Tuesday, 16 December 2008


Waiting! All day I had bean waiting, waiting paitently for the red Parcel Force van two drive up my lane. It was a Wintery seen that met my scrutizing oculars. A strange ghostly mist hung over the bog, it was on such a day, that the ancient standing stones wood get up and move about, to help with their circulation. Up on Hi, a lone crow cawed, a sheep went-Baa and the wind whistled threw the electric wires, playing a sad plaintive melody, akin to a celestical beeing blowing into an obo. Strange things were afoot on a day such as this, boys got up from their graves and went for a bit of a dander, with wild looks on their long dead faeces. Faeries sat on toadstools, grooming their fragile wings and shaking faerie dust under their tiny oxters. The old man of the forest, bent over with age, hobbled over a carpet of fallen Autumnal leaves, leaning heavily on a crooked, blackthorn stick. Witches sat round their cauldrens, hubbling an bubbling as they knocked something up for their supper. Strange things happen on strange days-and the strange things are seen by strange people and no wan is more strange than-Rosie Ryan
THEN!-at last, I spied the Parcel Force van. It pulled up before the door and a man got out and opened up the back. Then he got a huge parcel up on his shoulder and staggered towards my door. I opened the door and yelled, "Throw her on the table boy, I can take it from here". As the van drove off, I gazed at the big parcel. KAY'S MALE ORDER, it proudly stated on the front and there was my name and redress. How I had longed for this moment, With trembling hands I tried to open the big, grey bag, but was repulsed by the strong polly-theen. Then I went at it with my teeth, I gnawed at the polly-theen like a rat, but it withstood the savage power of my gnawing nashers. In desperation, I ran and got a knife and went at it like Jack the Ripper. I pulled out a large cardboard box and opened it up, inside, covered with pink tissue paper, lay my knew-drawers. I slowly unfurled the paper and there they were, I gazed at the drawers and exclaimed, "Wonder-Bah". I lovingly took the drawers out, shook them loose and let them fall. And there they were, the latest fashion from Tiawain. The Super Dooper, XL500, in fire engine red, with a petite 42 inch waste. But before I tried them on, there was a ritital to go threw, first I grabbed the knew drawers and stretched them like a Bullworker. I admired the elastic on the legs and waste, double strength for double confidence, the gusset was a hefty piece of engineering, a web-like contraption, securly sewed and lined with lambs wool. Then I scrunched the drawers up in a ball and happed them off the floor eight or nine thymes. This was two get the stiffness and rigidity out of them and make them mallabe and pliable. I held the knew drawers up too my girlish hooter, Ah, there was nothing like the smell of-knew drawers. After wear, you can never recapture the fresh, just out of the box, smell of-knew drawers. Now, it was thyme too try them on, I slipped-seductively out of my old drawers and let them fall around my plump,sturdy ankles. Then, with the deftness of George Best, at his best, I caught the drawers on my big toe and-flipped