Wednesday, 23 December 2009

Another Kristmas

Deer Gerry, it is late as I rite this Eeh-pistol too you.
My boyfriend Chuck Corona has long gone home. Leaving me tingling and vibrating from a vigerous, yet tender groaping and fissling.
My boy child, the fertile fruit of my lions, wee Bon Jovi is in his cardboard box. He has knew HEY! so should be quite warm.
Well Gerry, another Kristmas is almost upon us.
Kristmas is a hapy time. And yet, par-a-dox-icaly kan also be a wild, tarra sad time. I am thinking of the empty chair Gerry. The empty chair at the head of the table where deer Pappa used to sit. Before the dirty auld gulpin took up with a painted trallop and left wife and family in search of karnal pleasure in the form of idolitery.
Sins of the flesh Gerry. Sins of the flesh make countless thousands mourn. Saint Paul said that in his letter too the Ulster/Scots.
All married men should be chipped like the dogs they are. Then if they stray. Their wives could track them down and batter the face of them.
And any painted tramp who wood lure a married man from hearth and home should be tatooed on the forehead with a big S, which stands for Slapper.
Woe betide the painted trallop who wood cast a macared eye towards the forkal region of Chuck Corona. I wood be dug out of her. I may bee a mere week 18 stone woman. But I have honed my fighting skills by watching Mike Tyson. I wood bite the tramps ear off and spit it back in her face.
I wood pulverise her guts with body punches.
I wood brust her bust and knee her repeately in the under-carriage.
I am a temperate woman, but once riz I wreck havoc and lay waist to all around me.
They did knot name a hurricane after me. I was named after a hurricane. I am hell on wheels when I get going.
I suppose you have got all in Gerry for a good tightner on Kristmas day. I wood say you were never off the road with your wee bicycle. Ferrying spuds, sprouts, Birds trifle and Chivers jelly.
Now you kan put your feet up and relax-eh-voo.
KRACKERS! Gerry. Did you get the Kristmas krackers?. Kristmas wouldn't be Kristmas without a kracker. I look forward to a good bang at Halloween and Kristmas.
I suppose the wee boy, coming from a poorer part of Derry. Wool get stuck into the gruel on Kristmas. Hoping against hope that he finds the silver sixpence in his bowl.
The poor you have with you always Gerry. And if you don't believe me. Just look through the glass. What do you sea? That's rite. The poor.
If only he hadn't left skool so early and kept of the roofs of them auld flats.
How are the girls doing Gerry. I often think of the girls when I'm lying in bed. Languid and weary of Ireland's Own. I often think of throwing my leg on the auld bicycle and taking Janet and Emma for a girls nite out. We could meander down to the docks and look for little sailors. I'm sure the girls have bean there many's a time. But it wood be all knew two me.
How is the Undertone doing? Don't take know buck from that boy, just because John Peel has something rote on his tombstone. He's just like the rest of us. He puts his trousers on too legs at a time just like we do.
Do knot put up with uppitness. Don't let people with gold teeth cow you. Just look at him and say.
"There but for the grace of God".
I must away Gerry. A terrible urge to make use of the po has come over me. Have a hapy Kristmas. And when you feel the coma coming on. Start lowering yourself towards the floor. You don't want to split yourself at Kristmas. I gently lift the hem of my nite-dress now with slim, slender hand and glide lanquidly towards the resting plaice of the nite vessal.
Good nite sweet Prince. Good-nite.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Rosie's Kristmas Preparations

Deer Gerry, good to sea you again. As the blind man said to Jesus, after Jesus cured him outside Gallellio.
Now that Religion has made such a big inroad into the commercial festival of Kristmas. I said, "Too hell with it" and got stuck in two.
I have pulled out all the staps. This Kristmas wool be solely devoated too the ancient art of Kristanity.
I have a crypt. Into which I shall place all the cast members of the Naiveity. Pride of plaice shall go of course too Francie and Josie.
Sorry Gerry, I'm so excited. I meant to say, Mary and Joesph. I have a little baby Jesus. A manager, a donkey and a lamb. But I found in impossible to find three wise men in Clougher. So I got three Ninja figures and pasted on the faces of Peter Robinson, Martin McGuinnes and wee Reg Empty.
Jesus, as you may have heard on the grapevine. Is the SUN of God. I two have hatched a fertilised egg, that turned into my SUN Bon Jovi.
Bon Jovi doesn't no it. But I have bought him a lovely soot for Kristmas morning.
The soot is made from shiny velvet and has white lace ruffs round the neck and cuffs.
The boy who sold me the soot said the colour is Damson Plum.
But it looks more of a bright puce to me.
"Mrs Ryan" said the shop man. "I kan reinsure you that know cub in Clougher, will have a soot like your SUN on Kristmas morning".
Hi praise indeed. From a boy who spent all his working life in ladies nickers.
All the cruising shall be cooked by my own lily white slender hand. Food and beverages we shall have in abundance.
There will be a choice of road kill.
Ranging from sweet, succelet door mice up two roast badger.
The badger got a dunt from wan of Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries. A big lorry pulled up wan day. The driver opened the door. Threw out the dead badger. Yelled. "May hand on yer drawers Rosie and a hapy Kristmas" Then he drove away. And kept his hand on his horn, until he nearly deefened me.
Hangels. That's what Sean Quinn's drivers are.
Wee heavenly-Hangels.
The vegetation for Kristmas wool be.
Karrots, Par-snips, spuds, docken leaves and suelugs. Something there to tickle the fancy of any Gor-May I think.
After the meel, Bon Jovi and me has a little yuletide concert planned.
First, Bon Jovi in his knew puce velvet soot, shall sing a song or too. Then the cub wool do a trick with a hard boiled egg that has to be scene to be believed.
I don't no how he does it. You wood think the egg wood fall out when the cub walks.
Then Bon Jovi wool do some impersonations of our neighbours. Bon Jovi wool screw up his face and yell.
"Is that rite? Is that rite?"
You wood swear it was auld Mandrake McTwitter. Who lost a lung when he fell into a shuck blind drunk.
It wool be up to me to interject a little arts and kulture into Kristmas. I shall don white nite-dress and dance the dying swan.Which comes from the opera,Swan Lake. As I flutter down, popping clogs as I go in front of the coal bucket. I am sure the raw emulusion wool get too Bon Jovi and he wool ball his eyes out.
After that, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box and go too sleep.
This will be my cugh to get stuck into a bottle of the crater. As the crater takes hold. I may sing, dance, pull faces, kick up my legs, or pick up a hatchet and go and settle some old score that has bothered me for years.
PIECE, is what I wish you Gerry. PIECE. May God and his holey hangels look down on you on Kristmas nite.
As you lie behind the back door pissed as a newt.
Seasons Greetings Two All At Radio Foul.
Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX
PS. I wonder what the knew black wool be next year?

Friday, 13 November 2009

Rosie Wants Menthol Stimulation

How's she cutting boy? You wool be glad too no that the fruit of my lions, my sun Bon Jovi and me listen too your show on a Daly basis. When you scatter your hi-sterical bon mots, like a Bibical sower scattering seed. Bon Jovi and me yell, "Doesn't that beet Bannager" and roar and laugh.
Your show makes me thankful for what I've got.
When I heer some of the poor craters, who come on your show. And most of them knot able to tell their Arsenal from their Everton. I thank the Lord that I am fierce compes mentos and knot dee-ficient in the marbles department. I hate too say it Gerry. Butt most of your listeners, is groveling, pathetic wretches.
It's "Oh Gerry get me this and oh Gerry get me that".
How I long for an headucated person two come on and discuss, Phill-officy, histornics, or too recite The Creamonation of wee Sam Magee.
I find, as I'm sure you do. That's it's wild hard now a daze, to find some wan who kan talk intelligenty about Arts and Kulture. I am like a kulture vulture Gerry. Circling, ever circling the barren desert of Clougher. In search of menthol stimulation. This morning I tried too talk too the postman about Proust. "Oh aye," He said. "Proust has a good turn of speed and given the chance, he wool stick her in the back of the net".
The poor deluded, illiterate fool thought I was talking about the Proust who plays for the wanderers of Wolverhampton!.
What have we became Gerry?. What ever happened to the land of saints and scoolers? When was the last thyme, some wan went into their bed room with skool jotter and crayons and rote an illuminated account of the gospels?. I am ashamed of my own peeple Gerry.
I find their roaring, yelling and guldering horrible in the extreme. I was watching, "Come dine with me" on tee-vee and it was like watching a chimps T-party. Auld course, vulgar talk. And a lot of sexual winks and nods when it came to the volly-bons. If I was giving a dinner party. I wood invite your good self. The snipe boy Seamus Heaney. Lynda Byrons and Wendy Austin. As I poured the soup out of a Cambells soup tin I wood kick start the artistic swarry by saying.
"Is it just me, or do the rest of you think that Homer was the rite auld gulpin to sell out to the Simpsons?"
Then Lynda Byrons wood regale the company by relating how every thyme she looks at a hens egg. It reminds her-and Mike to of course of the Universe.
Wendy Austin would then throw back her head. After custard and prunes and roar out an Italian Aria. That wood charm the birds of the trees and make the angels weep. Then the snipe boy, Seamus Heaney would--well, he wood recite something wouldn't he. Something that had every wan sleeping in their dinner plate. But that's the price one must pay for having a poet laurie at one's dinner table.
Then I wood put on my bally pumps and skip and leap between the fireplace and the door. Head on Hi. Ever aware of poise. I wood flutter my hands too tell a story. While buck-leaping with fierce artistic fervour. The ghost of Madman Fontaine wood be dancing at my ballyesque shoulder. The evening wood konclude with a rousing version of Maggie's Drawers. In which the delightful falsetto of Lynda Byrons wood draw admiring gasps from her fallow diners.
But it's only a dream Gerry. The lonely dream of a woman who was born out of her time. I should be strolling under cherry blossoms down the Shawns-el-easy. My tinkling laugh should be heard in the grate opera halls of Vinena. I should be looking over auld Einstiens dandruff covered shoulder. Making sure he carries the wan. I should be rowed up the Nile by ten U-nucks. It's at thymes like this Gerry. The low thymes. That I think of Lucy Jordon.
The morning son shines gently on the face of Rosie Ryan. How sad. How fierce, tarra-sad.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Rosie's no Strumpet!

