How's she cutting boy? You wool be glad too no that the fruit of my lions, my sun Bon Jovi and me listen too your show on a Daly basis. When you scatter your hi-sterical bon mots, like a Bibical sower scattering seed. Bon Jovi and me yell, "Doesn't that beet Bannager" and roar and laugh.
Your show makes me thankful for what I've got.
When I heer some of the poor craters, who come on your show. And most of them knot able to tell their Arsenal from their Everton. I thank the Lord that I am fierce compes mentos and knot dee-ficient in the marbles department. I hate too say it Gerry. Butt most of your listeners, is groveling, pathetic wretches.
It's "Oh Gerry get me this and oh Gerry get me that".
How I long for an headucated person two come on and discuss, Phill-officy, histornics, or too recite The Creamonation of wee Sam Magee.
I find, as I'm sure you do. That's it's wild hard now a daze, to find some wan who kan talk intelligenty about Arts and Kulture. I am like a kulture vulture Gerry. Circling, ever circling the barren desert of Clougher. In search of menthol stimulation. This morning I tried too talk too the postman about Proust. "Oh aye," He said. "Proust has a good turn of speed and given the chance, he wool stick her in the back of the net".
The poor deluded, illiterate fool thought I was talking about the Proust who plays for the wanderers of Wolverhampton!.
What have we became Gerry?. What ever happened to the land of saints and scoolers? When was the last thyme, some wan went into their bed room with skool jotter and crayons and rote an illuminated account of the gospels?. I am ashamed of my own peeple Gerry.
I find their roaring, yelling and guldering horrible in the extreme. I was watching, "Come dine with me" on tee-vee and it was like watching a chimps T-party. Auld course, vulgar talk. And a lot of sexual winks and nods when it came to the volly-bons. If I was giving a dinner party. I wood invite your good self. The snipe boy Seamus Heaney. Lynda Byrons and Wendy Austin. As I poured the soup out of a Cambells soup tin I wood kick start the artistic swarry by saying.
"Is it just me, or do the rest of you think that Homer was the rite auld gulpin to sell out to the Simpsons?"
Then Lynda Byrons wood regale the company by relating how every thyme she looks at a hens egg. It reminds her-and Mike to of course of the Universe.
Wendy Austin would then throw back her head. After custard and prunes and roar out an Italian Aria. That wood charm the birds of the trees and make the angels weep. Then the snipe boy, Seamus Heaney would--well, he wood recite something wouldn't he. Something that had every wan sleeping in their dinner plate. But that's the price one must pay for having a poet laurie at one's dinner table.
Then I wood put on my bally pumps and skip and leap between the fireplace and the door. Head on Hi. Ever aware of poise. I wood flutter my hands too tell a story. While buck-leaping with fierce artistic fervour. The ghost of Madman Fontaine wood be dancing at my ballyesque shoulder. The evening wood konclude with a rousing version of Maggie's Drawers. In which the delightful falsetto of Lynda Byrons wood draw admiring gasps from her fallow diners.
But it's only a dream Gerry. The lonely dream of a woman who was born out of her time. I should be strolling under cherry blossoms down the Shawns-el-easy. My tinkling laugh should be heard in the grate opera halls of Vinena. I should be looking over auld Einstiens dandruff covered shoulder. Making sure he carries the wan. I should be rowed up the Nile by ten U-nucks. It's at thymes like this Gerry. The low thymes. That I think of Lucy Jordon.
The morning son shines gently on the face of Rosie Ryan. How sad. How fierce, tarra-sad.