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.