Friday, 31 December 2010

Hapy Mahogany to every-wan!

Gerry, may I burrow your ether too wish every-wan in the provident of Ulster a hapy mahogany from me, Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi my sun, air and off spring.
The knew year is a thyme for refraction.
We is turning a knew page. We have a blank peace of paper in front of us, lets ferventy hope and prey we don't shit in the nest like we did last year.
Too the many churches I say, Keep on teeching the word of God, as handed down to Moses when he spaltered up mount Kill-ah-man-jarrow.
Onto other do, as you would do and knot what you now do to others.
Love your neighbour-YES! that shit who lives in the house beside you as yourself.
Come down like a ton of bricks on sexual shennigans, how's you father and depravity and debauchery.
BRING back SIN, hell's fire the devil and the holy rack!
Too all bankers I say, take you're hands out of our pockets and stap spectatoring with our spon-dew-lucks.
You kan knot follow to Gods, so make up your minds, God or Mammoth!
To the young I say, oh bay your daddy and mammy, unless they are head-bangers and piss hounds.
To all over 50 I say, It's all over! There is know more!. Stap making fools of yourselves and go home and dote in front of the fire like a christian.
To our political leaders I say, get your finger out!
Put your shoulder to the grindstone, your nose to the wheel and lets work together.
For together, we will stand every boy, girl, woman and man.
There may be some of you out there, oh yes!, oh yes! I know who you are.
There may be some of you thinking why should I listen to that fruit bat Rosie Ryan, what does she no?.
Well let me tell you, I am fully cognitive in Inglish, Fizz-eeks, Ass-tromity, Nuclear shennigans, Gee-ography, Medical matters relating to the under-carriage, I also have a smattering of Greek, Roman, Hin-do, Bellaruse and Ulster/Scots. I kan also sing, dance, yodel, lilt, whistle and play the banjo and the spoons.
That's my Kir-lick-you-lum Vitie, now, show me you'rs!.
Gerry, a small coda to the wild lack of water and H20 in the Belfast district.
Bon Jovi and me got too spades and divered a burn towards the barren, sandy, deserts of Belfast.
"Every little counts" as the man said.
As he was hit with a cow pat while drowning in a sewage tank.
I leave you with an old Arabic saying that has stood me in good stead over the years.
Hasta La-Vista my commoncheros.
Rosie Ryan and sun Bon Jovi.
(He sprang from my lions you no)

Thursday, 23 December 2010

Kristmas Cooking with Rosie

Gerry, my bon a-me. May I borrow your hair waves to say a big, hodie mihi cras tibi, Erin go bragh and a big thank you, to Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries.
The bounty of road kill they have brought me this Kristmas is unparelled in quantity and quality.
I have stoats, weasels,peasents, badgers and a ginger thing with a bell round its neck that could well be a domestos kat.
Gnashers at No 13 the bog road Clougher wool be working overtime on Kristmas day.
There may be some young ladies out there, shacking up or newly married who don't no how to cook yuletide road kill let me ah-luce-ah-date.
FIRST! All road kill must be nude. My sun Bon Jovi and me wool remove all feathers, fur, hair or wool.
Then cut off all heads and tales, but don't throw these away. The heads and tales of rodents make a thick, rich stock that wood make Oxo look like insipid piss-pee.
Now, marionette. Marionette the succelect flesh over-nite in a dish of Guinness, cider and just a sue-spoon of Benelin cough medicine.
Place the road kill on a roasting dish that has been liberally smeared with vaseline petroleum jelly.
Then, simply pop it into a red hot oven. Don't worry about hi-tech oven timers, the shrill squeel of the smoke defectors wool alert you to the fact that your Kristmas dinner is ready.
By now your spuds, karrots and brussel sprouts should also be ready.
Simply heap on to plates and get stuck in.
Bon Jovi and me never talk during Kristmas dinner. We sit crouched over, protecting our dinner with our elbows emitting anamalistic grunts, yelps and growls.
By the time the Queen says.
"On behalf of my husband and me" Bon Jovi wool run to open the half door to accomodate the salvo of breaking wind which follows.
Then, full as too poisoned pups, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box, breaking wind intermittenly, while I utulise the po leap into bed and billow the duvet as a thick,turgid, gurgling stream of road kill makes its way to my large intestate.
And that my Yuletide chums, is how Rosie Ryan cooks road kill.
From Bon Jovi and me,
"We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
And a nappy knew 'ere! from,
Rosie Ryan, the Fanny of Clougher!
PS. Oh, I meant two rite, the Fanny Haddock of Clougher!

Thursday, 16 December 2010

PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas.

I've had a few Gerry.
I was in Clougher today, UP CLOUGHER! and got in-e, in-e, pissed as a newt.
I pushed the coracle out Gerry. I tied one on. I supped some stuff today.
I am riting this letter with a bucket between my legs.
But let me reassure you that know unseasonable slashing is going on, I just feel a bit of a boke coming.
My sun, the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi went with me to clougher. UP BON JOVI!
I fought too farmers in Mulligans bar today and beet the shi-stuffing out of both of them.
I caught one of them looking up my skirt.
How did I no he was blind?
As I punched the face of him, he kept shouting to his friend.
Who's battering the face of me Willie John?
Who's battering the face of me?"
Then Willie John stuck his big nose in and I broke it was a straight rite up the hooter.
When I left Willie John and Ray Charles were lying in a bloody heap in the korner.
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas. UP CHRISTMAS!
Kristmas abounds with imagery. The brite star.
The three alsations, I mean-shepherds.
The manager, the baby Jesus. Gold, Frankenstein and mirror. And the voice from above.
"This is my beloved cub in whom I is well pleased"
Big tiers are running down my big beautiful red face as I rite this. How moving. I am choked with emulsion.
Gerry, you are my bestest, bested friend.
You are Gerry, don't demeur. You is the bestest friend a woman ever had.
And in all the years we have known each other,knot one grope, fissle, or fumble.
Our relatioship is knot built on passion or lust.
We have a plank-tonic relationship Gerry.
Well the old bucket on the floor tells me it is time to go.
The bucket is nearly full and wool require empyising.
God bless you Gerry Anderson. You have been like a poxy husband to me.
Always there when I needed to pour my hart out to you.
I must go Gerry, I'm starting to slide of my chair.
May God keep you under his wing like a clocking hen, until the time comes to don wings, white nightdress and pick up your harp. UP TYRONE! UP MICKY HARTE!
I is,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Tuesday, 30 November 2010


Deer Gerry and all my deer, deer fiends at radio Foul, what a Sam Magee storm we is going through.
My sun Bon Jovi and me is fare foundered.
Us under-carriages have bean in cold storage for daze.
The big question is, wool they still work when the thaw comes?
I suppose its a case of Kay-Sir-Ah-Sir-Ah.
The Winter scenery is nice, but too hell with the scenery, if icicles are hanging where they have never hung before.
Know Pan loaf has come up my lane for fore daze.
Its at thymes like these that one's thoughts turn to cannibalism. Bon Jovi has grate big meaty legs on him.
I wonder wood it be a sin?. Sure the cub could get through life with wan leg!
And I no that Bon Jovi is eyeing me up as nourishment.
Last nite the cub said I was strutting about like a big turkey.
Where is it all going to end Gerry?. I blame auld Al Gore for giving the weather the green lite to go hay-wire.
How is all at radio Foul Gerry?. I hope all appendages are a counted for.
The wee boy wood be sus-ceptable to frost bite. His under-carriage is so close to the ground.
Fill him up Gerry. Fill the wee boy up with aunty freeze.
All we kan do Gerry is hang on Sloopy. Mark my words, people wool be eaten before this cauld hanlin' is over.
The wildlife is stalking me and Bon Jovi. We can't go out because of ravenous weasels, stoats, wolves and grizzly bares.
Those who frequently break wind in bed have an advantage in weather like this.
Nature has equipted them with their own hot air blower.
Thank goodness I am a frequent farter as is my dinner, I mean my sun Bon Jovi.
Hang on Sloopy, is my advice Gerry.
This too shall pass.
But the number of people eaten could well be legion.
I hope you have your, you no what well lagged.
I must go Gerry, Bon Jovi is lurking with intent in the scullary.
Put that hatchet down you gulpin!
Rosie Ryan xxx

Sunday, 14 November 2010


Bon Jovi my first born and only boy child and I sat in front of a big roaring fire eating us snaps, crackles and pops.
Mother and sun were similary arrayed in dirty grey simments and nickers.
Outside the wind howled and the rain beet against the winda.
I swallowed a big spoonfull, a loving spoonfull of the snaps, crackles and pops and said.
"Its a bad day sun".
Bon Jovi broke wind with an ear-splitting dunder and replied.
"It is a bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition. Trees wool be uprooted today" said Bon Jovi.
"Stacks of hey blown away and old codgers, shall roll down the streets of Clougher like veritable tumble-weeds".
"On a day like today" I said.
"I pass the thyme away writing down my thoughts on chemstery, science and the erratic behavour of super novas".
"Make sure you keep all your jottings for posterior"
said Bon Jovi.
I have been going over your notes and your work on nuclear sic-eeks and dark matter is truely revolutionary and ground breaking. When your thesis is published, don't be surprised if you have to sign for a nobel prize delivered first klass by Parcel Force".
I licked the remments of my snaps, crackles and pops off my bowl with my tongue and said.
"All my endevours are for the good of mankind. If I have been given a big brane, housed in a big head it behoves me too use my grate intelligence KNOT for Nobel prizes, but to boldly go where know head housing a brane like what I have has gone before".
I threw an empty milk bottle at a rat that was looking at me funny and said.
"And prey tell my bon cabelero what you are working on at the presant moment in thyme".
"Ass-tromity" said Bon Jovi.
"I have knostructed a knew telescope that grately aids me in my never ending journey to unravel the time, cause and aftermath of the big bang".
HARK!" I cried.
"Do tell your old mater how you konstructed such a cracker of a telescope".
"Simples" said Bon Jovi.
"I put twelve jam jars into a sewer pipe.
Now my view of the cosmos has been enlarged twelve fold, allowing me unfettered acess to the mysteries of the universe and surrounding districts".
"And have you made any startling, knew discoveries" I asked.
As I eased my volupous rear nearer the fire.
"For a fleeting moment" said Bon Jovi.
"I thought I had detected life in the darkness of space, but it turned out to be an aunt that was trapped in wan of the jam jars".
"An elemental mistake that even auld Einstein could have made" I replied.
"Tell me this and tell me know more, have you come to any defininate konclussion as to the wild lot of rings around Saturn?"
"I think the rings are made up from flocks of birds" said my sun and air.
"Their little beaks are attracted to Saturn's magnetic fields and they circle and circle Saturn until they pop their little clogs".
"Amazing!" I shrieked.
"In thyme you wool be known as the bird man of Saturn".
Outside the wind increased in volicity and ferocity. The rain was fair pelting down.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Half past nine" said Bon Jovi.
"Morning or evening?" I asked.
"Morning" replied Bon Jovi.
"How long have we been out of our beds?" I asked.
"Twenty minutes" said Bon Jovi.
I yawned, scratched my belly, broke wind violently and said.
"Our branes are tired. Lets go back to bed and get up at fore o'clock in the afternoon in time for the cartoons".
"That" said Bon Jovi.
"Is an excelant idea"
I walked with grate grace and decorum up the stairs and Bon Jovi crawled into his cardboard box.
Thinking kan take it out of you.
Soon mother and sun were asleep, perchance to dream and break wind with dunders of unparelled magnitude.
It was a wild bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition.

