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,