Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the fairy Queen of Clougher.
Word has reached me that once again, like the swallows of Capisstrano you are winging your way to sunnier climes.
You Gerry Anderson is a lotus eater. That's what you is, a lotus eater.
The world is your ostler. You fly through the sky with the gratest of ease, eating concannon and musky green peas.
You circumscribe the globe like a veritable equater.
You is a jet-setter and founder member of the mile Hi club.
Oh the depravity and debauchery that goes on in the cramped confines of a Ryanair toilet.
I was just saying to the bredman this morning as he fondled my paris buns, Gerry Anderson is a gallivanter extraordinaire.
The word extraordinaire comes from the French as does my Paris buns.
Things is quite in Clougher at the presant.
The hullabaloo over auld 86 year old Mungo McZerox and auld 82 year old
Pippa McMalaboo is dying down.
Oh the shame, oh the igmony to be dragged from a burning hey shed by firemen at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Mungo lay on the grass like Al Jolson insisting he had taken auld Pippa into the hey shed to show her the way his false teeth glowed in the dark.
Auld Pippa is disgraced, the priest forbid her ever to put flowers on the alter again.
Some saintly, kristian woman put a red lite on auld Pippa's zimmer frame on Monday as she walked down Clougher street to jeers, boo's and kat calls.
LUST! Raw, undiluted lust lead to their downfall.
Lust is like rust, it corrodes, tarnishes and in the end, devours.
Oft I must go. Bon Jovi wool soon be home from skool to amaze me with his amazing thoughts on, dark matter, the eratic orbit of Jupiter and a loud, guldering of, "The red flannel drawers that Maggie wore".
Think of the wan who loves you as you get stuck into the Sue-She and Don Perry-On cham-pain.
I is your 'umble senile serviette,
Rosie Ryan xxx
HASTY LA-VISA
Sunday, 6 February 2011
ROBBO'S GONE RIP
Clougher is in morning.
A ground swell of grief and tarra sadness has welled up like,--like, shi--sewage from a cesspit and engulfed the town of Clouger.
The reason for the grief and sadness is the demise, death and passing away of auld Robbo McTigg.
Auld Robbo was just 91 when he left this moral coil and shuffled off into the darkness of death.
What made auld Robbo's death all the more pungent was he had just finished his first book called.
"LIFE BEGINGS AT 90".
Needless to say, the book launch at Keady's pig farm has bean cancelled.
Poor auld Robbo went quick, he was eating the heel of a pan loaf with jam on it when he cluched his chest, gave a squak like a chicken laying an egg, rolled his eyes, kicked madly with his rite foot and expired.
He is laid out (horizontally) on the bed with his rosary beads in wan hand and his Bic pen in the other.
It wood break your hart to sea him.
Auld biddies are falling down like two-legged stools, hauled out to the yard and held under the cauld water tap.
Auld Robbo was a ladies man in his younger daze.
He used to mince down Clougher street wearing an off the shoulder dress and Hi-heels, much to the umbrage of his daddy and mammy who were content with the wee things God had given them.
Auld Robbo wool be missed.
He lifted the pennies at the chapel door every Sonday.
Called out the numbers at the bingo and gave abundantly of the moles he trapped and killed.
Many a poor wain in Clougher was raised on Robbo's mole soup.
Most of them wear glasses, but that's immaterial.
"There he lies" roared the priest.
"In that box just as we will lie in us boxes when the good lord prolaims us time is up.
Life is a journey" yelled the priest.
"A journey from womb to tomb. No stops in between, straight on to the end of the line.
We is all on death row. We is all dead men AND weeman walking.
You sit 'ere today in all your finery" roared the priest.
Casting an admiring glance at auld Tilly Tiddler's blue wellingtons.
"But the reality IS! Mark well that fraze, the reality is, you'se is all wearing orange boiler-soots.
Wan by wan you wool be called to answer for your sins.
So, keep your lamps lit, keep her lit I say, your coincence klear and always wear klean drawers.
So now, we creatures made from clay stand and sing auld Robbo's favourite him,
"We plough through the fields and scatter".
As they lowerd auld Robbo into a water-logged hole I broke down and yelled.
"Bless me father for I have sinned, I let auld Robbo grope me when picking blackberries in 1971"
The priest threw the holy water sprinkler at me and roared.
"BEGONE from this concertianed ground and return too your hovel of sin and depravity"
Apart from that, the funeral went off without a hitch!
