Wednesday, 30 September 2009

No Room for Rosie at the Open University

Deer GerrY,
I am spitting feathers. I am full of grate anger and ire. I have bean the recipient of the most fowl belated case of naked discermination Clougher as ever scene. During the Summer Gerry, I replied for a plaice at the open anniversity.I was hoping to increase the vast store of nowledge that is already swirling around in my noggin. Too daze ago I got a reply from the boys at the open anniversity.
I tore open the letter with my teeth and stood there surprised, shocked too the kore and gob smacked when I saw I had bean declined entry. The reasons for my reflection were many and varied. "Know basic standard of headucation. The fact that the application form was filled in with green crayon. Apparently they did knot take kindly to me korrecting their grammar and spelling in the margins. And they drew my attention to the fact that after-SEX, I had put- maybe!". The hole letter Gerry is wan fowl callamy on my good name. The truth is that the open anniversary don't want a Cat-Lick about the plaice. It is discermination. Naked, undiluted, belated discermination and up with it, I shall knot put.
Steps have already bean taken. I have rote too the wee Sin Fane boy, Barry McElduff. I set out my case in green crayon and I respect a call any day to go too Stirmont and appear before a select committee.
I won't take it lying down Gerry. I have never taken it lying down. It is well known round Clougher and surrounding districts that Rosie Ryan wool knot take it lying down.My sun Bon Jovi said.
"Don't get yourself all in a leather. Leave her to Barry. Barry's on the ball. When Barry gets through with the open anniversity. They mite give you an honary degree for keeping your yapper shut"
But I said, "KNOW! Any degree konferred on me wool be due two hard work and dilligence. I wool knot accept wan of them auld degrees that Queens Anniversity gave out like sweeties to any Tom, Dick or Fanny". So there you have it Gerry. God no's I suffer for my wild thirst for nowledge. How are things in the Arts and Kulture seen in Derry? Has the circus came to town yet? Thank God clowns don't scare me, or I wood have to move away from Clougher.
Bon Jovi is doing very well at skool. He got straight G's in a mock test before the Summer holly-daze.
Academia looms for Bon Jovi. He wool never have to stand in the Dole office and say, "To beg I am two proud, two dig I am knot able". Well Gerry I must go. Isn't it wild about Jordan and Peter Entere. That's what comes from knot saying your prayers at nite. The family who prey together, stay together.
I feel a lot better, now that wee Barry McElduff is on the ball. Barry is like a wee terrier. When Barry bites, he haulds on. Good luck Gerry, you have always bean a bon a-me to me and Bon Jovi.
Bon Jovi is shouting Gerry. He wants you to play some Rack-man-enough or Declan Nearney. Toodles for now. XXX
Ooh Gerry, Auld Fred Franko fell off his bicycle and cut the hole face of himself.The hospital is looking for skin donors.Maybe some of your listeners wood like too made a constitution. Tell them too leave their number with the wee bouy.
"I see Winter in the frost lit stars
Time to change into the red flannel drawers" Rosie Ryan. September 2009.

