Friday, 31 July 2009


The postman brought the sad news just this morning. There was know easy way too break the news, so the postman just bawled from the end of the lane, "Hi Rosie, wee Willie Ramono is-dead!" I stopped with one hobnailed boot in the air and my mouth hanging open like a voracious pike. Wee Willie dead? How could that be? He was only a few years older that me. Willie Ramono was my first boyfriend. I used to carry his books too skool. I let Willie kiss me for a gobstopper. Not only did Willie buy a gobstopper, he also-lovingly and tenderely rammed it into my open gub. Tender intimate moments like that are not soon forgotten. I sat beside Willie at skool and copied from him. It was Willie who taut me that kat should always be spelt with a kapital-K.
And now he was-gone. I felt a shiver go up my back as I was faced with my own immorality.
All my old skool friends were dying. Old Aggie McScummer, who got ger knickers caught in the threshing machine. Big Oswald McTwirdle, who left his good Raleigh bicycle a rite-off and himself stone dead when he ran into a stone wall. Wee petite Viola McTweet who went clean mad while making poundies. And jumped of the barn roof, waving two yellow dusters and crying, "I'm only a bird in a gilded cage" before she fell on a plough, doing untold external damage to her liver and spleen.
"How die he dye?" I screamed to the postman. "Who did wee Willie depart this life?"
"From what I heer" said the postman "wee Willie was up on the roof, tying a Tyrone flag to the chimney pot". "UP TYRONE" I yelled involantry and-sadly. "Then!" said the postman "A jackdaw saw wee Willie futtering round the chimney and thought wee Willie was after it's scaldies. The jackdaw swooped, grabbed wee Willie's red nose it it's claws, wee Willie slipped and fell, legs akimbo on a spade that was stuck in the ground". "HOIST! bye his own petard" I yelled. "You could be rite" said the postman, it could have been a petard, but I heer it was a spade. What ever it was, it took the fire brigade an hour to unscrew it from wee Willie's ars-derriere".
"What a way too go" I screamed. "Impailed on an agriculture imlayment manufactured for digging. "Where is he?" I yelled "Where lies the diseased dead body of wee Willie Romano?
"He's laid out in the front room" said the Postman. I never scene him looking so well and the good news is, wee Willie didn't break the spade when he fell".
Later that nite, I hurried to the wake with tears in my eyes and tissues in my pockets for cleaning the snotters from my nose. I was met by the widow, big Eutheria. Big Eutheria never liked me. She never forgave me for being the first love in wee Willie's life. I went into my wake mode. "OH EUTHERIA" I cried "What a thing to befall you, your wee Willie snatched away like chaff in the breeze. Take me too him. Take me to the resting plaice of wee Willie, so I kan show my inspect and prey for his ammoral sole". I was lead-grudgingly into the back room and there lay my first love--wee Willie Romano. "WILLIE,WILLIE,WILLIE" I wailed
"What has come over you at tall, at tall, at tall? ARISE!" I yelled "Death shall knot have you" But wee Willie just lay there, with a look of death on his dead face. I gave a shriek and ran towards the bed. I had to have one last hug from my first love. As I lumbered tear-stricken towards the bed, I stepped on an empty stout bottle and was thrown into the air. I landed in the bed, legs akimbo on the body of wee Willie Romano, who had lately turned into a cadaver.
"GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT BED!" yelled big Eutheria. "You were always after my wee Willie. You couldn't have him in life and bye God you will knot have my wee Willie in death. Wee Willie told me all about you. Flashing your kickers at him at skool, that was on daze that you had knickers on. GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT BED and stop futtering at my wee dead willie".
Just then the priest entered the room. All he could sea was my big red flannel drawers as I sat astride wee Willie.
"IN THE NAME OF GOD!" roared the priest "What evil, vile, repulsive necrophillic necrophillia is going on here?"
"Oh Father" roared big Eutheria "That big gulpin of a Rosie Ryan came in here and leaped into the bed and was groaping and futtering at my wee Willie in a foul sexual way".
"GET OUT OF THAT BED, you-you spawn of Satan!" Yelled the priest. "Dismount from that dead cadaver and get the hell out of that bed!".
"I CAN'T!" I roared "My sacred hart medal is stuck in wee Willie's shroud".
The priest grabbed me by the shoulders and gave a pull, wee Willie's shroud split rite down the middle, leaving wee Willie as naked as a jaybird.
"Ah HOLY GOD" screamed big Eutheria "My wee Willie's willie is exposed for the sexual gratifcation and demonic pleasure of that big gulpin--Rosie Ryan".
I tried too explain, but was marched to the door by the priest and given a holy riser from his black clerical shoe.
At the funeral, the priest gave a blood curling sermon entitled. "Necrophilla in rural places"
I sat with my face as stocial as an Easter Island statue. I alone new the truth. As wee Willie was lowered into the earth, I broke down and roared, "WEE WILLIE GAVE ME MY FIRST GOBSTOPPER". I was raced from the graveyard by irrate family members and by complete strangers!. OH! and the priest is coming round on Tuesday nite too prey over me and sprinkle a lemonade bottle of holy water over me. He must think I am the choosed one.

