CHUCK AND ME CANOODLE WHILE THE PORKERS LOOK ON

I was ensconced in my rural retreat, 13 the bog road, Clougher, surrounded by my favourite Phill-officers. Sarte, Nietzsche, Mervin Blag and Marcell Proust. Ah Marcell, my favourite Phill-officer, many a tite korner auld Proustie has got me out of. I really shoule rite and thank him, but under-neath my wild, fierce sophistication and air of elegant,highly complex,efficient wisdom, lies a soft, tender crater who is shy and diffident.
Oh how I wood love two rite a letter of thanks too deer Marcell, but there's know way I could walk into Clougher Post Office and ask for a French letter. Damn this shyness that I inheirited from my deer mammy, mammy was so shy, she could knot look at a duck without blushing.
Oh how different deer Pappa was, in the Summer, deer Pappa wood sit out on a three-legged stool, reading Ireland's Own, wearing nothing but a simmet and a pear of hobnailed boots.
Women used to cycle up and down the road just two get a look at his manly accouterments. Many a wan fell off and cut the hole face of herself,so many self induced accidents occured that Clougher kouncil came out and informed deer Pappa knot two sit alfresco in a short simmet, apparently the casuality department in Clougher hospital, couldn't cope with the number of weeman who were turning up with broken noses and gnashers nocked out. Deer Pappa simply said, "Pish tosh" and next week there he was again, sitting with legs akimbo reading Kitty the Hare, wearing a simmet, even shorter than before and nonchalantly whistling as bike after bike went flying into the hedge. Then Clougher kouncil came out and erected a big sign which red, "DANGER, accident black spot, beware of man in very short simmet".
Ah, deer Pappa was a mavrick a loose cannon, but short simmets were his downfall, he took a chill in the kidneys and 42 years later two the day, popped his clogs yelling, "ONE MAN, ONE SIMMET"
I looked round my smoke-stained abode and thought, "What is life? what is the essance of-life? How can I reach a state composed of pure thought? How kan I unriddle the riddle of life?
How can I enter the dark caverns of my brane and switch the lights on? I am, therefore I think, but how can I think more and unravel the mysteries of, time, space, life, death and where do snotters come from? There was only wan man who wood no the answer, so I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust and got stuck in. Once again, Marcell came up trumps.
"C'est le premier pas qui coute". Its the first step that counts, I couldn't have put it better myself, what a font of knowledge Marcell was, I could see Marcell walking by the West bank of the sane, wearing a berry and a stripped gansey,his grate brain going into overdrive as he got stuck into a bag of snails and French fries.
I shrieked in falsetto and ran like a nymph as Chuck Corona my boyfriend, raced me through the eggberries. I yelped like a pup, as I leaped over a rusty bicycle and made for the pig sties, Chuck caught me and pressed me up against the corrugated iron shed. I melted into his manly arms, like a tupperware bowl in a hot oven. Chuck kissed me and I responded with all the suction of a Dyson vacuume kleaner. Chuck was panting like an auld dog,I was gulping in air like a goldfish with Ass-Ma. I clung onto two Chuck's indigo yella fleece, in case I slipped on skitter and fell on my mouth and nose. Chuck was fissling at my gansey, with the throughness of a security guard at an American airport. I ran my fingers through Chuck's crew-cut head, Chuck tore the emerald green ribbon from my matted mass of red hare and let it fall over my alabaster shoulders. Chuck growled, "Bay Jeekers", I shrieked, "Merci", the sow gave a grunt and Chuck began two undo the safety pins on my gansey. "Know Chuck" I shrieked, "I kan knot throw my gansey before swine". Chuck sighed, like the back wheel going down on a bicycle, I adjusted my clothing, as my hart beat like a canary behind my rib cage. Suddenly, Chuck's hush puppies slipped on skitter, two keep from falling, Chuck made a grab for my skirt and pulled it down round my plumb, blew veined ankles. I gave a maidenly, girlish, feminine shriek and took off over the bog, wearing just my fair isle gansey and a pear of red flannel drawers. As I tore round a korner, who did I meet but the priest walking his King Charles spaniel dog, "Ah Mrs Ryan" said the priest, "Out for a bit of a jog are you? remember what the good book says, A healthey body makes for a healthy mind, God bless you my child" I charged on like a vixen persued by invisible hounds, as I leaped a shuck like a stag at bay I shrieked, "Bless me Father, for I nearly sinned". But that's between ourselves now, don't tell know wan or it wool be all round Clougher that Rosie Ryan is another Paris Hilton.
Want two reed my letters two Gerry Anderson? go too, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com and you kan buy my books.
Go now to..www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
and with that I return you to the studio, where Loggie is talking about Tyrone's chances of lifting the Sam Maguire,which are--diddly squat.