Deer Mar'ee., how is you doing? Us, Rosie Ryan and off spring, Bon Jovi, is going grate. Ree-guarding an inquest, Bon Jovi's birthday is next weak. I don't no what age the cub is. He looks about nine, are ten. Anyway, " Perfidous Fractos" as the Latineo boys say. Bon Sir-Ah and let the hair sit. The cub is wild into country music. He wants clumps of hare pulled out, so he wool look like Hugo Duncan. "Know! Bon Jovi! I say "Your hare is your crowning glory AND a wildlife reserve for nits, fleas and daddy-long-legs". "Mucho Sanctum and fiddle-dee-dee" replied the 'orribe gulpin. Anyway Mar'ee, if you could play, "Dee-Lany had a donkey" bye Valerie Dinnigan, the cub would be climbing the walls with gusto and vim. Joy, wood be unbounded!!!! I leave it in your culpable hands Mar'ee. AAAAH! How I love country music!!!!!!. The music of the people, sung bye people, for the people and listened to, by many people. SO! a special inquest for Bon Jovi Ryen, next weak wood be gratley AAAH-reciated. I is Rosie Ryan, the sultry, beauty of Clougher...and, surrounding districts. xxxxx

Long Thyme, Know Right.

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

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

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

Men Languish At My Feet

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

ROSIE RYAN'S KRISTMAS LETTER.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

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

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

"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

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

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