Tuesday, 30 June 2009

L'Amour in the Bog

My ruby red lips were numb. The wild, fierce, tarra suction from Chuck Corona's kiss was pulling my lips out like rubber. I was up on the tip toes of my sparkling hobnailed boots, holding on to Chuck like an attention seeking leech. I had to breathe through my nose, and as both nostrils were temporaly blocked by road blocks of solidified snotters I was getting it tite. My head was a madly swirling round-a-bout, the blood was pumping in my ears and the ends of my fingers and toes were turning blue. How long could I hold on for? I could knot break away first, or deer Chuck might feel ejected. I mashed my numb rubbery lips against Chuck's buck teeth in an act of wanton passion and fierce womanly emotion. I felt a swoon coming on. I fought the swoon and pressed my protruding bisoms against Chuck's lime green gansey. A blackness came over my eyes, the sounds of tweeting birds came from a far. I was going! sinking into a black whole of passion like the wan at the centre of the milky way. Just when I thought I could take no more, "PLOP!" Chuck broke away and left me with too dangling rubber lips. I gasped in air like a gold fish and expended by lungs with good clean Clougher air. When I had regained my deposure, I kicked a clump of rushes with my hobnailed boot, glanced-demurly up at Chuck and simpered.
"Oh Chuck!"
Chuck glanced down at me with a face full of passion and acne and growled.
"Oh Rosie!".
And there we stood, Romeo and Juliet, knee deep in rushes and nettles. A thrush sang, a lark-larked and a pee-wheet wheeted. Chuck and I were one with nature. Just too kuman beings seeking love and affliction, in the short, transitory journey of life.Too lost soles looking for love in a world of debauchery and vile, vile intemperate lewdness, bordering on the last daze of the Roman empire. We were-drunk on love, we did not need the wee fat Baccus boy and his auld bottle of red biddy. We were intoxicated to intoxication by the site of each others alluring visage. Like what is often carved on a tree, Rosie loved Chuck and Chuck loved-Rosie. Chuck bowed, which caused a slight breaking of wind and said. "Wood my lady care too join me for a prambulate round the bog?" I curtised, like a hen laying an egg and said "With the gratest of pleasure, gallant Sir". Arm and arm and hip to hip, Chuck and me sauntered-seductively round the bog. Lost in the beauty and rapture of--Lamore!. As us feet brust through the Summer flora and fauna, clouds of pollen and spores took to the air and glistened in the son like the dust of moon- beams. There was a sense of sensual, sexuality in the barmy Summer air. One wood knot be surprised if a satyr leaped from behind a tree and yelled, "Hi, how about a bit of an auld court?" Rabbits hopped and skipped, as rabbits are want to do. Birds flew low, giving us a tantalising glimpse of their under-carriage. The small white, fluffy clouds, were as little lambs, gambling in a pasture of azure blew. I clung on to Chuck and filled my blocked up hooter with the aroma of old spice and John West tuna chunks. Chuck began to whistle, what a melodic wheep he had. I skipped, I danced, I pranced and leaped-daintly over cow pats which lay in profussion in our path, like a veritable field of land mines. Round and round the bog we went. A mail and a female. A he and a she, as was decreed by auld Noah when his wife cried, "How highs the water Noah?" and auld Noah replied "Too feet high and rising". Round and round the bog we went, in a clock-wise direction. We were in sink with the Universe. We were just too small cogs in the Cosmos and yet--we had our dreams, we had our desires and we had-each other. Nothing momentous or of any grate consequence happened that day. I was kissed like what I've never bean kissed before and strolled, arm and arm with my true love Chuck Corona in a bog outside Clougher. And-yet I shall remember this day. When I am old and feeble and lying in a urine soaked bed popping my clogs. I shall think back to the lovely Summer day when Chuck Corona and me went for a walk in the-bog. From such simple things, are dreams made. So too all young lovers out there I say, make hey while the son shines, for when the rains came and darkness gathers round the door like hungry wolves. You wool regreat the things you did knot do, when it seemed that the son would shine forever!
But let me interact with a word of warning. Do take precautions, I wood suggest a pear of wellingtons, or a good, stout pear of hobnailed boots. You no it makes sense! And you are worth it! if you were knot, no wan wood walk you in the bog in the first plaice!
Ah-Lamore! the scallions in the poundies of life!.

