Wednesday, 21 December 2011


Deer Gerry, as we approach the festering season, it is good to no that Clougher know longer celebrates Kristmas with a kuman sacrifice.
There was a brief return to the bad old daze in 2005, when a stranger was dragged from his bicycle and never seen again.
The hole grizzly hanlin' was hushed up by the parish priest, the town elders and wee Tommy Tucker, representing the loyal order of Druids.
Pounds of special mince are flying from the supermarket shelves, as Clougher prepares to welcome the birth of wee JC with a good feed.
Clougher Hi street is a veritable fairyland, with fore Christmas lites on wan side of the street and three lites on the other side.
The Christmas tree, may lean like the tower of pizza, but the wains of Clougher look at it with amazement. Not just the wains, those who drool from the mouth and wet their trousers with impunity point to the tree and babble some festive gibberish. The small, condemed shops are choc-ah-block with late nite shoppers splashing out on Biro pens, bags of dolly mixtures and gaily wrapped boxes of Preparation H. YES! the countdown to Kristmas has began. On Kristmas morning, every member of saint Judas mouth organ band that is sober, or able to walk will march from the graveyard too the chapel. The priests Kristmas sermon this year deals with the banking crisis. He will deliver the first lines, "Better had a millstone bean tyed round their neck!" in a bull-like gulder.The PINS, are standing by in case his inflamatory words leads to an attempt to burn down the bank of Ireland. We live in dangerous thymes Gerry. The disappearance of the spondulects has given rise to a caldren of anger that has yet to be vented. When the great Vent comes, woe to he, or she who is with child, or ploughing a field with a pear of bollocks. Don't turn back for your coat Gerry. You can always order another out of Kays katalogue.
I have my Kristmas all planned. After mid-nite mass, I wool slip in the back door of Patels pub and drink to ten o'clock on Kristmas morning. I will then stagger home and incinerate a duck for us Kristmas dinner.There wool sit my beloved sun Bon Jovi, wearing a paper hat and a black eye patch for his lazy eye. I will sing, "Amazing Grace" and then we will get stuck in. Elbows guarding our plates and growls, grunts and yelps guarding our food. We will knot leave the table until we are both glazzy eyed and bloated like poisoned pups. Bon Jovi wool turn on the Queens speech. I wool loyally agree with her Majesty by yelling, "You tell it like it is sister! I couldn't have put it better myself and fine girl you are!".
By now us digestive systems wool be in ferment. We will rectify this by a strenuous bout of violent rifting and ferocious farting. This wool make way for some chocolate cake and a cup of tea. Soon, Bon Jove wool crawl into his cardboard box. I wool retrieve the bottle of the crater from up the chimney and offer a toast to God, for a good, holy, christian Kristmas, were nobody got killed, scalded or received any deep cuts or gashes requiring stitches.
This is Rosie Ryan saying, Merry Kristmas Gerry, Sean boy, Emma, Janet and Ken.

Friday, 11 November 2011

Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling!
Deer Jelly, Walter Love or Lord Reith once said. "A weak is a wild long time in radio". Sediments witch I hearly endorse. Your weak has bean a tour de-farce in broadcasting. Your sav-eh-fair and Bon-a-me shone out of the radio like a shinning beacon. Your personality literally oozed out like Lyle's golden syrup. And your Kar-is-ma was made man-eh-fest every time you spoke. Give yourself a pat on the back and say, "Kelly, you're knot done yet!"
My sun, Bon Jovi, he with the big head and round shoulders, came in with an armfull of turf and said.
"Auld Coyle the interupter next weak. What a horrible prospect for a lump of a cub to have to put up with".
"This too shall pass" I said. The trouble with Sean Coyle is, his mouth is always running ten yards in front of his brane". Bon Jovi dropped the turf, looked into the cracked mirror and said. "WELL!, hello good looking. What's a pretty boy like you doing living on the outskirts of Clougher with an old head-banger?"
I stood there with my mouth open,like Alasdair McDonnell caught in the head-lites of a kar and roared.
"You ugly wee gulpin! I am the beauty in this house. You look like a wee troll. I wood say you fell off Gods pottery wheel wance or twice before he put you into the kiln". "You ugly old bag" roared Bon Jovi. "Standing there like a bag of hey tied in the middle. Why do you never look in the mirror anymore? You kan't handle the truth!. You look like a deformed auld goblin with that hump on your back". Its NOT a hump!" I yelled. "Its a curveature of the spine like what the gracefull ballerinas have. How dare you speak of poise and grace. If your head gets any bigger you will have to wear a neck brace". Then you came on the radio Jelly and mother and sun settled down to listen. I smiled at Bon Jovi and said. "You're knot really ugly, just-
different". Bon Jovi looked up at me and said, "And you're not an old bag, just- badly assembled". Thank you Jelly for restoring peace and tranquility to the home of Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi.
'Till the next time. ROSIE RYAN xxx

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

A Culshie In New York.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling!
Deer Jelly,what exquisitive joy to heer your strong, barry-tone voice waft over the rolling prairies and deep ravines of Co Tyrone. I thank you from the bottom of my hart for standing in for Gerry Anderson. And my sun, Bon Jovi thanks you from his bottom too.
I am sure Jelly that you are compes-mentos of the fact that Gerry Anderson is running round Knew York, wearing a very short simmet and a wee pear of blew nickers. I wood be the last person on earth too say anything dee-ogg-raty about Gerry, but I can't help but feel he left it a bit late to start acting the Master McGraw. A man in the twilight years of his life should be dozing in front of the fire and sucking champ through a straw.
Your golfing handicap, Mr Coyle is also in Knew York. Walking about like a culshie with his mouth hanging open. Staring up at big, tall buildings like a boy who was never out of the house and shouting, "Hello there! How's it going?" to everyone he meets. What must the American's think of him Jelly? Walking about like Forest Gump with a green gansey on him and his name and address pinned to his chest.
I kan't sea any inward investment coming from this ill-fated, ill-timed, puke retching trip!
How is you Jelly? Us, me and Bon Jovi are as happy as Alasdair McDonnell, in a dimly lit room. A knew, thrusting, elequent leader who kan't read with the lights on-just what the SDLP was crying out for. Wait 'till HE hits America! Bon Jovi, arrayed in "Joe Bloggs" dungarees, sends his love. As do I, arrayed in hob-nailed boots, tartan, drindle skirt, puce blouse and a laurel wreath of germaniums in my hare. If the good Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I may send you another epistile before the weak end.
It just remains for me to sign off with a rousing , "Come On Yeh Boy Yeh and Keep Her Lit!!!!! Rosie Ryan xxx

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Bon Jovi And The Speed Of Dark.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling! Deer Gerry, Dee-Jay and my-strow of fun and frolics. 'Tis I, Rosie Ryan, beauty, phill-ossifier and bit of rough for the forestery workers. How is you Gerry? I and my sun Bon Jovi, is tickety-BOO!. "Tis with grate sadness and tarra grief that I retort the demigration of auld Ollie "Jump the shuck" Rambouillet. Auld Ollie was 91 and a half when his clogs went POP! He will be missed Gerry. He wool be sorely missed by those who new him before death cast its long shadow over him and left him bereft of life. Doctor Tony Tucker arose from the bed and said, "He has gone!". Auld Ollies wife Pandora, opened her mouth and shrieked. "KNOW! KNOW! Knot my little-Ollie! GONE!" she shrieked. "And never called me sweet cheeks" Then auld Pandora took a spalter and went down like a sack of spuds. As she fell her head made contact with the po. A chip flew off the po with a ZING! and auld Pandora got a nasty gash rite above her left eye. "LET HER LIE!!" yelled doctor Tucker. As auld Patsy Zanadoo hurried over looking for a crafty grope.
"She may have sustained spinal tap injuries when she fell" Doctor Tucker stuck a poker in the fire until it was red hot. Then he withdrew the poker by pulling it out of the fire. Doctor Tucker put the sizzling poker to old Pandora's bare feet and ejuclated. "Mrs Rambouillet, can you feel THAT!". Auld Pandora, gave a shriek like a banshee, leaped up like a March hair and threw the contents of the po (About a litre and a half) in the direction of doctor Tucker. The good doctor ducked and the golden contents of the po, glinting and glistening in the son went all over dead Ollie. After too rejections of sedatition, auld Pandora wiped her hands on her apron and sobbed. "My wee Ollie, lying in a bed saturated with pee--its how he wood have wanted to go".
I went to the door, banged a hammer against a bucket and my sun Bon Jovi, came out of the diplated hen shed he uses as a laboratory and ran into the house for his dinner.
"Get stuck into that curried road kill" I said "And enlighten me as to the X-perimants you were konducting in your Hi-Tec laboratory". Bon Jovi swallowed the tale of a stoat and said.
"Last weak, I worked out bye replied mathematics that lite travels at 47 miles an hour, but goes slower when going round korners, or approaching a major road. This week I am trying to work out the speed of the dark. I took the batteries out of a torch. Now when I send out a beam of dark, I race after it with a stop watch in my hand".
"What a cub!" I muttered. "What a cub!" Why have I bean choosen to be mammy of, "The Special One?"
"QUICK!" I yelled. "Eat your dinner and get back to your work. If the dark gets an inkling of what you're up to, it may slow down, OR put an inch to its step". "Good thinking Wonder Woman" said Bon Jovi. "The dark is a wily customer, but it won't beet master Bon Jovi Ryan".
After the cub had gone, I fell to my knees and gave thanks to the good Lord on Hi for sending me a cub who was fair brusting with branes.
AAH-Dew! from, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Dana Or Norris? Let The People Decide.