I is the woman made from clay, muck and clabber,
Rosie Ryan xxx
A ground swell of grief and tarra sadness has welled up like,--like, shi--sewage from a cesspit and engulfed the town of Clouger.
The reason for the grief and sadness is the demise, death and passing away of auld Robbo McTigg.
Auld Robbo was just 91 when he left this moral coil and shuffled off into the darkness of death.
What made auld Robbo's death all the more pungent was he had just finished his first book called.
"LIFE BEGINGS AT 90".
Needless to say, the book launch at Keady's pig farm has bean cancelled.
Poor auld Robbo went quick, he was eating the heel of a pan loaf with jam on it when he cluched his chest, gave a squak like a chicken laying an egg, rolled his eyes, kicked madly with his rite foot and expired.
He is laid out (horizontally) on the bed with his rosary beads in wan hand and his Bic pen in the other.
It wood break your hart to sea him.
Auld biddies are falling down like two-legged stools, hauled out to the yard and held under the cauld water tap.
Auld Robbo was a ladies man in his younger daze.
He used to mince down Clougher street wearing an off the shoulder dress and Hi-heels, much to the umbrage of his daddy and mammy who were content with the wee things God had given them.
Auld Robbo wool be missed.
He lifted the pennies at the chapel door every Sonday.
Called out the numbers at the bingo and gave abundantly of the moles he trapped and killed.
Many a poor wain in Clougher was raised on Robbo's mole soup.
Most of them wear glasses, but that's immaterial.
"There he lies" roared the priest.
"In that box just as we will lie in us boxes when the good lord prolaims us time is up.
Life is a journey" yelled the priest.
"A journey from womb to tomb. No stops in between, straight on to the end of the line.
We is all on death row. We is all dead men AND weeman walking.
You sit 'ere today in all your finery" roared the priest.
Casting an admiring glance at auld Tilly Tiddler's blue wellingtons.
"But the reality IS! Mark well that fraze, the reality is, you'se is all wearing orange boiler-soots.
Wan by wan you wool be called to answer for your sins.
So, keep your lamps lit, keep her lit I say, your coincence klear and always wear klean drawers.
So now, we creatures made from clay stand and sing auld Robbo's favourite him,
"We plough through the fields and scatter".
As they lowerd auld Robbo into a water-logged hole I broke down and yelled.
"Bless me father for I have sinned, I let auld Robbo grope me when picking blackberries in 1971"
The priest threw the holy water sprinkler at me and roared.
"BEGONE from this concertianed ground and return too your hovel of sin and depravity"
Apart from that, the funeral went off without a hitch!
I is the woman made from clay, muck and clabber,
Rosie Ryan xxx
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Standing In The Way Of Progress.
I is writing this blog from the outskirts of Clougher.
If you ever go to Clougher you simply must go and sea the holy elbows of saint Moleno.
The holy relics are displayed in a glass case and are said to cure the jitters if the one consumed with the jitters knees down and kisses the case.
I have scene people jittery as be-damned go into sea the elbows and come out yelling.
"MY JITTERS IS GONE! MY JITTERS IS GONE!"
Alas, some people get jitters mixed up with another word and go away disappointed and longing for knew drawers.
Saint Moleno was marthered by the Vikings in middle evil times.
The Viking chief, with horns on his 'ead went into saint Moleno's wee chapel and roared,
"BEGONE!".
Saint Moleno wood knot BE-GO and was tied up to a tree by the big tow and eaten alive by blue tits.
Maybe now you'll think twice about hanging out nuts for those wee assassins.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was looking at me and said.
"Bon Jovi, lite of my life, flesh of my flesh, brane of my brane, if I had money I wood take you to Disney Land in America".
Bon Jovi sneered, broke wind and said.
"I am knot a child. I have know wish to sea Michael Mouse, Millicent mouse or snoring beauty.
I want to go two Switzerland and sea the big Hydron Collider"
"In the name of all that's holy, sacred and saintly" I gasped,staggering back and stepping on the kats tale.
"What's more" yelled Bon Jovi.
"I want to be put into the big Hydron Collider and scent round at the speed of lite so I can break a particle with my head and create a black whole".
"Shut your mouth you precocious wee gulpin" I roared.
"You already have a black whole, what do you want another for?"
Bon Jovi yelled,
"THICK! Thick as too bricks."
And stormed out of the house in fury and Hi dungeon.
