Saturday, 28 June 2008


As the music from Swan Lake filled my abode, I got up on the tips of my toes and shuffled round the kitchen, with my slender, girlish, maidenly arms raised gracefully in the air.
As the swan popped its clogs, I went into a fit of shaking, two denote just how sick the swan was.
As the lovely, plaintive melody drifted away, I kollapsed gracefully with my long, slender neck
out-stretched and my expressive occulars gazing sadly at my hobnailed boots.
Ah, I missed my vacation, I should have bean a bally dancer, Why oh why, did they knot teech bally at St Judas primary skool? I could have bean the Margaret Fontain of Clougher.
Nature created me two be a bally dancer, I was born with wild flat toes and as a child I could stand for hours on tip-toe at the dinner table, trying to snatch some nourishment from under the noses of dear mummy and daddy, who were getting stuck into some road kill with grunts, snarls and the odd bite. Ah, hapy daze, many a cut and gash I got, but nothing that ever required stitches. They wood often regurgitate food for me, the nosey-parker social services said they were vomiting over me, As if they wood, I was their little daughter Rosie, who had sprang smiling from their respected lions.
I arched my neck, put my arms in the air and danced out the front dour on tip-toe two sea what my sun BOn Jovi was up two.
"Damn, blast and die-ah-rea" roared the wee gulpin, as I tip-toed threw the long grass and nettles. "Hi boy" I yelled "What sort of language is that for a sun of Rosie Ryans too be up two?"
"Its this auld wheel barrow" roared the humpy wee brute, "I kan't get her two go into reverse".
I gave a hi tinkling laugh, like Amy Whinehouse and said "You stupid little goose, there is know reverse in a wheel-barrow, you have two walk backwards and pull the barrow behind you".
"I never wood have thought of that" said the cub "Mammy, you must be wild smart".
I adorned my countence with a mask of pensivativity and replied.
"Well, yes, I is, my mammy always said that the forseps slipped during my birth and my guess is that they activated and stimulated a dark region of my brane".
"I herd the priest and the skool master talking about you yesterday" said Bon Jovi.
"THey were standing at the skool gate, laughing and talking about you".
"And prey what did the too learned gentlemen say?" I asked.
" I didn't heer the hole of it" said Bon Jovi "I just herd them say, Rosie Ryan and then, buck stupid".
I smiled with pride and said "You don't need two be a genie two work it out, they were saying.
"The peeple in Clougher are all buck stupid with the soul reception of-Rosie Ryan".
When I saw my true love Chuck Corona coming threw the bog, I shrieked, I literary shrieked. I no my love by his way of walking, and deer Chuck was knot walking with his full zest and vigour, he was limping like an auld mongeral dog.
Of course, being a female woman, under-carriage trouble was the first thing that popped into my head. Should I yell, "How are they hanging?" I decided knot two, "Chuck" I shrieked.
"What ales you my love? your vigiorous, robust gate, has turned into a veritable crawl, have you had a nasty accident on the bicycle my love and squashed or mangled your manly
accouterments?" "KNOW" yelled Chuck "I have a boil on my ars-rear, the size of a ducks egg"
"Is that all?" I trilled "Come away in, I know just the thing two do. Now Chuck my deer" I said
"I want you too drop those lovely pee green trousers and any drawers you may be wearing and bend over that chair. Shh-Shh-know questions my love, leave it two me, I know what I'm doing, when it comes two bum boils I am a veritable doctor Kildare"
I quickly boiled a pan of water, until it was pipping hot, then, between gleeks at Chuck's manly contours, I got a bottle with a wide neck and dropped it into the boiling water, now, thyme was of the essance, I grabbed a large towel reached for the bottle, ran to chuck and rammed the neck of the red hot bottle over the red, inflamed produrence on his arse-sorry-derry air.
The bottle neck caused a vacuume, the boil brust like mount vasavious and Green puss erupted and flew into the bottle. CHuch gave a shriek, only my plump foot was on the back of his neck he wood have fled. I held the bottle too Chuck's hairy rear until the boil was emptied, then I held him to my loving, heaving bisum. Deer Chuck cried, yes, the big tough ex Garda She-kona sargent cried. Bon Jovi came running in and roared "What have you done two Chuck Corona-NOW?" When I explained, the cubs wrath disappeated.
I held deer Chuck as the golden son settled over the bog, "Rock a by Chuckie on a tree top" I crooned into his ear. Chuck was letting little whimpers and yelps out of him like a lost puppy.
Deer Chuck slept on the sofa, I bent too kiss him before I went two bed, my matted mass of red hare obscured his lovely features. "Sleep tite, little Chuck" I murmured. "Sleep tite".
Deer Chuck lay with his thumb in his mouth, drooling and dribbling, all thoughs of gansey fisslin' put on hold, as throb after throb of pane erupted like solar flares from his mangled rear.
Ah lamore-you have turned the lovely Rosie Ryan into lover and nurse.
(I know you are in a hurry to rush out and retrive your drawers from the washing line, but why not take time to go to.......(
www, greatshowlastweekkid. blogspot. com

