Rosie Ryan

ROSIE RYAN'S KRISTMAS LETTER.

2011-12-21T15:05:00.001-08:00

Deer Gerry, as we approach the festering season, it is good to no that Clougher know longer celebrates Kristmas with a kuman sacrifice.
There was a brief return to the bad old daze in 2005, when a stranger was dragged from his bicycle and never seen again.
The hole grizzly hanlin' was hushed up by the parish priest, the town elders and wee Tommy Tucker, representing the loyal order of Druids.
Pounds of special mince are flying from the supermarket shelves, as Clougher prepares to welcome the birth of wee JC with a good feed.
Clougher Hi street is a veritable fairyland, with fore Christmas lites on wan side of the street and three lites on the other side.
The Christmas tree, may lean like the tower of pizza, but the wains of Clougher look at it with amazement. Not just the wains, those who drool from the mouth and wet their trousers with impunity point to the tree and babble some festive gibberish. The small, condemed shops are choc-ah-block with late nite shoppers splashing out on Biro pens, bags of dolly mixtures and gaily wrapped boxes of Preparation H. YES! the countdown to Kristmas has began. On Kristmas morning, every member of saint Judas mouth organ band that is sober, or able to walk will march from the graveyard too the chapel. The priests Kristmas sermon this year deals with the banking crisis. He will deliver the first lines, "Better had a millstone bean tyed round their neck!" in a bull-like gulder.The PINS, are standing by in case his inflamatory words leads to an attempt to burn down the bank of Ireland. We live in dangerous thymes Gerry. The disappearance of the spondulects has given rise to a caldren of anger that has yet to be vented. When the great Vent comes, woe to he, or she who is with child, or ploughing a field with a pear of bollocks. Don't turn back for your coat Gerry. You can always order another out of Kays katalogue.
I have my Kristmas all planned. After mid-nite mass, I wool slip in the back door of Patels pub and drink to ten o'clock on Kristmas morning. I will then stagger home and incinerate a duck for us Kristmas dinner.There wool sit my beloved sun Bon Jovi, wearing a paper hat and a black eye patch for his lazy eye. I will sing, "Amazing Grace" and then we will get stuck in. Elbows guarding our plates and growls, grunts and yelps guarding our food. We will knot leave the table until we are both glazzy eyed and bloated like poisoned pups. Bon Jovi wool turn on the Queens speech. I wool loyally agree with her Majesty by yelling, "You tell it like it is sister! I couldn't have put it better myself and fine girl you are!".
By now us digestive systems wool be in ferment. We will rectify this by a strenuous bout of violent rifting and ferocious farting. This wool make way for some chocolate cake and a cup of tea. Soon, Bon Jove wool crawl into his cardboard box. I wool retrieve the bottle of the crater from up the chimney and offer a toast to God, for a good, holy, christian Kristmas, were nobody got killed, scalded or received any deep cuts or gashes requiring stitches.
This is Rosie Ryan saying, Merry Kristmas Gerry, Sean boy, Emma, Janet and Ken.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

2011-11-11T11:58:00.000-08:00

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

A Culshie In New York.

2011-11-08T02:25:00.000-08:00

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

Bon Jovi And The Speed Of Dark.

2011-11-01T04:06:00.000-07:00

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

Dana Or Norris? Let The People Decide.

2011-10-13T02:31:00.000-07:00

Clougher calling! Clougher calling! Deer Gerry, 'tis Rosie Ryan 'ere, beauty, brainic and barn-dancer.
What a gunk I got on Monday when I turned on the wireless and found you knot there.
"Whom is that Tube?" said my son Bon Jovi, as he got stuck into a goose egg with toasted civilians.
"That!" I said. "Is Sean Oil, a reprobate of unparelled villainy and a throughly, bad piece of work".
"I've said it before" said Bon Jovi. "And I'll say it again, the early release scheme was dangerous in the extreme. We have sown the wind" yelled Jon Jovi. "And now we reap the harvest of Sean Oil and his ilk".
I threw a rooster off my chair, sat down and said.
"Tell me my bon-a me. Have you changed your mind in relation to the preservation election in the free state?".
"I have knot and I shall knot!" roared Bon Jovi.
"I stand fore score square behind the distinguished, quaintly old fashioned, Senator Steven Norris". "So be it! I yelled. "and I stand, shoulder to shoulder with Dana, mother, singer and hotelier. I am a Danaees!" I yelled. "It wood seem to me" said Bon Jovi. "That the predatory of Ireland is a step too far for a woman who sang a simple,banal song when she was a cuttie back in 1972".
"What does senescent, Senator Steve Norris bring to the table?" I yelled.
"GRAVITAS!" roared Bon Jovi. "Can you imagine Dana meeting a head of state? "Ah, come on away in. You'll have a wee cup of tea, so you will. Excuse the mess. Phil Coulter was here last night with a clatter of chips to talk about old times".
"And how would that differ from auld Boris the Norris" I shouted. " Senator Norris" said Tommy. "Is a man of letters. He can speak Latin and Greek effuently. Imagine if President Obama visited Ireland in a pathetic, paper thin attempt to garnish the Irish vote in America. President Norris, probably wearing a swallow-tailed coat, would trip, elf-like down the steps, open the door of the Presidents car and exclaim. "Nice to see you, to see you nice. Kay-May-Ah-Fault-Yah Mr President. Follow me to the dining room for a repast of larks-tongues, caviare, concannon and champ". "Norris" I retorted. "Is too pompous. Too arrogant and too scary. Dana is from the people, by the people and beloved by the people. Dana could smile at little wains in prams, Norris would give them nightmares". "NORRIS!" yelled Bon Jovi. "DANA!" I roared.
THEN! ganseys were thrown off and mother and sun got stuck into a real knock down, drag out brawl.
I threw a long, loping right. Bon Jovi sunk his fist into my bread basket. I replied with an uppercut. Bon Jovi, snorted like Smoking Joe Frazier and cut my eye with a vicious left hook. I grunted and threw a right that caught Bon Jovi right on the hooter. Bon Jovi did an Ali shuffle and yelled, "What's my name?" before shaking every tooth in my head with a head butt. "FOWL!" I gasped, as I brought my knee up into Bon Jovi's already wet fork.
Lefts, rights, upper-cuts, downer-cuts, heads, feet, biting, scratching, goughing and much pummeling of the under-carriage. Two hours later mother and sun lay in a bloody heap behind the door gasping.
"DANA!"
"NORRIS!"
"DANA!"
"NORRIS!"
SOON! the people will decide!

Beware Of A Sudden Malaise.

2011-09-13T01:22:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry and extended family, how excruciatingly merry it is to sea you back from the French Rivvy Aera. (The rich mans Cullybaccy) My sun Bon Jovi and me are worried about some rare, exotic, fatal disease you may have caught. "Bon Jovi" I ejeclated. "Gerry is of the opinon he was bit by a maurading mosquito and may have malevolent, malfeansant maleria". The cub immediately stopped picking his nose. A worried frown played over his headucated countance. The winda rattled as Bon Jovi roared. "I am reclined to think that uncle Gerry was bit, viciously and with callow disreguard bye a testes fly. Uncle Gerry should be on the look out for a sudden malaise". "What's a malaise sun?" I asked. "I don't NO!" yelled Bon Jovi, "But uncle Gerry should be on the look out for wan". "If a 'orribe testes fly has sunk its fangs into Gerry's lean, bronzed skin" I shrieked. "What Sim-toms should Gerry look out for, musha a lana and mother McCree?" Bon Jovi walked to the winda rattling mecurially six, silver washers from a bicycle wheel in his pocket and replied."The testes fly, as its name suggests can induce tarra testiness in the patient. Uncle Gerry may become tired, irritable, touchy and have an unbounded thirst for buttermilk. BUT!!! if Uncle Gerry begins to get dizzy, sea things that arn't there and drools uncontrolably from the mouth, he should pick up his bed and head for the casualy department in Alty-Galvin hospital--immediately!!! No messing about. Immediately!!!".I looked at the cub who had arrived so unexpectantly and "peculiary" into this world and thanked my lucky stars for having a cub like Bon Jovi.
A Bon Jovi went out he roared over his shoulder. "Uncle Gerry wool bee all rite. He is just jet-lagged and coming the old soldier".
Did you heer the wind yesterday Gerry. Wasn't it tarra in the extreme? Owling and owling round the house like a demented Damien. "Tis an evil portend!" roared Bon Jovi, as a shower of suit fell down the chimney.
In desperation Dan, I mean, Gerry. In desperation I threw the cub to the floor and we preyed loudly and franticlly to our lady of peculiar sucker. Lo, the wind calmed. Stars appeared in the sky. Mother and sun visited their respective po's and went to bed. Soon sleep, interupted by digestive dunderings fell on the house of Ryan.
From your curvicious, arvicious, pugnacious, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Bon Jovi's headucation

2011-09-08T01:21:00.000-07:00

Deer Jelly, what exquisite joy too heer your dull-sit voice waft over the rolling tundra of Co Tyrone again.
As you no, Gerry Anderson is in hospital having bionic legs fitted two his chassie in preperation for the Borstal marathon in America.
All our hopes, prayers and expectations are resting, like a parrot on the stooped, frail shoulders of the little man with the thinning hare.
How is you Jelly? Us, myself and my son Bon Jovi are as well as could be respected. Bon Jovi's headucation is astonshing the professors and Don's at saint Judas primary skool in Clougher.
Knot only is the cub up to the oxters with adding and substraction. Bon Jovi is breaking knew ground in the highly and respected world of dark matter.
Every day Bon Jovi endevors too shine a light on the elusive dark matter which abounds in the Universe like specs of suit. The cub wool go far Jelly. The cloistered towers of academia in Gortin beckon.
Your golf club carrier, Sean Thaddeaus Coyle did a fare to middeling job. But as you no Jelly, Mr Coyle is stuck like a luddite in the past. Mr Coyle is the only man in Ulster who is eagery awaiting the return of kipper ties and flared trousers. Coyle did his best, but in Bon Jovi's opinion is, knot fit for porpoise.
I must away Jelly. It is imperitive I shave my big, thick legs with my late daddy's cut-throat razor.Too wee spiders have taken up abode behind my knees and are feasting abundably on the flies, gnats and daddy-long-legs that get entangled and snared in the hares on my Venus-like legs.
I is your 'umble serviette, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Rosie's Midlife Krisis.

2011-08-24T04:44:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry Anderson, it panes me to say it, butt the receptable of your love and affliction is suffering from a midlife krisis. Every morning I wake up misconstrued and repressed. Dark visions haunt me and my eek-way librum is up the Swanny. I peer into the dark tunnel of life like a ferret. Seeking hope, the persuit of happiness and the life-giving nourishment of brilliant, illuminated-lite. All is dark. All is gloomy. All is the reverse of, "With a hey and a hoe and a hey-nonny-noo".
What a fierce, tarra hanlin' that Rosie Ryan, beauty and brainaic should be waylaid on her journey through life bye thoughts of unattainable somberness and inexplicable yearnings. Last nite, when going through Kays katalogue my menthol instability forced me to order a pink thong and a toy bugle!!!!!!!
I have more chance of getting into the bugle than I have of getting into the thong.
UNPREDICTABLY, in all its many guises has taken kontrol of my brane. I am as a wind-blown kite, a rudderless ship.
A leaf, falling from an Autumnal tree. Spinning and swirling at the mercy of the wind. Knowing knot if I wool fall on good ground, the weeds which abound in the hedgerows or the stones who reside in profussion bye the high-way.
In desperation Dan, I mean-Gerry, in desperation I fell to my knees and preyed to the Mother of peculiar sucker. The results of my imploring was, diddly-squat. So one day in the throes of a fierce midlife krisis, I donned brown, duffle coat and set off confused, preplexed and highly agitated to sea the doctor. I burst into the doctors surgery and offered to, "Drop them" but the doctor told me to take a seat and give vocal utterances to my ills. "MIDLIFE KRISIS!" I yelled. "A midlife krisis has came upon me like a thief in the nite".
I was subscribed hard core tranquillization in the hope that transquillization would transform my state of turmoil into tranquility.
I took the little green, capstans religiously for too weaks. After submitted myself to quackery on a grand and glorious scale. My midlife krisis has increased by leaps and bounds. Knot only that, my hare is falling out, one eye has drooped and my stools have turned puce!!!
Needless to say, a sharp letter ritten in green crayon is winging its way to the Medical Kouncil.
My doctor advised me to, keep taking the tablets. I adviced the doctor to take a swim with the other ducks in the pond. "QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!" was my final riposte before I stamped out, slamming the door behind me.
I have returned to the religion of my four fathers and three mothers. Every nite I fall to my knees beside the po and prey. "Oh Mother of peculiar sucker, remove this damned auld midlife krisis what is hanging over me like a hangmans hood. . Bring back my gaity de-tour and optimalization. Oh Mother! OH Mother of peculiar sucker give me a window of opportunity to dive through like a swallow flying back to its nest. Where there is war, let me bring piece. Where there is death, let me bring tea and sugar for the wake. Where there is hate, let me bring lamour and where there is doubt, let me bring clarity and transparancey. Now! and at the moment of us deaths-AMIN". If that doesn't work, I will be forced to turn to the black arts, in which I am well versed!.

Rosie's La-Bedo Is Back.

2011-08-10T02:51:00.000-07:00

Gerry, my old Apache, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the Eva Peron of Clougher. I am suffering from, what the medicinal profussion call, "woman's trouble."
Whisper it low, my la-bedo is on the wane. My yearning for the mail of the specimen is diminshing rapidly. I first became aware of my condition, when wee Friedrich the postman brought me a clatter of junk male with the fork of his trousers lying wide open. As my eyes beheld the open barn door, knot a stir in my lions. No Hi blood pressure and no maidenly blush sprang to my big, oval, beautiful face.
"Something has gone ah-rye in the complicated construction of pipes and tubing which abound in my under-carriage" I yelled. As I pulled on my late mammys, brown duffle coat and set off post haste for the doctors surgery. "Ah, Mrs R" said the doctor. "Long time know sea. What can I do for you?"
"Womans trouble!" I yelled. "My la-bedo is regestering low on the passion meter".
"It happens to us all" said the doctor. As we get older, our la-bedo, like an unwound clock, runs slow and then-STOPS!".
"Why was I knot told of this when I signed on to be a woman?" I roared.
"Are you in an inanimate relationship?" asked the doctor.
"I am KNOT!" I yelled. "But my la-bedo is like my shotgun. I may knot use it for months, but when a fox appears I except it to go off with a BANG!". "Why knot accept it Mrs Ryan" said the doctor. "Take up nitting buy yourself a kat".
"NEVER!" I yelled. "I am Rosie Ryan. Goddess of beauty. I drive men mad with poise, grace and wild goodlookingness. Without my la-bedo, I am an empty vessal.A clanging symbol blowing in the wind. It is unnatureal" I cried. "You have wee blew tablets for men, give me some pink tablets for women".
"There is no Vigara for women" said the doctor. "The only thing I kan do is reject you with the mail horrormone-testosterone.".
"The side effects?" I said clicking my fingers. "The side effects, come on, lets be having them".
"Your voice will get much lower" said the doctor. You wool clean your nose on your sleeve, slash standing up and a wild, unkempt beard will grow on your face."
I lifted my skirt, dropped my red flannel drawers, bent over the desk and roared. "Pump me full of that Testorene boy.Without my la-bedo I am as barren ground, a desert blowing in the wind, an oil-less wick and a figure of fun and division".
I feel the effects already Gerry. I shave twice a day and stand slashing by the roadside as a matter of routine.
Just wan thing worries me. I now find my old friend Nellie Granite wild good looking. I am consumed with an overwealming to leave my bed at nite and steel a pear of her grate, big bloomers from her cloths line.
I suppose that's just my la-bedo a bit confused as it rises from the ashes like a Fee-Nix.
"My la-bedos back, bring on the crack.
There ain't no good a crying.
I am a red blooded sun of a gun
And my name is, Rosie Ryan.
(Fancy a boys nite out Gerry?)

What is Life?

2011-07-22T03:47:00.000-07:00

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!.

Rosie May Be A Lamb But She's No Sheep.

2011-07-12T15:42:00.000-07:00

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!.

Bon Jovi Wants To Be A Bass Player!

2011-06-30T04:20:00.001-07:00

Gerry, my amorous amigo. Imagine my constellation when my sun Bon Jovi told me he was going to be a bass player in a beet combo.
I reeled back until my postillian found sanctuary on a bag of coal. Shaking like a leaf on the hessian container of fossle fuel I yelled.
"Bass player my pert, voluptuous ass. You wool study hard and be a doctor, a solicitor or a vet".
"I'm not sticking my hand up a cows bum" roared he who was deceived in Bundoran. "I want to be a bass player like uncle Gerry. I want to smoke, drink and pick up chicks.
I want to be the power house in a heavy metal band and when I do I will change my name to, Thundering Tarquin".
"Musicans!"I yelled. "Is imortal, drunk, drug fueled weirdos. I don't want to sea you wrecking hotels are hanging a wee wain over a balcony".
"You kan knot stop me" roared Bon Jovi. "As soon as I attain the age of reason I can do what I like!".
"You wool choke on your own vomit" I warned.
"So be it" said Bon Jovi.
"Live young, dye fast. Its my life. I am knot going to let you live your life pecuniary through me".
I looked at Mr Bassman, standing there with whith wholes in his gansey and the fork of his short trousers lying wide open. There was know music in the cub. He was tone deaf and had swallowed the too mouth-organs I bought him and one of them was a ten incher! What a hanlin' in the casualty department, with the doctor and nurses yelling, "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! and the approaching mouth-organ playing a haunting, faerie-like air as it emerged from the cubs derriere.
But after a wash in warm water it was as good as knew. Many a tune I played on it myself.
Bon Jovi would never be a bass player. You have to be able to mulit-task to be a bass player. You must have the ability to stand up and act nondescript and nonchalant.
It wool be the happiest day of my life when I sea Bon Jovi in a dirty cow shade, stripped to the waste with his arm up a cows bum.
Bon Jovi Ryan, the vet with the soft,tender, loving, healing hands.
Aah dew Gerry. Aah dew from the bell of Clougher---Rosie Ryan. xxx

Rosie's Advice To The People Of Ulster

2011-06-22T16:02:00.000-07:00

Gerry, my old cum padre, thank Allah you got home before the whole monetary structure in Europe cracked like an egg shell and the Euro Zone fell though the floor to the ringing of cash tills and anti-theft alarms.
If Grease goes Gerry,the rest of Europe will follow in what us monatery experts call, the Dominos effect.
Hard times is a coming. Thank God Bon Jovi and me have the hen eggs to fall back on.
Its all bean predelicted in the book of revolutions.
"And Lo, on Hi and low the sound of weeping and gnashing of teeth will be tarra to behold"
Its the golden calf sin-drome Gerry. Learned men who use the pen and sing Gods praises Hi have been warning us about the love of Mammoth.
Some peeple love Mammoth more than God. Other peeple, especially Cat-Licks think they can have a big feed of Mammoth and a side dish of God on a wee plate.
We is going back to the stone age. This wool please the wild tribes in Gortin who never left it.
Was it knot John Hume who said, "You kan't eat a 56 inch plasma screen TV".
Did knot doctor Parsley say, "NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!" when Noel Thompson asked him if he ever played with a Game Boy.
Its too late to tighten us belts, us drawers are round us ankles. The daze of whine and Roses sweets is over. On us bellies we wool crawl, eating grass, earwigs, daddy-long-legs and scurrying aunts.
We must return to basics, Reinvent the wheel and hang any witch or warlock who dares mutter, "Micro-Chip". It was wild smart peeple who got us into this hanlin' It wool take peeple like me to get us out.
My advice this dark, brooding morning to the peeple of Ulster is. "Hang on to your groats "!
From the hurler on the ditch, Rosie Ryan. xxx

Gather ye rose buds while ye can

2011-06-12T01:17:00.000-07:00

"She walks in beauty like the night, I heer she is a tarra site".
"That beautiful sonnet was ritten about me bye the blind poet, Gastro "The Banty" McGosling.
Even the blind kan sense my grate beauty. I give of an Aura. An Aura that all the senses kan pick up. Just a site of me, a smell of me, or a touch of me, leave men shaking in their wellingtons and ready to jettison wife and family just to be near me looking, smelling and touching me. A tinker from Kerry once described me as, "A thing without comparision".
I sea that other Femme Fattle Britney Speares is going to tour the You Kay. Auld no nickers wouldn't stand a chance if she came up against me in the beauty steaks.
Rosie Ryan is know tramp. Rosie Ryan is know strumpet. When Rosie Ryan throws her leg on her bicycle the hole world kan sea she is wearing nickers.
Was it knot Dillon Thomas who said, "Do knot go nickerless into that cold, dark nite".
What exqusitive joy it is, to sit legs akimbo on a green pasture watching flies, beatles and other winged insects land and take-off from a heli-pad made from cow dung.I find grate beauty in the minutia of life. An aunt with an egg on its head. A dusty-winged butterfly with senestive antena. A worm turning back on itself because it forgot something and how after a good slash a river of urine makes its way through the dusty terrain.
Some peeple do nothing but complain. Peeple come up to me and say.
"Rosie, are we going to get a Summer at tall, at tall? Is it never going to stap reigning?"
"Get to hells fire!" I roar.
"Why stand you there whinning and moaning. Make hey weather the son shines or knot.
When you lie on a urine soaked, fecus stained sheet on your last day you shall regreat the things you said today.
When baubles, ulsters and postiles has broken out all over your body. When you kan't tell your arse from a whole in the ground. When pain makes your boney body arch like a cross bow. When half your intestines are in the bed with you and puss runs freely and green out of every orifice how many of us wool have the brass neck to sit up and sing,
"I DID IT MY WAY".
Gather ye rose buds while ye can for lo the night desends. But until that day my sun Bon Jovi and me is going for a cunt'ry walk. Wearing a floral dress, parasole in hand and two geraniums behind her ears goes the henchanting, woodland sprite, Rosie Ryan. I shall harvest beauty and save it for a rainy day. And on the day of my death, I shall arise from my own piss, feces, filth and repulsive decay and gently sing.
"Everything is beautiful, in its own way". Then, with a wild spalter I shall fall back on my pillow. A corpse, a cadaver, a dead "Thing" from which no beauty derives.
In the meantime, up with those peckers. I really want to sea those peckers up!.
From Rosie Ryan amateur Bot-an-nist and professional beauty. xxx
PS. Hasn't the weather bean tarra this year?

Poor Auld Ireland

2011-06-07T05:13:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, it has come to my retention that you will soon be oft again to far flung foreign plaices.
Gerry, you is a jet setter, a lotus eater, a modern day Samuel Aah Beckett, a man for all seasons.
I suppose you wool be nocking on the doors of Arab shrieks seeking sheckles, groats and spondulects for poor auld Ireland. Alas and alac, the land of saints and conmen is up a certain well known creek without a paddle. And apparently no wan is to blame!. All our money simply-disappeared. I suspect hands in the cookie jar but I kan't prove it.
Fintan O'Toole is fit to be tied. "Missmanagement! on a grand and epic scale" he yelled on Prime Time. Poor Miriam O'Callaghan, scared out of her wits cried.
"Fintan Achara, keep the heid".
"To hell with keeping the heid" yelled the bould Fintan.
"I want to sea bankers hanging from every lamp post in O'Connell street"
And now you kan't cut turf in the Free State! If auld Jordie Tuft lived in the Free State he wood be chained to the General Post Office by now. Soon they'll be banning donkeys, Irish dancing and the harvesting and husbanding of frogspawn. No more will the Irish Paddy or Bridget coo lovingly over a bowl of tadpoles.
Auld Mother McCree, Dicey Reilly and Molly Malone must be going hay wire in their graves.
'Tis a tarra hanlin' A tarra hanlin' If auld Develera was still around, this wood have killed him.
Any way, Bon Jovi and me wish you luck as you plough through the sands of the Sahara desert, begging bowl in hand. Them Arab Shrieks have tons of money. Tell them if they don't cough up you wool organise a concert tour starring, Daniel O'Donnell and Hugo Duncan. Let the world sea that Ireland has weapons of mass destruction and are knot afraid of launching a premptive strike.May saint Patrick dog your Italian footsteps and bring you safely home.
From, Rosie and Bon Jovi Ryan.
ERIN GO BRAUGH!!!

Rosie The queen Of Stile

2011-05-29T08:24:00.000-07:00

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,
ROSIE RYAN xxx

How To Explain The Blewness Of The Blew-Bells.

2011-05-21T02:22:00.000-07:00

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,
ROSIE RYAN xxx

A PANIC IN THE BOG

2011-04-30T01:22:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at home the other day with the doors, windows and my mouth open.
"PHEW! what a scorcher!" I mummered.
I was workng on my latest intervention which I planned to take to the Dragons Den.
I call it the Flatulence Forecaster.
The idea is simple. A small micro-chip is inserted just above the ars---anus. This micro chip has the ability to detect farts before they make their way down fart alley.
When the little chip detects the slightest build up of flatulent gas, it gives a Hi-pitched, piercing BEEP! This gives you plenty of time to excuse yourself and go to the toilet for a fit of farting, or perchance, even a dump!.
The Flatulence Forecaster will be a boom for the Hi-flying exective, people with a low tolerance to farts, men who suffer from fits and nursing mothers.
I glanced out at the sweeping panorama of beauty that lay before me. The bog was coming alive again with heather, wild flowers and long, slender grasses.
Hi in the air a lark sang, the plaintive cry of the curfew and a bevy of tits bobbed up an down on my clothes line.
Nature was alive! Under the kitchen table, grate big blew-bottles landed on the biggest dog turd I have every seen like menacing Apache helicopters.
"BON JOVI!" I yelled to the fetus who had sprang from my lions.
"Drop what you're doing. You and me is going on a cunt'ry panic".
There was a crash as Bon Jovi dropped my good child of Prague statue.
My only sun came running in yelling,
"I'm going on a panic!. I'm going on a panic!".
Soon mother and sun were loaded down with goodies and we set off for the wild, blew yonder.
To get to my secret plaice we had to jump three shucks and clamber over five rusty barbed wire fences.
Needless to say, trousers and nickers were snagged which lead to punctures, grazes and cuts being inflicted on us ars--rears.
Mere flesh wounds, none of which would require stitches.
Red-faced and panting we crested a hill and there it was, my Zanadoo, my Eldorado, my sleepy hollow.
This is where I used to play as a child and practice my deporation which gives me my graceful poseidon.
Many peeple have said I walk like a hangel on egg shells.
"This is the plaice!" I cried.
"We shall panic here!"
Bon Jovi took off his rucksack and laid out on an old towel, heaps of buttered heels from pan loaves.
Coke-Oh-Cola, apples, bananas, crisps, Cad-buryies chocolate and a tupperware kontainer kontaining a turgid heap of congealed curried ferret.
What a feast it was. A feast fit for the Gods.
"For what we are about too receive" I yelled.
And then mother and sun got stuck in like too pot-bellied pigs.
Soon hands were grabbing and gnashers gnawing. Bon Jovi nearly chocked when he tried to swallow an apple whole.
I tore into the curried ferret with my bare hands. I growled deep in my throat as Bon Jovi tried to steel some.
It wasn't until we realised we were eating handfulls of grass that we knew the panic was over.
We both lay on us backs and made the long grass sway with fierce, unnatural flatulence.
Stuffed to the throat like too porkers we fell into a deep sleep bordering on a coma.
It was pitch dark when we awoke!
Bon Jov screamed.
"Don't picnic!" I yelled.
Yes! the panic was over, but now the picnic set in.
Have you ever climbed over five barbed-wire fences and jumped three shucks in the pitch dark?
It is highly improbable that you have.
Well, I have, as has my sun Bon Jovi.
When we eventually staggered home, my nickers were mere flapping, ragged remments. Bon Jovi's trousers had been ripped to shreads and fallen off.
Us derrieres looked like we got fifty seven lashes from the cat-oh-nine tales.
But we made it! I got my cub home!.
The moral is, if you ever wake up in the dark after a panic it is imperitive that you don't picnic!
I am glad to retort that both ars--rears are healing nicely.
From the captivating and bewitching beauty.... ROSIE RYAN.

An Appeal To All Floaters.

2011-04-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

DEER ELECTERATE.
This is Rosie Ryan appealing for your vote. Pleeze give your number one's and number two's to me. Rosie Ryan, is a single mother and bewitching beauty with numerous bog skills.
I appeal to all the floaters out there, gather round the canditate who, for many years was a floater herself.
I understand the mind of a floater.
If we float alone we drown. Lets come together, right now, over me.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for fierce, good headucation.
What us skools need is dedicated teechers stuffed with Hi-headucation.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for sanitry.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for free turf for the over 97's.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for peace in our time, the working man and the pound in your knicker pocket.
You'se will never have it so good if you vote for Rosie Ryan.
So to all floaters I say, let me, Rosie Ryan be the recetable for your number one's and two's on erection day.
Vote Rosie Ryan because you're worth it.
So, don't delay, vote today for Rose Ryan, founder of the "Cunt'ry Party".
Endorsed by, Kelly's Knickers, Brannigan's bread, Mulligans Poundies, Daniel O'Donnell and Gerald Michael Anderson.

Bon Jovi's picked Up By The Fuzz

2011-04-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

I was bent over like a cow applying a liberal application of Preparation H to my throbbing rear when the police kar drove into the street.
"Holy mother of divine mercy" I yelled, as I quickly adjusted my red flannel drawers and held my finger under the hot water tap.
I ran out to the street like Groucho Marx yelling.
"Is he dead? Has the lump of a cub expired?. Tell me, I kan take it, Is my wee Bon Jovi deceased?"
A police man with jam on his shirt said.
"At 16 hundred hours today, Master Bon Jovi Ryan was taken into custard and is being held in Clougher clink".
"Holy God!" I shrieked.
"My cub behind Hi prison walls like the Yorkshire ripper or Oscar Wilde. Take me too him" I roared.
"I am his mammy. If my sun is incarnated I should be by his side. Have you shackled the lump of a cub in some dirty, cobwebbed dungen where wild, feral, hungry rats will eat the toes of him?
Does my wee doat lie on a bed of straw staring at the blue sky through a small barred window?
DOES HE HAVE A PO?" I yelled.
"Does the cub who sprang, fully formed, from my lions have unrestricted access to a PO?"
Later, at the police station I herd the whole sorry, sordit story. It was a story of infamay that wood drive any good catholic mother to the edge of do-lally madness and crazyness.
Inspector Nipper of Clougher vice squad told me in graphite detail how the filthy caper went down.
After skool, instead of going home Bon Jovi and the other members of the "Maroon September" gang made their way to Clougher.
The onslaught began at half past three, when the "Maroon September" gang, lead by Bon Jovi began to throw balls of cow dung at innocent civilians.
As the balls of hardened cow dung flew through the air, the casualties mounted.
The first to go down was auld Bertha Tibbets. Auld Bertha was coming out of Sweeny Todd's butcher show with a pound of special mince under her oxter when a ball of cow dung hit her rite on the kisser.
As auld Bertha slumped to the ground she shrieked,
"Them auld dung-spreaders are getting to be a wild hanlin' "
Soon bicycles and donkeys careered down the street while their riders lay prone on the road.
Pastor McGinty from Gortin went into a fit of effing and blinding as a ball of dung hit him on the ear and another wan got him rite in the fork.
Wee Harriet Mondeo, her with the goitre, was covered with cow dung to such an extent she looked like a walking midden!.
Above the onslaught of cow dung Bon Jovi could be herd roaring.
"Aim for the whites of their eyes".
When the Maroon September gang ran out of ammunation they tried to retreat but were picked up by the fuzz on the Hi-way out of Clougher.
When asked why they done it,the members of the Maroon September gang kept stum, but Bon Jovi explained it was a premptive strike, purely defensive and went on to say the Maroon September gang just wanted to live in peace and harmony.
Bon Jovi and all members of Maroon September had an aspro slapped on them and a curlew, which means they must be in the house 17 hours a day.
Apparently MI5 is taking a keen intrest in Bon Jovi and have put him on the terrorist list.
I'm just happy to have the wee Che Guevara home.
I cut a good sally rod and showed the wee gulpin just what a premptive strike is!
The Bin Laden of Clougher bawled like a baby.