Thursday, 4 November 2010

Rosie Beats The Bucking Bronco

Gerry Atchung! Clougher has at last broken into the 21st centurian. Knot only did the council put a big stone over the leaking shi--sewage at Hussain's corner, but on Monday Clougher's premier nite club the, "Come on yeh boy" took possession of a second-hand bucking bronco.
All weak, Billy the bucking bronco has bean tossing the Clougher boys about like rag dolls.
On Monday nite, a big crowd saw auld Pedro McTwiffle thrown time and time again, until big Maud his wife threw in the towel claiming auld Pedro was suffering from noggin concussion and two hernia's in his forkal area.
It wool be a while before auld Pedro throws the leg again. The word on the street is, big Mauld is now looking for a toy boy.
Toy boy my arse. Any boy who wood take on big Maud with the lites on is a better man that me, Gudga Din.
That strumpet Caroline McSnipe showed herself up when she mounted the bucking bronco wearing a wee, tite mini-shirt. She was thrown up in the air and ripped her nickers on the way down on auld Jethro McDingdong's zimmer-frame. The barman threw her out and told her knot to come back again without a good, stout pear of red flannel drawers.
Jimmy the jump broke his nose on Wednesday nite when he was thrown out the open dour and under the wheels of Mulligan's hearse.
Then auld drunk Bosco McSimmet slipped while trying to get on the horse and nocked out all his teeth and cut the hole face of himself.
Poor auld Bosco is sitting like a grotsque in the corner of the bar sipping Guinness through a rubber tube.
A catheter I believe that he stole from the hospital when his liver packed in last Kristmas.
"Drink is killing you" the doctor said.
"Not at tall" slurred Bosco.
"Its the wild price of it!".
But the biggest hanlin' happened on Fryday nite when the parish priest came into the bar to sell tickets for a knew weeman's toilet for saint Judas church. The auld zinc bucket behind the coal bags is no way for a woman to slash before preying to the Lord.
It is undignified and unsanity.
As the priest was making his way round the pub extorting money from people's pockets. Wee dumpy Harriet McScunner was thrown off the bucking bronco and flew through the air wild eyed and legs akimbo and wrapped herself round the poor priest's neck like a scarf.
The priest pulled wee Harriet off and threw her into a corner yelling.
"Pastor Nobbis, inter eeh boo.
Get off me you strumpet and don't try your auld garden of Eden shennigans on a man who was concentrated to God by lying prostate in front of an alter".
By the end of the weak Clougher was full of the walking wounded.
Some boys could knot tie their hobnailed boot laces or throw their legs on an auld bicycle.
The priest gave a wild hell fire and brimstome sermon on Sonday.
He called the bucking bronco a demonic, infernal machine of the devil and warned the people that all the bouncing up and down wood do grate damage to their reproducing organs.
"Because of that bucking monstresity" yelled the priest.
"There wool knot be wan Cat-lick wain kristened in saint Judas church for the next 30 years".
The priest then retreated to a retreat to denounce the snares and pomps of Beelzebub and his legions of black imps and fallow devils.
It was Hi-noon on Saturday when my sun Bon Jovi and me moosied into Clougher.
I was wearing a rhine-stone gansey and a pear of German lether-hosen by daddy had found in a crashed German plain during the war.
A hush settled over the bar as Bon Jovi and me entered.
"Oh look!" yelled auld Cosmo "The weasel" McSkitterstick.
"Its Kalamity Jane and the dirty-arsed kid".
I ignored the taunts and jeers by roaring.
"Ill burst the next man that opens his gub".
I approached Billy the bucking bronco. It was a sturdy peace of equitment.
I leaped on the bucking bronco like a blue-arsed fly and yelled.
"Turn her on! Put her up to top speed.
Why there isn't a gosh-durned horse, donkey, mule, or goat that could throw Rosie Ryan".
For the next too hours I clung on like a limpet as Billy bucked, leaped, spun round and round and kicked and flung.
The crowd was going mad.
Sweat ran down my big, red, beautiful face.
My under-carriage was taking a hell of a beating.
I knew the next time I had a slash it wood sting like hell.
I wrapped my lether-hosen, alabaster Colossus of Roads thighs round Billy and let yelps, squeels and shrieks out of me like a Banshee on Red Bull.
Just when I thought I could hang on no longer. Billy exploded in a shower of springs, nuts, bolts and hydrolic rams.
I was carried through Clougher on the shoulders of a group of cheering men.
I think I got a grope or too, but my under-carrige was that numb it was hard to know.
Once again, I had proven that Rosie Ryan was the best man in Clougher.
I lie in bed now. Legs akimbo and covered in Kar-a-mine lotion.
My under-carriage is on fire and trips to the po is torture presonfied.
Some wag has penned this ode on a gable wall in Clougher.
"Rosie Ryan is no dope
Without the use of a length of rope
With thunder thighs like redwood trees
She brough poor Billy to his knees."
One again Rosie Ryan has risen to the challenge and came out succubos!

Saturday, 30 October 2010

Poetry and Profits

"With peepers two, I view the view
And relay my peeping back to you".
What a lovely stan-za that is. It was rote in 1678 by the Earl of Clougher, Red Ned Hannigan to his mistress, or bit on the side Maggie Strumpbucket.
While knot condoming adultry, I am struck by the love made mainifest in them too lines.
Alas, the illicict love affair ended in tragedy.
Red Ned was thrown off his horse while out hunting weasels and hit his head a dunt on a stone that split his skull and scattered his branes all over the Hi-way.
Poor Maggie was broken-hearted. She went into decline and took her own life in 1681 by drinking a potion of hemlock, dockens and frogs-spawn.
As a well kown strumpet of Hi-renown poor Maggie was buried in unconcertinaed ground.
Red Ned Hannigan was buried after Hi-mass in saint Judas graveyard. You can still sea his aged, mossy tombstone and just make out his last too line stan-za, written prophlyactily before his death.
"I wonder what will make me dead?
Will it be a splitting of my head?"
He may have bean a dirty auld brute, but when it came to poetry, Red Ned was a cracker.
Above the rutting of the dear, the cawing of the crows and the bleating of the heatherbleat I heard the sound of my sun Bon Jovi, the lite of my life and my raisen de'etra
There he stood at the haggard in all his glory. Two candles hanging from his nose assured me that his sign-us-us were firing on all cylinders.
His knees were grazed, wan sock hung over his hobnailed boot, his burgundy gansy was ripped and tore, his fork was wet, but the cub would grow out of that.
There he stood. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. Guts of my guts.
The fruit of my ferrite lions.
My sun, my cub, my gift to civilization.
I clasped the lump of a cub to my panting bisum and said.
"Bon Jovi where has't thou bean?
Thou knowest that I worry when thou goes wandering in the wildernest".
Bon Jovi looked up at the sky, like a profit who could sea straight into heaven and said.
"I have bean-thinking. Always-thinking.
Wool my grate brane never give me rest? Am I cursed to go through life like John the Baptist?
A cub crying in the bog,
"Wool you'se stap you'll auld sinnin' "
In my head is all the knowledge in the world and yet I can not utterise it.
I am as a sounding brass and a honking horn. WHY ME?" screamed the cub. "WHY ME?"
Why have I bean chosen to lead the world and surrounding districts to the pearly gaits of heaven?"
"Oh Bon Jovi" I cried.
"What can I your humble savent do to help you fulfill your heavely mission?"
As if in a trance, Bon Jovi said.
"Put on your sandels and go to Clougher. There, outside auld Niko McSkitterstein's house you will find a donkey. Untie that donkey and bring him to ME!".
Full as a po with the holy spirit I did as the cub commanded.
Next day too police cars full of peelers came flying into my yard and arrested me for stealing a donkey!
Bon Jovi denied all knowledge of the affair and told the police I had often talking about nicking a donkey.
The wee ugly, humpy, coniving, gulpin had conned me into stealing the donkey.
I know Bon Jovi has the donkey secreated somewhere in the bog.
I have to appear in Clougher court next weak.
The people of Clougher were all for hanging me from an oak tree.
Donkey stealing is scene in Clougher as a henious crime.
If I am scent to the slammer I wool do my time, but on my release I will swing for the spawn of the devil who took up abode in my good, cat-lick womb.
Prey for me. Prey for Rosie Ryan who is accused of ass theft.

Sunday, 3 October 2010

Farewell Benito

Deer Gerry, a Paul of grief and sadness hangs over Clougher today. In a head on crash between a Raleigh bicycle and a dung-spreader, auld Benito McStriddlestumps came off worse and left this vale of tears in a deceased and dead state. Those who saw the accident say that auld Benito was ejuclated from his bicycle and hit the dung-speader a wild dunt with his head. When poor Benito's head made contact with the purveyor of shi--dung it turned the dung-spreader on. "Before you could say, "Aah-Bisto!" auld Benito was engulfed in a mountain of shi--dung. No volunteers being found to wade through the shi--dung to find the dead cadaver. The priest gave the last rights over the mound of bovine feces and the police put up, "GO SLOW" signs and everywan went home.Next morning small farmer big Willie McMegadump managed to put a rope around poor, wee Benito's neck and dragged him 100 yards behind his tractor to a babbling brook. Too hours later Benito was pristine and as klean as a knew pin. "Bring him home now" shrieked Benito's widow wee Marygold. "Lay him out on the bed, while I go and borrow too pennies to put over his wee, dead eyes". The priest blessed wee Benito and said. "Just as Benito arose from the shi--manure, so shall we arise on the last day". "PRAISE THE LORD" shrieked auld Nellie McTumbleweed. Then, filled with the holy spirit, she fell down like a bag of spuds and hit her head a wild dunt against the po under the bed.Just a flesh wound. Know stitches required. As auld Benito was carried from the church, saint Judas choir lustily sang. "YES! we shall gather by the river". My son Bon Jovi nudged me and said. "There must still be some shi--dung in auld Benitos nooks, crannies and crevices". Bon Jovi and I walked home, full of grate sadness and pensivitity. As I watched auld Benito being lowered into a water-logged whole in the ground. In an auld cheep plywood coffin painted to look like Ma-Hoginey I thought of my own morality. Wood I be judjed wheat or chaff? Sheep or Goat? I revolved to change my ways and bless myself everytime I saw a rainbow. As Bon Jovi and I rounded a corner, we came upon a man driving a cow. "LOOK!" roared Bon Jovi. "Its wee Ramone McScallion driving Miss Daisy" Wee Ramone loves Miss Daisy. I never saw a cow and a man so close without interference from the police. "A fine baste you've got there Ramone" said Bon Jovi. "She's a wee darling" said Ramone. "And she loves her daddy. You love your daddy don't you Miss Daisy. Aye, Miss Daisy loves her wee daddy" "She wool make quare good rump stake" said Bon Jovi. Wee Ramone turned eggshell white, covered Miss Daisy's ears with his hands and screamed. "Yeh wee, humpy, ugly gulpin. How dare you talk about rump stake in front of Miss Daisy. She knows every word you say. Miss Daisy wool live a long and happy life and be buried beside me in saint Judas graveyard. The gratest pleasure in my life is driving Miss Daisy".And with a flounce of his wellingtons wee Ramone continued to drive Miss Daisy down the road. As we walked on, the sun set in the West. Birds flew home for the nite and the odd locked out sheepdog barked in the distance. Bon Jovi did a little dance, broke wind and began to sing in a loud out of tune gulder. "OH POOR WEE BENITO IS DEAD AS CAN BE THE GRATE BIG DUNG-SPREADER HE DID NOT SEE THE REASON HE'S DEAD I PUT DOWN TO HIS SIGHT THAT'S ALSO THE REASON HE'S COVERED IN.......... SWEET VIOLETS, SWEETER THAT THE ROSES COVERED ALL OVER FROM HEAD TO TOE COVERED ALL OVER WITH-SWEET VIOLETS". I laughed 'till I peed myself and had to run for the whins!

