Sunday, 30 November 2008


"When tempest blast and rain doth pour, wench arise and,SHUT THAT DOOR!" (Shakespeare)
The cold rain was fair lashing off my winda and icy blasts of sleet beat against the door. Wind blue down the chimney, making my fire of bog oak, milk cartoons and an old plastic bucket flare up and illuminate the dark, gloomy room with heat, warmth and unbounded snugness.
I was langushing-gracefully on a meel bag, Chuck Corona my boyfriend and Free State Latherio lay over my knee, like a beached, blubberous bull seal. I looked down at my lover, Chuck Corona, the only wan, apart from mammy and daddy, who new about the pentacle shaped birthmark on my rite hip. We had know secrets, I new Chuck's body like the back of my hand. The wild hairy back, like a babboon, the dunt that Shane McGowan gave him on the ribs and the squelching sounds his oxters made, when the sweat was fair lashing off him.
I gazed down at Chuck from under my red, bushy eyebrows. I scrutinised my-paramour, the squat, round head, the rugged pox-marked face, the nose, bent slightly too the left, dew too a batter from Eamon Dumphy. The deep set eyes, covered by wan black hairy eyebrow. I lowered my eyes-demurely, and imagined his swirrly belly button under his lime green gansey, a belly button that could hold more blew fluff than any man I new. Chuck gazed up at me with too black eyes, eyes as black as a bog whole with know bottom. I spat out a glob of flem and smiled down at Chuck, Chuch responded by pulling back his thick, rubbery lips and revealing his mouthfull of uneven gnashers. "Look at-you" I cooed.
"Look at-you" growled Chuck. Static electricity ricocheted off the walls, like bullets from an AK47 assualt rifle. Chuck pursed his lips out like a hen trying to lay a giant egg. I gazed in wonder, at a stream of silvery, saliva running down the deep cleft in his chin. I bent over Chuck, my matted mass of red hare obscuring his charming visage. Our lips met with a-PLOP, I was overcome with the aroma of Coldgate toothpaste and John West tuna. Chuck nibbled at my bottom lip like a ferret. I grabbed Chuck's sticky-out ears with both hands and wrung them like a dish cloth. Chuck's Hush Puppie shoes, were scrabbling for traction on the cold, cement floor. My too sturdy legs were going into spasmodic spasms, making my hobnailed boots beat a tatoo on the floor. LOve was in the air, I could feel it in my fingers, I could feel it in my toes. It was a nite for--lamore, a nite for-love. With a girlish wiggle, I manuvered by slim, slender 18 stone feminine body to get a better grab at Chuck. THEN, the meel bag tilted over and I was through on my arse too the floor, up two the oxters in hen meel. Chuck pulled me out from the tsueami of chicken nourishment-but-the spell had bean broken the magic was-gone. I got demurely and gentilly too my feet, grabbed by sore ars--derriere and roared, "Hell, Damn, Bum and Blast" and I began too kick the be-jesus out of the bag of meel with my hobnailed boots.
Later, after a supper of fried stoat and John McCain oven chips, I deposed myself and calmed down. "Chuck" I riposted, "What are we going too kill and eat this year for us Kristmas dinner?" Chuck pursed out his thick lips and replied "What ever you like, my deer, I'm easy, what wood Bon Jovi like for his Kristmas dinner? For Kristmas is for the wains after all". I threw my slender, girlish, maidenly arms up in the air and yelled. "That sun of mine wood eat anything that isn't nailed down. I have never scene such a varocious appetite in a cub, I reached the wee gulpin the buttered heel of a pan loaf the other day and he nearly took the hand of me. The cub is a--rottweiler, a veritable-rottweiler". Chuck laughed and replied, "He's a growing boy, a growing boy wood eat you out of house and home". "But Chuck" I schreeched "the cub is knot growing UP, the cub is growing-OUT!" "Don't worry about the cub" said Chuck "Nature is just laying the foundations, when the foundations are sound, the cub wool spring up like a skyscraper. "I hope so" I said, biting my nails, "I don't want too be known as the mother of the cub, who is built like a brick shi--outhouse". "The cub wool be all rite" said Chuck "Now come and give daddy-some sugar". "Oh Chuck" I shrieked, "you have the sexual appetite of a pole kat" and I tripped-daintly across the floor and threw myself into the welcoming arms of-Chuck Corona. And daddy got his sugar, Chuck got more sugar that Tate and Lyle could made in a day.
