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,