Thursday, 26 June 2008


It was with fierce gaiete de cour, that your 'umble korrespondant skipped. bally-rena-like to the out house. As I made my way threw the long grass and nettles,following the well worn path that many Ryan's had trod when in the throes of heftedness, I saw my sun, my boy child wee BOn Jovi gleeking round the turf stack. What was the fruit of my lions up too? know good I wood say.
I wood deel with my off spring later, my degestive system was warning me that a load was emminent, thyme was of the essance. I entered the small wooden structure,AH, the feeling of piece, the feeling of -haven come home, this was the plaice where all the grate Ryan's had done their thinking, generations of Ryan's had sat, head cupped in hands, thinking how they could get more income support or do the double without getting caught. My own deer mammy had contrived a cunning plan in here, two get family allowance for fore wains, she diden't even have.
It was in the early 60's and when the DHSS scent out a letter, asking the names of the fore sprogs, quick as a flash, my mammy rote down, John, Paul, Ringo and George.
Deer mammy and daddy used the extra money two buy me a dummy and get blind drunk on red biddy whine.
As I lowered myself onto the well worn seat, with my imperial purple drawers round my plump ankles I muttered, "Gemuitlich" HOw comfortable,how cosy, how homely, or as Hair Hitler mite have said, Gemutlichkeit. I sat there, with my round, plump, full-moon, maidely face cupped in my slender, girlish hands, I was thinking of the ancient Geeks.
Ah, Grease,, the home of democracy, the home of headucation and learning.
I closed my eyes and pictured myself, strolling up two the panty-thon, with a white sheet threw round me, my wax and stylus in wan hand and a big kebab in the other.
The Geeks wood be hunkered round the temple, getting stuck into principles, auld arc-ah-medes, wood be telling every one about his screw and Sock-rah-tees wood be doing wild hard sums, that wood involve a lot of carring the wan and the use of the decrepid point.
"Ah, Rosieus" a Geek wood say "Grate oracle of Grease, the number oneus vestal virgin, what say the Gods today?" I wood give a tinkling, girlish laugh and reply.
"If any of youse has any drawers on the line, get them in now, for its going two pour all day".
Ah, I was born two late, "TWO late" I muttered, as I reached round behind me for the pages of Ireland's Own that were hanging from a nail.
"Gott In Himmel" I ejaculated, as my groaping hand found the nail devoid of bum fodder.
Where had it gone? I put a knew lot out only yesterday, where did it go? and here was me, sitting in an out house, without the necessary means of bringing my le-toilet too a satisfactory and Hi-genic konclussion. What was I to do? my predictament could only be described as-some hanlin'.
It was then I herd a small "Ah-hem" outside, it was my boy child, wee Bon Jovi.
"Loud and klear" said the wee gulpin, with a snigger in his voice "Are you all rite mammy? wool you soon be coming out?"
"BON JOVI" I roared, from the konfines of the crapper "I need paper, go into the house and bring me out some paper".
Silence, just the loud buzzing of blew-bottles round my plump, maidenly rear.
"BON JOVI" I yelled. "I neeed some paper, your auld mammy needs some paper, go into the house and get some like a bon cabellero".
Bon Jovi give an auld sinister laugh and said "We all need something, its a we all need something world. Commercialism running riot, you need-paper and I need a bicycle, I wonder if there is anyway, we could come to some-some meeting of minds, that wood result in paper for you and a bicycle for me?"
"You humpy wee gulpin" I roared, "that's blackmail and you no what they saw about blackmail, they saw it is a dirty word"
"They say the same about a dirty bum" laughed Bon Jovi.
"Now, if you wool just sign this legal contract which I have drawn up, you wool get your paper and I wool get my bicycle". "You wee get" I roared "You took the paper out of the shi out house".
"Did I? said Bon Jovi "Oh what a bad boy I am, I wonder who I learned that from? If you don't want to sign this legal and binding contract, I'm off two the bog too count tadpoles".
I had to sign, there was nothing else for it, the wee brute had me over a barrell.
As I adjusted my bloomers, at a 45% angle, I couldn't wait two get out at the wee brute.
I brust out of the out house like a Pampas bull but the wee brute had disappeared.
Far off in the bog I heard a mocking voice call, "Cock-a-doodle-do. Cock-a doodle-do"
I must get down on my knees too-night and prey two saint Dora that the monetary wee brute falls off his bike and cuts the big ugly face of himself.
WAINS--the itching powder in the gusset of life.

Now go to and see what's there. JP.

Monday, 23 June 2008


I was standing, sturdy legs akimbo, plucking a stoat in my cobwebbed festooned kitchen, I was humming an area from the Nut, that's a cracker sweet. I wood describe my mood as jovial and bubbly,as I peered out of my suit stained winda, I saw the large, round head of my sun BOn Jovi, bobbing up and down in the rushes of the bog. My hart leaped like a gazelle and a lump came too my throat. There he was, my sun, the cub who had bean choosen, by you no who, to restore the faith in Ireland and banish the too-legged snakes into the depth of the see. There was "HE" who wood rid Ireland of smoking, gambling, drinking and auld sexy things behind wheelie-bins, he wood restore the faith and have peeple down on their knees preying too Lord God almighty like devils. I skipped two prepare some nourishment for the latter day IsayA, a big mug of buttermilk and the margarined heel of a pan loaf. In my haste I could knot find the nife, so I just used my finger to spread the margarine, I think I saw Gorden Ramsey, the effin boy do the same. Time passed and know cub appeared, where could he be? was he looking for leppers or casting demons out of frogs?
Ten minutes later, the cub appeared, he threw his skoolbag into the korner and stood there, big-headed and sloped-shouldered, staring at me with his good eye.
"Bon Jovi" I ejaculated "Where have you bean? I have sought thee sorrowing for ten minutes".
Bon Jovi, glared at me and roared, "I was in the whins--faecesing"
I staggered back and sought komfort by clutching on two a turf spade.
"Faecesing?" I said "What in under God is--faecesing?"
Bon Jovi, eyed the heel of the pan loaf and roared.
"Its a word I have two say, instead of another word, the teecher said so"
I sank down on a three-legged stool and said "Tell me the story, rite from the start, don't worry, I won't split you".
Bon Jovi kicked wan hobnailed boot against the other, picked his nose, broke wind, quite violently and said. "The teecher asked me too make a sentance with the word, full in it, so I said, our midden, is fair full of-shit". "And what was rong with that?" I yelled "As an headucated woman, I kan tell you that sentance is perfect Inglish".
"The teecher said I must knot use the word-shit, it is a bad word, I must use the word-faeces and that's what I was doing in the whins, I was--faecesing"
"The teecher is rong" I yelled "I happen too no that the word-faeces, means-excrement, which is a highted state of excitement".
Bon Jovi began to cry and roar "Youse is getting me all mixed up, I don't no what to believe, did I shit or did I faeces? I don't no, but if I hadn't hunkered down I wood have shit or faecesed my trousers" And the wee doat was racked with sobs.
I shrieked-"LORDY" and ran too him and clasped him two my heaving bisum, dung or faecea, he was my only begotten sun and God and nature had decreed, that he spring from my lions.
Down by the babbling river, in a nest made from rushes, lay Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me. Deer Chuck loomed over me, forcing M-and M's into my girlish gub like a fruit machine, my cheeks were sticking out like a chimpmonk with mumps.
Deer Chuck looked-sublime in olive green kargo pants with a clatter of zips and a lovely magenta gansey with a line of yella ducks across the chest. I was-languid, suppline, like a boy with his back broke, I smiled seductively, fluttered my eye-lashes and pouted my cadalic-pink lips, like the dead and buried Marlyon Monroe.
I eased up on wan hip, and broke wind softly, demurly and with grate gentility, I leered at Chuck and whispered low "Is that what I think it is in your pocket?"
Chuck smiled, revealing his Stonehenge nashers and replied, "Yes, it is".
"Well, take it out" I simpered, like Dorthy Lamore or Dale Winton.
Chuck smiled, whipped out his mouth organ and got stuck into an Irish melanie.
As the music drifted over the bog, My demure, gentile roars of "FINE GIRL YOU ARE, scent korncrakes flying into the air, like a veritable flock of crows.
Ah, Ah, Lamore-truely you are the scallions in the poundies of life.
Hey, want to buy a real genuine Irish ghost in a bottle? Google Spamount Mill Ghost and contact me at jpmcmenamin@gmail. com
Now have a cup of good strong tay and go to........

Friday, 20 June 2008


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

Tuesday, 17 June 2008


The day beeing wet and damp I was sitting in front of the fire cursing Frank Mitchell the wether oracle. "Damn you Francie McCrory" I roared. for that's his real name you no, Frank Mitchell's real name is--Francie McCrory. Why Frank changed his monicker I don't no, but I have a good repression that he was caught as a cub riding a bicycle without a rear lite and changed his name, so as knot too damage his career prospects. UTV wood have never taken on a boy with a police record, you wool find know hardened criminals round Paul Clarke.
When my sun, the possitevely adorable wee Bon Jovi herd about it he went into fits, "Francie McCrory" he roared "Ah God, Francie McCrory".
I glared at the cub and said "Cast knot your slurs and inuendos on poor Francie McCrory, maybe the cub thought his religion was against him"
"There used to be a talking mule called Francis" roared Bon Jovi "How come it got a job on tee-vee without changing its name?" "I don't no" I said "the law is different for animals, peeple make allowances for the fact that they're knot kuman".
"I bet next week" roared Bon Jovi, Lynda Byrons wool give a wee smile and say "and now we go over too Francis the talking mule for the weather four-cast". In spite of myself, I couldn't keep a straight face, the cub is a real comedian, I kan sea him as another Les Dawson.
After supper, a good tightener of vole in a whole, knew spuds, the heels from pan loaves and too mugs of Cremola Foam, served at room temperature, I found myself at a loose end, I had nothing two do, a big pot of drawers were boiling on the fire, the floor was devoid of dead insectos, deceased vermin or rodents, the too po's stood against the wall, glittering in the glow from the fire and ready and willing for what ever the nite should send.
I deceided two climb up two the attic and bring down the big trunk that kontained all the history of the Ryan's. I threw back the cob-webbed lid and smiled, there was the wee envelope, with the flakes of grey paint, the same paint I had clawed off the hospital bed when I was having Bon Jovi. The disappearance of the Titanic, mite have been A Nite Two Remember, but the first apperance of Bon Jovi Ryan, was a nite two forget.
Birth certificates, death certificates, old brown fotos of mammy and daddy holding on two a donkey, know, wait,-that's me, that's me in my skool pinafore and my hare cut like a cub, two try and shift the nits. Ah, there was a sad wan, it was for a grate, grate uncle of mine, it red,
"Having wilfully and dishonestly dressed up as a sheep and enticed real sheep too follow him home, Henry Longfellow Ryan is sentenanced too life in Van Dimens land".
Poor auld Henry and he was only in Australia a month, when he was nocked down and run over by a drunken kangeroo. Ah, look at that, it was the thyme the government give out land to peeple two try and keep them from fighting each other, each family was too get 40 acres and a mule, but dew two some mix-up with red tape and beareaucracy, auld Pedro Elvis Ryan ended up with one acre and 40 mules and they wouldn't change it round, they said he had signed for it with a big X and there was nothing they could do. The upshot was, that the 40 mules ate all there was on the wan acre and then strayed on two other peeples land and were shot. So that is why today, us Ryans have nothing, zilch, diddly-squat.
Oh, what a gem, it is my birth certificate, I have never seen it, mummy always said it was lost.
Then I looked at the dates and my face went white, it didn't add up, it couldn't bee, that would mean I was a Ba-Ba-Ba, I couldn't say it, I fled the house like Joan Crofford yelling-Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba" An auld pear were going bye, I herd the wife say to the husband "That big lump of a Rosie Ryan takes after her grate uncle Henry"
Now I know why mammy is wearing her good brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it in her wedding photograf. I am a Ba- Ba-Ba-Ba
Oh, the shame-the eternal shame, to be-a-a-a, ba-ba-ba-ba-ba.