them onto the smouldering fire. The drawers lay there for a while, crackling and fizzing-THEN-with a mighty-WHOOSH, they ignited and flew up the chimney. I slipped into the knew drawers, with a minimum of cursing, panting and grunting and stood in front of the mirror. "Venus, in red drawers" I muttered, as I gazed at my refraction. There I stood, like Mick Manus, my too bulging thighs, emerged from the knew drawers like too Grecian colomns. My exquitive belly-button lolled over the restricting elasticated waste. I turned to the left and admired my rounded bum cheeks, straining against the stout, red flannel like too aluring, delectable-dumplings. What a site! What-beauty! If auld Hugh Heffner saw me now, he wood bust a gut two get me on the cover of Playboy. But only a few select gentlemen wool be lucky enough to gaze in wonder and awe, at Rosie Ryan in her knew drawers. The gentlemen in question beeing, Chuck Corona, my boyfriend, the doctor and any boy lucky enough too meet me when I'm flying down a hill on my bicycle, with my frock tucked into my drawers.
In the evening, I took the drawers out for a trial run and recieved the most horrendous news. Auld Domino McToodle is dead!. Poor auld Domino, he was never out of the chapel, praying for black babies, yellow babies and-even-white-babies. When auld Domino was just 19, the wholly Ghost appeared to him in the form of a Willie Wagtale. Every since that, auld Domino, was an alter-eater of Hi renown. Domino was 97 years old but as sharp as a pin, he had all his faculities, up to the day of his death, he could still tell his arse from his elbow. Apparently, auld Domino's demise was brought on by his wild love for-Kristmas. Too celebrate the coming birth of the baby Jesus, auld Domino had decorated his zimmer frame with tinsel and fairy lites, run from the mains. Poor auld Domino, was standing outside his house, bent over like a hoop, with age and Art-Risis, he was waving-feebly to kars and croaking, "A very merry Kristmas to youse all" Then, a wild shower of rain came on and before the family could get auld Domino into the house, he was electrocuted and stuck to the zimmer frame, like a limpet mine. They say the sparks were shooting from him and a strange azure lite appeared in his eyes, probably scent by the Wholly Ghost. The Undertaker could knot get the zimmer frame out of auld Domino's blacked hands, so it wool be buried along with him. I'm sure that's what he wood have wanted. Auld Domino was very attached two his zimmer frame. Auld Domino called the zimmer frame, his iron legs. I kan still sea him at the corner of his house, drool running freely down his withered chin and him croaking-feebly. "May legs is-done, only for these iron boys I wood have to sit on my arse in the house". Auld Domino had his wits about him, there was know senior diminutive gnawing like a rat at his brane. Every nite, before I use the po, I fall on my knees and prey, "OH Lord, let knot your hand-midden Rosie grow Do-Lally in old age, by your loving grace, may I always no my arse from my elbow, untill the day I die-AMIN"
I wore the knew drawers at auld Domono's funeral and do you no something, they were that comfortable, you wouldn't even no they were on!