But remember children, don't try this at home, Chuck Corona and me has an understanding from the boys in the Vatican. We have knot bean given the green lite-but we are on amber.

My book Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson can be had an any Eason Shop or from below.
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Oh, my bum is still sore from when I fell off the meel bag but is getting better by the day. rosie xxx

Monday, 24 November 2008


I looked at my sun, Bon Jovi, my hart fair full of maternity love and said. "Now, remember Bon Jovi, when I'm away in Clougher, you keep this door closed. The cunt'ry is teeming with auld weirdos and prevertoes, so don't open the door two KNOW wan".
"Don't you worry mammy" said the fruit of my lions. "Until you come back again, this house will be like the Alamo, and I will be like Jim Boo'ie".
"Good cub" I said, "You have plenty to eat, there is a plate of cold ferret stew in the oven and a nearly full bottle of Iron Brue".
"Don't worry about me" said the lite of my life. "But mammy, don't forget the....
"You have the shotgun, both barrells are loaded and the safety catch is off, so what will you say if a perverto nocks at the door?"
Bon Jovi scratched his ring worm and yelled, "I roar, who goes there? Friend or po? if you don't klear off, I will blow the big head off you. But Mammy, don't forget the...
"Good boy" I said "But remember, you must give a warning before you shoot, oh and another thing, don't go shooting the postman or the milkman".
"I won't" said Bon Jovi "Unless they make a groap at me, but mammy, don't forget the....
"Just wan more thing" I said "Know cooking, I don't want you trying to cook and end up burning down the ancient, anticestoral home of us Ryans".
"Don't worry, know cooking" said Bon Jovi, "But mammy, just wan more thing, don't forget the...
"Don't worry my Bon-Ah Me" I said "When I return, I wool have half a pound of brandy balls in my pocket, for my wee Bon Jovi, my wee--tadpole"
As I sauntered into Clougher, swinging my arms and throwing out my hobnailed boots like Kate Moss, I could knot fail two sea that Winter was upon us. Ah, Winter, a thyme of chill-blanes, runny noses and running in haste for a cold enduced slash. During the cold weather, one's blather, looses it's rigidity and urine finds free passage to unwary drawers, or indeed, one's bed. Winter has it's own stark, bare, barren beauty. The branches of the dead trees, sill-u-ated against the sky, like groaping fingers, reaching for the son. The silvery sparkle of haor frost on a gait post, so excutivite, and simply devine. The shucks are clogged with dead leaves and cow pats kan actually be held in the hand for closer inspection and admiration, thanks too the work of Mr Jack Frost. Winter, a time of-death, you kan actually hear the grim reaper coming towards you, through a carpet of dead leaves. Closer, ever closer, until he lifts his gleaming scythe and cuts you off at the socks, leading to demise or the popping of clogs. But Summer shall return. Summer, with its flours, tinkling streams and long, hot barmy nites. Once again, we wool kick off our wellingtons and Ugg boots and frolic-gaily in the sun dappled forest, with fairy, elf and woodland sprite. But until then, I wood say we are in for a rite good foundering
When I reached the evil, cursed city of Clougher, I made my way too the weemans shop, with grate grace, poise and a-plum. I pushed open the door, a bell tinkled, I yelled, "Holy Mother of God" and leapt back, expecting a bicycle to come flying out of the shop. I reproached the counter, a thin, weedy man with a boil on his neck reproached me, "Yes Madman" he said "Kan I help you?" "Where is the cutties" I yelled "I want to buy knew drawers, dew too wear and tear in the gusset of the boys I am wearing" "I am afriad" said the wee nuck, "That the girls is all off with flew, but I kan insure Madman that I am adept in all kinds of ladies underwear". I looked at his auld long, red thin nose, a nose just made for peeping threw key-wholes and said, "Oh, all rite then, I don't like