Mission Acomplished

2011-03-29T01:46:00.000-07:00

A tragedy of monumental, Machiavellian, machinations has bee-fallen me.
A tragedy of Greek peforations is the only way to descriptively, describe the horrorendous hanlin which was fated by fate to bee-fall me.
I wool now state the facts in a clear and transpicious manner.
I was in my frontal garden. I was enraged in boiling a cauldren of drawers.
I was using a nobbly, black-thorn stick to circulate and motivate the under garments.
I was arrayed in spick and span hob-nailed boots and a kakhi German world war one grate coat.
My suspences were aroused when I saw my sun Bon Jovi galloping like a wilderbeest through the bog and roaring like a demented donkey.
The cub ran towards me, too streams of snotters flying behind him in the wind and roared.
"Oh Mammy, I bring tidings of grate perplezity and termididy.
The cubs at skool say, a graphic,pornographic, caricature of you adorns the second cuticle in stall too at the men's toilet and slash house in Clougher".
"DOUGHNUTS AND DUMPLINS" I yelled.
"Prepare my steed" I cried.
Today I ride to Clougher to rite the rongs which have been preputated on my person by person, or persons unknown".
"Do you want me for back-up?" cried Bon Jovi.
"KNOW!" I cried empatically.
"You stay and stir the drawers".
Soon I was on my way too Clougher, bent over the handle bars of my bicycle like Frankie Dee-Tori.
When I reached the defecation containment unit I leaped off my bike and ran into the men's innconvenance.
Three men were standing at stalls having a slash.
"GET OUT!" I yelled
"And do that in the street like real men, don't be cowering in 'ere like old women".
I threw open the door to stall too and stood there shocked to the kore in horrific amazement.
"MERDE! MERDE! MERDE!" I screamed in the tiled construction manufactoried excuviously for slashing and defication.
THERE! on the wall was a large crayon drawing depicting the Bridget Bar-Doo of Clougher, Rosie Ryan.
In the drawing I was bent over like a cow displaying a massive aera of red flannel drawers.
The artist had added numerous gingham patches to my red flannelled, plump ars--derriere.
I was looking behind me with a sultry expression on my big, plump, red face.
Underneath rote in large block capitals was rote,
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
Driven mad by intorable menthol anguish I ran outside tearing my hare and rendering my garments.
There in front of me stood a massive digger. I leaped into the cab, turned her on and soon Clougher toilet looked like Soddem and Begorragh.
Knot one stone was left upon a stone, or a stool upon a stool.
"MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!" I yelled as I rode out of Clougher like Clint Eastwood.
Don't meddle with she who is,
ROSIE RYAN xxx

Administrative Error

2011-03-16T03:37:00.000-07:00

Lots of head shaking and saying, "I told you so!" in Clougher this weak.
Wee Aroma McFeeters is back home in disgrace.
Wee Aroma was wan of the few to escape the clinging muck and clabber of Clougher.
Wee Aroma studied to be a doctor and worked in the kasualty department at the Erne hospital.
Last weak doctor wee Aroma found out the hard way that the way to a man's hart in knot through his stomach.
(His funeral was on Fryday)
Apparently wee Aroma couldn't stand the stress and in a fit of desperation turned to Red Bull and Terry's chocolate orange eggs to calm her nerves.
It all came to a head last weak when wee Aroma was found in the operating theatre, saw in hand, up to the ankles in fingers, toes and unspeakable appendages.
Wan patient threatened to Sue, but found to his dismay that he didn't have a leg to stand on.
Both his legs and miscellaneous bits and peaces of under-carriages were found under wee Aroma's bed.
Wee Aroma was struck off the medical register and the hole thing hushed up under, "Administrative Error"
Wee Aroma is claiming to be thrice polar and works at the weak-ends in Tiddler's butcher shop.
I saw her at the weak-end when I went in two buy a pound of special mince and six, curly pig's tales for Sonday's dinner.
Wee Aroma was working at the back of the buchers shop.
I looked on in horror as she ripped. cut, slashed and stabbed a side of beef, with a big butchers knife in her hand and a look of demonic, malevolence on her Jack the Ripper face.
I have called an X-tra-ordinatry meeting of Clougher council.
I shall propose that all knives, scythes,tin-openers, bill-hooks, nail-clippers and scissors be kept away from the disgraced X doctor McFeeters.
If the deranged medic met my sun Bon Jovi on a dark nite she wood have his guts for garters.
Wee Aroma has got the smell of blood, she won't stop now.
A Mass-acre!. A MASS- ACRE I tell you is about to befall the cunt'ry town of Clougher.
From the ever dilligent,
Rosie Ryan xxx.

"Love is a many splendent thing"

2011-03-08T02:30:00.001-08:00

If my mammary serves me rite it was Alexander the Grate who said.
"Love is a many splendent thing".
Alexander was known as the, "Grate" because of his rag time band and obsessive panchant for open fires.
Wholly nuptials were knonfirmed by a bona-fido priest at "The last Stop" old folks home in Clougher this weak.
The konsenting adults were auld 94 year old Clint McTavish and auld 89 year old Shelia "Toots" McSplatter.
Apparently the pear of ancient love birds had bean caught traversing the corridor to wan and others bedrooms at nite and the priest said.
"We'd better splice them too auld muppets before they burn in hell for all eternally".
On the morning of the wedding, auld Clint looked almost human wearing a mustard coloured soot from War on Want.
The contrasting Celtic football club trainers gave auld Clint a dapper, jazzy, playboy apperance.
The blushing bride, for auld Shelia does have a big, red, bleezer of a face was dressed in green, which complimented her teeth.
"DO YOU" said the priest.
"I DO!" yelled auld Clint.
"Hauld on yeh boy" said the priest.
"You're a bit quick of the mark there.
"Hauld on until I give you the nod. This isn't an auction you know, its a wedding".
Then wan of the alter boys fainted as he gazed into the feces of the ancient lovebirds.
It took quite a while too konfirm nuptils on the auld relics what with leering and drooling, breaking wind and falling down.
No sooner had they got auld Clint up on his feet than auld Shelia was down on her arse.
There was an outbreak of boking in the church when the priest said with a look of distaste on his blessed and concertinaed face,
"You may now kiss the bride".
The too auld wrinklies came together with a clash of zimmer frames and SLURPED the face of each other like too conger eels.
Nurses and carers threw bits of cut up toilet roll over the 'appy couple in lou of konfetti.
Wan carer who didn't like them flung handfulls of rice with such ferocity it stung like shotgun pellets.
Then back to "The Last Stop" home for a feed of ox tale soup and spam sandwitches with the crusts cut off.
The marriage was consumed later that nite it the morgue which had bean turned into the honymoon sweet complete with matching po's and Chinese lanterns.
The next morning a nurse found auld Shelia lying on the broad of her back with her mouth open and beside her auld Clint with his mustard trousers round his ankles.
Apparently auld Clint couldn't get his War on Want, mustard trousers over his Celtic football club trainers.
The last I herd the ancients were talking of going to Bundoran for a few daze in the Summer.
When I came home from the wedding I said to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Oh Bon Jovi, never let me grow old".
"Too late" giggled the grotesque gulpin.
"That day has came and gone".
Only I was hefted I wood have raced the cub up hill and down dale.
I is your 'umble korrespondant.
Rosie Ryan xxx

Marathon Advice From Rosie

2011-03-01T01:26:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry,
Its Rosie Ryan 'ere, she of the flashing eyes and thunder thighs.
Winter has at last loosened its icy grip on Clougher.
It was a sore wan Gerry.
My lips and hips is badly chaffed.
During the worst of it, Brannigan's donkey frooze to death looking out over a gait with a look in its eyes that defiled all komprehension.
Last Sonday in Clougher was nice and mild.
Some couples who are still talking to each other headed out for a walk and one or too brave soles threw caution to the wind and had a slash down Milligan's entry.
And I am proud to say, I was one of them.
Al-Fresco slashing is a sign that Spring is on the way.
Gerry, your God-sun Bon Jovi is wild worried about you and this marathon thing.
"Uncle Gerry wool never do it!" yelled Bon Jovi, banging his fist on the table for emphatic emphasis.
"He wool be dragged off the street like road kill while the boy's of the NYPD choir keep singing, "Galway Bay".
I don't no much about running. The only things that run in the Ryan family is noses, bladders and bowls.
The only marathon runner we had in Clougher was Bosco "The Flash" Romano and he didn't aquire the nick-name "The Flash" for running!.
I remember when wee Bosco was training for the Gortin marathon.
He just couldn't get his speed up, so what wee Bosco did was superglue too big, juicy, raw steaks to his hips and then run by auld Morphine Mumbles house who owned six big, firece Doberman Pichers.
Well, that got wee Bosco's speed up, but apparently not enough and he suffered severe cuts, scratches, gouges,bites and lacerations around both derriere and under-carriage.
When the starting gun went off in Gortin wee Bosco was still in the Royal in Belfast getting skin grafts.
I don't no how to advice you Gerry.
I no you have your hart set on running the marathon.
What I suggest is, you strip naked in front of a mirror and then ask yourself, Mr Coyle, Emma, Janet, the Undertone and Ken
"Kan this body carry me 26 miles?"
Coyle may try and mislead you, but Janet and Emma wool tell the truth and probably take plenty of pictures with their wee kamera fones.
What ever you do boy I'm rite behind you willing you on.
From buck-some beauty and delectable honey bun,
Rosie Ryan xxx
SP, Poor auld Jane Russell is dead, she was nearly as good looking as me!.

A Tale Too Far.

2011-02-22T01:51:00.001-08:00

Deer Gerry,
How reassuring it is two sea your too Italian shoo's back on the auld sod again.
Even the kats in the street no that Rosie Ryan has not got a xenophobial bone in her body.
I am in the van-guard of multi-kultural institutions and all that melting pot shennigans.
But going to foreign plaices kan be dangerous.
I hope you got home without an invasion of alien parasites, or any embarassing itchyness round the under-carriage.
Remember poor auld Ester Ratzen who paddled up the Kongo in a can-noo?
The poor auld crater nearly skittered herself inside out when a virulet parasite took up abode in her gut.
Oh how soon your friends desert you when dysentery erupts from your rear like a veritable gattling gun.
Job was the first man to suffer from dysentery.
The Bible recounts how he sat on a dung hill of his own making.
Gerry, I am worried about my sun Bon Jovi. The other nite as he changed his green, moudly simmet, I glanced at the cubs back and was mortified and horrified to sea that his coccyx seemed to have elongated into a small tale.
Shocked beyond bee-leaf I ran out into the nite tearing my hare and letting shrieks out of me.
The last Ryan to grow a tale was auld Mandrake "Jump the shuck" Ryan.
Mandrake was banished to Gortin in the middle of the ages for being a warlock.
The Gortin wans don't care if you have a tale or knot!
On Monday I put Bon Jovi into a wheel barrow and rushed him too the doctor.
The doctor reinsured me, he said it was nothing to worry about. Apparently some coccyx, or should that be, cooyxi are bigger that others!.
But he told me to cut out the ox tale soup.
It is a medical fact that ox tale soup has a tendancy to congeal round the coccyx causing some discomfort and elongation of the coccyxi.
The big question is, wood I have kept Bon Jovi if he had grown a tale?
The answer is best summed up in the crumpled peace of paper in my apron pocket which bears the telephone number of Duffy's Circus.
Kay-Me-A-Fault-Yah to all at radio Foul.
from the unnatinable-untameable,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Clougher Calling!

2011-02-18T02:18:00.001-08:00

Salutaire Jelly,
Clougher calling! Clougher calling in the form of buck-some, beauty, Rosie Ryan.
What a weak its been Jelly.
You really extinguished yourself as you sat in for Geraldine Michelle Anderson.
You have many fine attributions Jelly, but standing tall among all your attributiveness is your indefatigable-Bon-Ah-Me.
People in Clougher talk of little else.
"Jelly Keeley is full!" said auld Savannah O'Really.
As she clutched a pound of special mince between her knees all the better to button up her German Gestapo world war two grate coat.
"Jelly Keeley is full of good will and Bon-Ah-Me.
It must have bean a pleasure for his mammy to change his nappy and sea a gurgling face full of bon-ah-me smile up at her".
You made a big depression on the Clougher wans Jelly, next time you drive through your kar won't be stoned.
May I take a soup spoon of your time to ask for a wee inquest.
Pleeze play, "Crazy" bye Patsy Cline for wee Daffy McDilly who took the morning after pill the day before and now can't tell if its Fryday, half past three in the afternoon or pancake Tuesday!
Her boy-fiend, Barney (The weasel)Mulligan is having second thoughts about the wedding.
As Barney so aptly put it,
"If Daffy's off her trolly she can find another mug!".
Sediments which I heartly endorse.
Sew, 'till we meet again, its goodbye from you and goodbye from me,
the Lady Gaga of Clougher,
Rosie Ryan xxx

WILL BOSCO RIDE AGAIN?

2011-02-14T02:50:00.000-08:00

High Jelly, Its the much desired, but unnatainable Rosie Ryan 'ere.
How joyfull and utterly beguiling it is to sea your postillian on Gerry Anderson's rocking chair again.
You are as welcome as the flour in May.
Any auld rubbish wool do Anderson's listeners.
Most of them are kept medicated to stop them running amok in the streets.
May I impinge on our friendship to ask for a wee inquest.
Jelly pleeze play, "I like To Ride My Bicycle" bye Queen for wee
Bosco Fellini. (Yes! Bosco is of Italian distraction)
Wee Bosco is in hospital and the reason for his being there came about thus.
Wee Bosco was in a pub drowing his sorrows after his wife Lola run away with a mouth-organ player from Gortin.
When wee Bosco left the pub he failed to sea that some fly boys from Clougher had removed the seat from his bicycle.
Wee Bosco threw his leg on the bicycle, settled back on the seat and was impaled on 7 inches of cold, rusty, Sheffield steel.
Some hanlin'. Like marriage, man and bicycle had became as one.
The priest was called but refused to bless their unusual union..
"Throw a bucket of water over them!" yelled big Maggie Ferrari.
Who lives on her own with 47 kats.
Bosco will be in hospital for a month.
There is good news and bad news.The bad news is, wee Bosco will never dance the Walls of Limrick again, the good news is, neither will he suffer from constipation.
Bon Jovi wonders will wee Bosco whistle when the wind blows through him?.
Maybe old Jordie wood no!
From your Queen of hart's,
Rosie Ryan xxx

ROSIE SEES THE LIGHT

2011-02-06T14:17:00.000-08:00

"EN-KORE, EN-KORE" I cried enthusiastically as the graceful, exquite bally on BBC Too came to an end in a frenzy of leaping,spaltering, kicking and flinging.
I clapped my hands until my dermatitis flew off like veritable snow.
"What grace, what poise, what beauty" I utterised as I sat back down in my chair.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was sitting glowering in the korner picking the scabs on his knees and said.
"Well my bon-a-me, was that knot a cultural extravaganza to saviour and remember for the rest of us lives?"
"DRAWERS!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Bally is just an excuse for men and women to show off their drawers.
I'm going to tell the priest that you make we watch drawers on the TV.
You are a bad influent on a lump of a cub.
I may be taken from you and festered with a good, decent, God fearing family".
"You impudent pup" I yelled.
"You gargoylic gulpin. You cricical cricket.
Is this the thanks I get for trying to hammer arts and culture into that big,thick, cement head of yours?"
"Arts and Culture my small, black ass" yelled Bon Jovi.
"All I saw was-DRAWERS! YOU may get some pleasure from looking at DRAWERS on TV but I don't.
You is preverse!" roared Bon Jovi.
"You is weird and perverted. You have a pawn-shant and a fetish for-DRAWERS!
You is weird, creepy and it must be said, a dirty auld brute.
God made your lions fruitfull" said Bon Jovi.
And you were blessed with child, err-go, me. You have a duty too bring that child up in the teechings of the wholly Roman Cat-Lick church and what do you do? You sit the lump of a cub down to watch two and a half hours of leaping, jumping DRAWERS!
I'm going out now" said Bon Jovi.
"I may be gone some time.
I must try and errase the 'orrible imagines of drawers that are imprinted in my brane"
Bon Jovi looked back at me sadly and said,

"You have changed.
You never reed the Messanger any more, you just look at the pictures".
The cub sighed, blessed himself and walked out into the night.
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes.
Bally was all about-drawers.
Why did I know sea it before?.
If the bally boys wanted to dance why do they knot wear soots and frocks, why the emphisis on-drawers?
I Rosie Ryan had induced my sun to watch too and a half hours of vile, lewd photography.
I fell to my knees beside the kat and yelled.
"God, I have lead one of your little ones astray. Let knot a mill stone be tied round my neck. I have scene the lite. There wool bee know more damned, pardon my language, bally in this house.
From now on we wool watch good wholesome programmes like, "Sex in the city, Desperate Housewives and "How do you look naked" bye One Gawk.
And know more opera!" I yelled.
"God knows what vile, crude, rude words those big gulpins are singing in Italian"
When Bon Jovi returned know words were spoken, but later that nite I found a Catty-Chasm on my pillow.
The wee doat.
He's on his way to heaven and he shall knot be moved!
From a mother who was lost, but has bean found.
Rosie Ryan xxx
.

Hasty La-Visa

2011-02-06T14:13:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the fairy Queen of Clougher.
Word has reached me that once again, like the swallows of Capisstrano you are winging your way to sunnier climes.
You Gerry Anderson is a lotus eater. That's what you is, a lotus eater.
The world is your ostler. You fly through the sky with the gratest of ease, eating concannon and musky green peas.
You circumscribe the globe like a veritable equater.
You is a jet-setter and founder member of the mile Hi club.
Oh the depravity and debauchery that goes on in the cramped confines of a Ryanair toilet.
I was just saying to the bredman this morning as he fondled my paris buns, Gerry Anderson is a gallivanter extraordinaire.
The word extraordinaire comes from the French as does my Paris buns.
Things is quite in Clougher at the presant.
The hullabaloo over auld 86 year old Mungo McZerox and auld 82 year old
Pippa McMalaboo is dying down.
Oh the shame, oh the igmony to be dragged from a burning hey shed by firemen at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Mungo lay on the grass like Al Jolson insisting he had taken auld Pippa into the hey shed to show her the way his false teeth glowed in the dark.
Auld Pippa is disgraced, the priest forbid her ever to put flowers on the alter again.
Some saintly, kristian woman put a red lite on auld Pippa's zimmer frame on Monday as she walked down Clougher street to jeers, boo's and kat calls.
LUST! Raw, undiluted lust lead to their downfall.
Lust is like rust, it corrodes, tarnishes and in the end, devours.
Oft I must go. Bon Jovi wool soon be home from skool to amaze me with his amazing thoughts on, dark matter, the eratic orbit of Jupiter and a loud, guldering of, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore".
Think of the wan who loves you as you get stuck into the Sue-She and Don Perry-On cham-pain.
I is your 'umble senile serviette,
Rosie Ryan xxx
HASTY LA-VISA

ROBBO'S GONE RIP

2011-02-06T14:04:00.000-08:00

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

Standing In The Way Of Progress.

2011-02-02T04:49:00.000-08:00

I is writing this blog from the outskirts of Clougher.
If you ever go to Clougher you simply must go and sea the holy elbows of saint Moleno.
The holy relics are displayed in a glass case and are said to cure the jitters if the one consumed with the jitters knees down and kisses the case.
I have scene people jittery as be-damned go into sea the elbows and come out yelling.
"MY JITTERS IS GONE! MY JITTERS IS GONE!"
Alas, some people get jitters mixed up with another word and go away disappointed and longing for knew drawers.
Saint Moleno was marthered by the Vikings in middle evil times.
The Viking chief, with horns on his 'ead went into saint Moleno's wee chapel and roared,
"BEGONE!".
Saint Moleno wood knot BE-GO and was tied up to a tree by the big tow and eaten alive by blue tits.
Maybe now you'll think twice about hanging out nuts for those wee assassins.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was looking at me and said.
"Bon Jovi, lite of my life, flesh of my flesh, brane of my brane, if I had money I wood take you to Disney Land in America".
Bon Jovi sneered, broke wind and said.
"I am knot a child. I have know wish to sea Michael Mouse, Millicent mouse or snoring beauty.
I want to go two Switzerland and sea the big Hydron Collider"
"In the name of all that's holy, sacred and saintly" I gasped,staggering back and stepping on the kats tale.
"What's more" yelled Bon Jovi.
"I want to be put into the big Hydron Collider and scent round at the speed of lite so I can break a particle with my head and create a black whole".
"Shut your mouth you precocious wee gulpin" I roared.
"You already have a black whole, what do you want another for?"
Bon Jovi yelled,
"THICK! Thick as too bricks."
And stormed out of the house in fury and Hi dungeon.
Later that nite I relented.
Was I standing in the way of progress by denying Bon Jovi acces to the Hydron Collider?
Surely if I had a budding genie on my hands the least I could do was help him.
Which is why later that nite I threw pebbles and stones at Bon Jovi's head so he could learn how to head a particle.
As the son set over the bog mother and child went indoors arm and arm.
Bon Jovi had many dunts, cuts and scratches on his head, but nothing that required stitches.
As he crawled into his cardboard box after tee, I looked at his big arse with a mothers love and muttered.
"There goes my Einstein, my Gally-leo, my Captain Kirk"
I then utulized the po 'till it was fare brimming over, muttered.
"HAY-HOE"
and leapt like a wilderbeest into my bed.
Soon, all was quite and silent.
Just the billowing of the duvet confirmed I had curried stoat for tee..
"In omni pater, et feel-lea, et in ter ebo SANCTUS! SANCTUS! SANCTUS! AH-AH-MEN."
I is the sprite what gambles in the forest,
Rosie Ryan xxx

Rosie Takes A Stand

2011-01-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

ALLAH be with you Gerry
I, Rosie Ryan am calling for Sharia law to be interduced in Clougher and surrounding districts.
I kan take know more of the lewd, obscene shennigans that go on under the duvet of darkness.
I am taking a stand.
Up with this I shall knot put!!!.
I wool knot rear my son Jovi Jovi on the out-skirts of a town filled to the brim and over-flowing with depravity and debauchery.
Clougher may revel in the name, "Sin City, but knot I.
Knot Rosie Ryan. People are queueing up at nite to get into the rural hay sheds.
And its knot just the young.
Auld Bebo McFloater and Casandra McTiddler were scene stumbling out of Murphy's hay shed at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Casandra was hanging like a wet dishcloth over a zimmer frame and auld Bebo pulling a tank of oxygeon behind him.
Auld Casandra was shaking that much she ran her zimmer frame into a shuck and auld Bebo was gasping and panting like a frog with Ass-Ma.
What diabolic, depraved, Roman orgy must have gone on in cattle food containment unit.
Under my Sharia regime, anyone found kissing, hugging, groping, or holding hands will be tied to the chapel gates and get a damn good pubic flogging.
At nite you kan heer the sin birds come home to roost in Clougher.
Golden calves abound, as doe's totem poles and craven imagies of Peter Stringfellow and auld Hugh Heffner.
I have rote to the Al-Shabab boys in Somalia and am eagery awaiting a konsigment of whips, thumb screws and big, sharp swords.
Clougher is lucky to have an abundance of stones for dealing out justice to harlots and sex mechanics.
Oh, a smiting is coming.
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
FILTH! A cloud of black, vile, Satanic filth hangs over Clougher, blotting out the son and giving free rain to the devotees of the bearded God Pan and his halluciogenic, haunting pipe music.
Is there nothing us God fearing people kan do?
Nil Desperandum!
We must be villagant.
We must fast until our drawers fall off our emaciated bodies.
We must do good works and reject the pomps of the devil.
When you come on a pomp, reject it!
We must knot suffer a witch, or strumpet to live.
An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear.
And PREY! Prey until the skin falls of your knees and black dots dance in front of your eyes.
Pick up your staff, gird your lions and follow me, Rosie Ryan, the Joan of Arc of Clougher as I fight the good fight against the devil and his horny imps.
The fact that I was scene coming out of a hey shed on Sunday nite is a damn kalamity on my good character.
I was brusting and went into the hey shed for a good slash.
Fight the good fight with,
ROSIE RYAN.

Hapy Mahogany to every-wan!

2010-12-31T12:47:00.000-08:00

Gerry, may I burrow your ether too wish every-wan in the provident of Ulster a hapy mahogany from me, Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi my sun, air and off spring.
The knew year is a thyme for refraction.
We is turning a knew page. We have a blank peace of paper in front of us, lets ferventy hope and prey we don't shit in the nest like we did last year.
Too the many churches I say, Keep on teeching the word of God, as handed down to Moses when he spaltered up mount Kill-ah-man-jarrow.
Onto other do, as you would do and knot what you now do to others.
Love your neighbour-YES! that shit who lives in the house beside you as yourself.
Come down like a ton of bricks on sexual shennigans, how's you father and depravity and debauchery.
BRING back SIN, hell's fire the devil and the holy rack!
Too all bankers I say, take you're hands out of our pockets and stap spectatoring with our spon-dew-lucks.
You kan knot follow to Gods, so make up your minds, God or Mammoth!
To the young I say, oh bay your daddy and mammy, unless they are head-bangers and piss hounds.
To all over 50 I say, It's all over! There is know more!. Stap making fools of yourselves and go home and dote in front of the fire like a christian.
To our political leaders I say, get your finger out!
Put your shoulder to the grindstone, your nose to the wheel and lets work together.
For together, we will stand every boy, girl, woman and man.
There may be some of you out there, oh yes!, oh yes! I know who you are.
There may be some of you thinking why should I listen to that fruit bat Rosie Ryan, what does she no?.
Well let me tell you, I am fully cognitive in Inglish, Fizz-eeks, Ass-tromity, Nuclear shennigans, Gee-ography, Medical matters relating to the under-carriage, I also have a smattering of Greek, Roman, Hin-do, Bellaruse and Ulster/Scots. I kan also sing, dance, yodel, lilt, whistle and play the banjo and the spoons.
That's my Kir-lick-you-lum Vitie, now, show me you'rs!.
Gerry, a small coda to the wild lack of water and H20 in the Belfast district.
Bon Jovi and me got too spades and divered a burn towards the barren, sandy, deserts of Belfast.
"Every little counts" as the man said.
As he was hit with a cow pat while drowning in a sewage tank.
I leave you with an old Arabic saying that has stood me in good stead over the years.
"THE MOVING FINGER PICKS THE NOSE AND HAVING PICKED MOVES-ON"
Hasta La-Vista my commoncheros.
from
Rosie Ryan and sun Bon Jovi.
(He sprang from my lions you no)

Kristmas Cooking with Rosie

2010-12-23T02:42:00.000-08:00

Gerry, my bon a-me. May I borrow your hair waves to say a big, hodie mihi cras tibi, Erin go bragh and a big thank you, to Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries.
The bounty of road kill they have brought me this Kristmas is unparelled in quantity and quality.
I have stoats, weasels,peasents, badgers and a ginger thing with a bell round its neck that could well be a domestos kat.
Gnashers at No 13 the bog road Clougher wool be working overtime on Kristmas day.
There may be some young ladies out there, shacking up or newly married who don't no how to cook yuletide road kill let me ah-luce-ah-date.
FIRST! All road kill must be nude. My sun Bon Jovi and me wool remove all feathers, fur, hair or wool.
Then cut off all heads and tales, but don't throw these away. The heads and tales of rodents make a thick, rich stock that wood make Oxo look like insipid piss-pee.
Now, marionette. Marionette the succelect flesh over-nite in a dish of Guinness, cider and just a sue-spoon of Benelin cough medicine.
Place the road kill on a roasting dish that has been liberally smeared with vaseline petroleum jelly.
Then, simply pop it into a red hot oven. Don't worry about hi-tech oven timers, the shrill squeel of the smoke defectors wool alert you to the fact that your Kristmas dinner is ready.
By now your spuds, karrots and brussel sprouts should also be ready.
Simply heap on to plates and get stuck in.
Bon Jovi and me never talk during Kristmas dinner. We sit crouched over, protecting our dinner with our elbows emitting anamalistic grunts, yelps and growls.
By the time the Queen says.
"On behalf of my husband and me" Bon Jovi wool run to open the half door to accomodate the salvo of breaking wind which follows.
Then, full as too poisoned pups, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box, breaking wind intermittenly, while I utulise the po leap into bed and billow the duvet as a thick,turgid, gurgling stream of road kill makes its way to my large intestate.
And that my Yuletide chums, is how Rosie Ryan cooks road kill.
From Bon Jovi and me,
"We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
And a nappy knew 'ere! from,
Rosie Ryan, the Fanny of Clougher!
PS. Oh, I meant two rite, the Fanny Haddock of Clougher!
Come-padre?

PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas.

2010-12-16T10:34:00.000-08:00

I've had a few Gerry.
I was in Clougher today, UP CLOUGHER! and got in-e, in-e, pissed as a newt.
I pushed the coracle out Gerry. I tied one on. I supped some stuff today.
I am riting this letter with a bucket between my legs.
But let me reassure you that know unseasonable slashing is going on, I just feel a bit of a boke coming.
My sun, the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi went with me to clougher. UP BON JOVI!
I fought too farmers in Mulligans bar today and beet the shi-stuffing out of both of them.
I caught one of them looking up my skirt.
How did I no he was blind?
As I punched the face of him, he kept shouting to his friend.
Who's battering the face of me Willie John?
Who's battering the face of me?"
Then Willie John stuck his big nose in and I broke it was a straight rite up the hooter.
When I left Willie John and Ray Charles were lying in a bloody heap in the korner.
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas. UP CHRISTMAS!
Kristmas abounds with imagery. The brite star.
The three alsations, I mean-shepherds.
The manager, the baby Jesus. Gold, Frankenstein and mirror. And the voice from above.
"This is my beloved cub in whom I is well pleased"
Big tiers are running down my big beautiful red face as I rite this. How moving. I am choked with emulsion.
Gerry, you are my bestest, bested friend.
You are Gerry, don't demeur. You is the bestest friend a woman ever had.
And in all the years we have known each other,knot one grope, fissle, or fumble.
Our relatioship is knot built on passion or lust.
We have a plank-tonic relationship Gerry.
UP GERRY ANDERSON!
Well the old bucket on the floor tells me it is time to go.
The bucket is nearly full and wool require empyising.
God bless you Gerry Anderson. You have been like a poxy husband to me.
Always there when I needed to pour my hart out to you.
I must go Gerry, I'm starting to slide of my chair.
May God keep you under his wing like a clocking hen, until the time comes to don wings, white nightdress and pick up your harp. UP TYRONE! UP MICKY HARTE!
UP SAM MAGUIRE! UP A GOOD TIGHTENER AT KRISTMAS!.
I is,
Rosie Ryan xxx

A WILE STORM

2010-11-30T05:32:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry and all my deer, deer fiends at radio Foul, what a Sam Magee storm we is going through.
My sun Bon Jovi and me is fare foundered.
Us under-carriages have bean in cold storage for daze.
The big question is, wool they still work when the thaw comes?
I suppose its a case of Kay-Sir-Ah-Sir-Ah.
The Winter scenery is nice, but too hell with the scenery, if icicles are hanging where they have never hung before.
Know Pan loaf has come up my lane for fore daze.
Its at thymes like these that one's thoughts turn to cannibalism. Bon Jovi has grate big meaty legs on him.
I wonder wood it be a sin?. Sure the cub could get through life with wan leg!
And I no that Bon Jovi is eyeing me up as nourishment.
Last nite the cub said I was strutting about like a big turkey.
Where is it all going to end Gerry?. I blame auld Al Gore for giving the weather the green lite to go hay-wire.
How is all at radio Foul Gerry?. I hope all appendages are a counted for.
The wee boy wood be sus-ceptable to frost bite. His under-carriage is so close to the ground.
Fill him up Gerry. Fill the wee boy up with aunty freeze.
All we kan do Gerry is hang on Sloopy. Mark my words, people wool be eaten before this cauld hanlin' is over.
The wildlife is stalking me and Bon Jovi. We can't go out because of ravenous weasels, stoats, wolves and grizzly bares.
Those who frequently break wind in bed have an advantage in weather like this.
Nature has equipted them with their own hot air blower.
Thank goodness I am a frequent farter as is my dinner, I mean my sun Bon Jovi.
Hang on Sloopy, is my advice Gerry.
This too shall pass.
But the number of people eaten could well be legion.
I hope you have your, you no what well lagged.
I must go Gerry, Bon Jovi is lurking with intent in the scullary.
Put that hatchet down you gulpin!
Rosie Ryan xxx

2 GREAT BRAINS ARE BETTER THAN ONE

2010-11-14T01:50:00.000-08:00

Bon Jovi my first born and only boy child and I sat in front of a big roaring fire eating us snaps, crackles and pops.
Mother and sun were similary arrayed in dirty grey simments and nickers.
Outside the wind howled and the rain beet against the winda.
I swallowed a big spoonfull, a loving spoonfull of the snaps, crackles and pops and said.
"Its a bad day sun".
Bon Jovi broke wind with an ear-splitting dunder and replied.
"It is a bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition. Trees wool be uprooted today" said Bon Jovi.
"Stacks of hey blown away and old codgers, shall roll down the streets of Clougher like veritable tumble-weeds".
"On a day like today" I said.
"I pass the thyme away writing down my thoughts on chemstery, science and the erratic behavour of super novas".
"Make sure you keep all your jottings for posterior"
said Bon Jovi.
I have been going over your notes and your work on nuclear sic-eeks and dark matter is truely revolutionary and ground breaking. When your thesis is published, don't be surprised if you have to sign for a nobel prize delivered first klass by Parcel Force".
I licked the remments of my snaps, crackles and pops off my bowl with my tongue and said.
"All my endevours are for the good of mankind. If I have been given a big brane, housed in a big head it behoves me too use my grate intelligence KNOT for Nobel prizes, but to boldly go where know head housing a brane like what I have has gone before".
I threw an empty milk bottle at a rat that was looking at me funny and said.
"And prey tell my bon cabelero what you are working on at the presant moment in thyme".
"Ass-tromity" said Bon Jovi.
"I have knostructed a knew telescope that grately aids me in my never ending journey to unravel the time, cause and aftermath of the big bang".
HARK!" I cried.
"Do tell your old mater how you konstructed such a cracker of a telescope".
"Simples" said Bon Jovi.
"I put twelve jam jars into a sewer pipe.
Now my view of the cosmos has been enlarged twelve fold, allowing me unfettered acess to the mysteries of the universe and surrounding districts".
"And have you made any startling, knew discoveries" I asked.
As I eased my volupous rear nearer the fire.
"For a fleeting moment" said Bon Jovi.
"I thought I had detected life in the darkness of space, but it turned out to be an aunt that was trapped in wan of the jam jars".
"An elemental mistake that even auld Einstein could have made" I replied.
"Tell me this and tell me know more, have you come to any defininate konclussion as to the wild lot of rings around Saturn?"
"I think the rings are made up from flocks of birds" said my sun and air.
"Their little beaks are attracted to Saturn's magnetic fields and they circle and circle Saturn until they pop their little clogs".
"Amazing!" I shrieked.
"In thyme you wool be known as the bird man of Saturn".
Outside the wind increased in volicity and ferocity. The rain was fair pelting down.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Half past nine" said Bon Jovi.
"Morning or evening?" I asked.
"Morning" replied Bon Jovi.
"How long have we been out of our beds?" I asked.
"Twenty minutes" said Bon Jovi.
I yawned, scratched my belly, broke wind violently and said.
"Our branes are tired. Lets go back to bed and get up at fore o'clock in the afternoon in time for the cartoons".
"That" said Bon Jovi.
"Is an excelant idea"
I walked with grate grace and decorum up the stairs and Bon Jovi crawled into his cardboard box.
Thinking kan take it out of you.
Soon mother and sun were asleep, perchance to dream and break wind with dunders of unparelled magnitude.
It was a wild bad day. A bad day for pee-wheets, paupers and people of a nervous disposition.

