Tuesday, 27 October 2009


Deer Gerry, After giving it fierce thought and kontemplation I have decided to be a skool teecher.
As an headucated man Gerry, could you reform me how I go about it? I suppose I wool need too get a wee foto took for security purpoises.
I no fine well that when this gets out the klamour from skools and kolleges wool be wild. What a boon it wood be two have Rosie Ryan in any seat of learning.
I have bean brushing up on my Arabic. For it is as plane as the no's on my face, that wee wool all soon be turning too Mecca. The riting is on the wall and the wall doesn't lie. When the wall said, "FREE DERRY" boys just went into shops and took what they wanted.
I have so much to give and I kan provide my own bicycle and sand-witches. I asked my sun Bon Jovi for his opinion and the lump of a cub said, "Go for it mammy. Any idijt kan be a skool teecher". So with that endorsement ringing in my ears, I immediately ordered too biro pens, three HB pencils a stick of white chalk and six caines.
It wool be zero tolerence with me Gerry. I wool put up with know auld buck. With auld buck, I wool knot put up. How gratifying it wool bee two take young minds and mould them into modern citizens. How gratifing too take a young fallow mind and scatter headucation over it like manure and watch it flourish. To make diamonds from koal and pearls from sows ears.
I no that what ever skool I go two, I shall rise through the ranks like a NASA rocket.
I am sure you wool koncur Gerry that teeching is akin too farming. You plough, you harrow, scatter seeds and bring the pupils on with encourgment and a good lash of the caine. It is inevitable that the crop wool kontain a few big turnips.Even in a world of arts and kulture, some wan has to shovel the shi-- feces from the sewer. But did knot Darrren call that nauturale subjection.
There wool bee know teechers pets in my klass. If a cub says.
"Mrs Ryan, may I pleeze leave the room for a slash?" I wool say.
"Know Pedro, sit down. I am explaining long diversion. And if you don't learn how too carry the wan. You wool end up a poor wretched crater with the brane of a fruit fly".
What a font of knowledge I have to impart to the youth of Clougher and surrounding districts.
And I shall knot be afraid too stray from the Kar-lick-you-lum. If the Kar-lick-you-lum konflicts with my superior knowledge of learning. I shall toss the Kar-lick-you-lum from me like a snottery hankerchief.
Firm yet fare shall me my motto.
"This is going too hurt you more that it wool me" I shall yell. As I caine the arse of some gulpin of a cub.
I have maid up my mind Gerry. A teecher I is going too be. I owe it to the cunt'ry. Why should I hoard my grate knowledge like a miser, when I kan spend it like a sailor?
I kan sea myself leaping of my bike on a sunny morning. A stroll to the staff room. With caine in hand and Chambers Dick-sean-ree tucked casually under my oxter. A cup of tee, a quick slash and then I get stuck into, geometrics, histornics and the subject I positively excell in-neuralgia.
Give me the child and I wool give you in return the man and women, fare steeped in arts and kulture.
Bring me your poor, your thick and your buck stupid. Rosie Ryan.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Skoolboy Scams

