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