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?