumnal leaves, leaning heavily on a crooked, blackthorn stick. Witches sat round their cauldrens, hubbling an bubbling as they knocked something up for their supper. Strange things happen on strange days-and the strange things are seen by strange people and no wan is more strange than-Rosie Ryan
THEN!-at last, I spied the Parcel Force van. It pulled up before the door and a man got out and opened up the back. Then he got a huge parcel up on his shoulder and staggered towards my door. I opened the door and yelled, "Throw her on the table boy, I can take it from here". As the van drove off, I gazed at the big parcel. KAY'S MALE ORDER, it proudly stated on the front and there was my name and redress. How I had longed for this moment, With trembling hands I tried to open the big, grey bag, but was repulsed by the strong polly-theen. Then I went at it with my teeth, I gnawed at the polly-theen like a rat, but it withstood the savage power of my gnawing nashers. In desperation, I ran and got a knife and went at it like Jack the Ripper. I pulled out a large cardboard box and opened it up, inside, covered with pink tissue paper, lay my knew-drawers. I slowly unfurled the paper and there they were, I gazed at the drawers and exclaimed, "Wonder-Bah". I lovingly took the drawers out, shook them loose and let them fall. And there they were, the latest fashion from Tiawain. The Super Dooper, XL500, in fire engine red, with a petite 42 inch waste. But before I tried them on, there was a ritital to go threw, first I grabbed the knew drawers and stretched them like a Bullworker. I admired the elastic on the legs and waste, double strength for double confidence, the gusset was a hefty piece of engineering, a web-like contraption, securly sewed and lined with lambs wool. Then I scrunched the drawers up in a ball and happed them off the floor eight or nine thymes. This was two get the stiffness and rigidity out of them and make them mallabe and pliable. I held the knew drawers up too my girlish hooter, Ah, there was nothing like the smell of-knew drawers. After wear, you can never recapture the fresh, just out of the box, smell of-knew drawers. Now, it was thyme too try them on, I slipped-seductively out of my old drawers and let them fall around my plump,sturdy ankles. Then, with the deftness of George Best, at his best, I caught the drawers on my big toe and-flipped them onto the smouldering fire. The drawers lay there for a while, crackling and fizzing-THEN-with a mighty-WHOOSH, they ignited and flew up the chimney. I slipped into the knew drawers, with a minimum of cursing, panting and grunting and stood in front of the mirror. "Venus, in red drawers" I muttered, as I gazed at my refraction. There I stood, like Mick Manus, my too bulging thighs, emerged from the knew drawers like too Grecian colomns. My exquitive belly-button lolled over the restricting elasticated waste. I turned to the left and admired my rounded bum cheeks, straining against the stout, red flannel like too aluring, delectable-dumplings. What a site! What-beauty! If auld Hugh Heffner saw me now, he wood bust a gut two get me on the cover of Playboy. But only a few select gentlemen wool be lucky enough to gaze in wonder and awe, at Rosie Ryan in her knew drawers. The gentlemen in question beeing, Chuck Corona, my boyfriend, the doctor and any boy lucky enough too meet me when I'm flying down a hill on my bicycle, with my frock tucked into my drawers.
In the evening, I took the drawers out for a trial run and recieved the most horrendous news. Auld Domino McToodle is dead!. Poor auld Domino, he was never out of the chapel, praying for black babies, yellow babies and-even-white-babies. When auld Domino was just 19, the wholly Ghost appeared to him in the form of a Willie Wagtale. Every since that, auld Domino, was an alter-eater of Hi renown. Domino was 97 years old but as sharp as a pin, he had all his faculities, up to the day of his death, he could still tell his arse from his elbow. Apparently, auld Domino's demise was brought on by his wild love for-Kristmas. Too celebrate the coming birth of the baby Jesus, auld Domino had decorated his zimmer frame with tinsel and fairy lites, run from the mains. Poor auld Domino, was standing outside his house, bent over like a hoop, with age and Art-Risis, he was waving-feebly to kars and croaking, "A very merry Kristmas to youse all" Then, a wild shower of rain came on and before the family could get auld Domino into the house, he was electrocuted and stuck to the zimmer frame, like a limpet mine. They say the sparks were shooting from him and a strange azure lite appeared in his eyes, probably scent by the Wholly Ghost. The Undertaker could knot get the zimmer frame out of auld Domino's blacked hands, so it wool be buried along with him. I'm sure that's what he wood have wanted. Auld Domino was very attached two his zimmer frame. Auld Domino called the zimmer frame, his iron legs. I kan still sea him at the corner of his house, drool running freely down his withered chin and him croaking-feebly. "May legs is-done, only for these iron boys I wood have to sit on my arse in the house". Auld Domino had his wits about him, there was know senior diminutive gnawing like a rat at his brane. Every nite, before I use the po, I fall on my knees and prey, "OH Lord, let knot your hand-midden Rosie grow Do-Lally in old age, by your loving grace, may I always no my arse from my elbow, untill the day I die-AMIN"
I wore the knew drawers at auld Domono's funeral and do you no something, they were that comfortable, you wouldn't even no they were on!

My books and books of poems can be found at all Eason shops or from...
If any of youse wood like a pear of drawers, like what I have got, drop me a line. I swear to God, you wouldn't even no you had them on. The knew drawers is-WONDER-BAH!

Monday, 8 December 2008


Dawn broke over the bog, revealing a vast, frozen, icy, barren tundra. Winter had nature by the throat and was holding on like a famished ferret. Know flora nor fauna grew on the icy and desolate waste land. Any young shoot, that dared poke its snout above ground, had the snotter cut off it by the frosty air and the cold, keening wind. It was like earth after a nuclear war, when some head banger in the Whitehouse went do-lally and pressed the red button. And yet--the bog still had beauty, a cold, sterile, terrible beauty, that could only be appreciated like someone like me with a poetic bend. Like auld Patrick Kavanagh, from Monaghn, I sea beauty in everything. A fragile flour, a weed, clinging to a wall like Spiderman, even cow dung has a secret beauty if you lie down on your belly and view it closely. Many a thyme, I have gazed into the face of a cow pat and scene the wonders of the Lord.
Back in my picturesque white cottage, my Sun Bon Jovi and I had just got up from us pits. We stood side by side at the sink, washing us feaces with ice cold h2o. We were both arrayed in us drawers and simmets. I was splashing the icy cold water, round my perfectly formed oval face, like an otter. Bon Jovi was more hesitant, he would throw a few droplets over his fat, round face and then back away, roaring, "IN THE NAME OF-GOD!" Back then too the sink, splash another few wee drops round his visage, do a wee dance in his unlaced hobnaild boots and let another wild roar, "IN THE NAME OF-GOD!" "Bon Jovi" I said "Don't be an auld woman. Wash that big face of yours and don't be coming over all precious and namby-pamby".
"This damned water is wild-cauld!" roared he who had sprung from my lions. "Listen boy" I yelled "I could heat the kettle, but I'm knot going two, I am going too bring you up in Spartan conditions to toughen you up and make a man out of you". Bon Jovi stamped his hobnailed boot like a wee diva and roared, "Listen Dumbo, I don't care how much cauld water you splash round your own big, red, bleezer of a face, but I have a delicate komplection, I should be washing in warm water and using moist-ter-iser". It was the word, moist-ter-iser that made me lose the head, I grabbed Bon Jovi by his auld bull neck and held his head in the sink 'till bubbles came up. Then I hauled him out, gave him a good shake and done the same again. The kicking of his hobnails was vigerous and frenetic, but I held on. When I was finished with him, he looked like a drowned big fat pup. I threw a towel I had made from a meel bag at him and yelled "Stop your sniveling, I wool make a man out of you my boy, If I have too drown you". Bon Jovi stood there, with his too knees nocking and shivering like a whipped greyhound. The eyes were standing in his head and he was gulping for air like a goldfish. He staggered too the korner and collapsed on to a meel bag. I looked over at him, he was wet from head to tow, you could sea his wee hart thumping, behind his simmet. Our eyes met and the cub stared at me, with a look of pure malevelant evil in his close set eyes. Bon Jovi bend over, boaked out some soapy water and roared at me. "Well, you've done it-now! You have water-boarded your only begotten sun. You have treated me worser that auld Bin Laden, you have treated me worser that the boys how did the nines elevens". I felt a pang of sorrow but replied. "It's for your own good, someday you wool thank me". "I think knot" yelled Bon Jovi. "After what has occured here today, I feel-obligated too take certain-steps". "What do you mean boy?" I said, with a note of fear in my voice. Bon Jovi threw the towel from him and said "You do no what you have done here today? I mean, you are aware of the consequences?" "What are you talking about" I stammered, with a trembling lip. Bon Jovi looked at me, pointed with a rigid digit and roared, "You have just breeched the Geneva convention. You have broken rule 9 paragraph 4, subsection 17, which states, "Any wan found too bee engaging in inhuman or degrading torture wool be arrested and tried at the court of human rights in the Hague".I stood-transfixed, what had I done? I had turned my good cat-lick home into another Guatamo Bay! I ran to hug the cub, but he avaded my embrace. He looked at me with a fly smile on his face and said "I wool lodge a complaint with the peelers, on my way two skool". "Bon Jovi" I shrieked "You wouldn't imform on your auld mammy-wood you?" "It's knot a case of-informing" said Bon Jovi, "I sea it as my civic duty, oh by the way, do you have a middle name like, Maggie or Nellie, I wool need too no when I lodge the complaint". "Bon Jovi" I yelled "Don't tell the police on your auld mammy. I wool do anything too make it up two you". Bon Jovi smirked and said "I sometimes find, that if I am given-money, a sizeable amount of-money, I seem too lose my-memory". "YES, YES" I cried, "How much do you want?" "I think a-Fiver wood suffice" said the fly wee get. "Here's a fiver" I yelled "Take it and we'll forget all about it". "KNot so fast--torturer" said Bon Jovi, "There is wan other little thing I want you too do, before we are quits". "Anything" I yelled "Anything, just tell me what it is and I wool do it" "Which is why the postman is telling all round Clougher, about finding me sitting buck naked in the water barrel outside. The wee brute made me sit in it for fore hours. When I finally climbed out, there was bits of me that could do with a good ironing. Oh, and another thing, I don't feed the blue-tits anymore-too many bad memories!