Thursday, 16 September 2010

Kon Man In Clougher!

Gerry, a highly contentious and dastardly hanlin' in Clougher on Sonday. Three kars beeping the horn drove into Clougher and a boy got out wearing a red cloak and a wee hat and said he was Pope Benny-dict on a secret visit.
Clougher went bee-serk. People left their dinner and thronged the street.
A boy with the Pope roared,
"Silence for his emminet, Pope Benny-dict"
The "Pope" leaped up on the back of a coal lorry and addressed the assembled multitude.
"People of Clougher and surrounding districts" he bellowed.
"Today I come before you, to stand behind you, to tell you something I know nothing about".
"UP THE POPE" yelled wee Nelly Hannigan, before she fell down in a holy swoon.
"You'se is all going to heaven" roared the "Pope".
"And all it wool cost you'se is a tenner. My people wool now walk among you'se. And I kan insure you that all money collected. Will go towards stone cladding on the Vatican.
If your eye sins" yelled the "Pope"
"It is probably lazy, so put a patch over it.
If your hand sins, stick it in your pocket.
"Pope" yelled auld Romano Nutter.
"Can I sit at the rite hand of God?"
"You kan surely" said the "Pope"
"Sure isn't there plenty of room.
"HEAVEN" bellowed the "Pope"
"Is like a big nite club. But there is a dress code. So no wellingtons or trainers-please!
Fall to your knees" yelled the "Pope"
"Fall to your knees for I am going to bless you'se".
Down the people fell onto the muddy street and the "Pope" raised his rite hand and yelled.
"Nommy pater et feelie McGoany. Tuttie fruti in sanctorem. Et into eyebrow et to cullybaccyum.
Fag-oh's cheap-oh in Drumquin a-um.
Saint Poot's. Saint Dodd's in storment-a-um
Gloria in pater noster Iron Brue-a-um.
Sanctos-Sanctos-Sanctos, thrice sanatorium"
Then Gerry a police kar came flying into Clougher and the "Pope" and his cohorts jumped into their kars and flew out of Clougher like bats out of hell.
He was a kon man Gerry. Some boy who came from the rong side of the tracks in Gortin.
So warn the peeple in Ingland Gerry. There is boys going about dressed up as the Pope.
If the Pope should nock at your door on a dark nite. Make him recite the seven deadly sins before you let him in. My son Bon Jovi and me was stung for twenty pounds. If I get my hands on that fake Pope I'll nock the auld papal bull out of him.
Apart from that Gerry, Clougher is very quite and muted at this time of year.
All my loving, I will give to-you!
Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX

Friday, 10 September 2010

Down With Dung Spreaders!

Gerry, please HARK to me.
I plan to burn a mound of Our Boy's and Ireland's Own's on Hi street in Clougher at three oh clock on Sonday.
I am protesting about the wild smell of dung spreaders. Wot is driving me and my sun Bon Jovi Do-Lally and bee-serk!
Dung spreaders is un-sanity Gerry. Highly and dangerously un-sanity!
Join me Gerry. Say--KNOW-too dung spreaders.
After the burning Bon Jovi wool mount a stool and give a rendering of, "Mother McCree" what wool stun all who heer it.
Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx
PS. And know fone call from Robinson or McGuinness wool stap ME!

Thursday, 9 September 2010

Autumnal Greetings

Autumnal greetings Gerry, Rosie Ryan 'ere.
You have probably bean wandering how my sun Bon Jovi is doing. I am glad to retort that the cub is alive and kicking. He has just went back to skool to work on his thesis entitled, "Seamus Heaney, poet or proser?".
Its frightening to stand beside the cub when he is doing his homework. The top of his head gets scalding hot and steam comes out of his ears.
The cub is a fee-nominon Gerry. A one off. There wool never be another Bon Jovi Ryan. You can bet the farm on THAT!
How is you Gerry and all your kith and kin?
I hope's you'se is all jolly good and top whole.
Gerry, please play, "Daddy Cool" for poor wee Dinky McNacket who got locked in the freezer over nite at Moy Park chickens. Appendages have bean damaged Gerry. The doctors are working flat out to keep the amputations to a minium.
His wife wee Delma is climbing the walls screaming.
"It wasn't much, but it was mine!"
Our prayers go out to her as she waits for news in the snug in Murphy's public house.
I hope Gerry it makes you and Sean thankful for what you've got. You never miss it 'till its gone.
Saint Oliver Plunket said that before they cut the head off him.
Love, hugs and kisses from,
Mrs Rosie Ryan. xxx

Thursday, 26 August 2010

What colour is your wind?

After too weaks of fierce bloatedness, which only a poisoned pup could identify with. I decided to seek medical assistance. Two say I was blown up like a balloon would be economical with the truth. I was blown up like a zepplin.
Buttons popped and zips were torn asunder as I got bigger and bigger.
As I filled with wind, my trips to the lou hovered on zero on the diddly squat meter.
"Bon Jovi!" I yelped.
"What wool I do? Every hour I increase in size and girth. Know drawers wool circumfrance me. My belly button is protruding like a veritable door knob".
The fruit of my lions laughed and roared.
"Stake yourself to the ground with ropes and keep away from naked flames".
"You ungrateful gulpin" I yelled.
"When you had die-a-rea on a grand and epic scale. Who followed you everywhere with a po in each hand?
YES! Your auld mother. And now that I am suffering grately from horror-endus constitution bordering on a complete bung up you stand there laughing.
"For shame Bon Jovi" I chided.
"For shame. I hope the devil hangs you over the hot fires of hell by the coccyx and pulls every tow nail out of your auld black feet with red, hot pinchers".
"What colour is your wind fatty?" sang my 'orribe off-spring.
I tried to trap the lump of a cub in the corner with my protruding belly, but he slipped away singing.
In an effort to stun my tormenter I broke yet another child of Prague statue against the wall and yelled.
Then I pointed my belly towards Clougher and set off seeking medicational assistance.
After a bout of prodding and poking and prolonged use of a wee torch.
The doctor washed his hands. Dried them on the front of my burgundy twin-set and said.
"Mrs Ryan, you are suffering from irrational bowl syndrome and you also have a plastic colonic".
"By the sacred dung beetle of Luxor" I yelled.
"How could such a hanlin' have came about?"
"The doctor spun round, pointed a rigid diget at me and roared.
"Gluttony Mrs Ryan. Good old fashioned-gluttony. You Mrs Ryan have bean eating for four. You have used your stomach as a wheelie bin. Your pig-like gobbling and slurping has bunged up your large intestinal. You are on the point of brusting. You is a danger too the community. I really should phone the bomb squad".
"KNOW!" I screamed.
"Knot the bomb squad. Oh the ignomy of a controlled explosion going off at one's ars--rear".
The doctor reached me a large brown bottle and said.
"Take this Miss Piggy. It is a very strong laxative, made from senna pods, castrol oil and just a pinch of gun powder. BUT on no account take it until you get home. It is very quick acting and the roads round Clougher have enough cow skitter on them".
When yet a mile from my house I said to myself.
"Why knot take the laxative now? Then when I enter the portal of my abode, all I have to do is find a po and assume the squatting position".
"Oh the folly of a bloated woman" I muttered, from behind a whin bush.
From whin bush to whin bush I made my way home. Each squat making me weaker than before.
I brust through my door yelling to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Garner every po in the house and bring them to my boud-wah immediately!"
As I went through the po's Bon Jovi stood outside singing.
Oh, a day of reckoning will come. And on that day the smiting will be tarra to behold

Saturday, 21 August 2010


'Twas on a pleasant, clement Autumnal morning that the occurance occured.
On the day in question by sun Bon Jovi and I were sitting round the hearth. Trying to figure out why dark matter exerted such a gravitational pull on the Universe.
"The answer is out there!" roared Bon Jovi.
"Yet for all my cyphering and complicated and wild Hi replied mathamatics the answer still eludes me.
I have squared pie until I am blew in the face".
"Did you remember to carry the wan?" I said.
Bon Jovi threw the coal shovel at me and roared.
"Why am I anchored, hobbled and shackled with a stupid old bag who could knot tell her einboga from her Uranus".
"Hauld on!" I yelled.
"Hauld on! Was it knot me who discovered dark matter, when a shower of suit fell down the chimney and attached itself to my visage with fierce magnetic energy?"
"SHUT UP!" roared Bon Jovi.
"How can I transport my brane to the edge of the Universe, if you are going to sit there gibbering and babbling like the Queen of the village idiots".
I leapt up and yelled.
"How dare you! How dare you, you grotesque gulpin.
By the hub caps of the star ship Enterprise I wool knock the big astroid head of you".
"Woe is me" yelled Bon Jovi.
"To have sprung from the lions of a head-banger like YOU!. Fate conspired that I sprang from a brane dead, red faced, zombie and knot the lions of Einstein, Hawkins or Patrick Moore".
I snapped and went for the cub with a child of Prague statue held above my head.
"Beam me up Scotty" roared Bon Jovi.
THEN! An awful bang and a strange scratching sound came from the roof.
"Aliens!" I yelled.
Bon Jovi and I ran out in some confusion and it must be said-fierce apprehension.
I took in the seen at once. A large cormorant and three roof slates lay on the ground. The oily black flying see bird must have bean flying low on automatic pilot when it ran into the roof of my abode. The cormorant lay on the broad of its back with both legs sticking up in the air.
Bon Jovi ran to the bird. Give it the kiss of life and a push and soon it was flying in a zig-zag manner towards Gortin and surrounding districts.
Bon Jovi looked up at the big whole in the roof and yelled to me.
"Don't just stand there Dumbo, get a ladder and fix the roof".
"I kan't climb a ladder" I cried.
"You no fine well I suffer from Gertie-Go".
"Gertie-Go my ant Sammy" roared Bon Jovi. "Stand back and I'll do it myself".
Bon Jovi climbed the ladder like a red-arsed baboon and soon had the slates back on the roof. As the cub stood admiring his Andy-Work he made a fatal mistake.
YES! The cub broke wind. The jet propulsion sent Bon Jovi forwards.
In an effort to regain his eek-way-lib-ray-um the cub over compensated by leaning too far backwards and fell of the roof with a sodden PLOP!.
"Ah, holy God" roared Bon Jovi.
"My two legs are broken in 18 places".
I ran to the fone. Know ambulance was to be had. With super human strength, I threw Bon Jovi into the wheel barrow and galloped the too mile to Clougher surgery. On the big downward hill that leads into Clougher. I lost control and mummy, sun and wheel barrow went careering through the surgery doors.
As I rolled and tumbled I shrieked.
"EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! Cub in wheel barrow with injuries to the lower extremities".
After the doctor examined Bon Jovi he came to the collusion that there was nothing rong with the gulpin. In fact, the doctor called the cub a malingering, malignant knave.
Then the doctor took a look at and found I had slipped a disc in my back due to wheeling the gulpin two mile in a wheel barrow. On what the doctor laughingly called a wild cormorant chase.
The up shot was Bon Jovi had too wheel me home in the wheel barrow!.
As the son set in the West and heavy lumbering, weary crows made their way home. The expletives exchanged between mother and sun were, crude, vulgar, many and varied.

Saturday, 14 August 2010

Why So Sorrowful?