Friday, 26 June 2009

Rosie Gets Sky.

I have got SKY put into my Tee-Vee. A boy came out from Belfast and put her in. You should have scence the way the boy looked at me, I suppose coming from Belfast with all the smog copulation and sulphr in the air, he is used looking at wee deformed weeman.
I wood say he never respected to sea a tall, slim, statesquese Greek Godess living in a bog. My Sun Bon Jovi never left the boys side when he was working at the Tee-Vee. Everytime the boy adjusted something, Bon Jovi was at his shoulder, with too yellow candles hanging from his nose roaring, "What are you doing now-sir? What are you doing now--sir?" I got Sky in for the heaductional facilities of the cub. As you no Gerry, I have got a literally bent and I am never as happy as when I am curled up with, Sarte, Proust, or Baa-Baa-Ra Bradford. I don't no how to work the yoke yet, but Bon Jovi kan whizz round it like Jason Button. Investing in Sky is like getting into a Deloran kar and going back to the past. Now I kan sit and henjoy again, Steptoe and Sun, Only Fools and Horses, George and Mildred and Up The Stares And Down The Stares. I grately like the foreign cooking programmes. I have always had an intrest in foreign crusine. I subscribe to the Gordon Blue skool of cooking. I watch a grate cooking programme from Spain. The title of the programme is in Spanish, but when I translated it, it turned out to be, "Get Stuffed". Every weak, renowned chef Juan McBurro stuffs a different animal. He is the best stuffer I have ever scene. Juan McBurro could stuff anything, from a larks egg too a helephant. But Gerry, there is a lot of auld dirty phohographic stuff on Sky. For the good of Bon Jovi's immoral sole and too keep me from peeping, I got the Sky boy to put a lock on it. I like the wildlife programmes, as an animal lover, nothing gives me more pleasure that to see a gazelle's throat tore out by a lion after a damned good race. There is an Arts channel which shows bally and opera. Needless to say, I am glued too the screen when the boys in tites with the protruding forks are throwing their legs about. I am a kulture vulture and could sit for daze, picking at the bones of a good opera like, "The nut, that's a cracker-sweet". I watch all the news channels, al-jazere, Russin, Chinese, Indian, Japanese and RTE. I sometimes startle auld Bruno McRamsbottom, the bread man by coming out with things like, "Well Bruno, with both the Yen and the Dracma down, I swear one doesn't no what too do with one's spondulects". Well Gerry, I must go, I heer the pounding beet of Bonanza. I must go sea who many people auld Ben, Hoss, Adam and wee Joe kill this weak. But like America foreign policy, the Cartwrights are the good guys and only kill when provoaked. Mind you, I have scene auld Ben launch a pre-empretive strike on the Indians. But you can't make a wild big omelate like America, without breaking a few eggs.
Toodles for now, Rosie Ryan XXX


Gerry, I am sitting on a three legged stool beside the midden. Marcel Proust, is lying-suppline over my knee and John Paul Sarte is stretched out at my feet. The Son is so hot, I am feard my gooseberry green simment goes on fire. I look at the haze of heat rising from the sizzling midden. What a site a midden is on a hot day. It would have given Proust and Sarte gaiety de tour and a raison de-etra. There is the sent of lilics, honeysuckle and slurry in the air. I am intoxicated. Bluttered by the beauty of Summer. I feel the muse rise up in me like molten lave. I can knot resist. The muse wool knot be kept down. I--LEAP! too my feet, kicking over the three legged stool, throw my slender arms in the air and proclaim in kuman speech the indescribable, the undescribable beauty of-
Gerry, my advice too you and the wee boy is, stay in the shed, don't leave the shed 'till the son goes down.
from a scalded, Rosie Ryan xxx