Rosie Beats The Bucking Bronco

2010-11-04T08:08:00.000-07:00

Gerry Atchung! Clougher has at last broken into the 21st centurian. Knot only did the council put a big stone over the leaking shi--sewage at Hussain's corner, but on Monday Clougher's premier nite club the, "Come on yeh boy" took possession of a second-hand bucking bronco.
All weak, Billy the bucking bronco has bean tossing the Clougher boys about like rag dolls.
On Monday nite, a big crowd saw auld Pedro McTwiffle thrown time and time again, until big Maud his wife threw in the towel claiming auld Pedro was suffering from noggin concussion and two hernia's in his forkal area.
It wool be a while before auld Pedro throws the leg again. The word on the street is, big Mauld is now looking for a toy boy.
Toy boy my arse. Any boy who wood take on big Maud with the lites on is a better man that me, Gudga Din.
That strumpet Caroline McSnipe showed herself up when she mounted the bucking bronco wearing a wee, tite mini-shirt. She was thrown up in the air and ripped her nickers on the way down on auld Jethro McDingdong's zimmer-frame. The barman threw her out and told her knot to come back again without a good, stout pear of red flannel drawers.
Jimmy the jump broke his nose on Wednesday nite when he was thrown out the open dour and under the wheels of Mulligan's hearse.
Then auld drunk Bosco McSimmet slipped while trying to get on the horse and nocked out all his teeth and cut the hole face of himself.
Poor auld Bosco is sitting like a grotsque in the corner of the bar sipping Guinness through a rubber tube.
A catheter I believe that he stole from the hospital when his liver packed in last Kristmas.
"Drink is killing you" the doctor said.
"Not at tall" slurred Bosco.
"Its the wild price of it!".
But the biggest hanlin' happened on Fryday nite when the parish priest came into the bar to sell tickets for a knew weeman's toilet for saint Judas church. The auld zinc bucket behind the coal bags is no way for a woman to slash before preying to the Lord.
It is undignified and unsanity.
As the priest was making his way round the pub extorting money from people's pockets. Wee dumpy Harriet McScunner was thrown off the bucking bronco and flew through the air wild eyed and legs akimbo and wrapped herself round the poor priest's neck like a scarf.
The priest pulled wee Harriet off and threw her into a corner yelling.
"Pastor Nobbis, inter eeh boo.
Get off me you strumpet and don't try your auld garden of Eden shennigans on a man who was concentrated to God by lying prostate in front of an alter".
By the end of the weak Clougher was full of the walking wounded.
Some boys could knot tie their hobnailed boot laces or throw their legs on an auld bicycle.
The priest gave a wild hell fire and brimstome sermon on Sonday.
He called the bucking bronco a demonic, infernal machine of the devil and warned the people that all the bouncing up and down wood do grate damage to their reproducing organs.
"Because of that bucking monstresity" yelled the priest.
"There wool knot be wan Cat-lick wain kristened in saint Judas church for the next 30 years".
The priest then retreated to a retreat to denounce the snares and pomps of Beelzebub and his legions of black imps and fallow devils.
It was Hi-noon on Saturday when my sun Bon Jovi and me moosied into Clougher.
I was wearing a rhine-stone gansey and a pear of German lether-hosen by daddy had found in a crashed German plain during the war.
A hush settled over the bar as Bon Jovi and me entered.
"Oh look!" yelled auld Cosmo "The weasel" McSkitterstick.
"Its Kalamity Jane and the dirty-arsed kid".
I ignored the taunts and jeers by roaring.
"Ill burst the next man that opens his gub".
I approached Billy the bucking bronco. It was a sturdy peace of equitment.
I leaped on the bucking bronco like a blue-arsed fly and yelled.
"Turn her on! Put her up to top speed.
Why there isn't a gosh-durned horse, donkey, mule, or goat that could throw Rosie Ryan".
For the next too hours I clung on like a limpet as Billy bucked, leaped, spun round and round and kicked and flung.
The crowd was going mad.
Sweat ran down my big, red, beautiful face.
My under-carriage was taking a hell of a beating.
I knew the next time I had a slash it wood sting like hell.
I wrapped my lether-hosen, alabaster Colossus of Roads thighs round Billy and let yelps, squeels and shrieks out of me like a Banshee on Red Bull.
Just when I thought I could hang on no longer. Billy exploded in a shower of springs, nuts, bolts and hydrolic rams.
I was carried through Clougher on the shoulders of a group of cheering men.
I think I got a grope or too, but my under-carrige was that numb it was hard to know.
Once again, I had proven that Rosie Ryan was the best man in Clougher.
I lie in bed now. Legs akimbo and covered in Kar-a-mine lotion.
My under-carriage is on fire and trips to the po is torture presonfied.
Some wag has penned this ode on a gable wall in Clougher.
"Rosie Ryan is no dope
Without the use of a length of rope
With thunder thighs like redwood trees
She brough poor Billy to his knees."
One again Rosie Ryan has risen to the challenge and came out succubos!

Poetry and Profits

2010-10-30T03:39:00.000-07:00

"With peepers two, I view the view
And relay my peeping back to you".
What a lovely stan-za that is. It was rote in 1678 by the Earl of Clougher, Red Ned Hannigan to his mistress, or bit on the side Maggie Strumpbucket.
While knot condoming adultry, I am struck by the love made mainifest in them too lines.
Alas, the illicict love affair ended in tragedy.
Red Ned was thrown off his horse while out hunting weasels and hit his head a dunt on a stone that split his skull and scattered his branes all over the Hi-way.
Poor Maggie was broken-hearted. She went into decline and took her own life in 1681 by drinking a potion of hemlock, dockens and frogs-spawn.
As a well kown strumpet of Hi-renown poor Maggie was buried in unconcertinaed ground.
Red Ned Hannigan was buried after Hi-mass in saint Judas graveyard. You can still sea his aged, mossy tombstone and just make out his last too line stan-za, written prophlyactily before his death.
"I wonder what will make me dead?
Will it be a splitting of my head?"
He may have bean a dirty auld brute, but when it came to poetry, Red Ned was a cracker.
Above the rutting of the dear, the cawing of the crows and the bleating of the heatherbleat I heard the sound of my sun Bon Jovi, the lite of my life and my raisen de'etra
There he stood at the haggard in all his glory. Two candles hanging from his nose assured me that his sign-us-us were firing on all cylinders.
His knees were grazed, wan sock hung over his hobnailed boot, his burgundy gansy was ripped and tore, his fork was wet, but the cub would grow out of that.
There he stood. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. Guts of my guts.
The fruit of my ferrite lions.
My sun, my cub, my gift to civilization.
I clasped the lump of a cub to my panting bisum and said.
"Bon Jovi where has't thou bean?
Thou knowest that I worry when thou goes wandering in the wildernest".
Bon Jovi looked up at the sky, like a profit who could sea straight into heaven and said.
"I have bean-thinking. Always-thinking.
Wool my grate brane never give me rest? Am I cursed to go through life like John the Baptist?
A cub crying in the bog,
"Wool you'se stap you'll auld sinnin' "
In my head is all the knowledge in the world and yet I can not utterise it.
I am as a sounding brass and a honking horn. WHY ME?" screamed the cub. "WHY ME?"
Why have I bean chosen to lead the world and surrounding districts to the pearly gaits of heaven?"
"Oh Bon Jovi" I cried.
"What can I your humble savent do to help you fulfill your heavely mission?"
As if in a trance, Bon Jovi said.
"Put on your sandels and go to Clougher. There, outside auld Niko McSkitterstein's house you will find a donkey. Untie that donkey and bring him to ME!".
Full as a po with the holy spirit I did as the cub commanded.
Next day too police cars full of peelers came flying into my yard and arrested me for stealing a donkey!
Bon Jovi denied all knowledge of the affair and told the police I had often talking about nicking a donkey.
The wee ugly, humpy, coniving, gulpin had conned me into stealing the donkey.
I know Bon Jovi has the donkey secreated somewhere in the bog.
I have to appear in Clougher court next weak.
The people of Clougher were all for hanging me from an oak tree.
Donkey stealing is scene in Clougher as a henious crime.
If I am scent to the slammer I wool do my time, but on my release I will swing for the spawn of the devil who took up abode in my good, cat-lick womb.
Prey for me. Prey for Rosie Ryan who is accused of ass theft.

Farewell Benito

2010-10-03T05:35:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, a Paul of grief and sadness hangs over Clougher today. In a head on crash between a Raleigh bicycle and a dung-spreader, auld Benito McStriddlestumps came off worse and left this vale of tears in a deceased and dead state. Those who saw the accident say that auld Benito was ejuclated from his bicycle and hit the dung-speader a wild dunt with his head. When poor Benito's head made contact with the purveyor of shi--dung it turned the dung-spreader on. "Before you could say, "Aah-Bisto!" auld Benito was engulfed in a mountain of shi--dung. No volunteers being found to wade through the shi--dung to find the dead cadaver. The priest gave the last rights over the mound of bovine feces and the police put up, "GO SLOW" signs and everywan went home.Next morning small farmer big Willie McMegadump managed to put a rope around poor, wee Benito's neck and dragged him 100 yards behind his tractor to a babbling brook. Too hours later Benito was pristine and as klean as a knew pin. "Bring him home now" shrieked Benito's widow wee Marygold. "Lay him out on the bed, while I go and borrow too pennies to put over his wee, dead eyes". The priest blessed wee Benito and said. "Just as Benito arose from the shi--manure, so shall we arise on the last day". "PRAISE THE LORD" shrieked auld Nellie McTumbleweed. Then, filled with the holy spirit, she fell down like a bag of spuds and hit her head a wild dunt against the po under the bed.Just a flesh wound. Know stitches required. As auld Benito was carried from the church, saint Judas choir lustily sang. "YES! we shall gather by the river". My son Bon Jovi nudged me and said. "There must still be some shi--dung in auld Benitos nooks, crannies and crevices". Bon Jovi and I walked home, full of grate sadness and pensivitity. As I watched auld Benito being lowered into a water-logged whole in the ground. In an auld cheep plywood coffin painted to look like Ma-Hoginey I thought of my own morality. Wood I be judjed wheat or chaff? Sheep or Goat? I revolved to change my ways and bless myself everytime I saw a rainbow. As Bon Jovi and I rounded a corner, we came upon a man driving a cow. "LOOK!" roared Bon Jovi. "Its wee Ramone McScallion driving Miss Daisy" Wee Ramone loves Miss Daisy. I never saw a cow and a man so close without interference from the police. "A fine baste you've got there Ramone" said Bon Jovi. "She's a wee darling" said Ramone. "And she loves her daddy. You love your daddy don't you Miss Daisy. Aye, Miss Daisy loves her wee daddy" "She wool make quare good rump stake" said Bon Jovi. Wee Ramone turned eggshell white, covered Miss Daisy's ears with his hands and screamed. "Yeh wee, humpy, ugly gulpin. How dare you talk about rump stake in front of Miss Daisy. She knows every word you say. Miss Daisy wool live a long and happy life and be buried beside me in saint Judas graveyard. The gratest pleasure in my life is driving Miss Daisy".And with a flounce of his wellingtons wee Ramone continued to drive Miss Daisy down the road. As we walked on, the sun set in the West. Birds flew home for the nite and the odd locked out sheepdog barked in the distance. Bon Jovi did a little dance, broke wind and began to sing in a loud out of tune gulder. "OH POOR WEE BENITO IS DEAD AS CAN BE THE GRATE BIG DUNG-SPREADER HE DID NOT SEE THE REASON HE'S DEAD I PUT DOWN TO HIS SIGHT THAT'S ALSO THE REASON HE'S COVERED IN.......... SWEET VIOLETS, SWEETER THAT THE ROSES COVERED ALL OVER FROM HEAD TO TOE COVERED ALL OVER WITH-SWEET VIOLETS". I laughed 'till I peed myself and had to run for the whins!

Kon Man In Clougher!

2010-09-16T01:02:00.000-07:00

Gerry, a highly contentious and dastardly hanlin' in Clougher on Sonday. Three kars beeping the horn drove into Clougher and a boy got out wearing a red cloak and a wee hat and said he was Pope Benny-dict on a secret visit.
Clougher went bee-serk. People left their dinner and thronged the street.
A boy with the Pope roared,
"Silence for his emminet, Pope Benny-dict"
The "Pope" leaped up on the back of a coal lorry and addressed the assembled multitude.
"People of Clougher and surrounding districts" he bellowed.
"Today I come before you, to stand behind you, to tell you something I know nothing about".
"UP THE POPE" yelled wee Nelly Hannigan, before she fell down in a holy swoon.
"You'se is all going to heaven" roared the "Pope".
"And all it wool cost you'se is a tenner. My people wool now walk among you'se. And I kan insure you that all money collected. Will go towards stone cladding on the Vatican.
If your eye sins" yelled the "Pope"
"It is probably lazy, so put a patch over it.
If your hand sins, stick it in your pocket.
"Pope" yelled auld Romano Nutter.
"Can I sit at the rite hand of God?"
"You kan surely" said the "Pope"
"Sure isn't there plenty of room.
"HEAVEN" bellowed the "Pope"
"Is like a big nite club. But there is a dress code. So no wellingtons or trainers-please!
Fall to your knees" yelled the "Pope"
"Fall to your knees for I am going to bless you'se".
Down the people fell onto the muddy street and the "Pope" raised his rite hand and yelled.
"Nommy pater et feelie McGoany. Tuttie fruti in sanctorem. Et into eyebrow et to cullybaccyum.
Fag-oh's cheap-oh in Drumquin a-um.
Saint Poot's. Saint Dodd's in storment-a-um
Gloria in pater noster Iron Brue-a-um.
Sanctos-Sanctos-Sanctos, thrice sanatorium"
Then Gerry a police kar came flying into Clougher and the "Pope" and his cohorts jumped into their kars and flew out of Clougher like bats out of hell.
He was a kon man Gerry. Some boy who came from the rong side of the tracks in Gortin.
So warn the peeple in Ingland Gerry. There is boys going about dressed up as the Pope.
If the Pope should nock at your door on a dark nite. Make him recite the seven deadly sins before you let him in. My son Bon Jovi and me was stung for twenty pounds. If I get my hands on that fake Pope I'll nock the auld papal bull out of him.
Apart from that Gerry, Clougher is very quite and muted at this time of year.
All my loving, I will give to-you!
Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX

Down With Dung Spreaders!

2010-09-10T01:50:00.000-07:00

Gerry, please HARK to me.
I plan to burn a mound of Our Boy's and Ireland's Own's on Hi street in Clougher at three oh clock on Sonday.
I am protesting about the wild smell of dung spreaders. Wot is driving me and my sun Bon Jovi Do-Lally and bee-serk!
Dung spreaders is un-sanity Gerry. Highly and dangerously un-sanity!
Join me Gerry. Say--KNOW-too dung spreaders.
After the burning Bon Jovi wool mount a stool and give a rendering of, "Mother McCree" what wool stun all who heer it.
Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx
PS. And know fone call from Robinson or McGuinness wool stap ME!

Autumnal Greetings

2010-09-09T15:07:00.000-07:00

Autumnal greetings Gerry, Rosie Ryan 'ere.
You have probably bean wandering how my sun Bon Jovi is doing. I am glad to retort that the cub is alive and kicking. He has just went back to skool to work on his thesis entitled, "Seamus Heaney, poet or proser?".
Its frightening to stand beside the cub when he is doing his homework. The top of his head gets scalding hot and steam comes out of his ears.
The cub is a fee-nominon Gerry. A one off. There wool never be another Bon Jovi Ryan. You can bet the farm on THAT!
How is you Gerry and all your kith and kin?
I hope's you'se is all jolly good and top whole.
Gerry, please play, "Daddy Cool" for poor wee Dinky McNacket who got locked in the freezer over nite at Moy Park chickens. Appendages have bean damaged Gerry. The doctors are working flat out to keep the amputations to a minium.
His wife wee Delma is climbing the walls screaming.
"It wasn't much, but it was mine!"
Our prayers go out to her as she waits for news in the snug in Murphy's public house.
I hope Gerry it makes you and Sean thankful for what you've got. You never miss it 'till its gone.
Saint Oliver Plunket said that before they cut the head off him.
Love, hugs and kisses from,
Mrs Rosie Ryan. xxx

What colour is your wind?

2010-08-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

After too weaks of fierce bloatedness, which only a poisoned pup could identify with. I decided to seek medical assistance. Two say I was blown up like a balloon would be economical with the truth. I was blown up like a zepplin.
Buttons popped and zips were torn asunder as I got bigger and bigger.
As I filled with wind, my trips to the lou hovered on zero on the diddly squat meter.
"Bon Jovi!" I yelped.
"What wool I do? Every hour I increase in size and girth. Know drawers wool circumfrance me. My belly button is protruding like a veritable door knob".
The fruit of my lions laughed and roared.
"Stake yourself to the ground with ropes and keep away from naked flames".
"You ungrateful gulpin" I yelled.
"When you had die-a-rea on a grand and epic scale. Who followed you everywhere with a po in each hand?
YES! Your auld mother. And now that I am suffering grately from horror-endus constitution bordering on a complete bung up you stand there laughing.
"For shame Bon Jovi" I chided.
"For shame. I hope the devil hangs you over the hot fires of hell by the coccyx and pulls every tow nail out of your auld black feet with red, hot pinchers".
"What colour is your wind fatty?" sang my 'orribe off-spring.
I tried to trap the lump of a cub in the corner with my protruding belly, but he slipped away singing.
"POOR OLD ROSIE, WHAT A BUM RAP
SHE CAN SQUAT, BUT SHE CAN'T CRAP".
In an effort to stun my tormenter I broke yet another child of Prague statue against the wall and yelled.
"NICKERS, NACKERS AND CHRISTMAS CRACKERS!".
Then I pointed my belly towards Clougher and set off seeking medicational assistance.
After a bout of prodding and poking and prolonged use of a wee torch.
The doctor washed his hands. Dried them on the front of my burgundy twin-set and said.
"Mrs Ryan, you are suffering from irrational bowl syndrome and you also have a plastic colonic".
"By the sacred dung beetle of Luxor" I yelled.
"How could such a hanlin' have came about?"
"The doctor spun round, pointed a rigid diget at me and roared.
"Gluttony Mrs Ryan. Good old fashioned-gluttony. You Mrs Ryan have bean eating for four. You have used your stomach as a wheelie bin. Your pig-like gobbling and slurping has bunged up your large intestinal. You are on the point of brusting. You is a danger too the community. I really should phone the bomb squad".
"KNOW!" I screamed.
"Knot the bomb squad. Oh the ignomy of a controlled explosion going off at one's ars--rear".
The doctor reached me a large brown bottle and said.
"Take this Miss Piggy. It is a very strong laxative, made from senna pods, castrol oil and just a pinch of gun powder. BUT on no account take it until you get home. It is very quick acting and the roads round Clougher have enough cow skitter on them".
When yet a mile from my house I said to myself.
"Why knot take the laxative now? Then when I enter the portal of my abode, all I have to do is find a po and assume the squatting position".
"Oh the folly of a bloated woman" I muttered, from behind a whin bush.
From whin bush to whin bush I made my way home. Each squat making me weaker than before.
I brust through my door yelling to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Garner every po in the house and bring them to my boud-wah immediately!"
As I went through the po's Bon Jovi stood outside singing.
"POOR OLD ROSIE, COULDN'T CRAP
NOW THANK'S TO THE DOCTOR
SHE CAN'T STAP!"
Oh, a day of reckoning will come. And on that day the smiting will be tarra to behold

THE ANSWER IS OUT THERE.

2010-08-21T15:33:00.000-07:00

'Twas on a pleasant, clement Autumnal morning that the occurance occured.
On the day in question by sun Bon Jovi and I were sitting round the hearth. Trying to figure out why dark matter exerted such a gravitational pull on the Universe.
"The answer is out there!" roared Bon Jovi.
"Yet for all my cyphering and complicated and wild Hi replied mathamatics the answer still eludes me.
I have squared pie until I am blew in the face".
"Did you remember to carry the wan?" I said.
Bon Jovi threw the coal shovel at me and roared.
"Why am I anchored, hobbled and shackled with a stupid old bag who could knot tell her einboga from her Uranus".
"Hauld on!" I yelled.
"Hauld on! Was it knot me who discovered dark matter, when a shower of suit fell down the chimney and attached itself to my visage with fierce magnetic energy?"
"SHUT UP!" roared Bon Jovi.
"How can I transport my brane to the edge of the Universe, if you are going to sit there gibbering and babbling like the Queen of the village idiots".
I leapt up and yelled.
"How dare you! How dare you, you grotesque gulpin.
By the hub caps of the star ship Enterprise I wool knock the big astroid head of you".
"Woe is me" yelled Bon Jovi.
"To have sprung from the lions of a head-banger like YOU!. Fate conspired that I sprang from a brane dead, red faced, zombie and knot the lions of Einstein, Hawkins or Patrick Moore".
I snapped and went for the cub with a child of Prague statue held above my head.
"Beam me up Scotty" roared Bon Jovi.
THEN! An awful bang and a strange scratching sound came from the roof.
"Aliens!" I yelled.
Bon Jovi and I ran out in some confusion and it must be said-fierce apprehension.
I took in the seen at once. A large cormorant and three roof slates lay on the ground. The oily black flying see bird must have bean flying low on automatic pilot when it ran into the roof of my abode. The cormorant lay on the broad of its back with both legs sticking up in the air.
Bon Jovi ran to the bird. Give it the kiss of life and a push and soon it was flying in a zig-zag manner towards Gortin and surrounding districts.
Bon Jovi looked up at the big whole in the roof and yelled to me.
"Don't just stand there Dumbo, get a ladder and fix the roof".
"I kan't climb a ladder" I cried.
"You no fine well I suffer from Gertie-Go".
"Gertie-Go my ant Sammy" roared Bon Jovi. "Stand back and I'll do it myself".
Bon Jovi climbed the ladder like a red-arsed baboon and soon had the slates back on the roof. As the cub stood admiring his Andy-Work he made a fatal mistake.
YES! The cub broke wind. The jet propulsion sent Bon Jovi forwards.
In an effort to regain his eek-way-lib-ray-um the cub over compensated by leaning too far backwards and fell of the roof with a sodden PLOP!.
"Ah, holy God" roared Bon Jovi.
"My two legs are broken in 18 places".
I ran to the fone. Know ambulance was to be had. With super human strength, I threw Bon Jovi into the wheel barrow and galloped the too mile to Clougher surgery. On the big downward hill that leads into Clougher. I lost control and mummy, sun and wheel barrow went careering through the surgery doors.
As I rolled and tumbled I shrieked.
"EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! Cub in wheel barrow with injuries to the lower extremities".
After the doctor examined Bon Jovi he came to the collusion that there was nothing rong with the gulpin. In fact, the doctor called the cub a malingering, malignant knave.
Then the doctor took a look at and found I had slipped a disc in my back due to wheeling the gulpin two mile in a wheel barrow. On what the doctor laughingly called a wild cormorant chase.
The up shot was Bon Jovi had too wheel me home in the wheel barrow!.
As the son set in the West and heavy lumbering, weary crows made their way home. The expletives exchanged between mother and sun were, crude, vulgar, many and varied.

Why So Sorrowful?

2010-08-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

Why dost thou stand there sorrowing?"
I said to my sun Bon Jovi, as he stood at the haggard with a look of pastural passivity on his pale pasty face.
I looked with love at he who had sprang from lions like a grotesque Tasmanian devil in the dead of nite.
To my everlasting shame I remember roaring too the genie-colagist.
"KNOW! KNOW! Put it back! Put it BACK!"
The midwife slapped me across the face twenty-seven times to bring me to my senses.
I blame the epi-dural. God knows what was in that needle. It could have bean drugs are anything!.
Bon Jovi gazed boninely across the vast panoramic expance of bog.
Broke wind alfrescoly and replied.
"Alas, a few daze and a few daze more and I must return two my seat of learing at saint Judas skool in Clougher".
"But you like skool Bon Jovi" I said.
"And in a short thyme your academic life wool come two an end.
Your brane is fare stuffed with headucation. All that remains is a bit off topping off two make sure you are filled to the brim".
Bon Jovi cleaned his nose dexterously with a quick wipe of both coat sleeves and sighed.
"'Tis the dog daze of Summer. My hart always fills with grate grief and sadness during the canine daze of Summer.
What's it all about?" yelled the lump of a cub.
"What is my mission, my vacation in life? The atom has bean split and the wheel invented. What else is left too do for a juvunile student whose brain is stuffed and brusting with headucation like what mine is?"
"What did the careering officer say when you saw her last" I said.
"WORDS!" cried Bon Jovi.
"That's all I got from the careering officer. She used words like, unique, special, unnatural one of a kind, oddity, but as to my career?. She said I should stay near home and look both ways before I crossed the road".
"And your teechers?" I asked.
"What do those who have taut you think of your undoubted genius?
Do they talk of Eaten, Oxford, Cambridge, even-Strangways which I am reliably informed is a renowed institution for boys of your ilk?"
Cleverly using the wind as an extraction fan. Bon Jovi broke wind again and replied.
"I heerd auld Miss Krackling and Miss McGroaper talking about me while they were having a crafty fag.
Auld Miss Krackling said.
"Wool we ever sea another cub at saint Judas skool with the stupendous cranial deficiency of master Bon Jovi Ryan"?
"Miss McGroaper let a shriek out of her like a korn crake and screamed.
"Never, Never, NEVER! Lightening never strikes twice in the same plaice".
"Hi praise indeed!" I cried.
"Coming from too teechers whose intellicect is unapparelled".
Mother and sun stood there, looking over the ever changing bog.
Birds flew on Hi. Rabbits and rodents scurried through the dead and dying flora and fauna.
Peaceful. So peaceful.
Bon Jovi coughed and said.
"I rote a wee poem mammy. Do you want two heer it"?
"Want to heer it?" I yelled.
"I want too heer it with every bone, muscle and fibre in my body".
Bon Jovi closed his eyes and roared.
"There is sadness in my sadness when I'm sad.
There is gladness in my gladness when I'm glad.
There is madness in my madness when I'm mad.
But the sadness in my sadness
and the gladness in my gladness
And the madness in my madness
Are nothing to my badness when I'm bad".
I stood open-mouthed and agog. Then I yelled.
"You're rotten Bon Jovi. Rotten with branes!".

Getting Ready For September

2010-08-14T15:07:00.000-07:00

Grate back two skool sail at Adolf Ramsbottom and daughters drapery shop in Clougher.
I got my sun, wee Bon Jovi too pear of long jon's with a flap at the back.
"I'm a big boy now mammy" said the wee doat.
"Yes you is Bon Jovi" I said.
"But don't depend on the flaps. Be dilligent and precocious at all times"
I also got the cub too pare of knew secondhand hobnailed boots.
A blazer with the crest of the desert rats on the front.
And a pear of Ex-Israeli, Mosat camaflage trousers with a big pocket too carry a Ussi sub machine gun.
Bon Jovi will cut some figure when he gets on the skool bus in September.
Jelly, please play,
"What in the world has come over you".
For auld Pete (The weseal) McSideways who has just scene his wifes face after the comestic surgery.
Apparently the three sheep dogs went beserk and bit auld Pete all over the derriere, before disapearing into the nite. Ah, wee Cleo is ruined.When the parish priest saw her he said. "Ah Cleo, was anyone else hurt in the accident?" Did knot saint Paul say. "Vanitory! All is-Vanitory!
From your living doll.
Mrs Rosie Ryan. xxx

The Clougher Annual Donkey Derby

2010-08-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

Peeple came from as far away as Gortin and Plumbridge on Sonday two watch the annual Clougher donkey Grand Pricks derby. The donkeys run round the streets of Clougher. Turning Clougher into another Monty Carlo.
There were seven pedigree donkeys in the race. Their names were.
"Paddy's Pride.
McSwiveller's Flyer.
Elvis.
Micky's Delight.
Jump The Shuck.
Bray Away
And Mucky Lane ridden bye by sun Bon Jovi.
The flag fell and they were off. McSwiveller's Flyer was left at the starting post. A thistle under the tale soon got him going and the race was on.
Down past the Pound shop they thundered. A sharp rite into Hobo street and then a left into Bog Hole Crescent. Up Hi street they galloped with Bray Away nose to nose with Elvis and Bon Jovi making ground on Mucky Lane. Bon Jovi broke through to take the lead. Then-kalamity! A Spar shopping bag blowing in the wind settled over Bon Jovi's head and the cub went careering into McTiddlers drapery shop. Knocking over three display stands of Winter simmets and long johns. Bon Jovi got a slight concussion, but thank goodness was knot put down.
Your dream honey,
Mrs Rosie Ryan xxx
Oh, racing aficionados mite like two no that Elvis won by a no's at seven too wan!.

SOME HANLIN!

2010-08-05T13:33:00.000-07:00

Imagine my condensation when I picked up my stylish designer "Tuff Boy" hobnailed boots and found them knot fit for porpoise.
"Knackered!" laughed my sun Bon Jovi.
"Rosie's big size fourteens are knackered".
"Shut your gub, you demonic elf" I yelled.
"Only a gulpin of un-un-unpresulmptuous evil malignancy bordering on mischievous wickedness wood talk two his auld mammy like that".
"I told you two keep off the midden" roared Bon Jovi.
"Every thyme I look out the winda. There you are, standing on top of the midden like an auld red faced rooster. The dung has eaten through the souls of your big hobnailed boots and left you bare footed and bereft of footwear. Maybe now you wool sit dozing at the fire the way a big, fat stupid, doting auld bag should".
"Bye the Count of Monty Cristo" I yelled.
"How dare you bring aggrevation and- and-zelophobic trouble and stress to the portal of your mater".
"NICKERS!" roared Bon Jovi.
"Yes!-NICKERS!. Don't take your-your-irrational ire out on the lump of a cub. I fear you knot! I look into your big, red bleezer of a face and retort-NICKERS!".
"Bye the seven Spanish angels, I'll cut the big head of you" I roared.
And I reached for the scythe that was leaning up against the child of Prague and took a swing at the jet black imp from hell. Bon Jovi did an Ali shuffle. Leaped the half door like a donkey on Red Bull and disappeared into the wide blue yonder.
As the cub ran he yelled.
"Nickers two Rosie and her auld hobnailed boots".
I sighed and put on my auld wellingtons. After working out that the green wellington went on the rite foot and the black wellington went on the left foot, I toggled myself into my late mammies brown duffle coat and set off for Clougher.
I frog marched into Coochies the cobblers and yelled.
"ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG! Das boots. Das hobnailed boots. SCHNELL! SCHNELL!".
Auld Dynamo Coochie made a spalter to hide the polygenetic magazine he was reeding and cried.
"Rite away Mrs Ryan. Rite away. You take size 14, the biggest size we have in the shop?".
"JA!" I yelled. "SCHNELL! Das Boots. SCHNELL!, SCHNELL!".
Soon I was on my way home with the knew boots in a box the size of small coffin.
I entered my abode to the aroma of cullinary delights.
"Bon Jovi leapt up like a Jackeen in the box and said.
"You must be hungry mammy. When you were gone I made you five fried eggs, half a pound of streaky bacon, three and a half sausages and a veritable mound of fried bread".
With tears in my eyes I hugged my cub and said.
"Bon Jovi, you are a bon cabellero. A good amigo. Is my meel in the oven?"
"What meel?" said Bon Jovi.
"The meel you prepared for me" I said.
"Oh THAT meel" said Bon Jovi.
"You were away so long, I got hungry and ate it myself. Hard cheddar mater".
Once again I grabbed the scythe and yelled.
"You stinking, rotten excuse for a sun.
Bye the rivers of Babby-Lon I will sever your big, round head from your body".
I made a swipe with the scythe. The fruit of my lions scampered out the window and took off over the bog with me behind him.
"GULPIN!" I yelled.
"NICKERS!" roared Bon Jovi.
And so it went on 'till the gloom of the nite enveloped the both of us.
What a cub!
But he is some hanlin'.

ROSIE RYAN'S EPISTLE TO THE CLOUGHERARIANS

2010-07-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

Behold peeple of Clougher. I is Rosie Ryan and I am touched. Touched by the hand of God.
The Lord God almighty has spoken to me through the devine hangel Willie John. It came about thus. At half past fore on Monday night, I was awakened by a peculiar portend.
"Is I hefted?" I mummered into my drool soaked pillow.
Then I heard a voice cry from on Hi.
"Arise Rosie Ryan. I is the Lord God almighty. You have been chosen to spread the good word in Clougher and surrounding districts".
"LORD!" I cried.
"I is knot worthy".
"Worthy or knot" boomed God.
"You wool have two do. Behold, I am sending you a hangel. The heaveny hangel wool consul you and guide you through the pits and snares of sin"
"Oh Lord" I yelled.
"I is as an empty vessal. Fill me too overflowing with faith, hope and charity!.
"I shall do my best" said God.
Then a wild brite lite illustrated the room and a hangel appeared beside the po.
"Fear knot" said the hangel.
"I is the hangel Willie John. I is a baritone in the celestial choir.
You among all weeman have bean chosen to spread the gospel in the accursed city of Clougher.
Bee without fear! I Wille John shall be by your side. Guiding your step and speaking direct from your holy, flapping gub".
And low it came two pass.
Next morn I tied my sandles with binder-twine, picked up my staff and set out for the evil city of-Clougher.
On the stroke of noon, I mounted the cenotaph and spoke thus.
"Gulpins and scumbags of Clougher. You could have been the knew Jerusalem, but you turned away from Jehovah and turned this small market town in Tyrone into another Soddem and Begorrgh.
"REPEANT! I roared.
"Or the Lord God almighty wool lose his rag and smite you with a smite the like of which the world has never scene.
Do youse want too burn for all eternally?"
"Faith, Hope and Charity" I yelled
These three are good. But the gratest
of these three--is-chastity!.
Behold I say onto you you. Youse who commit sins of the flesh, will be hung from your forks on crooks over the hot burning fires of-hell. And knot for just a day. Knot for just a weak. Knot for just a year, but etermity.
Covet knot your neighbours ass" I roared. Better for you to wash your own ass with strong lifeboy soap and a jap of Dettol.
Take knot the Lords name in vain. Just yell, cricky, jeepers, sugar or flip.
Honour thy daddy and thy mammy. Never put them in a home, until acute Do-lallyness has set in.
If you covet your neighbours wife, go and get your eyes tested. For Clougher abounds with dumplins of unparrelled uglyness.
Do know steel-unless your giro is late.
Do knot indulge in strong drink. Make your own, its cheeper.
Go two mass on Sunday and holidays of oblation unless you are bluttered.
Spread knot calamity.It is wild hard to cure and is the result of sex with strangers.
Never suffer a witch to live".
That was then the men in white coats came. Laid hands on me and took me to a plaice of menthol confinement.
For three daze I was poked and prodded bye doctors, nurses and people who just came into visit a nut case.
After three daze I arose and made my my home. Praising the Lord and cutting nettles in half with my holy staff.
Now people come in kars to stare at me.
"What did you come two sea" I cry.
"A Reid blowing in the wind?"
"KNOW!" they yell.
"We came to sea Rosie Ryan the loony in the bog".
Wool Rosie Ryan end up another Martha for her faith?
Who no's. Two all my detracters I say.
"GO FORTH AND MULTIPY!".
"All that I am
All that I do
And if I have a screw loose
I offer it to you".