To get my book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, go to..

I'm still-foundered, still foundered-down below!

Wednesday, 3 December 2008


I was asleep in bed, curled up coquettishly in the fatal position, like a big shrimp or a woodland faiere. I was arrayed-alluringly in ex-Israeli special forces kar-key pyjamas. Yehweh was ritten across the back of the pyjamas, it probably means, "All for one and one for all" in Israeli. Even when asleep, I could not help giving off a hi-frequenecy sexual radiance. I was softly-humming, like a nuclear reactor, sending out pulses and waves of pure feminine beauty, grace and attractifness. What a subject for a masterpiece by wan of the old masters, like Van-Go, Tight-Ann or Goy-Yah. "Rosie Rayan aslumber in her bude-wah" it could be called. Beauty, captured, for ever on canvas, for the titalition and indeed, delication of art lovers everywhere. As the rooster crowed from the midden of dung, I opened my oculars, threw off the bedcloths and prepared two meet another day. "Greetings little red caped farmyard foul" I cried. "Heralder of dawn, sturdy little, feathered sentinel, calling like wan of them boys up on a mosque, for the people too leap up and greet the coming day". I then went into my morning excercies, bend to the rite, bend to the left, running on the spot and trying too touch my toes. This dawnish exteration lead two much breaking of wind, which greatly inproved my constitution and red me out for the day. As the fowl gasses billowed up like veritable thunder clouds, I ran--lady-like too open the winda. I had too rub the condisencion from the pain of glass, before I could gaze at the pornographic vista which lay outside. The bog was still there, exactly where it was last nite. I am always feard that boys mite come in the middle of the nite and take the bog away in lorries. As the bracing, fresh air filled my room, I nudged the full po in under the bed with my big tow. One thing I abhor is cleaning up spilled urine, the chlorine brings tears too my eyes. Suddenly, my grate brane threw out a thought, could urine and onions be related? When one peels an onion, tears flow as layer after layer is exposed, could the pure, essance of-urine lie at the heart of an-onion? I must rite too the effing Ramsey cook too sea what he thinks. I may have hit on something that could change the cullinary landscape. "First dice an onion into a hot frying pan, if you haven't got an onion, just squat on the frying pan and release about 10 cubic centimeteres of-urine" It could revolunise the art of cooking. Young female cooks wood have two learn the art of squatting over a red hot frying pan without burning their under-carriages. And health and safety, wood probably insist on a-Brazilian, too decrease the chances of fire.
"Rosie" I said to myself "What a woman you are, you arise from your nightly slumbers and before you kan say, "Fats Domino" your mighty brane is spewing out thoughts and ideas like Gally-Leo, Pluto and the boy who invented the sliced pan loaf".
My Sun Bon Jovi looked at me with his good eye, as he stuffed a paris bun into his facial orfice and said. "Imagine this!, I go two skool-rite?" "Go on" I said As I gave the dog a riser for leaving feaces on the floor. "I go too skool" said Bon Jovi "I study hard and become a teecher, then I teech children and they go on to become teechers two!. !What's rong with that?" I said "You have a good job and you are looked up two in the community, what's rong with that?". "Let me expand" said Bon Jovi. "Recapping, I study to be a teecher, then I teech wains and they all go on too become-teechers and then the wains they teech go on too become-teechers, Do you sea what I'm getting at?" "I do knot" I said "You are spreading headcuation-like slurry on a field, you are making more teechers, what's rong with that?"
"The circle must be broken" roared Bon Jovi "If we go on, producing teechers ad nauseam and ad finitum, its just groundhog day all over again. Bye now, the hole world is-teechers, but ad interim, who is going two clean out shucks, grow spuds or make-pan loaves?"
I stood back in wonder and agogness, My sun, my only begotten-sun, he who had sprang from my lions had come up with that condimentum!. So young, so unwordly, so-fat and yet, there he stood, in unlaced hobnailed boots, coming out with a highly headucated cracker like that.
I patted the cubs big, round, cannon ball head and said, "Well done number one sun, but the answer is simple, the shucks will still be cleaned, the spuds grown and the pan loaves made".
"Who's going too do it?" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Elementally my deer Bon Jovi" I said. "The teechers wool do all those jobs during the big, long holly-daze they get".
The cub made a face, kicked the coal bucket and muttered softly-"Bollocks".
"What did you say?" I roared. "What did you say just now?"
Bon Jovi, gleeked up with a face full of innonence, but a craftey look in his eye and replied.
"I said-Pollocks, the Pollocks were all good painters, but Jackson Pollock, was the best painter of them all".
I watched the cub go off two skool, with his skoolbag trailing in skitter. Master Bon Jovi was getting too fly, too fly for his own good, I must keep him off skool one day a weak, in case he turns into a smart ass. No one likes a-smart ass, not even their mother. Saint Paul indeed was rite, when he rote two the phillistines, "A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing"

My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson is availabe from all Eason shops and from the igidt below.
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
I must away now, po's too empty and bread to bake.