it, so I'll have two lump it, I hate shopping for drawers, but as the man said, "Its a dirty job, but someone has to do it". "Tee-Hee-Hee" sniggered the wee nuck. "I have some lovely thongs that just came in too-day, wood Madman care too respect them?" "Know way-Hose-Zay" I roared. "I wore a wee thong once and I had too get it cut off at the hospital, under a local Ann-Ah-setic. Give me a pear of petite, blew drawers, with a 44 inch waste and direct me to a changing cuticle" I threw off all my cloths and tried too climb into the knew drawers. I got wan leg in and was hopping about to get the other leg in, when I took a dose of the head staggers and brust threw the changing room door and out into the shop. I rolled across the floor, noking down display stands and giving involuntary flashes of my under-carriage to all and sundry. I ended up on the back of a mail mannikan, legs akimbo and my arms grasped tite around his plastic neck. "Koncealment!" I yelled, "Cover me up with something, a dust sheet or a tar-paulin." People stood around in shock and awe, then as one, they began too throw drawers at me and soon my girlish, maidenly curves and contours was hidden under a mound of drawers. I wool never be able too go into that shop again. From now on all my drawers wool come from Kays katalogue and one lives in hope, that any returns, are knot scrutnised too closely for skid marks. And to cap it all, I forgot Bon Jovi's brandy balls and the wee gulpin nearly shot me!
Some thymes you have good days, other thymes you have bad days, that was a wild, bad day.

Get my book for Kristmas, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at all good to middlin' Eason shops, or from the gulpin below.
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Thursday, 20 November 2008


What a placid, pleasant, domestos seen it was. My Sun, Bon Jovi, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, combing the hare of a deceased stoat. I was reclining-gracefully on a bag of meal, reading the thoughts of Marcell Proust and making notes in the margin with a green crayon. A big fire of bog oak and old wellingtons was roaring up the chimney. On a crook hung a pot and in the pot, the haunch of a bager, six spuds, too handfull of diced carrots and a bow-k garney of herbs, bubbled and boiled in gastric harmony. It was like a seen out of Hands Kristian Anderson, a fairy tail. Mother and sun, One playing with dead vermin and the other, expanding her mind, with a delve into the works of Proust. I looked at Bon Jovi, picking his nose with one hand and his ringworm with the other and a tsuamei of Mother love filled my hart. There he was-my sun, he who had sprung from my lions. Deceived on honeymoon in Bundoran and born in Clougher. There he sat, fair in form and face. The stooped, round shoulder, the one good eye, the little pot belly and just the mearest hint of a hump on his back. As usual, both nostrils were shedding snotters-copiously. That meant that his brane was working and producing waste. His big, round, cannon ball head, that defied concealment by any skool cap. HIs big, red, ruddy cheeks and just the hint of a moustache on his protruding upper lip. My boy, my cub, my child, hatched from a fertilised egg by big Hughie Ryan and given sancturay and safety in the darkness of my womb. Allowed too develop--like a tadpole, before he was hauled out, like a terrier out of a rabbit hole and given a good slap on the arse by the midwife. Ah, the wonder of-nature. Two make one and then they are three. And there he sat, staring into the face of a dead stoat, my cub, my angel, my-everything. I looked at him, with the love only a mother could have and went back to Proust. I turned the page with loving care, feasted my oculars on the ritten word and ejaculated. "NEIN Marcell, Merci and Achtung". "What is it mammy" said Bon Jovi, "Has auld Proust came up with another cracker?" I leaped to my feet, stood with legs akimbo, both hobnailed boots planted firmly on the floor and red what was ritten, "A BON CHAT, BON RAT". "What does it mean mammy" said Bon Jovi, "My