A WILE STORM

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

2 GREAT BRAINS ARE BETTER THAN ONE

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

Rosie Beats The Bucking Bronco

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

Poetry and Profits

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

Farewell Benito

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

Kon Man In Clougher!

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

Down With Dung Spreaders!

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