Sunday, 30 November 2008


"When tempest blast and rain doth pour, wench arise and,SHUT THAT DOOR!" (Shakespeare)
The cold rain was fair lashing off my winda and icy blasts of sleet beat against the door. Wind blue down the chimney, making my fire of bog oak, milk cartoons and an old plastic bucket flare up and illuminate the dark, gloomy room with heat, warmth and unbounded snugness.
I was langushing-gracefully on a meel bag, Chuck Corona my boyfriend and Free State Latherio lay over my knee, like a beached, blubberous bull seal. I looked down at my lover, Chuck Corona, the only wan, apart from mammy and daddy, who new about the pentacle shaped birthmark on my rite hip. We had know secrets, I new Chuck's body like the back of my hand. The wild hairy back, like a babboon, the dunt that Shane McGowan gave him on the ribs and the squelching sounds his oxters made, when the sweat was fair lashing off him.
I gazed down at Chuck from under my red, bushy eyebrows. I scrutinised my-paramour, the squat, round head, the rugged pox-marked face, the nose, bent slightly too the left, dew too a batter from Eamon Dumphy. The deep set eyes, covered by wan black hairy eyebrow. I lowered my eyes-demurely, and imagined his swirrly belly button under his lime green gansey, a belly button that could hold more blew fluff than any man I new. Chuck gazed up at me with too black eyes, eyes as black as a bog whole with know bottom. I spat out a glob of flem and smiled down at Chuck, Chuch responded by pulling back his thick, rubbery lips and revealing his mouthfull of uneven gnashers. "Look at-you" I cooed.
"Look at-you" growled Chuck. Static electricity ricocheted off the walls, like bullets from an AK47 assualt rifle. Chuck pursed his lips out like a hen trying to lay a giant egg. I gazed in wonder, at a stream of silvery, saliva running down the deep cleft in his chin. I bent over Chuck, my matted mass of red hare obscuring his charming visage. Our lips met with a-PLOP, I was overcome with the aroma of Coldgate toothpaste and John West tuna. Chuck nibbled at my bottom lip like a ferret. I grabbed Chuck's sticky-out ears with both hands and wrung them like a dish cloth. Chuck's Hush Puppie shoes, were scrabbling for traction on the cold, cement floor. My too sturdy legs were going into spasmodic spasms, making my hobnailed boots beat a tatoo on the floor. LOve was in the air, I could feel it in my fingers, I could feel it in my toes. It was a nite for--lamore, a nite for-love. With a girlish wiggle, I manuvered by slim, slender 18 stone feminine body to get a better grab at Chuck. THEN, the meel bag tilted over and I was through on my arse too the floor, up two the oxters in hen meel. Chuck pulled me out from the tsueami of chicken nourishment-but-the spell had bean broken the magic was-gone. I got demurely and gentilly too my feet, grabbed by sore ars--derriere and roared, "Hell, Damn, Bum and Blast" and I began too kick the be-jesus out of the bag of meel with my hobnailed boots.
Later, after a supper of fried stoat and John McCain oven chips, I deposed myself and calmed down. "Chuck" I riposted, "What are we going too kill and eat this year for us Kristmas dinner?" Chuck pursed out his thick lips and replied "What ever you like, my deer, I'm easy, what wood Bon Jovi like for his Kristmas dinner? For Kristmas is for the wains after all". I threw my slender, girlish, maidenly arms up in the air and yelled. "That sun of mine wood eat anything that isn't nailed down. I have never scene such a varocious appetite in a cub, I reached the wee gulpin the buttered heel of a pan loaf the other day and he nearly took the hand of me. The cub is a--rottweiler, a veritable-rottweiler". Chuck laughed and replied, "He's a growing boy, a growing boy wood eat you out of house and home". "But Chuck" I schreeched "the cub is knot growing UP, the cub is growing-OUT!" "Don't worry about the cub" said Chuck "Nature is just laying the foundations, when the foundations are sound, the cub wool spring up like a skyscraper. "I hope so" I said, biting my nails, "I don't want too be known as the mother of the cub, who is built like a brick shi--outhouse". "The cub wool be all rite" said Chuck "Now come and give daddy-some sugar". "Oh Chuck" I shrieked, "you have the sexual appetite of a pole kat" and I tripped-daintly across the floor and threw myself into the welcoming arms of-Chuck Corona. And daddy got his sugar, Chuck got more sugar that Tate and Lyle could made in a day.
But remember children, don't try this at home, Chuck Corona and me has an understanding from the boys in the Vatican. We have knot bean given the green lite-but we are on amber.

My book Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson can be had an any Eason Shop or from below.
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
Oh, my bum is still sore from when I fell off the meel bag but is getting better by the day. rosie xxx

Monday, 24 November 2008


I looked at my sun, Bon Jovi, my hart fair full of maternity love and said. "Now, remember Bon Jovi, when I'm away in Clougher, you keep this door closed. The cunt'ry is teeming with auld weirdos and prevertoes, so don't open the door two KNOW wan".
"Don't you worry mammy" said the fruit of my lions. "Until you come back again, this house will be like the Alamo, and I will be like Jim Boo'ie".
"Good cub" I said, "You have plenty to eat, there is a plate of cold ferret stew in the oven and a nearly full bottle of Iron Brue".
"Don't worry about me" said the lite of my life. "But mammy, don't forget the....
"You have the shotgun, both barrells are loaded and the safety catch is off, so what will you say if a perverto nocks at the door?"
Bon Jovi scratched his ring worm and yelled, "I roar, who goes there? Friend or po? if you don't klear off, I will blow the big head off you. But Mammy, don't forget the...
"Good boy" I said "But remember, you must give a warning before you shoot, oh and another thing, don't go shooting the postman or the milkman".
"I won't" said Bon Jovi "Unless they make a groap at me, but mammy, don't forget the....
"Just wan more thing" I said "Know cooking, I don't want you trying to cook and end up burning down the ancient, anticestoral home of us Ryans".
"Don't worry, know cooking" said Bon Jovi, "But mammy, just wan more thing, don't forget the...
"Don't worry my Bon-Ah Me" I said "When I return, I wool have half a pound of brandy balls in my pocket, for my wee Bon Jovi, my wee--tadpole"
As I sauntered into Clougher, swinging my arms and throwing out my hobnailed boots like Kate Moss, I could knot fail two sea that Winter was upon us. Ah, Winter, a thyme of chill-blanes, runny noses and running in haste for a cold enduced slash. During the cold weather, one's blather, looses it's rigidity and urine finds free passage to unwary drawers, or indeed, one's bed. Winter has it's own stark, bare, barren beauty. The branches of the dead trees, sill-u-ated against the sky, like groaping fingers, reaching for the son. The silvery sparkle of haor frost on a gait post, so excutivite, and simply devine. The shucks are clogged with dead leaves and cow pats kan actually be held in the hand for closer inspection and admiration, thanks too the work of Mr Jack Frost. Winter, a time of-death, you kan actually hear the grim reaper coming towards you, through a carpet of dead leaves. Closer, ever closer, until he lifts his gleaming scythe and cuts you off at the socks, leading to demise or the popping of clogs. But Summer shall return. Summer, with its flours, tinkling streams and long, hot barmy nites. Once again, we wool kick off our wellingtons and Ugg boots and frolic-gaily in the sun dappled forest, with fairy, elf and woodland sprite. But until then, I wood say we are in for a rite good foundering
When I reached the evil, cursed city of Clougher, I made my way too the weemans shop, with grate grace, poise and a-plum. I pushed open the door, a bell tinkled, I yelled, "Holy Mother of God" and leapt back, expecting a bicycle to come flying out of the shop. I reproached the counter, a thin, weedy man with a boil on his neck reproached me, "Yes Madman" he said "Kan I help you?" "Where is the cutties" I yelled "I want to buy knew drawers, dew too wear and tear in the gusset of the boys I am wearing" "I am afriad" said the wee nuck, "That the girls is all off with flew, but I kan insure Madman that I am adept in all kinds of ladies underwear". I looked at his auld long, red thin nose, a nose just made for peeping threw key-wholes and said, "Oh, all rite then, I don't like it, so I'll have two lump it, I hate shopping for drawers, but as the man said, "Its a dirty job, but someone has to do it". "Tee-Hee-Hee" sniggered the wee nuck. "I have some lovely thongs that just came in too-day, wood Madman care too respect them?" "Know way-Hose-Zay" I roared. "I wore a wee thong once and I had too get it cut off at the hospital, under a local Ann-Ah-setic. Give me a pear of petite, blew drawers, with a 44 inch waste and direct me to a changing cuticle" I threw off all my cloths and tried too climb into the knew drawers. I got wan leg in and was hopping about to get the other leg in, when I took a dose of the head staggers and brust threw the changing room door and out into the shop. I rolled across the floor, noking down display stands and giving involuntary flashes of my under-carriage to all and sundry. I ended up on the back of a mail mannikan, legs akimbo and my arms grasped tite around his plastic neck. "Koncealment!" I yelled, "Cover me up with something, a dust sheet or a tar-paulin." People stood around in shock and awe, then as one, they began too throw drawers at me and soon my girlish, maidenly curves and contours was hidden under a mound of drawers. I wool never be able too go into that shop again. From now on all my drawers wool come from Kays katalogue and one lives in hope, that any returns, are knot scrutnised too closely for skid marks. And to cap it all, I forgot Bon Jovi's brandy balls and the wee gulpin nearly shot me!
Some thymes you have good days, other thymes you have bad days, that was a wild, bad day.

Get my book for Kristmas, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at all good to middlin' Eason shops, or from the gulpin below.
Go now to..