Clougher calling! Clougher calling! Deer Gerry, 'tis Rosie Ryan 'ere, beauty, brainic and barn-dancer.
What a gunk I got on Monday when I turned on the wireless and found you knot there.
"Whom is that Tube?" said my son Bon Jovi, as he got stuck into a goose egg with toasted civilians.
"That!" I said. "Is Sean Oil, a reprobate of unparelled villainy and a throughly, bad piece of work".
"I've said it before" said Bon Jovi. "And I'll say it again, the early release scheme was dangerous in the extreme. We have sown the wind" yelled Jon Jovi. "And now we reap the harvest of Sean Oil and his ilk".
I threw a rooster off my chair, sat down and said.
"Tell me my bon-a me. Have you changed your mind in relation to the preservation election in the free state?".
"I have knot and I shall knot!" roared Bon Jovi.
"I stand fore score square behind the distinguished, quaintly old fashioned, Senator Steven Norris". "So be it! I yelled. "and I stand, shoulder to shoulder with Dana, mother, singer and hotelier. I am a Danaees!" I yelled. "It wood seem to me" said Bon Jovi. "That the predatory of Ireland is a step too far for a woman who sang a simple,banal song when she was a cuttie back in 1972".
"What does senescent, Senator Steve Norris bring to the table?" I yelled.
"GRAVITAS!" roared Bon Jovi. "Can you imagine Dana meeting a head of state? "Ah, come on away in. You'll have a wee cup of tea, so you will. Excuse the mess. Phil Coulter was here last night with a clatter of chips to talk about old times".
"And how would that differ from auld Boris the Norris" I shouted. " Senator Norris" said Tommy. "Is a man of letters. He can speak Latin and Greek effuently. Imagine if President Obama visited Ireland in a pathetic, paper thin attempt to garnish the Irish vote in America. President Norris, probably wearing a swallow-tailed coat, would trip, elf-like down the steps, open the door of the Presidents car and exclaim. "Nice to see you, to see you nice. Kay-May-Ah-Fault-Yah Mr President. Follow me to the dining room for a repast of larks-tongues, caviare, concannon and champ". "Norris" I retorted. "Is too pompous. Too arrogant and too scary. Dana is from the people, by the people and beloved by the people. Dana could smile at little wains in prams, Norris would give them nightmares". "NORRIS!" yelled Bon Jovi. "DANA!" I roared.
THEN! ganseys were thrown off and mother and sun got stuck into a real knock down, drag out brawl.
I threw a long, loping right. Bon Jovi sunk his fist into my bread basket. I replied with an uppercut. Bon Jovi, snorted like Smoking Joe Frazier and cut my eye with a vicious left hook. I grunted and threw a right that caught Bon Jovi right on the hooter. Bon Jovi did an Ali shuffle and yelled, "What's my name?" before shaking every tooth in my head with a head butt. "FOWL!" I gasped, as I brought my knee up into Bon Jovi's already wet fork.
Lefts, rights, upper-cuts, downer-cuts, heads, feet, biting, scratching, goughing and much pummeling of the under-carriage. Two hours later mother and sun lay in a bloody heap behind the door gasping.
SOON! the people will decide!

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Beware Of A Sudden Malaise.

Deer Gerry and extended family, how excruciatingly merry it is to sea you back from the French Rivvy Aera. (The rich mans Cullybaccy) My sun Bon Jovi and me are worried about some rare, exotic, fatal disease you may have caught. "Bon Jovi" I ejeclated. "Gerry is of the opinon he was bit by a maurading mosquito and may have malevolent, malfeansant maleria". The cub immediately stopped picking his nose. A worried frown played over his headucated countance. The winda rattled as Bon Jovi roared. "I am reclined to think that uncle Gerry was bit, viciously and with callow disreguard bye a testes fly. Uncle Gerry should be on the look out for a sudden malaise". "What's a malaise sun?" I asked. "I don't NO!" yelled Bon Jovi, "But uncle Gerry should be on the look out for wan". "If a 'orribe testes fly has sunk its fangs into Gerry's lean, bronzed skin" I shrieked. "What Sim-toms should Gerry look out for, musha a lana and mother McCree?" Bon Jovi walked to the winda rattling mecurially six, silver washers from a bicycle wheel in his pocket and replied."The testes fly, as its name suggests can induce tarra testiness in the patient. Uncle Gerry may become tired, irritable, touchy and have an unbounded thirst for buttermilk. BUT!!! if Uncle Gerry begins to get dizzy, sea things that arn't there and drools uncontrolably from the mouth, he should pick up his bed and head for the casualy department in Alty-Galvin hospital--immediately!!! No messing about. Immediately!!!".I looked at the cub who had arrived so unexpectantly and "peculiary" into this world and thanked my lucky stars for having a cub like Bon Jovi.
A Bon Jovi went out he roared over his shoulder. "Uncle Gerry wool bee all rite. He is just jet-lagged and coming the old soldier".
Did you heer the wind yesterday Gerry. Wasn't it tarra in the extreme? Owling and owling round the house like a demented Damien. "Tis an evil portend!" roared Bon Jovi, as a shower of suit fell down the chimney.
In desperation Dan, I mean, Gerry. In desperation I threw the cub to the floor and we preyed loudly and franticlly to our lady of peculiar sucker. Lo, the wind calmed. Stars appeared in the sky. Mother and sun visited their respective po's and went to bed. Soon sleep, interupted by digestive dunderings fell on the house of Ryan.
From your curvicious, arvicious, pugnacious, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Thursday, 8 September 2011

Bon Jovi's headucation

Deer Jelly, what exquisite joy too heer your dull-sit voice waft over the rolling tundra of Co Tyrone again.
As you no, Gerry Anderson is in hospital having bionic legs fitted two his chassie in preperation for the Borstal marathon in America.
All our hopes, prayers and expectations are resting, like a parrot on the stooped, frail shoulders of the little man with the thinning hare.
How is you Jelly? Us, myself and my son Bon Jovi are as well as could be respected. Bon Jovi's headucation is astonshing the professors and Don's at saint Judas primary skool in Clougher.
Knot only is the cub up to the oxters with adding and substraction. Bon Jovi is breaking knew ground in the highly and respected world of dark matter.
Every day Bon Jovi endevors too shine a light on the elusive dark matter which abounds in the Universe like specs of suit. The cub wool go far Jelly. The cloistered towers of academia in Gortin beckon.
Your golf club carrier, Sean Thaddeaus Coyle did a fare to middeling job. But as you no Jelly, Mr Coyle is stuck like a luddite in the past. Mr Coyle is the only man in Ulster who is eagery awaiting the return of kipper ties and flared trousers. Coyle did his best, but in Bon Jovi's opinion is, knot fit for porpoise.
I must away Jelly. It is imperitive I shave my big, thick legs with my late daddy's cut-throat razor.Too wee spiders have taken up abode behind my knees and are feasting abundably on the flies, gnats and daddy-long-legs that get entangled and snared in the hares on my Venus-like legs.
I is your 'umble serviette, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Rosie's Midlife Krisis.

Deer Gerry Anderson, it panes me to say it, butt the receptable of your love and affliction is suffering from a midlife krisis. Every morning I wake up misconstrued and repressed. Dark visions haunt me and my eek-way librum is up the Swanny. I peer into the dark tunnel of life like a ferret. Seeking hope, the persuit of happiness and the life-giving nourishment of brilliant, illuminated-lite. All is dark. All is gloomy. All is the reverse of, "With a hey and a hoe and a hey-nonny-noo".
What a fierce, tarra hanlin' that Rosie Ryan, beauty and brainaic should be waylaid on her journey through life bye thoughts of unattainable somberness and inexplicable yearnings. Last nite, when going through Kays katalogue my menthol instability forced me to order a pink thong and a toy bugle!!!!!!!
I have more chance of getting into the bugle than I have of getting into the thong.
UNPREDICTABLY, in all its many guises has taken kontrol of my brane. I am as a wind-blown kite, a rudderless ship.
A leaf, falling from an Autumnal tree. Spinning and swirling at the mercy of the wind. Knowing knot if I wool fall on good ground, the weeds which abound in the hedgerows or the stones who reside in profussion bye the high-way.
In desperation Dan, I mean-Gerry, in desperation I fell to my knees and preyed to the Mother of peculiar sucker. The results of my imploring was, diddly-squat. So one day in the throes of a fierce midlife krisis, I donned brown, duffle coat and set off confused, preplexed and highly agitated to sea the doctor. I burst into the doctors surgery and offered to, "Drop them" but the doctor told me to take a seat and give vocal utterances to my ills. "MIDLIFE KRISIS!" I yelled. "A midlife krisis has came upon me like a thief in the nite".
I was subscribed hard core tranquillization in the hope that transquillization would transform my state of turmoil into tranquility.
I took the little green, capstans religiously for too weaks. After submitted myself to quackery on a grand and glorious scale. My midlife krisis has increased by leaps and bounds. Knot only that, my hare is falling out, one eye has drooped and my stools have turned puce!!!
Needless to say, a sharp letter ritten in green crayon is winging its way to the Medical Kouncil.
My doctor advised me to, keep taking the tablets. I adviced the doctor to take a swim with the other ducks in the pond. "QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!" was my final riposte before I stamped out, slamming the door behind me.
I have returned to the religion of my four fathers and three mothers. Every nite I fall to my knees beside the po and prey. "Oh Mother of peculiar sucker, remove this damned auld midlife krisis what is hanging over me like a hangmans hood. . Bring back my gaity de-tour and optimalization. Oh Mother! OH Mother of peculiar sucker give me a window of opportunity to dive through like a swallow flying back to its nest. Where there is war, let me bring piece. Where there is death, let me bring tea and sugar for the wake. Where there is hate, let me bring lamour and where there is doubt, let me bring clarity and transparancey. Now! and at the moment of us deaths-AMIN". If that doesn't work, I will be forced to turn to the black arts, in which I am well versed!.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Rosie's La-Bedo Is Back.