Why dost thou stand there sorrowing?"
I said to my sun Bon Jovi, as he stood at the haggard with a look of pastural passivity on his pale pasty face.
I looked with love at he who had sprang from lions like a grotesque Tasmanian devil in the dead of nite.
To my everlasting shame I remember roaring too the genie-colagist.
"KNOW! KNOW! Put it back! Put it BACK!"
The midwife slapped me across the face twenty-seven times to bring me to my senses.
I blame the epi-dural. God knows what was in that needle. It could have bean drugs are anything!.
Bon Jovi gazed boninely across the vast panoramic expance of bog.
Broke wind alfrescoly and replied.
"Alas, a few daze and a few daze more and I must return two my seat of learing at saint Judas skool in Clougher".
"But you like skool Bon Jovi" I said.
"And in a short thyme your academic life wool come two an end.
Your brane is fare stuffed with headucation. All that remains is a bit off topping off two make sure you are filled to the brim".
Bon Jovi cleaned his nose dexterously with a quick wipe of both coat sleeves and sighed.
"'Tis the dog daze of Summer. My hart always fills with grate grief and sadness during the canine daze of Summer.
What's it all about?" yelled the lump of a cub.
"What is my mission, my vacation in life? The atom has bean split and the wheel invented. What else is left too do for a juvunile student whose brain is stuffed and brusting with headucation like what mine is?"
"What did the careering officer say when you saw her last" I said.
"WORDS!" cried Bon Jovi.
"That's all I got from the careering officer. She used words like, unique, special, unnatural one of a kind, oddity, but as to my career?. She said I should stay near home and look both ways before I crossed the road".
"And your teechers?" I asked.
"What do those who have taut you think of your undoubted genius?
Do they talk of Eaten, Oxford, Cambridge, even-Strangways which I am reliably informed is a renowed institution for boys of your ilk?"
Cleverly using the wind as an extraction fan. Bon Jovi broke wind again and replied.
"I heerd auld Miss Krackling and Miss McGroaper talking about me while they were having a crafty fag.
Auld Miss Krackling said.
"Wool we ever sea another cub at saint Judas skool with the stupendous cranial deficiency of master Bon Jovi Ryan"?
"Miss McGroaper let a shriek out of her like a korn crake and screamed.
"Never, Never, NEVER! Lightening never strikes twice in the same plaice".
"Hi praise indeed!" I cried.
"Coming from too teechers whose intellicect is unapparelled".
Mother and sun stood there, looking over the ever changing bog.
Birds flew on Hi. Rabbits and rodents scurried through the dead and dying flora and fauna.
Peaceful. So peaceful.
Bon Jovi coughed and said.
"I rote a wee poem mammy. Do you want two heer it"?
"Want to heer it?" I yelled.
"I want too heer it with every bone, muscle and fibre in my body".
Bon Jovi closed his eyes and roared.
"There is sadness in my sadness when I'm sad.
There is gladness in my gladness when I'm glad.
There is madness in my madness when I'm mad.
But the sadness in my sadness
and the gladness in my gladness
And the madness in my madness
Are nothing to my badness when I'm bad".
I stood open-mouthed and agog. Then I yelled.
"You're rotten Bon Jovi. Rotten with branes!".

Getting Ready For September

Grate back two skool sail at Adolf Ramsbottom and daughters drapery shop in Clougher.
I got my sun, wee Bon Jovi too pear of long jon's with a flap at the back.
"I'm a big boy now mammy" said the wee doat.
"Yes you is Bon Jovi" I said.
"But don't depend on the flaps. Be dilligent and precocious at all times"
I also got the cub too pare of knew secondhand hobnailed boots.
A blazer with the crest of the desert rats on the front.
And a pear of Ex-Israeli, Mosat camaflage trousers with a big pocket too carry a Ussi sub machine gun.
Bon Jovi will cut some figure when he gets on the skool bus in September.
Jelly, please play,
"What in the world has come over you".
For auld Pete (The weseal) McSideways who has just scene his wifes face after the comestic surgery.
Apparently the three sheep dogs went beserk and bit auld Pete all over the derriere, before disapearing into the nite. Ah, wee Cleo is ruined.When the parish priest saw her he said. "Ah Cleo, was anyone else hurt in the accident?" Did knot saint Paul say. "Vanitory! All is-Vanitory!
From your living doll.
Mrs Rosie Ryan. xxx

The Clougher Annual Donkey Derby

Peeple came from as far away as Gortin and Plumbridge on Sonday two watch the annual Clougher donkey Grand Pricks derby. The donkeys run round the streets of Clougher. Turning Clougher into another Monty Carlo.
There were seven pedigree donkeys in the race. Their names were.
"Paddy's Pride.
McSwiveller's Flyer.
Micky's Delight.
Jump The Shuck.
Bray Away
And Mucky Lane ridden bye by sun Bon Jovi.
The flag fell and they were off. McSwiveller's Flyer was left at the starting post. A thistle under the tale soon got him going and the race was on.
Down past the Pound shop they thundered. A sharp rite into Hobo street and then a left into Bog Hole Crescent. Up Hi street they galloped with Bray Away nose to nose with Elvis and Bon Jovi making ground on Mucky Lane. Bon Jovi broke through to take the lead. Then-kalamity! A Spar shopping bag blowing in the wind settled over Bon Jovi's head and the cub went careering into McTiddlers drapery shop. Knocking over three display stands of Winter simmets and long johns. Bon Jovi got a slight concussion, but thank goodness was knot put down.
Your dream honey,
Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx
Oh, racing aficionados mite like two no that Elvis won by a no's at seven too wan!.

Thursday, 5 August 2010


Imagine my condensation when I picked up my stylish designer "Tuff Boy" hobnailed boots and found them knot fit for porpoise.
"Knackered!" laughed my sun Bon Jovi.
"Rosie's big size fourteens are knackered".
"Shut your gub, you demonic elf" I yelled.
"Only a gulpin of un-un-unpresulmptuous evil malignancy bordering on mischievous wickedness wood talk two his auld mammy like that".
"I told you two keep off the midden" roared Bon Jovi.
"Every thyme I look out the winda. There you are, standing on top of the midden like an auld red faced rooster. The dung has eaten through the souls of your big hobnailed boots and left you bare footed and bereft of footwear. Maybe now you wool sit dozing at the fire the way a big, fat stupid, doting auld bag should".
"Bye the Count of Monty Cristo" I yelled.
"How dare you bring aggrevation and- and-zelophobic trouble and stress to the portal of your mater".
"NICKERS!" roared Bon Jovi.
"Yes!-NICKERS!. Don't take your-your-irrational ire out on the lump of a cub. I fear you knot! I look into your big, red bleezer of a face and retort-NICKERS!".
"Bye the seven Spanish angels, I'll cut the big head of you" I roared.
And I reached for the scythe that was leaning up against the child of Prague and took a swing at the jet black imp from hell. Bon Jovi did an Ali shuffle. Leaped the half door like a donkey on Red Bull and disappeared into the wide blue yonder.
As the cub ran he yelled.
"Nickers two Rosie and her auld hobnailed boots".
I sighed and put on my auld wellingtons. After working out that the green wellington went on the rite foot and the black wellington went on the left foot, I toggled myself into my late mammies brown duffle coat and set off for Clougher.
I frog marched into Coochies the cobblers and yelled.
"ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG! Das boots. Das hobnailed boots. SCHNELL! SCHNELL!".
Auld Dynamo Coochie made a spalter to hide the polygenetic magazine he was reeding and cried.
"Rite away Mrs Ryan. Rite away. You take size 14, the biggest size we have in the shop?".
"JA!" I yelled. "SCHNELL! Das Boots. SCHNELL!, SCHNELL!".
Soon I was on my way home with the knew boots in a box the size of small coffin.
I entered my abode to the aroma of cullinary delights.
"Bon Jovi leapt up like a Jackeen in the box and said.
"You must be hungry mammy. When you were gone I made you five fried eggs, half a pound of streaky bacon, three and a half sausages and a veritable mound of fried bread".
With tears in my eyes I hugged my cub and said.
"Bon Jovi, you are a bon cabellero. A good amigo. Is my meel in the oven?"
"What meel?" said Bon Jovi.
"The meel you prepared for me" I said.
"Oh THAT meel" said Bon Jovi.
"You were away so long, I got hungry and ate it myself. Hard cheddar mater".
Once again I grabbed the scythe and yelled.
"You stinking, rotten excuse for a sun.
Bye the rivers of Babby-Lon I will sever your big, round head from your body".
I made a swipe with the scythe. The fruit of my lions scampered out the window and took off over the bog with me behind him.
"GULPIN!" I yelled.
"NICKERS!" roared Bon Jovi.
And so it went on 'till the gloom of the nite enveloped the both of us.
What a cub!
But he is some hanlin'.

Saturday, 31 July 2010


Behold peeple of Clougher. I is Rosie Ryan and I am touched. Touched by the hand of God.
The Lord God almighty has spoken to me through the devine hangel Willie John. It came about thus. At half past fore on Monday night, I was awakened by a peculiar portend.
"Is I hefted?" I mummered into my drool soaked pillow.
Then I heard a voice cry from on Hi.
"Arise Rosie Ryan. I is the Lord God almighty. You have been chosen to spread the good word in Clougher and surrounding districts".
"LORD!" I cried.
"I is knot worthy".
"Worthy or knot" boomed God.
"You wool have two do. Behold, I am sending you a hangel. The heaveny hangel wool consul you and guide you through the pits and snares of sin"
"Oh Lord" I yelled.
"I is as an empty vessal. Fill me too overflowing with faith, hope and charity!.
"I shall do my best" said God.
Then a wild brite lite illustrated the room and a hangel appeared beside the po.
"Fear knot" said the hangel.
"I is the hangel Willie John. I is a baritone in the celestial choir.
You among all weeman have bean chosen to spread the gospel in the accursed city of Clougher.
Bee without fear! I Wille John shall be by your side. Guiding your step and speaking direct from your holy, flapping gub".
And low it came two pass.
Next morn I tied my sandles with binder-twine, picked up my staff and set out for the evil city of-Clougher.
On the stroke of noon, I mounted the cenotaph and spoke thus.
"Gulpins and scumbags of Clougher. You could have been the knew Jerusalem, but you turned away from Jehovah and turned this small market town in Tyrone into another Soddem and Begorrgh.
"REPEANT! I roared.
"Or the Lord God almighty wool lose his rag and smite you with a smite the like of which the world has never scene.
Do youse want too burn for all eternally?"
"Faith, Hope and Charity" I yelled
These three are good. But the gratest
of these three--is-chastity!.
Behold I say onto you you. Youse who commit sins of the flesh, will be hung from your forks on crooks over the hot burning fires of-hell. And knot for just a day. Knot for just a weak. Knot for just a year, but etermity.
Covet knot your neighbours ass" I roared. Better for you to wash your own ass with strong lifeboy soap and a jap of Dettol.
Take knot the Lords name in vain. Just yell, cricky, jeepers, sugar or flip.
Honour thy daddy and thy mammy. Never put them in a home, until acute Do-lallyness has set in.
If you covet your neighbours wife, go and get your eyes tested. For Clougher abounds with dumplins of unparrelled uglyness.
Do know steel-unless your giro is late.
Do knot indulge in strong drink. Make your own, its cheeper.
Go two mass on Sunday and holidays of oblation unless you are bluttered.
Spread knot calamity.It is wild hard to cure and is the result of sex with strangers.
Never suffer a witch to live".
That was then the men in white coats came. Laid hands on me and took me to a plaice of menthol confinement.
For three daze I was poked and prodded bye doctors, nurses and people who just came into visit a nut case.
After three daze I arose and made my my home. Praising the Lord and cutting nettles in half with my holy staff.
Now people come in kars to stare at me.
"What did you come two sea" I cry.
"A Reid blowing in the wind?"
"KNOW!" they yell.
"We came to sea Rosie Ryan the loony in the bog".
Wool Rosie Ryan end up another Martha for her faith?
Who no's. Two all my detracters I say.
"All that I am
All that I do
And if I have a screw loose
I offer it to you".

