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

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

WILL BOSCO RIDE AGAIN?

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

ROSIE SEES THE LIGHT

"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
HASTY LA-VISA

ROBBO'S GONE RIP

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.
"LIFE BEGINGS AT 90".
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

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.
"MY JITTERS IS GONE! MY JITTERS IS GONE!"
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,
"BEGONE!".
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.
"HAY-HOE"
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