Later that nite I relented.
Was I standing in the way of progress by denying Bon Jovi acces to the Hydron Collider?
Surely if I had a budding genie on my hands the least I could do was help him.
Which is why later that nite I threw pebbles and stones at Bon Jovi's head so he could learn how to head a particle.
As the son set over the bog mother and child went indoors arm and arm.
Bon Jovi had many dunts, cuts and scratches on his head, but nothing that required stitches.
As he crawled into his cardboard box after tee, I looked at his big arse with a mothers love and muttered.
"There goes my Einstein, my Gally-leo, my Captain Kirk"
I then utulized the po 'till it was fare brimming over, muttered.
"HAY-HOE"
and leapt like a wilderbeest into my bed.
Soon, all was quite and silent.
Just the billowing of the duvet confirmed I had curried stoat for tee..
"In omni pater, et feel-lea, et in ter ebo SANCTUS! SANCTUS! SANCTUS! AH-AH-MEN."
I is the sprite what gambles in the forest,
Rosie Ryan xxx
If you ever go to Clougher you simply must go and sea the holy elbows of saint Moleno.
The holy relics are displayed in a glass case and are said to cure the jitters if the one consumed with the jitters knees down and kisses the case.
I have scene people jittery as be-damned go into sea the elbows and come out yelling.
"MY JITTERS IS GONE! MY JITTERS IS GONE!"
Alas, some people get jitters mixed up with another word and go away disappointed and longing for knew drawers.
Saint Moleno was marthered by the Vikings in middle evil times.
The Viking chief, with horns on his 'ead went into saint Moleno's wee chapel and roared,
"BEGONE!".
Saint Moleno wood knot BE-GO and was tied up to a tree by the big tow and eaten alive by blue tits.
Maybe now you'll think twice about hanging out nuts for those wee assassins.
I looked at my sun Bon Jovi who was looking at me and said.
"Bon Jovi, lite of my life, flesh of my flesh, brane of my brane, if I had money I wood take you to Disney Land in America".
Bon Jovi sneered, broke wind and said.
"I am knot a child. I have know wish to sea Michael Mouse, Millicent mouse or snoring beauty.
I want to go two Switzerland and sea the big Hydron Collider"
"In the name of all that's holy, sacred and saintly" I gasped,staggering back and stepping on the kats tale.
"What's more" yelled Bon Jovi.
"I want to be put into the big Hydron Collider and scent round at the speed of lite so I can break a particle with my head and create a black whole".
"Shut your mouth you precocious wee gulpin" I roared.
"You already have a black whole, what do you want another for?"
Bon Jovi yelled,
"THICK! Thick as too bricks."
And stormed out of the house in fury and Hi dungeon.
Later that nite I relented.
Was I standing in the way of progress by denying Bon Jovi acces to the Hydron Collider?
Surely if I had a budding genie on my hands the least I could do was help him.
Which is why later that nite I threw pebbles and stones at Bon Jovi's head so he could learn how to head a particle.
As the son set over the bog mother and child went indoors arm and arm.
Bon Jovi had many dunts, cuts and scratches on his head, but nothing that required stitches.
As he crawled into his cardboard box after tee, I looked at his big arse with a mothers love and muttered.
"There goes my Einstein, my Gally-leo, my Captain Kirk"
I then utulized the po 'till it was fare brimming over, muttered.
"HAY-HOE"
and leapt like a wilderbeest into my bed.
Soon, all was quite and silent.
Just the billowing of the duvet confirmed I had curried stoat for tee..
"In omni pater, et feel-lea, et in ter ebo SANCTUS! SANCTUS! SANCTUS! AH-AH-MEN."
I is the sprite what gambles in the forest,
Rosie Ryan xxx
Monday, 10 January 2011
Rosie Takes A Stand
ALLAH be with you Gerry
I, Rosie Ryan am calling for Sharia law to be interduced in Clougher and surrounding districts.
I kan take know more of the lewd, obscene shennigans that go on under the duvet of darkness.
I am taking a stand.
Up with this I shall knot put!!!.
I wool knot rear my son Jovi Jovi on the out-skirts of a town filled to the brim and over-flowing with depravity and debauchery.
Clougher may revel in the name, "Sin City, but knot I.
Knot Rosie Ryan. People are queueing up at nite to get into the rural hay sheds.
And its knot just the young.