Gerry, my old Apache, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the Eva Peron of Clougher. I am suffering from, what the medicinal profussion call, "woman's trouble."
Whisper it low, my la-bedo is on the wane. My yearning for the mail of the specimen is diminshing rapidly. I first became aware of my condition, when wee Friedrich the postman brought me a clatter of junk male with the fork of his trousers lying wide open. As my eyes beheld the open barn door, knot a stir in my lions. No Hi blood pressure and no maidenly blush sprang to my big, oval, beautiful face.
"Something has gone ah-rye in the complicated construction of pipes and tubing which abound in my under-carriage" I yelled. As I pulled on my late mammys, brown duffle coat and set off post haste for the doctors surgery. "Ah, Mrs R" said the doctor. "Long time know sea. What can I do for you?"
"Womans trouble!" I yelled. "My la-bedo is regestering low on the passion meter".
"It happens to us all" said the doctor. As we get older, our la-bedo, like an unwound clock, runs slow and then-STOPS!".
"Why was I knot told of this when I signed on to be a woman?" I roared.
"Are you in an inanimate relationship?" asked the doctor.
"I am KNOT!" I yelled. "But my la-bedo is like my shotgun. I may knot use it for months, but when a fox appears I except it to go off with a BANG!". "Why knot accept it Mrs Ryan" said the doctor. "Take up nitting buy yourself a kat".
"NEVER!" I yelled. "I am Rosie Ryan. Goddess of beauty. I drive men mad with poise, grace and wild goodlookingness. Without my la-bedo, I am an empty vessal.A clanging symbol blowing in the wind. It is unnatureal" I cried. "You have wee blew tablets for men, give me some pink tablets for women".
"There is no Vigara for women" said the doctor. "The only thing I kan do is reject you with the mail horrormone-testosterone.".
"The side effects?" I said clicking my fingers. "The side effects, come on, lets be having them".
"Your voice will get much lower" said the doctor. You wool clean your nose on your sleeve, slash standing up and a wild, unkempt beard will grow on your face."
I lifted my skirt, dropped my red flannel drawers, bent over the desk and roared. "Pump me full of that Testorene boy.Without my la-bedo I am as barren ground, a desert blowing in the wind, an oil-less wick and a figure of fun and division".
I feel the effects already Gerry. I shave twice a day and stand slashing by the roadside as a matter of routine.
Just wan thing worries me. I now find my old friend Nellie Granite wild good looking. I am consumed with an overwealming to leave my bed at nite and steel a pear of her grate, big bloomers from her cloths line.
I suppose that's just my la-bedo a bit confused as it rises from the ashes like a Fee-Nix.
"My la-bedos back, bring on the crack.
There ain't no good a crying.
I am a red blooded sun of a gun
And my name is, Rosie Ryan.
(Fancy a boys nite out Gerry?)

Friday, 22 July 2011

What is Life?

Salutations Gerryus, 'Tis I Rosie Ryan the vessal verging from Clougher.
My sun Bon Jovi, who is still delving into dark matter, is entering the last few furlongs in the Hi stakes race of headucation. A spurt now could mean the difference between a doctorate at Oxford or a menial job at Moy Park chickens. Its a toss-up between leather patches on the elbows, or a blood splattered whitecoat.
But, viva ut vivas, live that you may live I say.
Beyond dull care. Lets go gathering nuts in May, even though they don't ripen until August.
Sometimes Gerry a wild, fierce wantoness comes over me and I want to frolic with flashing thighs round a may pole. I is a god fearing woman, but I is not a saint.
I often think I should have bean a witch. Pagan rights under a blood-red moon. A rack for us brooksticks. A bubbling cauldren and the nite air filled with the cackle of many witches. You know the old Irish saying Gerry, "Gods good, but the devils not bad either".
How is you Gerry? I hope you is treating life with the comtempt it deserves. Life is not a bowl of skittles or a game of cherries. Life is a journey forced on us weary travellors who did not ask for it.
As I mature like a good cheese, or a bottle of whine, I have come to the concussion that life should be regared as an ennema. Life is out to get us. Life wool not be content until clogs are popped and us cold, ashen feces stare out of a coffin.
I have deceided to resist death by all means, fare and fowl. I have cut the heads of chickens, drank the blood and embraced the dark art of Woodoo.
I laugh in the face of death. I shall knot dye. I-shall be immoral. But I still go to chapel on Sundays. When backing a horse, always back it eack way. It increases your chance of winning.
From Rosie Ryan, still full of piss and vinegar.
Just say, NO! to death!.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

Rosie May Be A Lamb But She's No Sheep.

High Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan, God fearing, and beautiful, foxy,vixen from Clougher. Where are the mockers and scoffers now? What a smite God give the News of the World. Ever since I was a lump of a cuttie I have red that loathsome rag. It was my religious duty to do so. Only bye reeding the News of the World could I keep abreast of the vile, repulsive shennigans that was going on. The "Three in a bed romp" headline used to puzzle me. Coming from a big family there was often three, even four in a bed in my home. But there was no romping. As a good Cat-Lick family romping, or rompeyness was anathema to us. A ground swell of abhorrence wood have erupted if I even dared to romp in bed.
Rosie Ryan is knot now or every has bean, a romper. A romp is a pomp which Rosie Ryan has denounced!
Who says God is dead, when the News of the World was laid to waste like Soddem and Begorragh?.
Its good to sea God kicking ass and talking names again.
I met the Parish priest in Clougher this morning. I leaped of my bicycle like Frankie Dee-Tory and yelled.
"Father, you must be very proud to see the Big Man getting stuck into the News of the World".
"Mrs Ryan" said the priest, with a very severe, haughty look on his face.
"I wish to talk to you about your stipend for the running and up-keep of saint Judas church. Your name doesn't even appear in the Sunday collection list. As for Kristmass--Nothing. Easter--Zilch. The Popes kollection--Diddy-Squat".
"Father" I said. "I don't mean to be inordinate, but could you tell me where all the money goes too".
"The black babies Mrs Ryan" said the priest. "Every penny goes to the black babies".
I looked round the dump that is Clougher and yelled.
"Maybe it wood soot you better if you spent the money on Lifebouy soap and scrubbed some of the black babies in Clougher. Instead of fattening up boys like Idi Amin and Robert Mugabe"
And I stormed off, head in the air and proud of my Lutheresque moment.
I may be a lamb of God, but I am knot a sheep for the church to shear.
In omni patree, et feelie, et spirit-to sanctus-AMEN!.

Thursday, 30 June 2011

Bon Jovi Wants To Be A Bass Player!