The rain lashed at the winda and the wind howled round my house like a demented demon. It was a Winter day that learned Metallurgists would describe as, wild bad and tarra. Inside my rural rustic abode. Nellie Granite and me sat in front of a big roaring fire. Nellie and me both had us legs akimbo to funnel the heat towards us respective under-carriages. The sweat was running down Nellie's big red bleezer of a face. As she shoved paris buns into her gaping gub. Nellie broke wind with fierce ferocity and said.
"Rosie how lucky we is too be sitting in front of a big roaring fire on a wild day like this".
"We is Nellie" I said. "My hart goes out to some wee nuck of a man, who is peddling a bicycle up hill. Wet to the arse and filled with metaphicial fury and undiluted anger, ire and unrequited moroseness".
"Happiness" said Big Nellie. grabbing for another sugar coated paris bun.
"Hapiness is heat, food, good company and a good husband. Take my wee Willie" said Nellie. "I love my wee Willie more that a feed of drink. A good arse scratching or a comforting breaking of wind. Rosie" said Nellie.
"Pleeze enlighten me as too how much you love your boyfriend Chuck Corona". I felt a wave of passion swell up in my bisom. My legs began to tremble and I said with fierce passion, love and wild devotion.
"I love the very ground that Chuck Corona's feces fall on".
Big Nellie broke wind again, spat into the fire and said.
"Every nite when I sea my wee Willie climbing into bed. Wearing a pear of grey drawers. With the alluring, sexually provokitive flap at the back. I say to myself.
"Nellie Granite, you is wan lucky woman, to have landed a wee beauty like wee Willie" "Then I grab wee Willie too my bisum. And squeeze and squeeze until his face turns blew and his tongue is lolling out of his toothless gub".
"What you have stated Nellie" I said.
"Sums up love in a nutshell"
I looked sexily askew at big Nellie and said. "Let me tell you a sexy bon mot about the love of my life Chuck Corona. Chuck two, like your wee Willie wears long drawers with a flap at the back. But sometimes when deer Chuck is fare brusting with love, lust and fierce passion. He removes the long drawers and puts them on with the flap at the front!".
Big Nellie gave a shriek. Screamed, "In the name of Bannager" and threw her too big fat legs up in the air. Giving me an unwanted flash of too big mottled thighs and an auld pear of brown drawers with a frayed and torn gusset. I reverted my eyes. Until big Nellie had dealt with her wardrobe malfunction. It's knot something you want to sea after a feed of paris buns.
Then big Nellie and I crouched over the fire. And in an old traditional, christian, God like way began to tear reputions apart like paper tissues. We started at Pig Lane in Clougher. Where the drunks and winos roam. And ended up in Micky Bradly park where the Hoi-Popi reside. Nellie and I koncluded that all the weeman were nothing but tramps and strumpets. And the men nothing but dirty, snottery nosed, lazy good for nothing gulpins.
I looked at big Nellie and said.
"Nellie, is it not comforting in the extreme to know that you and me is the only too pentagons of virtue in Clougher and surrounding districts?"
Big Nellie himed and hawed and said. "Well, I wood hardly call YOU a pentagon of virtue. After all you do live over the brush, in a state of moral sin with Chuck Corona".
I leaped to my stunned feet and roared.
"Get out of this house two hell. You Nellie Granite is nothing but a big fat strumpet with a face like a dogs arse. And as for your wee Willie. Every wan knows the wee nuck is deficient in the fork of the trousers department".
"Strumpet!" yelled big Nellie.
"That's what you is. A strumpet, a harlot, a tramp and a woman well known for lying, legs akimbo in wet rushes. God only knows what auld disease I have picked up in this-this-knocking shop".
I lost the head and went for Nellie. Head down like a Pampas bull. Big Nellie raked her nails down my face. I head butted big Nellie. And heard the comforting sound of gristle breaking in Nellies big nose. Big Nellie went into a fit of kicking and flinging. The big brute took lumps out of my shins. I broke the child of Prague over big Nellies head. Big Nellie responded by smashing a picture of the sacred hart of Jesus over my noggin.
I would up a heymaker and let big Nellie have it rite on the chin. Big Nellie fell into the coal bucket. Giving me a prolonged view of her auld brown drawers that were probably crawling with fleas. I grabbed big Nellie by her bull neck and ran her too the door. "Get the hell out of this house, you big, ugly fat Hallion" I yelled. As I gave big Nellie a riser that wood probably require a good dose of surup of figs in the coming daze.
I was sitting shaking and trembling in the korner when my sun Bon Jovi strolled in whistling. The lump of a cub stopped and roared.
"What happed too your face? Did the dog go for you?"
"Know sun" I replied weakly. "It wasn't the dog. It was a kat. A wild kat with the morals of a rabbit on Red Bull".
The moral of the story is..Don't call Rosie Ryan a strumpet in her own house!.
May the piece of the Lord be with you now and forever-AMIN!

Tuesday, 27 October 2009


Deer Gerry, After giving it fierce thought and kontemplation I have decided to be a skool teecher.
As an headucated man Gerry, could you reform me how I go about it? I suppose I wool need too get a wee foto took for security purpoises.
I no fine well that when this gets out the klamour from skools and kolleges wool be wild. What a boon it wood be two have Rosie Ryan in any seat of learning.
I have bean brushing up on my Arabic. For it is as plane as the no's on my face, that wee wool all soon be turning too Mecca. The riting is on the wall and the wall doesn't lie. When the wall said, "FREE DERRY" boys just went into shops and took what they wanted.
I have so much to give and I kan provide my own bicycle and sand-witches. I asked my sun Bon Jovi for his opinion and the lump of a cub said, "Go for it mammy. Any idijt kan be a skool teecher". So with that endorsement ringing in my ears, I immediately ordered too biro pens, three HB pencils a stick of white chalk and six caines.
It wool be zero tolerence with me Gerry. I wool put up with know auld buck. With auld buck, I wool knot put up. How gratifying it wool bee two take young minds and mould them into modern citizens. How gratifing too take a young fallow mind and scatter headucation over it like manure and watch it flourish. To make diamonds from koal and pearls from sows ears.
I no that what ever skool I go two, I shall rise through the ranks like a NASA rocket.
I am sure you wool koncur Gerry that teeching is akin too farming. You plough, you harrow, scatter seeds and bring the pupils on with encourgment and a good lash of the caine. It is inevitable that the crop wool kontain a few big turnips.Even in a world of arts and kulture, some wan has to shovel the shi-- feces from the sewer. But did knot Darrren call that nauturale subjection.
There wool bee know teechers pets in my klass. If a cub says.
"Mrs Ryan, may I pleeze leave the room for a slash?" I wool say.
"Know Pedro, sit down. I am explaining long diversion. And if you don't learn how too carry the wan. You wool end up a poor wretched crater with the brane of a fruit fly".
What a font of knowledge I have to impart to the youth of Clougher and surrounding districts.
And I shall knot be afraid too stray from the Kar-lick-you-lum. If the Kar-lick-you-lum konflicts with my superior knowledge of learning. I shall toss the Kar-lick-you-lum from me like a snottery hankerchief.
Firm yet fare shall me my motto.
"This is going too hurt you more that it wool me" I shall yell. As I caine the arse of some gulpin of a cub.
I have maid up my mind Gerry. A teecher I is going too be. I owe it to the cunt'ry. Why should I hoard my grate knowledge like a miser, when I kan spend it like a sailor?
I kan sea myself leaping of my bike on a sunny morning. A stroll to the staff room. With caine in hand and Chambers Dick-sean-ree tucked casually under my oxter. A cup of tee, a quick slash and then I get stuck into, geometrics, histornics and the subject I positively excell in-neuralgia.
Give me the child and I wool give you in return the man and women, fare steeped in arts and kulture.
Bring me your poor, your thick and your buck stupid. Rosie Ryan.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Skoolboy Scams