Auld Bebo McFloater and Casandra McTiddler were scene stumbling out of Murphy's hay shed at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Casandra was hanging like a wet dishcloth over a zimmer frame and auld Bebo pulling a tank of oxygeon behind him.
Auld Casandra was shaking that much she ran her zimmer frame into a shuck and auld Bebo was gasping and panting like a frog with Ass-Ma.
What diabolic, depraved, Roman orgy must have gone on in cattle food containment unit.
Under my Sharia regime, anyone found kissing, hugging, groping, or holding hands will be tied to the chapel gates and get a damn good pubic flogging.
At nite you kan heer the sin birds come home to roost in Clougher.
Golden calves abound, as doe's totem poles and craven imagies of Peter Stringfellow and auld Hugh Heffner.
I have rote to the Al-Shabab boys in Somalia and am eagery awaiting a konsigment of whips, thumb screws and big, sharp swords.
Clougher is lucky to have an abundance of stones for dealing out justice to harlots and sex mechanics.
Oh, a smiting is coming.
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
FILTH! A cloud of black, vile, Satanic filth hangs over Clougher, blotting out the son and giving free rain to the devotees of the bearded God Pan and his halluciogenic, haunting pipe music.
Is there nothing us God fearing people kan do?
Nil Desperandum!
We must be villagant.
We must fast until our drawers fall off our emaciated bodies.
We must do good works and reject the pomps of the devil.
When you come on a pomp, reject it!
We must knot suffer a witch, or strumpet to live.
An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear.
And PREY! Prey until the skin falls of your knees and black dots dance in front of your eyes.
Pick up your staff, gird your lions and follow me, Rosie Ryan, the Joan of Arc of Clougher as I fight the good fight against the devil and his horny imps.
The fact that I was scene coming out of a hey shed on Sunday nite is a damn kalamity on my good character.
I was brusting and went into the hey shed for a good slash.
Fight the good fight with,
ROSIE RYAN.
I, Rosie Ryan am calling for Sharia law to be interduced in Clougher and surrounding districts.
I kan take know more of the lewd, obscene shennigans that go on under the duvet of darkness.
I am taking a stand.
Up with this I shall knot put!!!.
I wool knot rear my son Jovi Jovi on the out-skirts of a town filled to the brim and over-flowing with depravity and debauchery.
Clougher may revel in the name, "Sin City, but knot I.
Knot Rosie Ryan. People are queueing up at nite to get into the rural hay sheds.
And its knot just the young.
Auld Bebo McFloater and Casandra McTiddler were scene stumbling out of Murphy's hay shed at fore oh clock in the morning.
Auld Casandra was hanging like a wet dishcloth over a zimmer frame and auld Bebo pulling a tank of oxygeon behind him.
Auld Casandra was shaking that much she ran her zimmer frame into a shuck and auld Bebo was gasping and panting like a frog with Ass-Ma.
What diabolic, depraved, Roman orgy must have gone on in cattle food containment unit.
Under my Sharia regime, anyone found kissing, hugging, groping, or holding hands will be tied to the chapel gates and get a damn good pubic flogging.
At nite you kan heer the sin birds come home to roost in Clougher.
Golden calves abound, as doe's totem poles and craven imagies of Peter Stringfellow and auld Hugh Heffner.
I have rote to the Al-Shabab boys in Somalia and am eagery awaiting a konsigment of whips, thumb screws and big, sharp swords.
Clougher is lucky to have an abundance of stones for dealing out justice to harlots and sex mechanics.
Oh, a smiting is coming.
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.
FILTH! A cloud of black, vile, Satanic filth hangs over Clougher, blotting out the son and giving free rain to the devotees of the bearded God Pan and his halluciogenic, haunting pipe music.
Is there nothing us God fearing people kan do?
Nil Desperandum!
We must be villagant.
We must fast until our drawers fall off our emaciated bodies.
We must do good works and reject the pomps of the devil.
When you come on a pomp, reject it!
We must knot suffer a witch, or strumpet to live.
An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear.
And PREY! Prey until the skin falls of your knees and black dots dance in front of your eyes.
Pick up your staff, gird your lions and follow me, Rosie Ryan, the Joan of Arc of Clougher as I fight the good fight against the devil and his horny imps.
The fact that I was scene coming out of a hey shed on Sunday nite is a damn kalamity on my good character.
I was brusting and went into the hey shed for a good slash.
Fight the good fight with,
ROSIE RYAN.