Saturday, 12 June 2010


Oh the shame Gerry. Oh the ig-no me. Oh the disgrace. My sun Bon Jovi and me were nicked for shop lifting! We is knot crooks Gerry. There is
Ex-ten-u-ating circumstances witch I must inform you off. The cub needed trousers Gerry. His old one's were only held together by the odd fibre and the power of prayer. Sew on Fryday morning, brite and early, Bon Jovi and me hit the Hi road two Clougher.
As we strolled along I commented on the wide range of bird life and the different varieties of flora and fauna. As I was commenting on a particulary lush bunch of Sue-Lugs Bon Jovi exploded.
"In the name of God" roared the cub.
"Wool you keep your big yapper shut. All you have done since we left home is, YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"How darest thou" I yelled
"Is that any way for a mail off spring too talk two one's mater? Another outburst like that my lad and you'll be picking your teeth up off the road".
Bon Jovi threw off his coat. Leaped out to the middle of the road and roared.
"Bring it on! Bring it on big mouth. By the hot fires of hell, I wool shut that big gub of yours wance and for all".
I struggled out of my late mammies brown duffle coat. Put up my fists and yelled.
"Bye the sacret hart of saint John Plunket I'll nock you into the middle of next weak you gulpin".
The fight was on. Bon Jovi and I circled each other warily. I threw out a searching rite. Bon Jovi parried it. Bon Jovi came back with a left that grazed my temple.
I had my head on my chest. Bon Jovi's fists hung low. The cub was trying to make a fool of me. I let go a hay-maker. Bon Jovi skipped back and did an Ali shuffle in front of a whin bush.
We came together, our heads clashed and we backed away. I rushed at the cub and ran straight in to a left hook up the kisser. I spat out blood and too teeth. Bon Jovi smiled above his bobbing, weaving fists.
We came together again and Bon Jovi unleashed a flurry of punches into my bread basket. I gasped and panted. I was getting it tite. Bon Jovi came in for the kill. Slipped on cow skitter and I got him with an uppercut rite on the point of his dirty chin. The cub went down like a bag of spuds. I sat panting on the verge until the cub came round. We then continued on our way to Clougher-in silence.
"The colour of these trousers is lovat" said wee Maggie McSpoon who works in Patel's haber-dashery.
"Do try them on Bon Jovi" I enthused.
"They wood complaiment your puce gansey exquitely".
As Bon Jovi was trying on the knew trousers. The old trousers gave up the ghost and fell apart. Maggie McSpoon gingerly picked up the remmants of the old trousers with a pear of tongs and ran out to the back yard to put them in the bin. The up shot was . I payed for the knew lovat trousers and Bon Jovi wore them home.
THEN! CALAMITY! As Bon Jovi and me walked past Clougher city limits. The arse of Bon Jovi's knew trousers began to squeel like a stuck pig.
Soon six police cars roared too a halt and Bon Jovi and me was surrounded by a gang of PICKS, PEES, PIERS, or what ever the hell the RUC call themselves these days. Mother and sun was arrested and held in Hi security confinement. I protested us innonence.
The police brought in wee Maggie Mc Spoon and she said, I had payed for the lovat trousers, but she had knot taken the security tag from the lovat trousers.
The police threw me and Bon Jovi out and banged the big gait behind us.
"High Columbo" I roared.
"How about an apology and a lift home?"
I was told to move along, or we wood be nicked again.
I don't no who I'm madder at, the police or wee Maggie McSpoon. Needless two say a sharp letter is on its way to auld David Ford, the minister for piece and injustice.
But the lovat trousers look lovely on the cub.
They really bring out the colour of his dung brown eyes.
I is-Rosie Ryan. XXX

Wednesday, 9 June 2010


Bon jour, enchante de faire votre connaissance.
Comment allez-vous? Vous etes tres gentil.
Est-ce que je vous gene? Il fait beau.
Ecoutez, regardez. Qu'est que c'est que ca en bas?
Vous plaisantez. Allez-vous en. Laissez-moi tranquille. C'est tres ennuyeax. Je vous ai deja paye. Lassez-moi passer! Qu est consulat britannique?
Qo se trouve le marche? Je veux acheter- est-ce que vous ven-dez?, des dessous de soie des nylons, des bas de soie. Un soutien-gorge, une gaine, brode a la main. De la dentelle, un sac a main. Un chapeau de paille avec une voilette. C'est la grande mode. J'ai besoin d'un costume taileur avec une jupe plissee.
Je veux me faire faire une robe. Le col rond le decollete. Un mateau noir double de soir. Un mantau de fourrure, le mesure, le tour de poitrine, de taille, de hanches, la taille la longeur de manche, la geur d'epaules.
Le produits de beaute. Un flacon de parfum. Le rouge a levres, la poudre de riz. Le poudre de talc, la houppe. Le vernis a ongles voy-ant, transparent, rouge fonce. Des sels pour la bain. Une barrette, des epingles a cheveux une pince des bigoudis.
Je veux manger quelque chose de bein simple. Cesi n'est pas frais. Ce morceau est trop gras. Donnez-moi du maigre. Ceci ne sent pas tres bon. L'addition s'il vous plait. Le service est-il compris? Vous pouvez gardez le reste.J'ai laisse mes lunettes dans le lavobo.
Quelqu'un cet homme m'a vole.
Qui etes-vous? Je ne vous connais pas . Je ne veux pas vous parler. Laissez-moi tranquille. En voila assez. Allez-vous en. C'est en maintenant. C'est tres ennuyeux. Qu est le britannique?
Idiot! Doucement! Remettez-vous. Taisez-vous. Ca alors c'est trop fort. ZUT!
Je veux faire serrer ceci . Combien de temps dois-je attendre? Qu'y a-t-il?
Nous sommes trempes jusqu'aux os. Qu puis -je acheter du petrole? Je voudrais bien louer une bibyclette. Combien coute-t-il par jour? Nous nous sommes egares. Jouez-vous au tennis? J'ai une raquette de tennis et des balles. Qu se trouvent les courts de tennis?
J'etais ici en dix-neuf cent quarante. En temps de guerre. Je suis ancien soldat veteran. Les tranchees de premiere-ligne. Vacant, places debout seulement. CHIEN MECHANT!
Je suis Madame Rosie Ryan. Y a-t-il des lettres pour moi? ZUT! ZUT! ZUT!
Faites preparer la note s'il vous plait. Je dois partir demain de bonne heure.
Merci et au revoir.
Madame Rosie Ryan xxx

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

Rosie's Wildlife Reserve

Deer Gerry, my old friend and come padre. If I were to ask you two sum up in too words the character of Rosie Ryan.
I no, as sure as God made little green men on Mars, that you wood say,
"Self Defecating".
And I thank you Gerry for that ringing endorsment.
I am self defectating. Even as a young cuttie I practised the art of self defecation. All us Ryan's have bean self defecators. Some familys bear the mark of Cain. Us Ryans proudly wear the mark of self defecation.
Gerry, I have bean most horribly malignant in the letters page of the Clougher (And surrounding districts) Times. Some gulpin, riting under the none-de-plum of "One who cares" gave me a wild doing.
Why Gerry?--Why? I keep to myself. I bother know wan. I spend all my thyme, delving into all aspects of arts and culture. That is why the Clougher people loathe, hate and dispise me. They sea me as a tall poppy, sticking my head above the paraquat and they want to cut it off. I scare them with my wild Hi intelect.
They wood burn me for a witch. Only for the fear of discovery bye UTV Live or BBC Newsline.
I is an Ann-ommily. I don't fit in. They don't want a Rosie Ryan about the plaice.
Gerry, here is the letter, "Audi alteram partem".
"Deer people of Clougher and surrounding districts. Have any of you noticed the eye sore on the way into Clougher? YES! I am talking about the kip of Rosie Ryan and her son Bon Jovi. The garden is a wildernest, filled with rusty prams, bicycle wheels and a veritabe heap of old po's. Has Rosie Ryan no civic pride? Has Rosie Ryan know respect for the countryside? Who does Rosie Ryan think she is?. I have, on more than one occasion, seen Rosie Ryan, wearing little or nothing, dash across the busy road to empty two po's. It is time Clougher council got out there and cleaned up the pig stye that is the abode of, Rosie Ryan. Signed "One Who Cares".
I was galvanised Gerry. Galvanised into action. I grabbed parchment and quill and responded thus.
"Saluto Clougherarians, This is Rosie Ryan calling.
I wish to despond to the gulpinish remarks made about me last weak bye, "Wan who cares".
I wish two make it plane that I am know, slattern, trallop or scum bag. I have the highest regard for Hi-Jean. My sun, Bon Jovi is washed every fore months with Lifeboy soap and scrubbed until his skin takes on the sheen of a shaved pig. KNOW po is left under the bed for more than fore daze. My front garden is knot a wildernest. It is a wildlife reserve. I cultivate nettles, dockens and weeds to give habitation to the poor wee butterflies. As for the po's-frogspawn have to live somewhere.
I am glad, YES! do you heer me? Glad that I don't live in Clougher. Sin City. The sex capital of Europe and surrounding districts. I am true to the faith of my fathers. You won't sea Rosie Ryan leaping like a mad savage to the beat of a boom-boom box until eight or nine o'clock at nite. I will be down on my knees, preying or prying a reluctant po out from under the bed.
People of Clougher. I pity you. When the fire and brimstone rain down on you. I will turn my eyes towards Gortin. In fear I may be turned into a pillar of Saxa salt. REPENT! REPENT! Or suffer the wrath of an all mercyfull God. I go now to consort with Sarate, Volaire, Plato and Barney McCool".
That should put the people of Clougher in their plaice Gerry. If you are ever up this way and some boy asks you how you wood sum up Rosie Ryan. Don't stop to think Gerry. Just roar out-"Self Defecating". 'Cause 'tis the truth. There is know bigger self defectator in Clougher than-Rosie Ryan.
I leave you now Gerry. So you kan carry on ministering to those who are a bit touched in the head.
From your woodland sprite--Rosie Ryan xxx