French is limited, you wool have to transubstantiate it for me". "A bon chat, bon rat" I said, "Means, To a good kat a good rat, it also means, Tit for tat, or Set a thief to catch a thief". "That's a quare good auld saying" said Bon Jovi "I don't no how Proust keeps coming up with them". "But Bon Jovi" I riposted, "Marcell has spelt kat with a-C?" "Oops" said Bon Jovi Maybe his mind was on something else, like-frogs or-gill-ah-teens" "I kan't understand it" I cried "Marcell Proust of all people, spelling kat with a--C, when everyone knows it starts with a--K". Bon Jovi, put the passed over stoat down got too his feet and came over and hugged me. "Mammy" said the cub, looking up into my face with his good eye "You wool just have two accept it, knot everyone is as wild smart as you, knot even, Marcell Proust". "You're rite sun" I sighed, "When it comes too branes, I am like the fox, away ahead of the hounds". I rung my hands and shrieked, "Oh, it's so lonely at the top, my grate brane and wild smartness has turned me into a reclusive hermitess. People shun me because of my grate intelligence. I have often herd people saying "Let's cross the road, there comes that head-banger Rosie Ryan and she thinks she no's everything". Bon Jovi peered at me with his good ocular and said, "Why are you so smart mammy? Why have you got loads more branes than the edigts in Clougher?" I put my slender hand wearily too my brow and replied, It;s heraldry, it's all too do with jeans. Us Ryan's has kept ourselves two ourselves for generations. People say it's because no wan else wood take us, but that's not why, us Ryan's were keeping the jean pool from kontamination. When I was just a cuttie, I was a prodigal, a prodigal genie. When other cutties were out skipping, I was in the wood shed, trying two split the atom with a hatchet. No one ever played with me, they called me, "Auld pot head Rosie" because of the size of my brane. Ah, 'tis lonely, very-lonely too be the only genie in the village. But-never mind all that" I said. Get the plates and spoons out and we wool partake of this scrumpus repast. Oh, but before you do Bon Jovi, put the kat out or it wool be up on the table eating out of our plates". Bon Jovi sniggered and said, "Is that kat, spelled with a K or a-C?" Oh how we laughed. But their is many raisons Marcell got the spelling rong, he mite have bean in a hurry, or in the throes of acute-heftness.
And with that, Rosie Ryan who is rotten with branes and her sun, Bon Jovi, grabbed too big spoons and got stuck into the bager stew. Nothing warms you up on a Winter day, like a good tightener of-BAGER!
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Tuesday, 18 November 2008


Like Eskimo Nell, the Inuit maiden of poetry and song, I headed out to face the tempest blast and the anger of Thor, the God of thunder. It was a wild, bad day, just as the weathermen had predicamented, the wind was indeed fearful and thunder rumbled in the dark, billowing clouds. Gusts of wind flew across the silent, barren bog, like veritable invisable bulldozers. Know bird flew in the slate, grey sky, know animal forraged for food or sexual congress with another. The whin bushes were taking a hell of a beating, as they bent like old men before the scrouge of the wild, hi wind. It was on a day, such as like too day, that the travellor is made oblivious two the heat and warmth of a good duffle coat. "God bless Mr Duffle" I muttered, as I pulled my late mammies brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it about me. What a brane Mr Duffle must have two have invented a coat that is fuctional and also the hight of fashion. A duffle coat goes with anything, be it blew overalls, a long skirt, a short skirt or an evening gown. When a lady is arrayed in a duffle coat, with wooden toggles on it, she knows she will make a repression where ever she goes. Flash bulbs flash, as the pappa-ratzi foto-graph stars staggering blind drunk from nite clubs, wearing the latest French "shiek" desiginer duffle coats. When Mr Duffle made the duffle coat, he made a coat and a half.
