Friday, 31 December 2010

Hapy Mahogany to every-wan!

Gerry, may I burrow your ether too wish every-wan in the provident of Ulster a hapy mahogany from me, Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi my sun, air and off spring.
The knew year is a thyme for refraction.
We is turning a knew page. We have a blank peace of paper in front of us, lets ferventy hope and prey we don't shit in the nest like we did last year.
Too the many churches I say, Keep on teeching the word of God, as handed down to Moses when he spaltered up mount Kill-ah-man-jarrow.
Onto other do, as you would do and knot what you now do to others.
Love your neighbour-YES! that shit who lives in the house beside you as yourself.
Come down like a ton of bricks on sexual shennigans, how's you father and depravity and debauchery.
BRING back SIN, hell's fire the devil and the holy rack!
Too all bankers I say, take you're hands out of our pockets and stap spectatoring with our spon-dew-lucks.
You kan knot follow to Gods, so make up your minds, God or Mammoth!
To the young I say, oh bay your daddy and mammy, unless they are head-bangers and piss hounds.
To all over 50 I say, It's all over! There is know more!. Stap making fools of yourselves and go home and dote in front of the fire like a christian.
To our political leaders I say, get your finger out!
Put your shoulder to the grindstone, your nose to the wheel and lets work together.
For together, we will stand every boy, girl, woman and man.
There may be some of you out there, oh yes!, oh yes! I know who you are.
There may be some of you thinking why should I listen to that fruit bat Rosie Ryan, what does she no?.
Well let me tell you, I am fully cognitive in Inglish, Fizz-eeks, Ass-tromity, Nuclear shennigans, Gee-ography, Medical matters relating to the under-carriage, I also have a smattering of Greek, Roman, Hin-do, Bellaruse and Ulster/Scots. I kan also sing, dance, yodel, lilt, whistle and play the banjo and the spoons.
That's my Kir-lick-you-lum Vitie, now, show me you'rs!.
Gerry, a small coda to the wild lack of water and H20 in the Belfast district.
Bon Jovi and me got too spades and divered a burn towards the barren, sandy, deserts of Belfast.
"Every little counts" as the man said.
As he was hit with a cow pat while drowning in a sewage tank.
I leave you with an old Arabic saying that has stood me in good stead over the years.
Hasta La-Vista my commoncheros.
Rosie Ryan and sun Bon Jovi.
(He sprang from my lions you no)

Thursday, 23 December 2010

Kristmas Cooking with Rosie

Gerry, my bon a-me. May I borrow your hair waves to say a big, hodie mihi cras tibi, Erin go bragh and a big thank you, to Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries.
The bounty of road kill they have brought me this Kristmas is unparelled in quantity and quality.
I have stoats, weasels,peasents, badgers and a ginger thing with a bell round its neck that could well be a domestos kat.
Gnashers at No 13 the bog road Clougher wool be working overtime on Kristmas day.
There may be some young ladies out there, shacking up or newly married who don't no how to cook yuletide road kill let me ah-luce-ah-date.
FIRST! All road kill must be nude. My sun Bon Jovi and me wool remove all feathers, fur, hair or wool.
Then cut off all heads and tales, but don't throw these away. The heads and tales of rodents make a thick, rich stock that wood make Oxo look like insipid piss-pee.
Now, marionette. Marionette the succelect flesh over-nite in a dish of Guinness, cider and just a sue-spoon of Benelin cough medicine.
Place the road kill on a roasting dish that has been liberally smeared with vaseline petroleum jelly.
Then, simply pop it into a red hot oven. Don't worry about hi-tech oven timers, the shrill squeel of the smoke defectors wool alert you to the fact that your Kristmas dinner is ready.
By now your spuds, karrots and brussel sprouts should also be ready.
Simply heap on to plates and get stuck in.
Bon Jovi and me never talk during Kristmas dinner. We sit crouched over, protecting our dinner with our elbows emitting anamalistic grunts, yelps and growls.
By the time the Queen says.
"On behalf of my husband and me" Bon Jovi wool run to open the half door to accomodate the salvo of breaking wind which follows.
Then, full as too poisoned pups, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box, breaking wind intermittenly, while I utulise the po leap into bed and billow the duvet as a thick,turgid, gurgling stream of road kill makes its way to my large intestate.
And that my Yuletide chums, is how Rosie Ryan cooks road kill.
From Bon Jovi and me,
"We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
And a nappy knew 'ere! from,
Rosie Ryan, the Fanny of Clougher!
PS. Oh, I meant two rite, the Fanny Haddock of Clougher!

Thursday, 16 December 2010

PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas.

I've had a few Gerry.
I was in Clougher today, UP CLOUGHER! and got in-e, in-e, pissed as a newt.
I pushed the coracle out Gerry. I tied one on. I supped some stuff today.
I am riting this letter with a bucket between my legs.
But let me reassure you that know unseasonable slashing is going on, I just feel a bit of a boke coming.
My sun, the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi went with me to clougher. UP BON JOVI!
I fought too farmers in Mulligans bar today and beet the shi-stuffing out of both of them.
I caught one of them looking up my skirt.
How did I no he was blind?
As I punched the face of him, he kept shouting to his friend.
Who's battering the face of me Willie John?
Who's battering the face of me?"
Then Willie John stuck his big nose in and I broke it was a straight rite up the hooter.
When I left Willie John and Ray Charles were lying in a bloody heap in the korner.
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas. UP CHRISTMAS!
Kristmas abounds with imagery. The brite star.
The three alsations, I mean-shepherds.
The manager, the baby Jesus. Gold, Frankenstein and mirror. And the voice from above.
"This is my beloved cub in whom I is well pleased"
Big tiers are running down my big beautiful red face as I rite this. How moving. I am choked with emulsion.
Gerry, you are my bestest, bested friend.
You are Gerry, don't demeur. You is the bestest friend a woman ever had.
And in all the years we have known each other,knot one grope, fissle, or fumble.
Our relatioship is knot built on passion or lust.
We have a plank-tonic relationship Gerry.
Well the old bucket on the floor tells me it is time to go.
The bucket is nearly full and wool require empyising.
God bless you Gerry Anderson. You have been like a poxy husband to me.
Always there when I needed to pour my hart out to you.
I must go Gerry, I'm starting to slide of my chair.
May God keep you under his wing like a clocking hen, until the time comes to don wings, white nightdress and pick up your harp. UP TYRONE! UP MICKY HARTE!
I is,
Rosie Ryan xxx