My books and books of poems can be found at all Eason shops or from...
If any of youse wood like a pear of drawers, like what I have got, drop me a line. I swear to God, you wouldn't even no you had them on. The knew drawers is-WONDER-BAH!

Monday, 8 December 2008


Dawn broke over the bog, revealing a vast, frozen, icy, barren tundra. Winter had nature by the throat and was holding on like a famished ferret. Know flora nor fauna grew on the icy and desolate waste land. Any young shoot, that dared poke its snout above ground, had the snotter cut off it by the frosty air and the cold, keening wind. It was like earth after a nuclear war, when some head banger in the Whitehouse went do-lally and pressed the red button. And yet--the bog still had beauty, a cold, sterile, terrible beauty, that could only be appreciated like someone like me with a poetic bend. Like auld Patrick Kavanagh, from Monaghn, I sea beauty in everything. A fragile flour, a weed, clinging to a wall like Spiderman, even cow dung has a secret beauty if you lie down on your belly and view it closely. Many a thyme, I have gazed into the face of a cow pat and scene the wonders of the Lord.
Back in my picturesque white cottage, my Sun Bon Jovi and I had just got up from us pits. We stood side by side at the sink, washing us feaces with ice cold h2o. We were both arrayed in us drawers and simmets. I was splashing the icy cold water, round my perfectly formed oval face, like an otter. Bon Jovi was more hesitant, he would throw a few droplets over his fat, round face and then back away, roaring, "IN THE NAME OF-GOD!" Back then too the sink, splash another few wee drops round his visage, do a wee dance in his unlaced hobnaild boots and let another wild roar, "IN THE NAME OF-GOD!" "Bon Jovi" I said "Don't be an auld woman. Wash that big face of yours and don't be coming over all precious and namby-pamby".
"This damned water is wild-cauld!" roared he who had sprung from my lions. "Listen boy" I yelled "I could heat the kettle, but I'm knot going two, I am going too bring you up in Spartan conditions to toughen you up and make a man out of you". Bon Jovi stamped his hobnailed boot like a wee diva and roared, "Listen Dumbo, I don't care how much cauld water you splash round your own big, red, bleezer of a face, but I have a delicate komplection, I should be washing in warm water and using moist-ter-iser". It was the word, moist-ter-iser that made me lose the head, I grabbed Bon Jovi by his auld bull neck and held his head in the sink 'till bubbles came up. Then I hauled him out, gave him a good shake and done the same again. The kicking of his hobnails was vigerous and frenetic, but I held on. When I was finished with him, he looked like a drowned big fat pup. I threw a towel I had made from a meel bag at him and yelled "Stop your sniveling, I wool make a man out of you my boy, If I have too drown you". Bon Jovi stood there, with his too knees nocking and shivering like a whipped greyhound. The eyes were standing in his head and he was gulping for air like a goldfish. He staggered too the korner and collapsed on to a meel bag. I looked over at him, he was wet from head to tow, you could sea his wee hart thumping, behind his simmet. Our eyes met and the cub stared at me, with a look of pure malevelant evil in his close set eyes. Bon Jovi bend over, boaked out some soapy water and roared at me. "Well, you've done it-now! You have water-boarded your only begotten sun. You have treated me worser that auld Bin Laden, you have treated me worser that the boys how did the nines elevens". I felt a pang of sorrow but replied. "It's for your own good, someday you wool thank me". "I think knot" yelled Bon Jovi. "After what has occured here today, I feel-obligated too take certain-steps". "What do you mean boy?" I said, with a note of fear in my voice. Bon Jovi threw the towel from him and said "You do no what you have done here today? I mean, you are aware of the consequences?" "What are you talking about" I stammered, with a trembling lip. Bon Jovi looked at me, pointed with a rigid digit and roared, "You have just breeched the Geneva convention. You have broken rule 9 paragraph 4, subsection 17, which states, "Any wan found too bee engaging in inhuman or degrading torture wool be arrested and tried at the court of human rights in the Hague".I stood-transfixed, what had I done? I had turned my good cat-lick home into another Guatamo Bay! I ran to hug the cub, but he avaded my embrace. He looked at me with a fly smile on his face and said "I wool lodge a complaint with the peelers, on my way two skool". "Bon Jovi" I shrieked "You wouldn't imform on your auld mammy-wood you?" "It's knot a case of-informing" said Bon Jovi, "I sea it as my civic duty, oh by the way, do you have a middle name like, Maggie or Nellie, I wool need too no when I lodge the complaint". "Bon Jovi" I yelled "Don't tell the police on your auld mammy. I wool do anything too make it up two you". Bon Jovi smirked and said "I sometimes find, that if I am given-money, a sizeable amount of-money, I seem too lose my-memory". "YES, YES" I cried, "How much do you want?" "I think a-Fiver wood suffice" said the fly wee get. "Here's a fiver" I yelled "Take it and we'll forget all about it". "KNot so fast--torturer" said Bon Jovi, "There is wan other little thing I want you too do, before we are quits". "Anything" I yelled "Anything, just tell me what it is and I wool do it" "Which is why the postman is telling all round Clougher, about finding me sitting buck naked in the water barrel outside. The wee brute made me sit in it for fore hours. When I finally climbed out, there was bits of me that could do with a good ironing. Oh, and another thing, I don't feed the blue-tits anymore-too many bad memories!

To get my book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, go to..

I'm still-foundered, still foundered-down below!

