Friday, 14 September 2012

Long Thyme, Know Right.

Deer Gerry, long thyme, know right. The Summer was one mad, social whirl of going to outside markets and steam engine konventions. Me and by blessed sun, Bon Jovi, like to throw brandy balls in front of a steem roller and watch the big front wheel smash them to Smither-eens. Every thyme the whistle blue, Bon Jovi, let a roar out of him like a constipated donkey. Bye the bye, constipational donkeys is causing much mayhem and frenzied speculation in Clougher and surrounding districts. Poisoned thistles is in the frame for the big, burro, bung up. The farmers, spray far two much auld infractize. It kills everything it touches. Poor auld Pansey Potter, tottered out two her garden wan morning. Touched a petal of a rose called, "Paddy's Delight" intoned, "If flowers be the food of love, give me a big plate of lupins", licked her fingers and fell down as dead as an X-tinct mammoth. She wool be sorely missed Gerry. The Clougher boys, borrowed her ladder to put up the saint Patrick's day flags. You should have scene the flowers on her coffin. A veritable mountain. She was layed two rest with swarms of bees and wasps frantically harvesting pollen, before the flowers were interned in the cold, dark earth. "She, is knot dead, but asleep!" roared the priest. Devil a wan believed him. Sure, we all scene her in the coffin, deposing before our very eyes. Needles to say, Clougher festival was a riot of fun and frolics. Numbers seemed a little down, but we put that down to clashing with the Olympic games. I thought that Lovely sports boy from the BBC, Steven Watson, mite have brought a kamera crew to cover the wee pigs jumping over hurdles, but apparently, Steven Watson AND the BBC, have know intrest in swine sports. A position which I find short sighted and Inn-De-Fence-Able. Strong words, say you, maintaining standards, say I. My lumb of a cub, has moved into a new klass in September. The cub is so smart, his teechers have described the class as, "Special". Like the boy in the film, Bon Jovi, has a, beautiful mind. His search for the origion of dark matter has became an obsession. This constant studying could lead to mental health problems and loss of marbles. So, I make the cub go for long rides on the back of a donkey to clear his mind. Bon Jovi, is six foot wan now Gerry. His head hits the ceiling. The number of tilly lamps that cub has broken. "Illumination, Bon Jovi! Illumination!" I cry when he enters the house to remind him of the tilly lamps. The nites are drawing in Gerry. Darkness desends on the bog, earlier and earlier. Black, heavy. Van Goo, crows fly low over stubble fields. The fox is on the prowl and the sharp eyed owl falls on a mouse. Red flannel drawers are appearing on cloths lines. Old men, who used to venture to the front gait, sit sleeping in front of turf fires. Toothless mouths, wide open and steam rising from their sodden forks. Autumn. A thyme of mists and mellow fruitfullness. A thyme to refract on the past. A thyme for a humbling of the hart and a promation of the sole. Must go Gerry. Hugo Duncan, is appearing in Clougher to-nite and I intend two get full as a po. Ah, you will, you will, you will. Its the way the wee man from Strawbane tells them. AAH-Dew, old friend. From, she who walks with beauty. Rosie Ryan xxx

Friday, 17 August 2012

"This is Rosie Ryan, reporting for BBC Ulster, from Clougher.