Thursday, 20 November 2008


What a placid, pleasant, domestos seen it was. My Sun, Bon Jovi, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, combing the hare of a deceased stoat. I was reclining-gracefully on a bag of meal, reading the thoughts of Marcell Proust and making notes in the margin with a green crayon. A big fire of bog oak and old wellingtons was roaring up the chimney. On a crook hung a pot and in the pot, the haunch of a bager, six spuds, too handfull of diced carrots and a bow-k garney of herbs, bubbled and boiled in gastric harmony. It was like a seen out of Hands Kristian Anderson, a fairy tail. Mother and sun, One playing with dead vermin and the other, expanding her mind, with a delve into the works of Proust. I looked at Bon Jovi, picking his nose with one hand and his ringworm with the other and a tsuamei of Mother love filled my hart. There he was-my sun, he who had sprung from my lions. Deceived on honeymoon in Bundoran and born in Clougher. There he sat, fair in form and face. The stooped, round shoulder, the one good eye, the little pot belly and just the mearest hint of a hump on his back. As usual, both nostrils were shedding snotters-copiously. That meant that his brane was working and producing waste. His big, round, cannon ball head, that defied concealment by any skool cap. HIs big, red, ruddy cheeks and just the hint of a moustache on his protruding upper lip. My boy, my cub, my child, hatched from a fertilised egg by big Hughie Ryan and given sancturay and safety in the darkness of my womb. Allowed too develop--like a tadpole, before he was hauled out, like a terrier out of a rabbit hole and given a good slap on the arse by the midwife. Ah, the wonder of-nature. Two make one and then they are three. And there he sat, staring into the face of a dead stoat, my cub, my angel, my-everything. I looked at him, with the love only a mother could have and went back to Proust. I turned the page with loving care, feasted my oculars on the ritten word and ejaculated. "NEIN Marcell, Merci and Achtung". "What is it mammy" said Bon Jovi, "Has auld Proust came up with another cracker?" I leaped to my feet, stood with legs akimbo, both hobnailed boots planted firmly on the floor and red what was ritten, "A BON CHAT, BON RAT". "What does it mean mammy" said Bon Jovi, "My French is limited, you wool have to transubstantiate it for me". "A bon chat, bon rat" I said, "Means, To a good kat a good rat, it also means, Tit for tat, or Set a thief to catch a thief". "That's a quare good auld saying" said Bon Jovi "I don't no how Proust keeps coming up with them". "But Bon Jovi" I riposted, "Marcell has spelt kat with a-C?" "Oops" said Bon Jovi Maybe his mind was on something else, like-frogs or-gill-ah-teens" "I kan't understand it" I cried "Marcell Proust of all people, spelling kat with a--C, when everyone knows it starts with a--K". Bon Jovi, put the passed over stoat down got too his feet and came over and hugged me. "Mammy" said the cub, looking up into my face with his good eye "You wool just have two accept it, knot everyone is as wild smart as you, knot even, Marcell Proust". "You're rite sun" I sighed, "When it comes too branes, I am like the fox, away ahead of the hounds". I rung my hands and shrieked, "Oh, it's so lonely at the top, my grate brane and wild smartness has turned me into a reclusive hermitess. People shun me because of my grate intelligence. I have often herd people saying "Let's cross the road, there comes that head-banger Rosie Ryan and she thinks she no's everything". Bon Jovi peered at me with his good ocular and said, "Why are you so smart mammy? Why have you got loads more branes than the edigts in Clougher?" I put my slender hand wearily too my brow and replied, It;s heraldry, it's all too do with jeans. Us Ryan's has kept ourselves two ourselves for generations. People say it's because no wan else wood take us, but that's not why, us Ryan's were keeping the jean pool from kontamination. When I was just a cuttie, I was a prodigal, a prodigal genie. When other cutties were out skipping, I was in the wood shed, trying two split the atom with a hatchet. No one ever played with me, they called me, "Auld pot head Rosie" because of the size of my brane. Ah, 'tis lonely, very-lonely too be the only genie in the village. But-never mind all that" I said. Get the plates and spoons out and we wool partake of this scrumpus repast. Oh, but before you do Bon Jovi, put the kat out or it wool be up on the table eating out of our plates". Bon Jovi sniggered and said, "Is that kat, spelled with a K or a-C?" Oh how we laughed. But their is many raisons Marcell got the spelling rong, he mite have bean in a hurry, or in the throes of acute-heftness.
And with that, Rosie Ryan who is rotten with branes and her sun, Bon Jovi, grabbed too big spoons and got stuck into the bager stew. Nothing warms you up on a Winter day, like a good tightener of-BAGER!
Get my book, letters to Gerry Anderson at all good Eason's bookshops and from...
NOW go to..www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com

Tuesday, 18 November 2008


Like Eskimo Nell, the Inuit maiden of poetry and song, I headed out to face the tempest blast and the anger of Thor, the God of thunder. It was a wild, bad day, just as the weathermen had predicamented, the wind was indeed fearful and thunder rumbled in the dark, billowing clouds. Gusts of wind flew across the silent, barren bog, like veritable invisable bulldozers. Know bird flew in the slate, grey sky, know animal forraged for food or sexual congress with another. The whin bushes were taking a hell of a beating, as they bent like old men before the scrouge of the wild, hi wind. It was on a day, such as like too day, that the travellor is made oblivious two the heat and warmth of a good duffle coat. "God bless Mr Duffle" I muttered, as I pulled my late mammies brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it about me. What a brane Mr Duffle must have two have invented a coat that is fuctional and also the hight of fashion. A duffle coat goes with anything, be it blew overalls, a long skirt, a short skirt or an evening gown. When a lady is arrayed in a duffle coat, with wooden toggles on it, she knows she will make a repression where ever she goes. Flash bulbs flash, as the pappa-ratzi foto-graph stars staggering blind drunk from nite clubs, wearing the latest French "shiek" desiginer duffle coats. When Mr Duffle made the duffle coat, he made a coat and a half.
I strode manfully into the face of the Gail, trying two shield my milk-made komplection from the searing wind. I was on my way two a tryst with my paramour Chuck Corona. When I thought of deer Chuck, my hart nearly brust through my lavender gansey and my innards were churning and boiling, knot unlike the warning signs of acute heftedness.Chuck Corona? the very name was a poem, a poem of longing, languishing, waiting for la-more to pierce the hart with an arrow, that wood made the knees tremble and send hot flushes, of inordinate redness, scurrying like clouds across one's eager, pouting visage. The wind pushed me back, I struggled forward. Forked lightening struck a dead tree, I yelled "Fie" put my head down and shouldered my way into the teeth of the Gale, like a rugby player. A peace of wind-blown deb-ree, an old zinc bucket with a whole in it, hit me a dunt on the side of the noggin, I forged on even stronger, with my head down and my ars--rear up in the air for ballast. NOthing wood keep me from Chuck, I was a hot blooded woman on the trail of her mate and nothing wood prevail against me. I was driven by a natural instint, that one see's in the fluttering sparrows, the humming of the B's and some-thymes-too dogs in the street. It wood take more than a bucket of water, too stop Rosie Ryan.
And then, oh be still my foolish hart, I spied him, there he was!, my true love, standing in auld Andy Garcias meadow, like the wee doat he is. I arose on my tip-toes, like a willie wagtale and shreiked, "Cooee, Cooee Chuck". Chuck waved and yelled something, but his words were grasped by the Hi wind and blown away like an old bit of toilet paper. I delicately lifted the hem of my duffle coat and charged towards Chuck like a galloping rhino. As I leaped rushes like a gazelle, I was complused two sea that Chuck was standing stationery and knot rushing two meet me. The reason soon became clear, as I neared Chuck's side, I saw my beloved was standing with a leg each side of a Hi barbed wire fence. I shrieked like a ferret kittling and cried. "Oh Chuck, my deerest darling, are you--pierced?. "Yes I am" cried Chuck. "I let a roar and clasped my two slender hands too my girlish, maidenly face and screeched. "Is the damage, irrepairable?" "I don't no" yelled Chuck, into the wind, "I threw one leg over this barbed wire fence, but when I tried to throw the other leg over, I got caught, caught by the fork of my trousers". "Merci" I cried, "What are we going to do, at tall, at tall, at tall, to excriate you from the protruding barbs of the wire? A kar jack" I yelled, "We need a kar jack, but where is one two get a kar jack in such a rustic, rural invoirnment?"
I could knot think straight, my hands were all a tremble, I ran around in circles, jumping over clumps of rushes and letting shrieks out of me. Then I deposed ,myself and regained my eek, quay, lib-ray-um. I ran towards my impaled boyfriend and grabbed for him by the fork of the trousers with both hands. "Ease up Chuck my deer" I gasped, "while I pull on the intersection of your trousers". It was know good, Chuck was stuck fast and every moment coming nearer to doing grate damage too his manly accouterments. I could sea that my beloved was getting tired. "Don't sit down Chuck" I yelled "Are you'll be buggered". Oh what a horrible thing it is, for a fare, slender maiden two sea her boyfriend impaled by the under-carriage on barbed wire. I grabbed too more handfulls of fork and pulled again. It was know good, Chuck Corona, my bow and main squeeze, was well and truely snagged by his reprobative organs. "KNow more family allowance" I yelled, as I tugged and tugged and tugged. "My legs are giving out" wailed Chuck, "I must soon rest what is concealed in my trousers, upon the spikes of the barbed wire". "Know Chuck" I screeched, "If you wool knot think of yourself, think of-ME!". I racked my brane in vein, to think of the patron saint of men caught by the fork on barbed wire. Then I heard a low roar. "Chuck!" I cried, "Have you rested your under-carriage and are now bleeding-copiously?" "That wasn't me" yelled Chuck, "It was-him!" and Chuck pointed with a rigid digit. I spun on my hobnailed boots and nearly shi--scared myself too death. Up on a hill, stood a bull, a grate, big brute of a bull. "Torro" I yelled, "Torro, up on the hill". The bull looked down on us with too, wee red eyes, then it pawed the ground and threw up earth like a JCB. The bull, lowered it's huge head, let a wild, "MOOOO" out of it, and charged down the hill. I stood there, transfixed, with my hands on the fork of Chuck's trousers, then I gave a shriek like a mating pole-kat and took two my heels. Behind me I heard the RIP of Donegall tweed and Chuck Corona flew past me, with the mangled fork of his trousers flying in the wind. When we got home, I pulled the trousers from Chuck and respected the damaged area. His gentiles were like a pin cushin. I dabbed on some anty-bi-otic ointment and whispered, "now wood be a good time to insert some-rings". Chuck never spoke, he rolled over on his side and sucked his thumb like a baby. I watched over Chuck all nite, when he twitched and trembled all over, I wood whisper softly in his ear. "Don't worry my deer, all is presant and accounted for". And deer Chuck wood go back two sleep, with a little smile on his face. You should sea the fork of Chuck's trousers, eviscerated, that's what they is, --eviscerated!
I have nothing against-eunuchs, but the trouble is--neither have they!

