Sunday, 31 January 2010

The Gloria Gainor Of Clougher

Deer Gerry, What a foundering me and my oft spring Bon Jovi got during the cold weather. We were snowed in Gerry. Cut oft from humididy.
The snow was up to my waste and up too Bon Jovi's oxters.Ex-key-mo's, that's what we were. Ex-key-mo's.
I had plenty of turf, but the turf was frozen into a veritable mound of frozen turf. My water was also frozen Gerry and icicles hung from my spout.
Bon Jovi and I lived for three weaks on chicken feed. I added hot water and it was quite palatable.
And I kan now konfirm too the scientific world that there is know side effects from eating hen meel.
I was afraid that Bon Jovi mite take to sleeping up in the rafters at nite. But the cub never let wan cluck out of him, or showed any disposition for laying an egg.
But I must say as time went on, both mother and sun showed an inordinate fear of prowling foxes.
I lagged both our under-carriages with bubble wrap. Too keep our reguvenative system from shutting down. I am hapy too report that both under-carriages are firing on all cylinders. And the Prog-noeses for grandchildren is 100%. Bon Jovi has promised to call his first sun Millington after my grandfather. If, when respected by the doctor, the child is a girl she wool be called Milly. I kan't wait to bounce my grandchildren on my knee like beech balls.
"Rosie" I heer you ask.
"How did you survive such a foundering?"
I wool tell you how I survived such a foundering Gerry. I was brought up like a hanimal. I was born in a cow shade and inhibited that structure until I was a big lump of a cuttie. I resided there with deer Mummy and Daddy. The only running water we had, came from us nose's and us you know what's. When the rats tackled me in my cot, I fought like a wild-kat. I learned from an early age it was dye or survive. At the age of too I could crunch stoat bones between my infantile gnashers. I was dressed in the skin of a beaver. I bit anything that was put in front of me. Including fingers and thumbs. I had the hearing of the blind bat and the sight of an howl. Devoid of porridge, I had to foriage. I wood wrestle a rat for a rotten spud. I communicated in grunts, yelps and snorts. I never had a shoe on my foot until I was 19. And even than, it was an auld boot and a wellington. Don't talk to me about hard thymes Gerry. I have known hunger so intense I thought of eating my own mammy. Not knowing that mammy was thinking the very same thoughts about me. I have been frozen in ice like the woolly mammoth and lived too tell the tail. I had frozen snotters stuck too my nose that looked like tusks. Very handy for rooting about in the frozen tundra. I have eaten everything that moved. From small aunt's too sheep stuck in bog wholes.
I am a surviver Gerry. As is the fertilised egg that sprang from my lions in the dead of nite. When the nuclear bomb goes off, Bon Jovi and I shall burrow deep underground and live on worms and clay until it is safe to surface.
We is Ryan's. And the last man left standing wool be a Ryan. I stand a top this midden. My garments blowing in the wind and I proclaim.
"Nature! Do your worst. Send snow, reign, tempest blast. Do your worst.
Fry me with heat. Founder me with cold. But you wool knot defeat Rosie Ryan. I am the Gloria Gainor of Clougher and I wool-SURVIVE.
Mind you Gerry. When the snow was gone and the breadman was able to call. It was nice in the extreme to get stuck into the cream buns again.
"Home is the little sailor, home from the see and Rosie home from the bog"
Ah-Veed-Ah-Zen Pet.

Wednesday, 6 January 2010

I Need Help!!!

Gerry, HELP! I need somebody. HELP! not just any body.
I have just brought my red flannel drawers in from the cloths line. And they are like a board. Hard as iron with inpregnated ice and frost.
It is imperative that these drawers are encircling my under-carriage by Hi - noon.
I have an annointment with the bank manager at wan oh clock. I am looking a loan to buy a knew wheel barrow. FAITH! may indeed move mountains. But it will knot shift the dung from my midden into my back garden.
Throw it out to your listeners. I am open to any subjections. BUT if auld Jordie comes on bumming about Jeyes Fluid,- hunt him. I wool KNOT pour corrosive Jeyes Fluid over my good red flannel drawers. That cost a King's Ester ransome in the Kay's katalogue. The drawers is sitting, of their own accord may I add, in front of a big roaring fire. Steam is rising. But as yet, I kan detect know dicernable softening in the rigid red flannel.
My sun Bon Jovi. He who sprang like a veritable Jack-In-The-Box from my lions on a barmy Summer nite some years ago, is laughing and making fun of me. My off-spring is calling me, Old Iron Drawers. Can you imagine it Gerry. The lump of a cub I have neutered and nourished from birth is called ME-his Mater-Old Iron Drawers! Usually I wood blame the parents. But in this case I think the fault lies with Bon Jovi. Who is a gulpin of unnatural evil and demonaic nature.
How can I face the bank manager without drawers? I planned to flutter my eye lashes. Wet my pouting moist red lips. And cross and uncross my two big plump blew veined legs. Hoping the bank manager wood be captivated and enraptured bye my femine charms and throw out the spondulects.
But two carry out my plan, I need drawers. Pliable drawers. Not hard drawers that is standing like a Henry Moore sculpture in front of my fire.
One though keeps going through my head. OH deer God in heaven.Wool I have to go-COMMANDO? I don't want to be known as Britney Speers round Clougher and surrounding districts. But I need the loan of £50. My wheel barrow is on it's last legs. Ever since the wheel fell off. If necessity dictites, I wool resort too doing a Sharon Stone. If a knew wheel barrow is at stake-I wool flash.And flash again and again-repeatly. I will flash the lights at HE!. I kan always tell it later in confussions.
Gerry put out an all points bulliton. Put out a TMD. Which stands for thaw my drawers. Some man or woman out there must have some knowledge of frosted drawers. And Gerry, should you read in the Clougher Jewish Chronicle about a case of-flashing. Remember, it was all done for a good cause and in the best possible taste.
And now my water has frozen! And I was just going to cleanse my under-carriage with a scrubbing brush and a bar of Lifeboy soap. Gerry send round that Lativian boy, Molatov Cocktail to have a futter at my pipes.
Once again, your house bound honey, Rosie Ryan finds herself up shit creek without a paddle.And Gerry, spare a thought for the well off ladies. Who will find their build in bathroom bibby's iced up to the gunnels. THis is a wild tarra thyme for weeman. Imagine the number of weeman.. Who wool be squatting in front of the fire tonight. With basins of hot water. Doors securly bolted and locked and men and dogs banished as they go about their inimitable toiliteries.
Al Gore's a rite hoor!. From your housebound honey, Rosie Ryan xxx