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