Buy my book, letters to gerry anderson at eason's or below...
Go now to.. www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
I gave Chuck's trousers to the alsation to play with!

Monday, 10 November 2008


Under a lowering buttermilk sky, I found myself on the low road two Clougher. Clougher, the city of sin and depravity that is ritten of in the book of the Ah-pock-ah-lips and is whispered off, in muted whispers, in the bazaars of Babby-Lon and Con-stant-tay-noble. Clougher, where even the black imps of the devil wool knot set foot, due too tarra fear and feelings of repugance. Clougher, where the red Biddy flows like H2o and the roaring, shouting and guldering goes on two nine oh clock every Saturday nite. But I had good reason too visit the den of eeh-nick-quit'ee, I needed too buy a pan loaf, half a pound of streaky bacon and a toilet roll, the pink wan that is soft on the ars-derriere.
I whistled shrilly, like a pee-wheat as I walked and drank in the grate beauty of nature with my poetic occulars. The Clougher valley, what a site two behond. A veritable rain forest, where it is whispered, pigmays roam and canniballs gorge on the flesh of unsuspecting travellors, who have bean dragged off their bicycles and hit over the head with flint axes. What beauty lay before me, I drank it in like a wino, the flora, the fauna, the tweeting birds, the shrieking vermin, the Baa's of the sheeps on the hills, the Moo's of the bovines and the soft plop of a horse relieving itself. Beauty, beauty, every where I looked. I felt the poetic muse desend on me, my artistic hart gave a-leap and the colly-wobbles of inspiration set my gizzard a tingle. I could hold it in know longer, I had two give vent. I leaped out in the middle of the road like a devrish, arrayed in brown duffle coat, with wooden toggles on it and sparkling hobnailed boots, raised my slender, artistic arms Hi in the air and roared.
Overcome with my own elequence, I cried aloud, "Oh Rosie, you have suppressed yourself, that was a cracker, and wool take it's plaice in your ledger of poetic and artistic utterances". As I stood there in the middle of the road like Keats, Browning or big-fellow, a small, brown cow, with it's hips covered in skitter, came up too a gait too view me. I looked into the bovines big, black eyes and new what it was thinking.
"There stands a rural, rustic midden, with the beauty and grace of Marlyon Monroe, before she fell in with the Kennedy's and deceased herself in the middle of the nite, with them damned, auld Temazepam" I gave a skip-like a would-land sprite and proceeded two Clougher, where the air is fowl and the pouplance is even-fowler. When I reached the city limits of Clougher, I poured a lemonade bottle of holly water over my self and ran into the Spar supermarket, yelling religlously, "FROM THE SNARES AND PITS OF THE DEVIL, MAY THE GOOD LORD DELIVER US".
Later that nite, after a good tightener of roast stoat, the buttered heels of pan loaves and teeming mugs of Iron Brue, Chuck Corona, my boy friend and my only begotten Sun, Bon Jovi lay round the fireside like three lurchers. A lot of wind had bean passed, since the last stoat bone had been crunched between salivating nashers. We were stuffed, stuffed too the gunnels. Suddenly, Bon Jovi broke wind with fierce and unnatural ferocity. "Hauld on boy" I yelled, "Just you hauld on there. Do you knot no that breaking wind, like the decanter of Port, goes round the table in a clock-wise direction? Chuck broke wind last, so it was my turn next, I was just easing up on wan hip, when you went and rattled the delph". Bon Jovi, snapped his fingers and roared, "I don't give a fig for convention". And the wee brute let another dunder, that scent the kat flying under the bed. "You-wee-wee--Pallestine" I roared, "If you were invited two Buckingham Palace and went on like that, too footmen wood have you in the tower before you could say, Fat's Domino" "Piffle-tiddle and tosh" sneered Bon Jovi "The wan who should go first is the wan that is in most need and rite now I need a good..." Then the wee gulpin, let go with the most almighy BANG, that scent the foto of the knew German Pope flying off the wall. That was when God stepped in, in an effort two startle, impress and amaze us, Bon Jovi inadvertently followed through. The juvinile, farting miscreant was banished from the dining table and scent out two the water barrell two cleanse himself. Chuck sighed and said, "Ah, the folly and stupidity of youth, many a thyme I have done the same myself". "We all have Chuck" I riposted, "But the cub wool have two learn two guage the pressure of internal combustion" After I had filled the room with lavander air spray, Chuck and I began two canoodle and indulge in some rumbustous gansey fisslin'. Like most ladies of gentility and quality, it takes more that the whiff of faces two put me off my canoodling. As Chuck sank his nashers into my long, swan-like, slender neck, like a vampire, we could heer the splashing of the untouchable outside the winda. How I laughed as Chuck whispered, "Seem's like a job for--Lifeboy".
My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, would make a better stocking filler, than a big, fat, blue-veined leg, but get in fast, not many left, order from...
And for something completly different, go to...
And did Bon Jovi clean up? You betcha'

Wednesday, 5 November 2008


A cold, hard, penetrating frost had left the terra firma as hard as steal. I moved about the yard-gingerly, in my hobnailed boots, knot inviting or wanting a cope on my firm, round, plump girlish derriere. My breath exhailed before me, like smoke from the exhaust of a kar that was burning oil. A silvery sheen of hoar frost clung to everything, like icing sugar on a cake. It was-Winter, cold, hard-Winter. Far away in the distance, I heard a sheep dog go "Wow-Wow". "That's Murphy's Nellie" I muttered "Why don't they take the crater in and let it heat itself at the fire?" The horizons had shrunk, everything was veiled in a strange, fairy-like mist. I was ka-cooned, ka-cooned, in a bubble, like an esk-ski-mo in wan of them glass balls you shake, to sea the snow fall down. I bent over, gracefully too pick up a plastic bucket, it was stuck, stuck too the ground with the frost. As I bent, a chill blast of wind blue up my skirt,and tried to gain entrance, to that part of me that is designed for the accomadation of exiting wind. I repelled the icy blast, by raising slightly on wan foot and emmiting a loud, warm warning fart. The icy wind fled in fear and confusion. Suddenly, I stiffened like a sentenial and harked, Did I heer a sound coming from the icy wilderness? I pinned back my lug-holes and harked again. Yes, it was the sound of my true love Chuck Corona, coming threw the bog, two visit she who had stolen his hart, Rosie Ryan. My cheeks flushed red like a turkey, my hart leapt within my rib cage,like a hungry hamster, my blood was rushing threw my viens, a veritable tide of red plasma, bubbling and boiling with love and passion. I rubbed the snotters from my icy nose with my sleeve, in preperation for the welcoming kiss. I climbed the frozed midden like Sir Edmund Hilliary and roared, "Cooee Chuck. Cooee Chuck, Cooee, my little Chuckie". I inverted my lug whole, listening for Chuck's reply. Chuck was in poetic mode, as his squat, round, humped figure came in site, I heard my beloved bellowing with poetical gusto.
"Oh Chuck" I shrieked "Another poetic master-peace, how do you do it my love? You are indeed, the King of the poitical world". Chuck grabbed me like a grizzly bare and kissed and slabbered at my face, until all my acne ointmant had bean washed off. I snuggled up against Chuck's manly chest. I could feel his aroma, so I flared my nostrils and sniffed the smell of-"Man" up my quivering hooter. I detected, tobacco, John West Tuna, the exotic whiff of Old Spice and just a teeny-weenie hint of-urine. I know it's knot easy for a man two shake the last drop off on a frosty morning. I grabbed Chuck by his appendage, the appendage in question being his arm and dragged him into the heat and comfort of my rurual, rustic abode. My sun and the pride of my life, Bon Jovi, was sitting crouched over the hearth like a hobgoblin. "Bon Jovi" I said "Move over and let Chuck heat himself" The unmannerly wee gulpin, shifted over and mumbled in a wild hateful auld voice. "Move over Bon Jovi, let Chuck Corona get all the heat, Bow down Bon Jovi, in front of the grate Chuck Corona. If I had my way, I wood stick my toe, up Chuck Corona's big, fat ars..." "SHUT UP, you wee gulpin" I roared. "Chuck is a gest and I invited him in. If you don't like it--lump it. Now move over, you wee imp from hell, or I'll bring that coal shovel down on your big, round cannon-ball head and swing for you in Crumlin Road". "Ah, leave the cub alone" said Chuck, with a smile too me, "Sure the poor lad is foundered. Here Bon Jovi, take that bar of Cadburys fruit and nut chololate that I bought just for you on my way here". Bon Jovi's demenier changed, the sulk went off his face and was replaced by the smile of a crocodile. "Ah, tis youself Chuck Corona" the wee get said, "I didn't sea you there, come away in man and heat yourself, I was just saying the other day, Chuck Corona is a gentile man". I looked at my too men, sitting shoulder two shoulder in front of the fire. Tears came too my eyes, as I added a slash of water to a tin of Baxters Scots broth too make it go around. After a good tightener of soup and the heels from a Mothers Pride loaf, we just sat there, the three of us. The glow of the fire, reflected off our big, red feaces. As night desended and the frost tightened it's grip, Chuck began to sing in loud, baroom, Ronnie Drew (May he rest in peace) gulder.
OH how we laughed, Its the simple things in life that make us happy. A good fire, a bowl of soup, a roof over your head and good company. Yes, it's the little things in life, the-simple things in life that make me happy. And you won't find anyone more-simple, than Chuck Corona or my sun, Bon Jovi Ryan. I curled up in the korner like a kat, the lovely, feline Eartha Kitt and guldered, "FINE GIRL YOU ARE, as Chuck gave vent two an old Irish tune, that in my 'umble opinin, sums up the temperature of the Irish People. What a people we are, undeterred by famine, frost, rain or 12 years of terror by the Showbands. Auld Mother McCree, mite have bean down, but she always got up again, called for another drink and kicked up her auld skinny legs in an Irish jig. BALLS, that what the Irish is, BALLS, we always bounce up again.
If you want my book of letters to Gerry Anderson for Kristmas, hurry, stocks are getting wild low. Go to...
And if you want more information on how to deal with this thing called-life, go to...
And I'll see youse when I see youse, so be good and if you see your brother standing by the way, drive on and say, "I wonder what that boy is doing at the side of the road, he must be on the tear again!"