PICKED UP BY THE FUZZ

2010-06-12T14:01:00.001-07:00

Oh the shame Gerry. Oh the ig-no me. Oh the disgrace. My sun Bon Jovi and me were nicked for shop lifting! We is knot crooks Gerry. There is
Ex-ten-u-ating circumstances witch I must inform you off. The cub needed trousers Gerry. His old one's were only held together by the odd fibre and the power of prayer. Sew on Fryday morning, brite and early, Bon Jovi and me hit the Hi road two Clougher.
As we strolled along I commented on the wide range of bird life and the different varieties of flora and fauna. As I was commenting on a particulary lush bunch of Sue-Lugs Bon Jovi exploded.
"In the name of God" roared the cub.
"Wool you keep your big yapper shut. All you have done since we left home is, YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"How darest thou" I yelled
"Is that any way for a mail off spring too talk two one's mater? Another outburst like that my lad and you'll be picking your teeth up off the road".
Bon Jovi threw off his coat. Leaped out to the middle of the road and roared.
"Bring it on! Bring it on big mouth. By the hot fires of hell, I wool shut that big gub of yours wance and for all".
I struggled out of my late mammies brown duffle coat. Put up my fists and yelled.
"Bye the sacret hart of saint John Plunket I'll nock you into the middle of next weak you gulpin".
The fight was on. Bon Jovi and I circled each other warily. I threw out a searching rite. Bon Jovi parried it. Bon Jovi came back with a left that grazed my temple.
I had my head on my chest. Bon Jovi's fists hung low. The cub was trying to make a fool of me. I let go a hay-maker. Bon Jovi skipped back and did an Ali shuffle in front of a whin bush.
We came together, our heads clashed and we backed away. I rushed at the cub and ran straight in to a left hook up the kisser. I spat out blood and too teeth. Bon Jovi smiled above his bobbing, weaving fists.
We came together again and Bon Jovi unleashed a flurry of punches into my bread basket. I gasped and panted. I was getting it tite. Bon Jovi came in for the kill. Slipped on cow skitter and I got him with an uppercut rite on the point of his dirty chin. The cub went down like a bag of spuds. I sat panting on the verge until the cub came round. We then continued on our way to Clougher-in silence.
"The colour of these trousers is lovat" said wee Maggie McSpoon who works in Patel's haber-dashery.
"Do try them on Bon Jovi" I enthused.
"They wood complaiment your puce gansey exquitely".
As Bon Jovi was trying on the knew trousers. The old trousers gave up the ghost and fell apart. Maggie McSpoon gingerly picked up the remmants of the old trousers with a pear of tongs and ran out to the back yard to put them in the bin. The up shot was . I payed for the knew lovat trousers and Bon Jovi wore them home.
THEN! CALAMITY! As Bon Jovi and me walked past Clougher city limits. The arse of Bon Jovi's knew trousers began to squeel like a stuck pig.
Soon six police cars roared too a halt and Bon Jovi and me was surrounded by a gang of PICKS, PEES, PIERS, or what ever the hell the RUC call themselves these days. Mother and sun was arrested and held in Hi security confinement. I protested us innonence.
The police brought in wee Maggie Mc Spoon and she said, I had payed for the lovat trousers, but she had knot taken the security tag from the lovat trousers.
The police threw me and Bon Jovi out and banged the big gait behind us.
"High Columbo" I roared.
"How about an apology and a lift home?"
I was told to move along, or we wood be nicked again.
I don't no who I'm madder at, the police or wee Maggie McSpoon. Needless two say a sharp letter is on its way to auld David Ford, the minister for piece and injustice.
But the lovat trousers look lovely on the cub.
They really bring out the colour of his dung brown eyes.
I is-Rosie Ryan. XXX

ROSIE RYAN'S FRENCH LETTER

2010-06-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

Bon jour, enchante de faire votre connaissance.
Comment allez-vous? Vous etes tres gentil.
Est-ce que je vous gene? Il fait beau.
Ecoutez, regardez. Qu'est que c'est que ca en bas?
Vous plaisantez. Allez-vous en. Laissez-moi tranquille. C'est tres ennuyeax. Je vous ai deja paye. Lassez-moi passer! Qu est consulat britannique?
Qo se trouve le marche? Je veux acheter- est-ce que vous ven-dez?, des dessous de soie des nylons, des bas de soie. Un soutien-gorge, une gaine, brode a la main. De la dentelle, un sac a main. Un chapeau de paille avec une voilette. C'est la grande mode. J'ai besoin d'un costume taileur avec une jupe plissee.
Je veux me faire faire une robe. Le col rond le decollete. Un mateau noir double de soir. Un mantau de fourrure, le mesure, le tour de poitrine, de taille, de hanches, la taille la longeur de manche, la geur d'epaules.
Le produits de beaute. Un flacon de parfum. Le rouge a levres, la poudre de riz. Le poudre de talc, la houppe. Le vernis a ongles voy-ant, transparent, rouge fonce. Des sels pour la bain. Une barrette, des epingles a cheveux une pince des bigoudis.
Je veux manger quelque chose de bein simple. Cesi n'est pas frais. Ce morceau est trop gras. Donnez-moi du maigre. Ceci ne sent pas tres bon. L'addition s'il vous plait. Le service est-il compris? Vous pouvez gardez le reste.J'ai laisse mes lunettes dans le lavobo.
Quelqu'un cet homme m'a vole.
AU SECOURS! AU FEU! AU VOLEUR!
Qui etes-vous? Je ne vous connais pas . Je ne veux pas vous parler. Laissez-moi tranquille. En voila assez. Allez-vous en. C'est en maintenant. C'est tres ennuyeux. Qu est le britannique?
Idiot! Doucement! Remettez-vous. Taisez-vous. Ca alors c'est trop fort. ZUT!
Je veux faire serrer ceci . Combien de temps dois-je attendre? Qu'y a-t-il?
Nous sommes trempes jusqu'aux os. Qu puis -je acheter du petrole? Je voudrais bien louer une bibyclette. Combien coute-t-il par jour? Nous nous sommes egares. Jouez-vous au tennis? J'ai une raquette de tennis et des balles. Qu se trouvent les courts de tennis?
J'etais ici en dix-neuf cent quarante. En temps de guerre. Je suis ancien soldat veteran. Les tranchees de premiere-ligne. Vacant, places debout seulement. CHIEN MECHANT!
Je suis Madame Rosie Ryan. Y a-t-il des lettres pour moi? ZUT! ZUT! ZUT!
Faites preparer la note s'il vous plait. Je dois partir demain de bonne heure.
Merci et au revoir.
JAMAIS! JAMAIS! JAMAIS!!!
Madame Rosie Ryan xxx

Rosie's Wildlife Reserve

2010-05-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, my old friend and come padre. If I were to ask you two sum up in too words the character of Rosie Ryan.
I no, as sure as God made little green men on Mars, that you wood say,
"Self Defecating".
And I thank you Gerry for that ringing endorsment.
I am self defectating. Even as a young cuttie I practised the art of self defecation. All us Ryan's have bean self defecators. Some familys bear the mark of Cain. Us Ryans proudly wear the mark of self defecation.
Gerry, I have bean most horribly malignant in the letters page of the Clougher (And surrounding districts) Times. Some gulpin, riting under the none-de-plum of "One who cares" gave me a wild doing.
Why Gerry?--Why? I keep to myself. I bother know wan. I spend all my thyme, delving into all aspects of arts and culture. That is why the Clougher people loathe, hate and dispise me. They sea me as a tall poppy, sticking my head above the paraquat and they want to cut it off. I scare them with my wild Hi intelect.
They wood burn me for a witch. Only for the fear of discovery bye UTV Live or BBC Newsline.
I is an Ann-ommily. I don't fit in. They don't want a Rosie Ryan about the plaice.
Gerry, here is the letter, "Audi alteram partem".
"Deer people of Clougher and surrounding districts. Have any of you noticed the eye sore on the way into Clougher? YES! I am talking about the kip of Rosie Ryan and her son Bon Jovi. The garden is a wildernest, filled with rusty prams, bicycle wheels and a veritabe heap of old po's. Has Rosie Ryan no civic pride? Has Rosie Ryan know respect for the countryside? Who does Rosie Ryan think she is?. I have, on more than one occasion, seen Rosie Ryan, wearing little or nothing, dash across the busy road to empty two po's. It is time Clougher council got out there and cleaned up the pig stye that is the abode of, Rosie Ryan. Signed "One Who Cares".
I was galvanised Gerry. Galvanised into action. I grabbed parchment and quill and responded thus.
"Saluto Clougherarians, This is Rosie Ryan calling.
I wish to despond to the gulpinish remarks made about me last weak bye, "Wan who cares".
I wish two make it plane that I am know, slattern, trallop or scum bag. I have the highest regard for Hi-Jean. My sun, Bon Jovi is washed every fore months with Lifeboy soap and scrubbed until his skin takes on the sheen of a shaved pig. KNOW po is left under the bed for more than fore daze. My front garden is knot a wildernest. It is a wildlife reserve. I cultivate nettles, dockens and weeds to give habitation to the poor wee butterflies. As for the po's-frogspawn have to live somewhere.
I am glad, YES! do you heer me? Glad that I don't live in Clougher. Sin City. The sex capital of Europe and surrounding districts. I am true to the faith of my fathers. You won't sea Rosie Ryan leaping like a mad savage to the beat of a boom-boom box until eight or nine o'clock at nite. I will be down on my knees, preying or prying a reluctant po out from under the bed.
People of Clougher. I pity you. When the fire and brimstone rain down on you. I will turn my eyes towards Gortin. In fear I may be turned into a pillar of Saxa salt. REPENT! REPENT! Or suffer the wrath of an all mercyfull God. I go now to consort with Sarate, Volaire, Plato and Barney McCool".
That should put the people of Clougher in their plaice Gerry. If you are ever up this way and some boy asks you how you wood sum up Rosie Ryan. Don't stop to think Gerry. Just roar out-"Self Defecating". 'Cause 'tis the truth. There is know bigger self defectator in Clougher than-Rosie Ryan.
I leave you now Gerry. So you kan carry on ministering to those who are a bit touched in the head.
From your woodland sprite--Rosie Ryan xxx

BON JOVI'S ENTREPRENURIAL PLANS

2010-05-13T10:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning beeing a brite, sonny day in the extremity. Found me lolling-languidly over a rusty gait.
With my ample bisum on one side of the gait and my volatile, voluptuous rear on the other side.
I was, as the laws of Newton state balancing the gravitational pull twixt bisum and derriere.
I was arrayed in puce gansey, white drindle skirt, embroidered with lambs a leaping in pleasant,pasturised surroundings. My turned down wellingtons took their colour from the lime, that most erotic of fruits.
My plump round, red face peeped out of my flowing mass of tangled red hare. I had used lipstick to elongate my mouth, Ah-La, Jack Nicholson as the Joker in Batman. I looked good and I new it.
Men hate a woman with a wee gub. Thanks to my lipsticking, my smile spread from ear to 'ere.
I looked around me with my deep green occulars. What beauty! The cunt'ry lay before me like a Constable canvas. Filled with rural, rustic romantism I huskly entoned.
"These are my mountains and this is my glen".
Atchung! Above the swaying flora and fauna, I saw the big bobbing head of my sun Bon Jovi. My cub. The lite of my life. He, who had hatched from a fertilsed egg and sprang from my lions like a veritable jack-in-the-box.
As my sun bounded towards me like a Pampas bull. I disengaged myself from the gait and ran to meet him.
What a material site. As mother and sun ran with out stretched arms towards each other. Bon Jovi was running so fast. The stream of snotters from his nose were flying back and forwards, like a manical pendulum. Then we met. The cub thundered into me and sent me on the broad of my back. My white drindle skirt was lavioushly splattered with cow skitter.
"Bon Jovi" I enthused.
"Where have you bean a wandering, on this exquite, harmonic sonny day?"
Bon Jovi broke wind with the delicate, decorum of a hangel and roared.
"I have bean navigating the bog. Prior to turning it into Clougher International airport when I grow up".
I looked at the lump of a cub with maternal awe. What a brane must be housed in that big, round head. The cub was an entrepreneurial entepreneur bordering on entrepreneurialism. This cub, standing in the nettles, with two snottery candles hanging from his nose wool be another Richard Branson.
"Bon Jovi" I cried.
"You have been touched. Touched by the hand of fate. You shall in thyme my boy be as rich as Croesus, the king of Linda. Tell me my bon-a-me" I said.
"What shall you do with the riches, that you will acrew".
"Bon Jovi blue his nose with his fingers. Sending two ethermal trails of snotters drifting over the bog like thistle down and replied.
"When the spondulects start rolling in. I can knot be encumbered. I can knot be encumbered by, morons, cretans or head the balls. So the first thing I shall do is confine you to a Hi security home for old bags. I must be focused. I can not have some old head bangers yelling, Bon Jovi this and Bon Jovi that. As a captain of industry, I must cast aside all that could be a hinderance to me in my quest for money. So when the lolly starts rolling in, you shall be taken, by force to a secure, room with bars on the window. Time permitting, I may visit you every Kristmas. So you kan give me my Kristmas box".
I grabbed the errant entepreneur by the scruff off the neck and roared.
"Here's your Kristmas box for the next fore years"
And I boxed the ears of the prodigious sun. Bon Jovi broke away and ran off yelling.
"auld ugly, fat bag. Auld red-faced Rosie. The laughing stock of Clougher and surrounding districts".
I yelled, "By the sacred simmet of saint Martha" And took off after the gross gulpin. As I was getting into my stride. My fashionable lime green wellingtons slipped on cow skitter and I fell on the broad of my back. I fear I will never get the skitter off my white drindle skirt!.
I shall of course prey to the patron saint of lost causes and use plenty of Daz. But skitter is the devil to shift when it gets ground in.

A Thyme to Plant

2010-05-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, I have just red the Bible from wan end to the other. I sea the Bible as God's diary when he puts down all this thoughts. After reading the Bible with a dilligence and scrutiny, knot scene since the Dole men came to Clougher to catch boys doing the double. I am konvinced beyond resonable doubt that God was a farmer. The evidence is presient in abundance.
"A thyme too reap, a thyme two so" References to fig trees. Vinyards, the so'er soing his seed. The herd of swine filled with the devil. Swine Gerry is just bibical code for pigs or porkers. The sermon on the mount. A mount of what? Logic wood lead us to believe that the "Mount" was an unused, grown over midden. And the klincher is, the garden of Eden.
God had a wee bit of spare land at the back of heven and turned it into a garden. God, like the boys in Portadown seemed to have a paw-shant for apples.
This weak Gerry, my sun Bon Jovi and self have bean tillers of the soil. Us God like people have planted rows of beens, P's, karrots and a few drills of early spuds. Bon Jovi wheeled numerous barrow loads of dung, or as they say in Gortin-shi--manure.
Alas, the labourer was knot worthy of his hire. All I got from the cub was old buck and dogs abuse. The cub went at it like a JCB sew he could get back to the fire again.
"Bon Jovi" I cautioned.
"Curb your enthusium. Curb your enthusium cub. Seeds have to be planted the rite way up, or they will end up in Australia".
"Too hell with this" yelled Bon Jovi.
"The cauld wind is blowing up the back of my simmet and foundering the two lungs of me. If I come down with BT it wool be your fault".
"Cease your complaining and vineyard grumbling" I roared. "The work we are doing is holy.
Go and get another barrow load of manure. And if you are cold. And if you do have blisters on your hands. Offer it up, the way the blessed Matt Talbot wood have done after the nite the bottle let him down".
"Matt Talbot my cold, foundered ass" yelled Bon Jovi.
I picked up a graip and took after the unwilling sun of the soil.
"Bye the little flour, the child of Prague and Mary from Dunlow" I yelled. "If I get the hault of you boy, I will turn your ars-derriere into a pin cushion".
The cub sped away with the energy of youth, singing as he went.
"An old bag went to mow, went to mow a meadow".
I swear I'll be lethal injected for that cub yet. I'll be strapped to a gurney and pumped full of anty-freeze.
Oh Lord God in heven, look down on the blighted fruit of my lions and change his wicked ways. Now and at the hour of our death-AMIN.
Dieu yous garde Gerry.

Achtung! Hen Dung!

2010-04-20T10:30:00.001-07:00

Deer Gerry, On Sonday a German boy called at my house to buy some free range eggs.
At first I was going to hunt the Hun. Because the Germans caused wan of daddy's cows to abore during the war. For monetary reasons I reined in my wrath and ire. My sun Bon Jovi was hiding in the long grass like a sniper.
Oh he was a Germanic German.
"Eggs" he yelled. "I need eggs for the eating. You have fresh eggs-YAH?"
"YAH my Fuhur" I roared.
"I have eggs so fresh the dung on them is still warm.
Follow me" I yelled.
"We have ways of making you walk" roared Bon Jovi from the long grass.
"Mind your feet on the skitter" I cautioned.
"Skitter?" cried the German.
"What is this skitter of which you speak?"
"Skitter" I roared. "Hen dung. Shite. Foul fecus".
"Ah-merde!" cried the German.
"Aye"I roared. "And there's more merde down here"
Well Gerry to cut a long story short. I sold the Hun a dozen of eggs. And on my way back up the yard, I slipped on the skitter and fell on the broad of my back. Giving the German a good flash of my red flannel drawers.
"Ah the red flag" laughed the German.
"Remind me of the Russian front"
"Avert your eyes from my Hibernian gusset" I roared.
"Or by the count of Monte Cristo I'll get up and brust you"
The German leaped into his kar and sped down the road. Taking a menthol image of my red flannel drawers with him. Such are the things that happen to the pride of Clougher,--ROSIE RYAN xxx

French Chic Hits Clougher

2010-04-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, your presant wife and female listeners mite like to no that "French Chic" on Clougher Hi-Street have got in a lovely range of Moo-Moo dresses.
Some lovely pasturised colours Gerry.
Ranging from egg shell white to a beguiling pale puce.
I was smitten by a little primrose yella number with a slit up the back so you kan throw your feet out in komfort. Auld Nellie Granite was lumbering about like a heffer in the changing room. Trying too cram her Winter blubber into a pale mauve dress with seen's from the book of Kells painted on it.
The weeman of Clougher were swarming over the Moo-Moo's like veritable locusts.
Insults and indeed, thumps were exchanged.
In fact passions soared to such a height. That hob- nailed boots were swung with venom and feces brusted at the fashionable haute couture swaree in the Clougher branch of, "French Chic".
I myself had reason to nock wee Mary Ann Dumplin on the broad of her back when she jundied into me like an auld buck goat.
Nickers Gerry. Nickers in profussion hang from the roof of "French Chic" like Kristmas decorations.
When the big nicker lorry drove into Clougher. Weeman chased it down the street like wild, feral beasts.
Because of the wild bad Winter. Clougher suffered from a nicker drought. Now, thank goodness, Clougher has nickers in abundance.
Dirty auld brutes of men, stood with their noses pressed up against the window of "French Chic" hoping for a quick flash.
They got know quick flash from me Gerry. I tried the knew nickers on over my old nickers.
I deceided on a pear of green flannel nickers by "Desiree". "Desiree" is one of the top nickers houses in Taiwain. They use industrial elastic and all gussets are reinforced with a cradle of fibre glass.
Desiree nickers are strong yet functional Gerry.
You could leap a five bar gate without a creak from the expanding gusset. They come with a life time guarantee and a small allen key to make slight adjustments to the revolutionary space age gusset.
Gerry, if you are looking to stock up with some knew mail nickers. Do knot come too Clougher.
Men's nickers have lagged behind in Clougher.
Clougher may be a seething cauldren of fashion when it comes too weeman's nickers.
But alas, and indeed, alac, grey long johns with a flap at the back or the order of the day for the men of Clougher. The Clougher men have rejected Y-fronts, boxers and jocky shorts. The men of Clougher cling to their dirty grey long johns like veritable clams.
So Gerry, when making plans too replenish your stach of mail manly nickers. Count Clougher out.
I sincerely hope you are knot running low on cloathing for the under-carriage. I could send you few pears of my old bloomers. If you care too send a van up too kollect them. Air them first Gerry before putting then on.
Hang them over the big ornate gate at the front of your house. Blessed is she who cloathes the naked and she is.
ROSIE RYAN XXX

Father Gerry

2010-04-07T02:12:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, You find me in thoughtful, refractive, medieval mood. I have a paw-shant for mediation Gerry.I find in life, one should STAP and look back. Retrace one's steps. Revisit the past and discect one's actions, or indeed, inactions.
My past life is a memory of harmonica bliss. I was born with grate beauty. And as I manured, my unnatural, faerie beauty grew ten fold.
I feasted my eyes on my sun Bon Jovi. There he sat at the table. Making the buttered heels of pan loves disappear like a veritable Who-Deeny.
I well remember the nite that Bon Jovi sprang from my lions, like a bald, red-faced goblin.
The midwife wrapped the newly born in an old coat and placed him in my motherly arms.
I held the bawling wain close to my bisom and crooned.
"Welcome to my world. Won't you come on in".
Lost in revereee, I utterised the thoughts in my head to the pan loaf heel gobbler.
"Attend me Bon Jovi" I said.
"I have thoughts that I wish to share with you.
I have feelings I wish too discuss.
I have ideas that require feedback.
In short, I wish to run a pear of nickers up the flag pole and sea who salutes them".
Bon Jovi, a big fan of Frazier, the american Sigh- kite-wrist stopped chewing and said.
"I'm-listening".
"'Tis about Gerry I wish to vocalise" I said.
The lump of a cub, laid down his pan loaf heel and said.
"Go on. I'm-listening".
"Konsider this!" I cried.
"It was knot hungry or want that drove Gerry Anderson too Radio Foul. KNOW!
It was a God scent vacation.
Up in Radio Foul" I cried.
"Gerry is doing the work of a priest!"
Bon Jovi broke wind with grate decorum and yelled.
"Bye the shinning brass harness on Dan Murphy's ass.
"Expand!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Expand or sit down and forever hold your piece".
"Does knot Gerry" I said
"Or rather, does knot FATHER Gerry
heer confusions every morning from half past ten until the sixth pip"?
"Bye the salted herring of the good ship Lollypop" cried Bon Jovi.
"You have hit the head on the nail.
People fone up and admit to their Indi--scretations
And does knot Gerry end every confusion bye saying.
"God bless you my sun?"
"Gerry Anderson" I utterised.
"Is a living saint. Gerry Anderson wood nock Mother Thresa into a cocked hat. What other parish, apart from the Vatican offers the chance of confussions five days a weak?"
"NONE!" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Butt tell me this and tell me know more. If you were on your death bed. Wood you make your last confusion to Gerry?"
"Knot on your Nelly" I roared.
"Sure, wouln't he go and blab it all round Derry and surrounding districts.
"If Gerry is the priest" said Bon Jovi.
"What does that make the wee boy?"
"The curate I said. "Good in places".
From a refrective and all no'ing,
ROSIE RYAN xxx

SPRING IS IN THE AIR

2010-03-30T02:45:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, Is it knot an exquisite experience to stand at the half door. With a jam jar of Earl Grey tee clutched in one's slim, slender feminine hand. And watch Spring spread over the bog with vibriant colours and hugh's knot found in any artists palate?
"What splender" I entoned.
"What grandur, what irrepressible beauty is stalking the bog today.
"The pastel hugh's of Spring" I mummered.
"Fill my hart with tarra fierce emotional stirrings".
Love is in the air. I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my tows. "BEHOLD!" I exaulted.
"The sap is rising in tree, bush and sapling.
Briars, are creeping through the flora and fauna, like veritable snakes. The pregnant buds wool soon give birth. And a profussion of flowers will raise their fragile, etheral indecipherable petals towards the son. Even as we speak. Daisys are tunneling their way out of Coal-diz
The black cloak of Winter has been cast aside. And soon Spring will appear. Wearing a clinging, gauzy,sea-through floral dress. Spring is a lewd, wanton strumpet. Spring entices, teases and, like Uli Geller, starts up many a biological clock. The young heer the call to procreate and gambol wantonly round the Ghallic may pole. The old, who have run out of wild oats. Go clean mad and kan be scene leaping like hairs in the meadows and uttering hoarse, croaking, gutteral mating cries. All barriers and bounderies are swept aside in Spring.
Young girls thong the lanes and bye-ways wearing mini skirts up to their ars-derrieres. And underneath, nothing but a skimpy thong to keep the mild zeyher breezes from their child bearing under-carriages.
Young men strut and prance. Enticing the female with a display of pens in the jacket pocket. Lime green wellingtons with the tops seductively turned down or a sparkling pair of chrome bicycle clips.
How many wains have been born because of chrome bicycle clips? The number is legion.
So, I Rosie Ryan say on too you.
Embrace Spring. Throw your arms around Spring. Take Spring into your hart. But, also beware of Spring. Spring is a notorious remover of inhibitians.
Spring plays on the emotional strings of the female hart. Girls and indeed, women who should no better. Women who wood never say-yes. Now think to themselves, "I mite". Guards are lowered. Gates that were once barred and locked. Now swing freely in the breeze. Know thought is given too tomorrow.
Men lurk like predators in the bracken. Ready to pounce on a fair midden who is smitten by the bewitching lure of Spring.
Old men peep from the rushes. Seeking some old bag who who has lost all sense and reason. And is skipping gaily and doating under hawthorn blossoms looking for La-more.
Spring is a seductor. Spring is the instigater of debauchery and deprativy. Spring is lewdness presonified. Spring is a corrupter. Spring is a period of intemperance. Spring is an occasion of SIN!.
Mind you, having said all that. I hope to get to get down to some serious groaping after Lent is over.
From a Spring frisky,
Rosie Ryan xxx

BRINGING KULTURE TO TYRONE

2010-03-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, I heer you were in remote parts of Co Tyrone this weak. I heer you travelled to parts of Tyrone that wood still resort too cannibalism if the chip van failed to turn up. You were on a mission Gerry. Your relentless, remoreless mission to bring arts and kulture to the wild savages of Tyrone.
I heer kulture vultures flocked to the venue you were speaking at on bicycles and donkey's and carts.
Of course Tyrone is knot kompletly devoid of arts and kulture. Tyrone is very proud of it's two sons of artistic merit. Hugo Duncan and Barney McCool.
I was going to go and sea you Gerry. But unfortunately I had trouble and strife in the gnashers department. I broke my false teeth while eating a raw turnip. I think that was an intervention by fate.
It is probably better if we never meet. Given my grate beauty and your lack of self control.
A grope Gerry, while being a thing of beauty and a joy forever,could in time come between us. How sad if the beauty of Clougher and the brane of Derry should drift apart over a common or garden grope.
It is knot your fault Gerry. You appreciate beauty and when you see grate beauty, like what I have, you have know kontrol over your hands. Hence the groaping for which you are rightly renowed.
But what a boon, what a joy it wood have bean to have my foto took with you. There we wood be on the front page of the Tyrone Konstitution. Me with my head laid on your manly chest. Looking up into your artistic face with the doe-eyed look of a dear.
Then as we parted, fluff from your green hairy gansey wood stick to the silky, feminine stubble on my face like soft etheral thistledown.
I wood have framed that foto and it wood hang side by side with the German Pope Roland Rats-zinger.
Gerry my sun Bon Jovi want's me too tell you to,
"Hang loose as a goose". I wool tell you know such thing. A man of letters, like yourself has better things to do, than hang loose as a goose.
I thought of you last nite Gerry. As I lay in bed listening to the bed springs and the rats squeak. I thought of the gentile conversation we could have had about arts and kulture. Grate paintings. Ballys, and the wild fat weeman who are drawn like veritable magnets to opera. I hope your bicycle was all rite when you left the venue of arts and kulture. I hope the fly boys in Tyrone did knot remove the seat. Leaving you a long, painful ride back to Derry.
Gerry, wool we forever be like too chips that pass in the nite? Who no's. Maybe. Maybe one day we wool meet. Hold hands, look into each others eyes and sing. "We'll gather lilics in the Spring again"
Until that day, a fond farewell from,
Rosie Ryan xxx
SP. Gerry, our relationship reminds me of Withering Heights. You are my Heath-Clift. Bounding like a wild eyed pony through the heath. Run free my Heath-Clift. Run FREE!.

K-ME- A -FAULT-YAH

2010-03-17T11:50:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, Its grate two sea you back from foreign erotic plaices in thyme for saint Paddies day.
I suppose you will bee lilting at Free Derry korner for the Irish dancers. Its good two sea that you take your civil responsibilites seriously. I wish I could sea you, arrayed in green soot, shirt and tie. What a vision of Hibernian court, kah-tour you must bee.
On the dot of half past nine, my Sun Bon Jovi and me will form up in front of the midden and make our way to saint Judas church in Clougher in strict formation.
We wool be peeping like too snipers out of a veritable garden of shamrocks, dockens, ivy, green ribbons and suelugs. Bon Jovi has knot kleaned his teeth since Kristmas. So he kan flash a good green saint Patrick's day smile. I must curtail this letter Gerry. I have a twist in my tites that is driving me Do-Lally. I am glad to say that my green nickers lie in an untwisted state on the bed. So Gerry, have a good day. Take a wee packet of Tunes with you. Lilting kan be wild sore on the throat.
What a grate day it is. As Irish men and women pay honour too a man from Whales, Briton,France, or where ever the hell saint Patrick came from.
"K-Me-A-Fault-Yah" from-Rosie Ryan. xxx

On Reaching The Big 2000

2010-03-05T15:22:00.000-08:00

Too-day, on this mendacious day. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I feel it enkumbat on me too thank every wan who helped me nock up 2,000 thumps on my blog. It has bean a long struggle.
There were thymes, oh yes! there were thymes when I thought it wood never happen.
In the pits of desperate despair, I walked my boud-wah by nite. Hoping, praying that my illerate talent wood be recognised by the boys who run arts and kulture.
And low, low and thrice-low, it came to past.
I stand now on the spinacle of literary fame.
I is a household name. A komfort for the old and a shinning beacon for the young.
WHY ME??? Many thymes have I stood a top the midden asking myself the very same question.
WHY ME? I left skool at nine too look after swine.
My literary brane has just noticed a little poem there.
"I LEFT SKOOL AT NINE
TO LOOK AFTER SWINE
FOR THAT DADDY, THAT DADDY
THAT DADDY OF MINE".
Is is little bon mots. Little literary nuggets like that, which sets me apart from the maddening crowd and the lowering heard.
There was know golden spoon in my gub when I was born. OUT of the womb was I thrown.Like a drunk out of a public house. I was buck naked. I was konfused and I was bawling my big red face off.
Know Parker pen was put in my infantile hand. Know nanny whispered Latin verbs too me as I got stuck into a bottle of milk like a cannonball.
I was left to crawl over the germ infested floor.
I caught everything that was going. Chicken pox. Scarlet fever. Chillblaines. Gout. Hi blood pressure. Picnic attacks. Athletes foot, hands and bums-a-daisy. I fought off black death, yellow fever and a red rash on my juvinile derriere. I broke more bones than a Jack Russel killing a rat. Slates fell on my head. I fell down wells. I spent 40 days and nites in a bog hole. I was viciously attacked by, bulls, cows, rams, dogs. cats, rats, earwigs and marauding bogland snipe. My hart stopped three thymes. I was waked for a nite in a coffin, but leapt out at cock crow and got stuck into two buttered heels from a pan loaf. Much too the chargrin of deer mummy and daddy. Who had secreated the pan loaf heels for breakfast.
I am indescribable. As hard as nails. I is made from grantite and desil knot blood runs in my vains.
But the ills of my youth were as nothing kompared to the hankering in my hart. I was plagued by-hankerings. Night. Day. Hankerings invaded by brane. I was fair full of-hankerings. Other grate people have suffered from hankerings. But their hankerings, were nothing kompared to the hankerings that were driving me Do-Lally. I was driven mad by hankerings. Hankerings I could knot put a name too. Yet when the hankerings came, I knew I-hankered.
Hankered after-something etheral. Something-intangible. Something as hard to capture as a shadow on a Summer day. A will-o-the-wisp or the shy nocternal blindbat.
Then, one day I had my Your-eeh-ah
moment. I remember it well. I was emerging-meticulously from the eggberries where I had been squatting vacuating my bowls. As I tripped gaily and girlishly towards the portal of my abode. I fell over a clocking hen and fell on my mouth and nose. More nose than mouth, as the twin rivers of blood from both nostrils testified.
As I lay there groggy and non compes mentis. I was aware of the hens scratching in the dust. And suddenly I had an Episiotomy. The hens were-writing. The hens were riting in the dust. That was the moment my life changed. I sharped a stick and joined the hens as they wrote their blogs with beak and claw.
By the thyme I was a big lump of a cuttie. I had rote an illuminated account of the gospel of saint John on the side of the midden with a pointy stick. I rote the gospel in obtuse wild hard manderin and proudly singed my name with a flourish of the pointy stick.
The rest as they say is historinics. I taut myself Greek, Finish, Latin, Cretan, Moronaic and Arabic.
Grammer being the building blocks of language. I emmerced myself in vowls, verbs and additives.
"I before E, except after Pee" I entoned. As I sat hefted at the kitchen table. When all my I's were before E's, I wood hurry too the whins so I could now have a Pee.
I dabbled in poetry. I came 21st in Irelands Own with this little gem.
"WHY I LIKE GOD" bye Rosie Ryan
"I like God because he's good
On my table he puts food
In my cup he puts my tay
Well done God, Hip-Hip-Horray".
The judges said my poem had the simplicity of brane knot yet fully formed.
And I was only 28 at the thyme!.
Since then I have surfed the waves of knowledge. My head is fair stuffed with facts, figures and theorys.
It was me who came up with the invention I like to call musical nickers. A small music box, sewn into the gusset of the nickers, which wood play Handel's water music as a lady was hunkered in the whins having a slash.
I still plan to take that invention to the Dragon's den. I doubt may Dragon's will be OUT! As I give a demonstration on a po I have brought along with me.
Sometimes I wish my head was twice as big to hold all the ideas that are bubbling and fermenting in my noggin.
And so we come back to my 2,000 thumps on my blog. What lies ahead? Who nose. Books, balleys, operas and poems. Poems that tug at the hart strings and poems that will make you pee yourself with laughter.
In konclusion, I wood like to thank my mammy for producing the egg that made me and also, a big thank you too deer daddy for fertilising said egg.
I wood like too thank my skool teechers. Many of whom are dead or confined to menthol institutions.
But most thanks go to my loyal reeders. I could not have done it without you. It was you, who placed me at the spincture of arts and kulture. As I gaze down from my lofty position. I say a 'umble thanks and promise you, for Rosie Ryan, the only way is-UP!