Monday, 21 September 2009


"You kan tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses
And then the pig got up
And walked away".
I looked at my only begotten sun Bon Jovi, who was sitting picking his nose and said.
"Bon Jovi, my bon a- me, what moral do you take from that wee poem?"
He who was once a fertilised egg, crossed wan grazed, dirty knee over the other and said with a regal air.
"A very pertinacious and pernickety porker. Who does he think he is? Walking away from the wee drunk man, who was only seeking warmth and company.
If I owned a pig like that, I would turn it into bacon, before you could say, "Jumping Jack Flash".
"You obtuse wee goose" I yelled.
"There is a lesson for life in that wee poem and the lesson is don't keep bad company".
"I beg to disagree" said Bon Jovi.
"The lesson I took out of that poem is, pigs is getting above their station in life. And corporal punishment should be brought back for all farmyard animals, with the exception of wild auld donkeys and wee fluffy ducks"
I looked at the wee brute, sitting there with a smirk on his dirty face and a wet stain round the fork of his short grey trousers. Little Lord Snooty. Prince Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi, the Sultana of Clougher.
"Listen boy" I said "What did your last skool report say?"
"Whom cares" said Bon Jovi "The teechers at my skool and it panes me to say it, but the teechers at my skool is wretched, igornant, pernicious creatures".
"Here is your skool report" I said.
"Let me remind you of how your teechers summed you up".
"In konclusion, I fear Bon Jovi Ryan is beyond redemption and is as thick as too bricks".
"Did you here that? As thick as too bricks! To think a sun of mine should be compared to -too bricks!
Well, all I kan say is, thank God your auld grannie isn't living. She wood have dyed with shame after reeding a retort like that. Your grannie was a highly headucated woman. She could talk many languages--felicitously and ram her hand up the bum of an egg bound chicken and retrive the captive egg".
"Highly headucated my Ant Fanny" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Granny was an auld head the ball, who couldn't tell her arse from her elbow. A fact that was patiently obvious to anyone who ever scene her try to use a po".
"How dare you!" I yelled. "How dare you besiege the good name of your dead, deceased and passed over granny. The day she was dying, she beckoned me to her bed. Grabbed me by my mullberry gansey and whispered low.
"Rosie, Rosie child. "Always put a wee bit of soda in steeped pee's". "Does that sound like the last words of a moron?" I yelled. "Does that sound like the last words of a woman whose brane was addled with confusion and bewilderment? NO! It does knot! The day your granny popped her clogs. may she rest in piece, she was as compes mentos as me".
"That's knot saying a lot" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Who was it who came home with an apron full of wee black balls of sheep dung, thinking they were black cherries?".
"I had a head cold" I yelled."I had lost my sense of smell.
And when I stirred them into the vole, ferret and potato soup they did add a spicy, exotic taste".
"And who was it?" said Bon Jovi. "Went into Murphy's chemist and asked for a big tube of innuendo, thinking it was French for Pile ointment.
"It was a mix-up in translation" I roared. "I couldn't find my glasses and it's hard to read small print through the bottom of a milk bottle".
Bon Jovi smiled, the smile of a maligent goblin and said.
"Innuendo. In-You-End-Oh. Oh Mr Chemist, I'm wild thick and stupid. Give me something for my piles. I believe the French call it, In-You-End-Oh"
And the cub fell off his stool and rolled round the floor like a warthog laughing his big head off".
"SHUT UP! "you juvinile spawn of Satan" I roared Or by the power divested in me by the holy Roman Cat-Lick church I will brust your face.
CEASE! that fowl, vile, repulsive, tardy giggling and chuckling. You is an imp of the devil and knot an hangel of God. You is a vile wretch and a repulsive specimen of a lump of a cub".
"Oh is I?" yelled Bon Jovi. "That's good coming from an auld fat dumplin' with a big red bleezer of a face".
"That back them fowl callemies" I yelled.
"Take back them fowl callimes and distractions or by the sainted knee of saint Cardew of Ballybunnion, I will brust your big, ugly gub".
"Try it" yelled Bon Jovi "And you'll get my toe In-You-End-Oh".
Then the cub leaped the half door like a scalded kat. looked cheekily over the half door. Broke wind with fierce ferocity. Stuck out his tongue and yelled.
"Chase me, I'm a wee gulpin".
"By the horns of Satan" I roared. As I stuck my frock into my nickers, leaped the half door like a graceful gazelle and took off after the cub over the bog. All day the chase went on.
Out in front was the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi. Followed by galloping loving mother. Shucks, drains and bog holes were leaped with a plum.
As the son set in the West, the casual passer- by might have been perplexed and indeed, puzzled to sea mother and sun running in a never ending circle round and round the bog.
And the yells of, "Headbanger" and "Gulpin" would have added grately to their puzzlment and perplexacility.
But it was only a loving mother, trying to brust her beloved suns face to show him the error of his ways.
If Bon Jovi had bean a cuttie, all I wood have to worry about was-buns in ovens and-contradiction!
Lumps of cubs is some hanlin'!