Gerry, my amorous amigo. Imagine my constellation when my sun Bon Jovi told me he was going to be a bass player in a beet combo.
I reeled back until my postillian found sanctuary on a bag of coal. Shaking like a leaf on the hessian container of fossle fuel I yelled.
"Bass player my pert, voluptuous ass. You wool study hard and be a doctor, a solicitor or a vet".
"I'm not sticking my hand up a cows bum" roared he who was deceived in Bundoran. "I want to be a bass player like uncle Gerry. I want to smoke, drink and pick up chicks.
I want to be the power house in a heavy metal band and when I do I will change my name to, Thundering Tarquin".
"Musicans!"I yelled. "Is imortal, drunk, drug fueled weirdos. I don't want to sea you wrecking hotels are hanging a wee wain over a balcony".
"You kan knot stop me" roared Bon Jovi. "As soon as I attain the age of reason I can do what I like!".
"You wool choke on your own vomit" I warned.
"So be it" said Bon Jovi.
"Live young, dye fast. Its my life. I am knot going to let you live your life pecuniary through me".
I looked at Mr Bassman, standing there with whith wholes in his gansey and the fork of his short trousers lying wide open. There was know music in the cub. He was tone deaf and had swallowed the too mouth-organs I bought him and one of them was a ten incher! What a hanlin' in the casualty department, with the doctor and nurses yelling, "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! and the approaching mouth-organ playing a haunting, faerie-like air as it emerged from the cubs derriere.
But after a wash in warm water it was as good as knew. Many a tune I played on it myself.
Bon Jovi would never be a bass player. You have to be able to mulit-task to be a bass player. You must have the ability to stand up and act nondescript and nonchalant.
It wool be the happiest day of my life when I sea Bon Jovi in a dirty cow shade, stripped to the waste with his arm up a cows bum.
Bon Jovi Ryan, the vet with the soft,tender, loving, healing hands.
Aah dew Gerry. Aah dew from the bell of Clougher---Rosie Ryan. xxx

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

Rosie's Advice To The People Of Ulster

Gerry, my old cum padre, thank Allah you got home before the whole monetary structure in Europe cracked like an egg shell and the Euro Zone fell though the floor to the ringing of cash tills and anti-theft alarms.
If Grease goes Gerry,the rest of Europe will follow in what us monatery experts call, the Dominos effect.
Hard times is a coming. Thank God Bon Jovi and me have the hen eggs to fall back on.
Its all bean predelicted in the book of revolutions.
"And Lo, on Hi and low the sound of weeping and gnashing of teeth will be tarra to behold"
Its the golden calf sin-drome Gerry. Learned men who use the pen and sing Gods praises Hi have been warning us about the love of Mammoth.
Some peeple love Mammoth more than God. Other peeple, especially Cat-Licks think they can have a big feed of Mammoth and a side dish of God on a wee plate.
We is going back to the stone age. This wool please the wild tribes in Gortin who never left it.
Was it knot John Hume who said, "You kan't eat a 56 inch plasma screen TV".
Did knot doctor Parsley say, "NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!" when Noel Thompson asked him if he ever played with a Game Boy.
Its too late to tighten us belts, us drawers are round us ankles. The daze of whine and Roses sweets is over. On us bellies we wool crawl, eating grass, earwigs, daddy-long-legs and scurrying aunts.
We must return to basics, Reinvent the wheel and hang any witch or warlock who dares mutter, "Micro-Chip". It was wild smart peeple who got us into this hanlin' It wool take peeple like me to get us out.
My advice this dark, brooding morning to the peeple of Ulster is. "Hang on to your groats "!
From the hurler on the ditch, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Gather ye rose buds while ye can

"She walks in beauty like the night, I heer she is a tarra site".
"That beautiful sonnet was ritten about me bye the blind poet, Gastro "The Banty" McGosling.
Even the blind kan sense my grate beauty. I give of an Aura. An Aura that all the senses kan pick up. Just a site of me, a smell of me, or a touch of me, leave men shaking in their wellingtons and ready to jettison wife and family just to be near me looking, smelling and touching me. A tinker from Kerry once described me as, "A thing without comparision".
I sea that other Femme Fattle Britney Speares is going to tour the You Kay. Auld no nickers wouldn't stand a chance if she came up against me in the beauty steaks.
Rosie Ryan is know tramp. Rosie Ryan is know strumpet. When Rosie Ryan throws her leg on her bicycle the hole world kan sea she is wearing nickers.
Was it knot Dillon Thomas who said, "Do knot go nickerless into that cold, dark nite".
What exqusitive joy it is, to sit legs akimbo on a green pasture watching flies, beatles and other winged insects land and take-off from a heli-pad made from cow dung.I find grate beauty in the minutia of life. An aunt with an egg on its head. A dusty-winged butterfly with senestive antena. A worm turning back on itself because it forgot something and how after a good slash a river of urine makes its way through the dusty terrain.
Some peeple do nothing but complain. Peeple come up to me and say.
"Rosie, are we going to get a Summer at tall, at tall? Is it never going to stap reigning?"
"Get to hells fire!" I roar.
"Why stand you there whinning and moaning. Make hey weather the son shines or knot.
When you lie on a urine soaked, fecus stained sheet on your last day you shall regreat the things you said today.
When baubles, ulsters and postiles has broken out all over your body. When you kan't tell your arse from a whole in the ground. When pain makes your boney body arch like a cross bow. When half your intestines are in the bed with you and puss runs freely and green out of every orifice how many of us wool have the brass neck to sit up and sing,
Gather ye rose buds while ye can for lo the night desends. But until that day my sun Bon Jovi and me is going for a cunt'ry walk. Wearing a floral dress, parasole in hand and two geraniums behind her ears goes the henchanting, woodland sprite, Rosie Ryan. I shall harvest beauty and save it for a rainy day. And on the day of my death, I shall arise from my own piss, feces, filth and repulsive decay and gently sing.
"Everything is beautiful, in its own way". Then, with a wild spalter I shall fall back on my pillow. A corpse, a cadaver, a dead "Thing" from which no beauty derives.
In the meantime, up with those peckers. I really want to sea those peckers up!.
From Rosie Ryan amateur Bot-an-nist and professional beauty. xxx
PS. Hasn't the weather bean tarra this year?

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Poor Auld Ireland

Deer Gerry, it has come to my retention that you will soon be oft again to far flung foreign plaices.
Gerry, you is a jet setter, a lotus eater, a modern day Samuel Aah Beckett, a man for all seasons.
I suppose you wool be nocking on the doors of Arab shrieks seeking sheckles, groats and spondulects for poor auld Ireland. Alas and alac, the land of saints and conmen is up a certain well known creek without a paddle. And apparently no wan is to blame!. All our money simply-disappeared. I suspect hands in the cookie jar but I kan't prove it.
Fintan O'Toole is fit to be tied. "Missmanagement! on a grand and epic scale" he yelled on Prime Time. Poor Miriam O'Callaghan, scared out of her wits cried.
"Fintan Achara, keep the heid".
"To hell with keeping the heid" yelled the bould Fintan.
"I want to sea bankers hanging from every lamp post in O'Connell street"
And now you kan't cut turf in the Free State! If auld Jordie Tuft lived in the Free State he wood be chained to the General Post Office by now. Soon they'll be banning donkeys, Irish dancing and the harvesting and husbanding of frogspawn. No more will the Irish Paddy or Bridget coo lovingly over a bowl of tadpoles.
Auld Mother McCree, Dicey Reilly and Molly Malone must be going hay wire in their graves.
'Tis a tarra hanlin' A tarra hanlin' If auld Develera was still around, this wood have killed him.
Any way, Bon Jovi and me wish you luck as you plough through the sands of the Sahara desert, begging bowl in hand. Them Arab Shrieks have tons of money. Tell them if they don't cough up you wool organise a concert tour starring, Daniel O'Donnell and Hugo Duncan. Let the world sea that Ireland has weapons of mass destruction and are knot afraid of launching a premptive strike.May saint Patrick dog your Italian footsteps and bring you safely home.
From, Rosie and Bon Jovi Ryan.

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Rosie The queen Of Stile

Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan, henchanting forest sprite and the origional Cheeky Girl.
Hanging well I hope there are this fine morning. Each day the planets revolve and we take a step closer to the cold, dead, embrace of the grim reaper.
But begone dull care, let's be joyful and merry with a hay-diddle-dee and a hay-diddle-do.
As you no Gerry, when it comes to haute katour Rosie Ryan is the first pig with her snout in the trough.
My dress sense is impediment. Every woman has a colour that matches her aura. My colour is tartan.
Nothing says style like a long, flowing tartan skirt which comes down to the tops of the wellingtons.
I have an pawn-shant for lime-green ganseys with plenty of round the oxters.
Even an illness or disabitity need knot be a hinderance to stile. When I had ulsters on my legs, I wore elastic stockings accessorized with too frilly, pink garters which were the talk of Clougher and surrounding districts.
Don't talk to me about Lady Gaga. I was Gaga long before that lady. Ribbons, flowers, bits of twigs, leaves, dockons, silver paper,placed stratigaphically can disguise a bad hare day.
Soon news of my fashion expertise spread and I came a Minotaur to the weeman of Clougher. I remember my first big success like it was a long time ago. I was wheeling a barrow load of shi--manure to the midden when big, Nellie Grantie came speeding up the lane on a man's bicycle.
"Oh Rosie" she roared. "You must come quick. Wee Pansy Bonjela is getting married this afternoon, but the poor, wee crater has locked herself in her room and is kicking and flinging like Delany's donkey".
"What is the cause of her distress?" I yelled.
"Its her wedding dress" roared big Nellie. "Wee pansey says it looks like cheep, nylon Krap and refuses to walk up the isle".
I leaped on my bike and hurried to the seen of the pre-nuptial hanlin'
I brust down the door with my shoulder and found wee Pansey blubbering and slashing in a pink, floral po.
"PANSEY!" I cried. "What ailes thee child? On this happy day when you wool be regiously cleaved to big Gideon Mc Scuttle?".
"Its this damned auld frock" shrieked wee Pansey. "I hate it!, it makes me look like a right wee plonker".
I scrutnised the wedding dress with my fashion concous oculars.
The wedding dress did need something and I knew what that something was.
How proud I was later that day when wee Pansey walked up the isle with a Robinson's marmalade gollywog pinned to her cleavage.
Needles to say, the Clougher wan's were agog at the gollywog.
From she who walks with beauty,

Saturday, 21 May 2011

How To Explain The Blewness Of The Blew-Bells.

Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the enchanting, enchantress of the bog.
I heer some peeple were worried and pre-turbed that my son Bon Jovi and and me may have shuffled of this amoral coil. Fiddle-sticks and jelly beans.
Fie, Fie and thrice times-fie. Bon Jovi and me is thriving like too porkers and us bowls are as regular as Big Ben. Now you are in training to run from Belfast to Boston, why don't you slip into a wee pear of shorts and take a run up to sea me.
I wood make sure Bon Jovi was muzzled and tied up. The cub gets excited when he sea's strangers and usually goes for the jugular. Once he got used to your sent he wood be as playful as grizzly bare cub.
All of the cubs growling, snarling and lunging is mearly a defence mechanism to cover up his insecurity and chronic shyness.
"You should get out more Bon Jovi" I say.
"Meet people, make new friends".
But the cub seems quite happy to spent the day glowering out of a deep burrow he dug adjacent to the midden.
But I am not worried about he who used to be a fetus, both the doctor and the priest described Bon Jovi as, a hell of a cub.
Gerry, knowing my wild passion for Hi headucation it wool knot come as a surprise to you to no I am studying the ancient, Chinese language of mandolin. It is a facinating language in which vowels abound.
I am also working on a tapestry of the last supper,which depicts Judas as a
a red-arsed baboon.
Jesus is gnawing at the heel of a pan loaf and glaring at Judas with wild hate and loathing in his gentle, brown eyes.
Oh Gerry, deerest Gerry, I wish I could explain in graphite detail the exquitive beauty of the blew-bells.
The blew-bells are the blewest blew-bells I have ever clapped eyes on.
You should see the blew, so very, very blew, too blew for any kuman being to describe their blewness.
I wish there was something I could kompare to the blew of the blew-bells,
but there isn't.
I once had a pear of nickers in blew, the same blew, as the blew-bells.
"Send them up to me!" I hear you shout.
"So I two kan understand the blewness of the blew-bells".
"Alas Gerry my bon a me, they are no more. Wear and tear Gerry. Wear and tear. Alas, the words, wear and tear, could be subscribed on the tombstone of numerous pears of nickers.
Age alas, did wither them and the years condem.
I must flea deerest one, I sea Bon Jovi crawling out of his burrow seeking nourishment and substance.
Fair-well, Fair-well, my noble Prince.
From the fare'est of the fare,

Saturday, 30 April 2011


I was sitting at home the other day with the doors, windows and my mouth open.
"PHEW! what a scorcher!" I mummered.
I was workng on my latest intervention which I planned to take to the Dragons Den.
I call it the Flatulence Forecaster.
The idea is simple. A small micro-chip is inserted just above the ars---anus. This micro chip has the ability to detect farts before they make their way down fart alley.
When the little chip detects the slightest build up of flatulent gas, it gives a Hi-pitched, piercing BEEP! This gives you plenty of time to excuse yourself and go to the toilet for a fit of farting, or perchance, even a dump!.
The Flatulence Forecaster will be a boom for the Hi-flying exective, people with a low tolerance to farts, men who suffer from fits and nursing mothers.
I glanced out at the sweeping panorama of beauty that lay before me. The bog was coming alive again with heather, wild flowers and long, slender grasses.
Hi in the air a lark sang, the plaintive cry of the curfew and a bevy of tits bobbed up an down on my clothes line.
Nature was alive! Under the kitchen table, grate big blew-bottles landed on the biggest dog turd I have every seen like menacing Apache helicopters.
"BON JOVI!" I yelled to the fetus who had sprang from my lions.
"Drop what you're doing. You and me is going on a cunt'ry panic".
There was a crash as Bon Jovi dropped my good child of Prague statue.
My only sun came running in yelling,
"I'm going on a panic!. I'm going on a panic!".
Soon mother and sun were loaded down with goodies and we set off for the wild, blew yonder.
To get to my secret plaice we had to jump three shucks and clamber over five rusty barbed wire fences.
Needless to say, trousers and nickers were snagged which lead to punctures, grazes and cuts being inflicted on us ars--rears.
Mere flesh wounds, none of which would require stitches.
Red-faced and panting we crested a hill and there it was, my Zanadoo, my Eldorado, my sleepy hollow.
This is where I used to play as a child and practice my deporation which gives me my graceful poseidon.
Many peeple have said I walk like a hangel on egg shells.
"This is the plaice!" I cried.
"We shall panic here!"
Bon Jovi took off his rucksack and laid out on an old towel, heaps of buttered heels from pan loaves.
Coke-Oh-Cola, apples, bananas, crisps, Cad-buryies chocolate and a tupperware kontainer kontaining a turgid heap of congealed curried ferret.
What a feast it was. A feast fit for the Gods.
"For what we are about too receive" I yelled.
And then mother and sun got stuck in like too pot-bellied pigs.
Soon hands were grabbing and gnashers gnawing. Bon Jovi nearly chocked when he tried to swallow an apple whole.
I tore into the curried ferret with my bare hands. I growled deep in my throat as Bon Jovi tried to steel some.
It wasn't until we realised we were eating handfulls of grass that we knew the panic was over.
We both lay on us backs and made the long grass sway with fierce, unnatural flatulence.
Stuffed to the throat like too porkers we fell into a deep sleep bordering on a coma.
It was pitch dark when we awoke!
Bon Jov screamed.
"Don't picnic!" I yelled.
Yes! the panic was over, but now the picnic set in.
Have you ever climbed over five barbed-wire fences and jumped three shucks in the pitch dark?
It is highly improbable that you have.
Well, I have, as has my sun Bon Jovi.
When we eventually staggered home, my nickers were mere flapping, ragged remments. Bon Jovi's trousers had been ripped to shreads and fallen off.
Us derrieres looked like we got fifty seven lashes from the cat-oh-nine tales.
But we made it! I got my cub home!.
The moral is, if you ever wake up in the dark after a panic it is imperitive that you don't picnic!
I am glad to retort that both ars--rears are healing nicely.
From the captivating and bewitching beauty.... ROSIE RYAN.

Monday, 18 April 2011

An Appeal To All Floaters.

This is Rosie Ryan appealing for your vote. Pleeze give your number one's and number two's to me. Rosie Ryan, is a single mother and bewitching beauty with numerous bog skills.
I appeal to all the floaters out there, gather round the canditate who, for many years was a floater herself.
I understand the mind of a floater.
If we float alone we drown. Lets come together, right now, over me.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for fierce, good headucation.
What us skools need is dedicated teechers stuffed with Hi-headucation.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for sanitry.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for free turf for the over 97's.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for peace in our time, the working man and the pound in your knicker pocket.
You'se will never have it so good if you vote for Rosie Ryan.
So to all floaters I say, let me, Rosie Ryan be the recetable for your number one's and two's on erection day.
Vote Rosie Ryan because you're worth it.
So, don't delay, vote today for Rose Ryan, founder of the "Cunt'ry Party".
Endorsed by, Kelly's Knickers, Brannigan's bread, Mulligans Poundies, Daniel O'Donnell and Gerald Michael Anderson.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Bon Jovi's picked Up By The Fuzz

I was bent over like a cow applying a liberal application of Preparation H to my throbbing rear when the police kar drove into the street.
"Holy mother of divine mercy" I yelled, as I quickly adjusted my red flannel drawers and held my finger under the hot water tap.
I ran out to the street like Groucho Marx yelling.
"Is he dead? Has the lump of a cub expired?. Tell me, I kan take it, Is my wee Bon Jovi deceased?"
A police man with jam on his shirt said.
"At 16 hundred hours today, Master Bon Jovi Ryan was taken into custard and is being held in Clougher clink".
"Holy God!" I shrieked.
"My cub behind Hi prison walls like the Yorkshire ripper or Oscar Wilde. Take me too him" I roared.
"I am his mammy. If my sun is incarnated I should be by his side. Have you shackled the lump of a cub in some dirty, cobwebbed dungen where wild, feral, hungry rats will eat the toes of him?
Does my wee doat lie on a bed of straw staring at the blue sky through a small barred window?
DOES HE HAVE A PO?" I yelled.
"Does the cub who sprang, fully formed, from my lions have unrestricted access to a PO?"
Later, at the police station I herd the whole sorry, sordit story. It was a story of infamay that wood drive any good catholic mother to the edge of do-lally madness and crazyness.
Inspector Nipper of Clougher vice squad told me in graphite detail how the filthy caper went down.
After skool, instead of going home Bon Jovi and the other members of the "Maroon September" gang made their way to Clougher.
The onslaught began at half past three, when the "Maroon September" gang, lead by Bon Jovi began to throw balls of cow dung at innocent civilians.
As the balls of hardened cow dung flew through the air, the casualties mounted.
The first to go down was auld Bertha Tibbets. Auld Bertha was coming out of Sweeny Todd's butcher show with a pound of special mince under her oxter when a ball of cow dung hit her rite on the kisser.
As auld Bertha slumped to the ground she shrieked,
"Them auld dung-spreaders are getting to be a wild hanlin' "
Soon bicycles and donkeys careered down the street while their riders lay prone on the road.
Pastor McGinty from Gortin went into a fit of effing and blinding as a ball of dung hit him on the ear and another wan got him rite in the fork.
Wee Harriet Mondeo, her with the goitre, was covered with cow dung to such an extent she looked like a walking midden!.
Above the onslaught of cow dung Bon Jovi could be herd roaring.
"Aim for the whites of their eyes".
When the Maroon September gang ran out of ammunation they tried to retreat but were picked up by the fuzz on the Hi-way out of Clougher.
When asked why they done it,the members of the Maroon September gang kept stum, but Bon Jovi explained it was a premptive strike, purely defensive and went on to say the Maroon September gang just wanted to live in peace and harmony.
Bon Jovi and all members of Maroon September had an aspro slapped on them and a curlew, which means they must be in the house 17 hours a day.
Apparently MI5 is taking a keen intrest in Bon Jovi and have put him on the terrorist list.
I'm just happy to have the wee Che Guevara home.
I cut a good sally rod and showed the wee gulpin just what a premptive strike is!
The Bin Laden of Clougher bawled like a baby.