Hell Oh Jelly, 'Tis Rosie Ryan 'ere. Beauty, personified, mother of wan and Clougher's answer to Vanessa Felts. How is you and yours Jelly? Bouncing with health and vitality I fervently-hope. I, myself, in the singular, is doing fine. My sun, Bon Jovi, once removed, is a veritable whirlwind of unbounded vigor and bon-ah-me. You should see him Jelly. Standing tall and proud in his dungerees, eyes standing in his head, hand over his hart as he sturdily sings, "Mother McCree". I got a good wan when I got Bon Jovi. There was a time, I thought the cub, might grow up to be as thick as a brick. But, when I hear him explain the abundance of rushes round Clougher and the erratic orbits of the rings round Jupiter, I know I got a cub, full as a po, with branes. We live in woeful times Jelly. The weather is awful, the banks is burst and auld 97 year old Orville McSlugger, has just been told he has only six years to live if he doesn't give up cigarettes. Auld Orville, went into a fit of coughing, took a pull on his inhaler, held up a packet of Benson and Hedges and cried. "Out of my cold, dead hand!". The family are in a wild way. They locked auld Orville, in the hen house, but he chewed through the door with his false teeth and spent all his pension on fags. His daughter, wee 71 year old Millicent said, "Daddy, is wild headstrong, during the bird flu epedemic, he would eat nothing but chicken". A wayward daddy, can be an awful worry for the family. I told wee Millicent, to pray to saint Woodbine, the patron saint of smokers and not let him watch, that auld Joe Mahon, on, "Lesser spotted Ulster". That programme is ruining the young wans, with auld white head Joe Mahon, running about flirting with every woman he meets. I let Bon Jovi, watch, "Lesser spotted Ulster" wance and he spent the next week walking among the rushes, talking to himself!. Say, NO! to Joe! is what I say!. I hear Gerry Anderson, is off on a hunt for monkey glands, but keep that to yourself Jelly. Apparently, his face is so full of wrinkles, tears can't run down his cheeks. Everytime he watches a sad film, his face gets water-logged. And of course, Sean Coyle, has been done a long time ago. Can't throw his leg over his bicycle, or climb the stairs without the help of ropes and Sherpa's from Nepal. AH! God love him. When alive, he was the life and soul of the party. Standing on the sideboard, with a bottle of stout in his hand, reciting, "Eskimo Nell". We will never see his like again! Which is something to be cheerful about. Well, Jelly, it only remains for me to say. "This is Rosie Ryan, reporting for BBC Ulster, from Clougher. Keep hope in your hart and Spam in the fridge, or the flies will eat it. Until we meet again. Farewell my handsome prince, from Rosie Ryan, your faithful hand midden. Think of me when you're lonely Think of me when you're blue Think of me when you're far away And, I'll be thinking of-YOU! --

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Men Languish At My Feet

Deer Jelly, how devine in the extreeme to heer your dulct tones guldering out of the wireless. I hope all your kith and kin are fair jumping with good health and bon-a-me. Me, myself in the singular and my sun Bon Jovi are bright eyed and bushy tailed. Over the years, due to the passing of time, Bon Jovi has grown up into a big lump of a cub. To sea him tear after the donkey in the lower pasture brings joy to a mothers hart. Bon Jovi, was deceived when I was on honymoon in Bundoran. But he was born in Clougher. Clougher, as you know has a long history for producing scholars, ack-a-demics and wild smart boys. In the fullness of time, Bon Jovi, wool astonish the people of Clougher and surrounding districts with his knowledge of sums, speling and his obsessive compulsion to find the source of dark matter in the universe and cure ringworm on a donkey's bum. The cub is like a terrier. When he gets his teeth into the eratic orbits of Juputer, or why wasps are attracted to jam he wool neither eat or sleep. I, myself am as beautiful as ever. Nature has been kind to me. Bestowing a Rubenesque figure and two, big bleezing, red cheeks. Men languish at my feet, like lurcher dogs. I dainty step over them with poise and grace literally oozing out from every pore. I am the eeh-pit-a-may of feminity. A goddess in kuman form. Everywhere I go I see the mad scrawlings of love sick men on bridges and gable walls. "Hi Rosie, are you up for it"? "Rosie, how wood you like to hang your pants over the same chair as me?" "Rosie, I like your dumplings" Just this morning, a love note was pushed threw the bottom of my door. Written on cardboard with green pen it stated. "My hart is sighing, for Rosie Ryan Venus dee-Milo, of the bogs Oh walk with me, under scented tree And sea me feed my wee, pink hogs". A sole in torment there, me thinks. Butt, marriage is out of the question before Bon Jovi, is strolling under the cloistered towers of Oxford. Where he will emerge, like a butterfly, as a nuclear scientist, or a bus driver. Goodbye Jelly. If things had bean different, who nose. You could have had your feet under my table and the hollow of your head on my pillow. I close with a Kay-Me-a Fault-yah and a nil desperando. Some day, the fates may entwine us in la-more. Your friend and konfident, Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx