THE ANCIENT HISTORIONICS OF US RYANS

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.