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.