Saturday, 12 September 2009

Reflections and Toilet Roll

The son, that grate big orb of compressed hydrogen and helium was shinning down like a big yella lump of Craft mature chedder cheese. A lite western zephyr breeze was blowing merrily from the North.
'Twas a wee pet day at the end of Summer. A day that stood, legs akimbo with one foot in Summer and the other foot in Autumn. Beauty, bathed in a disfused lite lay all around. Beauty, attired in fashionable, fastidious exquisite Autumnal colours. The small, irregular fields had bean exfoliated of hey, korn and wheet. Like a fat woman wearing stays, all had bean safely gathered in. Nature was in a period of reajustment. Waiting, silently and ethereally for the scales to tilt and Autumn take prerequisite over Summer. Prebubescant Autumn was biting at the heels of Summer, like a young, healthy jack russel nipping at a weary, tired old sheep who was seeking a place to die.
Sad. Yes, 'tis sad. But 'tis the way of all things. We are born, we live and then we die. Time flows but in one direction. There is no going back. No stopping along the way. The road of life is laid out before us. Many have trodden the same path before. 'Tis a universal truth that though the road of life may be long or short it leads but to the grave. The only purpose in life is to march to the beat of a muffled drum towards death.A withered leaf fell from a tree. A harbinger of the holocaust that would soon follow.
When Marcel Proust lay on his death bed, he billowed the duvet with a ferocious breaking of wind and gasped.
"Nurse, nurse, no more baked beens and that's an order".
Then he closed his eyes and passed away. Before Hitler blew his branes out he yelled-gutterly.
"Mien Gott, this is some hanlin".
Before Nero drank the poison, he looked all around and said.
"If I hadn't played the fiddle, I think I would have got away with it!".
Saint Patrick, rose weakly from his death bed of rushes and said.
"My God, is it still raining?"
Joan of Arc, looked at the angry mob and began to sing.
"Come on baby light my fire".
I gave myself a shake and hurried on towards Clougher. I was on a mission, a mission of mercy. For fore daze my Sun Bon Jovi and me had no toilet paper. Us arses were red and raw from using grass, dockens and wisps of straw. Due to intense chaffing, I walked with a wide-legged striddle. Soon I wood return home with the soft, velvet bum fodder so beloved by the little labrator pup. And in the fullness of time Bon Jovi and me wood once again, walk, dance, kick and up us heels as time, the grate healer wood heal us rectums and remove any memory of pane and discomfort.
All of a stridle-straddle I hurried home and cursed as a flock of sheep ran between my out-stretched legs. In the melee, I managed to grab two handfulls of wool. I scurried into the under growth and used the wool in loo of toilet paper. OH, the relief. Wool contains lanolin. Which is made up from a mixture of palmitate, oleate and stearate of cholesterol. Which is a natural healing balm for chaffing, redness or fissures in the rectual area. So, if caught in the throes of heftedness, a sheep is yer man!.