Sunday, 12 July 2009


Deer Gerry, I rite too you two-nite in a state, of tarra, fierce intaxocation. Two-nite Gerry, you find me under the influent of alcohol. Is is fore oh clock in the morning and I am as full as a po. I have bean sick twice, once in the po and once beside the po. I am sorry to rite to you in such a bluttered state, but I need a friend. Oh Gerry! If you are my friend, help me make it through the nite. The craving for drink came on just after a lite lunch of ferrent fritters, the buttered heels from pan loaves and a foaming mug of Iron Brue, served at room temperature. I tried to fight the craving. I put on my hobnailed boots and went stamping the cunt'ry lanes like a German storm trooper. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck into the midden. I knelt on my plump, girlish knees and preyed and preyed too saint Karen the patron saint of tempetation. But it was know good. The craving was getting stronger and stronger. Suddenly, I yelled "Dumplins, nickers and tadoples", stuck my skirt in my nickers, leapt on the rusty bike and headed pell-mell for Clougher. And the rest as they say, is historonics. And now Gerry I am home again, with a big cloud of guilt hanging over my head like a grate big pear of black drawers.
I just fell off my chair Gerry. I bent over to hit the cap lock key and the next thing I new, I was sitting on the floor on my firm, round, plump-derriere. I wonder if there is a wee poltergist in the house? Something tossed me, wheather it was drink or poltergist, spirits was behind it. 3$%**)^*!6. Did you see what the comsputer did Gerry? It printed a load of rubbish. I mite take the back of this yoke tomorrow and squirt in some bicycle oil. I am full of grate sadness Gerry and yet, I have everything. I have my Sun Bon Jovi, a lump of a cub in a million. I have my boyfriend Chuck Corona, a man of refinment, good looks and futtering hands. And yet Gerry, too-nite finds me in a melon-golly state of mind. Why is it that us kumans is never satsified? Why do we always want-more? It was that attitude that got us thrown out of the garden of Eden. Just the way I was thrown out of Murphy's pub to-nite, I asked for-more and auld humpy Barney Murphy threw me out on my ars--derriere.
Gerry, because of our long friendship, I feel it is incombant on me to be honest and truthful will you. I have wet myself Gerry. Yes, the woman you love and adore from afar, has wet herself-twice!. Can you imagine how low I feel to-nite as I sit here in a pear of sodden drawers? I was all fingers and thumbs Gerry and could knot undo the draw-string on my drawers, so I peed, standing up like a man at the side of the road. Oh the shame, oh the igmony, oh the disgrace. I feel-dirty and cheep like Kerry Katona or Paris Hilton.
I fell off my chair again Gerry!. This thyme I fell backwards, hitting my head on the coal shuttle!. I don't think it was a poltergist. I feel I may be under the influent of some strange magnetic force from the up-turned wheel barrow. I am looking into my vanitory mirror and it's knot a pretty site. My big red bleezer of a face is all blotched and scared. What wood Chuck Corona say if he scene me now? My oculars, red as a chimps arse is protruding from my drunken visage. Drink is wild sore on a young girls prefection. What have I become Gerry? Rosie Ryan, the statesque Greek godess, has turned into an ugly drunken auld biddy. Woe, woe and thrice times woe is me. Have I squandered my literally gift for red biddy? What of my work in arts and kulture? What of my thesis on Van Allen's Belt? Too rings Gerry, surrounding the earth, packed to the gunnels with intense particle radition. My theory was that Van Allen's belt is up there to show the little swallows the way to Clougher in the Summer time. My dreams is shattered. I am a broken woman. But let us knot be down-harted Gerry. Did you ever here this song? "They were tattered, they were torn, at the ars--derriere they were worn, the red flannnel drawers that....
I'm wild tired Gerry, I'm away too my bed. Good-Nite!
P.S. I wet myself again, while riting this letter!!!