Wednesday, 29 October 2008


Under a mellow, yella gibboness moon, I tripped-gaily with my boyfriend Chuck Corona. My newly polished hobnailed boots crunched on a veritable carpet of fallen, Autumnal leaves. Howls flew overhead and hooted excitely when they spied a fleeing, scurrying rodent, who had left the nest for an alfresco slash or indeed a number too. I shivered like frogspawn, I felt-eyes upon me, the eyes of the night. I clung onto Chuck like a wino clutching a bottle of red biddy. I was attired alluringly in Autumnal brown. My mammies brown duffle coat, with the wooden toggles on it, brown tites and a flowing dress in a delightful hue of umber. I was a-vision, a vision too behold, as I walked threw the stark, dead forest, throwing my feet out with abandon and swinging my arms with youthful, feminine grace and charm. Any imp, pixie, gnome or hobgoblin, that was peeping from behind the withered flora and fauna, could knot help but see, that the human who was Rosie Ryan, was indeed, fair of form and face. I felt at home in the gloomy forest, us Ryan's has a little fairy blood in us veins. This interesting abnormality manifested itself in a love, some mite say, an addiction for hollow logs and toad stools. My long, matted mass of red hare, was none encumbered with ribbon, clasp or hare grip. I was, naturale, a free spirit, an-imp of the forest, gambling freely, like a forest sprite, giving off a glow, a sensual glow of womenly beauty, poise and grace. I stood alone as deer Chuck went behind an ancient oak tree for a slash. I kicked leaves, wantonly and surveyed my surroundings with big, brown eyes, akin two a dear that had the guts tore out of it with a shotgun and was stone dead. Chuck came from behind the oak tree, wiping his hands on his firm, muscular manly hips. "Ah, that's better" cried Chuck "better out than in" and without any warning or preamble, put his foot behind me and coped me on the broad of my back on a carpet of leaves. When I fell, I gave a yelp like a pup with distemper and broke wind in a charming, feminine, lady-like way. Chuck lay on top of me, like a sack of spuds. I gazed in wonder at the vibrating hairs in Chuck's flared nostrils. "Was this were the ancient Irish got the idea for the harp?" I wondered. Deer Chuck looked down at me and my grate beauty awoke the muse that slumbers in all with Celtic blood. Chuck, red his throat, burped, broke wind and came out with this poetic verse, that I wool simply have to get sewn into a sampler. It goes-thus...
"Devine" I shrieked "Simply-devine. Oh Chuck, you could have made a few bob, going round the Irish castles, singing, dancing and regalling all with your poetic utterances" Chuck smiled down at me, with a bewitching glint in his coal black eyes. "What are you smiling at, you-you-little tadpole?" I said. "Chuck leered like a gargoyle and said, "I've got a-little something for you my sweet". "Where?-Where?" I ejaculated shrilly, with a look in my occulars like a wain on Kristmas morning. "It's in my pocket" said Chuck "my-trouser pocket". "Oh, you little tease" I yelled, as I stuck my hand into his pocket to the elbow. My groaping digits found something, but it wiggled away. "What is it?" I yelled, "It keeps moving" I tried again and pulled the wriggler out. And there it was, a lovely little, green frog. "It's a presant for Bon Jovi" said Chuck "I no that the cub is into vermin, rodents and all kinds of aquatic mammals". "Oh Chuck" I trilled, "Bon Jovi wool love this little toad, he who sprang from my lions, has grate repore with anything that isn't human" "Now" said Chuck, leering down at me like Bob Hoskins, how about a kiss for the bearer of the frog" In my eagerness too meet him half way, I dung my hobnailed boots ito the earth for traction, but alas and alac, slipped on skitter and head-butted Chuck rite in the face. I had some hanlin' getting the blood out of my flowing, umber dress. Poor Chuck got too stitches in his upper lip and wan in the bottom. --The bottom lip, I mean, knot his-bottom. Deer Chuck is sitting at home, sucking champ and Iron Brue through a straw. LOve, L'amore, kan be so-painful, just look at Romero and Julie.I am sitting alone at home, with my tongue between my ruby red lips, sewing deer Chuck's poetic utterance of love into a sampler. Some day, when Chuck and I are both dust, for two dust we do return, that sampler will remain, a lasting testimony of the love that Chuck Corona had for the midden Rosie Ryan. And people wool look at it and go, "Aah, isn't that sweet"
If you want my book of letters to gerry anderson for christmas, go to
And try my friend at..
PS You may be interested two no, that Chuck's nashers are in situ and intact.