Deer Gerry, I feer my sun and YOUR godsun Bon Jovi may be a juvinile delicatessanent. It grieves me too say it, but he who was once but a fertilised egg is into scams and rackets at skool. Bon Jovi has veered from the path of righteousness and wandered off into the path of wrongeousness.
The first I new of it. I got an inquest asking me to come and sea the princeipality of St Judas primary skool. I though perhaps the cubs application for a plaice in Eaten had been granted. But before I could drink from the mug of success, it was cruely dashed from my cadallic pink lips. What I was about too heer wood shock me to the kore and set my gizzard into a tale spin.
"Pleeze sit down Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.
Which I did. Trying hard knot to show two much plump, alluring, massive thigh. I was wearing a Hi-necked mullberry gansey. I deplore dumplin' gazers Gerry, I really do. Look at my face or don't look at me at tall is my motto.
"Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.
"There is know easy way too put this. Your sun Bon Jovi, has been engaged in a scam at this skool. That KNOT even the Mafia wood entertain".
I almost swooned Gerry. I actually kolapsed on my chair. Only for the fact that I was wearing my knew Winter non-skid red flannel drawers I wood have slid on to the floor. Wide-eyed and legs akimbo.
"What has the wee gulpin done" I croaked. As I tried in vein to regain my Eek-you-lib-erum.
"Your sun Bon Jovi" said the princeipality of St Judas primary skool.
"Has been going round the playground at dinner thyme. Bullying other children into rite their last will and teste-ments and naming Bon Jovi Ryan as the sole air to all their goods and chatles".
"It's a lie" I yelled.
"Bon Jovi mite brust a face or too, but he wood never stoop too such ghoulish,macabre, Machiavellian racketeering"
The Princeipality held up a sheaf of crumpled, ink stained skool jotter pages and cried.
"I am holding in my hand. thirteen signed wills and teste-ments. All the wills name Bon Jovi Ryan as sole air. Thirteen last wills and teste-ments" yelled the princeipality. "Eight of the wills are singed by cubs and the other five are signed by cutties. All the pupils said that Bon Jovi Ryan had made them rite the wills under fierce duress. Apparently your SUN, told them to rite out their wills or they wood get their feaces brusted!".
Oh Gerry, if ever there was a broken woman, that broken woman was me. My Sun. YOUR Godsun, nothing but a pretty criminal.
I looked out the winda like Ma Baker and said.
"Well what happenes now? Have the coppers got the joint surrounded?"
"Know!" said the princeipality.
"We are trying too deal with this "In house". But if you don't get a grip. Your sun Bon Jovi will never walk on the hallowed turf or look up at the dreaming spires of St Judas skool in Clougher again. Oh, and DO pull your skirt down Mrs Ryan. I find it very distracting. But it has made me remember to bring home a leg of mutton for the dinner".
I backed out of the highly headucated sanctuary like Uriah Heep and turned my morose, gloomy visage towards hearth and home.
But what should I do with Bon Jovi Gerry?. This job was beyond the capability of a poor, week woman. This job called for the smack of a good strong man.
So I called on my boyfriend-and fisslin' partner Chuck Corona too have a word with the errant Bon Jovi.
Chuck set the cub down and in just five minutes. Chuck had changed the so called Al Capone into Al Jolson
"Bon Jovi" said Chuck sternly.
"What you did was rong. Not only was it rong, it was down-rite stupid. Did you never once think, that you wood have to wait-50 years, MAYBE-60 years before your skool mates dyed. And their is a good chance that you wood have dyed first. Meaning you wood get sweet damn all"
The scales fell from Bon Jovi's eyes and he went on his way. Praising and glorifying the Lord.
But it was some hanlin' before Chuck Corona set the cub strait..
Hapy Halloweens too all at radio foul.
Rosie Ryan.
Tell the wee bouy too watch out for goolies!.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

The Necessities Of Life

Full of grate wrath and fierce chagrin. I held on too a shelf kontaining babbies nappies and adult rubber nickers.
"Korrect me if I'm rong" I yelled too the wee humpy nuck behind the counter.
"Did you just reform me that you have know SPECIAL! mince?"
"Yes I did" roared the wee nuck.
"Ordinary mince is good enough for the people of Clougher. But apperently ordinary mince is knot good enough for her majesty Rosie Ryan.
Apperently Rosie Ryan wool only eat-SPECIAL! mince. Well let me tell the highfalutin, rooting-tooting Rosie Ryan. YES! we have know special mince and from now on I won't be stocking toilet roll either".
Was I in a dream? Was my mind deranged by my irrepressible hunger for all things pertaining too Arts and Kulture?
"Know toilet roll?" I echoed.
"Know toilet roll" roared the wee gulpin .
"Know wee spams in tins. Know tee in bags.Know fingers made of fish. Know paper doiles and KNOW-SPECIAL MINCE!".
I clutched on too the shelf for support. A packet of adult rubber nickers fell too the floor. Groggily I looked down. Depicted on the front was an old grey haired grandfather playing with his grandchildren. A balloon above the grandfathers head said.
"Say goodbye to urine with a pear of "CRISP AND DRY" adult panties".
I was in a dream-like state. Bordering on hallucinogenic haliotis.
Suddenly a grate swell of anger rose up from my gurgling innards and I roared.
"What kind of huxter shop is this any way. Where a decent woman can knot get, as Walt Dissny mite say, The necessities of life?"
"It's a cunt'ry shop" yelled the wee nuck. "A cunt'ry shop for cunt'ry people. If you want SPECIAL! mince. Stick a bowler hat on a pound of ordinary mince. If you want toilet roll. We have a rack full of Ireland's Own and Our boys. And if you want paper tissues, use your finger and thumb like God intended".
"What is happening?" I yelled.
"Is Clougher slipping back into the dark ages?. Will strangers once again be pulled from donkeys and bicycles and end up in a Wicker man?"
A strange look came into the wee nucks eyes. His pupils diluted and a vein was throbbing in his thin, scrawny neck.
"GO" he hissed.
"Go, the night is coming on. You don't want to be in Clougher after sundown. Strange things happen in Clougher after dark. Strange, weird wonderful things happen. When the moon is peeping through the trees the bat swoops low and the twany owl goes.
You don't want to be in Clougher. When the people silently leave their homes and gather in the town square. Seeking whom they can devour.
GO!. Go now and don't stop until you reach the city limits. Remember the-city limits".
"Nutbush?" I said.
"Mind your own business" Said the wee nuck with an obscene, perverted sexual leer on his repulsive visage.
So I turned my back on Clougher. The sex capital of Europe and made my way back home. Where my sun Bon Jovi and the kat were already on their knees, waiting for me to say the rosary.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