Wednesday, 9 September 2009


At the crack of half past eleven in the morning, I gracefully spaltred out of my bed and glided on tip-toe to my bedroom winda. I opened wide the casement and stood there, framed like a painting by Goya, Rembrant, or Charlie Dickens. My tangled, sweaty, matted mass of red hare clung to my big red face. Too any observer lurking in the flora or fauna, I wood appear to be a faiere sprite or an elf of astonshing grace and beauty.
I flared my nostrils, like a horse and drew deep breaths of klean, cunt'ry air into my ample bisums.
"Morning has broken" I trilled, as I divested myself of heavy woollen negelant, two simmets and a pear of drawers that had scene better daze.
There I stood- nude as a scaldie. An hangel of conseit. A goddess. A thing of beauty and a joy for ever. I glanced-demurly into the cracked mirror and softly mummered.
"Ah beauty. Why have you taken up abode in my 'umble body?. Oh nature" I sighed. "Why have you lavished so much beauty on me? Surely beauty should be scattered like manure among all female woman kind. And yet, I alone am consigned to tread the world fair steeped in beauty, grace and heavenly helegance.
I glanced coyly over my shoulder, admiring my two sturdy, freckled buttocks. "Perfection! I cried.
I was so beautiful, I could knot tear my eyes away from the henchanting refraction that gazed out of the mirror at me.
"Oh pouting,sultry, smokey-eyed Gorgon of Clougher" I cried. "Stand knot you there with the morning son glinting of your womanly charms.
"Conceal your grate beauty" I cried. "With drawers, simmets and your mammies good green frock with the yella butterflies on it.
Think of the poor week men" I cried.
"If perchance a man on a bicycle was to gleek in and sea your Greek goddess statesque contours and protrudences he wood fall off his bicycle and insidiously and insensibility, cut the whole face off himself".
I looked once more at the symmetrical beauty radiating from the cracked mirror and yelled.
"Dos moi pou sto kal ten gen kineso".
Which as any savant of Archimedes knows is....
"Give me where to stand and I will move the earth".
I then spent the rest of the morning, flicking dust from here to there with the tale feather of a gander.
I launched alone on a heel from a pan loaf spread literally with poor man's caviar-mashed tadpoles. The pollywog is knot too everyone's taste, but to my disseminating palate they tasted simply devine.
After lunch I enjoyed some ME time. I sat outside my abode on an old tractor tire, a plinking and a plunking at my banjo. I have a vast raparee of songs and I went through them all. "Boil them cabbage down-boy" "The red flannel drawers. The tune the old cow died from and a mellon-golly fugue deposed by Handel, when his girlfriend Hilga Mary Strumsteinner gave him the big heave ho. Apparently Handel had been tickling the ivories of one Ghislaine Felicity Stuttweiner. Serve him rite. The dirty auld brute.
THEN! I saw him! Wee Bon Jovi. The lite of my life. The lump of a cub that gives me a raison de-etra.
The cub was slowly making his way through the bog in a laz-a-daisy-cal way. Which told me better than mere words could, that the cub needed a replenishment of nourishment.
"I'm fair done" roared the fruit of my lions as he got stuck into numerous buttered heels from pan loaves.
"First day back at skool after the Summer holly-daze Bon Jovi" I said.
"What did youse get stuck into today? Black matter? Particle radition or the real and presant danger that magnetic North and magnetic South mite reverse. Sending the world into some hanlin'".
"We spent all day on religion" said Bon Jovi. "And I now say unto thee, there is no Limbo, no purgatory and wait for it-no hell. The new curate said so. He said, Limbo, Purgatory and hell are finetto! Kaput! None existant!. So there!"
I blanched, recoiled and fell against the dresser. "I warned the church" I yelled. "I warned them knot too make boys from council estates priests. But wood they listen to me?"
"It wood appear knot" grinned Bon Jovi.
"But Bon Jovi" I cried "If there is no purgatory and no hell, what is to stop people doing what they like?"
"Nothing!" roared Bon Jovi, as he hit me a wild crack on the forehead with a grate big hard onion.
Bring back the devil, I say, he wasn't a bad auld soul.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Role Models and Night Classes

