A culture extravaganza

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!