Monday, 30 March 2009


I stood outside my cunt'ry cottage, drinking in the splendiferous, grandiferous beauty of-Spring. Ah, Spring, a thyme of renewal, a thyme of rebirth, a thyme of reproduction. The sap was rising and everything was at it. The birds were fluttering, the animals were jumping and leaping and even the insects were running round in a sexual frenzy, knot scene since the nite auld Nero set a match to Rome and then reached for his fiddle. The pregnant buds were swelling in the trees, the peacock was walking like Max Wall trying to attract a mate. Nests were being built quicker than houses in a monetery bubble. All that flew, ran, walked, crawled or wiggled was at it. Down in the green pastures, the very rabbits were at it like rabbits. There was a feeling of sexual tension in the air. A strange musk premenated all living things. Caught up in the all prevailing, all enveloping rite of-Spring, I ran round the midden, kicking out my sturdy legs and shrieking at the top of my voice. "The flowers that bloom in the Spring, Tra-Lah, the flowers that bloom in the Spring". And just for a moment, I wished I was a stoat, ferret, or weseal and knot a Cat-Lick who was only too aware of sin and had too confess all in confusions.
Oft in the blue misty distance I saw a figure. It was my only begotten Sun Bon Jovi who had rented my womb for nine months before he was born. As the cub approached, I could sea he was bent over, carrying something on his back. I adjusted my oculars into scrutising mode and perceived that Bon Jovi had a bundle of faggots on his humped, rounded back. What was a foot? That was the seventh bundle of faggots the cub had brought home this weak. What was the miscreant up two? What construction was the cub going too construct with-faggots. Was the wee brute going to build a consernation camp and inprison me within? I watched as the fruit of my lions approached, threw the bundle of faggots down and broke wind with a fierce, penetrating dunder. "Bon Jovi" I vocalised, "I must ask you, pray tell why you are fetching and hoarding bundles of faggots. I command you by the sacred twinset of Saint Lizzie who was marthered by the Normans in the fifth centary for refusing too play football on a Sunday. I command you SPEAK! what are the faggots for?" Bon Jovi peered at me through too puss filled eyes and roared, "I am going two revive the cermony of the WICKERMAN in clougher--and surrounding districts". I was--thunderstruck! I staggered back, my legs turned too jelly and my gizzard gave an involantry leap. My head was reeling, my vision blured and the sounds of the cheeping birds came from far, far away. "In the name of all that's holy and sacred" I yelled "How did you find out about the Clougher--WICKERMAN?" "I know all about it" said Bon Jovi with a smirk. "I know the wicker field was behind auld Juan McTwirdles barn. I know the wicker cermony was held on the last Saturday of March and I know that-YOU" yelled Bon Jovi "Was the wicker woman who set fire too the wickerman". My pagan past had come back to haunt me. "It was just a bit of fun" I stammered "Just some ignorant cunt'ry people setting fire to an auld heap of sticks". "LIAR!" screamed Bon Jovi. "Was it just a bit of fun for the poor crater who was burned alive in the wickerman?" I fell on my knees and groveled like a groveler. "It was a different thyme" I cried "You must understand, the harvest had failed for the third thyme and we were desperate Dan, I mean desperate Bon Jovi". Bon Jovi looked at me with scorn and said, "It may have escaped your notice, but Clougher has had too bad harvests in a row. Did you sea how small Padraig Mcwarblers wurzels were last year? why, they were mere shadows of their former selves". "Bon Jovi" I yelled "Don't meddle in what you don't understand. The priest said it was a sin, maybe even a mortal sin, too pull strangers off bicycles and donkeys and burn them in a wicker cage". Bon Jovi snorted and said "Korrect me if I'm rong, but does knot sacrifice lie at the hart of all religions? Listen mother and listen good, "I bon Jovi Ryan wool revive the wicker religion in these here parts. Building the wickerman will be easy peasy, but the difficult part wool be finding a stranger too sacrifice". The cub looked at me with a queer, malevelent look in his eyes and muttered, "Unless you were willing to lure Chuck Corona too the wicker field". At the mention of deer Chuck's name the scales of the old ways fell from my eyes. Burn my boyfriend? knot on your Nellie! I grabbed Bon Jovi and yelled "Begone you spawn of the devil" and I rammed the cub head first into the water barrel under the spouting. I water boarded the cub until his face turned blew and the eyes were bulging out of his big head like a frog. When I eventually dragged Bon Jovi out like a drowned rat, all thoughs of wickermen were erased from his evil, demonic, satanic brane. Later that night, I used wan of the wicker sticks to leave welts on his malignant derriere. Burn my boyfriend Chuck Corona? Knot when there's blood and piss in the veins of Rosie Ryan.

