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?

Poor Auld Ireland

Deer Gerry, it has come to my retention that you will soon be oft again to far flung foreign plaices.
Gerry, you is a jet setter, a lotus eater, a modern day Samuel Aah Beckett, a man for all seasons.
I suppose you wool be nocking on the doors of Arab shrieks seeking sheckles, groats and spondulects for poor auld Ireland. Alas and alac, the land of saints and conmen is up a certain well known creek without a paddle. And apparently no wan is to blame!. All our money simply-disappeared. I suspect hands in the cookie jar but I kan't prove it.
Fintan O'Toole is fit to be tied. "Missmanagement! on a grand and epic scale" he yelled on Prime Time. Poor Miriam O'Callaghan, scared out of her wits cried.
"Fintan Achara, keep the heid".
"To hell with keeping the heid" yelled the bould Fintan.
"I want to sea bankers hanging from every lamp post in O'Connell street"
And now you kan't cut turf in the Free State! If auld Jordie Tuft lived in the Free State he wood be chained to the General Post Office by now. Soon they'll be banning donkeys, Irish dancing and the harvesting and husbanding of frogspawn. No more will the Irish Paddy or Bridget coo lovingly over a bowl of tadpoles.
Auld Mother McCree, Dicey Reilly and Molly Malone must be going hay wire in their graves.
'Tis a tarra hanlin' A tarra hanlin' If auld Develera was still around, this wood have killed him.
Any way, Bon Jovi and me wish you luck as you plough through the sands of the Sahara desert, begging bowl in hand. Them Arab Shrieks have tons of money. Tell them if they don't cough up you wool organise a concert tour starring, Daniel O'Donnell and Hugo Duncan. Let the world sea that Ireland has weapons of mass destruction and are knot afraid of launching a premptive strike.May saint Patrick dog your Italian footsteps and bring you safely home.
From, Rosie and Bon Jovi Ryan.
ERIN GO BRAUGH!!!

Rosie The queen Of Stile

Deer Gerry, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan, henchanting forest sprite and the origional Cheeky Girl.
Hanging well I hope there are this fine morning. Each day the planets revolve and we take a step closer to the cold, dead, embrace of the grim reaper.
But begone dull care, let's be joyful and merry with a hay-diddle-dee and a hay-diddle-do.
As you no Gerry, when it comes to haute katour Rosie Ryan is the first pig with her snout in the trough.
My dress sense is impediment. Every woman has a colour that matches her aura. My colour is tartan.
Nothing says style like a long, flowing tartan skirt which comes down to the tops of the wellingtons.
I have an pawn-shant for lime-green ganseys with plenty of round the oxters.
Even an illness or disabitity need knot be a hinderance to stile. When I had ulsters on my legs, I wore elastic stockings accessorized with too frilly, pink garters which were the talk of Clougher and surrounding districts.
Don't talk to me about Lady Gaga. I was Gaga long before that lady. Ribbons, flowers, bits of twigs, leaves, dockons, silver paper,placed stratigaphically can disguise a bad hare day.
Soon news of my fashion expertise spread and I came a Minotaur to the weeman of Clougher. I remember my first big success like it was a long time ago. I was wheeling a barrow load of shi--manure to the midden when big, Nellie Grantie came speeding up the lane on a man's bicycle.
"Oh Rosie" she roared. "You must come quick. Wee Pansy Bonjela is getting married this afternoon, but the poor, wee crater has locked herself in her room and is kicking and flinging like Delany's donkey".
"What is the cause of her distress?" I yelled.
"Its her wedding dress" roared big Nellie. "Wee pansey says it looks like cheep, nylon Krap and refuses to walk up the isle".
I leaped on my bike and hurried to the seen of the pre-nuptial hanlin'
I brust down the door with my shoulder and found wee Pansey blubbering and slashing in a pink, floral po.
"PANSEY!" I cried. "What ailes thee child? On this happy day when you wool be regiously cleaved to big Gideon Mc Scuttle?".
"Its this damned auld frock" shrieked wee Pansey. "I hate it!, it makes me look like a right wee plonker".
I scrutnised the wedding dress with my fashion concous oculars.
The wedding dress did need something and I knew what that something was.
How proud I was later that day when wee Pansey walked up the isle with a Robinson's marmalade gollywog pinned to her cleavage.
Needles to say, the Clougher wan's were agog at the gollywog.
From she who walks with beauty,
ROSIE RYAN xxx