SOME HANLIN!

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

ROSIE RYAN'S EPISTLE TO THE CLOUGHERARIANS

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

PICKED UP BY THE FUZZ

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

ROSIE RYAN'S FRENCH LETTER

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

Rosie's Wildlife Reserve

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

BON JOVI'S ENTREPRENURIAL PLANS

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

A Thyme to Plant

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