It was a lovely Summer morning, a really lovely morning, bright and fresh. It was the kind of morning, you would like to line a drawer with to stop your knickers from turning green from mildew. The house work had to be done , so I spit on my knees and grabbed the bull by the horns. I dragged Rufus the bull to the door and gave him a good riser to send him on his way.
Rufus the bull comes in for the odd chat, but all he does is sit dozing in the corner, a bulldozer if I ever saw one. I was hoovering up dirt with my mouth, when there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in some strange material. I grabbed my coat, a sample of the material and made my way to the, "SO YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS" laboratory. I sat there, chewing the nails of the man beside me to the quick. He too was covered in stuff and had come to the laboratory to have it analysed. The stuff he was covered in was brown and smelled horribly. Most people would have known what it was immediately, but apparently this man did not, but let's not be critical, he could be from the country or suffering from Do-Lallyness. The doctor came out, pointed at me and said, "See you, you are covered in-dust, so you are!" I was so relieved, I threw my arms up in the air, thank God they came down again. I was so thankful, I bent down, put my ear to the man beside me and told him what he was covered in.He leapt up and yelled, "I knew it, but Poppy my wife said it was French mustard!"
Four hours later, I got back home and began an investigation right away. "TOMMY" I yelled, "Put down what you're doing and get down here right away!"
For the second time today, there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in, what I now know to be dust. Tommy my cat came into the room, chewing chewing gum and strumming on a small banjo. "Tommy!" I yelled "Are you the instigator behind the two almighty crashes here today?" Tommy, gave a strum, blew a bubble and said--"Yup." "TOMMY!" I yelled, "What did you do? How did you instigate two almighty-crashes?" "I was up in the attic," said Tommy "looking for mice, or indeed-mouse, which as you know, is the singular of-mice, any way, I noticed the roof was a bit lop-sided, so I lifted the roof with one paw and tried to slide a book under it with the other, but, unfortunately, as you know, the roof slipped twice. It's really a two man job." I looked at Tommy with love, devotion and my eyes and ran to hug the adorable feline. Tommy began to sneeze and said, "That's it, I've been sneezing all week, I'm off to the vet, where did I leave my flat cap?"
It was late when Tommy got home and oh he did look queer. I began to fear that he had the snip, that dare not speak its name. "Tommy!" I yelled, "What's wrong lad? Eeh, you look proper down, sit down chuck and tell me what ails thee." Tommy fiddled with his thumbs, most people use a bow and said, "The vet said, I've got an--allergy." I ran to foot of our stairs, came back and yelled, "Nay lad, Nay, Nay,Nay, thee ain't got an allergy, I know an allergy when I see one and thee ain't got an allergy, thee might be allergic to something, but thee ain't got an allergy. Nay lad, Nay." Tommy sniffed, sneezed and said, "Yes, I am allergic to something. I'm allergic to--you." "Bloody Nora!" I yelled, as I ran to the foot of our stairs again. "Can nought be done?" I yelled, "Can nought be done? Is medical science baffled? Get a second opinion, then a third and a forth and a fifth." "There is a cure," said Tommy "but it involves-you."
"Anything!" I yelled, "I'll give you a kidney, a lung, an arm, a leg, the sash my father wore, just tell me what I've got to do." Tommy looked at me and said, "If you love me--really love me, you must bathe each morning and night in buttermilk, fish heads, soiled nappies and this brown stuff. He gave me a big box full, I have to stir three spoonfuls into your bath. There's no label on the box, I wonder what it is?" I knew what it was, the aroma coming from the box, brought back memories of the man at the laboratory covered in brown stuff.
Well, I did it. I bath twice a day in the foul smelling liquid, because I love little Tommy and touch wood, little Tommy hasn't sneezed once.
"Hey Toots!" yelled Steven "Tubby" Nolan, as he ate his way out of a buffalo, "What's that bewitching perfume you are wearing tonight my little chick-a-dee?"
I smiled, by pulling my lips back and replied, "It's called, Sexy Kitty.". "I like it," said the oval one. "Give me a big sniff up my hooter. Ah, yes, now that's what I call a perfume. It floats my boat, if you know what I mean." "Your boat will never float." I yelled "Your boat is the--Titanic and lies in the depths of the see." Then I skipped home to little Tommy, pursued by dogs, led by a Spaniel called--Noel Thompson.