The Pope's Tour

Deer GeRRy,
I suppose like me, you are in a tizz trying to get tickets for the Pope's Irish tour.
I respect you and the wee boy wool be in the front row. Wearing Matt Talbot's tee-shirts and yelling with religious gusto. "Viva la Pappa".
This visit by the Pope is histornic. This thyme the Pope is going too Armagh. I respect the Pope wool be taken to some of Armagh's better known apple orchards. And I wood knot be surprised if the Pontiff payed a surprise vist to the grave of Tommy Mackem.
The only throuble wool be in keeping that wee gulpin Bono off the stage. If that wee nuck tries to up-stage the Pope, he wool have Rosie Ryan to condend with.
I wonder what the Pope's message wool be too the people of Ireland?. Probably the religious equivelent of, "Keep her lit".
My Sun Bon Jovi is up two hi-dow. If the cub gets a chance, he wool ask Herr Benedict how many boats and ships are on the holy see. The cub is know dumplin' Gerry. He has been thinking long and hard about Papal things. Bon Jovi is expecting the Pope to bring the Papal bull with him. The bull could quietly graze as the Pope gives his sermon.
The people of Clougher are hiring buses left, right and centre. This could be bigger than the Sonday Micky Bradley lifted the Sam Maguire.
Lets hope it is knot spoiled bye religious head the balls yelling. "Babbylon and Go back home where you belong".
This Papal visit wool be a grate chance for the people of Ireland to nock depravity and debauchery on the head. We must return to the land of saints and scholars. And knot be known world wide as the land of sharks and sinners.
Maybe we could travel too Armagh together Gerry. You, me, Bon Jovi and the wee boy. If you bring a big bottle of cold tay, I wool provide a brown paper parcel of meet paste sandwitches. And on the way back we could sing him's. Spiritually renewed we could throw back us heads and sing to the Lord.
"I'm gonna lay down by burden. (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside. "I'm gonna lay down my burden (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside.
Hal-A-Loo-YaH! I see's the lite!.