Deer Gerry, I feer my sun and YOUR godsun Bon Jovi may be a juvinile delicatessanent. It grieves me too say it, but he who was once but a fertilised egg is into scams and rackets at skool. Bon Jovi has veered from the path of righteousness and wandered off into the path of wrongeousness.
The first I new of it. I got an inquest asking me to come and sea the princeipality of St Judas primary skool. I though perhaps the cubs application for a plaice in Eaten had been granted. But before I could drink from the mug of success, it was cruely dashed from my cadallic pink lips. What I was about too heer wood shock me to the kore and set my gizzard into a tale spin.
"Pleeze sit down Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.
Which I did. Trying hard knot to show two much plump, alluring, massive thigh. I was wearing a Hi-necked mullberry gansey. I deplore dumplin' gazers Gerry, I really do. Look at my face or don't look at me at tall is my motto.
"Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.
"There is know easy way too put this. Your sun Bon Jovi, has been engaged in a scam at this skool. That KNOT even the Mafia wood entertain".
I almost swooned Gerry. I actually kolapsed on my chair. Only for the fact that I was wearing my knew Winter non-skid red flannel drawers I wood have slid on to the floor. Wide-eyed and legs akimbo.
"What has the wee gulpin done" I croaked. As I tried in vein to regain my Eek-you-lib-erum.
"Your sun Bon Jovi" said the princeipality of St Judas primary skool.
"Has been going round the playground at dinner thyme. Bullying other children into rite their last will and teste-ments and naming Bon Jovi Ryan as the sole air to all their goods and chatles".
"It's a lie" I yelled.
"Bon Jovi mite brust a face or too, but he wood never stoop too such ghoulish,macabre, Machiavellian racketeering"
The Princeipality held up a sheaf of crumpled, ink stained skool jotter pages and cried.
"I am holding in my hand. thirteen signed wills and teste-ments. All the wills name Bon Jovi Ryan as sole air. Thirteen last wills and teste-ments" yelled the princeipality. "Eight of the wills are singed by cubs and the other five are signed by cutties. All the pupils said that Bon Jovi Ryan had made them rite the wills under fierce duress. Apparently your SUN, told them to rite out their wills or they wood get their feaces brusted!".
Oh Gerry, if ever there was a broken woman, that broken woman was me. My Sun. YOUR Godsun, nothing but a pretty criminal.
I looked out the winda like Ma Baker and said.
"Well what happenes now? Have the coppers got the joint surrounded?"
"Know!" said the princeipality.
"We are trying too deal with this "In house". But if you don't get a grip. Your sun Bon Jovi will never walk on the hallowed turf or look up at the dreaming spires of St Judas skool in Clougher again. Oh, and DO pull your skirt down Mrs Ryan. I find it very distracting. But it has made me remember to bring home a leg of mutton for the dinner".
I backed out of the highly headucated sanctuary like Uriah Heep and turned my morose, gloomy visage towards hearth and home.
But what should I do with Bon Jovi Gerry?. This job was beyond the capability of a poor, week woman. This job called for the smack of a good strong man.
So I called on my boyfriend-and fisslin' partner Chuck Corona too have a word with the errant Bon Jovi.
Chuck set the cub down and in just five minutes. Chuck had changed the so called Al Capone into Al Jolson
"Bon Jovi" said Chuck sternly.
"What you did was rong. Not only was it rong, it was down-rite stupid. Did you never once think, that you wood have to wait-50 years, MAYBE-60 years before your skool mates dyed. And their is a good chance that you wood have dyed first. Meaning you wood get sweet damn all"
The scales fell from Bon Jovi's eyes and he went on his way. Praising and glorifying the Lord.
But it was some hanlin' before Chuck Corona set the cub strait..
Hapy Halloweens too all at radio foul.
Rosie Ryan.
Tell the wee bouy too watch out for goolies!.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

The Necessities Of Life

Full of grate wrath and fierce chagrin. I held on too a shelf kontaining babbies nappies and adult rubber nickers.
"Korrect me if I'm rong" I yelled too the wee humpy nuck behind the counter.
"Did you just reform me that you have know SPECIAL! mince?"
"Yes I did" roared the wee nuck.
"Ordinary mince is good enough for the people of Clougher. But apperently ordinary mince is knot good enough for her majesty Rosie Ryan.
Apperently Rosie Ryan wool only eat-SPECIAL! mince. Well let me tell the highfalutin, rooting-tooting Rosie Ryan. YES! we have know special mince and from now on I won't be stocking toilet roll either".
Was I in a dream? Was my mind deranged by my irrepressible hunger for all things pertaining too Arts and Kulture?
"Know toilet roll?" I echoed.
"Know toilet roll" roared the wee gulpin .
"Know wee spams in tins. Know tee in bags.Know fingers made of fish. Know paper doiles and KNOW-SPECIAL MINCE!".
I clutched on too the shelf for support. A packet of adult rubber nickers fell too the floor. Groggily I looked down. Depicted on the front was an old grey haired grandfather playing with his grandchildren. A balloon above the grandfathers head said.
"Say goodbye to urine with a pear of "CRISP AND DRY" adult panties".
I was in a dream-like state. Bordering on hallucinogenic haliotis.
Suddenly a grate swell of anger rose up from my gurgling innards and I roared.
"What kind of huxter shop is this any way. Where a decent woman can knot get, as Walt Dissny mite say, The necessities of life?"
"It's a cunt'ry shop" yelled the wee nuck. "A cunt'ry shop for cunt'ry people. If you want SPECIAL! mince. Stick a bowler hat on a pound of ordinary mince. If you want toilet roll. We have a rack full of Ireland's Own and Our boys. And if you want paper tissues, use your finger and thumb like God intended".
"What is happening?" I yelled.
"Is Clougher slipping back into the dark ages?. Will strangers once again be pulled from donkeys and bicycles and end up in a Wicker man?"
A strange look came into the wee nucks eyes. His pupils diluted and a vein was throbbing in his thin, scrawny neck.
"GO" he hissed.
"Go, the night is coming on. You don't want to be in Clougher after sundown. Strange things happen in Clougher after dark. Strange, weird wonderful things happen. When the moon is peeping through the trees the bat swoops low and the twany owl goes.
You don't want to be in Clougher. When the people silently leave their homes and gather in the town square. Seeking whom they can devour.
GO!. Go now and don't stop until you reach the city limits. Remember the-city limits".
"Nutbush?" I said.
"Mind your own business" Said the wee nuck with an obscene, perverted sexual leer on his repulsive visage.
So I turned my back on Clougher. The sex capital of Europe and made my way back home. Where my sun Bon Jovi and the kat were already on their knees, waiting for me to say the rosary.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

The Pope's Tour

Deer GeRRy,
I suppose like me, you are in a tizz trying to get tickets for the Pope's Irish tour.
I respect you and the wee boy wool be in the front row. Wearing Matt Talbot's tee-shirts and yelling with religious gusto. "Viva la Pappa".
This visit by the Pope is histornic. This thyme the Pope is going too Armagh. I respect the Pope wool be taken to some of Armagh's better known apple orchards. And I wood knot be surprised if the Pontiff payed a surprise vist to the grave of Tommy Mackem.
The only throuble wool be in keeping that wee gulpin Bono off the stage. If that wee nuck tries to up-stage the Pope, he wool have Rosie Ryan to condend with.
I wonder what the Pope's message wool be too the people of Ireland?. Probably the religious equivelent of, "Keep her lit".
My Sun Bon Jovi is up two hi-dow. If the cub gets a chance, he wool ask Herr Benedict how many boats and ships are on the holy see. The cub is know dumplin' Gerry. He has been thinking long and hard about Papal things. Bon Jovi is expecting the Pope to bring the Papal bull with him. The bull could quietly graze as the Pope gives his sermon.
The people of Clougher are hiring buses left, right and centre. This could be bigger than the Sonday Micky Bradley lifted the Sam Maguire.
Lets hope it is knot spoiled bye religious head the balls yelling. "Babbylon and Go back home where you belong".
This Papal visit wool be a grate chance for the people of Ireland to nock depravity and debauchery on the head. We must return to the land of saints and scholars. And knot be known world wide as the land of sharks and sinners.
Maybe we could travel too Armagh together Gerry. You, me, Bon Jovi and the wee boy. If you bring a big bottle of cold tay, I wool provide a brown paper parcel of meet paste sandwitches. And on the way back we could sing him's. Spiritually renewed we could throw back us heads and sing to the Lord.
"I'm gonna lay down by burden. (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside. "I'm gonna lay down my burden (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside.
Hal-A-Loo-YaH! I see's the lite!.