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Mission Acomplished

A tragedy of monumental, Machiavellian, machinations has bee-fallen me.
A tragedy of Greek peforations is the only way to descriptively, describe the horrorendous hanlin which was fated by fate to bee-fall me.
I wool now state the facts in a clear and transpicious manner.
I was in my frontal garden. I was enraged in boiling a cauldren of drawers.
I was using a nobbly, black-thorn stick to circulate and motivate the under garments.
I was arrayed in spick and span hob-nailed boots and a kakhi German world war one grate coat.
My suspences were aroused when I saw my sun Bon Jovi galloping like a wilderbeest through the bog and roaring like a demented donkey.
The cub ran towards me, too streams of snotters flying behind him in the wind and roared.
"Oh Mammy, I bring tidings of grate perplezity and termididy.
The cubs at skool say, a graphic,pornographic, caricature of you adorns the second cuticle in stall too at the men's toilet and slash house in Clougher".
"Prepare my steed" I cried.
Today I ride to Clougher to rite the rongs which have been preputated on my person by person, or persons unknown".
"Do you want me for back-up?" cried Bon Jovi.
"KNOW!" I cried empatically.
"You stay and stir the drawers".
Soon I was on my way too Clougher, bent over the handle bars of my bicycle like Frankie Dee-Tori.
When I reached the defecation containment unit I leaped off my bike and ran into the men's innconvenance.
Three men were standing at stalls having a slash.
"GET OUT!" I yelled
"And do that in the street like real men, don't be cowering in 'ere like old women".
I threw open the door to stall too and stood there shocked to the kore in horrific amazement.
"MERDE! MERDE! MERDE!" I screamed in the tiled construction manufactoried excuviously for slashing and defication.
THERE! on the wall was a large crayon drawing depicting the Bridget Bar-Doo of Clougher, Rosie Ryan.
In the drawing I was bent over like a cow displaying a massive aera of red flannel drawers.
The artist had added numerous gingham patches to my red flannelled, plump ars--derriere.
I was looking behind me with a sultry expression on my big, plump, red face.
Underneath rote in large block capitals was rote,
Driven mad by intorable menthol anguish I ran outside tearing my hare and rendering my garments.
There in front of me stood a massive digger. I leaped into the cab, turned her on and soon Clougher toilet looked like Soddem and Begorragh.
Knot one stone was left upon a stone, or a stool upon a stool.
"MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!" I yelled as I rode out of Clougher like Clint Eastwood.
Don't meddle with she who is,

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Administrative Error

Lots of head shaking and saying, "I told you so!" in Clougher this weak.
Wee Aroma McFeeters is back home in disgrace.
Wee Aroma was wan of the few to escape the clinging muck and clabber of Clougher.
Wee Aroma studied to be a doctor and worked in the kasualty department at the Erne hospital.
Last weak doctor wee Aroma found out the hard way that the way to a man's hart in knot through his stomach.
(His funeral was on Fryday)
Apparently wee Aroma couldn't stand the stress and in a fit of desperation turned to Red Bull and Terry's chocolate orange eggs to calm her nerves.
It all came to a head last weak when wee Aroma was found in the operating theatre, saw in hand, up to the ankles in fingers, toes and unspeakable appendages.
Wan patient threatened to Sue, but found to his dismay that he didn't have a leg to stand on.
Both his legs and miscellaneous bits and peaces of under-carriages were found under wee Aroma's bed.
Wee Aroma was struck off the medical register and the hole thing hushed up under, "Administrative Error"
Wee Aroma is claiming to be thrice polar and works at the weak-ends in Tiddler's butcher shop.
I saw her at the weak-end when I went in two buy a pound of special mince and six, curly pig's tales for Sonday's dinner.
Wee Aroma was working at the back of the buchers shop.
I looked on in horror as she ripped. cut, slashed and stabbed a side of beef, with a big butchers knife in her hand and a look of demonic, malevolence on her Jack the Ripper face.
I have called an X-tra-ordinatry meeting of Clougher council.
I shall propose that all knives, scythes,tin-openers, bill-hooks, nail-clippers and scissors be kept away from the disgraced X doctor McFeeters.
If the deranged medic met my sun Bon Jovi on a dark nite she wood have his guts for garters.
Wee Aroma has got the smell of blood, she won't stop now.
A Mass-acre!. A MASS- ACRE I tell you is about to befall the cunt'ry town of Clougher.
From the ever dilligent,
Rosie Ryan xxx.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

"Love is a many splendent thing"

If my mammary serves me rite it was Alexander the Grate who said.
"Love is a many splendent thing".
Alexander was known as the, "Grate" because of his rag time band and obsessive panchant for open fires.
Wholly nuptials were knonfirmed by a bona-fido priest at "The last Stop" old folks home in Clougher this weak.
The konsenting adults were auld 94 year old Clint McTavish and auld 89 year old Shelia "Toots" McSplatter.
Apparently the pear of ancient love birds had bean caught traversing the corridor to wan and others bedrooms at nite and the priest said.
"We'd better splice them too auld muppets before they burn in hell for all eternally".
On the morning of the wedding, auld Clint looked almost human wearing a mustard coloured soot from War on Want.
The contrasting Celtic football club trainers gave auld Clint a dapper, jazzy, playboy apperance.
The blushing bride, for auld Shelia does have a big, red, bleezer of a face was dressed in green, which complimented her teeth.
"DO YOU" said the priest.
"I DO!" yelled auld Clint.
"Hauld on yeh boy" said the priest.
"You're a bit quick of the mark there.
"Hauld on until I give you the nod. This isn't an auction you know, its a wedding".
Then wan of the alter boys fainted as he gazed into the feces of the ancient lovebirds.
It took quite a while too konfirm nuptils on the auld relics what with leering and drooling, breaking wind and falling down.
No sooner had they got auld Clint up on his feet than auld Shelia was down on her arse.
There was an outbreak of boking in the church when the priest said with a look of distaste on his blessed and concertinaed face,
"You may now kiss the bride".
The too auld wrinklies came together with a clash of zimmer frames and SLURPED the face of each other like too conger eels.
Nurses and carers threw bits of cut up toilet roll over the 'appy couple in lou of konfetti.
Wan carer who didn't like them flung handfulls of rice with such ferocity it stung like shotgun pellets.
Then back to "The Last Stop" home for a feed of ox tale soup and spam sandwitches with the crusts cut off.
The marriage was consumed later that nite it the morgue which had bean turned into the honymoon sweet complete with matching po's and Chinese lanterns.
The next morning a nurse found auld Shelia lying on the broad of her back with her mouth open and beside her auld Clint with his mustard trousers round his ankles.
Apparently auld Clint couldn't get his War on Want, mustard trousers over his Celtic football club trainers.
The last I herd the ancients were talking of going to Bundoran for a few daze in the Summer.
When I came home from the wedding I said to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Oh Bon Jovi, never let me grow old".
"Too late" giggled the grotesque gulpin.
"That day has came and gone".
Only I was hefted I wood have raced the cub up hill and down dale.
I is your 'umble korrespondant.
Rosie Ryan xxx

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Marathon Advice From Rosie

Deer Gerry,
Its Rosie Ryan 'ere, she of the flashing eyes and thunder thighs.
Winter has at last loosened its icy grip on Clougher.
It was a sore wan Gerry.
My lips and hips is badly chaffed.
During the worst of it, Brannigan's donkey frooze to death looking out over a gait with a look in its eyes that defiled all komprehension.
Last Sonday in Clougher was nice and mild.
Some couples who are still talking to each other headed out for a walk and one or too brave soles threw caution to the wind and had a slash down Milligan's entry.
And I am proud to say, I was one of them.
Al-Fresco slashing is a sign that Spring is on the way.
Gerry, your God-sun Bon Jovi is wild worried about you and this marathon thing.
"Uncle Gerry wool never do it!" yelled Bon Jovi, banging his fist on the table for emphatic emphasis.
"He wool be dragged off the street like road kill while the boy's of the NYPD choir keep singing, "Galway Bay".
I don't no much about running. The only things that run in the Ryan family is noses, bladders and bowls.
The only marathon runner we had in Clougher was Bosco "The Flash" Romano and he didn't aquire the nick-name "The Flash" for running!.
I remember when wee Bosco was training for the Gortin marathon.
He just couldn't get his speed up, so what wee Bosco did was superglue too big, juicy, raw steaks to his hips and then run by auld Morphine Mumbles house who owned six big, firece Doberman Pichers.
Well, that got wee Bosco's speed up, but apparently not enough and he suffered severe cuts, scratches, gouges,bites and lacerations around both derriere and under-carriage.
When the starting gun went off in Gortin wee Bosco was still in the Royal in Belfast getting skin grafts.
I don't no how to advice you Gerry.
I no you have your hart set on running the marathon.
What I suggest is, you strip naked in front of a mirror and then ask yourself, Mr Coyle, Emma, Janet, the Undertone and Ken
"Kan this body carry me 26 miles?"
Coyle may try and mislead you, but Janet and Emma wool tell the truth and probably take plenty of pictures with their wee kamera fones.
What ever you do boy I'm rite behind you willing you on.
From buck-some beauty and delectable honey bun,
Rosie Ryan xxx
SP, Poor auld Jane Russell is dead, she was nearly as good looking as me!.

