Tuesday, 30 November 2010


Deer Gerry and all my deer, deer fiends at radio Foul, what a Sam Magee storm we is going through.
My sun Bon Jovi and me is fare foundered.
Us under-carriages have bean in cold storage for daze.
The big question is, wool they still work when the thaw comes?
I suppose its a case of Kay-Sir-Ah-Sir-Ah.
The Winter scenery is nice, but too hell with the scenery, if icicles are hanging where they have never hung before.
Know Pan loaf has come up my lane for fore daze.
Its at thymes like these that one's thoughts turn to cannibalism. Bon Jovi has grate big meaty legs on him.
I wonder wood it be a sin?. Sure the cub could get through life with wan leg!
And I no that Bon Jovi is eyeing me up as nourishment.
Last nite the cub said I was strutting about like a big turkey.
Where is it all going to end Gerry?. I blame auld Al Gore for giving the weather the green lite to go hay-wire.
How is all at radio Foul Gerry?. I hope all appendages are a counted for.
The wee boy wood be sus-ceptable to frost bite. His under-carriage is so close to the ground.
Fill him up Gerry. Fill the wee boy up with aunty freeze.
All we kan do Gerry is hang on Sloopy. Mark my words, people wool be eaten before this cauld hanlin' is over.
The wildlife is stalking me and Bon Jovi. We can't go out because of ravenous weasels, stoats, wolves and grizzly bares.
Those who frequently break wind in bed have an advantage in weather like this.
Nature has equipted them with their own hot air blower.
Thank goodness I am a frequent farter as is my dinner, I mean my sun Bon Jovi.
Hang on Sloopy, is my advice Gerry.
This too shall pass.
But the number of people eaten could well be legion.
I hope you have your, you no what well lagged.
I must go Gerry, Bon Jovi is lurking with intent in the scullary.
Put that hatchet down you gulpin!
Rosie Ryan xxx

Sunday, 14 November 2010


Bon Jovi my first born and only boy child and I sat in front of a big roaring fire eating us snaps, crackles and pops.
Mother and sun were similary arrayed in dirty grey simments and nickers.
Outside the wind howled and the rain beet against the winda.
I swallowed a big spoonfull, a loving spoonfull of the snaps, crackles and pops and said.
"Its a bad day sun".
Bon Jovi broke wind with an ear-splitting dunder and replied.
"It is a bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition. Trees wool be uprooted today" said Bon Jovi.
"Stacks of hey blown away and old codgers, shall roll down the streets of Clougher like veritable tumble-weeds".
"On a day like today" I said.
"I pass the thyme away writing down my thoughts on chemstery, science and the erratic behavour of super novas".
"Make sure you keep all your jottings for posterior"
said Bon Jovi.
I have been going over your notes and your work on nuclear sic-eeks and dark matter is truely revolutionary and ground breaking. When your thesis is published, don't be surprised if you have to sign for a nobel prize delivered first klass by Parcel Force".
I licked the remments of my snaps, crackles and pops off my bowl with my tongue and said.
"All my endevours are for the good of mankind. If I have been given a big brane, housed in a big head it behoves me too use my grate intelligence KNOT for Nobel prizes, but to boldly go where know head housing a brane like what I have has gone before".
I threw an empty milk bottle at a rat that was looking at me funny and said.
"And prey tell my bon cabelero what you are working on at the presant moment in thyme".
"Ass-tromity" said Bon Jovi.
"I have knostructed a knew telescope that grately aids me in my never ending journey to unravel the time, cause and aftermath of the big bang".
HARK!" I cried.
"Do tell your old mater how you konstructed such a cracker of a telescope".
"Simples" said Bon Jovi.
"I put twelve jam jars into a sewer pipe.
Now my view of the cosmos has been enlarged twelve fold, allowing me unfettered acess to the mysteries of the universe and surrounding districts".
"And have you made any startling, knew discoveries" I asked.
As I eased my volupous rear nearer the fire.
"For a fleeting moment" said Bon Jovi.
"I thought I had detected life in the darkness of space, but it turned out to be an aunt that was trapped in wan of the jam jars".
"An elemental mistake that even auld Einstein could have made" I replied.
"Tell me this and tell me know more, have you come to any defininate konclussion as to the wild lot of rings around Saturn?"
"I think the rings are made up from flocks of birds" said my sun and air.
"Their little beaks are attracted to Saturn's magnetic fields and they circle and circle Saturn until they pop their little clogs".
"Amazing!" I shrieked.
"In thyme you wool be known as the bird man of Saturn".
Outside the wind increased in volicity and ferocity. The rain was fair pelting down.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Half past nine" said Bon Jovi.
"Morning or evening?" I asked.
"Morning" replied Bon Jovi.
"How long have we been out of our beds?" I asked.
"Twenty minutes" said Bon Jovi.
I yawned, scratched my belly, broke wind violently and said.
"Our branes are tired. Lets go back to bed and get up at fore o'clock in the afternoon in time for the cartoons".
"That" said Bon Jovi.
"Is an excelant idea"
I walked with grate grace and decorum up the stairs and Bon Jovi crawled into his cardboard box.
Thinking kan take it out of you.
Soon mother and sun were asleep, perchance to dream and break wind with dunders of unparelled magnitude.
It was a wild bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition.