Saturday, 18 October 2008


I was stooped at the haggard, I had my Tartan skirt in the form of a basket or creel and I was throwing turf into it with my other, slender, girlish maidenly hand. I was bent over, showing a large expanse of red flannel drawers to a bovine cow who was chewing the cud adajecent too a rusty gate. The cow had a clear view of my maindely ars--rump and my girlish contours. Being bovine in nature the cow showed know sign of appreciation or indeed-admiration for my plump. voluptuous ass. If any man in Clougher, or indeed, surrounding districts had scene what the cow saw, they wood have gave one look at my ars--rear and bean driven mad by lust and passion. But the cow was an animal, it was knot human, so the site of my derriere, swathed in stout red flannel ment no more to the cow, than a clump of nettles are a rusty bucket discarded in the hedgerow. I looked at the small black turf and said, "Ah, turf, Irish black gold, what wood the Irish do without turf and spuds? Substance and heat. Ireland was the turf capital of the world. The Saudi Arabia of the bog. Turf is but one in a cycle of three. First the forests disappear and turn into turf, then the turf turns into coal and given time, the coal wool turn into oil. But the Irish are an impatient people, they never give the turf thyme two mature. Sometimes an older, wiser man wool say, "Hauld on boys, hauld on, don't go cutting the turf, give it time to turn too coal and then oil". But the foolish Irishmen wood snarl with their yellow teeth and gulder, "Shut your mouth Mickey Joe, my woman and the bits of wains are fair foundered and need the heat from a good turf fire". This Irish trait of impatience also comes two the fore where apples are concerned. The Irish can't wait until the apples ripen and eat them when they are young and green. This recklessness leads two many hours squatting in the whins, in the throes of skitter that is frightening in its ferocity and scary in the extreme.
Suddenly, as I straightened up with a skirt full of turf, I heard them. The faeries were on the move. I looked down the glen and saw a strange wind wending its way among the whin bushes. I ran to the house and pulled all the blinds. "Bon Jovi" I yelled to my sun, "the faeries are coming. "Bon Jovi gave a strangled yelp and scuttled under the bed, hitting his head a good dunt on the po. I stood at the half door shaking like a leaf on a tree. Certain customes and conventions had two be observed or the faeries wood curdle my milk, put a spell on the kat and lay fallow my reprobation organs. I watched in fear and trembling as they came up the lane. The faeries travel in a magical dust storm, which makes them invisable too the human eye. The wind was filled with a mournful, melon-golly keening. Grass and nettles lay down, submissively, little dust devils swirled up into the air, only two fall back down when they ran out of stream. I could feel the wind on my face, my matted mass of red hare danced and froliced. I pulled off my flat cap, tugged at my forlock, curtsied and cried, "Hail King of the faeries, I see youse are flitting, please feel free two traverse my yard. I hope your knew faerie mound is two your liking and long may youse dance to the music of the pipe and fiddle under the shelter of the hawthorn tree" Dust filled my eyes, I could sea nothing and yet I new that the King of the faeries and his hole retinue were on their way too a knew faerie mound. I felt no fear, I have faerie blood in me, oh how I wished I was going with them to sing and dance under a full moon. Over come with emotion, I ran out and yelled, "Farewell my friends, farewell" Then I gave a jump, as some thing pinched me on the ars--bum and gave a little Hi-tinkling laugh. Some of the faeries can be a wee bit impish and naughty. "Have they gone" whispered Bon Jovi, crawling out from under the bed, with a bruise on his forehead when he banged into the po. "Yes sun" I said, "The faeries have moved into that mound down by the hawthorn tree". "I was feard" said Bon Jovi, "I thought the faeries wood take me and leave you a wild ugly faerie child". I looked at Bon Jovi, the too nock knees, the pot belly, the sloped, round shoulders, with just the hint of a hump on his back and his big, round, cannon ball head and said, "Know sun, the faeries only change little baby's, if the faeries were going to change you, they wood have done it long ago". I looked at the cubs big ears that grew up into a point and smothered at birth a thought that was forming in my head. Later that nite, Bon Jovi and I took a mound warming presant down two the faeries. We took a baked wheaten scone, a mug of milk and two bars of Cadbury's Flake. I tip-toed down too the mound in the early morning dew, the giftes were-gone, the faeries had took them in and just in thyme, paw prints and dung give credance too the fact that the foxes had bean on the prowl. Thank goodness the faeries got there first. If you have a faerie at the bottom of your garden, cherish him, lavish all the love you can on him and, if you're lucky, some nite in bed, you wool feel the soft footsteps of the faerie around your bed. And how grate wood that be?
If you want to buy by book, Rosie Ryan;s letters to Gerry Anderson apply below.
And try my other blog. www,greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
If you want me, I'll be away with the-faeries. Rosie Ryan XXX

Friday, 10 October 2008


Autumnal was the day, little, white fluffy clouds chased each other across the broad expance of azure blew sky. The wind in the willows was softly whispering, telling-pear-chance the willowy willow about strange and exotic things it had scene in Gortin and surrounding districts. Birds, as is there want, flew on Hi, twittering, chirping, cheeping and cawing. The dead, brown bracken at the sides of the road, hung over the drains and shucks like wraiths at the wake of the year. It was so-still, so silent, no squak of duck, no screech of moorhen, no moo of cow, no grunt from sow, nor fart from hefted Clydesdale horse. It was-SONDAY, a Sonday in the month of October, and I Rosie Ryan and my sun and heir Bon Jovi, were on us way to mass at the little church of Saint Judas on the hill. It was a day for-prayer, a day for medication, a day to look deep into your hart and ask yourself, "Am I worthy two enter the house of the Lord?". I was wearing my Sonday best, my good green frock with the yella butterflies on it, my late mammy's brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it and a pear of highly polished hobnailed boots, that wood bring a smile two a Seargent Majors face. I was holding my sun Bon Jovi by the hand, two the casual observer, we must have looked a site two behold. Mother and sun, off two converse with God, in the plaice where he aboded. Us soles were as clean as us feces, no mark of sin was upon us. Mother and off spring were righteous in the eyes of the Lord.
As we neared the church, trickles of people appeared from every hill.dale and valley, all making their way to Mass. The smell of Lifeboy soap drifted over the fields. Auld idjits on bicycles with no brakes, flew bye, leaving an aroma of mothballs and old age. The wall of the graveyard, was a veritable scrap heap of abandoned bicycles, all lying on top of each other, in a hurly-burly of spokes, chains and pedals. Their owners had leaped off like Frankie Dettori and were now two be found, deep in conversation with the dead in the graveyard. Hands, arms and elbows flew wildly in all directions, as the aged congeration blessed them selves, with many flourishs and dexteridy of limbs. Bon Jovi and I entered the gloom of the chapel, ah, you could feel the presants of the Lord. Coughs, sneezes, hawking and spitting were tempered in deference to the lord God almighty. I tip-toed up the floor, to stiffle the clip-clop of my hobnailed boots and we slipped into a phew. I looked around me, know new hats today, auld Nellie Ramone looked the worse for drink and Peter Poot's boil was bigger than ever.
"Oh Lord" I entoned, "May your heavenly grace enter my hart, and fill me to brusting with, love, piety, devoation and wild holyness, AMIN"
Then the priest came out on the alter, a bell rang and the mass kicked off. It was so-stuffy in the chapel, so hot, the smell of incense and old cloths got up my hooter and I could hardly keep my eyes open. Then with a wild fit of coughing, sneezing and blowing of noses, we sat up for the sermon. The priest got into the pulpit and said, "My deer friends, the subject of todays sermon is-SIN!" Auld Nellie Ramone got a wild red face and looked at the floor. "YES" yelled the priest-"SIN. Imagine" said the priest, Just imagine that God came down from the cross and gave you a knew pear of shoes. Then you go for a walk out the Clougher road and you get the knew shoes covered in, tar, muck, clabber and dog dung. What do you think God wool say when you hand back the knew shoes". The shoes my brothers and sisters is your sole and the tar, muck, clabber and dog dung is--SIN!. Yes-SIN!" The holy Ghost came upon me and I drifted off, but I could still here the priest droning on and on. "On the day of judgement" said the priest. "you wool stand before the Lord God almighty too be judged. One by one, you wool have to stand in front of the Lord with your soles in your hands. And woe betide you if your sole is blemished or blackened by-SIN!. The LOrd God almighty, wool leap from his throne, point his finger at you and say.... "UP THRONE" I yelled, coming awake with a start. Too say that komotion followed, wood knot be putting it to lightly. The priest turned three colours of purple-then puce and roared. "Remove that heathen, that-infidel from the presants of the Lord" Four of the money-changers jumped on me and dragged me too the door. I fought them all the way roaring, "Unhand me, I am the Clougher Joan of Arc, a hand-midden of the Lord." The door of God's house was slammed in my face. Imagine, me? Rosie Ryan, a paradox of piety barred from the presants of the Lord. I battered and kicked on the door and yelled, "Let me in, let me it, if youse don't let me in, I wool tell God on youse. Let me in, or at least give me back my 10 pee"
The priest came out to see me that nite. He didn't exterminate me from the church. He just warned me too keep of the Red Biddy and the nite nurse. All the grate saints have suffered for their faith, and now, the Lord has decreed that I, Rosie Ryan also suffer. I have bean choosen. God has laid his hand on me and said, "If you suffer the jeers of the rude and mocking multitude in my name, one day in heaven you shall sit at my rite hand on a golden poof"
"In omni patri, et spirite sanctus-AMIN"
If you wany my book for Kristmas eeh-male this boy...
My other blog is...