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

A Tale Too Far.

Deer Gerry,
How reassuring it is two sea your too Italian shoo's back on the auld sod again.
Even the kats in the street no that Rosie Ryan has not got a xenophobial bone in her body.
I am in the van-guard of multi-kultural institutions and all that melting pot shennigans.
But going to foreign plaices kan be dangerous.
I hope you got home without an invasion of alien parasites, or any embarassing itchyness round the under-carriage.
Remember poor auld Ester Ratzen who paddled up the Kongo in a can-noo?
The poor auld crater nearly skittered herself inside out when a virulet parasite took up abode in her gut.
Oh how soon your friends desert you when dysentery erupts from your rear like a veritable gattling gun.
Job was the first man to suffer from dysentery.
The Bible recounts how he sat on a dung hill of his own making.
Gerry, I am worried about my sun Bon Jovi. The other nite as he changed his green, moudly simmet, I glanced at the cubs back and was mortified and horrified to sea that his coccyx seemed to have elongated into a small tale.
Shocked beyond bee-leaf I ran out into the nite tearing my hare and letting shrieks out of me.
The last Ryan to grow a tale was auld Mandrake "Jump the shuck" Ryan.
Mandrake was banished to Gortin in the middle of the ages for being a warlock.
The Gortin wans don't care if you have a tale or knot!
On Monday I put Bon Jovi into a wheel barrow and rushed him too the doctor.
The doctor reinsured me, he said it was nothing to worry about. Apparently some coccyx, or should that be, cooyxi are bigger that others!.
But he told me to cut out the ox tale soup.
It is a medical fact that ox tale soup has a tendancy to congeal round the coccyx causing some discomfort and elongation of the coccyxi.
The big question is, wood I have kept Bon Jovi if he had grown a tale?
The answer is best summed up in the crumpled peace of paper in my apron pocket which bears the telephone number of Duffy's Circus.
Kay-Me-A-Fault-Yah to all at radio Foul.
from the unnatinable-untameable,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Friday, 18 February 2011

Clougher Calling!

Salutaire Jelly,
Clougher calling! Clougher calling in the form of buck-some, beauty, Rosie Ryan.
What a weak its been Jelly.
You really extinguished yourself as you sat in for Geraldine Michelle Anderson.
You have many fine attributions Jelly, but standing tall among all your attributiveness is your indefatigable-Bon-Ah-Me.
People in Clougher talk of little else.
"Jelly Keeley is full!" said auld Savannah O'Really.
As she clutched a pound of special mince between her knees all the better to button up her German Gestapo world war two grate coat.
"Jelly Keeley is full of good will and Bon-Ah-Me.
It must have bean a pleasure for his mammy to change his nappy and sea a gurgling face full of bon-ah-me smile up at her".
You made a big depression on the Clougher wans Jelly, next time you drive through your kar won't be stoned.
May I take a soup spoon of your time to ask for a wee inquest.
Pleeze play, "Crazy" bye Patsy Cline for wee Daffy McDilly who took the morning after pill the day before and now can't tell if its Fryday, half past three in the afternoon or pancake Tuesday!
Her boy-fiend, Barney (The weasel)Mulligan is having second thoughts about the wedding.
As Barney so aptly put it,
"If Daffy's off her trolly she can find another mug!".
Sediments which I heartly endorse.
Sew, 'till we meet again, its goodbye from you and goodbye from me,
the Lady Gaga of Clougher,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Monday, 14 February 2011


High Jelly, Its the much desired, but unnatainable Rosie Ryan 'ere.
How joyfull and utterly beguiling it is to sea your postillian on Gerry Anderson's rocking chair again.
You are as welcome as the flour in May.
Any auld rubbish wool do Anderson's listeners.
Most of them are kept medicated to stop them running amok in the streets.
May I impinge on our friendship to ask for a wee inquest.
Jelly pleeze play, "I like To Ride My Bicycle" bye Queen for wee
Bosco Fellini. (Yes! Bosco is of Italian distraction)
Wee Bosco is in hospital and the reason for his being there came about thus.
Wee Bosco was in a pub drowing his sorrows after his wife Lola run away with a mouth-organ player from Gortin.
When wee Bosco left the pub he failed to sea that some fly boys from Clougher had removed the seat from his bicycle.
Wee Bosco threw his leg on the bicycle, settled back on the seat and was impaled on 7 inches of cold, rusty, Sheffield steel.
Some hanlin'. Like marriage, man and bicycle had became as one.
The priest was called but refused to bless their unusual union..
"Throw a bucket of water over them!" yelled big Maggie Ferrari.
Who lives on her own with 47 kats.
Bosco will be in hospital for a month.
There is good news and bad news.The bad news is, wee Bosco will never dance the Walls of Limrick again, the good news is, neither will he suffer from constipation.
Bon Jovi wonders will wee Bosco whistle when the wind blows through him?.
Maybe old Jordie wood no!
From your Queen of hart's,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Sunday, 6 February 2011


"EN-KORE, EN-KORE" I cried enthusiastically as the graceful, exquite bally on BBC Too came to an end in a frenzy of leaping,spaltering, kicking and flinging.
I clapped my hands until my dermatitis flew off like veritable snow.
"What grace, what poise, what beauty" I utterised as I sat back down in my chair.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was sitting glowering in the korner picking the scabs on his knees and said.
"Well my bon-a-me, was that knot a cultural extravaganza to saviour and remember for the rest of us lives?"
"DRAWERS!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Bally is just an excuse for men and women to show off their drawers.
I'm going to tell the priest that you make we watch drawers on the TV.
You are a bad influent on a lump of a cub.
I may be taken from you and festered with a good, decent, God fearing family".
"You impudent pup" I yelled.
"You gargoylic gulpin. You cricical cricket.
Is this the thanks I get for trying to hammer arts and culture into that big,thick, cement head of yours?"
"Arts and Culture my small, black ass" yelled Bon Jovi.
"All I saw was-DRAWERS! YOU may get some pleasure from looking at DRAWERS on TV but I don't.
You is preverse!" roared Bon Jovi.
"You is weird and perverted. You have a pawn-shant and a fetish for-DRAWERS!
You is weird, creepy and it must be said, a dirty auld brute.
God made your lions fruitfull" said Bon Jovi.
And you were blessed with child, err-go, me. You have a duty too bring that child up in the teechings of the wholly Roman Cat-Lick church and what do you do? You sit the lump of a cub down to watch two and a half hours of leaping, jumping DRAWERS!
I'm going out now" said Bon Jovi.
"I may be gone some time.
I must try and errase the 'orrible imagines of drawers that are imprinted in my brane"
Bon Jovi looked back at me sadly and said,

"You have changed.
You never reed the Messanger any more, you just look at the pictures".
The cub sighed, blessed himself and walked out into the night.
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes.
Bally was all about-drawers.
Why did I know sea it before?.
If the bally boys wanted to dance why do they knot wear soots and frocks, why the emphisis on-drawers?
I Rosie Ryan had induced my sun to watch too and a half hours of vile, lewd photography.
I fell to my knees beside the kat and yelled.
"God, I have lead one of your little ones astray. Let knot a mill stone be tied round my neck. I have scene the lite. There wool bee know more damned, pardon my language, bally in this house.
From now on we wool watch good wholesome programmes like, "Sex in the city, Desperate Housewives and "How do you look naked" bye One Gawk.
And know more opera!" I yelled.
"God knows what vile, crude, rude words those big gulpins are singing in Italian"
When Bon Jovi returned know words were spoken, but later that nite I found a Catty-Chasm on my pillow.
The wee doat.
He's on his way to heaven and he shall knot be moved!
From a mother who was lost, but has bean found.
Rosie Ryan xxx