Don't Irk Me!

2010-03-01T12:13:00.000-08:00

Having kompleted my household chores, bye kicking all the rubbish on the floor out the door with my hobnailed boots. I got my bango down from on top of the press and plinked my way through all the works of Hi-Den and Poo-Geeny. Any idijt could play Hi-Den, but you have too have your wits about you to tangle with auld Poo-Geeny. Poo-Geeny is a crafty auld boy. He wool try and throw you off the sent bye changing from major to minor without so much as a hand signal. But I was up too Poo-Geeny's auld tricks and beat him at his own game. Teck-Neek. That's what music is all about. Teck-Neek. And when it comes to musical Teck-Neek, I am fare stuffed with it.
I kan rattle through any tune in the keys of A to Z.
Looking at the position of the son in the firament, I saw it would soon be time for my sun Bon Jovi to arrive home from Saint Judas skool his seat of learning. I quickly buttered too heels of a pan loaf with margerine and put the kettle on. I went too the door and scrutinised the horizon for any sign of my first born.
Suddenly! I saw a big head bobbing through the flora and fauna. It was my-SUN. It was the boy child who had-LEAPED from my fruitful lions at the first touch of the doctors foreceps.
I listened. The cub was singing. A frown crossed my beautiful face as the words drifted over the bog.
I harked my ears to the song the cub was guldering.
"MUM-MUM-MUM-MAH!
MUM-MUM-MUM-MAH!
MUM-MUM-MUM-MAH
I want to hold them, like they do in Texas plays.
Fold them, let them hit me raise it baby stay with me I love it.
Luck and no intuition play the cards with spades to start.
And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart.
OH!-OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!
PA-PA-PA-POKER FACE.
PA-PA-PA-POKER FACE".
I ran and pulled the cub into the house. I shook the rascel and roared.
"How dare you show me up by roaring and guldering in front of the snipes and curlews in the bog".
The cub broke free and roared.
"Let go you ugly auld harridan, or I'll report you to Child Care".
"Listen boy" I roared.
"Don't you irk me today. I'm in no mood to be irked. Your incessant irking is getting on my nerves. So I'm warning you. Cut down on the irking or I'll brust your face".
Far from being chasened, the cub took up the fighting stance of the late, dead John L. Sullivan and began to dance around me.
"Come on big mouth" roared Bon Jovi.
"Put up your mitts. In my left fist I have thunder and in my rite fist I have lightening. Come on big mouth. Put up your mitts and lets see what a big man you are".
I immediately put my head on my chest. Raised my fists and shuffled around in the style of "Smoking" Joe Frazier.
Bon Jovi threw out a left. I parried it with my right. I threw a left. Bon Jovi danced away with a scornfull look on his ugly mug. We came together. Bon Jovi tried to head butt me. I pushed him off and tried a right uppercut. The cub danced into the corner. I followed with my head down. Bon Jovi hit me with a left right up the hooter and drew blood. I snorted and covered up. Bon Jovi, with a wicked snarl on his face came in for the kill. Slipped on the blood and fell on his arse. As Bon Jovi spaltered to his feet. I raised my hobnailed boot and gave him a terrible riser up the derriere. The cub went down. I grabbed him by the scruff off the neck and dragged him outside.
Bon Jovi yelled.
"Ref. Ref! The auld bag is holding".
I rammed Bon Jovi's big, round head into the water barrell. I kept Bon Jovi under the water, longer than is allowed by the Geneva Konvention. Then I pulled the cub out and threw him on the ground. Bon Jovi lay there like a drowned rat. I stood there gasping and panting. Blood was flowing freely from my swollen hooter.
Bon Jovi got slowly to his feet and stood there. A poor, bedraggled, pathetic wretch. A wave of pity ran through me. This was my sun. My only begotten-sun.
I looked into Bon Jovi's half drowned face and said-gently.
"I'm sorry Bon Jovi. But I warned you not to irk me. That is what you get for being irksome".
Bon Jovi bent over and vomited up half a bucket of water. Then the cub looked into my face. Soon the cub would say sorry. I would hug him and all would be well. Bon Jovi took a step forward until his nose was almost touching mine. Then the cub opened his mouth and guldered.
"IRK, IRK. IRK! You ugly auld bag"
Then the cub took off over the bog, with me after him. As the son set in the West and the heavy crows came home to roost.

BEAUTY POISE AND GRACE

2010-02-20T01:35:00.000-08:00

'Oft has it bean said by discriminating gentlemen.
That there languages in a bog just outside Clougher city limits. A damson of unparelled beauty, poise and grace. I is that beauty. I is Rosie Ryan, the pride of Clougher and surrounding districts.
Lack a day. Lack a day, 'Ner a day goes bye, but a kar wool travail by my rural rustic cottage. Reverse, roll down the winda and yell.
"HI ROSIE! MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".
Does that happen to Kate Moss as she clumps down Carnaby street in London? I think knot.
I Rosie Ryan have that special something. That sets me apart from other weemen. I seem to give of an aura, a smell. 'Tis intangible but I have it in spades.
It kan knot bee bought. It occurs quite early on in the fertilised egg. A spark. A secret something. A gift from the Gods?. Who nose. But something magical happens. Something which insures that the creature who emerges from that fertilised egg, wool be pointed at, by those whose fertilised egg was not touched.
I have been touched. I Rosie Ryan have bean touched big time.
BEAUTY. What is it? Fare of form and face I suppose. Two big red bleezers of cheeks are proof that their owner is endowed with a rare and frightening beauty. Gnashers in abundance is also a fare indicater of grate beauty.
POISE. What is poise. Poise comes from the Greek "Poissely", which means knot too lumber about like an auld donkey with december.
Head Hi. Chest out. Terriere-clenched. That my friends is my deficiency of-poise.
GRACE. What is grace. Grace, Some of you with a devil may care altitude and a heathenish disposition wool be glad too know. That grace has got nothing to do with alter rails nibbling. Grace is the way you throw out your arms and feet. Know kicking or flinging. Slide. A graceful glide is much admonished by people with a gentile nature. The best way to learn who to-glide. Is too watch an auld doll or an auld codger walking. Never lift your feet. Shuffle. Shuffle in a gentile gliding motion. And people wool say.
"See yon Rosie Ryan. 18 stone but she slides with the grace of a fairy".
Beauty, poise and grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and do knot have beauty you are up shit creek without a paddle.
When I was a cuttie, I looked like a cub. I walked like a cub. I talked like a cub. But when I became a woman, I put cubbish things away.
My grate beauty should be seen through a glass-darkly. My radient presents is two much to take in for the kuman mind. Though I speak with the tongues of angels. Unless I speak of Arts and Kulture, I am but a sounding brass. A tinkling cymbal. An empty bucket being banged in front of a hungry calf at a rusty gait.
If you have it, flaunt it. If you don't have it, wear a mo-mo dress, keep your ugly gub cast down and hope for the best.
Some say that beauty is blind.
I say natterjacks and toadstools.
The eye of man, even the ugliest, humpiest wee nuck that every lived, is programmed to recognise grate beauty. When I strut down Clougher street. The word soon goes round. The pubs empty and groups of slack-arsed men stand and point at me.
They titter behind their hands and make jokes about big fat bags.
Compensating for their gauchness they blame she who allures them with a beauty bordering on inhuman and unnatural. 'Tis the price I have to pay. 'Tis the burden I have too carry.
With grate beauty comes grate responsibility. A wink of my eye. A crook of my little finger and half the men in Clougher would leave wives and wains and be sleeping rough round my haggard.
I know they fear me, even hate me. For I have a gravitational pull over their emulsions. "Oh why was I born so beautfull?" I shriek into my mirror in the dead of night.
Beauty, poise grace. These three. But if you have poise and grace and have knot got beauty, you have got the shitty end of the stick.
These three. Beauty, poise and grace I have in abundance.
Youse have bean listening too Rosie Ryan who is touched. TOUCHED by a beauty that is tarra too behold.
I leave you now, to empty po's and make a cup of tay.

A Theatrical Swaree

2010-02-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry, I was crouched the other morning in front of the dead fire. With my sweaty, matted mass of red hare hanging round by big red face.
I new I bore a striking resemblance to the Oracle of Derry. I could feel beauty ratiate out of my two big red bleezers of cheeks. If auld Rem-Brant were too peep over the half door. He wood cry,
"Aussitot it aussitot fait". And whip out his paint brush before you could say, Fats Domino.
He wood probably call the masterpiece,
"Damson in the ashes". And I wood be hung in the French Louve. The Are-Ah-Stockery wood flood to see me. They wood kiss their hands and explain,
"Mon dew, She's a grate, big, fat lump of an argiculture Irish girl".
I wood be the toast of gay Paree. I wood stroll by the sane. Holding a gaily coloured paradiddle aloft and giggling girlishly as the fragile cherry blossoms fell on my upturned visage.
"Veeve-ah lah France" I would yell.
And the bi-lingual French wood yell in reply.
"Veeve-ah-la-Clougher".
Every nite I would be scene at the opera. Clapping like a seal at the way the bally dancers could throw out their legs. "Rose'ee" the French wood cry. "Rose'ee. Give us an auld blirt of a song"
And I wood throw back my slim, swan like neck and respond with, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore".
"Encore!" the Frenchies will yell. "Encore!".
I wood stand waving from my balcony and gulder.
"Senor's, no more encore. I don't know anymore. I must leave you now and lay my pretty head on a rose petal strewn pillow in my bud-wah".
"Wee" the French wood reply. "Wee-Wee".
"Senor's" I wood yell. "If wee comes in the nite. I have le-po under the bed. I did knot come unprepared"
I looked up as my sun Bon Jovi crawled out of his cardboard box. The cub stood there, clad in tattered torn simmet. He yawned, broke wind and scratched his too rear cheeks viciously and with fierce ferocity. The cub was grooming himself.
I spat a big glob of green flem into the back of the fire. Opened my rosebud mouth and sang.
"Oh what a beautiful morning. OOH! what a beautiful day. I've got a wild funny feeling, my wee cub's looking for tay".
I parted my matted mass of red hare to look at what had emerged from my fertilised egg and said.
"Bon Jovi, my bon cabellero, sit down. There is something I wish too disgust with you.
And DO pull your simmet down over your knees. I don't want you sitting there like Lindsay Lochera or Andy Stewart. "Bon Jovi" I said.
"I plan too throw a little swaree".
"And just how far do you plan to throw the little swaree?" said Bon Jovi.
And he went into a fit of braying laughter. That wood do kredit too a donkey with a long line of insanitry in its family.
"Here are some party inversions I have rote out with green crayon" I said.. "After you get dressed.Literally- LEAP! on your bicycle and deliver the inversions to the parish priest. The skool Principality and auld Mona McGrunge who runs the nicker emporium in Clougher. And during the swaree I want you too circulate among the kompany with a plate of Ah-derves".
As I waited for the RSVCPES to return, I kleaned the hole house from top to bottom with undiluted jeyes fluid.
Alas, and as the man said, alak, the gentile swaree is off
The parish priest said he could not attend. Due to the fact that he had lost his religion in a korner of the graveyard. Norton McThrottle, the skool principality resorted too the auld piles excuse. "Mona McGrunge of the nicker emporium said she had suddenly came over all gay and was going hiking for the weekend with wee Myrtle Mc Van Doran.Who sells the Massanger outside the chapel every Sunday. All good reasonable excuses. So the gentile swaree has been posponed indefinately. What a pity. I planned to stick a pillow up the back of my gansey and do a wild long bit from Richard the third.
"NOW! Is the Winter of our discompent.
Maid glorious Summer by the nobbled Duke of York.
And all the clouds that glowered upon our house
In the deep boobs of the ocean buried"
Intellectuality is fair leaping out of me.
All I need in a-venue-an outlet and I could be another Helen Mirror.
OH how I wood like to strut. Like a wanton ambling nymph.
OUT! OUT! Damn Spot!.
'TIS the grate whale. 'TIS Toby Dick!.
A-HANDBAG??? A-HANDBAG???
I kan't get enough of the Klassicals.

The Gloria Gainor Of Clougher

2010-01-31T07:00:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry, What a foundering me and my oft spring Bon Jovi got during the cold weather. We were snowed in Gerry. Cut oft from humididy.
The snow was up to my waste and up too Bon Jovi's oxters.Ex-key-mo's, that's what we were. Ex-key-mo's.
I had plenty of turf, but the turf was frozen into a veritable mound of frozen turf. My water was also frozen Gerry and icicles hung from my spout.
Bon Jovi and I lived for three weaks on chicken feed. I added hot water and it was quite palatable.
And I kan now konfirm too the scientific world that there is know side effects from eating hen meel.
I was afraid that Bon Jovi mite take to sleeping up in the rafters at nite. But the cub never let wan cluck out of him, or showed any disposition for laying an egg.
But I must say as time went on, both mother and sun showed an inordinate fear of prowling foxes.
I lagged both our under-carriages with bubble wrap. Too keep our reguvenative system from shutting down. I am hapy too report that both under-carriages are firing on all cylinders. And the Prog-noeses for grandchildren is 100%. Bon Jovi has promised to call his first sun Millington after my grandfather. If, when respected by the doctor, the child is a girl she wool be called Milly. I kan't wait to bounce my grandchildren on my knee like beech balls.
"Rosie" I heer you ask.
"How did you survive such a foundering?"
I wool tell you how I survived such a foundering Gerry. I was brought up like a hanimal. I was born in a cow shade and inhibited that structure until I was a big lump of a cuttie. I resided there with deer Mummy and Daddy. The only running water we had, came from us nose's and us you know what's. When the rats tackled me in my cot, I fought like a wild-kat. I learned from an early age it was dye or survive. At the age of too I could crunch stoat bones between my infantile gnashers. I was dressed in the skin of a beaver. I bit anything that was put in front of me. Including fingers and thumbs. I had the hearing of the blind bat and the sight of an howl. Devoid of porridge, I had to foriage. I wood wrestle a rat for a rotten spud. I communicated in grunts, yelps and snorts. I never had a shoe on my foot until I was 19. And even than, it was an auld boot and a wellington. Don't talk to me about hard thymes Gerry. I have known hunger so intense I thought of eating my own mammy. Not knowing that mammy was thinking the very same thoughts about me. I have been frozen in ice like the woolly mammoth and lived too tell the tail. I had frozen snotters stuck too my nose that looked like tusks. Very handy for rooting about in the frozen tundra. I have eaten everything that moved. From small aunt's too sheep stuck in bog wholes.
I am a surviver Gerry. As is the fertilised egg that sprang from my lions in the dead of nite. When the nuclear bomb goes off, Bon Jovi and I shall burrow deep underground and live on worms and clay until it is safe to surface.
We is Ryan's. And the last man left standing wool be a Ryan. I stand a top this midden. My garments blowing in the wind and I proclaim.
"Nature! Do your worst. Send snow, reign, tempest blast. Do your worst.
Fry me with heat. Founder me with cold. But you wool knot defeat Rosie Ryan. I am the Gloria Gainor of Clougher and I wool-SURVIVE.
Mind you Gerry. When the snow was gone and the breadman was able to call. It was nice in the extreme to get stuck into the cream buns again.
"Home is the little sailor, home from the see and Rosie home from the bog"
Ah-Veed-Ah-Zen Pet.

I Need Help!!!

2010-01-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

Gerry, HELP! I need somebody. HELP! not just any body.
I have just brought my red flannel drawers in from the cloths line. And they are like a board. Hard as iron with inpregnated ice and frost.
It is imperative that these drawers are encircling my under-carriage by Hi - noon.
I have an annointment with the bank manager at wan oh clock. I am looking a loan to buy a knew wheel barrow. FAITH! may indeed move mountains. But it will knot shift the dung from my midden into my back garden.
Throw it out to your listeners. I am open to any subjections. BUT if auld Jordie comes on bumming about Jeyes Fluid,- hunt him. I wool KNOT pour corrosive Jeyes Fluid over my good red flannel drawers. That cost a King's Ester ransome in the Kay's katalogue. The drawers is sitting, of their own accord may I add, in front of a big roaring fire. Steam is rising. But as yet, I kan detect know dicernable softening in the rigid red flannel.
My sun Bon Jovi. He who sprang like a veritable Jack-In-The-Box from my lions on a barmy Summer nite some years ago, is laughing and making fun of me. My off-spring is calling me, Old Iron Drawers. Can you imagine it Gerry. The lump of a cub I have neutered and nourished from birth is called ME-his Mater-Old Iron Drawers! Usually I wood blame the parents. But in this case I think the fault lies with Bon Jovi. Who is a gulpin of unnatural evil and demonaic nature.
How can I face the bank manager without drawers? I planned to flutter my eye lashes. Wet my pouting moist red lips. And cross and uncross my two big plump blew veined legs. Hoping the bank manager wood be captivated and enraptured bye my femine charms and throw out the spondulects.
But two carry out my plan, I need drawers. Pliable drawers. Not hard drawers that is standing like a Henry Moore sculpture in front of my fire.
One though keeps going through my head. OH deer God in heaven.Wool I have to go-COMMANDO? I don't want to be known as Britney Speers round Clougher and surrounding districts. But I need the loan of £50. My wheel barrow is on it's last legs. Ever since the wheel fell off. If necessity dictites, I wool resort too doing a Sharon Stone. If a knew wheel barrow is at stake-I wool flash.And flash again and again-repeatly. I will flash the lights at HE!. I kan always tell it later in confussions.
Gerry put out an all points bulliton. Put out a TMD. Which stands for thaw my drawers. Some man or woman out there must have some knowledge of frosted drawers. And Gerry, should you read in the Clougher Jewish Chronicle about a case of-flashing. Remember, it was all done for a good cause and in the best possible taste.
TMD-THAW MY DRAWERS!
And now my water has frozen! And I was just going to cleanse my under-carriage with a scrubbing brush and a bar of Lifeboy soap. Gerry send round that Lativian boy, Molatov Cocktail to have a futter at my pipes.
Once again, your house bound honey, Rosie Ryan finds herself up shit creek without a paddle.And Gerry, spare a thought for the well off ladies. Who will find their build in bathroom bibby's iced up to the gunnels. THis is a wild tarra thyme for weeman. Imagine the number of weeman.. Who wool be squatting in front of the fire tonight. With basins of hot water. Doors securly bolted and locked and men and dogs banished as they go about their inimitable toiliteries.
Al Gore's a rite hoor!. From your housebound honey, Rosie Ryan xxx

Another Kristmas

2009-12-23T08:49:00.001-08:00

Deer Gerry, it is late as I rite this Eeh-pistol too you.

My boyfriend Chuck Corona has long gone home. Leaving me tingling and vibrating from a vigerous, yet tender groaping and fissling.

My boy child, the fertile fruit of my lions, wee Bon Jovi is in his cardboard box. He has knew HEY! so should be quite warm.

Well Gerry, another Kristmas is almost upon us.

Kristmas is a hapy time. And yet, par-a-dox-icaly kan also be a wild, tarra sad time. I am thinking of the empty chair Gerry. The empty chair at the head of the table where deer Pappa used to sit. Before the dirty auld gulpin took up with a painted trallop and left wife and family in search of karnal pleasure in the form of idolitery.

Sins of the flesh Gerry. Sins of the flesh make countless thousands mourn. Saint Paul said that in his letter too the Ulster/Scots.

All married men should be chipped like the dogs they are. Then if they stray. Their wives could track them down and batter the face of them.

And any painted tramp who wood lure a married man from hearth and home should be tatooed on the forehead with a big S, which stands for Slapper.

Woe betide the painted trallop who wood cast a macared eye towards the forkal region of Chuck Corona. I wood be dug out of her. I may bee a mere week 18 stone woman. But I have honed my fighting skills by watching Mike Tyson. I wood bite the tramps ear off and spit it back in her face.

I wood pulverise her guts with body punches.

I wood brust her bust and knee her repeately in the under-carriage.

I am a temperate woman, but once riz I wreck havoc and lay waist to all around me.

They did knot name a hurricane after me. I was named after a hurricane. I am hell on wheels when I get going.

I suppose you have got all in Gerry for a good tightner on Kristmas day. I wood say you were never off the road with your wee bicycle. Ferrying spuds, sprouts, Birds trifle and Chivers jelly.

Now you kan put your feet up and relax-eh-voo.

KRACKERS! Gerry. Did you get the Kristmas krackers?. Kristmas wouldn't be Kristmas without a kracker. I look forward to a good bang at Halloween and Kristmas.

I suppose the wee boy, coming from a poorer part of Derry. Wool get stuck into the gruel on Kristmas. Hoping against hope that he finds the silver sixpence in his bowl.

The poor you have with you always Gerry. And if you don't believe me. Just look through the glass. What do you sea? That's rite. The poor.

If only he hadn't left skool so early and kept of the roofs of them auld flats.

How are the girls doing Gerry. I often think of the girls when I'm lying in bed. Languid and weary of Ireland's Own. I often think of throwing my leg on the auld bicycle and taking Janet and Emma for a girls nite out. We could meander down to the docks and look for little sailors. I'm sure the girls have bean there many's a time. But it wood be all knew two me.

How is the Undertone doing? Don't take know buck from that boy, just because John Peel has something rote on his tombstone. He's just like the rest of us. He puts his trousers on too legs at a time just like we do.

Do knot put up with uppitness. Don't let people with gold teeth cow you. Just look at him and say.

"There but for the grace of God".

I must away Gerry. A terrible urge to make use of the po has come over me. Have a hapy Kristmas. And when you feel the coma coming on. Start lowering yourself towards the floor. You don't want to split yourself at Kristmas. I gently lift the hem of my nite-dress now with slim, slender hand and glide lanquidly towards the resting plaice of the nite vessal.

Good nite sweet Prince. Good-nite.

Rosie's Kristmas Preparations

2009-12-11T02:55:00.000-08:00

Deer Gerry, good to sea you again. As the blind man said to Jesus, after Jesus cured him outside Gallellio.

Now that Religion has made such a big inroad into the commercial festival of Kristmas. I said, "Too hell with it" and got stuck in two.

I have pulled out all the staps. This Kristmas wool be solely devoated too the ancient art of Kristanity.

I have a crypt. Into which I shall place all the cast members of the Naiveity. Pride of plaice shall go of course too Francie and Josie.

Sorry Gerry, I'm so excited. I meant to say, Mary and Joesph. I have a little baby Jesus. A manager, a donkey and a lamb. But I found in impossible to find three wise men in Clougher. So I got three Ninja figures and pasted on the faces of Peter Robinson, Martin McGuinnes and wee Reg Empty.

Jesus, as you may have heard on the grapevine. Is the SUN of God. I two have hatched a fertilised egg, that turned into my SUN Bon Jovi.

Bon Jovi doesn't no it. But I have bought him a lovely soot for Kristmas morning.

The soot is made from shiny velvet and has white lace ruffs round the neck and cuffs.

The boy who sold me the soot said the colour is Damson Plum.

But it looks more of a bright puce to me.

"Mrs Ryan" said the shop man. "I kan reinsure you that know cub in Clougher, will have a soot like your SUN on Kristmas morning".

Hi praise indeed. From a boy who spent all his working life in ladies nickers.

All the cruising shall be cooked by my own lily white slender hand. Food and beverages we shall have in abundance.

There will be a choice of road kill.

Ranging from sweet, succelet door mice up two roast badger.

The badger got a dunt from wan of Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries. A big lorry pulled up wan day. The driver opened the door. Threw out the dead badger. Yelled. "May hand on yer drawers Rosie and a hapy Kristmas" Then he drove away. And kept his hand on his horn, until he nearly deefened me.

Hangels. That's what Sean Quinn's drivers are.

Wee heavenly-Hangels.

The vegetation for Kristmas wool be.

Karrots, Par-snips, spuds, docken leaves and suelugs. Something there to tickle the fancy of any Gor-May I think.

After the meel, Bon Jovi and me has a little yuletide concert planned.

First, Bon Jovi in his knew puce velvet soot, shall sing a song or too. Then the cub wool do a trick with a hard boiled egg that has to be scene to be believed.

I don't no how he does it. You wood think the egg wood fall out when the cub walks.

Then Bon Jovi wool do some impersonations of our neighbours. Bon Jovi wool screw up his face and yell.

"Is that rite? Is that rite?"

You wood swear it was auld Mandrake McTwitter. Who lost a lung when he fell into a shuck blind drunk.

It wool be up to me to interject a little arts and kulture into Kristmas. I shall don white nite-dress and dance the dying swan.Which comes from the opera,Swan Lake. As I flutter down, popping clogs as I go in front of the coal bucket. I am sure the raw emulusion wool get too Bon Jovi and he wool ball his eyes out.

After that, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box and go too sleep.

This will be my cugh to get stuck into a bottle of the crater. As the crater takes hold. I may sing, dance, pull faces, kick up my legs, or pick up a hatchet and go and settle some old score that has bothered me for years.

PIECE, is what I wish you Gerry. PIECE. May God and his holey hangels look down on you on Kristmas nite.

As you lie behind the back door pissed as a newt.

Seasons Greetings Two All At Radio Foul.

Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX

PS. I wonder what the knew black wool be next year?

Rosie Wants Menthol Stimulation

2009-11-13T10:58:00.000-08:00

How's she cutting boy? You wool be glad too no that the fruit of my lions, my sun Bon Jovi and me listen too your show on a Daly basis. When you scatter your hi-sterical bon mots, like a Bibical sower scattering seed. Bon Jovi and me yell, "Doesn't that beet Bannager" and roar and laugh.

Your show makes me thankful for what I've got.

When I heer some of the poor craters, who come on your show. And most of them knot able to tell their Arsenal from their Everton. I thank the Lord that I am fierce compes mentos and knot dee-ficient in the marbles department. I hate too say it Gerry. Butt most of your listeners, is groveling, pathetic wretches.

It's "Oh Gerry get me this and oh Gerry get me that".

How I long for an headucated person two come on and discuss, Phill-officy, histornics, or too recite The Creamonation of wee Sam Magee.

I find, as I'm sure you do. That's it's wild hard now a daze, to find some wan who kan talk intelligenty about Arts and Kulture. I am like a kulture vulture Gerry. Circling, ever circling the barren desert of Clougher. In search of menthol stimulation. This morning I tried too talk too the postman about Proust. "Oh aye," He said. "Proust has a good turn of speed and given the chance, he wool stick her in the back of the net".

The poor deluded, illiterate fool thought I was talking about the Proust who plays for the wanderers of Wolverhampton!.

What have we became Gerry?. What ever happened to the land of saints and scoolers? When was the last thyme, some wan went into their bed room with skool jotter and crayons and rote an illuminated account of the gospels?. I am ashamed of my own peeple Gerry.

I find their roaring, yelling and guldering horrible in the extreme. I was watching, "Come dine with me" on tee-vee and it was like watching a chimps T-party. Auld course, vulgar talk. And a lot of sexual winks and nods when it came to the volly-bons. If I was giving a dinner party. I wood invite your good self. The snipe boy Seamus Heaney. Lynda Byrons and Wendy Austin. As I poured the soup out of a Cambells soup tin I wood kick start the artistic swarry by saying.

"Is it just me, or do the rest of you think that Homer was the rite auld gulpin to sell out to the Simpsons?"

Then Lynda Byrons wood regale the company by relating how every thyme she looks at a hens egg. It reminds her-and Mike to of course of the Universe.

Wendy Austin would then throw back her head. After custard and prunes and roar out an Italian Aria. That wood charm the birds of the trees and make the angels weep. Then the snipe boy, Seamus Heaney would--well, he wood recite something wouldn't he. Something that had every wan sleeping in their dinner plate. But that's the price one must pay for having a poet laurie at one's dinner table.

Then I wood put on my bally pumps and skip and leap between the fireplace and the door. Head on Hi. Ever aware of poise. I wood flutter my hands too tell a story. While buck-leaping with fierce artistic fervour. The ghost of Madman Fontaine wood be dancing at my ballyesque shoulder. The evening wood konclude with a rousing version of Maggie's Drawers. In which the delightful falsetto of Lynda Byrons wood draw admiring gasps from her fallow diners.

But it's only a dream Gerry. The lonely dream of a woman who was born out of her time. I should be strolling under cherry blossoms down the Shawns-el-easy. My tinkling laugh should be heard in the grate opera halls of Vinena. I should be looking over auld Einstiens dandruff covered shoulder. Making sure he carries the wan. I should be rowed up the Nile by ten U-nucks. It's at thymes like this Gerry. The low thymes. That I think of Lucy Jordon.

The morning son shines gently on the face of Rosie Ryan. How sad. How fierce, tarra-sad.

Rosie's no Strumpet!

2009-11-07T15:12:00.000-08:00

The rain lashed at the winda and the wind howled round my house like a demented demon. It was a Winter day that learned Metallurgists would describe as, wild bad and tarra. Inside my rural rustic abode. Nellie Granite and me sat in front of a big roaring fire. Nellie and me both had us legs akimbo to funnel the heat towards us respective under-carriages. The sweat was running down Nellie's big red bleezer of a face. As she shoved paris buns into her gaping gub. Nellie broke wind with fierce ferocity and said.

"Rosie how lucky we is too be sitting in front of a big roaring fire on a wild day like this".

"We is Nellie" I said. "My hart goes out to some wee nuck of a man, who is peddling a bicycle up hill. Wet to the arse and filled with metaphicial fury and undiluted anger, ire and unrequited moroseness".

"Happiness" said Big Nellie. grabbing for another sugar coated paris bun.

"Hapiness is heat, food, good company and a good husband. Take my wee Willie" said Nellie. "I love my wee Willie more that a feed of drink. A good arse scratching or a comforting breaking of wind. Rosie" said Nellie.

"Pleeze enlighten me as too how much you love your boyfriend Chuck Corona". I felt a wave of passion swell up in my bisom. My legs began to tremble and I said with fierce passion, love and wild devotion.

"I love the very ground that Chuck Corona's feces fall on".

Big Nellie broke wind again, spat into the fire and said.

"Every nite when I sea my wee Willie climbing into bed. Wearing a pear of grey drawers. With the alluring, sexually provokitive flap at the back. I say to myself.

"Nellie Granite, you is wan lucky woman, to have landed a wee beauty like wee Willie" "Then I grab wee Willie too my bisum. And squeeze and squeeze until his face turns blew and his tongue is lolling out of his toothless gub".

"What you have stated Nellie" I said.

"Sums up love in a nutshell"

I looked sexily askew at big Nellie and said. "Let me tell you a sexy bon mot about the love of my life Chuck Corona. Chuck two, like your wee Willie wears long drawers with a flap at the back. But sometimes when deer Chuck is fare brusting with love, lust and fierce passion. He removes the long drawers and puts them on with the flap at the front!".

Big Nellie gave a shriek. Screamed, "In the name of Bannager" and threw her too big fat legs up in the air. Giving me an unwanted flash of too big mottled thighs and an auld pear of brown drawers with a frayed and torn gusset. I reverted my eyes. Until big Nellie had dealt with her wardrobe malfunction. It's knot something you want to sea after a feed of paris buns.

Then big Nellie and I crouched over the fire. And in an old traditional, christian, God like way began to tear reputions apart like paper tissues. We started at Pig Lane in Clougher. Where the drunks and winos roam. And ended up in Micky Bradly park where the Hoi-Popi reside. Nellie and I koncluded that all the weeman were nothing but tramps and strumpets. And the men nothing but dirty, snottery nosed, lazy good for nothing gulpins.

I looked at big Nellie and said.

"Nellie, is it not comforting in the extreme to know that you and me is the only too pentagons of virtue in Clougher and surrounding districts?"

Big Nellie himed and hawed and said. "Well, I wood hardly call YOU a pentagon of virtue. After all you do live over the brush, in a state of moral sin with Chuck Corona".

I leaped to my stunned feet and roared.

"Get out of this house two hell. You Nellie Granite is nothing but a big fat strumpet with a face like a dogs arse. And as for your wee Willie. Every wan knows the wee nuck is deficient in the fork of the trousers department".

"Strumpet!" yelled big Nellie.

"That's what you is. A strumpet, a harlot, a tramp and a woman well known for lying, legs akimbo in wet rushes. God only knows what auld disease I have picked up in this-this-knocking shop".