I strode manfully into the face of the Gail, trying two shield my milk-made komplection from the searing wind. I was on my way two a tryst with my paramour Chuck Corona. When I thought of deer Chuck, my hart nearly brust through my lavender gansey and my innards were churning and boiling, knot unlike the warning signs of acute heftedness.Chuck Corona? the very name was a poem, a poem of longing, languishing, waiting for la-more to pierce the hart with an arrow, that wood made the knees tremble and send hot flushes, of inordinate redness, scurrying like clouds across one's eager, pouting visage. The wind pushed me back, I struggled forward. Forked lightening struck a dead tree, I yelled "Fie" put my head down and shouldered my way into the teeth of the Gale, like a rugby player. A peace of wind-blown deb-ree, an old zinc bucket with a whole in it, hit me a dunt on the side of the noggin, I forged on even stronger, with my head down and my ars--rear up in the air for ballast. NOthing wood keep me from Chuck, I was a hot blooded woman on the trail of her mate and nothing wood prevail against me. I was driven by a natural instint, that one see's in the fluttering sparrows, the humming of the B's and some-thymes-too dogs in the street. It wood take more than a bucket of water, too stop Rosie Ryan.
And then, oh be still my foolish hart, I spied him, there he was!, my true love, standing in auld Andy Garcias meadow, like the wee doat he is. I arose on my tip-toes, like a willie wagtale and shreiked, "Cooee, Cooee Chuck". Chuck waved and yelled something, but his words were grasped by the Hi wind and blown away like an old bit of toilet paper. I delicately lifted the hem of my duffle coat and charged towards Chuck like a galloping rhino. As I leaped rushes like a gazelle, I was complused two sea that Chuck was standing stationery and knot rushing two meet me. The reason soon became clear, as I neared Chuck's side, I saw my beloved was standing with a leg each side of a Hi barbed wire fence. I shrieked like a ferret kittling and cried. "Oh Chuck, my deerest darling, are you--pierced?. "Yes I am" cried Chuck. "I let a roar and clasped my two slender hands too my girlish, maidenly face and screeched. "Is the damage, irrepairable?" "I don't no" yelled Chuck, into the wind, "I threw one leg over this barbed wire fence, but when I tried to throw the other leg over, I got caught, caught by the fork of my trousers". "Merci" I cried, "What are we going to do, at tall, at tall, at tall, to excriate you from the protruding barbs of the wire? A kar jack" I yelled, "We need a kar jack, but where is one two get a kar jack in such a rustic, rural invoirnment?"
I could knot think straight, my hands were all a tremble, I ran around in circles, jumping over clumps of rushes and letting shrieks out of me. Then I deposed ,myself and regained my eek, quay, lib-ray-um. I ran towards my impaled boyfriend and grabbed for him by the fork of the trousers with both hands. "Ease up Chuck my deer" I gasped, "while I pull on the intersection of your trousers". It was know good, Chuck was stuck fast and every moment coming nearer to doing grate damage too his manly accouterments. I could sea that my beloved was getting tired. "Don't sit down Chuck" I yelled "Are you'll be buggered". Oh what a horrible thing it is, for a fare, slender maiden two sea her boyfriend impaled by the under-carriage on barbed wire. I grabbed too more handfulls of fork and pulled again. It was know good, Chuck Corona, my bow and main squeeze, was well and truely snagged by his reprobative organs. "KNow more family allowance" I yelled, as I tugged and tugged and tugged. "My legs are giving out" wailed Chuck, "I must soon rest what is concealed in my trousers, upon the spikes of the barbed wire". "Know Chuck" I screeched, "If you wool knot think of yourself, think of-ME!". I racked my brane in vein, to think of the patron saint of men caught by the fork on barbed wire. Then I heard a low roar. "Chuck!" I cried, "Have you rested your under-carriage and are now bleeding-copiously?" "That wasn't me" yelled Chuck, "It was-him!" and Chuck pointed with a rigid