Friday, 19 June 2009


Gerry, as a born again Druid, like what I am, I am sure you have got your long, white nite-dress ready for the Midsummer cermony's next weak. I have knot got a golden sickle too cut the ivy and laurels, but I have painted an auld hook with gold metalic paint. I am sure it wool be acceptable and adequate. I am sure that the dead, deseased Druids are well aware of my lack of spondulucts. My acolite shall again be my Sun Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi and I shall fast all day, shunning such delicies as stoat fritters and the buttered heels from pan loaves. On the stroke of mid-nite, Bon Jovi and I shall proceed in solomn procession too the tall standing stones in the bog. Due to the fasting, there may be some breaking of wind, but any out put of wind shall done without any roaring and laughing and witty asides like, "Put that dog out". or "Is that thunder I heer over Gortin?" Bon Jovi wool carry the gold painted sickle and I wool be carrying a pewter platter containing, bread, whine, oaten meel and a small tin of Fray Bentos korn beef. When I reproach the standing stones I shall redress the ancient Druid Gods. "Oh God's of our four fathers" I shall cry. "Behold your hand maiden Rosie and her cub Bon Jovi, kneel before the Gods of, Earth, wind, fire, air and water and if I have left any God out, my sincerest, may-a-culpas. Let our fields and our women be furtive. May our korn be as Hi as an elephants eye and our spuds, balls of flower. Send gentle reign on us heads, soft, gentle winds on us backs and sunny rays to gladen us days. Protect us from, plague, famine, black death, bunnions, floods, chillblaines, tempest roar and ring worm.
Last year after my prayer I said "Now Bon Jovi" "Is there any thing you want to say?" "Oh grate Druid God's" roared Bon Jovi "When I wake tomorrow, may I find that St Judas Primary skool in Clougher is burned too the ground and the police don't suspect me!". Then Bon Jovi and me did the Druid dance, which konsists of wild kicking and flinging of the legs and feat and throwing us arms in the air while intoning--"Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy, Come on yeh boy, come on!" As Bon Jovi kicked and flung, I could sea he had know drawers on. Was that a form of penance? Like Matt Talbot? When we got home, we got stuck into the cold ferret stew, washed down with brimming mugs of Iron Brue, served at room temperate-of course. Later, I stood gazing out of my bedroom winda. A wild, red-hared Irish colleen. The nite air blue through the whole in the winda and seemed to say. "Come. Come Rosie and be our Druid priestess. Come, daughter of Erin and take your plaice on the golden throne of the Druids". "Know" I whispered. "Know! I have a lump of a cub too rear and many more nites of robust fissling and futtering with my Keltic boyfriend-Chuck Corona". Then I utulised the po and-lept into bed, to dream of moon lit galivanting in the secret vales and glades of my people--THE DRUIDS!