I lost the head and went for Nellie. Head down like a Pampas bull. Big Nellie raked her nails down my face. I head butted big Nellie. And heard the comforting sound of gristle breaking in Nellies big nose. Big Nellie went into a fit of kicking and flinging. The big brute took lumps out of my shins. I broke the child of Prague over big Nellies head. Big Nellie responded by smashing a picture of the sacred hart of Jesus over my noggin.

I would up a heymaker and let big Nellie have it rite on the chin. Big Nellie fell into the coal bucket. Giving me a prolonged view of her auld brown drawers that were probably crawling with fleas. I grabbed big Nellie by her bull neck and ran her too the door. "Get the hell out of this house, you big, ugly fat Hallion" I yelled. As I gave big Nellie a riser that wood probably require a good dose of surup of figs in the coming daze.

I was sitting shaking and trembling in the korner when my sun Bon Jovi strolled in whistling. The lump of a cub stopped and roared.

"What happed too your face? Did the dog go for you?"

"Know sun" I replied weakly. "It wasn't the dog. It was a kat. A wild kat with the morals of a rabbit on Red Bull".

The moral of the story is..Don't call Rosie Ryan a strumpet in her own house!.

May the piece of the Lord be with you now and forever-AMIN!

ROSIE WANTS TO TEACH

2009-10-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, After giving it fierce thought and kontemplation I have decided to be a skool teecher.

As an headucated man Gerry, could you reform me how I go about it? I suppose I wool need too get a wee foto took for security purpoises.

I no fine well that when this gets out the klamour from skools and kolleges wool be wild. What a boon it wood be two have Rosie Ryan in any seat of learning.

I have bean brushing up on my Arabic. For it is as plane as the no's on my face, that wee wool all soon be turning too Mecca. The riting is on the wall and the wall doesn't lie. When the wall said, "FREE DERRY" boys just went into shops and took what they wanted.

I have so much to give and I kan provide my own bicycle and sand-witches. I asked my sun Bon Jovi for his opinion and the lump of a cub said, "Go for it mammy. Any idijt kan be a skool teecher". So with that endorsement ringing in my ears, I immediately ordered too biro pens, three HB pencils a stick of white chalk and six caines.

It wool be zero tolerence with me Gerry. I wool put up with know auld buck. With auld buck, I wool knot put up. How gratifying it wool bee two take young minds and mould them into modern citizens. How gratifing too take a young fallow mind and scatter headucation over it like manure and watch it flourish. To make diamonds from koal and pearls from sows ears.

I no that what ever skool I go two, I shall rise through the ranks like a NASA rocket.

I am sure you wool koncur Gerry that teeching is akin too farming. You plough, you harrow, scatter seeds and bring the pupils on with encourgment and a good lash of the caine. It is inevitable that the crop wool kontain a few big turnips.Even in a world of arts and kulture, some wan has to shovel the shi-- feces from the sewer. But did knot Darrren call that nauturale subjection.

There wool bee know teechers pets in my klass. If a cub says.

"Mrs Ryan, may I pleeze leave the room for a slash?" I wool say.

"Know Pedro, sit down. I am explaining long diversion. And if you don't learn how too carry the wan. You wool end up a poor wretched crater with the brane of a fruit fly".

What a font of knowledge I have to impart to the youth of Clougher and surrounding districts.

And I shall knot be afraid too stray from the Kar-lick-you-lum. If the Kar-lick-you-lum konflicts with my superior knowledge of learning. I shall toss the Kar-lick-you-lum from me like a snottery hankerchief.

Firm yet fare shall me my motto.

"This is going too hurt you more that it wool me" I shall yell. As I caine the arse of some gulpin of a cub.

I have maid up my mind Gerry. A teecher I is going too be. I owe it to the cunt'ry. Why should I hoard my grate knowledge like a miser, when I kan spend it like a sailor?

I kan sea myself leaping of my bike on a sunny morning. A stroll to the staff room. With caine in hand and Chambers Dick-sean-ree tucked casually under my oxter. A cup of tee, a quick slash and then I get stuck into, geometrics, histornics and the subject I positively excell in-neuralgia.

Give me the child and I wool give you in return the man and women, fare steeped in arts and kulture.

Bring me your poor, your thick and your buck stupid. Rosie Ryan.

Skoolboy Scams

2009-10-21T04:12:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, I feer my sun and YOUR godsun Bon Jovi may be a juvinile delicatessanent. It grieves me too say it, but he who was once but a fertilised egg is into scams and rackets at skool. Bon Jovi has veered from the path of righteousness and wandered off into the path of wrongeousness.

The first I new of it. I got an inquest asking me to come and sea the princeipality of St Judas primary skool. I though perhaps the cubs application for a plaice in Eaten had been granted. But before I could drink from the mug of success, it was cruely dashed from my cadallic pink lips. What I was about too heer wood shock me to the kore and set my gizzard into a tale spin.

"Pleeze sit down Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.

Which I did. Trying hard knot to show two much plump, alluring, massive thigh. I was wearing a Hi-necked mullberry gansey. I deplore dumplin' gazers Gerry, I really do. Look at my face or don't look at me at tall is my motto.

"Mrs Ryan" said the princeipality.

"There is know easy way too put this. Your sun Bon Jovi, has been engaged in a scam at this skool. That KNOT even the Mafia wood entertain".

I almost swooned Gerry. I actually kolapsed on my chair. Only for the fact that I was wearing my knew Winter non-skid red flannel drawers I wood have slid on to the floor. Wide-eyed and legs akimbo.

"What has the wee gulpin done" I croaked. As I tried in vein to regain my Eek-you-lib-erum.

"Your sun Bon Jovi" said the princeipality of St Judas primary skool.

"Has been going round the playground at dinner thyme. Bullying other children into rite their last will and teste-ments and naming Bon Jovi Ryan as the sole air to all their goods and chatles".

"It's a lie" I yelled.

"Bon Jovi mite brust a face or too, but he wood never stoop too such ghoulish,macabre, Machiavellian racketeering"

The Princeipality held up a sheaf of crumpled, ink stained skool jotter pages and cried.

"I am holding in my hand. thirteen signed wills and teste-ments. All the wills name Bon Jovi Ryan as sole air. Thirteen last wills and teste-ments" yelled the princeipality. "Eight of the wills are singed by cubs and the other five are signed by cutties. All the pupils said that Bon Jovi Ryan had made them rite the wills under fierce duress. Apparently your SUN, told them to rite out their wills or they wood get their feaces brusted!".

Oh Gerry, if ever there was a broken woman, that broken woman was me. My Sun. YOUR Godsun, nothing but a pretty criminal.

I looked out the winda like Ma Baker and said.

"Well what happenes now? Have the coppers got the joint surrounded?"

"Know!" said the princeipality.

"We are trying too deal with this "In house". But if you don't get a grip. Your sun Bon Jovi will never walk on the hallowed turf or look up at the dreaming spires of St Judas skool in Clougher again. Oh, and DO pull your skirt down Mrs Ryan. I find it very distracting. But it has made me remember to bring home a leg of mutton for the dinner".

I backed out of the highly headucated sanctuary like Uriah Heep and turned my morose, gloomy visage towards hearth and home.

But what should I do with Bon Jovi Gerry?. This job was beyond the capability of a poor, week woman. This job called for the smack of a good strong man.

So I called on my boyfriend-and fisslin' partner Chuck Corona too have a word with the errant Bon Jovi.

Chuck set the cub down and in just five minutes. Chuck had changed the so called Al Capone into Al Jolson

"Bon Jovi" said Chuck sternly.

"What you did was rong. Not only was it rong, it was down-rite stupid. Did you never once think, that you wood have to wait-50 years, MAYBE-60 years before your skool mates dyed. And their is a good chance that you wood have dyed first. Meaning you wood get sweet damn all"

The scales fell from Bon Jovi's eyes and he went on his way. Praising and glorifying the Lord.

But it was some hanlin' before Chuck Corona set the cub strait..

Hapy Halloweens too all at radio foul.

Rosie Ryan.

Tell the wee bouy too watch out for goolies!.

The Necessities Of Life

2009-10-14T02:10:00.000-07:00

Full of grate wrath and fierce chagrin. I held on too a shelf kontaining babbies nappies and adult rubber nickers.

"Korrect me if I'm rong" I yelled too the wee humpy nuck behind the counter.

"Did you just reform me that you have know SPECIAL! mince?"

"Yes I did" roared the wee nuck.

"Ordinary mince is good enough for the people of Clougher. But apperently ordinary mince is knot good enough for her majesty Rosie Ryan.

Apperently Rosie Ryan wool only eat-SPECIAL! mince. Well let me tell the highfalutin, rooting-tooting Rosie Ryan. YES! we have know special mince and from now on I won't be stocking toilet roll either".

Was I in a dream? Was my mind deranged by my irrepressible hunger for all things pertaining too Arts and Kulture?

"Know toilet roll?" I echoed.

"Know toilet roll" roared the wee gulpin .

"Know wee spams in tins. Know tee in bags.Know fingers made of fish. Know paper doiles and KNOW-SPECIAL MINCE!".

I clutched on too the shelf for support. A packet of adult rubber nickers fell too the floor. Groggily I looked down. Depicted on the front was an old grey haired grandfather playing with his grandchildren. A balloon above the grandfathers head said.

"Say goodbye to urine with a pear of "CRISP AND DRY" adult panties".

I was in a dream-like state. Bordering on hallucinogenic haliotis.

Suddenly a grate swell of anger rose up from my gurgling innards and I roared.

"What kind of huxter shop is this any way. Where a decent woman can knot get, as Walt Dissny mite say, The necessities of life?"

"It's a cunt'ry shop" yelled the wee nuck. "A cunt'ry shop for cunt'ry people. If you want SPECIAL! mince. Stick a bowler hat on a pound of ordinary mince. If you want toilet roll. We have a rack full of Ireland's Own and Our boys. And if you want paper tissues, use your finger and thumb like God intended".

"What is happening?" I yelled.

"Is Clougher slipping back into the dark ages?. Will strangers once again be pulled from donkeys and bicycles and end up in a Wicker man?"

A strange look came into the wee nucks eyes. His pupils diluted and a vein was throbbing in his thin, scrawny neck.

"GO" he hissed.

"Go, the night is coming on. You don't want to be in Clougher after sundown. Strange things happen in Clougher after dark. Strange, weird wonderful things happen. When the moon is peeping through the trees the bat swoops low and the twany owl goes.

To-Wit-Two-Woo.

You don't want to be in Clougher. When the people silently leave their homes and gather in the town square. Seeking whom they can devour.

GO!. Go now and don't stop until you reach the city limits. Remember the-city limits".

"Nutbush?" I said.

"Mind your own business" Said the wee nuck with an obscene, perverted sexual leer on his repulsive visage.

So I turned my back on Clougher. The sex capital of Europe and made my way back home. Where my sun Bon Jovi and the kat were already on their knees, waiting for me to say the rosary.

The Pope's Tour

2009-10-07T02:33:00.000-07:00

Deer GeRRy,

I suppose like me, you are in a tizz trying to get tickets for the Pope's Irish tour.

I respect you and the wee boy wool be in the front row. Wearing Matt Talbot's tee-shirts and yelling with religious gusto. "Viva la Pappa".

This visit by the Pope is histornic. This thyme the Pope is going too Armagh. I respect the Pope wool be taken to some of Armagh's better known apple orchards. And I wood knot be surprised if the Pontiff payed a surprise vist to the grave of Tommy Mackem.

The only throuble wool be in keeping that wee gulpin Bono off the stage. If that wee nuck tries to up-stage the Pope, he wool have Rosie Ryan to condend with.

I wonder what the Pope's message wool be too the people of Ireland?. Probably the religious equivelent of, "Keep her lit".

My Sun Bon Jovi is up two hi-dow. If the cub gets a chance, he wool ask Herr Benedict how many boats and ships are on the holy see. The cub is know dumplin' Gerry. He has been thinking long and hard about Papal things. Bon Jovi is expecting the Pope to bring the Papal bull with him. The bull could quietly graze as the Pope gives his sermon.

The people of Clougher are hiring buses left, right and centre. This could be bigger than the Sonday Micky Bradley lifted the Sam Maguire.

Lets hope it is knot spoiled bye religious head the balls yelling. "Babbylon and Go back home where you belong".

This Papal visit wool be a grate chance for the people of Ireland to nock depravity and debauchery on the head. We must return to the land of saints and scholars. And knot be known world wide as the land of sharks and sinners.

Maybe we could travel too Armagh together Gerry. You, me, Bon Jovi and the wee boy. If you bring a big bottle of cold tay, I wool provide a brown paper parcel of meet paste sandwitches. And on the way back we could sing him's. Spiritually renewed we could throw back us heads and sing to the Lord.

"I'm gonna lay down by burden. (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside. "I'm gonna lay down my burden (WAY DOWN) Down by the riverside. Down by the riverside.

Hal-A-Loo-YaH! I see's the lite!.

Porridge,Portraits and Proust

2009-10-05T04:15:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, which is the Jewish sabbitical.

I was sitting, gracefully at the kitchen table, spooning Quakers oats into my glamorous, alluring gub.

"I wonder why it is" I said to the kat "That the Quakers is the only religious detonation who make a breakfast serial?" The kat made know comment and continued to lick it's you no what!.

"What an exquitite morning" I said to myself. As the Autumnal son sent a meagure ray of lite through the soot-stained, fly-speckled dirty winda. "What a morning to be an artist!" I ejuclated. "To sit on one's stool in front of a blank canvas. To mix burnt umber, grecian red and duckie egg blew and-THEN! conjour up from the artistic depths of the mind, a brown donkey grazing in a green field. Oh the fullfilment. To grab a brown donkey out of the ether of the mind and plop him down on canvas. Why it is akin to turning your head inside out. To take what is in, out and make it factual. To give birth to ideas. What a wonderful thing that must be. To conceive by thought. To nurture the thought in your mind and then to give your idea form, shape and a sense of identity. Fertilised thought born in reality. In the shape of a sculpture, a painting, or a poem about the red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. I get my best ideas in the morning. When the Quaker oats is falling into my empty belly with a sodden plop!. I was just going to grab a green crayon and draw a self portrait of a goose when I heard a fissle coming from the straw in Bon Jovi's cardboard box. I watched with pride, as my sun crawled out of the darkend box and into the son lite. As Bon Jovi emerged from the box head first. I winced. It reminded me of the nite he was born.

Bon Jovi stood up, wearing a tattered simmet that came down to his knees. I could not help but admire the strong, sturdy fizz-eek of my first born. I saw too fleas flex their strong back legs and leap back into the dark recess of the cardboard box. The fleas had probably been busy biting Bon Jovi all nite and needed a little rest. It is a good thing too sea fleas on a cub. It means the cub is healty and is knot lacking in iron. Fleas detest a white, pale freckled cub with red hare. Their blood is week and the fleas have to work twice as hard to get a good tightener.

"Bonjour Bon Jovi" I said. "This is Saturday. Know skool today. Know sums are cyphering for my wee sun today"

"Thank goodness" roared Bon Jovi.

"My brane is fair deved with complicated sums, spellings and searching for the origin of all the dark matter in the Universe".

"What do you plan to do today my little dumplin'?" I said.

"Today" roared Bon Jovi.

"I shall race a donkey through the bog, from the hours of ten in the morning, until fore in the afternoon.

And when I race the burro through the bog, I shall be letting yells, shouts and indeed, gulders out of me".

"How I wish I could join you" I said.

"As you persue the burro. I two would like to gallop after a lop-eared donkey. And I two wood be letting yells, roars, shouts and like you say, gulders out of me. But that big, fat gulpin Nellie Granite is coming round for tee. So I must tidy the house and ensure the floor is devoid of dirt, dung, insects and dead, or dying rodents".

As big sweating Nellie Granite through her big leg over the bar of her bicycle. I saw an unwanted panorama of Green Flannel drawers. The gusset was hanging low. like the paraschute on a space shuttle.

As Nellie sipped her tay and nibbled at a paris bun. She looked all around and said.

"You and Bon Jovi is nice and snug in here. It wool do until something better comes along".

"Listen Nellie" I said.

"This wee cottage, is the ancient, ancestral home of us Ryans.

"Many Ryan eggs have bean fertilised here" I yelled

"And them eggs developed into Ryans. Mail and femail who grew too maturity strong and sound in limb and mind".

Nellie sipped her tee. Looked at the wheel barrow with the bag of meal leaning against it and cried.

"Here! Did you heer what my Willie went and done? My Willie only went and bought me a lovely three peace sweet, in a lovely puce colour with wee yella flours on it. What do you think of that Rosie? A lovely puce sweet of furniture, with wee yella flours scattered all over it".

I leaped up and roared.

"Listen here Nellie Granite. You must be getting me mixed up with someone who's just had a shit! Get out to hell. Or I swear by that scared hart picture on the wall, I'll brust your big ugly face".

Nellie jumped to her feet and bawled.

"A strumpet!, that's what you is Rosie Ryan. A strumpet, a tramp and a harlequin. I don't no how you can sit on that auld sofa. Futterin' and fisslin' at that big ugly brute Chuck Corona. Rite under the picture of Jesus, who is showing you his bleedin' hart".

I grabbed the tongs and the poker and chased the big gulpin down the lane.

Nellie leaped on the bicycle like Frankie De-tory and peddled off yelling.

"Harlot. strumpet, fallen woman, slapper and big ugly bitch".

I returned to my abode. Filled too the throat with anger and ire. With trembling hands, I picked up my well thumbed copy of Proust.

A line from Proust leaped out at me and I became calm and decomposed.

"Alter ipse amicus"

"A friend is another self"

How true. I am Rosie Ryan. I don't need Nellie Granite.

I don't need anyone.

Apart from Bon Jovi, Chuck Corona, The Parish Priest, The bread man, The boy who sells the toilet rolls and the little Taiwainese cutties who make my red flannel drawers.

Piece be with you. GO IN PIECE.

No Room for Rosie at the Open University

2009-09-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

Deer GerrY,

I am spitting feathers. I am full of grate anger and ire. I have bean the recipient of the most fowl belated case of naked discermination Clougher as ever scene. During the Summer Gerry, I replied for a plaice at the open anniversity.I was hoping to increase the vast store of nowledge that is already swirling around in my noggin. Too daze ago I got a reply from the boys at the open anniversity.

I tore open the letter with my teeth and stood there surprised, shocked too the kore and gob smacked when I saw I had bean declined entry. The reasons for my reflection were many and varied. "Know basic standard of headucation. The fact that the application form was filled in with green crayon. Apparently they did knot take kindly to me korrecting their grammar and spelling in the margins. And they drew my attention to the fact that after-SEX, I had put- maybe!". The hole letter Gerry is wan fowl callamy on my good name. The truth is that the open anniversary don't want a Cat-Lick about the plaice. It is discermination. Naked, undiluted, belated discermination and up with it, I shall knot put.

Steps have already bean taken. I have rote too the wee Sin Fane boy, Barry McElduff. I set out my case in green crayon and I respect a call any day to go too Stirmont and appear before a select committee.

I won't take it lying down Gerry. I have never taken it lying down. It is well known round Clougher and surrounding districts that Rosie Ryan wool knot take it lying down.My sun Bon Jovi said.

"Don't get yourself all in a leather. Leave her to Barry. Barry's on the ball. When Barry gets through with the open anniversity. They mite give you an honary degree for keeping your yapper shut"

But I said, "KNOW! Any degree konferred on me wool be due two hard work and dilligence. I wool knot accept wan of them auld degrees that Queens Anniversity gave out like sweeties to any Tom, Dick or Fanny". So there you have it Gerry. God no's I suffer for my wild thirst for nowledge. How are things in the Arts and Kulture seen in Derry? Has the circus came to town yet? Thank God clowns don't scare me, or I wood have to move away from Clougher.

Bon Jovi is doing very well at skool. He got straight G's in a mock test before the Summer holly-daze.

Academia looms for Bon Jovi. He wool never have to stand in the Dole office and say, "To beg I am two proud, two dig I am knot able". Well Gerry I must go. Isn't it wild about Jordan and Peter Entere. That's what comes from knot saying your prayers at nite. The family who prey together, stay together.

I feel a lot better, now that wee Barry McElduff is on the ball. Barry is like a wee terrier. When Barry bites, he haulds on. Good luck Gerry, you have always bean a bon a-me to me and Bon Jovi.

Bon Jovi is shouting Gerry. He wants you to play some Rack-man-enough or Declan Nearney. Toodles for now. XXX

Ooh Gerry, Auld Fred Franko fell off his bicycle and cut the hole face of himself.The hospital is looking for skin donors.Maybe some of your listeners wood like too made a constitution. Tell them too leave their number with the wee bouy.

"I see Winter in the frost lit stars

Time to change into the red flannel drawers" Rosie Ryan. September 2009.

PIGS HAVE MORALS TOO

2009-09-21T02:13:00.000-07:00

"You kan tell a man who boozes

By the company he chooses

And then the pig got up

And walked away".

I looked at my only begotten sun Bon Jovi, who was sitting picking his nose and said.

"Bon Jovi, my bon a- me, what moral do you take from that wee poem?"

He who was once a fertilised egg, crossed wan grazed, dirty knee over the other and said with a regal air.

"A very pertinacious and pernickety porker. Who does he think he is? Walking away from the wee drunk man, who was only seeking warmth and company.

If I owned a pig like that, I would turn it into bacon, before you could say, "Jumping Jack Flash".

"You obtuse wee goose" I yelled.

"There is a lesson for life in that wee poem and the lesson is don't keep bad company".

"I beg to disagree" said Bon Jovi.

"The lesson I took out of that poem is, pigs is getting above their station in life. And corporal punishment should be brought back for all farmyard animals, with the exception of wild auld donkeys and wee fluffy ducks"

I looked at the wee brute, sitting there with a smirk on his dirty face and a wet stain round the fork of his short grey trousers. Little Lord Snooty. Prince Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi, the Sultana of Clougher.

"Listen boy" I said "What did your last skool report say?"

"Whom cares" said Bon Jovi "The teechers at my skool and it panes me to say it, but the teechers at my skool is wretched, igornant, pernicious creatures".

"Here is your skool report" I said.

"Let me remind you of how your teechers summed you up".

"In konclusion, I fear Bon Jovi Ryan is beyond redemption and is as thick as too bricks".

"Did you here that? As thick as too bricks! To think a sun of mine should be compared to -too bricks!

Well, all I kan say is, thank God your auld grannie isn't living. She wood have dyed with shame after reeding a retort like that. Your grannie was a highly headucated woman. She could talk many languages--felicitously and ram her hand up the bum of an egg bound chicken and retrive the captive egg".

"Highly headucated my Ant Fanny" yelled Bon Jovi.

"Granny was an auld head the ball, who couldn't tell her arse from her elbow. A fact that was patiently obvious to anyone who ever scene her try to use a po".

"How dare you!" I yelled. "How dare you besiege the good name of your dead, deceased and passed over granny. The day she was dying, she beckoned me to her bed. Grabbed me by my mullberry gansey and whispered low.

"Rosie, Rosie child. "Always put a wee bit of soda in steeped pee's". "Does that sound like the last words of a moron?" I yelled. "Does that sound like the last words of a woman whose brane was addled with confusion and bewilderment? NO! It does knot! The day your granny popped her clogs. may she rest in piece, she was as compes mentos as me".

"That's knot saying a lot" yelled Bon Jovi.

"Who was it who came home with an apron full of wee black balls of sheep dung, thinking they were black cherries?".

"I had a head cold" I yelled."I had lost my sense of smell.

And when I stirred them into the vole, ferret and potato soup they did add a spicy, exotic taste".

"And who was it?" said Bon Jovi. "Went into Murphy's chemist and asked for a big tube of innuendo, thinking it was French for Pile ointment.

"It was a mix-up in translation" I roared. "I couldn't find my glasses and it's hard to read small print through the bottom of a milk bottle".

Bon Jovi smiled, the smile of a maligent goblin and said.

"Innuendo. In-You-End-Oh. Oh Mr Chemist, I'm wild thick and stupid. Give me something for my piles. I believe the French call it, In-You-End-Oh"

And the cub fell off his stool and rolled round the floor like a warthog laughing his big head off".

"SHUT UP! "you juvinile spawn of Satan" I roared Or by the power divested in me by the holy Roman Cat-Lick church I will brust your face.

CEASE! that fowl, vile, repulsive, tardy giggling and chuckling. You is an imp of the devil and knot an hangel of God. You is a vile wretch and a repulsive specimen of a lump of a cub".

"Oh is I?" yelled Bon Jovi. "That's good coming from an auld fat dumplin' with a big red bleezer of a face".

"That back them fowl callemies" I yelled.

"Take back them fowl callimes and distractions or by the sainted knee of saint Cardew of Ballybunnion, I will brust your big, ugly gub".

"Try it" yelled Bon Jovi "And you'll get my toe In-You-End-Oh".

Then the cub leaped the half door like a scalded kat. looked cheekily over the half door. Broke wind with fierce ferocity. Stuck out his tongue and yelled.

"Chase me, I'm a wee gulpin".

"By the horns of Satan" I roared. As I stuck my frock into my nickers, leaped the half door like a graceful gazelle and took off after the cub over the bog. All day the chase went on.

Out in front was the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi. Followed by galloping loving mother. Shucks, drains and bog holes were leaped with a plum.

As the son set in the West, the casual passer- by might have been perplexed and indeed, puzzled to sea mother and sun running in a never ending circle round and round the bog.

And the yells of, "Headbanger" and "Gulpin" would have added grately to their puzzlment and perplexacility.

But it was only a loving mother, trying to brust her beloved suns face to show him the error of his ways.

If Bon Jovi had bean a cuttie, all I wood have to worry about was-buns in ovens and-contradiction!

Lumps of cubs is some hanlin'!

Reflections and Toilet Roll

2009-09-12T02:10:00.000-07:00

The son, that grate big orb of compressed hydrogen and helium was shinning down like a big yella lump of Craft mature chedder cheese. A lite western zephyr breeze was blowing merrily from the North.

'Twas a wee pet day at the end of Summer. A day that stood, legs akimbo with one foot in Summer and the other foot in Autumn. Beauty, bathed in a disfused lite lay all around. Beauty, attired in fashionable, fastidious exquisite Autumnal colours. The small, irregular fields had bean exfoliated of hey, korn and wheet. Like a fat woman wearing stays, all had bean safely gathered in. Nature was in a period of reajustment. Waiting, silently and ethereally for the scales to tilt and Autumn take prerequisite over Summer. Prebubescant Autumn was biting at the heels of Summer, like a young, healthy jack russel nipping at a weary, tired old sheep who was seeking a place to die.

Sad. Yes, 'tis sad. But 'tis the way of all things. We are born, we live and then we die. Time flows but in one direction. There is no going back. No stopping along the way. The road of life is laid out before us. Many have trodden the same path before. 'Tis a universal truth that though the road of life may be long or short it leads but to the grave. The only purpose in life is to march to the beat of a muffled drum towards death.A withered leaf fell from a tree. A harbinger of the holocaust that would soon follow.

When Marcel Proust lay on his death bed, he billowed the duvet with a ferocious breaking of wind and gasped.

"Nurse, nurse, no more baked beens and that's an order".

Then he closed his eyes and passed away. Before Hitler blew his branes out he yelled-gutterly.

"Mien Gott, this is some hanlin".

Before Nero drank the poison, he looked all around and said.

"If I hadn't played the fiddle, I think I would have got away with it!".

Saint Patrick, rose weakly from his death bed of rushes and said.

"My God, is it still raining?"

Joan of Arc, looked at the angry mob and began to sing.

"Come on baby light my fire".

I gave myself a shake and hurried on towards Clougher. I was on a mission, a mission of mercy. For fore daze my Sun Bon Jovi and me had no toilet paper. Us arses were red and raw from using grass, dockens and wisps of straw. Due to intense chaffing, I walked with a wide-legged striddle. Soon I wood return home with the soft, velvet bum fodder so beloved by the little labrator pup. And in the fullness of time Bon Jovi and me wood once again, walk, dance, kick and up us heels as time, the grate healer wood heal us rectums and remove any memory of pane and discomfort.

All of a stridle-straddle I hurried home and cursed as a flock of sheep ran between my out-stretched legs. In the melee, I managed to grab two handfulls of wool. I scurried into the under growth and used the wool in loo of toilet paper. OH, the relief. Wool contains lanolin. Which is made up from a mixture of palmitate, oleate and stearate of cholesterol. Which is a natural healing balm for chaffing, redness or fissures in the rectual area. So, if caught in the throes of heftedness, a sheep is yer man!.

BEAUTY AND THE BANJO

2009-09-09T10:45:00.000-07:00

At the crack of half past eleven in the morning, I gracefully spaltred out of my bed and glided on tip-toe to my bedroom winda. I opened wide the casement and stood there, framed like a painting by Goya, Rembrant, or Charlie Dickens. My tangled, sweaty, matted mass of red hare clung to my big red face. Too any observer lurking in the flora or fauna, I wood appear to be a faiere sprite or an elf of astonshing grace and beauty.

I flared my nostrils, like a horse and drew deep breaths of klean, cunt'ry air into my ample bisums.

"Morning has broken" I trilled, as I divested myself of heavy woollen negelant, two simmets and a pear of drawers that had scene better daze.

There I stood- nude as a scaldie. An hangel of conseit. A goddess. A thing of beauty and a joy for ever. I glanced-demurly into the cracked mirror and softly mummered.

"Ah beauty. Why have you taken up abode in my 'umble body?. Oh nature" I sighed. "Why have you lavished so much beauty on me? Surely beauty should be scattered like manure among all female woman kind. And yet, I alone am consigned to tread the world fair steeped in beauty, grace and heavenly helegance.

I glanced coyly over my shoulder, admiring my two sturdy, freckled buttocks. "Perfection! I cried.

I was so beautiful, I could knot tear my eyes away from the henchanting refraction that gazed out of the mirror at me.

"Oh pouting,sultry, smokey-eyed Gorgon of Clougher" I cried. "Stand knot you there with the morning son glinting of your womanly charms.

"Conceal your grate beauty" I cried. "With drawers, simmets and your mammies good green frock with the yella butterflies on it.

Think of the poor week men" I cried.

"If perchance a man on a bicycle was to gleek in and sea your Greek goddess statesque contours and protrudences he wood fall off his bicycle and insidiously and insensibility, cut the whole face off himself".

I looked once more at the symmetrical beauty radiating from the cracked mirror and yelled.

"Dos moi pou sto kal ten gen kineso".

Which as any savant of Archimedes knows is....

"Give me where to stand and I will move the earth".

I then spent the rest of the morning, flicking dust from here to there with the tale feather of a gander.

I launched alone on a heel from a pan loaf spread literally with poor man's caviar-mashed tadpoles. The pollywog is knot too everyone's taste, but to my disseminating palate they tasted simply devine.

After lunch I enjoyed some ME time. I sat outside my abode on an old tractor tire, a plinking and a plunking at my banjo. I have a vast raparee of songs and I went through them all. "Boil them cabbage down-boy" "The red flannel drawers. The tune the old cow died from and a mellon-golly fugue deposed by Handel, when his girlfriend Hilga Mary Strumsteinner gave him the big heave ho. Apparently Handel had been tickling the ivories of one Ghislaine Felicity Stuttweiner. Serve him rite. The dirty auld brute.

THEN! I saw him! Wee Bon Jovi. The lite of my life. The lump of a cub that gives me a raison de-etra.

"COOEE BON JOVI" I shrieked. "COOEE WEE SUN".

The cub was slowly making his way through the bog in a laz-a-daisy-cal way. Which told me better than mere words could, that the cub needed a replenishment of nourishment.

"I'm fair done" roared the fruit of my lions as he got stuck into numerous buttered heels from pan loaves.

"First day back at skool after the Summer holly-daze Bon Jovi" I said.

"What did youse get stuck into today? Black matter? Particle radition or the real and presant danger that magnetic North and magnetic South mite reverse. Sending the world into some hanlin'".

"We spent all day on religion" said Bon Jovi. "And I now say unto thee, there is no Limbo, no purgatory and wait for it-no hell. The new curate said so. He said, Limbo, Purgatory and hell are finetto! Kaput! None existant!. So there!"

I blanched, recoiled and fell against the dresser. "I warned the church" I yelled. "I warned them knot too make boys from council estates priests. But wood they listen to me?"

"It wood appear knot" grinned Bon Jovi.

"But Bon Jovi" I cried "If there is no purgatory and no hell, what is to stop people doing what they like?"

"Nothing!" roared Bon Jovi, as he hit me a wild crack on the forehead with a grate big hard onion.

Bring back the devil, I say, he wasn't a bad auld soul.

Role Models and Night Classes

2009-09-03T07:09:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, I heer you wool soon be oft again, as the Mark Carruthers boy mite say. I told my Sun Bon Jovi to model himself on Mark Carruthers, but the cub said, "Indeed and I wool knot. I don't want to be the laughing stock of Clougher. Walking about with a brolly and yelling, "Looking forward to it. If I was picking a role model" said Bon Jovi, "I wood pick Noel Thompson. A man with rugged good looks and the ability too jump any shuck or stile that life may put in his path".

I like Noel Thompson Gerry. But he is not as well bread or gentile as Mark Carruthers. Mark Carruthers is the kind of boy who wood put his blazer over a puddle hole so a girl could glide across without getting wet to the arse. I wood say that Noel Thompson's motto wood be,

RECULER POUR MIEUX SAUTER.

Which as you well know means,

"Draw Back To Take A Better Leap"

Pass that motto on too stile jumper Thompson. He could have it written in Latin on a crest on his blazer.

"Natura Abhorret vacuum. As Ciss-a-row mite have said to Pluto. Nature abhors a vacuum. With that in mind. I put on my late, dead mammies brown duffle coat and sallied forth too Clougher Hi skool too enlist in some nite classes. Latin, Arabic and Hindo knot beeing on the Kar-lick-u-lum, I put my John Henry down for woodwork and a psycho class that deals with the minuscule workings of the brane. Did you know Gerry, that your arm wool knot shoot up in the air unless the brane orders it too? Having gained that knowledge, I now test my brane every morning by shooting my right arm up in the air. Inadvertaintly I also yell, HEIL HITLER" which may knot be TCP, but as long as no wan hears me what harm does it do?