Go now to
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, you could do worse than talk to this man.
www.jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Saturday 30 August 2008
Friday 22 August 2008
FOR WANT OF A NAIL A SHOE WAS LOST FOR WANT OF A SHOE WE GOT CINDERELLA
I was standing at the window, looking out at the cobble-stoned street. My mind was else where, the woman next door had borrowed it to do a jig-saw puzzle. I began to talk to myself and it came out thus, "I wonder how many women with cats are standing looking out of their window at the cobble-stoned street and saying, I wonder how many woman with cats are standing looking out of their window at the cobble-stoned street and saying.....STOP IT! I yelled to myself, this could go on for ever." I turned away from the window and sat down. Only a chair was there, I would never have attempted it. I was bored, so bored. I looked at the cuckoo clock. it would be eleven minutes, before little Henry popped out and he never stopped to talk, just a quick--CUCKOO and he was gone before I could say, "Henry, bide a while, the kettle is on the boil and I have a packet of custard creams in the pantry."Will Henry and I ever have a serious talk about fiscal responsibility, global warming and the antics of Laurel and Hardy? The chances are slim. It seems the highly complicated expertise of the Swiss clock makers is against us. Damn those Swiss and their attention to detail. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, straight out of the blue, I got a wild hankering for a--lucky bag. I began to sweat and shake. My nerves were on edge. I was going through cold turkey--or cold cuckoo. I wanted a lucky bag and I wanted it--NIGH. But I had no money, not a penny. I spent it all on what the butler saw. Damn that Paul Burrell and his greedy, grasping love of money. I grabbed a crayon and tried to draw a five pound note. It was hopeless, no shop would ever accept a fiver written in green crayon and putting a moustache on the Queen was the work of a mad woman. I frantically searched down behind the sofa.My grasping fingers withdrew two fish suppers, a coal shovel, a very poor copy of the Mona Lisa by Fred Nitts from Cullybaccy and volumes 2 to 12 of, "Now You Too Can Be A Brain Surgeon" by Ronson Gatsby, a resident of Saint Dermot's home for the bewildered and confused in Harley Street. But no money, not a single penny. Where was I going to get money? I wanted a lucky bag and I wanted it--NIGH. Then it hit me, the bath fell through the ceiling and hit me. As I crawled out from under it, I came up with a cunning plan, Tommy would have money. Tommy my cat always had money. He would strut about in his grey flannels jingling money in his trousers pocket and shrilly whistling, "You Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two."
Tommy was in bed, after a late night on the tiles. I crept into Tommy's room on my hands and knees. Tommy's room was-immaculate, everything matched, the pink curtains, the pink duvet and the pink mat that kept Tommy's little toes as hot as toast on cold, winter mornings. Tommy was sleeping with his back to me. His little trousers hung from the bedpost. I rifled through the pockets and found one pound twelve pence, more that enough for a lucky bag. In the other pocket I found a photo of Lynda Byron's and two toffees covered in fluff. I popped them into my mouth and headed for the shop on the corner.
As I skipped back home with the lucky bag clutched in my hot little hand, I came upon a scene straight out of LA Law, The street was choc-a-block with police cars, peelers, with dogs were everywhere, a helicopter flew low over head. Tommy and Sir Hugh Orde stood at the door, Tommy was dressed in a simmet and gesticulating frantically. Could he not have waited until the police went away? When Tommy saw me, he grabbed Sir Hugh Orde by the fork of his police issue trousers (Well, he is very small) and yelled, "There she is, there is the female felon, who crept into my room like a thief in the night and stole mt spondulecks from out of my trouser pockets!" Sir Hugh, happed his baton of my head, got me in a neck hold and yelled, "Right chummy, the games up, there has been a spate of cat burglaries recently and I have good reason to believe that you are the Mister Big behind it!" "I'm not Mister Big," I yelled, "I'm missus wee." It was no good, I might as well have been talking to an English policeman, who was sent to Northern Ireland to clean up the RUC. As I was thrown into the back of a land rover, Steven "Tubby" Nolan went by, eating a haunch of Wilderbeest. The fat one giggled and sang, "They're coming to take you away ha-ha." I waved my shackled hands at Tubby and shrieked, "Damn you Nolan, if I'm going down you're going down with me. I'll tell the police all about the big mars bar caper." Nolan blanched, broke wind and took to his heels crying, "Mummy, it wasn't me, I'm a good boy mummy." I was thrown into a cell containing three of the hardest men in Belfast. Half an hour later, they were begging to be changed to another cell. My flatulence can be flavescent in a confined space. I lay on my bunk, wailing on a mouth organ and singing, "Lord, I feel so doggone blue tonight." Tommy relented and bailed me out four hours later. As we walked home hand in hand, we skipped gaily and sang, "Old friends, sitting eating Irish stew, with a dishevelled kangaroo, old friends, old friends, old friends."
Go now to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson from, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Tommy was in bed, after a late night on the tiles. I crept into Tommy's room on my hands and knees. Tommy's room was-immaculate, everything matched, the pink curtains, the pink duvet and the pink mat that kept Tommy's little toes as hot as toast on cold, winter mornings. Tommy was sleeping with his back to me. His little trousers hung from the bedpost. I rifled through the pockets and found one pound twelve pence, more that enough for a lucky bag. In the other pocket I found a photo of Lynda Byron's and two toffees covered in fluff. I popped them into my mouth and headed for the shop on the corner.