Thursday, 13 May 2010


Yesterday morning beeing a brite, sonny day in the extremity. Found me lolling-languidly over a rusty gait.
With my ample bisum on one side of the gait and my volatile, voluptuous rear on the other side.
I was, as the laws of Newton state balancing the gravitational pull twixt bisum and derriere.
I was arrayed in puce gansey, white drindle skirt, embroidered with lambs a leaping in pleasant,pasturised surroundings. My turned down wellingtons took their colour from the lime, that most erotic of fruits.
My plump round, red face peeped out of my flowing mass of tangled red hare. I had used lipstick to elongate my mouth, Ah-La, Jack Nicholson as the Joker in Batman. I looked good and I new it.
Men hate a woman with a wee gub. Thanks to my lipsticking, my smile spread from ear to 'ere.
I looked around me with my deep green occulars. What beauty! The cunt'ry lay before me like a Constable canvas. Filled with rural, rustic romantism I huskly entoned.
"These are my mountains and this is my glen".
Atchung! Above the swaying flora and fauna, I saw the big bobbing head of my sun Bon Jovi. My cub. The lite of my life. He, who had hatched from a fertilsed egg and sprang from my lions like a veritable jack-in-the-box.
As my sun bounded towards me like a Pampas bull. I disengaged myself from the gait and ran to meet him.
What a material site. As mother and sun ran with out stretched arms towards each other. Bon Jovi was running so fast. The stream of snotters from his nose were flying back and forwards, like a manical pendulum. Then we met. The cub thundered into me and sent me on the broad of my back. My white drindle skirt was lavioushly splattered with cow skitter.
"Bon Jovi" I enthused.
"Where have you bean a wandering, on this exquite, harmonic sonny day?"
Bon Jovi broke wind with the delicate, decorum of a hangel and roared.
"I have bean navigating the bog. Prior to turning it into Clougher International airport when I grow up".
I looked at the lump of a cub with maternal awe. What a brane must be housed in that big, round head. The cub was an entrepreneurial entepreneur bordering on entrepreneurialism. This cub, standing in the nettles, with two snottery candles hanging from his nose wool be another Richard Branson.
"Bon Jovi" I cried.
"You have been touched. Touched by the hand of fate. You shall in thyme my boy be as rich as Croesus, the king of Linda. Tell me my bon-a-me" I said.
"What shall you do with the riches, that you will acrew".
"Bon Jovi blue his nose with his fingers. Sending two ethermal trails of snotters drifting over the bog like thistle down and replied.
"When the spondulects start rolling in. I can knot be encumbered. I can knot be encumbered by, morons, cretans or head the balls. So the first thing I shall do is confine you to a Hi security home for old bags. I must be focused. I can not have some old head bangers yelling, Bon Jovi this and Bon Jovi that. As a captain of industry, I must cast aside all that could be a hinderance to me in my quest for money. So when the lolly starts rolling in, you shall be taken, by force to a secure, room with bars on the window. Time permitting, I may visit you every Kristmas. So you kan give me my Kristmas box".
I grabbed the errant entepreneur by the scruff off the neck and roared.
"Here's your Kristmas box for the next fore years"
And I boxed the ears of the prodigious sun. Bon Jovi broke away and ran off yelling.
"auld ugly, fat bag. Auld red-faced Rosie. The laughing stock of Clougher and surrounding districts".
I yelled, "By the sacred simmet of saint Martha" And took off after the gross gulpin. As I was getting into my stride. My fashionable lime green wellingtons slipped on cow skitter and I fell on the broad of my back. I fear I will never get the skitter off my white drindle skirt!.
I shall of course prey to the patron saint of lost causes and use plenty of Daz. But skitter is the devil to shift when it gets ground in.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

A Thyme to Plant

Deer Gerry, I have just red the Bible from wan end to the other. I sea the Bible as God's diary when he puts down all this thoughts. After reading the Bible with a dilligence and scrutiny, knot scene since the Dole men came to Clougher to catch boys doing the double. I am konvinced beyond resonable doubt that God was a farmer. The evidence is presient in abundance.
"A thyme too reap, a thyme two so" References to fig trees. Vinyards, the so'er soing his seed. The herd of swine filled with the devil. Swine Gerry is just bibical code for pigs or porkers. The sermon on the mount. A mount of what? Logic wood lead us to believe that the "Mount" was an unused, grown over midden. And the klincher is, the garden of Eden.
God had a wee bit of spare land at the back of heven and turned it into a garden. God, like the boys in Portadown seemed to have a paw-shant for apples.
This weak Gerry, my sun Bon Jovi and self have bean tillers of the soil. Us God like people have planted rows of beens, P's, karrots and a few drills of early spuds. Bon Jovi wheeled numerous barrow loads of dung, or as they say in Gortin-shi--manure.
Alas, the labourer was knot worthy of his hire. All I got from the cub was old buck and dogs abuse. The cub went at it like a JCB sew he could get back to the fire again.
"Bon Jovi" I cautioned.
"Curb your enthusium. Curb your enthusium cub. Seeds have to be planted the rite way up, or they will end up in Australia".
"Too hell with this" yelled Bon Jovi.
"The cauld wind is blowing up the back of my simmet and foundering the two lungs of me. If I come down with BT it wool be your fault".
"Cease your complaining and vineyard grumbling" I roared. "The work we are doing is holy.
Go and get another barrow load of manure. And if you are cold. And if you do have blisters on your hands. Offer it up, the way the blessed Matt Talbot wood have done after the nite the bottle let him down".
"Matt Talbot my cold, foundered ass" yelled Bon Jovi.
I picked up a graip and took after the unwilling sun of the soil.
"Bye the little flour, the child of Prague and Mary from Dunlow" I yelled. "If I get the hault of you boy, I will turn your ars-derriere into a pin cushion".
The cub sped away with the energy of youth, singing as he went.
"An old bag went to mow, went to mow a meadow".
I swear I'll be lethal injected for that cub yet. I'll be strapped to a gurney and pumped full of anty-freeze.
Oh Lord God in heven, look down on the blighted fruit of my lions and change his wicked ways. Now and at the hour of our death-AMIN.
Dieu yous garde Gerry.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

Achtung! Hen Dung!

Deer Gerry, On Sonday a German boy called at my house to buy some free range eggs.
At first I was going to hunt the Hun. Because the Germans caused wan of daddy's cows to abore during the war. For monetary reasons I reined in my wrath and ire. My sun Bon Jovi was hiding in the long grass like a sniper.
Oh he was a Germanic German.
"Eggs" he yelled. "I need eggs for the eating. You have fresh eggs-YAH?"
"YAH my Fuhur" I roared.
"I have eggs so fresh the dung on them is still warm.
Follow me" I yelled.
"We have ways of making you walk" roared Bon Jovi from the long grass.
"Mind your feet on the skitter" I cautioned.
"Skitter?" cried the German.
"What is this skitter of which you speak?"
"Skitter" I roared. "Hen dung. Shite. Foul fecus".
"Ah-merde!" cried the German.
"Aye"I roared. "And there's more merde down here"
Well Gerry to cut a long story short. I sold the Hun a dozen of eggs. And on my way back up the yard, I slipped on the skitter and fell on the broad of my back. Giving the German a good flash of my red flannel drawers.
"Ah the red flag" laughed the German.
"Remind me of the Russian front"
"Avert your eyes from my Hibernian gusset" I roared.
"Or by the count of Monte Cristo I'll get up and brust you"
The German leaped into his kar and sped down the road. Taking a menthol image of my red flannel drawers with him. Such are the things that happen to the pride of Clougher,--ROSIE RYAN xxx

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

French Chic Hits Clougher

Deer Gerry, your presant wife and female listeners mite like to no that "French Chic" on Clougher Hi-Street have got in a lovely range of Moo-Moo dresses.
Some lovely pasturised colours Gerry.
Ranging from egg shell white to a beguiling pale puce.
I was smitten by a little primrose yella number with a slit up the back so you kan throw your feet out in komfort. Auld Nellie Granite was lumbering about like a heffer in the changing room. Trying too cram her Winter blubber into a pale mauve dress with seen's from the book of Kells painted on it.
The weeman of Clougher were swarming over the Moo-Moo's like veritable locusts.
Insults and indeed, thumps were exchanged.
In fact passions soared to such a height. That hob- nailed boots were swung with venom and feces brusted at the fashionable haute couture swaree in the Clougher branch of, "French Chic".
I myself had reason to nock wee Mary Ann Dumplin on the broad of her back when she jundied into me like an auld buck goat.
Nickers Gerry. Nickers in profussion hang from the roof of "French Chic" like Kristmas decorations.
When the big nicker lorry drove into Clougher. Weeman chased it down the street like wild, feral beasts.
Because of the wild bad Winter. Clougher suffered from a nicker drought. Now, thank goodness, Clougher has nickers in abundance.
Dirty auld brutes of men, stood with their noses pressed up against the window of "French Chic" hoping for a quick flash.
They got know quick flash from me Gerry. I tried the knew nickers on over my old nickers.
I deceided on a pear of green flannel nickers by "Desiree". "Desiree" is one of the top nickers houses in Taiwain. They use industrial elastic and all gussets are reinforced with a cradle of fibre glass.
Desiree nickers are strong yet functional Gerry.
You could leap a five bar gate without a creak from the expanding gusset. They come with a life time guarantee and a small allen key to make slight adjustments to the revolutionary space age gusset.
Gerry, if you are looking to stock up with some knew mail nickers. Do knot come too Clougher.
Men's nickers have lagged behind in Clougher.
Clougher may be a seething cauldren of fashion when it comes too weeman's nickers.
But alas, and indeed, alac, grey long johns with a flap at the back or the order of the day for the men of Clougher. The Clougher men have rejected Y-fronts, boxers and jocky shorts. The men of Clougher cling to their dirty grey long johns like veritable clams.
So Gerry, when making plans too replenish your stach of mail manly nickers. Count Clougher out.
I sincerely hope you are knot running low on cloathing for the under-carriage. I could send you few pears of my old bloomers. If you care too send a van up too kollect them. Air them first Gerry before putting then on.
Hang them over the big ornate gate at the front of your house. Blessed is she who cloathes the naked and she is.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Father Gerry

Deer Gerry, You find me in thoughtful, refractive, medieval mood. I have a paw-shant for mediation Gerry.I find in life, one should STAP and look back. Retrace one's steps. Revisit the past and discect one's actions, or indeed, inactions.
My past life is a memory of harmonica bliss. I was born with grate beauty. And as I manured, my unnatural, faerie beauty grew ten fold.
I feasted my eyes on my sun Bon Jovi. There he sat at the table. Making the buttered heels of pan loves disappear like a veritable Who-Deeny.
I well remember the nite that Bon Jovi sprang from my lions, like a bald, red-faced goblin.
The midwife wrapped the newly born in an old coat and placed him in my motherly arms.
I held the bawling wain close to my bisom and crooned.
"Welcome to my world. Won't you come on in".
Lost in revereee, I utterised the thoughts in my head to the pan loaf heel gobbler.
"Attend me Bon Jovi" I said.
"I have thoughts that I wish to share with you.
I have feelings I wish too discuss.
I have ideas that require feedback.
In short, I wish to run a pear of nickers up the flag pole and sea who salutes them".
Bon Jovi, a big fan of Frazier, the american Sigh- kite-wrist stopped chewing and said.
"'Tis about Gerry I wish to vocalise" I said.
The lump of a cub, laid down his pan loaf heel and said.
"Go on. I'm-listening".
"Konsider this!" I cried.
"It was knot hungry or want that drove Gerry Anderson too Radio Foul. KNOW!
It was a God scent vacation.
Up in Radio Foul" I cried.
"Gerry is doing the work of a priest!"
Bon Jovi broke wind with grate decorum and yelled.
"Bye the shinning brass harness on Dan Murphy's ass.
"Expand!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Expand or sit down and forever hold your piece".
"Does knot Gerry" I said
"Or rather, does knot FATHER Gerry
heer confusions every morning from half past ten until the sixth pip"?
"Bye the salted herring of the good ship Lollypop" cried Bon Jovi.
"You have hit the head on the nail.
People fone up and admit to their Indi--scretations
And does knot Gerry end every confusion bye saying.
"God bless you my sun?"
"Gerry Anderson" I utterised.
"Is a living saint. Gerry Anderson wood nock Mother Thresa into a cocked hat. What other parish, apart from the Vatican offers the chance of confussions five days a weak?"
"NONE!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Butt tell me this and tell me know more. If you were on your death bed. Wood you make your last confusion to Gerry?"
"Knot on your Nelly" I roared.
"Sure, wouln't he go and blab it all round Derry and surrounding districts.
"If Gerry is the priest" said Bon Jovi.
"What does that make the wee boy?"
"The curate I said. "Good in places".
From a refrective and all no'ing,