Thursday, 2 October 2008


I danced daintly like a bally-rena, as I slipped demurly into my alluring, bewitching red flannel drawers with the stout treble gusset. I yelped, like a pup with worms as I felt the groaping, icy fingers of Jack Frost futtering round my secret, maidenly nooks and grannies. With a mighty heave, I pulled the drawers over my plump, voluptuous ars--rear and with a TWANG of elastic, anchored them two my freckled belly. Now I felt secure, Now I could face anything, knowing that my reproducing organs where konceled by the stout red flannel, that used two be used to make sales for sailing ships. Its hard two believe, that the same material that clung to my lithe, slender body, had once powered ships like the Bounty.
I daintly flicked away a cobweb from the suit-stained window and glanced out at the coming day. The North/East wind was veering from Gortin and surrounding districts, bringing with it the aroma of fried bread and dirty wains. I sat, legs akimbo in front of the turf fire. I could feel the life giving warmth permanate the parts that central heating could never reach. I reached, languidly for the buttered heel of a pan loaf and stuffed it with maidenly grace and grate fin-ese into my waiting gub. I took a slug of Punjanna and said, "Rosie Ryan, give thanks, give thanks too the good Cat-Lick God, that gave you grate beauty, poise and grace. People have kompared you too Kate Moss, the model who snuffs obnoxios substances up her hooter. Your sun, Bon Jovi, the boy child who sprang from your lions, is a cub of extraordinary ability. That cub wool make his mark in Hi-finance, doctoring or driving a big, red dung spreader. Your boyfriend, Chuck Corona, is a prince among men. He is a squat, round headed, pox-marked example of what a homo-sapien should be. You have plenty of turf at the haggard, a midden, full of good, ripe dung and a wheel barrow, with know squeaks in the wheel. Your water barrel is full of clear, sparkling H2o and your newly half soled hobnailed boots wool propell you threw any ice, slush or snow drifts that the coming Winter mite send. You are as happy as a door-mouse in your snug little nest. Let it rain, let it snow, let the cold wild Winter blow, you and your sun wool be happy". I arose-gracefully from my refractins and pulled on my mammy's brown duffle coat, with the wooden toggles on it. I needed excercise, I felt a compulsion two walk in the wilderness of the bog. Throwing out my knees with abandon and mulling over the reason for so much dark matter in the Universe and surrounding districts. Off I sallied threw the rushes, a slim, slender, statuesque 18 stone maiden, with the beauty of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy rolled into one. I could see, in my minds eye, the God's on Mount Olympus looking down and saying, "Hark, look there, in a bog adjacet two Clougher, walks a made in the form of a kuman, yet her bearing and her beauty testify that she must have come from the God's". I smiled-demurly, skipped like a would-land sprite, jumped a shuck with grate decorum and yelled at the top of my voice.
"UP TYRONE, WE'RE THE BOY'S WHO KAN DO THE DOUBLE" Then, Kalamity! Heftness came upon me like a thief in the nite. I ran, frantically for a large standing stone. With grate urgency, I divested all my under-carriage cloths, and squatted down, like a rhode island hen about two lay an egg. OH, the relief, It seemed as if a grate weigh had bean lifted off me. I remained in the squatting position. A frolicing zepher of wind played with my matted, mass of red hare. My scrutinsing occulars took in the beauty of nature. My lug-wholes were attuned two the cheeps of the birds in the air. A rabbit hopped up too me and gazed at me with twitching nose. "Hey, what's up Doc" I said in frivolous fashion. I was in-gay, carefree mood, as I squatted there, where long, long ago, the Druids sacrified virgins and then danced the nite away too the music of pipes and boran. SUDDENLY, a mental hand-grenade exploded in my head. I had know toilet paper! I looked around, frantically for grass, but the place where I squatted was devoid of vegetation. I searched my pockets for tissues--NONE!, What could I do? The beauty of the bog, was devoid of bum fodder. In desperation, I began two prey two saint Gunter, the patron saint of people with know toilet paper. "Oh, saint Gunter" I shrieked, "Look down with favour on your squatting daughter, send something, anything, two ease my plight-AMEN"
No sooner had the words left my lips, that a wild duck appeared, leading a flock of ducklings. As each duckling passed, I picked it up--used it and then picked up another one. Luckily the wild duck had hatched a large brood. So-soft, much better than the labrador pup. I arose from my squatting position and left that place, giving glory two the Lord for creating the humble wild duck, oh so handy two those in need. The morale is--never leave the house, without a piece of newspaper in your pocket. For as the good book says, "You know neither the time or hour".
My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, would make a good Christmas present for a loved one--or your husband. Contact this boy..
Try my other Blog at..

Friday, 26 September 2008


Walking in moon-lite,with grate beauty, like what I have got, is akin two a would-land sprite gambling in moon-dappled shady nooks and crannies. Ah, the magic of moon-lite, everyday, mundane things take on a magical, aspect. That old rusty po in the hedgerow, could be a shinning helmet worn by a night of old. The cow pat in the middle of the shadowy lane, could be a crock of gold. I was on my way two keep a tryst with my boyfriend Chuck Corona at our secret rondy-view, under the big oak tree that was stood standing adjacent two Murphy's pig sheds. I felt-eyes upon my person, the eyes of the nite. With a silent WHOOSH, a hunting, tawny howl flew over my head, eyes peeled for scurring rodents. The shrill shrieks of ferrets in the ditches, the piercing eyes of the hobgoblin, a frightened hare taking two its heels, the open-eyed stare of a wee fairy, perched suggestively on a toadstool. Ah, the wee half-naked fairy, so beloved by Hans Kristian Anderson, but anathema two the boys in the Vatican. The boys in the Vatican do knot understand the realms of the fairy world. We live side-by-side with the fairy folk, and yet-never meet, except when the fairys exchange a wild looking fairy child for a good looking human sprog.I have know fear of the nite. I love the beauty of the nite. Ask anyone in Clougher, or surrounding districts, and they will tell you, that there is something of the nite in Rosie Ryan. I look up at the full, round hyptnising moon and feel strange, unnatural urges. Oh two throw off the clothes of humanity and run, with arms out-stretched shrieking like a banshee, my red hare standing up on me like a Gorgan and the red glow of mid-nite madness in my maidenly, girlish staring occulars. Two feel the cool, fresh wind in my hare, FREE, Free from the restricion of clinging drawers and simmet. Two skip-gaily round the fairy mound, my maidenly bust unfettered. Too dance, dance, dance, caring not a fig for the prick of the hawthorn in my leaping, skipping, plump, demure derriere. Oh two entertain elves, frolic with fairies and hob-nob with hobgoblins. JUst want to dance the night away with leap-rah-con, faerie and would-land sprite. Ah, the moon, the moon, I must invert my human eyes, before the moon invades my brane and I divest my clothing and skip-nude as a plum through the enchanted forest.
My hart gave a skip, like Michael flattery when I saw my sole mate waiting by the old oak tree. There he stood in the moon-lite, standing squat, round and strong as a brick shi.. outhouse. My trembling lips tried two utter his name, all that came out was, Chu-Chu-Chu. I sped down the forest path two be by his side. My hobnailed boots causing a scurry in the fallen Autumnal leaves, like the Dukes of Hazard's big orange kar. When I was fully six feet away from the love of my life, I literally-threw myself into the air, like an acrobat and hit Chuck with all the velocity of a fragile, demure, maidenly woman in love. Chuch went down and I fell on top of him. We rolled in the Autumnal bracken like too wart hogs, I could feel the mouth organ in Chuck's trouser pocket. I coo'ed like a dove and kissed the gub of my wandering ministeral. When passion ebbed and love was saturated, we sat on the wet grass at the trunk of the oak tree, holding hands, staring into each others eyes and talking lovey-dovey. I looked at Chuck, the moon-lite cast deep, dark shadows on the craters of his rugged, pox-marked face. Chuck looked like a Satyr, the Greek God of the woodlands, part goat and part man. I snuggled close too my Pan God, like a vessal virgin and whispered. "Chuck, my love, how much do you love me?" Chuck reached for a fallen leaf, withered like parchment, nibbled at it with his large, uneven nashers and replied. "Ah, Rosie Ryan, Ah Chush-La-Ma-Cree, I love you more than the foam on a pint of Guiness, more that a good chaw of tobacco and more than the greatest donkey, that ever drew turf from the bog". "What an elequent declaration of love" I shrieked, "Utterally henchanting and Shakespeareian in the extreme" The magical nite seemed two go on for ever, and we just lay there, Hansel and Gertie, holding each other close. We were together--together, except for the times we had too slip away for a slash behind the beech three. As the first lite of morn appeared in the Eastern sky, Chuck broke wind with a plaintive drone. The stark, brite lite of the son lit up the harsh, cruel world of-reality. Our nite of magical enchantment was over. I got wearily two my feet, cleaned dog skitter from my hobnailed boots with a stick and returned too my mundane world, where the wind blows cold, dreams are shattered and the price of drawers and pan loaves is going threw the roof.
Ah Lamore, Give me moon-lite, where Rosie Ryan, pentagon of virtue, turns into Maeve-THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Reed my letters too Gerry Anderson in a book by this boy...
And go now to...
If any of youse out there is effected by the moon, like what I am, don't worry, it just means there's a bit of the fairy in you. And keep away from doctor's and mental hospitals, my daddy dyed in wan of them auld plaices. Yours, with grate affliction, Rosie Ryan. XXX