Friday, 13 June 2008


As the evening son filtered through the cobwebbed winda, it illuminated a seen of harmony and domestos bliss. Bon Jovi, my boy child and me, were sitting at the kitchen table getting stuck into a good tightener of roast wesal, knew spuds and the buttered heels of pan loaves, all washed down with too big mugs of Iron Brue served at room temperature. A big cloud of black flies, blew-bottles and little midgets flew round our bent heads, but we didn't care, they wern't getting any.
I demurly and gentilly broke a femur with my strong nashers, wiped the greese from my face and said. "Sucelent, oh so secelent, the flesh of this vermin or rodent, be it what it may, simply falls away from the bone". "It's the best wesal I have ever tasted" roared Bon Jovi.
"And I think I detect a sutule flavour, it mite have bean dinning on baby mice".
"Its a dog eat dog world" I said as I sunk my willing nashers into the are-rump of the weseal.
After the meel, we both cleaned our hands on our ganseys, broke wind with grate volume and ferocious verosity and roared "UP TYRONE".
After the meel I noticed a change in Bon Jovi, he who had sprung from my lions, had a funny looking auld face on him and he was gleeking at me from under the wan big eyebrow that covered both eyes. I looked at him, sitting there in a hi chair, with his hobnailed boots swinging under the table. His grate big, round head, the slope of his rounded shoulders and the queer look that brought a spark too his jet black eyes. What was a foot with the boy child? why did he sit there glowering at me? was he still hungry? wood he eat ME? his own mother? I eased round, so I could grab the poker if the gulpin came at me.
Bon Jovi broke wind again and roared "Pearhaps I am labouring under a missapprention, but is the heels of pan loaves getting smaller?"
"Knot at tall" I cried "your mouth is getting bigger, so ergo, you perceive that the heels of pan loaves are getting smaller"
"Ah, so its all a matter of-perception?" said Bon Jovi.
"Yes" I said "remember the auld saying, into every life, a little change must fall, you are growing up, so you sea things differently".
Bon Jovi clasped his fingers and said "I'm glad you brought that up, lately I have bean thinking about my position here, I have bean thinking about my prospects and what I want out of life".
"What the hell are you going on about boy?" I yelled "are you going to join the Moonies?"
"Nothing so-drastic" said Bon Jovi, swinging his hobnailed boots with grater vigour.
"Know, its like you say, everything changes, we do knot live in a stationery, static world, we move on, we evolve we seek knew horizons, in short-we change"
"Hauld on, hauld on" I yelled "I don't like this auld talk, so I don't, you're talking like, like-Eamon McCann, say your prayers and go too your box" I roared.
"Sit down mater" said Bon Jovi, with a hint of menace in his voice.
"You alluded to-perception earlier, but what is-perception? wood ones man perception, be another mans, OR womans-perception? Bon Jovi smiled, well it was more of a girn and said.
Take that cup and that tee-pot, which in your mind is subservant two the other?"
"The cup" I yelled "And why mater" quizzed the wee gulpin. "Because its-smaller" I said.
Bon Jovi leaned back in his chair and hissed, "Exactly, its smaller and it wool always be-smaller but take our position now". "What do you mean" I yelled.
"Well" said Bon Jovi, "At the moment, I am smaller than you, (most people are) he muttered under his breath "but I wool knot always be smaller than you, because I an knot a tee-cup, I am a kuman-being" "Listen, listen" I roared.
"I wood prefer if you wood just keep quite now" said Bon Jovi "I really wood.
So, we are agreed that perception kan change, thyme kan change perception, look down at the table, you are the tee-pot and I am the tee-cup, the subservant, the lesser of the too, a mere satallite orbiting the greater mass, but-things change, I am getting bigger".
"So am I" I yelled. "True" said Bon Jovi "But as you get older, you get, how shall I put this? you get more-stupid, more thick, more retarded, more do-lally, more.....
"Hauld on boy" I yelled "hauld on just a cotton-pickin' moment".
"KNOW, you hauld on" roared Bon Jovi, jumping too his feet. "I am tired of being the satellite, orbiting your big, gasseous mass, soon I wool hold the reins of power, soon, I shall be the boss, soon, I wool have you put you in a home for the konfused and bewildered, but I wool visit you twice a year and bring you a bottle of orange dilute, the cheep kind and a packet of fig rolls or jaffa cakes, depending on the state of your auld, withered gums, you may knot know me, but I wool know I am a good sun and as your next of kin, I wool have kontrol of all monies, deeds, insurance policys and of course-this house, soon, this wool be mine-ALL MINE"
I looked at the gulpin with a glint in my eye and said "Oh wool you? you have it all figured out, haven't you? but you forgot one thing my boy"
"What's that?" said Bon Jovi, with a tremble in his voice.
"CHUCK CORONA" I roared "If I marry Chuck, HE wool be my next of kin and you wool be thrown out into the cauld of a Winters nite, to fend for yourself, what do you think of that--perception?"
The cub bit his nails and wailed "I was only letting on mammy, I wood never put you in a home, I like being the--tee-cup".
"Get into your cardboard box" I roared "and if you show your big, turnip head too-nite, by the wholly shroud of saint Elmer, I wool bend that poker across that big thing you call a head".
In the silence I smiled, oust me wood he? launch a coo-de-tah against Rosie Ryan? I think knot, I'm knot called the Pol Pot of Clougher for nothing, but--deep in my hart I was brusting with pride, Bon Jovi, was his mothers sun all rite.
Perception??? I'll give the humpy, wee brute perception with my tow.

Thursday, 12 June 2008


I sat at the kitchen table with the heel of a pan loaf stuffed into my facial orifice, as my nasheres went up and down like a combine harvester, my sun, the adorable wee BOn Jovi crawled out of his cardboard box. "Bojuour my bon a-mee" I yelled, through a hail of bread crumbs.
"Good morning mammy" said the cub in efeluent Inglish. "You are well today-yes? I said.
"The naughty le-skitter has gone". "Aye" roared Bon Jovi, "the skitter has gone but the memory and the smell remain". "A good squirt of floral air-spray will fix that" I said,
"You are ready two go to le skool-wee?" "Aye" roared the cub "but I wool need a note two explain why I was abscent yesterday". "A mere bagatelle" I said "I shall write you a note, detailing all the various facuets and symptoms relating to and appertaining two your skitter".
THis was my chance too impress the teecher, with my grate knowledge and fierce intelligence, but how? THen it hit me like a turnip up the gub, I wood rite the note in Latin and impress all the teechers at the skool with my master of Latinese and the wild, fierce height of my IQ. I got crayon, paper, latin dick-sean-ree, stuck out my tongue and began.