As I skipped back home with the lucky bag clutched in my hot little hand, I came upon a scene straight out of LA Law, The street was choc-a-block with police cars, peelers, with dogs were everywhere, a helicopter flew low over head. Tommy and Sir Hugh Orde stood at the door, Tommy was dressed in a simmet and gesticulating frantically. Could he not have waited until the police went away? When Tommy saw me, he grabbed Sir Hugh Orde by the fork of his police issue trousers (Well, he is very small) and yelled, "There she is, there is the female felon, who crept into my room like a thief in the night and stole mt spondulecks from out of my trouser pockets!" Sir Hugh, happed his baton of my head, got me in a neck hold and yelled, "Right chummy, the games up, there has been a spate of cat burglaries recently and I have good reason to believe that you are the Mister Big behind it!" "I'm not Mister Big," I yelled, "I'm missus wee." It was no good, I might as well have been talking to an English policeman, who was sent to Northern Ireland to clean up the RUC. As I was thrown into the back of a land rover, Steven "Tubby" Nolan went by, eating a haunch of Wilderbeest. The fat one giggled and sang, "They're coming to take you away ha-ha." I waved my shackled hands at Tubby and shrieked, "Damn you Nolan, if I'm going down you're going down with me. I'll tell the police all about the big mars bar caper." Nolan blanched, broke wind and took to his heels crying, "Mummy, it wasn't me, I'm a good boy mummy." I was thrown into a cell containing three of the hardest men in Belfast. Half an hour later, they were begging to be changed to another cell. My flatulence can be flavescent in a confined space. I lay on my bunk, wailing on a mouth organ and singing, "Lord, I feel so doggone blue tonight." Tommy relented and bailed me out four hours later. As we walked home hand in hand, we skipped gaily and sang, "Old friends, sitting eating Irish stew, with a dishevelled kangaroo, old friends, old friends, old friends."
Go now to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson from, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Sunday 17 August 2008
THAT'S A LOT OF MONEY FOR A--B !,
Tommy my cat came running into the house, oh he was in a tizzy, I've seen Tommy in a tizzy before, but this tizzy was bordering on acute, chronic--tizziness.
"Tommy" I yelled "get out of that tizzy, it's scaring me, you know fine well that when I see someone in a tizzy, I go into a tizzy myself." Tommy switched the tizzy off , it slowly ran down, until all the tizzy had tizzied out of it. "That's better" I said, taking off my anti tizzy suit, "Now sit down and tell me, why you rushed into the house in a--tizzy."
Tommy fluttered his arms, I suppose he saw the birds do it, wiggled his ears, fluttered his eye lashes and said, "I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself." I ran for po and toilet paper and said, "Sit down Tommy lad, I've never seen you so excited since the night you won a tenner on the Lottery, now sit down and take a deep breath, have one of mine, they are menthol flavoured." Tommy took a breath from my box of twenty, breathed in and said, "Ah, that's better, but I shouldn't you know, I'm trying to stop breathing, the doctors say it shortens your life." "Rubbish," I yelled, "my old Granny went through 80 breaths a day and she lived until she was 42. Now sit down and tell me why you were in such a--tizzy."
Tommy reached for another breath and said, "You'll never guess what has happened, great news, great news for Belfast." I went into a-yes, a-tizzy and screamed, "The Titanic is all right, the whole story was just an April fool joke that got out of hand.""No," said Tommy, "the Titanic did go down, but listen, Belfast has got a new--LOGO!"
I went haywire, I screamed, I shrieked, I yelled, I danced, I sang, then I looked at Tommy and said, "What is a-Logo?" "A logo," said Tommy walking around the room, with his thumbs in his braces, "is a-a symbol that symbolizes the symbolic symbolization of the symbol it symbolizes."
"I knew that," I yelled, "it was on the tip of my tongue, but it slipped and got stuck in my false teeth." "Yes," said Tommy, staring out of the window, at a wino being sick, "great times lie ahead for the city of Belfast. With this new logo, Belfast will rise from the ashes, like a magpie and take its rightful place among the great cities of the world. This logo will renew the city and it only cost half a million pounds.". I ran like Groucho Marx for the foot of our stairs. "Half a million pounds?" I shrieked. "Half a million pounds for a logo? Gee, it must be some work of art. I can't wait to see a half a million pound logo. What does it look like Tommy?"
Tommy looked down at his shoes, shifted from foot to foot and mumbled, "Well, it's just a--B."
"A-bee?" I cried, "What has a bumble bee got to do with Belfast?" Tommy shuffled and mumbled "Well, it's not actually a bumble bee, its just the letter--B." Once more, in the guise of Groucho Marx, I ran to the foot of our stairs. "Whose idea was it?" I yelled. "Who had the bright idea to pay half a million pounds for the letter-B?" "It was Jim Rodger's idea," mumbled Tommy.
"I should have known," I yelled. "I suppose we should be grateful that Mr Jimmy Rodgers didn't buy the entire alphabet and bankrupt the city. Wait until I see him," I screamed, "I will give him a piece of my mind, a very small piece mind you but it will come from my mind."