Monday, 15 June 2009

Rat Attack

I had a rat kornered in the korner of my abode. It was a grate big rat, about too feat long, including the auld scaly tale. The rat was peeping out from behind a pile of dirty drawers and simmets, I had left out about three weaks ago, prior to washing. The rat looked at me with it's wee red eyes and emmitted sharp hi pitched squeals that reminded me of the B-Gees during their hay day. "Come out you bugger" I yelled."But The rat refused to comply with my reasonabe request. "Rite" I said, as I went for the bisum, "On your own head be it boy". I poked the rat with the end of the bisum. The rat gave a squeel like a scalded kat, broke cover and ran up my leg. When the rat came too my anatomical cull-de-sack, it clung on viciously with it's claws too the feminine part of me, that is known in the medical profession as the "Under-carriage" but what most weeman call, Australia-or "Down there". "Let go you abomination" I yelled "I mite want too have more wains". Once again, the rat refused to comply with my reguest. I was standing with both knees together and my hands between my legs when my Sun Bon Jovi came home from skool. The cub took a look at me and said "What's rong with you? Hefted?" I yelled, "Do you know there's a rat up my skirt?" The cub smirked and said "You hum it and I'll sing it". "Get the frying pan" I yelled "And batter me about the fork of my skirt". Bon Jovi was only to happy to comply with my request. Time and time again he swung the frying pan against my suppline fork. The rat began to dodge about, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide. "Harder Bon Jovi" I yelled "The revolting rodent is biting at my drawers". "WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. Bon Jovi was beating me like a carpet. But the wily rodent, having found refuge in some of my maidenly secret nooks and crannies refused to budge. The sweat was lashing of Bon Jovi and the frying pan was deformed in the extreme, leading me to believe that it wood never fry a stoat again. "Run outside" roared Bon Jovi "And give your skirt a good shake". Taking the juviniles advice, I did just that. I stood at the door shaking my skirt like a Spanish Matador. Old Nero Ramsbum, the postman was half way up the lane when he saw me. He took wan look, jumped on his bike and went tearing back down the lane. Just when I thought the rat was going to take up abode in my nickers, it fell to the ground, ran between my legs and disappeared down a whole in the scullary. As I went off to inspect-Australia, Bon Jovi sniggered and said, "You're lucky the rat did knot claim squatters rites, it wood have taken a court order to get it out" I bristled and bridled but kept stum. I am hapy too inform all intrested, that my under-carriage is A-one and firing on all cylinders.
Later that nite, I was persusing Proust and Bon Jovi was watching the news. Suddenly the cub leaped to his feet, kicked the kat and yelled "Dammit". "What is it Sun?" I said "Has another Manchester United player jumped ship?" "Know" yelled Bon Jovi "It's yer man" "Yer man-whom?" I asked "Auld Mahmood Ahmadinejad" said Bon Jovi " he's only gone and got in again" "Is he anything too wee Bosco Ahmadadinejad from Gortin?" I said "Him with the bald head and the turn in his eye". "Know!" yelled Bon Jovi "It's auld Mahmood Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran, he only gone and got in again for another term"."What's that got too do with you?" I said "Why do you care who runs Iran?" Bon Jovi pointed too the tillie lamp and said "If auld Mahmood turns off the oil, you'll knot be sitting there with your grate big red bleezer of a face, illuminated by a tillie lamp. "Blow the tillie lamp out" I yelled "And lite a candle, to we sea what way the wee bugger jumps". "He wants nukes too" said Bon Jovi. "Let him have as many nukes as he likes" I said "As long as he has a good warm shed to keep them in and wires off a bit of ground so they can run about during the day"
Bon Jovi snorted and went to bed!, why? I have know kompreshion.

Friday, 12 June 2009

Rosie strikes it lucky!

It's always hard too pick up the rains after a Hi-etas.
But after a couple of daze, you were back into it like the prcessional you are. Broadcasting is like riding a bike or pushing a wheel barrow, once you learn how too do it, you never forget.You must knot no youself with the hole plaice to yourself, with the wee boy away in the Spanish city of Spain. I hope he doesn't get run over by a pack of stampeding burros. Or lose all this spondulents too a Spanish fraulin with flashing eyes and chattering castenets. If he does, don't send him a penny, let him thumb home.
Gerry, I had a grate stroke of luck on Sonday nite. I won a hundred pounds at the bingo in St Judas hall. I was sweating for wan number and when wee Castro McCollingwood, the bingo caller yelled out, "All the fores--42", I couldn't believe my luck.This weak my Sun Bon Jovi and I are going for the weakend two Bundoran. Bundoran has a special plaice in my hart, in was in that see-side town that my Sun Bon Jovi was deceived. When I left Bundoran, I had too sticks of rock with me, a bag of shells and a fertilised egg, that turned out two be-Bon Jovi. I have nit Bon Jovi a bathing soot, so the cub kan go for a swim. The bathing soot is a bit baggy round the fork, but if the cub kan have a swim and net a shoal of herring-sew much the better. Bon Jovi is very excited. I have bean washing trousers all weak. "Mammy" said Bon Jovi !When I get too Bundoran, kan I build a castle on the beech?" "I'm afraid knot Sun" I said "Too build a castle on the beech, you wood need lots of bricks, cement and planning permission from Brian McNiff.
We wool be staying in a caravan in the West end Gerry, so if you're up in Bundoran at the weak end, call in and I wool heat up some stoat and turnip stew. But you can't stay the nite Gerry, I no the effect I have on men. Sometimes when I meet men on a lonely road, they are that bewitched with my grate beauty that they stand in shucks gawking at me. Other's are so smitten by my beauty that they jump the ditch and take off over the fields. Wool this grate beauty what I have never fade and let me know what it's like to be a normal woman? Every morning I scrutinize my big red bleezer of a face, looking for signs of ageing, but if anything my beauty is increasing in intensity.
May God and his wholly hangels and saints look after you Gerry. Rosie Ryan XXX