digit. I spun on my hobnailed boots and nearly shi--scared myself too death. Up on a hill, stood a bull, a grate, big brute of a bull. "Torro" I yelled, "Torro, up on the hill". The bull looked down on us with too, wee red eyes, then it pawed the ground and threw up earth like a JCB. The bull, lowered it's huge head, let a wild, "MOOOO" out of it, and charged down the hill. I stood there, transfixed, with my hands on the fork of Chuck's trousers, then I gave a shriek like a mating pole-kat and took two my heels. Behind me I heard the RIP of Donegall tweed and Chuck Corona flew past me, with the mangled fork of his trousers flying in the wind. When we got home, I pulled the trousers from Chuck and respected the damaged area. His gentiles were like a pin cushin. I dabbed on some anty-bi-otic ointment and whispered, "now wood be a good time to insert some-rings". Chuck never spoke, he rolled over on his side and sucked his thumb like a baby. I watched over Chuck all nite, when he twitched and trembled all over, I wood whisper softly in his ear. "Don't worry my deer, all is presant and accounted for". And deer Chuck wood go back two sleep, with a little smile on his face. You should sea the fork of Chuck's trousers, eviscerated, that's what they is, --eviscerated!
I have nothing against-eunuchs, but the trouble is--neither have they!

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I gave Chuck's trousers to the alsation to play with!

Monday, 10 November 2008


Under a lowering buttermilk sky, I found myself on the low road two Clougher. Clougher, the city of sin and depravity that is ritten of in the book of the Ah-pock-ah-lips and is whispered off, in muted whispers, in the bazaars of Babby-Lon and Con-stant-tay-noble. Clougher, where even the black imps of the devil wool knot set foot, due too tarra fear and feelings of repugance. Clougher, where the red Biddy flows like H2o and the roaring, shouting and guldering goes on two nine oh clock every Saturday nite. But I had good reason too visit the den of eeh-nick-quit'ee, I needed too buy a pan loaf, half a pound of streaky bacon and a toilet roll, the pink wan that is soft on the ars-derriere.
I whistled shrilly, like a pee-wheat as I walked and drank in the grate beauty of nature with my poetic occulars. The Clougher valley, what a site two behond. A veritable rain forest, where it is whispered, pigmays roam and canniballs gorge on the flesh of unsuspecting travellors, who have bean dragged off their bicycles and hit over the head with flint axes. What beauty lay before me, I drank it in like a wino, the flora, the fauna, the tweeting birds, the shrieking vermin, the Baa's of the sheeps on the hills, the Moo's of the bovines and the soft plop of a horse relieving itself. Beauty, beauty, every where I looked. I felt the poetic muse desend on me, my artistic hart gave a-leap and the colly-wobbles of inspiration set my gizzard a tingle. I could hold it in know longer, I had two give vent. I leaped out in the middle of the road like a devrish, arrayed in brown duffle coat, with wooden toggles on it and sparkling hobnailed boots, raised my slender, artistic arms Hi in the air and roared.
Overcome with my own elequence, I cried aloud, "Oh Rosie, you have suppressed yourself, that was a cracker, and wool take it's plaice in your ledger of poetic and artistic utterances". As I stood there in the middle of the road like Keats, Browning or big-fellow, a small, brown cow, with it's hips covered in skitter, came up too a gait too view me. I looked into the bovines big, black eyes and new what it was thinking.
"There stands a rural, rustic midden, with the beauty and grace of Marlyon Monroe, before she fell in with the Kennedy's and deceased herself in the middle of the nite, with them damned, auld Temazepam" I gave a skip-like a would-land sprite and proceeded two Clougher, where the air is fowl and the pouplance is even-fowler. When I reached the city limits of Clougher, I poured a lemonade bottle of holly water over my self and ran into the Spar supermarket, yelling religlously, "FROM THE SNARES AND PITS OF THE DEVIL, MAY THE GOOD LORD DELIVER US".
