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!.