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"
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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?
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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"
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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".
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