Later that nite, after a good tightener of roast stoat, the buttered heels of pan loaves and teeming mugs of Iron Brue, Chuck Corona, my boy friend and my only begotten Sun, Bon Jovi lay round the fireside like three lurchers. A lot of wind had bean passed, since the last stoat bone had been crunched between salivating nashers. We were stuffed, stuffed too the gunnels. Suddenly, Bon Jovi broke wind with fierce and unnatural ferocity. "Hauld on boy" I yelled, "Just you hauld on there. Do you knot no that breaking wind, like the decanter of Port, goes round the table in a clock-wise direction? Chuck broke wind last, so it was my turn next, I was just easing up on wan hip, when you went and rattled the delph". Bon Jovi, snapped his fingers and roared, "I don't give a fig for convention". And the wee brute let another dunder, that scent the kat flying under the bed. "You-wee-wee--Pallestine" I roared, "If you were invited two Buckingham Palace and went on like that, too footmen wood have you in the tower before you could say, Fat's Domino" "Piffle-tiddle and tosh" sneered Bon Jovi "The wan who should go first is the wan that is in most need and rite now I need a good..." Then the wee gulpin, let go with the most almighy BANG, that scent the foto of the knew German Pope flying off the wall. That was when God stepped in, in an effort two startle, impress and amaze us, Bon Jovi inadvertently followed through. The juvinile, farting miscreant was banished from the dining table and scent out two the water barrell two cleanse himself. Chuck sighed and said, "Ah, the folly and stupidity of youth, many a thyme I have done the same myself". "We all have Chuck" I riposted, "But the cub wool have two learn two guage the pressure of internal combustion" After I had filled the room with lavander air spray, Chuck and I began two canoodle and indulge in some rumbustous gansey fisslin'. Like most ladies of gentility and quality, it takes more that the whiff of faces two put me off my canoodling. As Chuck sank his nashers into my long, swan-like, slender neck, like a vampire, we could heer the splashing of the untouchable outside the winda. How I laughed as Chuck whispered, "Seem's like a job for--Lifeboy".
My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, would make a better stocking filler, than a big, fat, blue-veined leg, but get in fast, not many left, order from...
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And did Bon Jovi clean up? You betcha'

Wednesday, 5 November 2008


A cold, hard, penetrating frost had left the terra firma as hard as steal. I moved about the yard-gingerly, in my hobnailed boots, knot inviting or wanting a cope on my firm, round, plump girlish derriere. My breath exhailed before me, like smoke from the exhaust of a kar that was burning oil. A silvery sheen of hoar frost clung to everything, like icing sugar on a cake. It was-Winter, cold, hard-Winter. Far away in the distance, I heard a sheep dog go "Wow-Wow". "That's Murphy's Nellie" I muttered "Why don't they take the crater in and let it heat itself at the fire?" The horizons had shrunk, everything was veiled in a strange, fairy-like mist. I was ka-cooned, ka-cooned, in a bubble, like an esk-ski-mo in wan of them glass balls you shake, to sea the snow fall down. I bent over, gracefully too pick up a plastic bucket, it was stuck, stuck too the ground with the frost. As I bent, a chill blast of wind blue up my skirt,and tried to gain entrance, to that part of me that is designed for the accomadation of exiting wind. I repelled the icy blast, by raising slightly on wan foot and emmiting a loud, warm warning fart. The icy wind fled in fear and confusion. Suddenly, I stiffened like a sentenial and harked, Did I heer a sound coming from the icy wilderness? I pinned back my lug-holes and harked again. Yes, it was the sound of my true love Chuck Corona, coming threw the bog, two visit she who had stolen his hart, Rosie Ryan. My cheeks flushed red like a turkey, my hart leapt within my rib cage,like a hungry hamster, my blood was rushing threw my viens, a veritable tide of red plasma, bubbling and boiling with love and passion. I rubbed the snotters from my icy nose with my sleeve, in preperation for the welcoming kiss. I climbed the frozed midden like Sir Edmund Hilliary and roared, "Cooee Chuck. Cooee Chuck, Cooee, my little Chuckie". I inverted my lug whole, listening for Chuck's reply. Chuck was in poetic mode, as his squat, round, humped figure came in site, I heard my beloved bellowing with poetical gusto.