Hasty La-Visa

Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the fairy Queen of Clougher.
Word has reached me that once again, like the swallows of Capisstrano you are winging your way to sunnier climes.
You Gerry Anderson is a lotus eater. That's what you is, a lotus eater.
The world is your ostler. You fly through the sky with the gratest of ease, eating concannon and musky green peas.
You circumscribe the globe like a veritable equater.
You is a jet-setter and founder member of the mile Hi club.
Oh the depravity and debauchery that goes on in the cramped confines of a Ryanair toilet.
I was just saying to the bredman this morning as he fondled my paris buns, Gerry Anderson is a gallivanter extraordinaire.
The word extraordinaire comes from the French as does my Paris buns.
Things is quite in Clougher at the presant.
The hullabaloo over auld 86 year old Mungo McZerox and auld 82 year old
Pippa McMalaboo is dying down.
Oh the shame, oh the igmony to be dragged from a burning hey shed by firemen at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Mungo lay on the grass like Al Jolson insisting he had taken auld Pippa into the hey shed to show her the way his false teeth glowed in the dark.
Auld Pippa is disgraced, the priest forbid her ever to put flowers on the alter again.
Some saintly, kristian woman put a red lite on auld Pippa's zimmer frame on Monday as she walked down Clougher street to jeers, boo's and kat calls.
LUST! Raw, undiluted lust lead to their downfall.
Lust is like rust, it corrodes, tarnishes and in the end, devours.
Oft I must go. Bon Jovi wool soon be home from skool to amaze me with his amazing thoughts on, dark matter, the eratic orbit of Jupiter and a loud, guldering of, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore".
Think of the wan who loves you as you get stuck into the Sue-She and Don Perry-On cham-pain.
I is your 'umble senile serviette,
Rosie Ryan xxx


Clougher is in morning.
A ground swell of grief and tarra sadness has welled up like,--like, shi--sewage from a cesspit and engulfed the town of Clouger.
The reason for the grief and sadness is the demise, death and passing away of auld Robbo McTigg.
Auld Robbo was just 91 when he left this moral coil and shuffled off into the darkness of death.
What made auld Robbo's death all the more pungent was he had just finished his first book called.
Needless to say, the book launch at Keady's pig farm has bean cancelled.
Poor auld Robbo went quick, he was eating the heel of a pan loaf with jam on it when he cluched his chest, gave a squak like a chicken laying an egg, rolled his eyes, kicked madly with his rite foot and expired.
He is laid out (horizontally) on the bed with his rosary beads in wan hand and his Bic pen in the other.
It wood break your hart to sea him.
Auld biddies are falling down like two-legged stools, hauled out to the yard and held under the cauld water tap.
Auld Robbo was a ladies man in his younger daze.
He used to mince down Clougher street wearing an off the shoulder dress and Hi-heels, much to the umbrage of his daddy and mammy who were content with the wee things God had given them.
Auld Robbo wool be missed.
He lifted the pennies at the chapel door every Sonday.
Called out the numbers at the bingo and gave abundantly of the moles he trapped and killed.
Many a poor wain in Clougher was raised on Robbo's mole soup.
Most of them wear glasses, but that's immaterial.
"There he lies" roared the priest.
"In that box just as we will lie in us boxes when the good lord prolaims us time is up.
Life is a journey" yelled the priest.
"A journey from womb to tomb. No stops in between, straight on to the end of the line.
We is all on death row. We is all dead men AND weeman walking.
You sit 'ere today in all your finery" roared the priest.
Casting an admiring glance at auld Tilly Tiddler's blue wellingtons.
"But the reality IS! Mark well that fraze, the reality is, you'se is all wearing orange boiler-soots.
Wan by wan you wool be called to answer for your sins.
So, keep your lamps lit, keep her lit I say, your coincence klear and always wear klean drawers.
So now, we creatures made from clay stand and sing auld Robbo's favourite him,
"We plough through the fields and scatter".
As they lowerd auld Robbo into a water-logged hole I broke down and yelled.
"Bless me father for I have sinned, I let auld Robbo grope me when picking blackberries in 1971"
The priest threw the holy water sprinkler at me and roared.
"BEGONE from this concertianed ground and return too your hovel of sin and depravity"
Apart from that, the funeral went off without a hitch!
I is the woman made from clay, muck and clabber,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

Standing In The Way Of Progress.

I is writing this blog from the outskirts of Clougher.
If you ever go to Clougher you simply must go and sea the holy elbows of saint Moleno.
The holy relics are displayed in a glass case and are said to cure the jitters if the one consumed with the jitters knees down and kisses the case.
I have scene people jittery as be-damned go into sea the elbows and come out yelling.
Alas, some people get jitters mixed up with another word and go away disappointed and longing for knew drawers.
Saint Moleno was marthered by the Vikings in middle evil times.
The Viking chief, with horns on his 'ead went into saint Moleno's wee chapel and roared,
Saint Moleno wood knot BE-GO and was tied up to a tree by the big tow and eaten alive by blue tits.
Maybe now you'll think twice about hanging out nuts for those wee assassins.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was looking at me and said.
"Bon Jovi, lite of my life, flesh of my flesh, brane of my brane, if I had money I wood take you to Disney Land in America".
Bon Jovi sneered, broke wind and said.
"I am knot a child. I have know wish to sea Michael Mouse, Millicent mouse or snoring beauty.
I want to go two Switzerland and sea the big Hydron Collider"
"In the name of all that's holy, sacred and saintly" I gasped,staggering back and stepping on the kats tale.
"What's more" yelled Bon Jovi.
"I want to be put into the big Hydron Collider and scent round at the speed of lite so I can break a particle with my head and create a black whole".
"Shut your mouth you precocious wee gulpin" I roared.
"You already have a black whole, what do you want another for?"
Bon Jovi yelled,
"THICK! Thick as too bricks."
And stormed out of the house in fury and Hi dungeon.
Later that nite I relented.
Was I standing in the way of progress by denying Bon Jovi acces to the Hydron Collider?
Surely if I had a budding genie on my hands the least I could do was help him.
Which is why later that nite I threw pebbles and stones at Bon Jovi's head so he could learn how to head a particle.
As the son set over the bog mother and child went indoors arm and arm.
Bon Jovi had many dunts, cuts and scratches on his head, but nothing that required stitches.
As he crawled into his cardboard box after tee, I looked at his big arse with a mothers love and muttered.
"There goes my Einstein, my Gally-leo, my Captain Kirk"
I then utulized the po 'till it was fare brimming over, muttered.
and leapt like a wilderbeest into my bed.
Soon, all was quite and silent.
Just the billowing of the duvet confirmed I had curried stoat for tee..
"In omni pater, et feel-lea, et in ter ebo SANCTUS! SANCTUS! SANCTUS! AH-AH-MEN."
I is the sprite what gambles in the forest,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Monday, 10 January 2011

Rosie Takes A Stand

ALLAH be with you Gerry
I, Rosie Ryan am calling for Sharia law to be interduced in Clougher and surrounding districts.
I kan take know more of the lewd, obscene shennigans that go on under the duvet of darkness.
I am taking a stand.
Up with this I shall knot put!!!.
I wool knot rear my son Jovi Jovi on the out-skirts of a town filled to the brim and over-flowing with depravity and debauchery.
Clougher may revel in the name, "Sin City, but knot I.
Knot Rosie Ryan. People are queueing up at nite to get into the rural hay sheds.
And its knot just the young.
Auld Bebo McFloater and Casandra McTiddler were scene stumbling out of Murphy's hay shed at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Casandra was hanging like a wet dishcloth over a zimmer frame and auld Bebo pulling a tank of oxygeon behind him.
Auld Casandra was shaking that much she ran her zimmer frame into a shuck and auld Bebo was gasping and panting like a frog with Ass-Ma.
What diabolic, depraved, Roman orgy must have gone on in cattle food containment unit.
Under my Sharia regime, anyone found kissing, hugging, groping, or holding hands will be tied to the chapel gates and get a damn good pubic flogging.
At nite you kan heer the sin birds come home to roost in Clougher.
Golden calves abound, as doe's totem poles and craven imagies of Peter Stringfellow and auld Hugh Heffner.
I have rote to the Al-Shabab boys in Somalia and am eagery awaiting a konsigment of whips, thumb screws and big, sharp swords.
Clougher is lucky to have an abundance of stones for dealing out justice to harlots and sex mechanics.
Oh, a smiting is coming.
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
FILTH! A cloud of black, vile, Satanic filth hangs over Clougher, blotting out the son and giving free rain to the devotees of the bearded God Pan and his halluciogenic, haunting pipe music.
Is there nothing us God fearing people kan do?
Nil Desperandum!
We must be villagant.
We must fast until our drawers fall off our emaciated bodies.
We must do good works and reject the pomps of the devil.
When you come on a pomp, reject it!
We must knot suffer a witch, or strumpet to live.
An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear.
And PREY! Prey until the skin falls of your knees and black dots dance in front of your eyes.
Pick up your staff, gird your lions and follow me, Rosie Ryan, the Joan of Arc of Clougher as I fight the good fight against the devil and his horny imps.
The fact that I was scene coming out of a hey shed on Sunday nite is a damn kalamity on my good character.
I was brusting and went into the hey shed for a good slash.
Fight the good fight with,