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.