Deer Gerry, I heer you wool soon be oft again, as the Mark Carruthers boy mite say. I told my Sun Bon Jovi to model himself on Mark Carruthers, but the cub said, "Indeed and I wool knot. I don't want to be the laughing stock of Clougher. Walking about with a brolly and yelling, "Looking forward to it. If I was picking a role model" said Bon Jovi, "I wood pick Noel Thompson. A man with rugged good looks and the ability too jump any shuck or stile that life may put in his path".
I like Noel Thompson Gerry. But he is not as well bread or gentile as Mark Carruthers. Mark Carruthers is the kind of boy who wood put his blazer over a puddle hole so a girl could glide across without getting wet to the arse. I wood say that Noel Thompson's motto wood be,
Which as you well know means,
"Draw Back To Take A Better Leap"
Pass that motto on too stile jumper Thompson. He could have it written in Latin on a crest on his blazer.
"Natura Abhorret vacuum. As Ciss-a-row mite have said to Pluto. Nature abhors a vacuum. With that in mind. I put on my late, dead mammies brown duffle coat and sallied forth too Clougher Hi skool too enlist in some nite classes. Latin, Arabic and Hindo knot beeing on the Kar-lick-u-lum, I put my John Henry down for woodwork and a psycho class that deals with the minuscule workings of the brane. Did you know Gerry, that your arm wool knot shoot up in the air unless the brane orders it too? Having gained that knowledge, I now test my brane every morning by shooting my right arm up in the air. Inadvertaintly I also yell, HEIL HITLER" which may knot be TCP, but as long as no wan hears me what harm does it do?
Gerry, I wood advise you to test your brane by making something jump up in the morning. It may be an arm, it may be a leg. Then you kan turn too your good wife and say, "Today my brane is firing on all cylinders".And she wool probably reply, "Isn't that grate. Now you kan make the breakfast and bring mine to the bed".The brane Gerry! what is it?
The brane is a conglomeration of diverse cells, all firing pulses of minute electric bolts at wan and other. The brane is both nuclear reactor and comsputer all rolled into one. They say auld Confuse-Us the Chinese Phill-officer had a brane the size of a water mellon. They have his skool cap on display in Pee-king museam with saint Lotus Blossom rote on the front.
So Gerry, this fall I shall be studying the brain and come next Easter, I hope to be picking up a certificate, licencing me too experiment with any person, living or dead who gives their written permission for brane delving.
Why have I also taken up woodwork? Well, let me tell you.With the experience gained by the use of hammer and saw, I plan too make too coffins, wan for me and wan for Bon Jovi. The coffins wool measure six foot bye three. Bon Jovi is no where near six foot. But prey God Bon Jovi wool be granted a long life and grow into the coffin. There we shall lie together in Clougher graveyard. Requiescating inpace together. Snug as a bug in a rug. Oblivious too the smell of glue, which is made from the hooves of horses, wafting up us dead hooters.
I met auld Nellie Granite today Gerry. Bragging about the big, secondhand piano her Willie bought her.
"Yes" said Nellie "Wan day after-brunch, my Willie looked around and said. "Nellie, we just MUST have a piano" "Three men brought the piano in a big lorry" said Nellie. "But no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the piano up the stares".
"Some hanlin'" I said
"Oh it was!" said Nellie. "Then my Willie came in from work. My Willie took in the seen with wan glance and said too the boy with the ginger hare.
"Left hand down a bit"
"And then" said Nellie "As if by magic, the piano went up the stares, like a rat up a sewer pipe".
"It just goes to show" I said
"Just goes to show what?" said Nellie
"It just goes too show" I guldered. "That's where there's a Willie, there's a way".
"You're just jealous Rosie" yelled Nellie. "You don't have a piano and if you did, you wood probably put the po in it.
"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out! Or bye the Lord Harry I wool put a dunt in the arse of your nickers with the toe of my hobnailed boot".
"Auld piss the bed" yelled Nellie, as she threw her big lump of a leg on her bicycle.
"Auld Nellie NO drawers" I roared.
"Auld Rosie poo-poo" yelled Nellie
"Auld Nellie the hey shed strumpet" I roared.
And so it went on as the sun set in the West and tired birds with the wings fair hanging from them, flew home to roast. As the son's rays spread out like the hand of God over the bog. I put my hand too my ear and heard far, far oft in the stilly distance.
"Auld Rosie the boozie floozie"
I gently shut the door. Picked up Proust and soon my branes electrodes were sending out spark, after spark of Hi super octane, turbo charged, inhuman intelligence.
Ah, the brane, the brane. Thank God I have wan. God help the poor craters who wool go too sleep tonite without a--brane.