Deer Fans, friends and familiars, 'tis indeed a pleasure two put pencil to jotter and correspond with youse through the art of calligrephy. Over the years I have told youse many things about myself, my Sun Bon Jovi and my boyfriend, Chuck Corona, who was asked to leave the Garda She-Cona in Dublin. Youse are aware and compes-mentas of my grate beauty, grace, poise and helagance. I model myself-dilligently on model Kate Moss. When I walk, I put wan hobnail boot gracefully in front of the other, as I was told too do in Kate's book, "How too walk down a kat-walk without taking a spalter". Of my only begetoon Sun Bon Jovi, what kan I say? Nature fertilised an egg and chose my womb, to shelter and nurter, he who in thyme would be kristened Bon Jovi, with a good splash of H2o and the laying on of hands. Every thyme I look at Bon Jovi's big head or sea his ring-worm spreading, I no I am blessed among women.

My boyfriend Chuck Corona is the lite of my life. I love every pox on his pox-marked face. Chuck is knot the tall, dark and handsome hero you wood read about in Mills and Boom. Chuck is low to the ground, squat and his hare stands up on his bullet head like a pork-a-pine. And yet, this man on the run from the Free State has stolen my hart and I love him like be-damned.

But I have talked about Chuck and Bon Jovi before. What I want to talk about today is.....Wait 'till I sprinkle the house with holy water, what I want too talk about today is--CLOUGHER!. Clougher is a neon lit city of sin, perversion, depravity and debauchery. Clougher, that sprawling city among the whins and rushes, is a plaice of demonic evil, pagan values and unholy shennagins. No wan no's the amount of futtering, grabbing and groaping that goes on in Clougher when the son goes down. Another thing about Clougher, it has more gulpins per square inch, that any other town in Ireland or surrounding districts. The fly boys in Clougher, hang round korners, smoking, cursing and abusing the passer-byes. You kan tell a fly Clougher boy, from the indents left on the back of his donkey jacket by the pebble-dash wall.

Their insults are legandery, take wee Boris McDump. Wee Boris had a row with the priest about catholic teeching. Boris asked the priest where the crowd got the baskets to take up the crumbs after Jesus fed the five thousand. The priest, who was stumped for an answer, told wee Boris to sling his hook. Some say he told Boris to, piss off, but I don't believe that. Boris immediately went and joined the Jewish religion. Now a male man who becomes a Jew, has too go through a wee intimate, opperation pertaining too the reproduction organs. People in the no, say that wee Boris went through the opperation with flying colours, he only screamed seven times. But when Boris got back on his feet and was walking splay-legged round Clougher, it was then he came in for the vulgar, foul-mouthed retric of the fly Clougher boys. As wee Boris walked slowly up the street, with his legs akimbo and his teeth gritted, wan of the fly Clougher boys roared out, "Here comes the croppie boy".

I myself have knot bean immune from the rude and mocking multitude. The other day, as I sauntered down the street too buy a pound of special mince. Wan of the gulpins began too bawl, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".

I shuddered too a halt, I could knot believe my ears. ME? Rosie Ryan, a paradox of beauty, grace, poise, and sultry passion, was being harranged by a vulgar roar of, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". People smirked as I stood there, with my plastic shopping bag in my hands, full of grate ire and anger and on the verge of brusting someone's face. I walked on, hoping the vulgar wretches had their fun, but-KNOW, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS" rang out over the accursed city of Clougher. I minced into the butchers, purchased a pound of special mince and made my way out again. "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YOUR DRAWERS". I noted where the sound was coming from and made a detour to come up behind the yelling gulpin. As I crept up too a korner, I heard the sound again, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS,MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". I -leapt round the korner and grabbed the ruffian by the scruff of the neck. "BON JOVI!" I shrieked "MAMMY!" yelled the mystery voice who had guldered, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". "I didn't no it was you mammy" snivelled Bon Jovi "I thought it was some old bag". I drove the cub home before me like a bulloch. Everytime he stopped, I came off him with a black-thorn stick. Oh the shame. Oh the indignity. To have one's own child, roar at one, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".

No more watching Aunt and Deck for Bon Jovi, them too has got the cub ruined.