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You know I was just thinking last nite, it's hard to beat the heat from a WICKERMAN!!!

Saturday, 14 March 2009


I was busy Spring kleaning round the house. I was flourshing a feather duster, moving, soot, dirt, dust and grime from one place to another. I had my thick, matted mass of red hare, held back from my alluring face bye an old pear of tites that had scene better daze. Like the wee boys who followed Snow White, I whistled and sang as I worked. I found the muffified remains of a stoat under a chair, kicked it out the open door like Ronaldo and sang shrilly and piercingly. "Oh, If you're Irish, come into the parlor, there's a welcome there for you, If you're Irish, come into the parlor and get stuck into a bowl of stew". When my Herculean labours had bean compleated, I looked round the house and said, "Rosie, knot only are you a scholar and an intellectual genie, you are a house kleaner of redoubtable vigor and vim. When it comes two Hi-Jean, you are up there with Dettol, Bleech and Jeyes Fluid". I tried to give myself a pat on the back, but was impeded by the prominence of my bisom. I looked at the clock, Bon Jovi my Sun and air wood soon be home from his seat of learning. A tear came to my eye, when I thought of my only begotten Sun, lumbering home with his head full of cypers, set squares and pies that were waiting too be squared. What a cub he was and the unsual thing was, that his big, fat, cannon-ball head and the vacent look on his visage, gave know clue too the grate brane that was churning inside his head like a threasher. Fore o' clock and know Bon Jovi, a half fore and still know Bon Jovi!. What could be keeping the cub? Had he stopped by the wayside, to work out a problem about the curveature of space and time, or was he trying too measure the cubic capicity of a donkey by the size of it's ears. Worried, I went two the door two look for the cub, only too find a note that scent me into fierce hysterics, bordering on the brink of mental unhingement and chronic Do-Lallyness.
This is what the note said. "Hi, we have kidnaped your Sun Bon Jovi.Do knot inform the police, fire brigade, post office, or any other branch of law and order. If you want two sea your Sun again, leave, a five pound note, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of biscuits, (Hob-nobs prefered) in the hollow tree behind the midden. If you don't we wool send you his ears in a jam jar. Yours Sincerely, THE BLACK HAND GANG.
I swooned onto a meal bag, with my too sturdy legs straight up in the air, giving an involantry flash of my primrose yella drawers. "MY SUN!" I screeched, "My sun has bean apprehended by the notorious-Black Hand Gang. BON JOVI!" I screeched "I'm coming, your poor old mammy is coming to get you!". I grabbed a fiver from my purse, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of hob-nobs and set off post haste for the roundy-view. But I'm knot as green as I'm cabbage looking, I also had strapped too my back, a double-barelled shotgun and my primsoe yella drawers hung low, due too two pockets of cartridges koncealed in the pockets, one on each side of the fork. I wanted my Sun back, but a fiver was a fiver and if I got a bead on the black hand gang, I wood also leave them with black arses. I left the ransome in the hollow three and then crept into the eggberries to await the arrival of, the black hand gang. Soon, I heard a fistle in the undergrowth, I put the shotgun too my shoulder and squinted through the site. Then, I saw a small humpty, ugly creature approach the tree. I took careful aim, the kidnapper turned and I saw his ugly mug. "BON JOVI!" I screamed, as my finger tighted on the trigger and the gun went-BANG!. It had all bean a set-up, Bon Jovi had staged the hole thing. There never was any Black Hand Gang. At the last moment, I raised the barell of the shotgun and a shower of buckshot flew over Bon Jovi's big, round head. The cub was scared but unhurt, apart from an involantry bowel moment that had ruined his good, grey short trousers. I broke a branch from a willow tree and thrashed the legs of Bon Jovi, as he ran home in front of me, like a calf with skitter. The cub crawled into his cardboard box, stuck his thumb in his gub and moaned all nite long like a demented polekat. I peeped in and said, "Well, if it isn't the leader of the notorious Black Hand Gang. If it isn't Black Bart himself, crouched in a cardboard box and rocking back and forth like the feardie kat he is. Your rain of terror is over" I yelled. "I am the Sheriff around these here parts and we don't take too kindly too kidnappers. After a fair trial tomorrow you wool be hung from the cloths line". I heard a hi squeak and a rusle of straw from within the cardboard box. I smiled, as I hung up the shotgun, I wood let Black Bart, aka Bon Jovi worry all nite. Then in the morning, I wood give him a good riser and send him off too skool, with a flea in his ear, if he thought I was going too comb his hare with a fine comb, he was mistaken. So stranger if you ever mosey up too Clougher, don't meddle with Rosie Ryan, my grate beauty is only matched by my grate desire too hurt and cause pain. YEEHAW!

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PS I never did get the wee grey trousers clean, they were beyond redemption. It really was a bowel movement of gigantesque porportions.