Thursday, 11 June 2009

Hi Brow Poetry

Deer Gerry, what a blessed relief it is too sea you back from far off shores and sunny climes. Bon Jovi, my Sun and air was feard that you mite be kidnapped by gorillas. Did you get back for the poetic extravaganza about TS Elliot on the BBC?
I didn't understand a word Gerry, so I was sure I was getting a good tightener of Hi brow arts and kulture.
The late, dead Sir Alec Guiness came on with a face as long as a Dungannon turf spade and went into a long monotonous dirge that had me on the edge of my seat, trying too work out what the hell he was talking about. I looked at Bon Jovi who was removing the appendix from a dead stoat with the bread knife and said, "This is the real McCoy. This is premier, top shelf poetry, you don't get this kind of stuff in Ireland's Own or Our Boys". Then Sheamus Heany, crouched in a corner and wearing a heavy wool gansey made some comments that greatly added to the confusion of the artisic experience. I came away from it with my head light and a bit of a stagger in my step, but I new I was stuffed, stuffed to the gunnels with Hi brow, poetry, like what is taut in Eaten the primary skool for young gentlemen. My advice to your listeners is this, When seeking menthol stimulation, aim Hi, Come away from the, Hi-diddle-diddle stuff and get stuck into the real hard core stuff. Go into Eason's and say too the cuttie, "I want a book on obscure, Hi-brow poetry and if I understand one word of it, I wool return the book and demand my money back". Unlike the Northern Ireland team we must set goals in our lives. I have red 69 pages of Miltons Paradise Lost and I am pleased to say that knot one word made a titter of sense. It's not supposed too. Books like that are like Mount Everest, you read them simply because they are there! I got some poems by the Roman poet the Cicro Kid, I can't wait to get stuck into them. Aim Hi Gerry. Aim Hi in life. Don't settle for the mundane and you wool be the life and sole of cock-tale parties in Shantallow-and surrounding districts.
Gerry, pleese play, "Hay there, you with the stars in your eyes" for auld Zeeter McPossum who fell off his bicycle--again! I blame Clougher council, what a stupid place to put a corner. Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX

Saturday, 6 June 2009


It was Saturday, the day that God and the trade unions decreed should be a day of rest.
In the abode of 13 The Bog Road, Clougher, where I live and reside, Bon Jovi my Sun and I were taking it easy, chilling, just hanging around. I was sitting-gracefully on a chair with my feet on a stool, pulling the odd hare from my plump slender leg with a pear of pliers. I am knot bye nature a hairy Mary, but sometimes a rogue hare wool try to take up abode on my fare, alabaster skin.
I gritted my teeth, as I pulled another curley inch long hare from my slender calf with a girlish shriek of, "OH, In the name of God". Blood ran in rivlets down my sturdy leg and in between my bunched up toes. I raised my legs and studied them. Too strong creek columns, the mottled veins gave my legs the appearance of blue-veined marble. What beauty. What grace. My red knees were concealed in rolls of delightful feminine fat. The rolling contours of my buttressing thighs, absolutely beautiful in the extreme. "The legs of a Greek Godess" I intoned to myself.
The mighty columns that hold up the temple of-Rosie Ryan. The temple of grace and beauty, at which men kneel in reverence and fear. Very few are the men who can look Rosie Ryan in the face and knot come away babbling and gibbering driven mad by her terrible beauty. A beauty that is knot of this world. A hyptonising, unnatural beauty, bestowed by the Gods. I am the Gorgon of Clougher. The Oracle of Delly. I hold the template of beauty and all other women are but inferiour, cheep facsimiles. I Rosie Ryan, am the fountain head of beauty and all other women mearly streams burns and babbling brookes.
I gave a maidenly sigh of satisfaction and looked at my Sun Bon Jovi. The cub was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire like big chief Rain In The face. The cub was reeding the Bible that my daddy had stolen from a Presbyterian church. "How far are you on Bon Jovi?" I asked. "Have you red about the boy called Job sitting on a dung hill? God I nearly killed myself laughing when I red about auld Job".
Bon Jovi glared up with his good eye and said "Have you red this tome which porports to be the word of God". "I have!" I yelled "And a damn good reed it was. The crossing of the red see, the tossing of the walls of Jerico and Daniel in the den of Lions, which lead, indirectly to Duffy's Circus".
Bon Jovi leaped to his feet, waved the Bible above his head like Ian Paisley and said "This book is full of inaccuracys, missconseptions and erroneous mistakes". "How dare you, you wee pagan" I roared. "How dare you, a lump of a cub, disagree with the word of God. You're far worser that auld Richard Dawkins the atheist". "God gave me free will" roared Bon Jovi. "He also gave me a brane too think with and I'm telling you, as a highly headucated lump of a cub, that the Bible is not the literal truth". "What about the parting of the waters?" I yelled "Explain that if you're so fly". "Simple" said Bon Jovi "The tide went out and auld holy Moses was able to walk to the other side". "And what made the walls of Jerico come tumbling down? I roared. "Bad workmanship" yelled Bon Jovi "The cemente was knot mixed rite and the foundations were knot dug deep enough. Let me ask you something" said Bon Jovi, looking at me with a scrutising stare from his good ocular. "Ask away" I yelled "I came twenty first in our class on religion".
"I take it" said Bon Jovi "That you have red the first book in the Bible, the book of Genitalia?"
"Of Course I have" I roared, "I know all about auld Adam and Eve". "So far so good" said Bon Jovi "Now would you mind telling me why Adam and Eve were turfed out of the garden of Eden?" "It's in the book of Genitalia" I roared. "Adam and Eve were thrown out of the garden of Eden for eating the forbidden apple". "I have bean giving grate though too that" mused Bon Jovi "And it seems funny to me that God wood throw them out because of wan auld apple. I have bean thinking and I think a mistake was made when the scribe was riting the Bible, he was probably bluttered after drinking too are three goat-skins of wine. The scribe rote down apple, but what he should have rote was-PEAR! You must remember that Adam and Eve were buck naked, well what I think happened is this, God came too Adam and Eve and said, "I am sorry that youse is both naked, but-behold, I have created a--PEAR of drawers, youse wool have to work out amomg yourselves how youse wool share the drawers". Then God went away and when his back was turned, Adam and Eve began to fight over the PEAR of drawers and ripped the God given drawers into pieces. Then God came back and said, "Look what youse done to my good drawers. Sling your hook and never darken my door again". I looked at the cub in wonder and surprise, then I lifted the poker and took after him over the bog. The wee brute sped off jumping shucks like a race horse and roaring, "Amen, Amen I say on to you, it was knot an apple, it was a PEAR, a Pear of drawers". I'm going to see the Parish priest tonight and my opening gambit wool be, "Father, are you Ah-Fey with the book of Genitalia???"