Thursday, 4 November 2010

Rosie Beats The Bucking Bronco

Gerry Atchung! Clougher has at last broken into the 21st centurian. Knot only did the council put a big stone over the leaking shi--sewage at Hussain's corner, but on Monday Clougher's premier nite club the, "Come on yeh boy" took possession of a second-hand bucking bronco.
All weak, Billy the bucking bronco has bean tossing the Clougher boys about like rag dolls.
On Monday nite, a big crowd saw auld Pedro McTwiffle thrown time and time again, until big Maud his wife threw in the towel claiming auld Pedro was suffering from noggin concussion and two hernia's in his forkal area.
It wool be a while before auld Pedro throws the leg again. The word on the street is, big Mauld is now looking for a toy boy.
Toy boy my arse. Any boy who wood take on big Maud with the lites on is a better man that me, Gudga Din.
That strumpet Caroline McSnipe showed herself up when she mounted the bucking bronco wearing a wee, tite mini-shirt. She was thrown up in the air and ripped her nickers on the way down on auld Jethro McDingdong's zimmer-frame. The barman threw her out and told her knot to come back again without a good, stout pear of red flannel drawers.
Jimmy the jump broke his nose on Wednesday nite when he was thrown out the open dour and under the wheels of Mulligan's hearse.
Then auld drunk Bosco McSimmet slipped while trying to get on the horse and nocked out all his teeth and cut the hole face of himself.
Poor auld Bosco is sitting like a grotsque in the corner of the bar sipping Guinness through a rubber tube.
A catheter I believe that he stole from the hospital when his liver packed in last Kristmas.
"Drink is killing you" the doctor said.
"Not at tall" slurred Bosco.
"Its the wild price of it!".
But the biggest hanlin' happened on Fryday nite when the parish priest came into the bar to sell tickets for a knew weeman's toilet for saint Judas church. The auld zinc bucket behind the coal bags is no way for a woman to slash before preying to the Lord.
It is undignified and unsanity.
As the priest was making his way round the pub extorting money from people's pockets. Wee dumpy Harriet McScunner was thrown off the bucking bronco and flew through the air wild eyed and legs akimbo and wrapped herself round the poor priest's neck like a scarf.
The priest pulled wee Harriet off and threw her into a corner yelling.
"Pastor Nobbis, inter eeh boo.
Get off me you strumpet and don't try your auld garden of Eden shennigans on a man who was concentrated to God by lying prostate in front of an alter".
By the end of the weak Clougher was full of the walking wounded.
Some boys could knot tie their hobnailed boot laces or throw their legs on an auld bicycle.
The priest gave a wild hell fire and brimstome sermon on Sonday.
He called the bucking bronco a demonic, infernal machine of the devil and warned the people that all the bouncing up and down wood do grate damage to their reproducing organs.
"Because of that bucking monstresity" yelled the priest.
"There wool knot be wan Cat-lick wain kristened in saint Judas church for the next 30 years".
The priest then retreated to a retreat to denounce the snares and pomps of Beelzebub and his legions of black imps and fallow devils.
It was Hi-noon on Saturday when my sun Bon Jovi and me moosied into Clougher.
I was wearing a rhine-stone gansey and a pear of German lether-hosen by daddy had found in a crashed German plain during the war.
A hush settled over the bar as Bon Jovi and me entered.
"Oh look!" yelled auld Cosmo "The weasel" McSkitterstick.
"Its Kalamity Jane and the dirty-arsed kid".
I ignored the taunts and jeers by roaring.
"Ill burst the next man that opens his gub".
I approached Billy the bucking bronco. It was a sturdy peace of equitment.
I leaped on the bucking bronco like a blue-arsed fly and yelled.
"Turn her on! Put her up to top speed.
Why there isn't a gosh-durned horse, donkey, mule, or goat that could throw Rosie Ryan".
For the next too hours I clung on like a limpet as Billy bucked, leaped, spun round and round and kicked and flung.
The crowd was going mad.
Sweat ran down my big, red, beautiful face.
My under-carriage was taking a hell of a beating.
I knew the next time I had a slash it wood sting like hell.
I wrapped my lether-hosen, alabaster Colossus of Roads thighs round Billy and let yelps, squeels and shrieks out of me like a Banshee on Red Bull.
Just when I thought I could hang on no longer. Billy exploded in a shower of springs, nuts, bolts and hydrolic rams.
I was carried through Clougher on the shoulders of a group of cheering men.
I think I got a grope or too, but my under-carrige was that numb it was hard to know.
Once again, I had proven that Rosie Ryan was the best man in Clougher.
I lie in bed now. Legs akimbo and covered in Kar-a-mine lotion.
My under-carriage is on fire and trips to the po is torture presonfied.
Some wag has penned this ode on a gable wall in Clougher.
"Rosie Ryan is no dope
Without the use of a length of rope
With thunder thighs like redwood trees
She brough poor Billy to his knees."
One again Rosie Ryan has risen to the challenge and came out succubos!