"Oh Chuck" I shrieked "Another poetic master-peace, how do you do it my love? You are indeed, the King of the poitical world". Chuck grabbed me like a grizzly bare and kissed and slabbered at my face, until all my acne ointmant had bean washed off. I snuggled up against Chuck's manly chest. I could feel his aroma, so I flared my nostrils and sniffed the smell of-"Man" up my quivering hooter. I detected, tobacco, John West Tuna, the exotic whiff of Old Spice and just a teeny-weenie hint of-urine. I know it's knot easy for a man two shake the last drop off on a frosty morning. I grabbed Chuck by his appendage, the appendage in question being his arm and dragged him into the heat and comfort of my rurual, rustic abode. My sun and the pride of my life, Bon Jovi, was sitting crouched over the hearth like a hobgoblin. "Bon Jovi" I said "Move over and let Chuck heat himself" The unmannerly wee gulpin, shifted over and mumbled in a wild hateful auld voice. "Move over Bon Jovi, let Chuck Corona get all the heat, Bow down Bon Jovi, in front of the grate Chuck Corona. If I had my way, I wood stick my toe, up Chuck Corona's big, fat ars..." "SHUT UP, you wee gulpin" I roared. "Chuck is a gest and I invited him in. If you don't like it--lump it. Now move over, you wee imp from hell, or I'll bring that coal shovel down on your big, round cannon-ball head and swing for you in Crumlin Road". "Ah, leave the cub alone" said Chuck, with a smile too me, "Sure the poor lad is foundered. Here Bon Jovi, take that bar of Cadburys fruit and nut chololate that I bought just for you on my way here". Bon Jovi's demenier changed, the sulk went off his face and was replaced by the smile of a crocodile. "Ah, tis youself Chuck Corona" the wee get said, "I didn't sea you there, come away in man and heat yourself, I was just saying the other day, Chuck Corona is a gentile man". I looked at my too men, sitting shoulder two shoulder in front of the fire. Tears came too my eyes, as I added a slash of water to a tin of Baxters Scots broth too make it go around. After a good tightener of soup and the heels from a Mothers Pride loaf, we just sat there, the three of us. The glow of the fire, reflected off our big, red feaces. As night desended and the frost tightened it's grip, Chuck began to sing in loud, baroom, Ronnie Drew (May he rest in peace) gulder.
OH how we laughed, Its the simple things in life that make us happy. A good fire, a bowl of soup, a roof over your head and good company. Yes, it's the little things in life, the-simple things in life that make me happy. And you won't find anyone more-simple, than Chuck Corona or my sun, Bon Jovi Ryan. I curled up in the korner like a kat, the lovely, feline Eartha Kitt and guldered, "FINE GIRL YOU ARE, as Chuck gave vent two an old Irish tune, that in my 'umble opinin, sums up the temperature of the Irish People. What a people we are, undeterred by famine, frost, rain or 12 years of terror by the Showbands. Auld Mother McCree, mite have bean down, but she always got up again, called for another drink and kicked up her auld skinny legs in an Irish jig. BALLS, that what the Irish is, BALLS, we always bounce up again.
If you want my book of letters to Gerry Anderson for Kristmas, hurry, stocks are getting wild low. Go to...
And if you want more information on how to deal with this thing called-life, go to...
And I'll see youse when I see youse, so be good and if you see your brother standing by the way, drive on and say, "I wonder what that boy is doing at the side of the road, he must be on the tear again!"