Salutare Collega, (Hello Boy)

Ter (Three thymes thrice) Bon Jovi (Bon Jovi)
inflex (unlucky) flere (To weep and cry) juventus (cub) excitare "waken" cum skitter,
(Wake with skitter0) Skitter diuturnus, (Skitter long lasting) Skitter erumpere fluere circumdare. (Skitter burst out, flow and encircle Bon Jovi".
Sic (Thus so) nallus discere, (No learn). I singed my name with a flourish and put the note the the envelope that the red letter from the lectric board came in.
"Here Bon Jovi" I said, "Take that note and nock the sox of them impudent, wild, big hi-up teechers".
About half sat three in the afternoon, fate again decreed, that I be found with the heel of another pan loaf sticking out of my rose-bud mouth. I herd a rattle and looked demurly up, It was the skool teecher, coming up the lane like a bat out of hell and Bon Jovi sitting on the carrier, like Billy Bunter's fat brother. The teecher leaped off, threw the bike again the white-washed wall, pulled out my Latinese note and roared.
"What the hell is this? is it a joke? How dare you rite a letter of gibberish too a man with the future of the cubs of Clougher in his hands"
"Hauld on, hauld on, "I yelled "Do you mean two tell me, stood standing there, sprouting out of a pear of bicycle clips that you kan't reed Latin? For shame Sir, for shame".
"Latin, my ars--ant Fanny" he roared. "Its rubbish, gibberish, it wood fit you better too learn Inglish first, before you go dabling in foreign dead languages"
"Its knot dead" I roared "Me and the Pope speak it"
"I have informed the parish priest" said the teecher, "You must butt out of your suns headucation and leave it two the professionals, or the cub wool grow up as thick and stupid as you" And with that, he jumped on his bicycle. I looked frantically for stones, to throw at him but all I found was a big dog turd, I picked it up and threw it after the learned gulpin, but it fell short, it didn't have the velocity.
Then Bon Jovi got stuck in "You grate big, stupid lump of a gulpin" roared the cub.
"Always going on about how smart you are and the hole of Clougher laughing at you behind your back. Let me tell you now, missus Dumbo, you never were smart, you're knot smart now and you'll never be smart, you are a big ignorant, hallion, a stupid big gulpin , thick is what you are, thick as too short planks, you big stupid, ugly gulpin"
I took off after the cub, over the bog we flue, Bon Jovi was out in front like a hair and I was thundering behind like an Arab stallion.
"Cogito ergo sum, cogito ergo sum" I yelled, as I leaped a shuck like Red Rum.
"Cogito ergo sum--I think -therfore I am"
In the balmy zephyer breeze that blue from Gortin and surrounding districts, I could heer Bon Jovi yell,
"Big, stupid, igorant gulpin"---Wah? Rosie Ryan? Surely knot, the cub jests.

Tuesday, 10 June 2008


As the golden morning sun scent its healing balm over the blew heathered bog,it lit up my large artistic visage as I sat at the kitchen table. My grate brane was humming like a desil generater.
I swept the crumbs of the heel of a palm loaf off the table, with a slender, girlish, maidenly hand.
I picked up parchement and green crayon and got to work.
I was in inventer mode, I thought of those who had gone before me, wee Willie Edison, who went out with a kite and discovered lightening, the grate German inventer, Gunner Bic, who invented the pen after he kept breaking the point on his HB pencil. "Gott in Himmel Aggie" he screamed-gutterly, "Damn zees pencils, I wool get a wee plastic tube and fill it with ink. For you pencil" he said "Zee writing is over, gone-Kaput".
"Then there was auld Andy Graham Bell, without Andy's invention, we wood never no when to go too church on a sonday, thank God, auld Andy invented the bell.
During the long dark nite, when the only sound is the silent flapping of the grey, speckled howl, I had an ephipney. "Why has no wan thought of it before"? I exclaimed to my resting drawers, who were hanging from the bedpost like a guardian angel watching over me, all throug the nite. "Its so simple" I muttered "so simple and yet-so oblique"
What I Rosie Ryan had come up with was wellingtons with hi-heels, well may you gasp.
Now wellingtons could be functional AND stylish and the extra hight of the hi-heel wood keep you above the skitter. What a boon for the hard working farmers wife, just wash the skitter of the wellingtons under a running tap and-VOILLA, she was ready to step out in stile and turn heads as she danced the nite away in a pear of green wellingtins, with a six inch stilleto heel.
I was filled with artistic excitment to such an extent that I had too skip two the scullery and utulise the po for a quick slash
I had hit the jackpot this thyme, my musical nickers with the music box in the gusset, never really took off, because of health and safety, water and electric, don't mix.
But this thyme, I could sea know obstacles or road-blocks, but-hey up, I must paitent them before some boy stole my invention. Then I could sea them being shown in a kommercial on UTV, Jimmy Nesbit wood look at Kristine Blakley and say, with a little twinkle in his eye.
"Bay God, Mary Ann, I've never scene you looking so goodlooking, so I haven't, and you look taller two so you do, Bay God woman, you look like a model, how do you di it at-tall, at-tall, at-tall?" And Kristine Blakley wood give a big smile and say, "Ah, Willie John, the secret is, Rosie Ryan's hi-heel wellingtons". Then Nesbit and Kristine wood stand with their arms round wan and other and say into the kamera.
"Now you two kan look more beautiful bye wearing Rosie Ryan's hi-heel wellingtons, available in black or green from all good shoe shops".
I hid my sketches and drawings under the bed, you never no when industrial spies mite be hanging round Clougher and went for a Kate Moss saunter in the bog.
Natures grate beauty hit me up the visage like a hand-grenade. The whins, so, so yella, the biblical burning bush, a feast for the occulars and a place of quite respose for those seeking an alfresco slash. The hopping toads and frogs were bountiful, plump and fat, wearing their Summer coats of green and speckled yella. The air was full of little flying midgets and the low drone of the honeybee penetrated my shell-like lug wholes. Ah, the heather, the bonny, purple heather the refuge for the grey snipe and wee Andy Steward.
Know kuman in site too mar the view are start an argument, just-nature, as it was before auld Adam and Eve came and spoilt it all with their auld Garden of Eden, sexual shennagins.
I stood on tip-toe and drank in the beauty like nectar, I felt the muse descend on my head, like a big, black crow, I opened my artistic gub and roared two the far off hills.