Monday, 5 October 2009

Porridge,Portraits and Proust

On Saturday, which is the Jewish sabbitical.
I was sitting, gracefully at the kitchen table, spooning Quakers oats into my glamorous, alluring gub.
"I wonder why it is" I said to the kat "That the Quakers is the only religious detonation who make a breakfast serial?" The kat made know comment and continued to lick it's you no what!.
"What an exquitite morning" I said to myself. As the Autumnal son sent a meagure ray of lite through the soot-stained, fly-speckled dirty winda. "What a morning to be an artist!" I ejuclated. "To sit on one's stool in front of a blank canvas. To mix burnt umber, grecian red and duckie egg blew and-THEN! conjour up from the artistic depths of the mind, a brown donkey grazing in a green field. Oh the fullfilment. To grab a brown donkey out of the ether of the mind and plop him down on canvas. Why it is akin to turning your head inside out. To take what is in, out and make it factual. To give birth to ideas. What a wonderful thing that must be. To conceive by thought. To nurture the thought in your mind and then to give your idea form, shape and a sense of identity. Fertilised thought born in reality. In the shape of a sculpture, a painting, or a poem about the red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. I get my best ideas in the morning. When the Quaker oats is falling into my empty belly with a sodden plop!. I was just going to grab a green crayon and draw a self portrait of a goose when I heard a fissle coming from the straw in Bon Jovi's cardboard box. I watched with pride, as my sun crawled out of the darkend box and into the son lite. As Bon Jovi emerged from the box head first. I winced. It reminded me of the nite he was born.
Bon Jovi stood up, wearing a tattered simmet that came down to his knees. I could not help but admire the strong, sturdy fizz-eek of my first born. I saw too fleas flex their strong back legs and leap back into the dark recess of the cardboard box. The fleas had probably been busy biting Bon Jovi all nite and needed a little rest. It is a good thing too sea fleas on a cub. It means the cub is healty and is knot lacking in iron. Fleas detest a white, pale freckled cub with red hare. Their blood is week and the fleas have to work twice as hard to get a good tightener.
"Bonjour Bon Jovi" I said. "This is Saturday. Know skool today. Know sums are cyphering for my wee sun today"
"Thank goodness" roared Bon Jovi.
"My brane is fair deved with complicated sums, spellings and searching for the origin of all the dark matter in the Universe".
"What do you plan to do today my little dumplin'?" I said.
"Today" roared Bon Jovi.
"I shall race a donkey through the bog, from the hours of ten in the morning, until fore in the afternoon.
And when I race the burro through the bog, I shall be letting yells, shouts and indeed, gulders out of me".
"How I wish I could join you" I said.
"As you persue the burro. I two would like to gallop after a lop-eared donkey. And I two wood be letting yells, roars, shouts and like you say, gulders out of me. But that big, fat gulpin Nellie Granite is coming round for tee. So I must tidy the house and ensure the floor is devoid of dirt, dung, insects and dead, or dying rodents".
As big sweating Nellie Granite through her big leg over the bar of her bicycle. I saw an unwanted panorama of Green Flannel drawers. The gusset was hanging low. like the paraschute on a space shuttle.
As Nellie sipped her tay and nibbled at a paris bun. She looked all around and said.
"You and Bon Jovi is nice and snug in here. It wool do until something better comes along".
"Listen Nellie" I said.
"This wee cottage, is the ancient, ancestral home of us Ryans.
"Many Ryan eggs have bean fertilised here" I yelled
"And them eggs developed into Ryans. Mail and femail who grew too maturity strong and sound in limb and mind".
Nellie sipped her tee. Looked at the wheel barrow with the bag of meal leaning against it and cried.
"Here! Did you heer what my Willie went and done? My Willie only went and bought me a lovely three peace sweet, in a lovely puce colour with wee yella flours on it. What do you think of that Rosie? A lovely puce sweet of furniture, with wee yella flours scattered all over it".
I leaped up and roared.
"Listen here Nellie Granite. You must be getting me mixed up with someone who's just had a shit! Get out to hell. Or I swear by that scared hart picture on the wall, I'll brust your big ugly face".
Nellie jumped to her feet and bawled.
"A strumpet!, that's what you is Rosie Ryan. A strumpet, a tramp and a harlequin. I don't no how you can sit on that auld sofa. Futterin' and fisslin' at that big ugly brute Chuck Corona. Rite under the picture of Jesus, who is showing you his bleedin' hart".
I grabbed the tongs and the poker and chased the big gulpin down the lane.
Nellie leaped on the bicycle like Frankie De-tory and peddled off yelling.
"Harlot. strumpet, fallen woman, slapper and big ugly bitch".
I returned to my abode. Filled too the throat with anger and ire. With trembling hands, I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust.
A line from Proust leaped out at me and I became calm and decomposed.
"Alter ipse amicus"
"A friend is another self"
How true. I am Rosie Ryan. I don't need Nellie Granite.
I don't need anyone.
Apart from Bon Jovi, Chuck Corona, The Parish Priest, The bread man, The boy who sells the toilet rolls and the little Taiwainese cutties who make my red flannel drawers.
Piece be with you. GO IN PIECE.

Wednesday, 30 September 2009

No Room for Rosie at the Open University

Deer GerrY,
I am spitting feathers. I am full of grate anger and ire. I have bean the recipient of the most fowl belated case of naked discermination Clougher as ever scene. During the Summer Gerry, I replied for a plaice at the open anniversity.I was hoping to increase the vast store of nowledge that is already swirling around in my noggin. Too daze ago I got a reply from the boys at the open anniversity.
I tore open the letter with my teeth and stood there surprised, shocked too the kore and gob smacked when I saw I had bean declined entry. The reasons for my reflection were many and varied. "Know basic standard of headucation. The fact that the application form was filled in with green crayon. Apparently they did knot take kindly to me korrecting their grammar and spelling in the margins. And they drew my attention to the fact that after-SEX, I had put- maybe!". The hole letter Gerry is wan fowl callamy on my good name. The truth is that the open anniversary don't want a Cat-Lick about the plaice. It is discermination. Naked, undiluted, belated discermination and up with it, I shall knot put.
Steps have already bean taken. I have rote too the wee Sin Fane boy, Barry McElduff. I set out my case in green crayon and I respect a call any day to go too Stirmont and appear before a select committee.
I won't take it lying down Gerry. I have never taken it lying down. It is well known round Clougher and surrounding districts that Rosie Ryan wool knot take it lying down.My sun Bon Jovi said.
"Don't get yourself all in a leather. Leave her to Barry. Barry's on the ball. When Barry gets through with the open anniversity. They mite give you an honary degree for keeping your yapper shut"
But I said, "KNOW! Any degree konferred on me wool be due two hard work and dilligence. I wool knot accept wan of them auld degrees that Queens Anniversity gave out like sweeties to any Tom, Dick or Fanny". So there you have it Gerry. God no's I suffer for my wild thirst for nowledge. How are things in the Arts and Kulture seen in Derry? Has the circus came to town yet? Thank God clowns don't scare me, or I wood have to move away from Clougher.
Bon Jovi is doing very well at skool. He got straight G's in a mock test before the Summer holly-daze.
Academia looms for Bon Jovi. He wool never have to stand in the Dole office and say, "To beg I am two proud, two dig I am knot able". Well Gerry I must go. Isn't it wild about Jordan and Peter Entere. That's what comes from knot saying your prayers at nite. The family who prey together, stay together.
I feel a lot better, now that wee Barry McElduff is on the ball. Barry is like a wee terrier. When Barry bites, he haulds on. Good luck Gerry, you have always bean a bon a-me to me and Bon Jovi.
Bon Jovi is shouting Gerry. He wants you to play some Rack-man-enough or Declan Nearney. Toodles for now. XXX
Ooh Gerry, Auld Fred Franko fell off his bicycle and cut the hole face of himself.The hospital is looking for skin donors.Maybe some of your listeners wood like too made a constitution. Tell them too leave their number with the wee bouy.
"I see Winter in the frost lit stars
Time to change into the red flannel drawers" Rosie Ryan. September 2009.