Tuesday, 30 March 2010


Deer Gerry, Is it knot an exquisite experience to stand at the half door. With a jam jar of Earl Grey tee clutched in one's slim, slender feminine hand. And watch Spring spread over the bog with vibriant colours and hugh's knot found in any artists palate?
"What splender" I entoned.
"What grandur, what irrepressible beauty is stalking the bog today.
"The pastel hugh's of Spring" I mummered.
"Fill my hart with tarra fierce emotional stirrings".
Love is in the air. I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my tows. "BEHOLD!" I exaulted.
"The sap is rising in tree, bush and sapling.
Briars, are creeping through the flora and fauna, like veritable snakes. The pregnant buds wool soon give birth. And a profussion of flowers will raise their fragile, etheral indecipherable petals towards the son. Even as we speak. Daisys are tunneling their way out of Coal-diz
The black cloak of Winter has been cast aside. And soon Spring will appear. Wearing a clinging, gauzy,sea-through floral dress. Spring is a lewd, wanton strumpet. Spring entices, teases and, like Uli Geller, starts up many a biological clock. The young heer the call to procreate and gambol wantonly round the Ghallic may pole. The old, who have run out of wild oats. Go clean mad and kan be scene leaping like hairs in the meadows and uttering hoarse, croaking, gutteral mating cries. All barriers and bounderies are swept aside in Spring.
Young girls thong the lanes and bye-ways wearing mini skirts up to their ars-derrieres. And underneath, nothing but a skimpy thong to keep the mild zeyher breezes from their child bearing under-carriages.
Young men strut and prance. Enticing the female with a display of pens in the jacket pocket. Lime green wellingtons with the tops seductively turned down or a sparkling pair of chrome bicycle clips.
How many wains have been born because of chrome bicycle clips? The number is legion.
So, I Rosie Ryan say on too you.
Embrace Spring. Throw your arms around Spring. Take Spring into your hart. But, also beware of Spring. Spring is a notorious remover of inhibitians.
Spring plays on the emotional strings of the female hart. Girls and indeed, women who should no better. Women who wood never say-yes. Now think to themselves, "I mite". Guards are lowered. Gates that were once barred and locked. Now swing freely in the breeze. Know thought is given too tomorrow.
Men lurk like predators in the bracken. Ready to pounce on a fair midden who is smitten by the bewitching lure of Spring.
Old men peep from the rushes. Seeking some old bag who who has lost all sense and reason. And is skipping gaily and doating under hawthorn blossoms looking for La-more.
Spring is a seductor. Spring is the instigater of debauchery and deprativy. Spring is lewdness presonified. Spring is a corrupter. Spring is a period of intemperance. Spring is an occasion of SIN!.
Mind you, having said all that. I hope to get to get down to some serious groaping after Lent is over.
From a Spring frisky,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Wednesday, 24 March 2010


Deer Gerry, I heer you were in remote parts of Co Tyrone this weak. I heer you travelled to parts of Tyrone that wood still resort too cannibalism if the chip van failed to turn up. You were on a mission Gerry. Your relentless, remoreless mission to bring arts and kulture to the wild savages of Tyrone.
I heer kulture vultures flocked to the venue you were speaking at on bicycles and donkey's and carts.
Of course Tyrone is knot kompletly devoid of arts and kulture. Tyrone is very proud of it's two sons of artistic merit. Hugo Duncan and Barney McCool.
I was going to go and sea you Gerry. But unfortunately I had trouble and strife in the gnashers department. I broke my false teeth while eating a raw turnip. I think that was an intervention by fate.
It is probably better if we never meet. Given my grate beauty and your lack of self control.
A grope Gerry, while being a thing of beauty and a joy forever,could in time come between us. How sad if the beauty of Clougher and the brane of Derry should drift apart over a common or garden grope.
It is knot your fault Gerry. You appreciate beauty and when you see grate beauty, like what I have, you have know kontrol over your hands. Hence the groaping for which you are rightly renowed.
But what a boon, what a joy it wood have bean to have my foto took with you. There we wood be on the front page of the Tyrone Konstitution. Me with my head laid on your manly chest. Looking up into your artistic face with the doe-eyed look of a dear.
Then as we parted, fluff from your green hairy gansey wood stick to the silky, feminine stubble on my face like soft etheral thistledown.
I wood have framed that foto and it wood hang side by side with the German Pope Roland Rats-zinger.
Gerry my sun Bon Jovi want's me too tell you to,
"Hang loose as a goose". I wool tell you know such thing. A man of letters, like yourself has better things to do, than hang loose as a goose.
I thought of you last nite Gerry. As I lay in bed listening to the bed springs and the rats squeak. I thought of the gentile conversation we could have had about arts and kulture. Grate paintings. Ballys, and the wild fat weeman who are drawn like veritable magnets to opera. I hope your bicycle was all rite when you left the venue of arts and kulture. I hope the fly boys in Tyrone did knot remove the seat. Leaving you a long, painful ride back to Derry.
Gerry, wool we forever be like too chips that pass in the nite? Who no's. Maybe. Maybe one day we wool meet. Hold hands, look into each others eyes and sing. "We'll gather lilics in the Spring again"
Until that day, a fond farewell from,
Rosie Ryan xxx
SP. Gerry, our relationship reminds me of Withering Heights. You are my Heath-Clift. Bounding like a wild eyed pony through the heath. Run free my Heath-Clift. Run FREE!.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010


Deer Gerry, Its grate two sea you back from foreign erotic plaices in thyme for saint Paddies day.
I suppose you will bee lilting at Free Derry korner for the Irish dancers. Its good two sea that you take your civil responsibilites seriously. I wish I could sea you, arrayed in green soot, shirt and tie. What a vision of Hibernian court, kah-tour you must bee.
On the dot of half past nine, my Sun Bon Jovi and me will form up in front of the midden and make our way to saint Judas church in Clougher in strict formation.
We wool be peeping like too snipers out of a veritable garden of shamrocks, dockens, ivy, green ribbons and suelugs. Bon Jovi has knot kleaned his teeth since Kristmas. So he kan flash a good green saint Patrick's day smile. I must curtail this letter Gerry. I have a twist in my tites that is driving me Do-Lally. I am glad to say that my green nickers lie in an untwisted state on the bed. So Gerry, have a good day. Take a wee packet of Tunes with you. Lilting kan be wild sore on the throat.
What a grate day it is. As Irish men and women pay honour too a man from Whales, Briton,France, or where ever the hell saint Patrick came from.
"K-Me-A-Fault-Yah" from-Rosie Ryan. xxx

Friday, 5 March 2010

On Reaching The Big 2000

Too-day, on this mendacious day. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I feel it enkumbat on me too thank every wan who helped me nock up 2,000 thumps on my blog. It has bean a long struggle.
There were thymes, oh yes! there were thymes when I thought it wood never happen.
In the pits of desperate despair, I walked my boud-wah by nite. Hoping, praying that my illerate talent wood be recognised by the boys who run arts and kulture.
And low, low and thrice-low, it came to past.
I stand now on the spinacle of literary fame.
I is a household name. A komfort for the old and a shinning beacon for the young.
WHY ME??? Many thymes have I stood a top the midden asking myself the very same question.
WHY ME? I left skool at nine too look after swine.
My literary brane has just noticed a little poem there.
Is is little bon mots. Little literary nuggets like that, which sets me apart from the maddening crowd and the lowering heard.
There was know golden spoon in my gub when I was born. OUT of the womb was I thrown.Like a drunk out of a public house. I was buck naked. I was konfused and I was bawling my big red face off.
Know Parker pen was put in my infantile hand. Know nanny whispered Latin verbs too me as I got stuck into a bottle of milk like a cannonball.
I was left to crawl over the germ infested floor.
I caught everything that was going. Chicken pox. Scarlet fever. Chillblaines. Gout. Hi blood pressure. Picnic attacks. Athletes foot, hands and bums-a-daisy. I fought off black death, yellow fever and a red rash on my juvinile derriere. I broke more bones than a Jack Russel killing a rat. Slates fell on my head. I fell down wells. I spent 40 days and nites in a bog hole. I was viciously attacked by, bulls, cows, rams, dogs. cats, rats, earwigs and marauding bogland snipe. My hart stopped three thymes. I was waked for a nite in a coffin, but leapt out at cock crow and got stuck into two buttered heels from a pan loaf. Much too the chargrin of deer mummy and daddy. Who had secreated the pan loaf heels for breakfast.
I am indescribable. As hard as nails. I is made from grantite and desil knot blood runs in my vains.
But the ills of my youth were as nothing kompared to the hankering in my hart. I was plagued by-hankerings. Night. Day. Hankerings invaded by brane. I was fair full of-hankerings. Other grate people have suffered from hankerings. But their hankerings, were nothing kompared to the hankerings that were driving me Do-Lally. I was driven mad by hankerings. Hankerings I could knot put a name too. Yet when the hankerings came, I knew I-hankered.
Hankered after-something etheral. Something-intangible. Something as hard to capture as a shadow on a Summer day. A will-o-the-wisp or the shy nocternal blindbat.
Then, one day I had my Your-eeh-ah
moment. I remember it well. I was emerging-meticulously from the eggberries where I had been squatting vacuating my bowls. As I tripped gaily and girlishly towards the portal of my abode. I fell over a clocking hen and fell on my mouth and nose. More nose than mouth, as the twin rivers of blood from both nostrils testified.
As I lay there groggy and non compes mentis. I was aware of the hens scratching in the dust. And suddenly I had an Episiotomy. The hens were-writing. The hens were riting in the dust. That was the moment my life changed. I sharped a stick and joined the hens as they wrote their blogs with beak and claw.
By the thyme I was a big lump of a cuttie. I had rote an illuminated account of the gospel of saint John on the side of the midden with a pointy stick. I rote the gospel in obtuse wild hard manderin and proudly singed my name with a flourish of the pointy stick.
The rest as they say is historinics. I taut myself Greek, Finish, Latin, Cretan, Moronaic and Arabic.
Grammer being the building blocks of language. I emmerced myself in vowls, verbs and additives.
"I before E, except after Pee" I entoned. As I sat hefted at the kitchen table. When all my I's were before E's, I wood hurry too the whins so I could now have a Pee.
I dabbled in poetry. I came 21st in Irelands Own with this little gem.
"WHY I LIKE GOD" bye Rosie Ryan
"I like God because he's good
On my table he puts food
In my cup he puts my tay
Well done God, Hip-Hip-Horray".
The judges said my poem had the simplicity of brane knot yet fully formed.
And I was only 28 at the thyme!.
Since then I have surfed the waves of knowledge. My head is fair stuffed with facts, figures and theorys.
It was me who came up with the invention I like to call musical nickers. A small music box, sewn into the gusset of the nickers, which wood play Handel's water music as a lady was hunkered in the whins having a slash.
I still plan to take that invention to the Dragon's den. I doubt may Dragon's will be OUT! As I give a demonstration on a po I have brought along with me.
Sometimes I wish my head was twice as big to hold all the ideas that are bubbling and fermenting in my noggin.
And so we come back to my 2,000 thumps on my blog. What lies ahead? Who nose. Books, balleys, operas and poems. Poems that tug at the hart strings and poems that will make you pee yourself with laughter.
In konclusion, I wood like to thank my mammy for producing the egg that made me and also, a big thank you too deer daddy for fertilising said egg.
I wood like too thank my skool teechers. Many of whom are dead or confined to menthol institutions.
But most thanks go to my loyal reeders. I could not have done it without you. It was you, who placed me at the spincture of arts and kulture. As I gaze down from my lofty position. I say a 'umble thanks and promise you, for Rosie Ryan, the only way is-UP!