"Ah, natures beauty, fills my hart
With the fragerance of a perfumed fart
Too-nite when squatting for a pee
Your beauty wool come back to me".
Full of the joys of Summer, I ran with out-stretched hands, like a veritable wilderbeast nearing the water whole.

Saturday, 7 June 2008


I awoke from my slumber, at the first crow of the little, red rooster. My late, deseased daddy, my past on daddy hated two get up, he used two set the rooster an hour fast, so he could have a lie in. I was attired provokitely in American Army kar-kee sea-through baby doll pyjamas. There was a crest of a bald eagle over the crutch and on the back was rote, "FOR GOD-AND AMERICA". Because of the transparency of my nite wear and the tantalising effect it could have on men, decorum necessated that I wear a long black simmet under it, that came down too my bulbus, plump, girlish, maidenly knees.
My sun, Bon Jovi, was still asleep in his cardboard box, kindly donated bye Mr Kellog.
What should I do first? empty the po's or make the tea? It reminded me of Open The Box so many years ago, hosted bye Michael Miles, I smiled at the kat and roared.
"What should she do folks? make the tee or empty the po;s?" I swear, I saw the kat give a little smile, before it went back two licking--well, never mind, what it was licking-but you wouldn't catch me doing it
I opened the front door, kept it ajar with a hobnailed boot, picked up the too po's, observing that BOn JOvi's kontained a-floater and skipped across the road, like a fairy on Red Bull, I lashed both po's over a telegram pole, before I could make my return journey, three of SEan Quinn's big, green, cemente lorries, came thundering round the korner with the lights flashin' and the horns blarin', the trio of drivers, rolled down their windas and roared as one, "HELLO ROSIE, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". "Go on you cheeky little rascels" I screamed, I like Sean Quinn's drivers, many a dinner of road kill they have provided for me and my sun.
CHuck Corona, my bow came round in the afternoon, Chuck looked positevly-radient, dressed as he was in tie-died tee-shirt,a scarlet neckerchief tied like a hangmans rope round his bull neck and a lovely pear of sandels, in a nice grizzly bare brown colour.
But the piece of resistance, that caught my eye, was his little, tite shorts in a beautiful primrose yella. I feasted my girlish occulars on him and trembled like a highly-strung race horse.
Chuck did knot come empty handed, he brought a pound of "special" mince, a pan loaf and a copy of Ireland's Own. After a good tightener, washed down with mugs of Iron BRue, Chuck sat back on the sofa and opened Ireland's Own.
"Rosie, my little peekineze" said Chuck. "Yes, my petite salamander" I cooed.
"Did you no" said Chuck "That Cleopatra, is over too thousand years old?"
I peeked over Chuck's manly shoulder and said "She's still a fine looking woman, look at that lovely dark hare". "Yes Rosie" said Chuck "But you do no that Cleopatra is a mummy?"
"Ah, Chuck, Chuck" I chided, "I'm sure that some man wood take her and bring the wain up as his own"
Chuck looked at me and said "Bay God Rosie, you ARE from Tyrone".
"Of course I is" I laughed "and we'll lift the Sam Maguire this year, you just watch."
"Any thing else in the paper?" I asked. "Yes" said Chuck "Some auld boy in his 80's is looking for a girl in her 20's ,, for, as he says, fun, frolics and how's your father"?
"The dirty auld brute" I ejaculated, "A boy like that should be castigated".
"Ah, don't be two sore on him" said Chuck "All this Vigra and stuff, is driving auld bucks into a frenzy. Instead of dying and making their will's, they are scouring the hi-ways and bye-ways looking for weeman" "What has cat-lick Ireland come two?" I said "Saint Patrick, should send back the snakes, if them auld boys found a sidewinder in the fork of there trousers, it wood put the auld sexy stuff out of their auld, grey, konfused heads"
REply, Chuck made-none, he just screwed up his face and crossed his legs.
I sat-with drool running down my chin, staring at his little, primrose, yella shorts.
Ah, Lamor--Age shall knot wither you, nor thyme dee-kay.