Monday, 5 October 2009

Porridge,Portraits and Proust

On Saturday, which is the Jewish sabbitical.
I was sitting, gracefully at the kitchen table, spooning Quakers oats into my glamorous, alluring gub.
"I wonder why it is" I said to the kat "That the Quakers is the only religious detonation who make a breakfast serial?" The kat made know comment and continued to lick it's you no what!.
"What an exquitite morning" I said to myself. As the Autumnal son sent a meagure ray of lite through the soot-stained, fly-speckled dirty winda. "What a morning to be an artist!" I ejuclated. "To sit on one's stool in front of a blank canvas. To mix burnt umber, grecian red and duckie egg blew and-THEN! conjour up from the artistic depths of the mind, a brown donkey grazing in a green field. Oh the fullfilment. To grab a brown donkey out of the ether of the mind and plop him down on canvas. Why it is akin to turning your head inside out. To take what is in, out and make it factual. To give birth to ideas. What a wonderful thing that must be. To conceive by thought. To nurture the thought in your mind and then to give your idea form, shape and a sense of identity. Fertilised thought born in reality. In the shape of a sculpture, a painting, or a poem about the red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. I get my best ideas in the morning. When the Quaker oats is falling into my empty belly with a sodden plop!. I was just going to grab a green crayon and draw a self portrait of a goose when I heard a fissle coming from the straw in Bon Jovi's cardboard box. I watched with pride, as my sun crawled out of the darkend box and into the son lite. As Bon Jovi emerged from the box head first. I winced. It reminded me of the nite he was born.
Bon Jovi stood up, wearing a tattered simmet that came down to his knees. I could not help but admire the strong, sturdy fizz-eek of my first born. I saw too fleas flex their strong back legs and leap back into the dark recess of the cardboard box. The fleas had probably been busy biting Bon Jovi all nite and needed a little rest. It is a good thing too sea fleas on a cub. It means the cub is healty and is knot lacking in iron. Fleas detest a white, pale freckled cub with red hare. Their blood is week and the fleas have to work twice as hard to get a good tightener.
"Bonjour Bon Jovi" I said. "This is Saturday. Know skool today. Know sums are cyphering for my wee sun today"
"Thank goodness" roared Bon Jovi.
"My brane is fair deved with complicated sums, spellings and searching for the origin of all the dark matter in the Universe".
"What do you plan to do today my little dumplin'?" I said.
"Today" roared Bon Jovi.
"I shall race a donkey through the bog, from the hours of ten in the morning, until fore in the afternoon.
And when I race the burro through the bog, I shall be letting yells, shouts and indeed, gulders out of me".
"How I wish I could join you" I said.
"As you persue the burro. I two would like to gallop after a lop-eared donkey. And I two wood be letting yells, roars, shouts and like you say, gulders out of me. But that big, fat gulpin Nellie Granite is coming round for tee. So I must tidy the house and ensure the floor is devoid of dirt, dung, insects and dead, or dying rodents".
As big sweating Nellie Granite through her big leg over the bar of her bicycle. I saw an unwanted panorama of Green Flannel drawers. The gusset was hanging low. like the paraschute on a space shuttle.
As Nellie sipped her tay and nibbled at a paris bun. She looked all around and said.
"You and Bon Jovi is nice and snug in here. It wool do until something better comes along".
"Listen Nellie" I said.
"This wee cottage, is the ancient, ancestral home of us Ryans.
"Many Ryan eggs have bean fertilised here" I yelled
"And them eggs developed into Ryans. Mail and femail who grew too maturity strong and sound in limb and mind".
Nellie sipped her tee. Looked at the wheel barrow with the bag of meal leaning against it and cried.
"Here! Did you heer what my Willie went and done? My Willie only went and bought me a lovely three peace sweet, in a lovely puce colour with wee yella flours on it. What do you think of that Rosie? A lovely puce sweet of furniture, with wee yella flours scattered all over it".
I leaped up and roared.
"Listen here Nellie Granite. You must be getting me mixed up with someone who's just had a shit! Get out to hell. Or I swear by that scared hart picture on the wall, I'll brust your big ugly face".
Nellie jumped to her feet and bawled.
"A strumpet!, that's what you is Rosie Ryan. A strumpet, a tramp and a harlequin. I don't no how you can sit on that auld sofa. Futterin' and fisslin' at that big ugly brute Chuck Corona. Rite under the picture of Jesus, who is showing you his bleedin' hart".
I grabbed the tongs and the poker and chased the big gulpin down the lane.
Nellie leaped on the bicycle like Frankie De-tory and peddled off yelling.
"Harlot. strumpet, fallen woman, slapper and big ugly bitch".
I returned to my abode. Filled too the throat with anger and ire. With trembling hands, I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust.
A line from Proust leaped out at me and I became calm and decomposed.
"Alter ipse amicus"
"A friend is another self"
How true. I am Rosie Ryan. I don't need Nellie Granite.
I don't need anyone.
Apart from Bon Jovi, Chuck Corona, The Parish Priest, The bread man, The boy who sells the toilet rolls and the little Taiwainese cutties who make my red flannel drawers.
Piece be with you. GO IN PIECE.