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.......