The Jim Rodgers is a wary little creature, very hard to trap but I had a cunning plan. I painted a hole on the pavement with black paint, covered it with twigs and leaves and waited for Jim Rodgers to fall into it. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a loud-thump and a high, excited voice screaming. "Hi, Hi, let me out--NIGH!" I had caught my Jimmy Rodgers.
I stood beside the drawing of a hole and cried, "You are trapped Mr Rodgers, there is no way out. In that deep hole you shall stay for wasting tax-payers' money." "Jim looked up from the depth of the hole and screamed, "You fiend, you-evil-evil fiend. Let me out, let me out--NIGH!"
I peered into the hole, gave an evil laugh and said in a very sinister way, "Come 'ere, there's more, I am going to tell Tubby Nolan that this is a toilet for the use of the public."
Such a scream erupted from the gub of Jim Rodgers. Maybe that will teach him a lesson, for paying half a million pounds for the letter-B, that could stand for Belfast, but could also stand for--BAMBOOZLED. I went on my way with a merry gait that I found in Farmer Giles meadow.
If you need any Rosie Ryan books and let's face it, who doesn't, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit the lady herself at,,www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Writing that took a lot out of me, I think I'll get up and go back to bed and you should do the same, see you under the duvet.
"Tommy" I yelled "get out of that tizzy, it's scaring me, you know fine well that when I see someone in a tizzy, I go into a tizzy myself." Tommy switched the tizzy off , it slowly ran down, until all the tizzy had tizzied out of it. "That's better" I said, taking off my anti tizzy suit, "Now sit down and tell me, why you rushed into the house in a--tizzy."
Tommy fluttered his arms, I suppose he saw the birds do it, wiggled his ears, fluttered his eye lashes and said, "I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself." I ran for po and toilet paper and said, "Sit down Tommy lad, I've never seen you so excited since the night you won a tenner on the Lottery, now sit down and take a deep breath, have one of mine, they are menthol flavoured." Tommy took a breath from my box of twenty, breathed in and said, "Ah, that's better, but I shouldn't you know, I'm trying to stop breathing, the doctors say it shortens your life." "Rubbish," I yelled, "my old Granny went through 80 breaths a day and she lived until she was 42. Now sit down and tell me why you were in such a--tizzy."
Tommy reached for another breath and said, "You'll never guess what has happened, great news, great news for Belfast." I went into a-yes, a-tizzy and screamed, "The Titanic is all right, the whole story was just an April fool joke that got out of hand.""No," said Tommy, "the Titanic did go down, but listen, Belfast has got a new--LOGO!"
I went haywire, I screamed, I shrieked, I yelled, I danced, I sang, then I looked at Tommy and said, "What is a-Logo?" "A logo," said Tommy walking around the room, with his thumbs in his braces, "is a-a symbol that symbolizes the symbolic symbolization of the symbol it symbolizes."
"I knew that," I yelled, "it was on the tip of my tongue, but it slipped and got stuck in my false teeth." "Yes," said Tommy, staring out of the window, at a wino being sick, "great times lie ahead for the city of Belfast. With this new logo, Belfast will rise from the ashes, like a magpie and take its rightful place among the great cities of the world. This logo will renew the city and it only cost half a million pounds.". I ran like Groucho Marx for the foot of our stairs. "Half a million pounds?" I shrieked. "Half a million pounds for a logo? Gee, it must be some work of art. I can't wait to see a half a million pound logo. What does it look like Tommy?"
Tommy looked down at his shoes, shifted from foot to foot and mumbled, "Well, it's just a--B."
"A-bee?" I cried, "What has a bumble bee got to do with Belfast?" Tommy shuffled and mumbled "Well, it's not actually a bumble bee, its just the letter--B." Once more, in the guise of Groucho Marx, I ran to the foot of our stairs. "Whose idea was it?" I yelled. "Who had the bright idea to pay half a million pounds for the letter-B?" "It was Jim Rodger's idea," mumbled Tommy.
"I should have known," I yelled. "I suppose we should be grateful that Mr Jimmy Rodgers didn't buy the entire alphabet and bankrupt the city. Wait until I see him," I screamed, "I will give him a piece of my mind, a very small piece mind you but it will come from my mind."
The Jim Rodgers is a wary little creature, very hard to trap but I had a cunning plan. I painted a hole on the pavement with black paint, covered it with twigs and leaves and waited for Jim Rodgers to fall into it. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a loud-thump and a high, excited voice screaming. "Hi, Hi, let me out--NIGH!" I had caught my Jimmy Rodgers.
I stood beside the drawing of a hole and cried, "You are trapped Mr Rodgers, there is no way out. In that deep hole you shall stay for wasting tax-payers' money." "Jim looked up from the depth of the hole and screamed, "You fiend, you-evil-evil fiend. Let me out, let me out--NIGH!"
I peered into the hole, gave an evil laugh and said in a very sinister way, "Come 'ere, there's more, I am going to tell Tubby Nolan that this is a toilet for the use of the public."
