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

Sunday, 21 September 2008


Autumnal morn, unseasonably fair
Little midgets dancing in the air
I tied a ribbon in my hare
And set out for a dander.
As I demurly made my way threw a veritable labyrinth of honeysuckle-sented hi-ways and bye-ways, I was compes mentos of the repression I created. A red-hared, statuesque collen, dressed-alluringly in brown duffle coat, with wooden toggles, a blewbird blue gansey, pleated tartan skirt and a pear of black hobnailed boots, buffed to a shine with Cherry boot polish. Poetry in motion. I threw my too red knees out carelessley as I walked. I swung my slim, slender, girlish arms languidly, my perfectly formed head was erect, in the manner of Kate Moss and my hobnailed boots were laid on the surface of the muddy lane, with a light, fairy-like touch. I stopped every now and then too admire a fragile flour in the Autumnal brown bracken, or too gaze in wonder at a turd done by a stray dog. I was in-gay, carefree mood, I had my sun, the adorable wee Bon Jovi and my boyfriend, Chuck Corona, late of the Garda She-Kone and the fraud and corruption tribunals. My plump cheeks glowed red, like the tailights on a bicycle, the wind was my rouge. I had just a smidgen of cadalic pink lipstick on my pouting, sensual lips. A finger tip dipped in chimney suit was my mascara. I looked good and by God I new it. Overcome with girlish, child-like innocence, I skipped, danced, sang, whistled and let demure, gentile yelps, shrieks and gulders out of me. Life was good, long had I wandered in the desert of loneyness, but now, I had emerged into the green, fruitful oasis of love and plenty.
As I rounded a korner, full of gayitee de-cour, I was nearly run over by a big hallion on a bicycle. It was big Nellie Granite, her cheeks were bleezing and the eyes jumping out of her head. She lept off the bicycle like FRankie Dettori and yelled, "Ah Rosie, thank God its you, wool you hold my bike while I jump into this field for a slash, I'm fare hefted, so I am?" I konsidered the implications of the request and said, "KNow Nellie, I wool knot be a partener nor an accomplice two your alfresco slashing. The hole cuntry is talking about you, the fly Clougher boys call you, Nellie the piss pot, I can knot, I wool knot, give credance or succor two your uncontrolable slashing, some of it may rub off on me and I have my repution too think off. Know Nellie, I wool have nothing too do with your pernicious, persistant pissing"
"Damn you Rosie Ryan" yelled big Nellie, "You were the same at skool, an auld tell-tit, you had a hump on your back from running after Miss McSpittle with your nose stuck up her arse" "How dare you, you big fat gulpin" I yelled, "Miss McSpittle could sea I was special, a genie in a crowd of ignorant morans and half wits, Miss McSpittle could sea my wild hunger for learning, she knew of my love for arts and kulture, she was my mentor, she could forsee a day, when Rosie Ryan wood bring honour and pride to saint Judas skool". "Learning my arse" yelled Nellie, "You were a big, thick lump, you couldn't even spell cat". "Yes, I could" I roared. "K-A-T--kat and if you must know, K_I_T_T_L_I_N_G, spells, kittling" "Yes" yelled Nellie "and A-R-S-E spells-arse and you kan kiss my arse, you big, bag of blubber". I ejalucated violently, bristled and shuddered, "Get on that bike before I brust you" I roared. "You are nothing but a pissing Budda, you have bean scene squatting in every field round Clougher and surrounding districts. Get on that bike you big pisser, or by the wholly shroud of saint Elmer, I'll cure your pissing with my toe, I'll close up each and every oriffice with a good riser from my hobnailed boot" Big Nellie yelled, "You're nothing but a tramp Rosie Ryan, a tramp with the morales of a rattle snake, living over the brush with that big ugly, pox marked gulpin Chuck Corona". Full of ire, anger and fury, I rushed at the big, fat brute like a demented pole-kat. As Nellie threw her big, fat leg on the bike, I made a wild kick at her, slipped and landed on the broad of my back, giving a boy in an oncoming kar a flash of my azure blew drawers, with the frayed gusset, that had scene better daze. I jumped too my feet and ran after her, big Nellie tore down the road, peddling like the devil and leaving a trail of liquid behind her and by the smell of it, I could tell it was knot bicycle oil. "Auld piss the drawers" I roared, until she was out of site. Then I took a deep breath, deposed myself and continued my dander, ooh'ing and aah'ing at the wonderous beauty of nature.

An Autumn dusk, of smokey grey
Back homeward now, I make my way
A paris bun and a mug of tay
Then sleep--perchance to-dream.
Go now to
Very few copies of my book, Rosie Ryan's Letters To Gerry Anderson left, grat stocking filler
go to
If this blog has disturbed anyone, you will find PISSERS ANOYMOUS in the yellow pages.