Friday, 31 December 2010
Hapy Mahogany to every-wan!
Gerry, may I burrow your ether too wish every-wan in the provident of Ulster a hapy mahogany from me, Rosie Ryan and Bon Jovi my sun, air and off spring.
The knew year is a thyme for refraction.
We is turning a knew page. We have a blank peace of paper in front of us, lets ferventy hope and prey we don't shit in the nest like we did last year.
Too the many churches I say, Keep on teeching the word of God, as handed down to Moses when he spaltered up mount Kill-ah-man-jarrow.
Onto other do, as you would do and knot what you now do to others.
Love your neighbour-YES! that shit who lives in the house beside you as yourself.
Come down like a ton of bricks on sexual shennigans, how's you father and depravity and debauchery.
BRING back SIN, hell's fire the devil and the holy rack!
Too all bankers I say, take you're hands out of our pockets and stap spectatoring with our spon-dew-lucks.
You kan knot follow to Gods, so make up your minds, God or Mammoth!
To the young I say, oh bay your daddy and mammy, unless they are head-bangers and piss hounds.
To all over 50 I say, It's all over! There is know more!. Stap making fools of yourselves and go home and dote in front of the fire like a christian.
To our political leaders I say, get your finger out!
Put your shoulder to the grindstone, your nose to the wheel and lets work together.
For together, we will stand every boy, girl, woman and man.
There may be some of you out there, oh yes!, oh yes! I know who you are.
There may be some of you thinking why should I listen to that fruit bat Rosie Ryan, what does she no?.
Well let me tell you, I am fully cognitive in Inglish, Fizz-eeks, Ass-tromity, Nuclear shennigans, Gee-ography, Medical matters relating to the under-carriage, I also have a smattering of Greek, Roman, Hin-do, Bellaruse and Ulster/Scots. I kan also sing, dance, yodel, lilt, whistle and play the banjo and the spoons.
That's my Kir-lick-you-lum Vitie, now, show me you'rs!.
Gerry, a small coda to the wild lack of water and H20 in the Belfast district.
Bon Jovi and me got too spades and divered a burn towards the barren, sandy, deserts of Belfast.
"Every little counts" as the man said.
As he was hit with a cow pat while drowning in a sewage tank.
I leave you with an old Arabic saying that has stood me in good stead over the years.
"THE MOVING FINGER PICKS THE NOSE AND HAVING PICKED MOVES-ON"
Hasta La-Vista my commoncheros.
from
Rosie Ryan and sun Bon Jovi.
(He sprang from my lions you no)
The knew year is a thyme for refraction.
We is turning a knew page. We have a blank peace of paper in front of us, lets ferventy hope and prey we don't shit in the nest like we did last year.
Too the many churches I say, Keep on teeching the word of God, as handed down to Moses when he spaltered up mount Kill-ah-man-jarrow.
Onto other do, as you would do and knot what you now do to others.
Love your neighbour-YES! that shit who lives in the house beside you as yourself.
Come down like a ton of bricks on sexual shennigans, how's you father and depravity and debauchery.
BRING back SIN, hell's fire the devil and the holy rack!
Too all bankers I say, take you're hands out of our pockets and stap spectatoring with our spon-dew-lucks.
You kan knot follow to Gods, so make up your minds, God or Mammoth!
To the young I say, oh bay your daddy and mammy, unless they are head-bangers and piss hounds.
To all over 50 I say, It's all over! There is know more!. Stap making fools of yourselves and go home and dote in front of the fire like a christian.
To our political leaders I say, get your finger out!
Put your shoulder to the grindstone, your nose to the wheel and lets work together.
For together, we will stand every boy, girl, woman and man.
There may be some of you out there, oh yes!, oh yes! I know who you are.
There may be some of you thinking why should I listen to that fruit bat Rosie Ryan, what does she no?.
Well let me tell you, I am fully cognitive in Inglish, Fizz-eeks, Ass-tromity, Nuclear shennigans, Gee-ography, Medical matters relating to the under-carriage, I also have a smattering of Greek, Roman, Hin-do, Bellaruse and Ulster/Scots. I kan also sing, dance, yodel, lilt, whistle and play the banjo and the spoons.
That's my Kir-lick-you-lum Vitie, now, show me you'rs!.
Gerry, a small coda to the wild lack of water and H20 in the Belfast district.
Bon Jovi and me got too spades and divered a burn towards the barren, sandy, deserts of Belfast.