Monday, 21 September 2009


"You kan tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses
And then the pig got up
And walked away".
I looked at my only begotten sun Bon Jovi, who was sitting picking his nose and said.
"Bon Jovi, my bon a- me, what moral do you take from that wee poem?"
He who was once a fertilised egg, crossed wan grazed, dirty knee over the other and said with a regal air.
"A very pertinacious and pernickety porker. Who does he think he is? Walking away from the wee drunk man, who was only seeking warmth and company.
If I owned a pig like that, I would turn it into bacon, before you could say, "Jumping Jack Flash".
"You obtuse wee goose" I yelled.
"There is a lesson for life in that wee poem and the lesson is don't keep bad company".
"I beg to disagree" said Bon Jovi.
"The lesson I took out of that poem is, pigs is getting above their station in life. And corporal punishment should be brought back for all farmyard animals, with the exception of wild auld donkeys and wee fluffy ducks"
I looked at the wee brute, sitting there with a smirk on his dirty face and a wet stain round the fork of his short grey trousers. Little Lord Snooty. Prince Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi, the Sultana of Clougher.
"Listen boy" I said "What did your last skool report say?"
"Whom cares" said Bon Jovi "The teechers at my skool and it panes me to say it, but the teechers at my skool is wretched, igornant, pernicious creatures".
"Here is your skool report" I said.
"Let me remind you of how your teechers summed you up".
"In konclusion, I fear Bon Jovi Ryan is beyond redemption and is as thick as too bricks".
"Did you here that? As thick as too bricks! To think a sun of mine should be compared to -too bricks!
Well, all I kan say is, thank God your auld grannie isn't living. She wood have dyed with shame after reeding a retort like that. Your grannie was a highly headucated woman. She could talk many languages--felicitously and ram her hand up the bum of an egg bound chicken and retrive the captive egg".
"Highly headucated my Ant Fanny" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Granny was an auld head the ball, who couldn't tell her arse from her elbow. A fact that was patiently obvious to anyone who ever scene her try to use a po".
"How dare you!" I yelled. "How dare you besiege the good name of your dead, deceased and passed over granny. The day she was dying, she beckoned me to her bed. Grabbed me by my mullberry gansey and whispered low.
"Rosie, Rosie child. "Always put a wee bit of soda in steeped pee's". "Does that sound like the last words of a moron?" I yelled. "Does that sound like the last words of a woman whose brane was addled with confusion and bewilderment? NO! It does knot! The day your granny popped her clogs. may she rest in piece, she was as compes mentos as me".
"That's knot saying a lot" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Who was it who came home with an apron full of wee black balls of sheep dung, thinking they were black cherries?".
"I had a head cold" I yelled."I had lost my sense of smell.
And when I stirred them into the vole, ferret and potato soup they did add a spicy, exotic taste".
"And who was it?" said Bon Jovi. "Went into Murphy's chemist and asked for a big tube of innuendo, thinking it was French for Pile ointment.
"It was a mix-up in translation" I roared. "I couldn't find my glasses and it's hard to read small print through the bottom of a milk bottle".
Bon Jovi smiled, the smile of a maligent goblin and said.
"Innuendo. In-You-End-Oh. Oh Mr Chemist, I'm wild thick and stupid. Give me something for my piles. I believe the French call it, In-You-End-Oh"
And the cub fell off his stool and rolled round the floor like a warthog laughing his big head off".
"SHUT UP! "you juvinile spawn of Satan" I roared Or by the power divested in me by the holy Roman Cat-Lick church I will brust your face.
CEASE! that fowl, vile, repulsive, tardy giggling and chuckling. You is an imp of the devil and knot an hangel of God. You is a vile wretch and a repulsive specimen of a lump of a cub".
"Oh is I?" yelled Bon Jovi. "That's good coming from an auld fat dumplin' with a big red bleezer of a face".
"That back them fowl callemies" I yelled.
"Take back them fowl callimes and distractions or by the sainted knee of saint Cardew of Ballybunnion, I will brust your big, ugly gub".
"Try it" yelled Bon Jovi "And you'll get my toe In-You-End-Oh".
Then the cub leaped the half door like a scalded kat. looked cheekily over the half door. Broke wind with fierce ferocity. Stuck out his tongue and yelled.
"Chase me, I'm a wee gulpin".
"By the horns of Satan" I roared. As I stuck my frock into my nickers, leaped the half door like a graceful gazelle and took off after the cub over the bog. All day the chase went on.
Out in front was the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi. Followed by galloping loving mother. Shucks, drains and bog holes were leaped with a plum.
As the son set in the West, the casual passer- by might have been perplexed and indeed, puzzled to sea mother and sun running in a never ending circle round and round the bog.
And the yells of, "Headbanger" and "Gulpin" would have added grately to their puzzlment and perplexacility.
But it was only a loving mother, trying to brust her beloved suns face to show him the error of his ways.
If Bon Jovi had bean a cuttie, all I wood have to worry about was-buns in ovens and-contradiction!
Lumps of cubs is some hanlin'!

Saturday, 12 September 2009

Reflections and Toilet Roll

The son, that grate big orb of compressed hydrogen and helium was shinning down like a big yella lump of Craft mature chedder cheese. A lite western zephyr breeze was blowing merrily from the North.
'Twas a wee pet day at the end of Summer. A day that stood, legs akimbo with one foot in Summer and the other foot in Autumn. Beauty, bathed in a disfused lite lay all around. Beauty, attired in fashionable, fastidious exquisite Autumnal colours. The small, irregular fields had bean exfoliated of hey, korn and wheet. Like a fat woman wearing stays, all had bean safely gathered in. Nature was in a period of reajustment. Waiting, silently and ethereally for the scales to tilt and Autumn take prerequisite over Summer. Prebubescant Autumn was biting at the heels of Summer, like a young, healthy jack russel nipping at a weary, tired old sheep who was seeking a place to die.
Sad. Yes, 'tis sad. But 'tis the way of all things. We are born, we live and then we die. Time flows but in one direction. There is no going back. No stopping along the way. The road of life is laid out before us. Many have trodden the same path before. 'Tis a universal truth that though the road of life may be long or short it leads but to the grave. The only purpose in life is to march to the beat of a muffled drum towards death.A withered leaf fell from a tree. A harbinger of the holocaust that would soon follow.
When Marcel Proust lay on his death bed, he billowed the duvet with a ferocious breaking of wind and gasped.
"Nurse, nurse, no more baked beens and that's an order".
Then he closed his eyes and passed away. Before Hitler blew his branes out he yelled-gutterly.
"Mien Gott, this is some hanlin".
Before Nero drank the poison, he looked all around and said.
"If I hadn't played the fiddle, I think I would have got away with it!".
Saint Patrick, rose weakly from his death bed of rushes and said.
"My God, is it still raining?"
Joan of Arc, looked at the angry mob and began to sing.
"Come on baby light my fire".
I gave myself a shake and hurried on towards Clougher. I was on a mission, a mission of mercy. For fore daze my Sun Bon Jovi and me had no toilet paper. Us arses were red and raw from using grass, dockens and wisps of straw. Due to intense chaffing, I walked with a wide-legged striddle. Soon I wood return home with the soft, velvet bum fodder so beloved by the little labrator pup. And in the fullness of time Bon Jovi and me wood once again, walk, dance, kick and up us heels as time, the grate healer wood heal us rectums and remove any memory of pane and discomfort.
All of a stridle-straddle I hurried home and cursed as a flock of sheep ran between my out-stretched legs. In the melee, I managed to grab two handfulls of wool. I scurried into the under growth and used the wool in loo of toilet paper. OH, the relief. Wool contains lanolin. Which is made up from a mixture of palmitate, oleate and stearate of cholesterol. Which is a natural healing balm for chaffing, redness or fissures in the rectual area. So, if caught in the throes of heftedness, a sheep is yer man!.