Such a scream erupted from the gub of Jim Rodgers. Maybe that will teach him a lesson, for paying half a million pounds for the letter-B, that could stand for Belfast, but could also stand for--BAMBOOZLED. I went on my way with a merry gait that I found in Farmer Giles meadow.
If you need any Rosie Ryan books and let's face it, who doesn't, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit the lady herself at,,www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Writing that took a lot out of me, I think I'll get up and go back to bed and you should do the same, see you under the duvet.
Monday 11 August 2008
THE FELINE WAS FEELING FINE BUT I WAS FEELING KNACKERED
"I'm falling" I screeched," I'm falling!" "No, you're not." gasped Tommy my cat." "Hold on to my hand, I won't let you fall." "I can't go on Tommy!" I shrieked. "I can't go on, I want to turn back."
"You can't turn back now." said Tommy, "y=You're nearly there, just a few more steps."
"It's no good!" I screamed "I'll never make it, oh why did I ever set out on this fool-hardy venture? I must have been mad, mad do you hear me-MAD!""Don't give up now." said Tommy, "Think how proud you'll be when you reach the top." "I'll never reach the top." I roared. "I'll die here and remain here for the rest of my life." "One more effort." cried Tommy. "Come on, you can make it, lift your lovely primrose yellow climbing boot up one more step."
"TOMMY!" I shrieked, "I'm falling, I'm falling." "DON'T look down!" yelled Tommy, "Hold on to my hand, we're almost there." I gritted my teeth, well they do get very slippery with plaque, girded my loins 'till my eyes watered and made one superhuman effort. I made it, I made it! I couldn't believe it. I looked down. What a view, the climb was worth it for the view alone.
I hugged Tommy and sang, "We are the champions." I was giddy with success. I danced, I sang, told a few gags and ended with a dance number. "Tommy," I said, "Tommy, my little Tommykins, I made it, but I would never have made it without you. When I write my bestseller book about this venture, I will give you full credit."
Little Tommy, blushed, hung his head and said, "Ah gee shucks, it was nothing."
"NOTHING?" I yelled, "Tommy, without you I would never have got up here, I would still be at the bottom, looking up."
"Well, you're up here now," said Tommy, "and that's all that matters. You will find the toilet at the end of the landing, if you need any help getting down, call me, I'll be at the foot of the stairs."
I opened the toilet door, looked back at Tommy and said, "I'm going in and I may be gone sometime." I know what some of you are thinking. Why did she do it? Why did she climb the stairs to go to the toilet, when there was a coal bucket sitting by the fire?
Well, I'll tell you, by quoting the words of Sir Edmond Hillary.
I climbed the stairs, because they were--there.
On Monday I was too tired to cook dinner, so I just opened a couple of tins. I think it was slug pellets and engine oil. The doctor never told me when he pumped my stomach and my throat was too sore to ask. That's the kind of person I am. I take chances, I walk on the wild side, I never flush when I use the loo, that's for squares and I am not a square, I am a roundie. Sure I have a gang, we hang out by the post office and shout out to old people after they lift their pension, "Mind crossing the road now and watch out for muggers!"
Then we laugh, flip our cigarettes into a waste bin and go home in a quiet and orderly manner.
No one messes with us and if they do-we run away and tell a policeman.
Sure I have been lifted by the fuzz, but what a girl does at the weekend is her own business and we were all consenting adults. We're mean, we're bad and when we donate blood, we do it with a smirk. We ride round town on highly tuned 50cc mopeds, picking up litter and going, "OOH,AAH,look at him, who's a lovely wee man then?" at babies in pushchairs.
Yeh, you wouldn't want to meet us on a dark night, because we're afraid of the dark and would scream and scream and scream. Sure, our gang has a name, we're called the Samaritans--want to make anything of it punk?
Steven Nolan lay in the long grass, behind the school for people with severe twitches, you can enroll there with a wink and a nod. Steven was gnawing at a side of beef and reading a book. Sprawled across the vast acreage of the fork of his pleated trousers lay all 24 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannia. "Hey Stevie boy," I simpered, "what you looking for? What you looking for in the big books Tubby?" Steven spat out the femur of a cow and growled,
"I want to see what they have to say about me and the biggest show in the country."
After three weeks of avid reading, Tubby lumbered to his feet and yelled, "Diddly-Squat, there's diddly-squat in these learned tomes about me--or my show."
"Not so fast fat man!" I yelled, "Listen to this, "The Mammoth,biggest in the country, lives on prawn cocktail crisps, drives a Renault Clio and makes a hell of a noise."
"That's me." said Steven. "I must have been looking under the wrong heading. I was looking under-unique." "You're certainly that." I said "But hold on, it also goes on to say that you're-extinct". Steven blushed, which due to the size of his face took 45 minutes and said.
"I know I'm extinct, but I get terrible wind and have to blow off I must carry an air freshener with me." I left then, to go out into the desert and ponder.It was a nice day, but there were very little people in Ballymena. I wonder-why?
Go now to www,rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson go to--jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Turned out nice again, think I'll take my simmet off.