Saturday, 6 September 2008


I was ensconced in my rural, rustic abode. The toil of the day was over, seven pear of washed and ironed knickers, with their corresponding simmets, bore testomony to the fact that I had knot bean idol. All day I had bean knickerless,and compes mentos that a playful zepher of wind, or bending over two far, could sully my good name in Clougher and surrounding districts.
With the toil of the day behind me, it was time for-me, Rosie thyme I call it.
I sat in a rusty, zinc hip bath in front of a good turf fire. I was as naked as a knew born sprog. Hot water jibbled over the side, as my slim, slender, girlish 18 stone Venus like body moved about in the bath. Knot having any sented candles, I had lit too Easter candles that I found in the porch of St Judas church in Clougher. The fragrance of cloves and mothballs arose in a sented cloud from the piping hot H2o. I was scrubbing my voloputous body manueley with Lifeboy soap and a scrubbing brush with good hard bristles. Being ampedexterious of limbs, I could pass the scrubbing brush from wan hand two another, so know nook, cranny, or crevice was left unwashed. As the water turned brown and then-black, my unblemished skin literally took a pinkish glow, like a well shaved pig in a butchers window. When my maidenly absoulations were completed, I lay like the porkapine of a Sultana, luxurating in the healing warmth of the coal black water. I reached out with a plump, Goya like hand for the the mug of Iron Brue and the Kream Krackers, I had placed on a three-legged stool. Ah, Bliss, what a subject for a painting I wood have made. Oh, two see wan of the old masters rush in, whip out his brush and paint my grate beauty, poise and grace for posterier. Looking down, I saw that my tit--knees were turning blew, so--Venus-like I arose from the water and wrapped my trembling, fragile body in the warmth of a German World war too Army coat with a bullet whole in the sleeve. I sat, demurly in front of the roaring fire, with the steam rising from me, like wan of them geezers in Iceland.More pleasure lay ahead of me, but pleasure for the mind knot the body. Soon the Hi-up boys at BBC radio 3, were going two put on a new, advent guard opery from China. I like a grand old opery but I am knot averse two sticking my artistic toes into pool of knew arts and kulture. Arts and Kulture kan knot stand still, or it will become stagnant and static. We must, those of us who is steeped in arts and kulture, we must strive ahead, we must break knew soil, we can't listen two the same auld rubbish over and over again. This knew Chinese opery, was deposed to celebrate the Olympic games, it is called, "The Five Different Colour Rings". It was deposed by a knew up and coming deposer called Chang McClung. The opery konsists of the Chinese soprano, big Lee Wong shrieking, "GOLD MEDAL" for three, solid hours in the key of A flat or G sharp, which ever is best for her on the nite, two the accompanyment of cow bells, fuguel horns, the ringing of bicycle bells and fireworks going off. I knew it wood be hard two thoal, so I had took too Panadols and a good slug of Nite Nurse.
It took me a while two come round after the opery, my head was lite and I was a bit staggery of myself. But I had the constellation of knowing that I had another good dollop of arts and kulture in me. You have two suffer for art--and by God I suffered listening to the shrieks of that big lump, Lee Wong. But the funny thing is, I found myself whistling it the next day when I was emptying the too po's. I suppose it grows on you.
My next discourse mite help couples everywhere, but if you are a same sex couple, this does knot apply two you. For months Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me had bean arguying about gansey fisslin'. Chuck wanted more and I wanted less. Then wan nite, we both sat down like adults and thrashed it out.
"Chuck" I said, looking into his deep-set eyes with the wan eyebrow and his rugged, dimpled, pox-marked chin. "Chuck" I said, "Let's approach this like the Middle East. I wool be the Israelias and you wool be Ham Ass, now lets try and come two some-Agreement, because John Hume, that saintly man always said, that the answer too everything was--AGREEMENT".
THree hours later we reached a settlement, I wood give Chuck access two the Goland Hights, if he kept away from the Gaza Strip. That's what all young, courting couples should do, sit down until you come two an agreement, acceptable two both parties. Then, in the future, the man mite come and say, "Nora, I am dissatisfied with the limitations relating too my gansey fisslin'"
And the woman wood have too options, she could say, "All rite Bosco, lets sit down and renegotiate, or she could say, "Get too hell you dirty auld brute, may mammy was rite, you're nothing but a filthy auld gulpin, it wool be a cold day in hell boy, before you get your auld perverted hands on my Golan Heights again"
AND YOU KAN ALWAYS GET ME AT.. and a friend of mine a