"Every little counts" as the man said.
As he was hit with a cow pat while drowning in a sewage tank.
I leave you with an old Arabic saying that has stood me in good stead over the years.
"THE MOVING FINGER PICKS THE NOSE AND HAVING PICKED MOVES-ON"
Hasta La-Vista my commoncheros.
from
Rosie Ryan and sun Bon Jovi.
(He sprang from my lions you no)
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Kristmas Cooking with Rosie
Gerry, my bon a-me. May I borrow your hair waves to say a big, hodie mihi cras tibi, Erin go bragh and a big thank you, to Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries.
The bounty of road kill they have brought me this Kristmas is unparelled in quantity and quality.
I have stoats, weasels,peasents, badgers and a ginger thing with a bell round its neck that could well be a domestos kat.
Gnashers at No 13 the bog road Clougher wool be working overtime on Kristmas day.
There may be some young ladies out there, shacking up or newly married who don't no how to cook yuletide road kill let me ah-luce-ah-date.
FIRST! All road kill must be nude. My sun Bon Jovi and me wool remove all feathers, fur, hair or wool.
Then cut off all heads and tales, but don't throw these away. The heads and tales of rodents make a thick, rich stock that wood make Oxo look like insipid piss-pee.
Now, marionette. Marionette the succelect flesh over-nite in a dish of Guinness, cider and just a sue-spoon of Benelin cough medicine.
Place the road kill on a roasting dish that has been liberally smeared with vaseline petroleum jelly.
Then, simply pop it into a red hot oven. Don't worry about hi-tech oven timers, the shrill squeel of the smoke defectors wool alert you to the fact that your Kristmas dinner is ready.
By now your spuds, karrots and brussel sprouts should also be ready.
Simply heap on to plates and get stuck in.
Bon Jovi and me never talk during Kristmas dinner. We sit crouched over, protecting our dinner with our elbows emitting anamalistic grunts, yelps and growls.
By the time the Queen says.
"On behalf of my husband and me" Bon Jovi wool run to open the half door to accomodate the salvo of breaking wind which follows.
Then, full as too poisoned pups, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box, breaking wind intermittenly, while I utulise the po leap into bed and billow the duvet as a thick,turgid, gurgling stream of road kill makes its way to my large intestate.
And that my Yuletide chums, is how Rosie Ryan cooks road kill.
From Bon Jovi and me,
"We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
And a nappy knew 'ere! from,
Rosie Ryan, the Fanny of Clougher!
PS. Oh, I meant two rite, the Fanny Haddock of Clougher!
Come-padre?
The bounty of road kill they have brought me this Kristmas is unparelled in quantity and quality.
I have stoats, weasels,peasents, badgers and a ginger thing with a bell round its neck that could well be a domestos kat.
Gnashers at No 13 the bog road Clougher wool be working overtime on Kristmas day.
There may be some young ladies out there, shacking up or newly married who don't no how to cook yuletide road kill let me ah-luce-ah-date.
FIRST! All road kill must be nude. My sun Bon Jovi and me wool remove all feathers, fur, hair or wool.
Then cut off all heads and tales, but don't throw these away. The heads and tales of rodents make a thick, rich stock that wood make Oxo look like insipid piss-pee.
Now, marionette. Marionette the succelect flesh over-nite in a dish of Guinness, cider and just a sue-spoon of Benelin cough medicine.
Place the road kill on a roasting dish that has been liberally smeared with vaseline petroleum jelly.
Then, simply pop it into a red hot oven. Don't worry about hi-tech oven timers, the shrill squeel of the smoke defectors wool alert you to the fact that your Kristmas dinner is ready.
By now your spuds, karrots and brussel sprouts should also be ready.
Simply heap on to plates and get stuck in.
Bon Jovi and me never talk during Kristmas dinner. We sit crouched over, protecting our dinner with our elbows emitting anamalistic grunts, yelps and growls.
By the time the Queen says.
"On behalf of my husband and me" Bon Jovi wool run to open the half door to accomodate the salvo of breaking wind which follows.
Then, full as too poisoned pups, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box, breaking wind intermittenly, while I utulise the po leap into bed and billow the duvet as a thick,turgid, gurgling stream of road kill makes its way to my large intestate.
And that my Yuletide chums, is how Rosie Ryan cooks road kill.