"You can't turn back now." said Tommy, "y=You're nearly there, just a few more steps."
"It's no good!" I screamed "I'll never make it, oh why did I ever set out on this fool-hardy venture? I must have been mad, mad do you hear me-MAD!""Don't give up now." said Tommy, "Think how proud you'll be when you reach the top." "I'll never reach the top." I roared. "I'll die here and remain here for the rest of my life." "One more effort." cried Tommy. "Come on, you can make it, lift your lovely primrose yellow climbing boot up one more step."
"TOMMY!" I shrieked, "I'm falling, I'm falling." "DON'T look down!" yelled Tommy, "Hold on to my hand, we're almost there." I gritted my teeth, well they do get very slippery with plaque, girded my loins 'till my eyes watered and made one superhuman effort. I made it, I made it! I couldn't believe it. I looked down. What a view, the climb was worth it for the view alone.
I hugged Tommy and sang, "We are the champions." I was giddy with success. I danced, I sang, told a few gags and ended with a dance number. "Tommy," I said, "Tommy, my little Tommykins, I made it, but I would never have made it without you. When I write my bestseller book about this venture, I will give you full credit."
Little Tommy, blushed, hung his head and said, "Ah gee shucks, it was nothing."
"NOTHING?" I yelled, "Tommy, without you I would never have got up here, I would still be at the bottom, looking up."
"Well, you're up here now," said Tommy, "and that's all that matters. You will find the toilet at the end of the landing, if you need any help getting down, call me, I'll be at the foot of the stairs."
I opened the toilet door, looked back at Tommy and said, "I'm going in and I may be gone sometime." I know what some of you are thinking. Why did she do it? Why did she climb the stairs to go to the toilet, when there was a coal bucket sitting by the fire?
Well, I'll tell you, by quoting the words of Sir Edmond Hillary.
I climbed the stairs, because they were--there.
On Monday I was too tired to cook dinner, so I just opened a couple of tins. I think it was slug pellets and engine oil. The doctor never told me when he pumped my stomach and my throat was too sore to ask. That's the kind of person I am. I take chances, I walk on the wild side, I never flush when I use the loo, that's for squares and I am not a square, I am a roundie. Sure I have a gang, we hang out by the post office and shout out to old people after they lift their pension, "Mind crossing the road now and watch out for muggers!"
Then we laugh, flip our cigarettes into a waste bin and go home in a quiet and orderly manner.
No one messes with us and if they do-we run away and tell a policeman.
Sure I have been lifted by the fuzz, but what a girl does at the weekend is her own business and we were all consenting adults. We're mean, we're bad and when we donate blood, we do it with a smirk. We ride round town on highly tuned 50cc mopeds, picking up litter and going, "OOH,AAH,look at him, who's a lovely wee man then?" at babies in pushchairs.
Yeh, you wouldn't want to meet us on a dark night, because we're afraid of the dark and would scream and scream and scream. Sure, our gang has a name, we're called the Samaritans--want to make anything of it punk?
Steven Nolan lay in the long grass, behind the school for people with severe twitches, you can enroll there with a wink and a nod. Steven was gnawing at a side of beef and reading a book. Sprawled across the vast acreage of the fork of his pleated trousers lay all 24 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannia. "Hey Stevie boy," I simpered, "what you looking for? What you looking for in the big books Tubby?" Steven spat out the femur of a cow and growled,
"I want to see what they have to say about me and the biggest show in the country."
After three weeks of avid reading, Tubby lumbered to his feet and yelled, "Diddly-Squat, there's diddly-squat in these learned tomes about me--or my show."
"Not so fast fat man!" I yelled, "Listen to this, "The Mammoth,biggest in the country, lives on prawn cocktail crisps, drives a Renault Clio and makes a hell of a noise."
"That's me." said Steven. "I must have been looking under the wrong heading. I was looking under-unique." "You're certainly that." I said "But hold on, it also goes on to say that you're-extinct". Steven blushed, which due to the size of his face took 45 minutes and said.
"I know I'm extinct, but I get terrible wind and have to blow off I must carry an air freshener with me." I left then, to go out into the desert and ponder.It was a nice day, but there were very little people in Ballymena. I wonder-why?
Go now to www,rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson go to--jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Turned out nice again, think I'll take my simmet off.
Sunday 3 August 2008
THE ONE WHERE TOMMY COMES OUT ON TOP--AGAIN
Right, let's set the scene before we do the dialogue. Belfast on a wet Monday morning. Flecks of soot mingle with the falling rain, a sense of-desolation, a sense of-hopelessness.
Small terraced houses huddle together in narrow,dirty streets. On a gable wall, someone has scrawled with chalk, probably a policeman or a priest, NO POPE, NO HOPE AND VERY LITTLE SOAP. In the misty morning gloom, the two big cranes, hold two industrial fingers up to the rest of the world. Off in the distance, the Cave Hill crouches like a sleeping prehistoric monster. Let it sleep or it will waken with a roar and destroy the city of Belfast, Titanic Town, built on shipbuilding, linen and soda bread.