Wednesday, 3 December 2008


I was asleep in bed, curled up coquettishly in the fatal position, like a big shrimp or a woodland faiere. I was arrayed-alluringly in ex-Israeli special forces kar-key pyjamas. Yehweh was ritten across the back of the pyjamas, it probably means, "All for one and one for all" in Israeli. Even when asleep, I could not help giving off a hi-frequenecy sexual radiance. I was softly-humming, like a nuclear reactor, sending out pulses and waves of pure feminine beauty, grace and attractifness. What a subject for a masterpiece by wan of the old masters, like Van-Go, Tight-Ann or Goy-Yah. "Rosie Rayan aslumber in her bude-wah" it could be called. Beauty, captured, for ever on canvas, for the titalition and indeed, delication of art lovers everywhere. As the rooster crowed from the midden of dung, I opened my oculars, threw off the bedcloths and prepared two meet another day. "Greetings little red caped farmyard foul" I cried. "Heralder of dawn, sturdy little, feathered sentinel, calling like wan of them boys up on a mosque, for the people too leap up and greet the coming day". I then went into my morning excercies, bend to the rite, bend to the left, running on the spot and trying too touch my toes. This dawnish exteration lead two much breaking of wind, which greatly inproved my constitution and red me out for the day. As the fowl gasses billowed up like veritable thunder clouds, I ran--lady-like too open the winda. I had too rub the condisencion from the pain of glass, before I could gaze at the pornographic vista which lay outside. The bog was still there, exactly where it was last nite. I am always feard that boys mite come in the middle of the nite and take the bog away in lorries. As the bracing, fresh air filled my room, I nudged the full po in under the bed with my big tow. One thing I abhor is cleaning up spilled urine, the chlorine brings tears too my eyes. Suddenly, my grate brane threw out a thought, could urine and onions be related? When one peels an onion, tears flow as layer after layer is exposed, could the pure, essance of-urine lie at the heart of an-onion? I must rite too the effing Ramsey cook too sea what he thinks. I may have hit on something that could change the cullinary landscape. "First dice an onion into a hot frying pan, if you haven't got an onion, just squat on the frying pan and release about 10 cubic centimeteres of-urine" It could revolunise the art of cooking. Young female cooks wood have two learn the art of squatting over a red hot frying pan without burning their under-carriages. And health and safety, wood probably insist on a-Brazilian, too decrease the chances of fire.
"Rosie" I said to myself "What a woman you are, you arise from your nightly slumbers and before you kan say, "Fats Domino" your mighty brane is spewing out thoughts and ideas like Gally-Leo, Pluto and the boy who invented the sliced pan loaf".
My Sun Bon Jovi looked at me with his good eye, as he stuffed a paris bun into his facial orfice and said. "Imagine this!, I go two skool-rite?" "Go on" I said As I gave the dog a riser for leaving feaces on the floor. "I go too skool" said Bon Jovi "I study hard and become a teecher, then I teech children and they go on to become teechers two!. !What's rong with that?" I said "You have a good job and you are looked up two in the community, what's rong with that?". "Let me expand" said Bon Jovi. "Recapping, I study to be a teecher, then I teech wains and they all go on too become-teechers and then the wains they teech go on too become-teechers, Do you sea what I'm getting at?" "I do knot" I said "You are spreading headcuation-like slurry on a field, you are making more teechers, what's rong with that?"
"The circle must be broken" roared Bon Jovi "If we go on, producing teechers ad nauseam and ad finitum, its just groundhog day all over again. Bye now, the hole world is-teechers, but ad interim, who is going two clean out shucks, grow spuds or make-pan loaves?"
I stood back in wonder and agogness, My sun, my only begotten-sun, he who had sprang from my lions had come up with that condimentum!. So young, so unwordly, so-fat and yet, there he stood, in unlaced hobnailed boots, coming out with a highly headucated cracker like that.
I patted the cubs big, round, cannon ball head and said, "Well done number one sun, but the answer is simple, the shucks will still be cleaned, the spuds grown and the pan loaves made".
"Who's going too do it?" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Elementally my deer Bon Jovi" I said. "The teechers wool do all those jobs during the big, long holly-daze they get".
The cub made a face, kicked the coal bucket and muttered softly-"Bollocks".
"What did you say?" I roared. "What did you say just now?"
Bon Jovi, gleeked up with a face full of innonence, but a craftey look in his eye and replied.
"I said-Pollocks, the Pollocks were all good painters, but Jackson Pollock, was the best painter of them all".
I watched the cub go off two skool, with his skoolbag trailing in skitter. Master Bon Jovi was getting too fly, too fly for his own good, I must keep him off skool one day a weak, in case he turns into a smart ass. No one likes a-smart ass, not even their mother. Saint Paul indeed was rite, when he rote two the phillistines, "A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing"

My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson is availabe from all Eason shops and from the igidt below.
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
I must away now, po's too empty and bread to bake.