Friday, 6 June 2008


All day I had bean singing and kicking my kan-kan dancer's legs, I was going out too-nite, going two a hi class eating plaice in Plumbridge called the Kama Sutra. I don't think it has any mitchell stars, but they say that the spuds are veritable balls of flower.
Needless two say, I wood need two be looking my best, I must knot let Chuck Corona my boyfriend and the only man in Ireland with a licence too fissle at my gansey down.
Lifeboy soap and a scrubbing brush were utulised with extreem violence and vigour.
I looked at my nude body in the full length mirror, my flawless, maidenly skin had the glow of a shaved pig. I smiled, mysterially and the petite, 18 stone beauty in the mirror smiled back.
I reached for a pear of desert sonset orange drawers and stepped daintly into them with decorum and finese. My good green frock, with the yella butterflies on it lay over the 50 gallon oil drum. I powdered my large, full face dillengely, using powder poof in leu of trowel.
I pursed my rose-bud lips out like a trout and went two work with a tube of vivid pink lipstick.
Some blusher, too bring out the contours of my hi cheek bones, I shut my Betty Davis occulars, while I slapped on mascara, like whitewash, I carefully applied two droplets of bleach into each eye, two open the irises and bring out the sparkle. I could do know more, you kan't improve on perfection, I was as nervous as a kat about two kittle, in haste, I dropped the desert sonset, orange drawers and ran two the po for a quick slash.
The Kama Sutra in Plumbridge is some plaice, its knot called a resturant, its what as known as an intimate, select little Bisto. A boy took my mammys brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles and showed us two our table. Chuck gallently held out a chair for me and I plumped myself down like a clocking hen. I looked around, the plaice was full of guppies, people with money, you could tell that by the number of Fiestas parked in the kar park.
Chuck leaned over the table, like a latinese giggleetto and whispered.
"You look perparticulary lovely too-nite my deer, the candle lite brings out the sparkle in your eyes and your nash--teeth have the glow of fresh water pearls".
"Oh Chuck" I shrieked "You are bringing a blush too my maidenly visage, all my beauty is natural, you wool find know filler or Bowtex on Rosie Ryan's face".
The waiter came over and Chuck with grate aplum ordered a bottle of Blew None whine.
"What wood you like two eat my deer?" said Chuck, "I heer the cutlets here are particulary suclent". "Oh Chuck" I shrieked-demurly "I could never eat a little song bird, my stomach wood never stand it my deer, I wood boke prefusely, pearhaps even projectially"
I waited 'till there was a lull in the conversation, the hoi-poly were talking about the best way two cure skitt-scour in calves and yelled out so the hole room could hear me.
"Gargon, bring me an eel, oh, about too foot long, but leave the head on, I don't want two be palmed off with a snake, fry it in Flora Lite, the stuff from the yella tub and garnish it with parsley, time and plenty of chunky chips." "Certaintly Madman" Said the waiter, wool that be all?" "Know Gargon" I yelled, "Is your jelly fresh? I don't want none of that tinned jelly, bring me a big, heaped bowl of strawberry jelly, that is shakin' like Jordan's plastic boobies".
I could sea the people look at me and nudge each other, "There is a gastramonic gormay" they were thinking, "There is a woman who has watched the effin Ramsey boy".
After the meel, I broke wind with extreem verocity and roared, "Put that dog out"
Then I got reagelly two my feet and headed for the krapper, with the poise and grace of Kate Moss, or a pedegreee greyhound.
When I came out, I waved my girlish, maidenly arms and roared "I wouldn't go in there for a while if I was youse" Everywan began two laugh and point, I revelled in my popularity, I was the bell of the ball, the life and soul of the party, then I saw deer Chuck point and stare at me in horror. I had only gone and tucked my good green frock, with the yella butterflies on it, into the waste-band of my desert sonset, orange drawers.
That was when I lost the head, I kicked over tables, poured ox-tale soup over a mans baldy head and threw a big plate of scampi, down a womans low-cut dress. "Oh Herbert" she roared, "That awful women has covered my mammary appendages with see food"
As the bouncer ran me two the dour I yelled, "Youse kan keep your gastramonic rubbish, give me a plate of McCains oven chips and a lump of road kill anyday"
Deer Chuck never spoke 'till we were too mile out of Plumbridge, then he pulled the Skoda into a lay-bye and said, "Rosie" said Chuck "I take my hat, cap or bonnet off too you, many a woman wood have fled in tears when their arse was exposed to the stare of the rude and mocking multitude, but knot you, you Rosie Ryan, have the conjonies of a saber-toothed tiger"
"Oh, you adorable wee doat" I shrieked, leaping on him like a deranged, hysterical Guyanese gibbon. I watched, all a tremble, as Chuck inserted the Barry White DC into the DC player, as the big gulpin began two growl, "You're my first, you're my last, you're my--everything"
Caution went out of the window, along with a crisp bag and an empty bottle of Iron Brue.
Ah, Lamore----the helter-skelter of passion and flame of wild, fierce lovey-dovey-ness.

Wednesday, 4 June 2008


In my darkened, reek filled abode, I was crouched over a bubbling, hissing caldren like Fagin, the boy who was wild good two homeless cubs. My matted, red hare hung around my plump, full moon face in lusterous ringlets. I was stirring a big pot of carrots, turnips, spuds and the haunch of a mail badger, that had fallen fowl of Sean Quinn's big, green cemente lorries.
I was stirring the stew, with the end of my grandfather's walking stick. Lordy, how many rats that stick had killed, my grandfather, may he rest in piece was an avid rat hunter. He loathed vermin and rodents and any other creepies or slithers that lived in the lush flora and fauna.
But he who lives by the rat, wool dye by the rat and so it was with deer Gran'pa.
One day, when chasing a plump rodent, with walking stick raised, he ran out in front of a boy on a bicycle, who was on his way too the doctors for a sick note. He received substantial damage two his noggin, he lay in a como for too days, but passed away as the family were sitting down two dinner, after dinner, they took his pulse and scent for the undertaker.
"Killed by vermin" is rote on his tombstone if you klean away the green moss.
I was gently humming an area from Riggleto, when the front dour opeded, I nearly shi--had a hart attack. My sun Bon Jovi stood there, my cub, my child, he who had nestled like a hedgehog in my woom for nine months. Why had the child entered so quitely and secretively?
Usually I could heer him coming over the bog for miles away. Why the sudden stelth?
The cub looked pail, the sloped, round shoulders, that know skool bag could cling two were bent low. Where was his-zest? where was his-gayiety? where was his-illuminati, his exuberent effervescence?, his bubblyness, his lust for life?
Woman's institution told me that there was something rong with my sun. "Bon Jovi" I yelped
"What ales thee? have you had a little-trouser accident?"
The cub shook his big, round head and kicked a too-legged stool with his hobnailed boot.
"Speak, Bon Jovi" I shrieked, "tell mammy what's rong".
The cub began two cry and roared "I'm getting-bullied at skool mammy".
"BULLIED" I ejaculated, "Bullied, by whom"?
"The other boys" sniffed Bon Jovi, they call me a--nerd".
"A-nerd?" I exploded "What is a-nerd? is it some vulgar name for part of the mail under-carriage?"
"A nerd, is a swot" roared Bon Jovi "A goodie-too-shoes, a cub who does his home work and brown-noses the teechers".
"Stay here" I yelled, as I struggled into my mammies brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles,I'm off two skool two give them teechers a peace of my mind".
As I stamped off two Clougher, I looked like Clint Eastwood, there was a steely glint in my eyes and a stalk of grass in my rose-bud mouth.
As I passed uner a hawthorn three, I was attacked by a swarm of midgets, they were eating the face of me, I waved my arms and roared "Get too hell you wee midgets, or I'll brust youse".
The teechers saw me coming, they ran two bar the door, with fear and picnic in their eyes, I brust the dour open and roared like John Wain, "I've come for my boy".
When I got home, Bon Jovi was sitting in the korner snivelling, the cub looked up and said "How many gubs did you brust mammy?"
"None sun" I smiled, "Behold, I am the bearer of good news, the cubs were knot calling you-nerd, they were calling you-TURD"
"So I'm knot a swot and an ass licker?" said Bon Jovi.
"KNOW" I said "the boys like you so much, they gave you a nick-name, you always talk about, Stinky, Balloon Head and Drag The Ass, well you now are part of the gang, 'till the day you dye, you wool be known round Clougher as, Turd Ryan".
"Oh, happy daze" yelled Bon Jovi, "I've got my own nick name at last. Thank you God, thank you saints, and thank you little angels, youse is all we doats"
After a good tightener of badger stew, the cub got sleepy and crawled into his cardboard box.
"Good nite mammy" said the wee doat.
"Good nite-Turd" I said "sleep tite"
"If you want me to sleep tite" giggled Bon Jovi "You'd better give me a bottle of whiskey".
Oh how we laughed, mother and sun, in harmony as the son settled over the bog bringing another day to an end. I wish everyone was as hapy, as what me and wee Bon Jovi is.