Wednesday, 9 September 2009


At the crack of half past eleven in the morning, I gracefully spaltred out of my bed and glided on tip-toe to my bedroom winda. I opened wide the casement and stood there, framed like a painting by Goya, Rembrant, or Charlie Dickens. My tangled, sweaty, matted mass of red hare clung to my big red face. Too any observer lurking in the flora or fauna, I wood appear to be a faiere sprite or an elf of astonshing grace and beauty.
I flared my nostrils, like a horse and drew deep breaths of klean, cunt'ry air into my ample bisums.
"Morning has broken" I trilled, as I divested myself of heavy woollen negelant, two simmets and a pear of drawers that had scene better daze.
There I stood- nude as a scaldie. An hangel of conseit. A goddess. A thing of beauty and a joy for ever. I glanced-demurly into the cracked mirror and softly mummered.
"Ah beauty. Why have you taken up abode in my 'umble body?. Oh nature" I sighed. "Why have you lavished so much beauty on me? Surely beauty should be scattered like manure among all female woman kind. And yet, I alone am consigned to tread the world fair steeped in beauty, grace and heavenly helegance.
I glanced coyly over my shoulder, admiring my two sturdy, freckled buttocks. "Perfection! I cried.
I was so beautiful, I could knot tear my eyes away from the henchanting refraction that gazed out of the mirror at me.
"Oh pouting,sultry, smokey-eyed Gorgon of Clougher" I cried. "Stand knot you there with the morning son glinting of your womanly charms.
"Conceal your grate beauty" I cried. "With drawers, simmets and your mammies good green frock with the yella butterflies on it.
Think of the poor week men" I cried.
"If perchance a man on a bicycle was to gleek in and sea your Greek goddess statesque contours and protrudences he wood fall off his bicycle and insidiously and insensibility, cut the whole face off himself".
I looked once more at the symmetrical beauty radiating from the cracked mirror and yelled.
"Dos moi pou sto kal ten gen kineso".
Which as any savant of Archimedes knows is....
"Give me where to stand and I will move the earth".
I then spent the rest of the morning, flicking dust from here to there with the tale feather of a gander.
I launched alone on a heel from a pan loaf spread literally with poor man's caviar-mashed tadpoles. The pollywog is knot too everyone's taste, but to my disseminating palate they tasted simply devine.
After lunch I enjoyed some ME time. I sat outside my abode on an old tractor tire, a plinking and a plunking at my banjo. I have a vast raparee of songs and I went through them all. "Boil them cabbage down-boy" "The red flannel drawers. The tune the old cow died from and a mellon-golly fugue deposed by Handel, when his girlfriend Hilga Mary Strumsteinner gave him the big heave ho. Apparently Handel had been tickling the ivories of one Ghislaine Felicity Stuttweiner. Serve him rite. The dirty auld brute.
THEN! I saw him! Wee Bon Jovi. The lite of my life. The lump of a cub that gives me a raison de-etra.
The cub was slowly making his way through the bog in a laz-a-daisy-cal way. Which told me better than mere words could, that the cub needed a replenishment of nourishment.
"I'm fair done" roared the fruit of my lions as he got stuck into numerous buttered heels from pan loaves.
"First day back at skool after the Summer holly-daze Bon Jovi" I said.
"What did youse get stuck into today? Black matter? Particle radition or the real and presant danger that magnetic North and magnetic South mite reverse. Sending the world into some hanlin'".
"We spent all day on religion" said Bon Jovi. "And I now say unto thee, there is no Limbo, no purgatory and wait for it-no hell. The new curate said so. He said, Limbo, Purgatory and hell are finetto! Kaput! None existant!. So there!"
I blanched, recoiled and fell against the dresser. "I warned the church" I yelled. "I warned them knot too make boys from council estates priests. But wood they listen to me?"
"It wood appear knot" grinned Bon Jovi.
"But Bon Jovi" I cried "If there is no purgatory and no hell, what is to stop people doing what they like?"
"Nothing!" roared Bon Jovi, as he hit me a wild crack on the forehead with a grate big hard onion.
Bring back the devil, I say, he wasn't a bad auld soul.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Role Models and Night Classes

Deer Gerry, I heer you wool soon be oft again, as the Mark Carruthers boy mite say. I told my Sun Bon Jovi to model himself on Mark Carruthers, but the cub said, "Indeed and I wool knot. I don't want to be the laughing stock of Clougher. Walking about with a brolly and yelling, "Looking forward to it. If I was picking a role model" said Bon Jovi, "I wood pick Noel Thompson. A man with rugged good looks and the ability too jump any shuck or stile that life may put in his path".
I like Noel Thompson Gerry. But he is not as well bread or gentile as Mark Carruthers. Mark Carruthers is the kind of boy who wood put his blazer over a puddle hole so a girl could glide across without getting wet to the arse. I wood say that Noel Thompson's motto wood be,
Which as you well know means,
"Draw Back To Take A Better Leap"
Pass that motto on too stile jumper Thompson. He could have it written in Latin on a crest on his blazer.
"Natura Abhorret vacuum. As Ciss-a-row mite have said to Pluto. Nature abhors a vacuum. With that in mind. I put on my late, dead mammies brown duffle coat and sallied forth too Clougher Hi skool too enlist in some nite classes. Latin, Arabic and Hindo knot beeing on the Kar-lick-u-lum, I put my John Henry down for woodwork and a psycho class that deals with the minuscule workings of the brane. Did you know Gerry, that your arm wool knot shoot up in the air unless the brane orders it too? Having gained that knowledge, I now test my brane every morning by shooting my right arm up in the air. Inadvertaintly I also yell, HEIL HITLER" which may knot be TCP, but as long as no wan hears me what harm does it do?
Gerry, I wood advise you to test your brane by making something jump up in the morning. It may be an arm, it may be a leg. Then you kan turn too your good wife and say, "Today my brane is firing on all cylinders".And she wool probably reply, "Isn't that grate. Now you kan make the breakfast and bring mine to the bed".The brane Gerry! what is it?
The brane is a conglomeration of diverse cells, all firing pulses of minute electric bolts at wan and other. The brane is both nuclear reactor and comsputer all rolled into one. They say auld Confuse-Us the Chinese Phill-officer had a brane the size of a water mellon. They have his skool cap on display in Pee-king museam with saint Lotus Blossom rote on the front.
So Gerry, this fall I shall be studying the brain and come next Easter, I hope to be picking up a certificate, licencing me too experiment with any person, living or dead who gives their written permission for brane delving.
Why have I also taken up woodwork? Well, let me tell you.With the experience gained by the use of hammer and saw, I plan too make too coffins, wan for me and wan for Bon Jovi. The coffins wool measure six foot bye three. Bon Jovi is no where near six foot. But prey God Bon Jovi wool be granted a long life and grow into the coffin. There we shall lie together in Clougher graveyard. Requiescating inpace together. Snug as a bug in a rug. Oblivious too the smell of glue, which is made from the hooves of horses, wafting up us dead hooters.
I met auld Nellie Granite today Gerry. Bragging about the big, secondhand piano her Willie bought her.
"Yes" said Nellie "Wan day after-brunch, my Willie looked around and said. "Nellie, we just MUST have a piano" "Three men brought the piano in a big lorry" said Nellie. "But no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the piano up the stares".
"Some hanlin'" I said
"Oh it was!" said Nellie. "Then my Willie came in from work. My Willie took in the seen with wan glance and said too the boy with the ginger hare.
"Left hand down a bit"
"And then" said Nellie "As if by magic, the piano went up the stares, like a rat up a sewer pipe".
"It just goes to show" I said
"Just goes to show what?" said Nellie
"It just goes too show" I guldered. "That's where there's a Willie, there's a way".
"You're just jealous Rosie" yelled Nellie. "You don't have a piano and if you did, you wood probably put the po in it.
"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out! Or bye the Lord Harry I wool put a dunt in the arse of your nickers with the toe of my hobnailed boot".
"Auld piss the bed" yelled Nellie, as she threw her big lump of a leg on her bicycle.
"Auld Nellie NO drawers" I roared.
"Auld Rosie poo-poo" yelled Nellie
"Auld Nellie the hey shed strumpet" I roared.
And so it went on as the sun set in the West and tired birds with the wings fair hanging from them, flew home to roast. As the son's rays spread out like the hand of God over the bog. I put my hand too my ear and heard far, far oft in the stilly distance.
"Auld Rosie the boozie floozie"
I gently shut the door. Picked up Proust and soon my branes electrodes were sending out spark, after spark of Hi super octane, turbo charged, inhuman intelligence.
Ah, the brane, the brane. Thank God I have wan. God help the poor craters who wool go too sleep tonite without a--brane.