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Wednesday, 3 June 2009


It was a fierce fight too the death. In a darkened korner in my 'umble abode,I was trying to strangle a four foot eel I had found in a bog hole. The eel was putting up a hell of a fight. It's flying tale had scent a statue of the child of Prague and a glass ball full of swirling snow to the floor. My seeking thumbs sought the eel's windpipe as I grasped it tightly behind the reptilian head. The eel snapped with it's sharp teeth and lashed and thrashed about like a python on red bull. "Hold still you bugger, 'till I strangle you" I yelled. In a retalatory gesture the eel wrapped it's slimy coils round my throat and began to try and strangle ME!. "Damn you, you slimy bugger" I croaked. It was every woman and eel for themselves. Foul smelling ooze and slime ran down my muscular arms and splattered on to my imperial puce gansey. Me and the eel were staring each other in the face, eyes bulging and tongues hanging out. I squeezed and squeezed, the eel squeezed back harder. Sweat was running down my red, bleezing wind burned face and trickling through my massive cleavage like a mountain stream. My drawers were threatening at any moment to slip down my plump, celluite thighs and fall-languidly round my swoolen ankles in a rumpled heap of red flannel. As I fought to get a better hold, on the wily eel my burnt umber brown hobnailed boots slipped-precociously on dog skitter, the eel flew out of my grasping hands and I fell on the broad of my back, breaking wind with grate ferocity and indeed, verocity as my ample derriere made contact with terra firma. Cashing in on my confusion, the eel tried to make good it's escape, by wriggling frantically towards the open door. "WHACK! I brought the frying pan down on the eel's big black head. The eel was stunned, it's tale began to vibrate like a mobile fone. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!. The eel gave a quiver, a shiver and departed to what ever slimy heaven eel's go too. I stood there gasping and panting like an old dog. I was covered in slimy eel goo. I deposed myself by having a mug of tay at the kitchen table, then I cut the eel into inch long pieces, added a diced onion, a pinch of salt and pepper, a beau-K-garney and let the saucepan to simmer slowly on the back of the range. What a bounty the leviathan of the deep was, it would keep me and Bon Jovi going for a weak.
When the son was at it's zenith and even dragonflies were taking it easy, my Sun Bon Jovi staggered home from skool. The cub gave a grunt and hurled his skoolbag into the scullary like a bowling ball. I looked at the fertilised egg, now grown to boyhood. The cub looked-pensive, meditative and thoughtful. "Bon Jovi" I said "What's the matter?. You are couriously reticent and reserved for a cub who has just got out of skool on a wonderful day like to day". Bon Jovi cleaned his nose on his sleeve, gave a grunt and kicked the coal bucket, but remained silent.
"Bon Jovi" I said "I don't need to be a doctor or a psycho to know that you have something on your mind. As a woman of the world and surrounding districts, I would advice you to-vent. Give voice to your feelings. As a loving mother I can sea that you have issues and are seeking closure. Are you seeking closure Bon Jovi?" "YES, I am" roared the cub, "Closure of your big mouth. You kan't help" said Bon Jovi "No wan kan help, the truth is, I am--stricken". "Holy mother of God" I yelled "have you got the auld swine flu? I told you knot to take the pig to bed with you". Bon Jovi looked-wisfully out of the window, smiled a little bitter smile and said. "Yes, I am-stricken. Stricken by an on slaught of tender feelings. Stricken by la affair-de-la-hart. Stricken by -love, striken by-lamore and striken by the delightful, beautiful cuttie that goes by the name of--Deliah McSlaughter". "OH Bon Jovi!" I ejuclated, "You are in love. Just think, you are in love with wee Deliah McSlaughter and I am head over heels in love with Chuck Corona". "How dare you" yelled Bon Jovi. "How dare you compare the senile, sexual shennanins you and Chuck Corona have with the pure, undiluted virginal affections I have for the best wee cuttie in the world-Deliah McSlaughter". But love is love and as the son set in the West, I got the gramphone out, put on, "Some Henchanted Evening" and Bon Jovi and I sat staring out at the darkening bog, thinking of the one who had stole us hartes. When I went too bed, Bon Jovi was sitting with his teeth gritted, cutting the name, Deliah McSlaughter into his arm with a blunt penknife.
Ah, Lamore! You strike without warning, taking away the wit and leaving in it's place a rose-tinted do-lallyness akin too Nero and Juliet, Romeo and Jupiter and Ken and Deirdre from Kornation Street.

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