Gerry, I wood advise you to test your brane by making something jump up in the morning. It may be an arm, it may be a leg. Then you kan turn too your good wife and say, "Today my brane is firing on all cylinders".And she wool probably reply, "Isn't that grate. Now you kan make the breakfast and bring mine to the bed".The brane Gerry! what is it?

The brane is a conglomeration of diverse cells, all firing pulses of minute electric bolts at wan and other. The brane is both nuclear reactor and comsputer all rolled into one. They say auld Confuse-Us the Chinese Phill-officer had a brane the size of a water mellon. They have his skool cap on display in Pee-king museam with saint Lotus Blossom rote on the front.

So Gerry, this fall I shall be studying the brain and come next Easter, I hope to be picking up a certificate, licencing me too experiment with any person, living or dead who gives their written permission for brane delving.

Why have I also taken up woodwork? Well, let me tell you.With the experience gained by the use of hammer and saw, I plan too make too coffins, wan for me and wan for Bon Jovi. The coffins wool measure six foot bye three. Bon Jovi is no where near six foot. But prey God Bon Jovi wool be granted a long life and grow into the coffin. There we shall lie together in Clougher graveyard. Requiescating inpace together. Snug as a bug in a rug. Oblivious too the smell of glue, which is made from the hooves of horses, wafting up us dead hooters.

I met auld Nellie Granite today Gerry. Bragging about the big, secondhand piano her Willie bought her.

"Yes" said Nellie "Wan day after-brunch, my Willie looked around and said. "Nellie, we just MUST have a piano" "Three men brought the piano in a big lorry" said Nellie. "But no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the piano up the stares".

"Some hanlin'" I said

"Oh it was!" said Nellie. "Then my Willie came in from work. My Willie took in the seen with wan glance and said too the boy with the ginger hare.

"Left hand down a bit"

"And then" said Nellie "As if by magic, the piano went up the stares, like a rat up a sewer pipe".

"It just goes to show" I said

"Just goes to show what?" said Nellie

"It just goes too show" I guldered. "That's where there's a Willie, there's a way".

"You're just jealous Rosie" yelled Nellie. "You don't have a piano and if you did, you wood probably put the po in it.

"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out! Or bye the Lord Harry I wool put a dunt in the arse of your nickers with the toe of my hobnailed boot".

"Auld piss the bed" yelled Nellie, as she threw her big lump of a leg on her bicycle.

"Auld Nellie NO drawers" I roared.

"Auld Rosie poo-poo" yelled Nellie

"Auld Nellie the hey shed strumpet" I roared.

And so it went on as the sun set in the West and tired birds with the wings fair hanging from them, flew home to roast. As the son's rays spread out like the hand of God over the bog. I put my hand too my ear and heard far, far oft in the stilly distance.

"Auld Rosie the boozie floozie"

I gently shut the door. Picked up Proust and soon my branes electrodes were sending out spark, after spark of Hi super octane, turbo charged, inhuman intelligence.

Ah, the brane, the brane. Thank God I have wan. God help the poor craters who wool go too sleep tonite without a--brane.

A culture extravaganza

2009-08-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

Desolate was the bog. A dull, slate grey sky loomed over the the faded heather like an unpainted celestial ceiling. Cold winds blue hither and either. All birds were grounded. All animal life had taken to the bed. Rain clouds dropped their pay loads of h2o as they made their way towards Gortin and surrounding districts. 'Twas a seen of-desolation. A seen of-isolation and a seen of intemperate, insidious-intersteller, interminable intensification. In other words, it was a wild bad day. Under the shelter of an elderberry bush, stood my true love Chuck Corona and me. We were clinging on to each other. Looking into us respective visages and muttering-seductively.

"OH CHUCK" I coo'ed.

"OH ROSIE" Gasped Chuck.

"Oh Chuck" I mummered "My wee marshmallow".

"Oh Rosie" growled Chuck "My wee fairy cake".

I looked at Chuck, his rugged face full of love, passion and acne and muttered.

"As Cicero said of Plato, "Instar omnium" you Chuck Corona are indeed "Worth all other men".

Deer Chuck made a masculine spalter and grasped me to his manly bisum.

I was-lost, lost in the beauty of the moment. Swoon after swoon swept through my highly headucated brane. My ears were ringing, my hart was singing and my strong, sturdy legs had turned to Chivers jelly. As I moaned like a cougar, I dug my hobnailed boots into the muck and clabber in an attempt to gain traction.

It was then I slipped on snipe skitter and fell. As I fell I grasped on to Chuck with my long,cadallic pink, Marliyn Monroe nails. My painted talons slipped down the front of Chuck's lovely olive green cargo pants. The zip on the henchanting fork of Chucks trousers brusted. I fell towards terra firma, still clutching Chuck's trousers and gave my forehead a good dunt on a small stone. Groggily I looked up, only to sea Chuck with his trousers round his ankles and written large on the fork of his Y-fronts, the clarion call for Irish men and women everywhere,

"ERIN GO BRAGH" Still in a groggy state, I saluted and yelled "GOD SAVE IRELAND". I looked up at Chuck. Chuck looked down at me. We both know what we had done. We had transgressed. We had besmirched auld Ireland. We had behaved abominably towards-Hibernia. While traversing the path of love, tenderness and passion, we had, inadvertinaly strayed into the path of politics. Chuck pulled up his trousers while muttering.

"'Tis a terrible, tarra thing we have done".

I spaltered to my feet shrieking.

"Oh mother Ireland. Forgive us, we know not what we do'es".

Then, all passion spent, Chuck and me set off over the squelshing bog. We entered my rural, cunt'ry abode in silence. Divested us selves of us outer garments and sat down to too big mugs of tay and a plate containing six Wagon Wheels.

Later that nite, I decided to take my SUN Bon Jovi in hand. Lately the lump of a cub has bean showing all the traits of a rite gulpin. I have waited to sea the flowering of Bon Jovi's artistic temperment, but alas, I have waited in vein. The gulpin used pages out of my well thumbed copy of Proust for toilet paper. And has bean heard on more than one occasion to refer to the venerable Bach, as that deef auld head the ball. So last nite I decided enough was enough. I grabed the cub, tied him to a chair, stuffed a urine saturated floor cloth into his gaping mouth and made him listen to fore hours of Hi-brow opera. The cub didn't like it. He kicked, he flung and the eyes were bulging out of his head like a kat kitteling.

"No pane, no gain" I cried to Bon Jovi. As the operatic gulderings and shriekings threatened to lift the roof off the house. I gritted my teeth and stuck with it. I rolled my head from side to side like a bedlamite and conducted the music with a toasting fork.

"Don't fight it" I yelled to Bon Jovi. "Soak it up. Let the gulderings open the secret door to your artistic hart. Go with the flow" I roared. "Try to take something, anything from this cathartic, artistic caterwauling"

Bon Jovi over-turned the chair and fell with a clatter to the floor. His face was as red as a beetroot and his bulging oculars were threatening to leap out of his bleezing visage.

"Don't fight it" I bawled, as the music rose to a cresendo and rattled the panes of glass in the winda.

THEN! with a mighty flourish, it was over.

"Devine" I muttered "Simply-devine" as I untied the prone cub who had sprung from my fruitful lions.

Bon Jovi lay on the floor, gasping like a spent salmon. Gradually the lump of a cub got to his feet and glared at me. He tried to speak, but choked. Drool ran in rivelets down his chin. He was all a tremble like an eel who had scene a ghost. The wet stain on the fork of his trousers, denoted that the music had drawn some emotional responce from the juvinile Palestinian.

I gazed at my SUN and said.

"Well my bon-a-mee, was that knot a culture extravaganza worthy of the God's on mount Olympus?"

The cub glared at me and roared.

"Rosemary West!, that's what you is. You is worser than Rosemary West. Even she and her hubby Fred, wood knot stoop to torture like that.

I am going outside" yelled the cub "Too see how many sprogs you have koncealed in the garden and surrounding districts". And Bon Jovi went out slamming the door behind him. I smiled. The effort had not bean in vain. I could swear that during that during the opera when the man was roaring like a constipated donkey. I saw my Sun, Bon Jovi beat his head against the floor in time with the music.No, all the operatic guldering, yelling, bawling and shrieking, did not fall upon stony ground.

As to Rosemary West, I have no misconseption, she must be some auld bag who lives in Clougher.

COOL COWS

2009-08-25T02:20:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, 'Tis I, a reflective, retrospective Rosie Ryan.Gerry, do you ever have strange, odd, weird inexplicable-yearnings? Lately, I have bean fair tortured by-yearnings. Yearnings that must spring from the font of some deep Fraudian spring that lies at the hart of my beeing.

Last night as I stood at my bouid-Wa winda, attired in a long flowing khaki negligent. I saw the mella' yella' harvest moon peep through the moss encrusted branches of an apple tree and my hart was filled, with yearnings, longings and unrequited feelings for, something I can knot utterise with any approximation of apprehension. "What! in the world has come over me?" I mused, as I deftly kicked the po under the bed with the skill and grace of Ronaldo.

"Rosie" I said "Why do you-yearn? You have it all. A boy child with out equal in the shape of Bon Jovi and Chuck Corona, a boyfriend with rugged good looks and magical futtering hands". I gave my matted mass of red hare a toss like a Clydesdale horse and looked at my rejection in the cracked mirror.

There stood a Greek Goddess. A flaming mane of red hair, gently cupped my big red face. The face of a-hangel. My bisums hung low, nesteling snugly on the curve of my pot belly. LEGS! Legs like two Greek Colum's. Beautifully streaked with delicate blew viens like marble. Marble like what was used bye Micky-Anglo to carve a sculpture of David. A boy who could have done with a bit of under-carriage enhancemant. But let us knot be churlish, David still has the looks of a very nice boy. Colum's, like my sturdy legs had held the panty-thon up since the day the blue opening ribbon was cut my Zorba the Greek.

Why do I-yearn Gerry? Why kan I knot bee content? Sometimes I wood be willing too give up all my beauty. All my grace, my poise. My nowledge of arts and kulture and be a humble bovine cow. No animal in the animal world is more laid back or "Cool" as the humble cow. See it stand, chewing the cud, flicking flies from it's ars--rear with a switching tale. The cow is the Fonz, the, "Cookie, Cookie, lend me your comb" of the animal world. Why! it does knot even hunker down when having a slash!.

As yearnings for the intangible increased. I threw my head back and cried too the mella' yella' moon.

"OH grate creater of mountains, mice and wombats, look down from on Hi on your most beautiful creation and take away these, embryotic yearnings, cravings and wantings. EMPATHY LORD!" I cried "Grant me-empathy, as I stand here tonight. With the fragant sents from the nocturnal flora and fauna wafting up my nose and into my brain. Sending the wee endorphines mad with a sensual, sexual thoughts of pagan rituals. YAHWEH!" I yelled "Let me knot divest myself of my garments and run naked through Clougher yelling. "Hows about that then!"

"Give me bovineism" I yelled "Give me bovineism on a grand scale. Let me stand at a gate with a vacant look in my eyes. Let me wander slowly, caring knot where I go and if it is preordained to come to pass, I WILL grit my teeth and slash without hunkering down".

Having said those words Gerry, I felt piece enter my hart. My heaving bisum heaved no more. I glided across the moon-lit floor like a faerie sprite. Gently pulled back the ex Israeli army blanket and gracefully lifted one delicate foot. THEN! Mindful of my little accident last nite, I pulled out the po and uttulised it for the purpose it was intended. Not yet being filled with the piece of the bovine, I did hunker down. As I sat on the po I ruminated. Man indeed is a flawed creation. Always wanting-more. Take poor Micky Hart. I seen him yesterday, unshaven, wide eyed and unkempt yelling to anyone who wood listen."The Sam Maguire belongs to-TYRONE! We wuz robbed. That referee was a rite gulpin". Tonight as I lie a bed, I wool pray that the piece of the bovine desends on the half bald head of-Micky Hart. Peace be with you Gerry my SUN. And watch when changing gears on that auld bicycle. Be aware that many a man came home with an oily, mangled under-carriage.

From your friend and mine--Rosie Ryan XXX

MEMORIES OF MUMMY

2009-08-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

In conclussion may I wish youse all, a rurual, cunt'ry greeting from your friend and mine-Rosie Ryan.

As I look back over my life, a life of Hi's, lows and middlings, I always return to my birth.I have know reconcilliation of my birth. But born I must have bean, because birth is a requisite for becoming a kuman beeing.Deerest mummy must have bean there. But too her dying day, deerest mummy wood never own up two it. "Go away" she wood say "And stop talking about auld dirty things". My first memory is at the age of too when I caught my childish fingers in the jaws of a rat trap. I remember deerest mummy yelling. "That wool learn you to steel sweets out of my handbag". A paneful lesson, but up 'till today I have never put my hand in a handbag that didn't belong to me. Off tomorrow, I can knot speak. Us sweet thieves just take it wan day at a time. Mummy was a ferocious arse skelper. I remember wan fierce, violent arse skelping. I kan still sea deerest mummy, her face as red as a roosters comb, yelling hysterically.

"Let that arse skelping be a lesson to you and never do it again! And the poor milkman sobbing "I'm sorry Mrs Ryan, the bottle of milk slipped out of my hand, I will run and get you another wan". Mummy was renowned for her arse skelping. Other mother's used too bring big lumps of cubs, who had got out of control to mummy and mummy wood put these boys of 28 or 37 over her knee and skelp the arse off them. None of them ever came back, which says more than mere words kan about the ferociousness and violence of mummy's arse skelping.

Darling daddy was a different kettle full of fish. Darling daddy found it hard to look at me. Perhaps it was my grate beauty. When darling daddy met me, he wood put his hand over his face and talk to me from behind his hand. Daddy wood say the things that all doating daddies say to their beautiful daughters. Little things like, "Are you still alive"? and "When are you going too leave home"?. "Daddy darling" I wood shriek "I'm only five" and darling daddy wood walk sadly away, with his hand still in front of his face.

Ah, my skool daze, the happiest daze of my life. I went to skool at the age of ate and left skool at the age of ten. When I left skool, my brane was fare brusting with nowledge and headucation. I remember looking sadly back at my seat of learning and seaing the head master changing all the locks on the doors. Ah, hapy daze. Now, with thyme on my hands, I was free too jump shucks and carry out experiments with varying kinds of farmyard dung. I remember wan day I lost both eyebrows, when I mixed donkey dung, sparrow dung and kuman dung and put a match to it.

CHILDREN! Don't try this at home!.

Ah, memories. Hapy, hapy memories. And now, thanks too my dallience at skool. I am a grown woman, steeped in arts and kulture. I am bye lingual in many, many languages. Speak a de German? Yah! I does. Speak a de French? Wee, I does.

I languidly leave you now to persue Proust, Sarte, Shakespeare and Ireland's Own

So if the good Lords willing and the creeks don't rise I'll see you all soon. Hasta La Vista Baby.

ROSIE THE WISE MONKEY

2009-08-12T05:48:00.001-07:00

As I lay- lanquidly on the sofa last nite,in a state of semi compes mentosness.. the Wan Show came on the TV. I maid a spalter too turn it off, while muttering under my breath. "And Christine such a nice cuttie two, could she knot get a job stacking shelves at Tesco?"

It was then I decided too pick up a HB pencil and rite too you. "How are you and yours Gerry? Bon Jovi and me are living the live of Reilly.The cub is growing in leaps and bounds. He has outgrown too cardboard boxes since Kristmas. My only begotten Sun now resides in a big box made too hold a 100 inch plazza TV. The cub kan now stretch his legs and doesn't have to lie with his knees up under his chin, like wan of them mummies that they dig up in Chilly or remoter parts of Gortin.

The only smidgen of news I have Gerry, is of a slight accident that happened just outside the portal or apperature of my home. A grate big lorry ran into a wee kar. It was just a dunt, a fender blender. But the wee nuck in the kar was raging. "You hooligan!" he yelled "I have too be at an important meeting. We are closing another hospital today and I have too be there too rubber stamp it. WHERE is my attackie case?" he screamed "Where is my attackie case? I have important papers in my attackie case and a ham sandwitch with the crusts cut off"

The driver of the big lorry advised the wee nuck to, "Take her easy" but easy, the wee nuck would not take her.

"I have the law on my side" yelled the wee gulpin.

"And I have a shuck on my side" said the lorry driver "Did you respect me to drive into it and heel the lorry?"

"Look at my head-lites" roared the wee boy. "Smashed. Smashed beyond despair"

"You were lucky you didn't break your glasses" I said.

"I don't wear glasses" shouted the wee upstart.

"Well, you should wear glasses" I yelled "Because you must be blind, if you couldn't sea a big lorry coming down the road".

"I did see the lorry" screamed the wee boy "And I took pretentious action to avoid a prang"

"Pretentious action, my Ant Fanny" I yelled. "You were petrified with petrifactive petrification. Your wee lily white hands were stuck to the wheel and the eyes were staring out of your head like a howl after a field mouse".

"How dare you" he yelled "What wood a common, cunt'ry woman like you know about the law?"

"Let me refer you too the case of Regina versus Rosie Ryan, March 1979" I said "The case was thrown out of court on a technicality. The Judge in his whisdom ruled that I,Rosie Ryan should knot have bean charged with riding a bicycle with out a tale-lite, BUT!, charged with fierce drunkenness and lewd, obscene behaviour".

Then the sound of a siren was heard in the distance.

"Is that the police?" said the wee slabber.

"Well, it's hardly an ice-cream van going at that speed" I riposted.

A police man took me aside and said. "I just want the facts mam, only the-facts. What did you sea?"

"I scene-nothing" I replied. With my rite arm in the air like they do in the pictures.

"Well, what did you heer?" said the policeman.

"I heered-nothing" I replied.

"Well, what do you think happened?" said the policeman.

"I have know contraception of what did happen, could have happened, or never happened" I said.

A policeman who was questing the lorry driver looked up and said. "How are you getting on Freddie? Any sailient-facts?"

"Know!" yelled Freddie "I've got a rite Seamus Heaney up here. What ever you say-say nothing".

"How dare you" I yelled "How dare you besmirch the good name of wan of Ireland's gratest poets. So he doesn't make words rhyme. Did you never think that the lad mite be disc-lexic? Sling your hook" I yelled "You wood be better employed looking for the letter that Ronnie Flannigan can't find, than bothering statesque Greek Goddess women, with striking good looks and flaming red hare".

And that was it Gerry. Both drivers went on their way. And I was left with the grate satisfaction,of knowing that I kan still take on the peelers and run rings round them.

Isn't it grate too heer that Ronnie Bigg's is out.

Ronnie is a diamond geezer, a diamond geezer and only ever hurt his own!. Just like I do with Bon Jovi!

THE PIG FLU

2009-08-10T01:49:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, when I heerd you were on the broad of your back with the auld pig flew, I was gob-smacked in the extreme. "Gerry's sick!" I yelled two my sun Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi's knees hit the concrete floor and the cub went into a string of Pater Navies that wood do credit to a Pope. I immediately ran pell-mell to the post office and scent you a too litre bottle of the crater. Unfortunately, the post office van went over a bump, the crater exploded with a BANG, leaving the van a rite off and Sky magazines scattered in the surrounding fields. The police have put it down to "dissadants" so I am in the clear.

Now you are on your feet, you must look after yourself. Don't sit in draughs. If you feel a chill. yell to the wee boy, "SHUT THAT DOOR! WILL YOU SHUT THAT DOOR and look at the muck in here since I was gone". You could get a prolapse Gerry and the auld wans always said, that a prolapse was worser that the first touch. Coddle your chest Gerry. The chest should be lagged until this auld pestelance is over. It's Bibical Gerry. It's a warning. It's the price we pay from buying illegal fags, playing bingo and nocturnal, How's your father in hey sheds at nite. Drink plenty of liquids. I wood suggest up too a bottle of Volka a day. I am sure this auld dose has left you limp Gerry and as week as a kitten. Mince-is the answer and if you kan afford the special mince the expence wool be worth it. I no it's a bit early, but if I was you, I wood jettison the thongs and change into the boys with the flap at the back-pronto. Not only do they provide heat, they gave that much needed ring of confidence, when one is hefted. When heftedness strikes, time is off the esance.

Gerry, you have always bean wild good at playing inquests for the sick and poorly, so now I want you two play a wee inquest from me too you.

"This next song is for Gerald Michael Anderson, who is recovering from pig flu, it comes from Rosie Ryan and is called.......

"I GET DOWN, BUT I GET UP AGAIN, TO HELL WITH THE OLD SWINE FLU. I GET DOWN........

NICK-NACKS AND NECROPHILLIA

2009-07-31T09:56:00.000-07:00

The postman brought the sad news just this morning. There was know easy way too break the news, so the postman just bawled from the end of the lane, "Hi Rosie, wee Willie Ramono is-dead!" I stopped with one hobnailed boot in the air and my mouth hanging open like a voracious pike. Wee Willie dead? How could that be? He was only a few years older that me. Willie Ramono was my first boyfriend. I used to carry his books too skool. I let Willie kiss me for a gobstopper. Not only did Willie buy a gobstopper, he also-lovingly and tenderely rammed it into my open gub. Tender intimate moments like that are not soon forgotten. I sat beside Willie at skool and copied from him. It was Willie who taut me that kat should always be spelt with a kapital-K.
And now he was-gone. I felt a shiver go up my back as I was faced with my own immorality.
All my old skool friends were dying. Old Aggie McScummer, who got ger knickers caught in the threshing machine. Big Oswald McTwirdle, who left his good Raleigh bicycle a rite-off and himself stone dead when he ran into a stone wall. Wee petite Viola McTweet who went clean mad while making poundies. And jumped of the barn roof, waving two yellow dusters and crying, "I'm only a bird in a gilded cage" before she fell on a plough, doing untold external damage to her liver and spleen.
"How die he dye?" I screamed to the postman. "Who did wee Willie depart this life?"
"From what I heer" said the postman "wee Willie was up on the roof, tying a Tyrone flag to the chimney pot". "UP TYRONE" I yelled involantry and-sadly. "Then!" said the postman "A jackdaw saw wee Willie futtering round the chimney and thought wee Willie was after it's scaldies. The jackdaw swooped, grabbed wee Willie's red nose it it's claws, wee Willie slipped and fell, legs akimbo on a spade that was stuck in the ground". "HOIST! bye his own petard" I yelled. "You could be rite" said the postman, it could have been a petard, but I heer it was a spade. What ever it was, it took the fire brigade an hour to unscrew it from wee Willie's ars-derriere".
"What a way too go" I screamed. "Impailed on an agriculture imlayment manufactured for digging. "Where is he?" I yelled "Where lies the diseased dead body of wee Willie Romano?
"He's laid out in the front room" said the Postman. I never scene him looking so well and the good news is, wee Willie didn't break the spade when he fell".
Later that nite, I hurried to the wake with tears in my eyes and tissues in my pockets for cleaning the snotters from my nose. I was met by the widow, big Eutheria. Big Eutheria never liked me. She never forgave me for being the first love in wee Willie's life. I went into my wake mode. "OH EUTHERIA" I cried "What a thing to befall you, your wee Willie snatched away like chaff in the breeze. Take me too him. Take me to the resting plaice of wee Willie, so I kan show my inspect and prey for his ammoral sole". I was lead-grudgingly into the back room and there lay my first love--wee Willie Romano. "WILLIE,WILLIE,WILLIE" I wailed
"What has come over you at tall, at tall, at tall? ARISE!" I yelled "Death shall knot have you" But wee Willie just lay there, with a look of death on his dead face. I gave a shriek and ran towards the bed. I had to have one last hug from my first love. As I lumbered tear-stricken towards the bed, I stepped on an empty stout bottle and was thrown into the air. I landed in the bed, legs akimbo on the body of wee Willie Romano, who had lately turned into a cadaver.
"GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT BED!" yelled big Eutheria. "You were always after my wee Willie. You couldn't have him in life and bye God you will knot have my wee Willie in death. Wee Willie told me all about you. Flashing your kickers at him at skool, that was on daze that you had knickers on. GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT BED and stop futtering at my wee dead willie".
Just then the priest entered the room. All he could sea was my big red flannel drawers as I sat astride wee Willie.
"IN THE NAME OF GOD!" roared the priest "What evil, vile, repulsive necrophillic necrophillia is going on here?"
"Oh Father" roared big Eutheria "That big gulpin of a Rosie Ryan came in here and leaped into the bed and was groaping and futtering at my wee Willie in a foul sexual way".
"GET OUT OF THAT BED, you-you spawn of Satan!" Yelled the priest. "Dismount from that dead cadaver and get the hell out of that bed!".
"I CAN'T!" I roared "My sacred hart medal is stuck in wee Willie's shroud".
The priest grabbed me by the shoulders and gave a pull, wee Willie's shroud split rite down the middle, leaving wee Willie as naked as a jaybird.
"Ah HOLY GOD" screamed big Eutheria "My wee Willie's willie is exposed for the sexual gratifcation and demonic pleasure of that big gulpin--Rosie Ryan".
I tried too explain, but was marched to the door by the priest and given a holy riser from his black clerical shoe.
At the funeral, the priest gave a blood curling sermon entitled. "Necrophilla in rural places"
I sat with my face as stocial as an Easter Island statue. I alone new the truth. As wee Willie was lowered into the earth, I broke down and roared, "WEE WILLIE GAVE ME MY FIRST GOBSTOPPER". I was raced from the graveyard by irrate family members and by complete strangers!. OH! and the priest is coming round on Tuesday nite too prey over me and sprinkle a lemonade bottle of holy water over me. He must think I am the choosed one.

TOO MUCH ALCOHOL

2009-07-12T01:30:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, I rite too you two-nite in a state, of tarra, fierce intaxocation. Two-nite Gerry, you find me under the influent of alcohol. Is is fore oh clock in the morning and I am as full as a po. I have bean sick twice, once in the po and once beside the po. I am sorry to rite to you in such a bluttered state, but I need a friend. Oh Gerry! If you are my friend, help me make it through the nite. The craving for drink came on just after a lite lunch of ferrent fritters, the buttered heels from pan loaves and a foaming mug of Iron Brue, served at room temperature. I tried to fight the craving. I put on my hobnailed boots and went stamping the cunt'ry lanes like a German storm trooper. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck into the midden. I knelt on my plump, girlish knees and preyed and preyed too saint Karen the patron saint of tempetation. But it was know good. The craving was getting stronger and stronger. Suddenly, I yelled "Dumplins, nickers and tadoples", stuck my skirt in my nickers, leapt on the rusty bike and headed pell-mell for Clougher. And the rest as they say, is historonics. And now Gerry I am home again, with a big cloud of guilt hanging over my head like a grate big pear of black drawers.

I just fell off my chair Gerry. I bent over to hit the cap lock key and the next thing I new, I was sitting on the floor on my firm, round, plump-derriere. I wonder if there is a wee poltergist in the house? Something tossed me, wheather it was drink or poltergist, spirits was behind it. 3$%**)^*!6. Did you see what the comsputer did Gerry? It printed a load of rubbish. I mite take the back of this yoke tomorrow and squirt in some bicycle oil. I am full of grate sadness Gerry and yet, I have everything. I have my Sun Bon Jovi, a lump of a cub in a million. I have my boyfriend Chuck Corona, a man of refinment, good looks and futtering hands. And yet Gerry, too-nite finds me in a melon-golly state of mind. Why is it that us kumans is never satsified? Why do we always want-more? It was that attitude that got us thrown out of the garden of Eden. Just the way I was thrown out of Murphy's pub to-nite, I asked for-more and auld humpy Barney Murphy threw me out on my ars--derriere.

Gerry, because of our long friendship, I feel it is incombant on me to be honest and truthful will you. I have wet myself Gerry. Yes, the woman you love and adore from afar, has wet herself-twice!. Can you imagine how low I feel to-nite as I sit here in a pear of sodden drawers? I was all fingers and thumbs Gerry and could knot undo the draw-string on my drawers, so I peed, standing up like a man at the side of the road. Oh the shame, oh the igmony, oh the disgrace. I feel-dirty and cheep like Kerry Katona or Paris Hilton.

I fell off my chair again Gerry!. This thyme I fell backwards, hitting my head on the coal shuttle!. I don't think it was a poltergist. I feel I may be under the influent of some strange magnetic force from the up-turned wheel barrow. I am looking into my vanitory mirror and it's knot a pretty site. My big red bleezer of a face is all blotched and scared. What wood Chuck Corona say if he scene me now? My oculars, red as a chimps arse is protruding from my drunken visage. Drink is wild sore on a young girls prefection. What have I become Gerry? Rosie Ryan, the statesque Greek godess, has turned into an ugly drunken auld biddy. Woe, woe and thrice times woe is me. Have I squandered my literally gift for red biddy? What of my work in arts and kulture? What of my thesis on Van Allen's Belt? Too rings Gerry, surrounding the earth, packed to the gunnels with intense particle radition. My theory was that Van Allen's belt is up there to show the little swallows the way to Clougher in the Summer time. My dreams is shattered. I am a broken woman. But let us knot be down-harted Gerry. Did you ever here this song? "They were tattered, they were torn, at the ars--derriere they were worn, the red flannnel drawers that....

I'm wild tired Gerry, I'm away too my bed. Good-Nite!

P.S. I wet myself again, while riting this letter!!!

L'Amour in the Bog

2009-06-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

My ruby red lips were numb. The wild, fierce, tarra suction from Chuck Corona's kiss was pulling my lips out like rubber. I was up on the tip toes of my sparkling hobnailed boots, holding on to Chuck like an attention seeking leech. I had to breathe through my nose, and as both nostrils were temporaly blocked by road blocks of solidified snotters I was getting it tite. My head was a madly swirling round-a-bout, the blood was pumping in my ears and the ends of my fingers and toes were turning blue. How long could I hold on for? I could knot break away first, or deer Chuck might feel ejected. I mashed my numb rubbery lips against Chuck's buck teeth in an act of wanton passion and fierce womanly emotion. I felt a swoon coming on. I fought the swoon and pressed my protruding bisoms against Chuck's lime green gansey. A blackness came over my eyes, the sounds of tweeting birds came from a far. I was going! sinking into a black whole of passion like the wan at the centre of the milky way. Just when I thought I could take no more, "PLOP!" Chuck broke away and left me with too dangling rubber lips. I gasped in air like a gold fish and expended by lungs with good clean Clougher air. When I had regained my deposure, I kicked a clump of rushes with my hobnailed boot, glanced-demurly up at Chuck and simpered.

"Oh Chuck!"

Chuck glanced down at me with a face full of passion and acne and growled.

"Oh Rosie!".

And there we stood, Romeo and Juliet, knee deep in rushes and nettles. A thrush sang, a lark-larked and a pee-wheet wheeted. Chuck and I were one with nature. Just too kuman beings seeking love and affliction, in the short, transitory journey of life.Too lost soles looking for love in a world of debauchery and vile, vile intemperate lewdness, bordering on the last daze of the Roman empire. We were-drunk on love, we did not need the wee fat Baccus boy and his auld bottle of red biddy. We were intoxicated to intoxication by the site of each others alluring visage. Like what is often carved on a tree, Rosie loved Chuck and Chuck loved-Rosie. Chuck bowed, which caused a slight breaking of wind and said. "Wood my lady care too join me for a prambulate round the bog?" I curtised, like a hen laying an egg and said "With the gratest of pleasure, gallant Sir". Arm and arm and hip to hip, Chuck and me sauntered-seductively round the bog. Lost in the beauty and rapture of--Lamore!. As us feet brust through the Summer flora and fauna, clouds of pollen and spores took to the air and glistened in the son like the dust of moon- beams. There was a sense of sensual, sexuality in the barmy Summer air. One wood knot be surprised if a satyr leaped from behind a tree and yelled, "Hi, how about a bit of an auld court?" Rabbits hopped and skipped, as rabbits are want to do. Birds flew low, giving us a tantalising glimpse of their under-carriage. The small white, fluffy clouds, were as little lambs, gambling in a pasture of azure blew. I clung on to Chuck and filled my blocked up hooter with the aroma of old spice and John West tuna chunks. Chuck began to whistle, what a melodic wheep he had. I skipped, I danced, I pranced and leaped-daintly over cow pats which lay in profussion in our path, like a veritable field of land mines. Round and round the bog we went. A mail and a female. A he and a she, as was decreed by auld Noah when his wife cried, "How highs the water Noah?" and auld Noah replied "Too feet high and rising". Round and round the bog we went, in a clock-wise direction. We were in sink with the Universe. We were just too small cogs in the Cosmos and yet--we had our dreams, we had our desires and we had-each other. Nothing momentous or of any grate consequence happened that day. I was kissed like what I've never bean kissed before and strolled, arm and arm with my true love Chuck Corona in a bog outside Clougher. And-yet I shall remember this day. When I am old and feeble and lying in a urine soaked bed popping my clogs. I shall think back to the lovely Summer day when Chuck Corona and me went for a walk in the-bog. From such simple things, are dreams made. So too all young lovers out there I say, make hey while the son shines, for when the rains came and darkness gathers round the door like hungry wolves. You wool regreat the things you did knot do, when it seemed that the son would shine forever!

But let me interact with a word of warning. Do take precautions, I wood suggest a pear of wellingtons, or a good, stout pear of hobnailed boots. You no it makes sense! And you are worth it! if you were knot, no wan wood walk you in the bog in the first plaice!

Ah-Lamore! the scallions in the poundies of life!.

Rosie Gets Sky.

2009-06-26T02:31:00.000-07:00

I have got SKY put into my Tee-Vee. A boy came out from Belfast and put her in. You should have scence the way the boy looked at me, I suppose coming from Belfast with all the smog copulation and sulphr in the air, he is used looking at wee deformed weeman.