Monday, 31 August 2009

A culture extravaganza

Desolate was the bog. A dull, slate grey sky loomed over the the faded heather like an unpainted celestial ceiling. Cold winds blue hither and either. All birds were grounded. All animal life had taken to the bed. Rain clouds dropped their pay loads of h2o as they made their way towards Gortin and surrounding districts. 'Twas a seen of-desolation. A seen of-isolation and a seen of intemperate, insidious-intersteller, interminable intensification. In other words, it was a wild bad day. Under the shelter of an elderberry bush, stood my true love Chuck Corona and me. We were clinging on to each other. Looking into us respective visages and muttering-seductively.
"OH CHUCK" I coo'ed.
"OH ROSIE" Gasped Chuck.
"Oh Chuck" I mummered "My wee marshmallow".
"Oh Rosie" growled Chuck "My wee fairy cake".
I looked at Chuck, his rugged face full of love, passion and acne and muttered.
"As Cicero said of Plato, "Instar omnium" you Chuck Corona are indeed "Worth all other men".
Deer Chuck made a masculine spalter and grasped me to his manly bisum.
I was-lost, lost in the beauty of the moment. Swoon after swoon swept through my highly headucated brane. My ears were ringing, my hart was singing and my strong, sturdy legs had turned to Chivers jelly. As I moaned like a cougar, I dug my hobnailed boots into the muck and clabber in an attempt to gain traction.
It was then I slipped on snipe skitter and fell. As I fell I grasped on to Chuck with my long,cadallic pink, Marliyn Monroe nails. My painted talons slipped down the front of Chuck's lovely olive green cargo pants. The zip on the henchanting fork of Chucks trousers brusted. I fell towards terra firma, still clutching Chuck's trousers and gave my forehead a good dunt on a small stone. Groggily I looked up, only to sea Chuck with his trousers round his ankles and written large on the fork of his Y-fronts, the clarion call for Irish men and women everywhere,
"ERIN GO BRAGH" Still in a groggy state, I saluted and yelled "GOD SAVE IRELAND". I looked up at Chuck. Chuck looked down at me. We both know what we had done. We had transgressed. We had besmirched auld Ireland. We had behaved abominably towards-Hibernia. While traversing the path of love, tenderness and passion, we had, inadvertinaly strayed into the path of politics. Chuck pulled up his trousers while muttering.
"'Tis a terrible, tarra thing we have done".
I spaltered to my feet shrieking.
"Oh mother Ireland. Forgive us, we know not what we do'es".
Then, all passion spent, Chuck and me set off over the squelshing bog. We entered my rural, cunt'ry abode in silence. Divested us selves of us outer garments and sat down to too big mugs of tay and a plate containing six Wagon Wheels.
Later that nite, I decided to take my SUN Bon Jovi in hand. Lately the lump of a cub has bean showing all the traits of a rite gulpin. I have waited to sea the flowering of Bon Jovi's artistic temperment, but alas, I have waited in vein. The gulpin used pages out of my well thumbed copy of Proust for toilet paper. And has bean heard on more than one occasion to refer to the venerable Bach, as that deef auld head the ball. So last nite I decided enough was enough. I grabed the cub, tied him to a chair, stuffed a urine saturated floor cloth into his gaping mouth and made him listen to fore hours of Hi-brow opera. The cub didn't like it. He kicked, he flung and the eyes were bulging out of his head like a kat kitteling.
"No pane, no gain" I cried to Bon Jovi. As the operatic gulderings and shriekings threatened to lift the roof off the house. I gritted my teeth and stuck with it. I rolled my head from side to side like a bedlamite and conducted the music with a toasting fork.
"Don't fight it" I yelled to Bon Jovi. "Soak it up. Let the gulderings open the secret door to your artistic hart. Go with the flow" I roared. "Try to take something, anything from this cathartic, artistic caterwauling"
Bon Jovi over-turned the chair and fell with a clatter to the floor. His face was as red as a beetroot and his bulging oculars were threatening to leap out of his bleezing visage.
"Don't fight it" I bawled, as the music rose to a cresendo and rattled the panes of glass in the winda.
THEN! with a mighty flourish, it was over.
"Devine" I muttered "Simply-devine" as I untied the prone cub who had sprung from my fruitful lions.
Bon Jovi lay on the floor, gasping like a spent salmon. Gradually the lump of a cub got to his feet and glared at me. He tried to speak, but choked. Drool ran in rivelets down his chin. He was all a tremble like an eel who had scene a ghost. The wet stain on the fork of his trousers, denoted that the music had drawn some emotional responce from the juvinile Palestinian.
I gazed at my SUN and said.
"Well my bon-a-mee, was that knot a culture extravaganza worthy of the God's on mount Olympus?"
The cub glared at me and roared.
"Rosemary West!, that's what you is. You is worser than Rosemary West. Even she and her hubby Fred, wood knot stoop to torture like that.
I am going outside" yelled the cub "Too see how many sprogs you have koncealed in the garden and surrounding districts". And Bon Jovi went out slamming the door behind him. I smiled. The effort had not bean in vain. I could swear that during that during the opera when the man was roaring like a constipated donkey. I saw my Sun, Bon Jovi beat his head against the floor in time with the music.No, all the operatic guldering, yelling, bawling and shrieking, did not fall upon stony ground.
As to Rosemary West, I have no misconseption, she must be some auld bag who lives in Clougher.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009


Deer Gerry, 'Tis I, a reflective, retrospective Rosie Ryan.Gerry, do you ever have strange, odd, weird inexplicable-yearnings? Lately, I have bean fair tortured by-yearnings. Yearnings that must spring from the font of some deep Fraudian spring that lies at the hart of my beeing.
Last night as I stood at my bouid-Wa winda, attired in a long flowing khaki negligent. I saw the mella' yella' harvest moon peep through the moss encrusted branches of an apple tree and my hart was filled, with yearnings, longings and unrequited feelings for, something I can knot utterise with any approximation of apprehension. "What! in the world has come over me?" I mused, as I deftly kicked the po under the bed with the skill and grace of Ronaldo.
"Rosie" I said "Why do you-yearn? You have it all. A boy child with out equal in the shape of Bon Jovi and Chuck Corona, a boyfriend with rugged good looks and magical futtering hands". I gave my matted mass of red hare a toss like a Clydesdale horse and looked at my rejection in the cracked mirror.
There stood a Greek Goddess. A flaming mane of red hair, gently cupped my big red face. The face of a-hangel. My bisums hung low, nesteling snugly on the curve of my pot belly. LEGS! Legs like two Greek Colum's. Beautifully streaked with delicate blew viens like marble. Marble like what was used bye Micky-Anglo to carve a sculpture of David. A boy who could have done with a bit of under-carriage enhancemant. But let us knot be churlish, David still has the looks of a very nice boy. Colum's, like my sturdy legs had held the panty-thon up since the day the blue opening ribbon was cut my Zorba the Greek.
Why do I-yearn Gerry? Why kan I knot bee content? Sometimes I wood be willing too give up all my beauty. All my grace, my poise. My nowledge of arts and kulture and be a humble bovine cow. No animal in the animal world is more laid back or "Cool" as the humble cow. See it stand, chewing the cud, flicking flies from it's ars--rear with a switching tale. The cow is the Fonz, the, "Cookie, Cookie, lend me your comb" of the animal world. Why! it does knot even hunker down when having a slash!.
As yearnings for the intangible increased. I threw my head back and cried too the mella' yella' moon.
"OH grate creater of mountains, mice and wombats, look down from on Hi on your most beautiful creation and take away these, embryotic yearnings, cravings and wantings. EMPATHY LORD!" I cried "Grant me-empathy, as I stand here tonight. With the fragant sents from the nocturnal flora and fauna wafting up my nose and into my brain. Sending the wee endorphines mad with a sensual, sexual thoughts of pagan rituals. YAHWEH!" I yelled "Let me knot divest myself of my garments and run naked through Clougher yelling. "Hows about that then!"
"Give me bovineism" I yelled "Give me bovineism on a grand scale. Let me stand at a gate with a vacant look in my eyes. Let me wander slowly, caring knot where I go and if it is preordained to come to pass, I WILL grit my teeth and slash without hunkering down".
Having said those words Gerry, I felt piece enter my hart. My heaving bisum heaved no more. I glided across the moon-lit floor like a faerie sprite. Gently pulled back the ex Israeli army blanket and gracefully lifted one delicate foot. THEN! Mindful of my little accident last nite, I pulled out the po and uttulised it for the purpose it was intended. Not yet being filled with the piece of the bovine, I did hunker down. As I sat on the po I ruminated. Man indeed is a flawed creation. Always wanting-more. Take poor Micky Hart. I seen him yesterday, unshaven, wide eyed and unkempt yelling to anyone who wood listen."The Sam Maguire belongs to-TYRONE! We wuz robbed. That referee was a rite gulpin". Tonight as I lie a bed, I wool pray that the piece of the bovine desends on the half bald head of-Micky Hart. Peace be with you Gerry my SUN. And watch when changing gears on that auld bicycle. Be aware that many a man came home with an oily, mangled under-carriage.
From your friend and mine--Rosie Ryan XXX