Wednesday, 11 March 2009


I was sitting outside my abode, legs akimbo on a three legged stool. My frame of mind was excelent, just prior, I had beaten a path to the whins for a shi--- bowel movement. As you kan imagine, i have experienced bowel movements before. Most bowel movements usually leave one feeling unsatisfied. One is inclied too think, "Is that all there is?". But knot this thyme, this thyme I got red out big time. I suppose a good bowel movement is akin too a cosmic occurance, when all the constituant parts are in alinement, cosmic forces interact too put on a spectacular display of perfection. Little did I know when I went too have a dump, that I would look back on said dump with wonder and amazement. I must, unwittingly have choosed the rite time, the right place and behaved in such a manner, which made it impossible for fate, chance, cosmic interaction, not to form an alliance and combine in producing a bowel movement of unparalled power, complexity, grace and if one may use the word in such a context-beauty.
As I crouched on my stool, I felt at one with the Universe. I felt-serene, fulfilled, my inner clock was in sink with time. I also felt, curiously light-headed. Now that my intestines had bean well and truely vacuated, the blood was coursing through my veins like faeces down a sewer pipe. When the pounding blood entered my brane, which hither too had bean sluggish and stagnant, my brane was caught on the hop and unable too cope with the tsueami of blood. Sparks flew as the recepters in my brane, produced electricity and lit up deep, dark recesses. The thought process was temporary nocked haywire and the brain began too spew out unasked for memories and imagies from my past. The back of my retinas was bomb-barded by pictures and imagies from my past. My memory bank was throwing out information willy-nilly. When I tried too hold on too a memory or image, it wriggled out of my mind like an eel and another took it's place. There was my daddy, smoking his pipe, my mammy, smoking daddy's pipe, my granny, smoking her own pipe. There was my first wee donkey called Barney. Me going two skool, with my skool books slung over my shoulder in a meal bag. There was me in a hey shed with.... "No, No, No, take it away, I was drunk that nite". My first communion, the first time I fell into a shuck, my we were back in the hey shed, "No, I told you I was drunk that nite, some wan must have put tablets in my stout". So many memories, so many images. All stored in my brane. What a thing the brane is, if we could only harness it, we could do anything. Ah, perhaps the full power of the brane is really the forbidden apple, that wood turn us into Gods. I must rite too the boys in the Vatican about that, when I get a knew Bic pen.
I was aroused from my reverie by the site of Nellie Granite coming up the road on a bicycle. Her big red face was bleezing and her too big lumps of knees were going up and down like too bald headed dwarfs. She leaped off the bike with a horrible, loathsome breaking of wind and roared. "Bay God Rosie, that's a wild warm day, my drawers is fair soaked". "Still suffering from incontiguous Nellie?" I said "Know" yelled Nellie "It's sweat, knot's knot the other. Here Rosie" she guldered. "You better shift yourself, I passed your cub Bon Jovi on the way, the wee get stoned me, he wool soon be home from skool and looking for his tay". "Never you mind Bon Jovi" I yelled. "That cub sprang from my lions, knot yours, every wan knows that your Bert has the sperm count of a dead cadaver". Nellie put an auld girn on her face and said. "You no Rosie when I passed Bon Jovi, I couldn't help thinking he was the dead spit of auld Rosco McNoodle, the town drunk, who had both legs ate off him with gangerene and then arsed round Clougher until he was run over by a dung spreader. If I remember rite, there was some talk about you and him beeing scene coming out of a hey shed, the nite Daniel O'Donnel came too Clougher" I leaped off the stool full of ire and fierce anger. "Get too hell" I roared "Go on, get off this street, are I swear by the little flour, I'll be dug out of you, you big bocken". "Nellie leaped on the bike with a flash of tattered blew drawers like Frankie Detorri and peddled away. I grabbed a handful of stones, bricks and small boulders and ran after her. Then Bon Jovi appeared round a korner and Nellie was caught in a pincer movement. Mother and sun pelted auld Nellie as she peddled like a frenzied fiend for the safety of the open Hi-way. Later, as Bon Jovi got stuck into the buttermilk and three heels from a pan loaf, I scrutinised the cub. Could he be? Surely knot. Could I have given birth to a sun, whose father was the town drunk and had met his demise by death by dung spreader. It was then that my bowel movement came two my aid. Suddely I had a vivid memory of Mammy duck-taping my nickers too my belly before I went two sea Daniel O'Donnel. So it was inconceivable that I could have conceived in the hey shed. I gave a skip, gave thanks for my doozy of a bowel movement and began to sing.
As my dulcet tines rang over the bog, I gave thanks that I came from a good kristian family and that I, Rosie Ryan, was a paradox of virtue.

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