From Bon Jovi and me,
"We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
We wish you a merry Kristmas
And a nappy knew 'ere! from,
Rosie Ryan, the Fanny of Clougher!
PS. Oh, I meant two rite, the Fanny Haddock of Clougher!
Come-padre?
Thursday, 16 December 2010
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas.
I've had a few Gerry.
I was in Clougher today, UP CLOUGHER! and got in-e, in-e, pissed as a newt.
I pushed the coracle out Gerry. I tied one on. I supped some stuff today.
I am riting this letter with a bucket between my legs.
But let me reassure you that know unseasonable slashing is going on, I just feel a bit of a boke coming.
My sun, the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi went with me to clougher. UP BON JOVI!
I fought too farmers in Mulligans bar today and beet the shi-stuffing out of both of them.
I caught one of them looking up my skirt.
How did I no he was blind?
As I punched the face of him, he kept shouting to his friend.
Who's battering the face of me Willie John?
Who's battering the face of me?"
Then Willie John stuck his big nose in and I broke it was a straight rite up the hooter.
When I left Willie John and Ray Charles were lying in a bloody heap in the korner.
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas. UP CHRISTMAS!
Kristmas abounds with imagery. The brite star.
The three alsations, I mean-shepherds.
The manager, the baby Jesus. Gold, Frankenstein and mirror. And the voice from above.
"This is my beloved cub in whom I is well pleased"
Big tiers are running down my big beautiful red face as I rite this. How moving. I am choked with emulsion.
Gerry, you are my bestest, bested friend.
You are Gerry, don't demeur. You is the bestest friend a woman ever had.
And in all the years we have known each other,knot one grope, fissle, or fumble.
Our relatioship is knot built on passion or lust.
We have a plank-tonic relationship Gerry.
UP GERRY ANDERSON!
Well the old bucket on the floor tells me it is time to go.
The bucket is nearly full and wool require empyising.
God bless you Gerry Anderson. You have been like a poxy husband to me.
Always there when I needed to pour my hart out to you.
I must go Gerry, I'm starting to slide of my chair.
May God keep you under his wing like a clocking hen, until the time comes to don wings, white nightdress and pick up your harp. UP TYRONE! UP MICKY HARTE!
UP SAM MAGUIRE! UP A GOOD TIGHTENER AT KRISTMAS!.
I is,
Rosie Ryan xxx
I was in Clougher today, UP CLOUGHER! and got in-e, in-e, pissed as a newt.
I pushed the coracle out Gerry. I tied one on. I supped some stuff today.
I am riting this letter with a bucket between my legs.
But let me reassure you that know unseasonable slashing is going on, I just feel a bit of a boke coming.
My sun, the fruit of my lions Bon Jovi went with me to clougher. UP BON JOVI!
I fought too farmers in Mulligans bar today and beet the shi-stuffing out of both of them.
I caught one of them looking up my skirt.
How did I no he was blind?
As I punched the face of him, he kept shouting to his friend.
Who's battering the face of me Willie John?
Who's battering the face of me?"
Then Willie John stuck his big nose in and I broke it was a straight rite up the hooter.
When I left Willie John and Ray Charles were lying in a bloody heap in the korner.
PEACE on earth too all mankind is the message I take out of Kristmas. UP CHRISTMAS!
Kristmas abounds with imagery. The brite star.
The three alsations, I mean-shepherds.
The manager, the baby Jesus. Gold, Frankenstein and mirror. And the voice from above.
"This is my beloved cub in whom I is well pleased"
Big tiers are running down my big beautiful red face as I rite this. How moving. I am choked with emulsion.
Gerry, you are my bestest, bested friend.
You are Gerry, don't demeur. You is the bestest friend a woman ever had.
And in all the years we have known each other,knot one grope, fissle, or fumble.
Our relatioship is knot built on passion or lust.
We have a plank-tonic relationship Gerry.
UP GERRY ANDERSON!
Well the old bucket on the floor tells me it is time to go.
The bucket is nearly full and wool require empyising.
God bless you Gerry Anderson. You have been like a poxy husband to me.
Always there when I needed to pour my hart out to you.
I must go Gerry, I'm starting to slide of my chair.
May God keep you under his wing like a clocking hen, until the time comes to don wings, white nightdress and pick up your harp. UP TYRONE! UP MICKY HARTE!
UP SAM MAGUIRE! UP A GOOD TIGHTENER AT KRISTMAS!.
I is,
Rosie Ryan xxx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