Thursday, 20 August 2009


In conclussion may I wish youse all, a rurual, cunt'ry greeting from your friend and mine-Rosie Ryan.
As I look back over my life, a life of Hi's, lows and middlings, I always return to my birth.I have know reconcilliation of my birth. But born I must have bean, because birth is a requisite for becoming a kuman beeing.Deerest mummy must have bean there. But too her dying day, deerest mummy wood never own up two it. "Go away" she wood say "And stop talking about auld dirty things". My first memory is at the age of too when I caught my childish fingers in the jaws of a rat trap. I remember deerest mummy yelling. "That wool learn you to steel sweets out of my handbag". A paneful lesson, but up 'till today I have never put my hand in a handbag that didn't belong to me. Off tomorrow, I can knot speak. Us sweet thieves just take it wan day at a time. Mummy was a ferocious arse skelper. I remember wan fierce, violent arse skelping. I kan still sea deerest mummy, her face as red as a roosters comb, yelling hysterically.
"Let that arse skelping be a lesson to you and never do it again! And the poor milkman sobbing "I'm sorry Mrs Ryan, the bottle of milk slipped out of my hand, I will run and get you another wan". Mummy was renowned for her arse skelping. Other mother's used too bring big lumps of cubs, who had got out of control to mummy and mummy wood put these boys of 28 or 37 over her knee and skelp the arse off them. None of them ever came back, which says more than mere words kan about the ferociousness and violence of mummy's arse skelping.
Darling daddy was a different kettle full of fish. Darling daddy found it hard to look at me. Perhaps it was my grate beauty. When darling daddy met me, he wood put his hand over his face and talk to me from behind his hand. Daddy wood say the things that all doating daddies say to their beautiful daughters. Little things like, "Are you still alive"? and "When are you going too leave home"?. "Daddy darling" I wood shriek "I'm only five" and darling daddy wood walk sadly away, with his hand still in front of his face.
Ah, my skool daze, the happiest daze of my life. I went to skool at the age of ate and left skool at the age of ten. When I left skool, my brane was fare brusting with nowledge and headucation. I remember looking sadly back at my seat of learning and seaing the head master changing all the locks on the doors. Ah, hapy daze. Now, with thyme on my hands, I was free too jump shucks and carry out experiments with varying kinds of farmyard dung. I remember wan day I lost both eyebrows, when I mixed donkey dung, sparrow dung and kuman dung and put a match to it.
CHILDREN! Don't try this at home!.
Ah, memories. Hapy, hapy memories. And now, thanks too my dallience at skool. I am a grown woman, steeped in arts and kulture. I am bye lingual in many, many languages. Speak a de German? Yah! I does. Speak a de French? Wee, I does.
I languidly leave you now to persue Proust, Sarte, Shakespeare and Ireland's Own
So if the good Lords willing and the creeks don't rise I'll see you all soon. Hasta La Vista Baby.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009


As I lay- lanquidly on the sofa last nite,in a state of semi compes mentosness.. the Wan Show came on the TV. I maid a spalter too turn it off, while muttering under my breath. "And Christine such a nice cuttie two, could she knot get a job stacking shelves at Tesco?"
It was then I decided too pick up a HB pencil and rite too you. "How are you and yours Gerry? Bon Jovi and me are living the live of Reilly.The cub is growing in leaps and bounds. He has outgrown too cardboard boxes since Kristmas. My only begotten Sun now resides in a big box made too hold a 100 inch plazza TV. The cub kan now stretch his legs and doesn't have to lie with his knees up under his chin, like wan of them mummies that they dig up in Chilly or remoter parts of Gortin.
The only smidgen of news I have Gerry, is of a slight accident that happened just outside the portal or apperature of my home. A grate big lorry ran into a wee kar. It was just a dunt, a fender blender. But the wee nuck in the kar was raging. "You hooligan!" he yelled "I have too be at an important meeting. We are closing another hospital today and I have too be there too rubber stamp it. WHERE is my attackie case?" he screamed "Where is my attackie case? I have important papers in my attackie case and a ham sandwitch with the crusts cut off"
The driver of the big lorry advised the wee nuck to, "Take her easy" but easy, the wee nuck would not take her.
"I have the law on my side" yelled the wee gulpin.
"And I have a shuck on my side" said the lorry driver "Did you respect me to drive into it and heel the lorry?"
"Look at my head-lites" roared the wee boy. "Smashed. Smashed beyond despair"
"You were lucky you didn't break your glasses" I said.
"I don't wear glasses" shouted the wee upstart.
"Well, you should wear glasses" I yelled "Because you must be blind, if you couldn't sea a big lorry coming down the road".
"I did see the lorry" screamed the wee boy "And I took pretentious action to avoid a prang"
"Pretentious action, my Ant Fanny" I yelled. "You were petrified with petrifactive petrification. Your wee lily white hands were stuck to the wheel and the eyes were staring out of your head like a howl after a field mouse".
"How dare you" he yelled "What wood a common, cunt'ry woman like you know about the law?"
"Let me refer you too the case of Regina versus Rosie Ryan, March 1979" I said "The case was thrown out of court on a technicality. The Judge in his whisdom ruled that I,Rosie Ryan should knot have bean charged with riding a bicycle with out a tale-lite, BUT!, charged with fierce drunkenness and lewd, obscene behaviour".
Then the sound of a siren was heard in the distance.
"Is that the police?" said the wee slabber.
"Well, it's hardly an ice-cream van going at that speed" I riposted.
A police man took me aside and said. "I just want the facts mam, only the-facts. What did you sea?"
"I scene-nothing" I replied. With my rite arm in the air like they do in the pictures.
"Well, what did you heer?" said the policeman.
"I heered-nothing" I replied.
"Well, what do you think happened?" said the policeman.
"I have know contraception of what did happen, could have happened, or never happened" I said.
A policeman who was questing the lorry driver looked up and said. "How are you getting on Freddie? Any sailient-facts?"
"Know!" yelled Freddie "I've got a rite Seamus Heaney up here. What ever you say-say nothing".
"How dare you" I yelled "How dare you besmirch the good name of wan of Ireland's gratest poets. So he doesn't make words rhyme. Did you never think that the lad mite be disc-lexic? Sling your hook" I yelled "You wood be better employed looking for the letter that Ronnie Flannigan can't find, than bothering statesque Greek Goddess women, with striking good looks and flaming red hare".
And that was it Gerry. Both drivers went on their way. And I was left with the grate satisfaction,of knowing that I kan still take on the peelers and run rings round them.
Isn't it grate too heer that Ronnie Bigg's is out.
Ronnie is a diamond geezer, a diamond geezer and only ever hurt his own!. Just like I do with Bon Jovi!

Monday, 10 August 2009


Deer Gerry, when I heerd you were on the broad of your back with the auld pig flew, I was gob-smacked in the extreme. "Gerry's sick!" I yelled two my sun Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi's knees hit the concrete floor and the cub went into a string of Pater Navies that wood do credit to a Pope. I immediately ran pell-mell to the post office and scent you a too litre bottle of the crater. Unfortunately, the post office van went over a bump, the crater exploded with a BANG, leaving the van a rite off and Sky magazines scattered in the surrounding fields. The police have put it down to "dissadants" so I am in the clear.
Now you are on your feet, you must look after yourself. Don't sit in draughs. If you feel a chill. yell to the wee boy, "SHUT THAT DOOR! WILL YOU SHUT THAT DOOR and look at the muck in here since I was gone". You could get a prolapse Gerry and the auld wans always said, that a prolapse was worser that the first touch. Coddle your chest Gerry. The chest should be lagged until this auld pestelance is over. It's Bibical Gerry. It's a warning. It's the price we pay from buying illegal fags, playing bingo and nocturnal, How's your father in hey sheds at nite. Drink plenty of liquids. I wood suggest up too a bottle of Volka a day. I am sure this auld dose has left you limp Gerry and as week as a kitten. Mince-is the answer and if you kan afford the special mince the expence wool be worth it. I no it's a bit early, but if I was you, I wood jettison the thongs and change into the boys with the flap at the back-pronto. Not only do they provide heat, they gave that much needed ring of confidence, when one is hefted. When heftedness strikes, time is off the esance.
Gerry, you have always bean wild good at playing inquests for the sick and poorly, so now I want you two play a wee inquest from me too you.
"This next song is for Gerald Michael Anderson, who is recovering from pig flu, it comes from Rosie Ryan and is called.......