Monday, 2 June 2008


I was sitting on an up-turned wheel-barrow, legs akimbo outside my cunt'ry abode.
I had my girlish elbows on my plump knees and my round, wind-reddened, elf'in visage was cupped in my strong, yet feminine hands. My matteded mass of red hare hung round my full moon face, in ringlets of hirisute beauty and decorm.
I was admiring the beauty of nature, the air was full of buzzing insectos, flys wasps, bees and small, minute midges, infinitesimally, petite in the extreem.
I smiled, demurly, as a little midge landed on my well scrubbed knee, how small it was, and yet, it was alive, one of GOds creatures, I arched my swan-like neck and roared,
"All things brite and beautuful, the good Lord made them all"
Then as it prepared for take-off, I squashed it with my thumb. I marvelled at its little squashed guts, just like we humans, it two, was full of shit.
Then my girlish occulars were drawn to a veritable dancing cloud of horse flies over the midden.
The son turned their transparent, fragile wings into the colours of the rainbow, as they hoovered above the midden, eating dung with their mandables. "Feast on, my little ones" I cried, "If dung is your food of choice, who am I to disagree".
Suddenly, my elf'in ears were harked to a wild racket coming threw the bog, it was my sun, the adorable wee BOn Jovi, coming home from skool,I pinned back my shell-like and listened.
"They were tattered they were torn, at le-derriere they were worn, THE RED FLANNEL DRAWERS THAT MAGGIE WORE".
Soon, his large, round, cannon-ball head, appeared above the swaying rushes. A head, that wood give any turnip, a run for its money. He swaggered up two me, threw his skool bag into the nettles and grinned. "What the hell are you grinning at?" I yelled.
"Big news" said the grinning gulpin, "Yes, siree Bob, big, big, news".
"What about?" I yelled. "RELIGION" roared Bon Jovi, "Yes, siree Bob, big, big news about religion". "What is the news?" I yelled, "Come on Bon Jovi, spit it out".
Bon JOvi, gave an auld hateful smile and said, "Don't rush the cub, wait 'till I decompose myself and all wool be revealed" The cub sat down on an upturned po that had a slow puncture and said.
"Behold, I Bon Jovi, bring you news today, that wool cause much gnashing of teeth and grinding of gums, the priest was in skool too-day, and he taut us thus"
I looked at Bon Jovi in awe and fear and once again asked myself, "Who is Bon Jovi? and why has he bean scent among us?" He reminded me so much of, you know who"
There was fire in Bon Jovi's eyes and zeal was fare leaping out of him as he roared.
"LIMBO, has bean done away with, it is know more, it has ceased two exist"
"What about the wee wains that were in there?" I asked.
"They all qualified for early relase" roared Bon Jovi "And have bean scent free"
"The devil, hell and sin are know more" yelled Bon Jovi. "The devil was just made up too frighten us and there is know hells fire in hell, it is just a plaice that the peeple feel depresed and wild low". "Like Gortin" I muttered. "Yes, and surrounding districts" said Bon Jovi.
"The good news is" said Bon Jovi "That we are all going two some kind of heaven, if God made us, we must be good, ergo-we kan't be bad, God doesn't make bad things".
"Two hell, with that" I roared, "Its knot fare, why should some preverted gulpin, end up in the same plaice as me? Its knot fare, so its knot"
"May I remind you of the workers in the vineyard" said Bon Jovi, "They each received a penny, though some had worked threw the heat of the day".
"Too hell, with graipe pickers" I roared, "I want two sea soles twisting and writhing in the hot pit of hell" Bon Jovi looked at me oh so sternly and said.
"Take care, that you may knot be one of the twisters and writhers"
"What else did the priest say?" I muttered.
Bon Jovi arose from the po and said, "The three virtures, are faith, hope and charity, of these, charity is the gratest, so he wants too sea more money in your church envelope, 10 pence, don't cut it no more. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go walk-about in the bog, once again I must renounce Satan and and all his works and pomps. God bless you my child, when I return, I wool partake of Punjanna tee and the buttered heel from a pan loaf"
I arose from that place and told know wan what I had herd or scene, well, I don't want too sea the cub locked up in the loony bin. do I?