Monday, 1 March 2010

Don't Irk Me!

Having kompleted my household chores, bye kicking all the rubbish on the floor out the door with my hobnailed boots. I got my bango down from on top of the press and plinked my way through all the works of Hi-Den and Poo-Geeny. Any idijt could play Hi-Den, but you have too have your wits about you to tangle with auld Poo-Geeny. Poo-Geeny is a crafty auld boy. He wool try and throw you off the sent bye changing from major to minor without so much as a hand signal. But I was up too Poo-Geeny's auld tricks and beat him at his own game. Teck-Neek. That's what music is all about. Teck-Neek. And when it comes to musical Teck-Neek, I am fare stuffed with it.
I kan rattle through any tune in the keys of A to Z.
Looking at the position of the son in the firament, I saw it would soon be time for my sun Bon Jovi to arrive home from Saint Judas skool his seat of learning. I quickly buttered too heels of a pan loaf with margerine and put the kettle on. I went too the door and scrutinised the horizon for any sign of my first born.
Suddenly! I saw a big head bobbing through the flora and fauna. It was my-SUN. It was the boy child who had-LEAPED from my fruitful lions at the first touch of the doctors foreceps.
I listened. The cub was singing. A frown crossed my beautiful face as the words drifted over the bog.
I harked my ears to the song the cub was guldering.
I want to hold them, like they do in Texas plays.
Fold them, let them hit me raise it baby stay with me I love it.
Luck and no intuition play the cards with spades to start.
And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart.
I ran and pulled the cub into the house. I shook the rascel and roared.
"How dare you show me up by roaring and guldering in front of the snipes and curlews in the bog".
The cub broke free and roared.
"Let go you ugly auld harridan, or I'll report you to Child Care".
"Listen boy" I roared.
"Don't you irk me today. I'm in no mood to be irked. Your incessant irking is getting on my nerves. So I'm warning you. Cut down on the irking or I'll brust your face".
Far from being chasened, the cub took up the fighting stance of the late, dead John L. Sullivan and began to dance around me.
"Come on big mouth" roared Bon Jovi.
"Put up your mitts. In my left fist I have thunder and in my rite fist I have lightening. Come on big mouth. Put up your mitts and lets see what a big man you are".
I immediately put my head on my chest. Raised my fists and shuffled around in the style of "Smoking" Joe Frazier.
Bon Jovi threw out a left. I parried it with my right. I threw a left. Bon Jovi danced away with a scornfull look on his ugly mug. We came together. Bon Jovi tried to head butt me. I pushed him off and tried a right uppercut. The cub danced into the corner. I followed with my head down. Bon Jovi hit me with a left right up the hooter and drew blood. I snorted and covered up. Bon Jovi, with a wicked snarl on his face came in for the kill. Slipped on the blood and fell on his arse. As Bon Jovi spaltered to his feet. I raised my hobnailed boot and gave him a terrible riser up the derriere. The cub went down. I grabbed him by the scruff off the neck and dragged him outside.
Bon Jovi yelled.
"Ref. Ref! The auld bag is holding".
I rammed Bon Jovi's big, round head into the water barrell. I kept Bon Jovi under the water, longer than is allowed by the Geneva Konvention. Then I pulled the cub out and threw him on the ground. Bon Jovi lay there like a drowned rat. I stood there gasping and panting. Blood was flowing freely from my swollen hooter.
Bon Jovi got slowly to his feet and stood there. A poor, bedraggled, pathetic wretch. A wave of pity ran through me. This was my sun. My only begotten-sun.
I looked into Bon Jovi's half drowned face and said-gently.
"I'm sorry Bon Jovi. But I warned you not to irk me. That is what you get for being irksome".
Bon Jovi bent over and vomited up half a bucket of water. Then the cub looked into my face. Soon the cub would say sorry. I would hug him and all would be well. Bon Jovi took a step forward until his nose was almost touching mine. Then the cub opened his mouth and guldered.
"IRK, IRK. IRK! You ugly auld bag"
Then the cub took off over the bog, with me after him. As the son set in the West and the heavy crows came home to roost.

Saturday, 20 February 2010


'Oft has it bean said by discriminating gentlemen.
That there languages in a bog just outside Clougher city limits. A damson of unparelled beauty, poise and grace. I is that beauty. I is Rosie Ryan, the pride of Clougher and surrounding districts.
Lack a day. Lack a day, 'Ner a day goes bye, but a kar wool travail by my rural rustic cottage. Reverse, roll down the winda and yell.
Does that happen to Kate Moss as she clumps down Carnaby street in London? I think knot.
I Rosie Ryan have that special something. That sets me apart from other weemen. I seem to give of an aura, a smell. 'Tis intangible but I have it in spades.
It kan knot bee bought. It occurs quite early on in the fertilised egg. A spark. A secret something. A gift from the Gods?. Who nose. But something magical happens. Something which insures that the creature who emerges from that fertilised egg, wool be pointed at, by those whose fertilised egg was not touched.
I have been touched. I Rosie Ryan have bean touched big time.
BEAUTY. What is it? Fare of form and face I suppose. Two big red bleezers of cheeks are proof that their owner is endowed with a rare and frightening beauty. Gnashers in abundance is also a fare indicater of grate beauty.
POISE. What is poise. Poise comes from the Greek "Poissely", which means knot too lumber about like an auld donkey with december.
Head Hi. Chest out. Terriere-clenched. That my friends is my deficiency of-poise.
GRACE. What is grace. Grace, Some of you with a devil may care altitude and a heathenish disposition wool be glad too know. That grace has got nothing to do with alter rails nibbling. Grace is the way you throw out your arms and feet. Know kicking or flinging. Slide. A graceful glide is much admonished by people with a gentile nature. The best way to learn who to-glide. Is too watch an auld doll or an auld codger walking. Never lift your feet. Shuffle. Shuffle in a gentile gliding motion. And people wool say.
"See yon Rosie Ryan. 18 stone but she slides with the grace of a fairy".
Beauty, poise and grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and do knot have beauty you are up shit creek without a paddle.
When I was a cuttie, I looked like a cub. I walked like a cub. I talked like a cub. But when I became a woman, I put cubbish things away.
My grate beauty should be seen through a glass-darkly. My radient presents is two much to take in for the kuman mind. Though I speak with the tongues of angels. Unless I speak of Arts and Kulture, I am but a sounding brass. A tinkling cymbal. An empty bucket being banged in front of a hungry calf at a rusty gait.
If you have it, flaunt it. If you don't have it, wear a mo-mo dress, keep your ugly gub cast down and hope for the best.
Some say that beauty is blind.
I say natterjacks and toadstools.
The eye of man, even the ugliest, humpiest wee nuck that every lived, is programmed to recognise grate beauty. When I strut down Clougher street. The word soon goes round. The pubs empty and groups of slack-arsed men stand and point at me.
They titter behind their hands and make jokes about big fat bags.
Compensating for their gauchness they blame she who allures them with a beauty bordering on inhuman and unnatural. 'Tis the price I have to pay. 'Tis the burden I have too carry.
With grate beauty comes grate responsibility. A wink of my eye. A crook of my little finger and half the men in Clougher would leave wives and wains and be sleeping rough round my haggard.
I know they fear me, even hate me. For I have a gravitational pull over their emulsions. "Oh why was I born so beautfull?" I shriek into my mirror in the dead of night.
Beauty, poise grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and have knot got beauty, you have got the shitty end of the stick.
These three. Beauty, poise and grace I have in abundance.
Youse have bean listening too Rosie Ryan who is touched. TOUCHED by a beauty that is tarra too behold.
I leave you now, to empty po's and make a cup of tay.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

A Theatrical Swaree

Deer Gerry, I was crouched the other morning in front of the dead fire. With my sweaty, matted mass of red hare hanging round by big red face.
I new I bore a striking resemblance to the Oracle of Derry. I could feel beauty ratiate out of my two big red bleezers of cheeks. If auld Rem-Brant were too peep over the half door. He wood cry,
"Aussitot it aussitot fait". And whip out his paint brush before you could say, Fats Domino.
He wood probably call the masterpiece,
"Damson in the ashes". And I wood be hung in the French Louve. The Are-Ah-Stockery wood flood to see me. They wood kiss their hands and explain,
"Mon dew, She's a grate, big, fat lump of an argiculture Irish girl".
I wood be the toast of gay Paree. I wood stroll by the sane. Holding a gaily coloured paradiddle aloft and giggling girlishly as the fragile cherry blossoms fell on my upturned visage.
"Veeve-ah lah France" I would yell.
And the bi-lingual French wood yell in reply.
Every nite I would be scene at the opera. Clapping like a seal at the way the bally dancers could throw out their legs. "Rose'ee" the French wood cry. "Rose'ee. Give us an auld blirt of a song"
And I wood throw back my slim, swan like neck and respond with, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore".
"Encore!" the Frenchies will yell. "Encore!".
I wood stand waving from my balcony and gulder.
"Senor's, no more encore. I don't know anymore. I must leave you now and lay my pretty head on a rose petal strewn pillow in my bud-wah".
"Wee" the French wood reply. "Wee-Wee".
"Senor's" I wood yell. "If wee comes in the nite. I have le-po under the bed. I did knot come unprepared"
I looked up as my sun Bon Jovi crawled out of his cardboard box. The cub stood there, clad in tattered torn simmet. He yawned, broke wind and scratched his too rear cheeks viciously and with fierce ferocity. The cub was grooming himself.
I spat a big glob of green flem into the back of the fire. Opened my rosebud mouth and sang.
"Oh what a beautiful morning. OOH! what a beautiful day. I've got a wild funny feeling, my wee cub's looking for tay".
I parted my matted mass of red hare to look at what had emerged from my fertilised egg and said.
"Bon Jovi, my bon cabellero, sit down. There is something I wish too disgust with you.
And DO pull your simmet down over your knees. I don't want you sitting there like Lindsay Lochera or Andy Stewart. "Bon Jovi" I said.
"I plan too throw a little swaree".
"And just how far do you plan to throw the little swaree?" said Bon Jovi.
And he went into a fit of braying laughter. That wood do kredit too a donkey with a long line of insanitry in its family.
"Here are some party inversions I have rote out with green crayon" I said.. "After you get dressed.Literally- LEAP! on your bicycle and deliver the inversions to the parish priest. The skool Principality and auld Mona McGrunge who runs the nicker emporium in Clougher. And during the swaree I want you too circulate among the kompany with a plate of Ah-derves".
As I waited for the RSVCPES to return, I kleaned the hole house from top to bottom with undiluted jeyes fluid.
Alas, and as the man said, alak, the gentile swaree is off
The parish priest said he could not attend. Due to the fact that he had lost his religion in a korner of the graveyard. Norton McThrottle, the skool principality resorted too the auld piles excuse. "Mona McGrunge of the nicker emporium said she had suddenly came over all gay and was going hiking for the weekend with wee Myrtle Mc Van Doran.Who sells the Massanger outside the chapel every Sunday. All good reasonable excuses. So the gentile swaree has been posponed indefinately. What a pity. I planned to stick a pillow up the back of my gansey and do a wild long bit from Richard the third.
"NOW! Is the Winter of our discompent.
Maid glorious Summer by the nobbled Duke of York.
And all the clouds that glowered upon our house
In the deep boobs of the ocean buried"
Intellectuality is fair leaping out of me.
All I need in a-venue-an outlet and I could be another Helen Mirror.
OH how I wood like to strut. Like a wanton ambling nymph.
OUT! OUT! Damn Spot!.
'TIS the grate whale. 'TIS Toby Dick!.
I kan't get enough of the Klassicals.