I wonder is that enough scenery? No, let's introduce a typical Belfast Sammy, a hard wee man, a wee hard nut, a man who likes a pint on a Saturday and usually ends up in the gutter yelling, "Let me go, let me go and I'll beat the big head ofo him, so I will!"
Wee Sammy comes out of the newsagents with the Newsletter under his arm. His eyes are closed tight against the driving rain. He has a woodbine in his mouth and a flat cap on his head.
Does that sound all right? It's very formalistic. let's change it a bit to see if it reads any better.
Wee Sammy has a flat cap in his mouth and a woodbine on his head.
No-No, that doesn't work at all. It just makes me look stupid for writing it and you look even more stupid for reading it.Now the scene is set we will progress.
Inside my house, which I am reliably informed is made from bricks and mortar and not recycled cuckoo clocks as I had first thought, sat Tommy my cat and me. It was so comfy, the delph gleamed in the dresser, the budgie was cheerily whistling, "Here we go loopy-loo" and a big fire was roaring up the stairs. Tommy and I were reading. Tommy was reading, The Feline Art's Review and I was reading the Beano. I had my tongue between my teeth, well I think it was my tongue. I found it in my mouth and I was slowly following the adventures of Biffo the Bear, he with the red trousers, don't you know and all that malarkey.
"Tommy!" I whined, "Tommy, I've found a word I don't understand."
Tommy looked over his glasses and said, "What is it? I want to see how this ballet ends. It has gone into extra time and may be decided on a penalty shoot out."
"Tommy!" I whined, "Biffo has just said-Gosh. What does-Gosh mean Tommy?"
Tommy went, "Sacre Bleu!" and said, "Every time you come to the word-Gosh, just substitute,Be-Jeekers and talking about substitutes, one has just come on in the ballet, now leave me alone. I twiddled my toes, flexed my fingers, wiggled my ears and whined,
"Tommy, Biffo has just said, Be-Jeekers, what a super wheeze! What does super wheeze mean Tommy? "Gott in Himmel!" yelled Tommy, "Can I not get any peace to watch the ballet? Super wheeze means--that's some auld carry on". "Thank you Tommy," I said. "You're welcome," said Tommy. "I'm a wild nuisance, aren't I Tommy?" "It's all right," said Tommy. "I hate to bother you Tommy," I said,. "I know how fond you are of the ballet." "That's all right," said Tommy. "Just go back to your Beano now." "Tommy?" I said. "What is IT?" yelled Tommy. "I'm just going to go back to my Beano now Tommy and I'll not bother you no more, no, no more, not ever again."
I picked up the Beano and slowly read what Biffo said, "Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on."
As the humour of the humour hit me, I gave a scream, fell on the floor and rolled about letting shriek after shriek out of me. I rolled to the foot of our stairs and back again. The tears were streaming down my face and I had a fare indication that I had peed myself.
"Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on. How do them boys in Dundee think of them?"
Later, after tea and bikkies, Tommy looked at me and said, "What did you think of the Gerry show this week?" "Great!" I yelled, "Fantastic, over the moon, in the annals of great shows, that show must easily be, in the first five hundred".
"I'm worried, gravely worried about Mr Coyle." said Tommy. "His pauses are getting longer, bordering on Pinteresque." "What would do that Tommy?" I said, "Is the lad going do-lally?"
"Of course not." said Tommy, "It's all to do with the brain. The brain is a hive of electricity. When you want to speak, a nerve end in the brain causes a spark and that tells your mouth to speak."
"Mr Coyle must have a short circuit!" I yelled. "Maybe he washed his hair and water got into his brain." "I think not." said Tommy. "The brain is a very complicated piece of kit. It governs all our movements. I will prove it to you now. I want your brain to send a message to your right leg to jump up in the air". "Be-jeekers, that's some auld carry on!" I yelled. "What do you want me to do?" "Just tell your brain to make your right leg jump up in the air." said Tommy. "I am," I yelled, "but nothing is happening. What's wrong with me Tommy? have I got-Coyleitis?"
Tommy made no reply, he just walked away mumbling, "How can you command something that isn't there?" Tommy and I stayed up very late playing the Peace In The Middle East game. It was after twelve when Tommy threw a 19 and got control of the Gaza Strip. Oh it was late and oh we were tired! I stood at the open door as Tommy left the empty milk bottles out. Suddenly, my right foot shot up in the air, giving Tommy a riser that send him flying into the bed of lupins.
"Tommy!" I yelled, "Tommy, my brain is working, my brain is working!"
Tommy's reply, was short, curt and worthy of Gordon Ramsey, the effing cook.