I wood say he never respected to sea a tall, slim, statesquese Greek Godess living in a bog. My Sun Bon Jovi never left the boys side when he was working at the Tee-Vee. Everytime the boy adjusted something, Bon Jovi was at his shoulder, with too yellow candles hanging from his nose roaring, "What are you doing now-sir? What are you doing now--sir?" I got Sky in for the heaductional facilities of the cub. As you no Gerry, I have got a literally bent and I am never as happy as when I am curled up with, Sarte, Proust, or Baa-Baa-Ra Bradford. I don't no how to work the yoke yet, but Bon Jovi kan whizz round it like Jason Button. Investing in Sky is like getting into a Deloran kar and going back to the past. Now I kan sit and henjoy again, Steptoe and Sun, Only Fools and Horses, George and Mildred and Up The Stares And Down The Stares. I grately like the foreign cooking programmes. I have always had an intrest in foreign crusine. I subscribe to the Gordon Blue skool of cooking. I watch a grate cooking programme from Spain. The title of the programme is in Spanish, but when I translated it, it turned out to be, "Get Stuffed". Every weak, renowned chef Juan McBurro stuffs a different animal. He is the best stuffer I have ever scene. Juan McBurro could stuff anything, from a larks egg too a helephant. But Gerry, there is a lot of auld dirty phohographic stuff on Sky. For the good of Bon Jovi's immoral sole and too keep me from peeping, I got the Sky boy to put a lock on it. I like the wildlife programmes, as an animal lover, nothing gives me more pleasure that to see a gazelle's throat tore out by a lion after a damned good race. There is an Arts channel which shows bally and opera. Needless to say, I am glued too the screen when the boys in tites with the protruding forks are throwing their legs about. I am a kulture vulture and could sit for daze, picking at the bones of a good opera like, "The nut, that's a cracker-sweet". I watch all the news channels, al-jazere, Russin, Chinese, Indian, Japanese and RTE. I sometimes startle auld Bruno McRamsbottom, the bread man by coming out with things like, "Well Bruno, with both the Yen and the Dracma down, I swear one doesn't no what too do with one's spondulects". Well Gerry, I must go, I heer the pounding beet of Bonanza. I must go sea who many people auld Ben, Hoss, Adam and wee Joe kill this weak. But like America foreign policy, the Cartwrights are the good guys and only kill when provoaked. Mind you, I have scene auld Ben launch a pre-empretive strike on the Indians. But you can't make a wild big omelate like America, without breaking a few eggs.

Toodles for now, Rosie Ryan XXX

ODE TO THE SUN

2009-06-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

Gerry, I am sitting on a three legged stool beside the midden. Marcel Proust, is lying-suppline over my knee and John Paul Sarte is stretched out at my feet. The Son is so hot, I am feard my gooseberry green simment goes on fire. I look at the haze of heat rising from the sizzling midden. What a site a midden is on a hot day. It would have given Proust and Sarte gaiety de tour and a raison de-etra. There is the sent of lilics, honeysuckle and slurry in the air. I am intoxicated. Bluttered by the beauty of Summer. I feel the muse rise up in me like molten lave. I can knot resist. The muse wool knot be kept down. I--LEAP! too my feet, kicking over the three legged stool, throw my slender arms in the air and proclaim in kuman speech the indescribable, the undescribable beauty of-

SUMMER.

OH SUMMER HOW I DO LOVE YOU

THE MIDDAY HEAT, THE MORNING DEW

THE SWEAT IS RUNNING IN SECRET PLACES

THAT NEVER HAVE SEEN AULD MEN'S FACES.

MY OXTERS (BOTH) ARE JUST FAIR SQUELCHING

ALL THAT SALAD, CAUSES BELCHING

MY DRAWERS ARE CLINGING TO MY HIPS

AT THE IRON BRUE, I TAKE SOME SIPS.

OH GREAT BIG ORB UP IN THE SKY

YOU BURNED MY SON AND MADE HIM CRY

HE'S LYING UNDERNEATH YON THREE

STRETCHED OUT LIKE A RAPAR'EE.

MY BISOMS FROM YOU I CONCEAL

IF THEY GOT BURNED, THEY MAY NOT HEAL

AND I'D BE KNOWN BY THE CLOUGHER WITS

AS ROSIE WITH THE SCALDED----

(LEAVE THAT WORD OUT GERRY, THE WEE WAINS ARE ON HOLLYDAY)

FROM EARLY MORN TILL LATE AT NIGHT

YOU SCALD US WITH YOUR BURNING LIGHT

AND LIGHT SKINNED FOLK, THEY ARE SUCH NINNIES

THEY WANT TO LOOK LIKE -PICK-A-NINNIES.

I CHANGE MY DRAWERS THREE TIMES A DAY

TO KEEP THE AULD BO AWAY

YOUR SEARING HEAT LEFT NOT ONE HAIR

ON MY PROTRUDING-DERRIERE.

BUT SHINE ON GRATE BIG BLAZING SUN

UNTIL LIKE STEAK, WE ARE WELL DONE

EVERY HUMAN HEART IS ACHING

TO END UP JUST LIKE CRISPY BACON.

Gerry, my advice too you and the wee boy is, stay in the shed, don't leave the shed 'till the son goes down.

from a scalded, Rosie Ryan xxx

Midsummer

2009-06-19T03:49:00.000-07:00

Gerry, as a born again Druid, like what I am, I am sure you have got your long, white nite-dress ready for the Midsummer cermony's next weak. I have knot got a golden sickle too cut the ivy and laurels, but I have painted an auld hook with gold metalic paint. I am sure it wool be acceptable and adequate. I am sure that the dead, deseased Druids are well aware of my lack of spondulucts. My acolite shall again be my Sun Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi and I shall fast all day, shunning such delicies as stoat fritters and the buttered heels from pan loaves. On the stroke of mid-nite, Bon Jovi and I shall proceed in solomn procession too the tall standing stones in the bog. Due to the fasting, there may be some breaking of wind, but any out put of wind shall done without any roaring and laughing and witty asides like, "Put that dog out". or "Is that thunder I heer over Gortin?" Bon Jovi wool carry the gold painted sickle and I wool be carrying a pewter platter containing, bread, whine, oaten meel and a small tin of Fray Bentos korn beef. When I reproach the standing stones I shall redress the ancient Druid Gods. "Oh God's of our four fathers" I shall cry. "Behold your hand maiden Rosie and her cub Bon Jovi, kneel before the Gods of, Earth, wind, fire, air and water and if I have left any God out, my sincerest, may-a-culpas. Let our fields and our women be furtive. May our korn be as Hi as an elephants eye and our spuds, balls of flower. Send gentle reign on us heads, soft, gentle winds on us backs and sunny rays to gladen us days. Protect us from, plague, famine, black death, bunnions, floods, chillblaines, tempest roar and ring worm.
Last year after my prayer I said "Now Bon Jovi" "Is there any thing you want to say?" "Oh grate Druid God's" roared Bon Jovi "When I wake tomorrow, may I find that St Judas Primary skool in Clougher is burned too the ground and the police don't suspect me!". Then Bon Jovi and me did the Druid dance, which konsists of wild kicking and flinging of the legs and feat and throwing us arms in the air while intoning--"Come on yeh boy. Come on yeh boy, Come on yeh boy, come on!" As Bon Jovi kicked and flung, I could sea he had know drawers on. Was that a form of penance? Like Matt Talbot? When we got home, we got stuck into the cold ferret stew, washed down with brimming mugs of Iron Brue, served at room temperate-of course. Later, I stood gazing out of my bedroom winda. A wild, red-hared Irish colleen. The nite air blue through the whole in the winda and seemed to say. "Come. Come Rosie and be our Druid priestess. Come, daughter of Erin and take your plaice on the golden throne of the Druids". "Know" I whispered. "Know! I have a lump of a cub too rear and many more nites of robust fissling and futtering with my Keltic boyfriend-Chuck Corona". Then I utulised the po and-lept into bed, to dream of moon lit galivanting in the secret vales and glades of my people--THE DRUIDS!

Rat Attack

2009-06-15T06:12:00.000-07:00

I had a rat kornered in the korner of my abode. It was a grate big rat, about too feat long, including the auld scaly tale. The rat was peeping out from behind a pile of dirty drawers and simmets, I had left out about three weaks ago, prior to washing. The rat looked at me with it's wee red eyes and emmitted sharp hi pitched squeals that reminded me of the B-Gees during their hay day. "Come out you bugger" I yelled."But The rat refused to comply with my reasonabe request. "Rite" I said, as I went for the bisum, "On your own head be it boy". I poked the rat with the end of the bisum. The rat gave a squeel like a scalded kat, broke cover and ran up my leg. When the rat came too my anatomical cull-de-sack, it clung on viciously with it's claws too the feminine part of me, that is known in the medical profession as the "Under-carriage" but what most weeman call, Australia-or "Down there". "Let go you abomination" I yelled "I mite want too have more wains". Once again, the rat refused to comply with my reguest. I was standing with both knees together and my hands between my legs when my Sun Bon Jovi came home from skool. The cub took a look at me and said "What's rong with you? Hefted?" I yelled, "Do you know there's a rat up my skirt?" The cub smirked and said "You hum it and I'll sing it". "Get the frying pan" I yelled "And batter me about the fork of my skirt". Bon Jovi was only to happy to comply with my request. Time and time again he swung the frying pan against my suppline fork. The rat began to dodge about, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide. "Harder Bon Jovi" I yelled "The revolting rodent is biting at my drawers". "WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. Bon Jovi was beating me like a carpet. But the wily rodent, having found refuge in some of my maidenly secret nooks and crannies refused to budge. The sweat was lashing of Bon Jovi and the frying pan was deformed in the extreme, leading me to believe that it wood never fry a stoat again. "Run outside" roared Bon Jovi "And give your skirt a good shake". Taking the juviniles advice, I did just that. I stood at the door shaking my skirt like a Spanish Matador. Old Nero Ramsbum, the postman was half way up the lane when he saw me. He took wan look, jumped on his bike and went tearing back down the lane. Just when I thought the rat was going to take up abode in my nickers, it fell to the ground, ran between my legs and disappeared down a whole in the scullary. As I went off to inspect-Australia, Bon Jovi sniggered and said, "You're lucky the rat did knot claim squatters rites, it wood have taken a court order to get it out" I bristled and bridled but kept stum. I am hapy too inform all intrested, that my under-carriage is A-one and firing on all cylinders.

Later that nite, I was persusing Proust and Bon Jovi was watching the news. Suddenly the cub leaped to his feet, kicked the kat and yelled "Dammit". "What is it Sun?" I said "Has another Manchester United player jumped ship?" "Know" yelled Bon Jovi "It's yer man" "Yer man-whom?" I asked "Auld Mahmood Ahmadinejad" said Bon Jovi " he's only gone and got in again" "Is he anything too wee Bosco Ahmadadinejad from Gortin?" I said "Him with the bald head and the turn in his eye". "Know!" yelled Bon Jovi "It's auld Mahmood Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran, he only gone and got in again for another term"."What's that got too do with you?" I said "Why do you care who runs Iran?" Bon Jovi pointed too the tillie lamp and said "If auld Mahmood turns off the oil, you'll knot be sitting there with your grate big red bleezer of a face, illuminated by a tillie lamp. "Blow the tillie lamp out" I yelled "And lite a candle, to we sea what way the wee bugger jumps". "He wants nukes too" said Bon Jovi. "Let him have as many nukes as he likes" I said "As long as he has a good warm shed to keep them in and wires off a bit of ground so they can run about during the day"

Bon Jovi snorted and went to bed!, why? I have know kompreshion.

Rosie strikes it lucky!

2009-06-12T07:48:00.000-07:00

It's always hard too pick up the rains after a Hi-etas.

But after a couple of daze, you were back into it like the prcessional you are. Broadcasting is like riding a bike or pushing a wheel barrow, once you learn how too do it, you never forget.You must knot no youself with the hole plaice to yourself, with the wee boy away in the Spanish city of Spain. I hope he doesn't get run over by a pack of stampeding burros. Or lose all this spondulents too a Spanish fraulin with flashing eyes and chattering castenets. If he does, don't send him a penny, let him thumb home.

Gerry, I had a grate stroke of luck on Sonday nite. I won a hundred pounds at the bingo in St Judas hall. I was sweating for wan number and when wee Castro McCollingwood, the bingo caller yelled out, "All the fores--42", I couldn't believe my luck.This weak my Sun Bon Jovi and I are going for the weakend two Bundoran. Bundoran has a special plaice in my hart, in was in that see-side town that my Sun Bon Jovi was deceived. When I left Bundoran, I had too sticks of rock with me, a bag of shells and a fertilised egg, that turned out two be-Bon Jovi. I have nit Bon Jovi a bathing soot, so the cub kan go for a swim. The bathing soot is a bit baggy round the fork, but if the cub kan have a swim and net a shoal of herring-sew much the better. Bon Jovi is very excited. I have bean washing trousers all weak. "Mammy" said Bon Jovi !When I get too Bundoran, kan I build a castle on the beech?" "I'm afraid knot Sun" I said "Too build a castle on the beech, you wood need lots of bricks, cement and planning permission from Brian McNiff.

We wool be staying in a caravan in the West end Gerry, so if you're up in Bundoran at the weak end, call in and I wool heat up some stoat and turnip stew. But you can't stay the nite Gerry, I no the effect I have on men. Sometimes when I meet men on a lonely road, they are that bewitched with my grate beauty that they stand in shucks gawking at me. Other's are so smitten by my beauty that they jump the ditch and take off over the fields. Wool this grate beauty what I have never fade and let me know what it's like to be a normal woman? Every morning I scrutinize my big red bleezer of a face, looking for signs of ageing, but if anything my beauty is increasing in intensity.

"OH ROSIE, GODESS OF YOUR RACE

WITH RED FLANELL DRAWERS AND WIND BURNED FACE.

WHEN MEN SEA YOU THEY TREMBLE AND QUAKE

AND FORKS HAVE BEAN KNOWN TO VIBRATE AND SHAKE.

May God and his wholly hangels and saints look after you Gerry. Rosie Ryan XXX

Hi Brow Poetry

2009-06-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

Deer Gerry, what a blessed relief it is too sea you back from far off shores and sunny climes. Bon Jovi, my Sun and air was feard that you mite be kidnapped by gorillas. Did you get back for the poetic extravaganza about TS Elliot on the BBC?

I didn't understand a word Gerry, so I was sure I was getting a good tightener of Hi brow arts and kulture.

The late, dead Sir Alec Guiness came on with a face as long as a Dungannon turf spade and went into a long monotonous dirge that had me on the edge of my seat, trying too work out what the hell he was talking about. I looked at Bon Jovi who was removing the appendix from a dead stoat with the bread knife and said, "This is the real McCoy. This is premier, top shelf poetry, you don't get this kind of stuff in Ireland's Own or Our Boys". Then Sheamus Heany, crouched in a corner and wearing a heavy wool gansey made some comments that greatly added to the confusion of the artisic experience. I came away from it with my head light and a bit of a stagger in my step, but I new I was stuffed, stuffed to the gunnels with Hi brow, poetry, like what is taut in Eaten the primary skool for young gentlemen. My advice to your listeners is this, When seeking menthol stimulation, aim Hi, Come away from the, Hi-diddle-diddle stuff and get stuck into the real hard core stuff. Go into Eason's and say too the cuttie, "I want a book on obscure, Hi-brow poetry and if I understand one word of it, I wool return the book and demand my money back". Unlike the Northern Ireland team we must set goals in our lives. I have red 69 pages of Miltons Paradise Lost and I am pleased to say that knot one word made a titter of sense. It's not supposed too. Books like that are like Mount Everest, you read them simply because they are there! I got some poems by the Roman poet the Cicro Kid, I can't wait to get stuck into them. Aim Hi Gerry. Aim Hi in life. Don't settle for the mundane and you wool be the life and sole of cock-tale parties in Shantallow-and surrounding districts.

Gerry, pleese play, "Hay there, you with the stars in your eyes" for auld Zeeter McPossum who fell off his bicycle--again! I blame Clougher council, what a stupid place to put a corner. Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX

BON JOVI REWRITES THE BIBLE

2009-06-06T05:12:00.000-07:00

It was Saturday, the day that God and the trade unions decreed should be a day of rest.
In the abode of 13 The Bog Road, Clougher, where I live and reside, Bon Jovi my Sun and I were taking it easy, chilling, just hanging around. I was sitting-gracefully on a chair with my feet on a stool, pulling the odd hare from my plump slender leg with a pear of pliers. I am knot bye nature a hairy Mary, but sometimes a rogue hare wool try to take up abode on my fare, alabaster skin.
I gritted my teeth, as I pulled another curley inch long hare from my slender calf with a girlish shriek of, "OH, In the name of God". Blood ran in rivlets down my sturdy leg and in between my bunched up toes. I raised my legs and studied them. Too strong creek columns, the mottled veins gave my legs the appearance of blue-veined marble. What beauty. What grace. My red knees were concealed in rolls of delightful feminine fat. The rolling contours of my buttressing thighs, absolutely beautiful in the extreme. "The legs of a Greek Godess" I intoned to myself.
The mighty columns that hold up the temple of-Rosie Ryan. The temple of grace and beauty, at which men kneel in reverence and fear. Very few are the men who can look Rosie Ryan in the face and knot come away babbling and gibbering driven mad by her terrible beauty. A beauty that is knot of this world. A hyptonising, unnatural beauty, bestowed by the Gods. I am the Gorgon of Clougher. The Oracle of Delly. I hold the template of beauty and all other women are but inferiour, cheep facsimiles. I Rosie Ryan, am the fountain head of beauty and all other women mearly streams burns and babbling brookes.
I gave a maidenly sigh of satisfaction and looked at my Sun Bon Jovi. The cub was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire like big chief Rain In The face. The cub was reeding the Bible that my daddy had stolen from a Presbyterian church. "How far are you on Bon Jovi?" I asked. "Have you red about the boy called Job sitting on a dung hill? God I nearly killed myself laughing when I red about auld Job".
Bon Jovi glared up with his good eye and said "Have you red this tome which porports to be the word of God". "I have!" I yelled "And a damn good reed it was. The crossing of the red see, the tossing of the walls of Jerico and Daniel in the den of Lions, which lead, indirectly to Duffy's Circus".
Bon Jovi leaped to his feet, waved the Bible above his head like Ian Paisley and said "This book is full of inaccuracys, missconseptions and erroneous mistakes". "How dare you, you wee pagan" I roared. "How dare you, a lump of a cub, disagree with the word of God. You're far worser that auld Richard Dawkins the atheist". "God gave me free will" roared Bon Jovi. "He also gave me a brane too think with and I'm telling you, as a highly headucated lump of a cub, that the Bible is not the literal truth". "What about the parting of the waters?" I yelled "Explain that if you're so fly". "Simple" said Bon Jovi "The tide went out and auld holy Moses was able to walk to the other side". "And what made the walls of Jerico come tumbling down? I roared. "Bad workmanship" yelled Bon Jovi "The cemente was knot mixed rite and the foundations were knot dug deep enough. Let me ask you something" said Bon Jovi, looking at me with a scrutising stare from his good ocular. "Ask away" I yelled "I came twenty first in our class on religion".
"I take it" said Bon Jovi "That you have red the first book in the Bible, the book of Genitalia?"
"Of Course I have" I roared, "I know all about auld Adam and Eve". "So far so good" said Bon Jovi "Now would you mind telling me why Adam and Eve were turfed out of the garden of Eden?" "It's in the book of Genitalia" I roared. "Adam and Eve were thrown out of the garden of Eden for eating the forbidden apple". "I have bean giving grate though too that" mused Bon Jovi "And it seems funny to me that God wood throw them out because of wan auld apple. I have bean thinking and I think a mistake was made when the scribe was riting the Bible, he was probably bluttered after drinking too are three goat-skins of wine. The scribe rote down apple, but what he should have rote was-PEAR! You must remember that Adam and Eve were buck naked, well what I think happened is this, God came too Adam and Eve and said, "I am sorry that youse is both naked, but-behold, I have created a--PEAR of drawers, youse wool have to work out amomg yourselves how youse wool share the drawers". Then God went away and when his back was turned, Adam and Eve began to fight over the PEAR of drawers and ripped the God given drawers into pieces. Then God came back and said, "Look what youse done to my good drawers. Sling your hook and never darken my door again". I looked at the cub in wonder and surprise, then I lifted the poker and took after him over the bog. The wee brute sped off jumping shucks like a race horse and roaring, "Amen, Amen I say on to you, it was knot an apple, it was a PEAR, a Pear of drawers". I'm going to see the Parish priest tonight and my opening gambit wool be, "Father, are you Ah-Fey with the book of Genitalia???"

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BON JOVI IS STRUCK BY CUPID'S ARROW

2009-06-03T09:01:00.000-07:00

It was a fierce fight too the death. In a darkened korner in my 'umble abode,I was trying to strangle a four foot eel I had found in a bog hole. The eel was putting up a hell of a fight. It's flying tale had scent a statue of the child of Prague and a glass ball full of swirling snow to the floor. My seeking thumbs sought the eel's windpipe as I grasped it tightly behind the reptilian head. The eel snapped with it's sharp teeth and lashed and thrashed about like a python on red bull. "Hold still you bugger, 'till I strangle you" I yelled. In a retalatory gesture the eel wrapped it's slimy coils round my throat and began to try and strangle ME!. "Damn you, you slimy bugger" I croaked. It was every woman and eel for themselves. Foul smelling ooze and slime ran down my muscular arms and splattered on to my imperial puce gansey. Me and the eel were staring each other in the face, eyes bulging and tongues hanging out. I squeezed and squeezed, the eel squeezed back harder. Sweat was running down my red, bleezing wind burned face and trickling through my massive cleavage like a mountain stream. My drawers were threatening at any moment to slip down my plump, celluite thighs and fall-languidly round my swoolen ankles in a rumpled heap of red flannel. As I fought to get a better hold, on the wily eel my burnt umber brown hobnailed boots slipped-precociously on dog skitter, the eel flew out of my grasping hands and I fell on the broad of my back, breaking wind with grate ferocity and indeed, verocity as my ample derriere made contact with terra firma. Cashing in on my confusion, the eel tried to make good it's escape, by wriggling frantically towards the open door. "WHACK! I brought the frying pan down on the eel's big black head. The eel was stunned, it's tale began to vibrate like a mobile fone. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!. The eel gave a quiver, a shiver and departed to what ever slimy heaven eel's go too. I stood there gasping and panting like an old dog. I was covered in slimy eel goo. I deposed myself by having a mug of tay at the kitchen table, then I cut the eel into inch long pieces, added a diced onion, a pinch of salt and pepper, a beau-K-garney and let the saucepan to simmer slowly on the back of the range. What a bounty the leviathan of the deep was, it would keep me and Bon Jovi going for a weak.
When the son was at it's zenith and even dragonflies were taking it easy, my Sun Bon Jovi staggered home from skool. The cub gave a grunt and hurled his skoolbag into the scullary like a bowling ball. I looked at the fertilised egg, now grown to boyhood. The cub looked-pensive, meditative and thoughtful. "Bon Jovi" I said "What's the matter?. You are couriously reticent and reserved for a cub who has just got out of skool on a wonderful day like to day". Bon Jovi cleaned his nose on his sleeve, gave a grunt and kicked the coal bucket, but remained silent.
"Bon Jovi" I said "I don't need to be a doctor or a psycho to know that you have something on your mind. As a woman of the world and surrounding districts, I would advice you to-vent. Give voice to your feelings. As a loving mother I can sea that you have issues and are seeking closure. Are you seeking closure Bon Jovi?" "YES, I am" roared the cub, "Closure of your big mouth. You kan't help" said Bon Jovi "No wan kan help, the truth is, I am--stricken". "Holy mother of God" I yelled "have you got the auld swine flu? I told you knot to take the pig to bed with you". Bon Jovi looked-wisfully out of the window, smiled a little bitter smile and said. "Yes, I am-stricken. Stricken by an on slaught of tender feelings. Stricken by la affair-de-la-hart. Stricken by -love, striken by-lamore and striken by the delightful, beautiful cuttie that goes by the name of--Deliah McSlaughter". "OH Bon Jovi!" I ejuclated, "You are in love. Just think, you are in love with wee Deliah McSlaughter and I am head over heels in love with Chuck Corona". "How dare you" yelled Bon Jovi. "How dare you compare the senile, sexual shennanins you and Chuck Corona have with the pure, undiluted virginal affections I have for the best wee cuttie in the world-Deliah McSlaughter". But love is love and as the son set in the West, I got the gramphone out, put on, "Some Henchanted Evening" and Bon Jovi and I sat staring out at the darkening bog, thinking of the one who had stole us hartes. When I went too bed, Bon Jovi was sitting with his teeth gritted, cutting the name, Deliah McSlaughter into his arm with a blunt penknife.
Ah, Lamore! You strike without warning, taking away the wit and leaving in it's place a rose-tinted do-lallyness akin too Nero and Juliet, Romeo and Jupiter and Ken and Deirdre from Kornation Street.

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THE DIABOLIC FIENDISH PLAN OF BON JOVI

2009-05-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

Something has awoken me from my nocturnal slumber. What could it be? A grey lite was forcing itself through the cobwebbed window. By it's meagure illumination I could sea my drawers hanging over a chair and the half full po with a good bead on it. I was lying-gracefully on the broad of my back. A damson in repose, a Venus of the nite. Only darkness has the power to hide my grate beauty from the eyes of men. My sweaty mass of red hare was clinging to my plump. round, fat red face. What had awoken me? My unbound bisoms lay on either side of me, like too dumplins. Why had I awoken? Why was I staring round my maidenely bouid-wah with a look of wonder and surprise on my classical Greek/Roman visage? Then too my horror and indeed-chagrin, I heard the pad of feet coming up the stares. I tried to bound up like a woodland sprite but was unable too. Looking, I could sea that my slender maidenly wrists and my plump water retaining ankles were bound to the bed by ropes. How could this be? Did Chuck Corona, my boyfriend and me indulge in a little bit of M and M last nite. It is but a playful thing Chuck and I do somethymes. Chuck ties me too the bed and pretends too be Jack the Ripper on the trail of female reproductive organs. But like any normal couple who indulge in M and M we have a safety word too keep it from going two far. Deer Chuck knows I have had enough when I gulder out--"CLOUGHER". But wait, Chuck was away in Dublin, who then was creeping up the stares to interfer with my person with fiendish groapings and diabolical futterings? "It's the-RIPPER!" I roared and I began to thrash about like a beached whale. I kicked, I flung, I threshed my slim, girlish 18 stone body from side to side-but all two no avail. The only response from my kicking and flinging was a loud fusillade of wind breaking, akin to a fire fight in down town Basra. Now the handle of my bedroom door was creaking, the fiend was without! The door opened with a creak and a small figure crept into my room. The creature semed deformed. Could it be the hunch-back of Naughty Dame looking for Esmerelda? I broke wind ferociously in the hope that the creature mite think I had a gun secreated in the bed, but still the humped loathsome figure came nearer. His ugly face was contorted and twisted with evil. Then as the dawns grey lite got brighter, I saw too my horror that the intruder was my Sun-Bon Jovi. "Please release me let me go" I yelled "Or by God Boy you'll feel my toe". The wee gulpin never answered me, he ran down the stares and came back with a big jug of water and an auld rag that I clean pee up with. Then the ugly wee brute wearing a pear of tites over his big round head, leant over the bed and hissed. "Where did you hide the packet of wagonwheels?" I glared back definately and roared. "That, you shall never know. Never, Never, NEVER". Bon Jovi giggled and said "Ah so! well let the fun begin". And before I new what was happening, the wee gulpin put the piss saturated rag over my face and began to pour water from the big jug. I couldn't believe it, he who had sprang from my fruitful lions was-water boarding me! The lump of a cub was water-boarding his auld mother. I was choaking, I was drowning. The water went up my hooter and down my throat. I couldn't breathe. The bed creaked and groaned as I thrashed about like a porpose. Then it stopped and Bon Jovi said "Once again I ask you, where did you hide the packet of wagonwheels?" I had too tell him, I couldn't take anymore torture. The cub ran down the stares and I could hear him crunching and gobbling at the wagonwheels. I lay exhausted in the saurated wet bed, then I peed myself-well, what did it matter now? After an hour, the wee brute appeared again, cut the ropes with a penknife and ran off to hide in the eggberries. What spawn of the devil have I given birth too.? A cub who wood water-board his auld mother, will soon be smoking and drinking. My egg must have bean fertlised by a demon from the hot pit of hell. But he can't hide in the eggberries for ever and when he sneaks home, Bon Jovi wool find he has a date with the water barrel outside the house. I too can water-board. I wool hold the wee gulpin in the water barrel until his face turns as blue as a ducks egg. No one water-boards Rosie Ryan and gets away with it. Knot Al-quida, knot George Bush and certaintly knot the lump of a cub kown as, Bon Jovi Ryan. I'm quite looking forward to a bit of torture. I have a mean streak in me. Maybe that's where Bon Jovi gets it from!!

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THE CASE OF THE MISSING DRAWERS

2009-05-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

Fare indeed was the day as I dunged out the midden like a Trojan. My bulging biceps flexed as I filled the wheel barrow with good rotten manure. I leant on my fork and looked around me. A dungy smell was in the air. I opened my nostrils like the late dead Kenneth Williams and sniffed the pungent aroma up my hooter. Ah, there's nothing like the smell of manure on a barmy Summer day. Probably the first smell in the world, in the garden of Eden, was the smell of manure. I was stripped to my grey simmet, my mulberry blew gansey hung from a rotten fence post. The suction on my wellingtons was tarra, as the midden tried to pull me down into it's red hot core. Dung is a grate fossil fuel. Heel up a cart load of dung at the haggard, and a weak later you could boil an egg in the nuclear core. The government should build dung nuclear reactors. Cheep fuel for the masses and co friendly emmisions. I spat on my hands and cried. "This shi dung, won't shift itself" and went at it like a navvy. Being a female woman who could multi-task I sang as I worked.
"DUNG, DUNG, RING-A-DING-DING
PUT IT ON YOUR RHUBARB IN THE EARLY SPRING
STICK IN A FORK AND GIVE IT A FLING
OH, DUNG,DUNG,RING-A-DING-DING.
"Another cracker Rosie" I giggled, as I squelched further up the midden.
Suddenly, I heard the swish of wellingtons coming through the rushes and nettles. I utulised my oculars and preceived that it was my Sun Bon Jovi and another cub coming through the bog. I scrutinized the cub, I had scene him before, leaping and jumping like a kangeroo with corns in the skool playground. He was a rare looking cub, thin as a willow stick, all elbows and knees and a head of the gingerest hare I had ever scene. A real carrot top. "MAMMY!" roared Bon Jovi "I wood like too interduce you to a fellow student, Fergie McBoing". "Hello Fergie" I said "Hello Mrs Ryan" said the cub in a Hi reedy voice. "Just back from skool Fergie?" I asked. "AYe Mrs Ryan" squeaked the ginger nut. "Do you like skool Fergie?" I asked "Aye Mrs Ryan" squeaked the red hared scoolar. "There are knot many Fergie's round here" I said "Did your daddy call you after Sir Alex Ferguson?" "No, Mrs Ryan" squeaked the cub, "He called me after his wee tractor. And now he tells everyone, "I've got too wee Fergies". Bon Jovi opeded his big yapper and began to laugh like a tickled hynea. "Ah,-Ha-Ha-Ha" roared the cub. "OH, Ho-Ho-Ho,--AH, Tee-Tee-Hee" "Do you get it Mammy?" roared Bon Jovi "Fergie's name is-Fergie and Fergie's daddy has a wee Fergie tractor, so Fergie's daddy can say without a devil of a lie, that he has too-Fergie's. Every thyme I heer that story" said Bon Jovi "I go into veritable-fits". I took the too cubs inside and gave them a meel of buttered heels from pan loaves and too big mugs of buttermilk. Then the too cubs went out two play. It was good to sea Bon Jovi play with someone who did knot belong too the rodent family. After wee Fergie went home, Bon Jovi and I sat down to supper. This thyme it was too mugs of buttermilk and the buttered heels from pan loaves. I broke wind, discretly and demurly like a member of the royal family and went out two bring the washing in. In the twinkling of an eye, I was back in the house, ashen faced and trembling all over like a caul-rifed eel. "BON JOVI" I roared "Did you sea my good red flannel drawers?" Bon Jovi looked up haughtly and riposted, "KNOW, I have know wish or desire to sea your auld smelly red flannel drawers". "That red hared Fergie must have purlioned the drawers" I yelled. "That ginger nut must be an apprentice pervert" Bon Jovi pointed with a rigid digid and yelled, "LOOK!" a piece of paper, it must have bean pushed under the door". I grabbed the piece of paper, it was a page from a skool jotter and on it was rote.
IF YOU WANT TO SEA YOUR DRAWERS ALIVE AGAIN. LEAVE A FIVER UNDER THE STONE BY THE CHESTNUT TREE. PS. DON'T TELL THE PEELERS OR THE FBI.
"My good Sunday go too meeting drawers have bean-kidnapped!" I yelled.
"If I was you" said Bon Jovi "I wood pay the ransome, these boys seem to know what they're doing. Give me the auld fiver and I'll go and leave it under the stone and I wood say you wool soon be reunited with your drawers." "Something didn't seem rite. I smelled a rat and it wasn't the one behind the sofa for it was mummified. I looked at Bon Jovi, he seemed-different, he seemed to have-changed. "Hi boy!" I yelled "Is your hump getting bigger?" Bon Jovi tried to flea, but I was two quick for him, I grabbed him by the scruff of his dirty neck and found too my chargrin that the cub had stuffed my red flannel drawers up the back of his gansey. I cuffed Bon Jovi round the ear and fell too my knees crying out to the Lord like a constipated donkey. "Oh Lord, why has the fruit of my lions, turned out too be a cub that wood kidnap his auld mammy's drawers?". Answer, there came-none. I was going to tell the parish priest on the wee gulpin, but I wood feel inhabited talking about my drawers too a man of the cloth. I hope I haven't reared another Jesse James or Machine Gun Ryan!

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