Want Rosie Ryan books? go to..jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
To see what Rosie is up too, go to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Small terraced houses huddle together in narrow,dirty streets. On a gable wall, someone has scrawled with chalk, probably a policeman or a priest, NO POPE, NO HOPE AND VERY LITTLE SOAP. In the misty morning gloom, the two big cranes, hold two industrial fingers up to the rest of the world. Off in the distance, the Cave Hill crouches like a sleeping prehistoric monster. Let it sleep or it will waken with a roar and destroy the city of Belfast, Titanic Town, built on shipbuilding, linen and soda bread.
I wonder is that enough scenery? No, let's introduce a typical Belfast Sammy, a hard wee man, a wee hard nut, a man who likes a pint on a Saturday and usually ends up in the gutter yelling, "Let me go, let me go and I'll beat the big head ofo him, so I will!"
Wee Sammy comes out of the newsagents with the Newsletter under his arm. His eyes are closed tight against the driving rain. He has a woodbine in his mouth and a flat cap on his head.
Does that sound all right? It's very formalistic. let's change it a bit to see if it reads any better.
Wee Sammy has a flat cap in his mouth and a woodbine on his head.
No-No, that doesn't work at all. It just makes me look stupid for writing it and you look even more stupid for reading it.Now the scene is set we will progress.
Inside my house, which I am reliably informed is made from bricks and mortar and not recycled cuckoo clocks as I had first thought, sat Tommy my cat and me. It was so comfy, the delph gleamed in the dresser, the budgie was cheerily whistling, "Here we go loopy-loo" and a big fire was roaring up the stairs. Tommy and I were reading. Tommy was reading, The Feline Art's Review and I was reading the Beano. I had my tongue between my teeth, well I think it was my tongue. I found it in my mouth and I was slowly following the adventures of Biffo the Bear, he with the red trousers, don't you know and all that malarkey.
"Tommy!" I whined, "Tommy, I've found a word I don't understand."
Tommy looked over his glasses and said, "What is it? I want to see how this ballet ends. It has gone into extra time and may be decided on a penalty shoot out."
"Tommy!" I whined, "Biffo has just said-Gosh. What does-Gosh mean Tommy?"
Tommy went, "Sacre Bleu!" and said, "Every time you come to the word-Gosh, just substitute,Be-Jeekers and talking about substitutes, one has just come on in the ballet, now leave me alone. I twiddled my toes, flexed my fingers, wiggled my ears and whined,
"Tommy, Biffo has just said, Be-Jeekers, what a super wheeze! What does super wheeze mean Tommy? "Gott in Himmel!" yelled Tommy, "Can I not get any peace to watch the ballet? Super wheeze means--that's some auld carry on". "Thank you Tommy," I said. "You're welcome," said Tommy. "I'm a wild nuisance, aren't I Tommy?" "It's all right," said Tommy. "I hate to bother you Tommy," I said,. "I know how fond you are of the ballet." "That's all right," said Tommy. "Just go back to your Beano now." "Tommy?" I said. "What is IT?" yelled Tommy. "I'm just going to go back to my Beano now Tommy and I'll not bother you no more, no, no more, not ever again."
I picked up the Beano and slowly read what Biffo said, "Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on."
As the humour of the humour hit me, I gave a scream, fell on the floor and rolled about letting shriek after shriek out of me. I rolled to the foot of our stairs and back again. The tears were streaming down my face and I had a fare indication that I had peed myself.
"Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on. How do them boys in Dundee think of them?"
Later, after tea and bikkies, Tommy looked at me and said, "What did you think of the Gerry show this week?" "Great!" I yelled, "Fantastic, over the moon, in the annals of great shows, that show must easily be, in the first five hundred".
"I'm worried, gravely worried about Mr Coyle." said Tommy. "His pauses are getting longer, bordering on Pinteresque." "What would do that Tommy?" I said, "Is the lad going do-lally?"
"Of course not." said Tommy, "It's all to do with the brain. The brain is a hive of electricity. When you want to speak, a nerve end in the brain causes a spark and that tells your mouth to speak."
"Mr Coyle must have a short circuit!" I yelled. "Maybe he washed his hair and water got into his brain." "I think not." said Tommy. "The brain is a very complicated piece of kit. It governs all our movements. I will prove it to you now. I want your brain to send a message to your right leg to jump up in the air". "Be-jeekers, that's some auld carry on!" I yelled. "What do you want me to do?" "Just tell your brain to make your right leg jump up in the air." said Tommy. "I am," I yelled, "but nothing is happening. What's wrong with me Tommy? have I got-Coyleitis?"
Tommy made no reply, he just walked away mumbling, "How can you command something that isn't there?" Tommy and I stayed up very late playing the Peace In The Middle East game. It was after twelve when Tommy threw a 19 and got control of the Gaza Strip. Oh it was late and oh we were tired! I stood at the open door as Tommy left the empty milk bottles out. Suddenly, my right foot shot up in the air, giving Tommy a riser that send him flying into the bed of lupins.
"Tommy!" I yelled, "Tommy, my brain is working, my brain is working!"
Tommy's reply, was short, curt and worthy of Gordon Ramsey, the effing cook.
Want Rosie Ryan books? go to..jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
To see what Rosie is up too, go to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
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