As Dawn broke wind, sunlight streamed through the broken window of our house. Tommy my cat and I built a dam with sandbags but we couldn't keep it out. Soon my living room was up to the oxters in-sunlight. I stood with hands on hips and said, "Well, this is a right howdy-do."
Howdy-do to you too," said Tommy, surveying the damage. "How are we going to get this sunlight out of the house?" "Grab some brooms" I yelled "and sweep the sunlight out to the street!" "Good idea!" cried Tommy, grabbing a broom in his feline paws and sweeping furiously.
"It's no good," gasped Tommy, "the more I sweep the sunlight out, the more it streams back in again.""Shut up and keep sweeping," I yelled, "before the sunlight ruins my one piece suite and damages my daddy's nick-nacks!" "Those nick-nacks should be in the coffin along with your dead daddy," cried Tommy. "What kind of monster are you, to send a man to meet his maker nick-nackless?" "He was my daddy," I yelled, "not your daddy. When my alive daddy died, I was heartbroken. I wanted something to remind me of dear daddy, so I took his nick-nacks."
"Could you not have cut off his tie instead?" roared Tommy, up to the waist in sunlight.
"My daddy loved that tie!" I yelled "It was the regimental tie of the Irish Guards and my late daddy would have joined the guards if his height and his IQ had been bigger."
"It's no good!" cried Tommy "The sunlight is streaming in. It's a deluge, a deluge of sunlight. Why did Frank Mitchell not warn people about a flood of sunlight on TV last night?"
"Frank Mitchell, my aunt Fanny!" I screamed, "Frank Mitchell was too busy trying to convince people that wet bag was Coleraine on the 'Name That Town' teaser last night." "I saw that," said Tommy. "Frank certainly fooled me. I thought wet bag was-Cullybaccy. Even the dogs in the street know that cully is Arabic for-wet and Baccy is Ulster/Mongolian for-BAG." "Shut up Tommy!" I screamed, as I grabbed a signed photograph of Steven Nolan before it was washed away by the sunlight. "It's hopeless," I yelled, "the sunlight is half way up the stairs now! There's only one thing to do." Tommy gasped and said, "You don't mean?..."
"YES!" I cried, "It's time to send for super hero--JIM RODGERS. Then Tommy and I sang the Jim Rodger's song, which goes after this fashion. Ah one, ah two, an three, ah four.....
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Jim Rodgers arrived on a bicycle, ringing the bell, his purple cape fluttering behind him.
"NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh Jim," I screeched, "thank goodness you're here! My house is flooded by pesky-sunlight."
"Stand back," screamed Jim "this is a job for super hero--JIM RODGERS!"
Tommy and I clapped, cheered and broke once more into the Jim Rodger's theme tune.
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, Jim Rodgers, super hero ran into the sunlit house and banished the sunlight by--pulling the curtains.
"MY HERO!" I cried as Jim rode off on his bicycle screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!"
Tommy began to sing, "IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF IN TROUBLE." I took the cuff off my sleeve and let Tommy have it round the ear. Tommy and I clasped hands, danced the Mason's Apron to the sound of a stone sliding down a corrugated tin roof and then skipped-gaily into our sunless abode. But for months after, I kept finding little bits of sunlight stuck down the back of the sofa. I cupped them carefully in my hands, ran to the door and threw them up into the sunlit sky. "Fly my little one!" I yelled. " Fly to the shinning orb up in the sky, that is made up from 72% hydrogen, 28% helium and just a little, teeny-weenie smidgen of carbon."a
Later that night, or was it tomorrow night? Tommy my cat looked on with disapproval as I went to bed with cocoa. "I don't care, I don't care what people think, let them talk. Sure Coco is a clown but when he takes off his big shoes and baggy trousers, he knows how to make a girl happy--and he makes me laugh. And do all women, not put at the top of their list for the ideal man--a good sense of humour? So ladies, if you want a man who makes you laugh, go out and grab a-clown. You will find lots of clowns in the circus--and up at Stormont.
Rosie Ryan is looking for you, you will find her waiting at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot,com and if you want to buy her book, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Saturday 27 September 2008
Wednesday 24 September 2008
FLOGGING A DEAD CAT
Monday morning found Tommy my cat and I up to our old tricks. Tommy had me in a box and the wily feline was sawing me in half with a saw. Tommy stopped sawing after my 21st shriek and rushed me to casualty on the back of a Mexican burro called Anthony. The doctor patched me up, patched me down, rolled me over, took my temperature and said. "Goodness gracious me, what a crazy lady!" gave me a Bombay riser with his toe and yelled, "NEXT!" "Damn you doctor, Ali Murphy!" I yelled. "I'll bring down the Indian economy. I'll never eat curry again." "You fixed his wagon," said Tommy. "Let's see how he likes them apples." I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of the neck, found a darkened corner and gave him an enema he'll remember for the rest of his life. All that from one small cat? Amazing, truly-amazing.
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!
Monday 22 September 2008
THE FIRST THING I DO IN THE MORNING IS LOOK FOR MY PUSSY
Wednesday morning found me and Tommy my cat going through our Wednesday morning routine. I was rolling round the floor, wearing a brown catsuit pretending to be an orphaned Malteeser. Tommy was chug-chugging round the room pretending to be the last train to Clarksville. If you haven't tried it, don't judge us. Some people just get up, eat tea and toast and watch Jeremy Kyle-and you have the cheek to call US weird? A rolling stone may gather no moss, but a rolling malteeser, gathers a lot of fluff. If if you don't believe me, I will send you a drawing of my brown catsuit. Tommy says that the fluff sticks to the catsuit, but I believe that the catsuit sticks to the fluff. Will we ever know which theory is correct? Probably not, now that the days are getting shorter. Why are the days so stupid as to take fashion advice from old father time? Bimbos, that is what the days are-Bimbos, air heads, without a brain in their pretty little heads. The nights are so different. They have been wearing black for as long as I remember and black suits the nights so well, for one or two are a little pudgy. The night before Christmas is a lovely night. If there was an X-factor for nights, I think the night before Christmas would win it. The night after Christmas, is a big roly-poly and would be sent packing by Simon Cowell and his minions. You may disagree, that's up to you. That's why God gave you a brain and the hands to scratch it.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
Go now to www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's new book go to jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
Go now to www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's new book go to jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.
Monday 8 September 2008
I BET MY DRAWERS ON FOUR ACES.
"NOT THE DRILL,ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL" I screamed, as the dentist and I fought like Suni and Shia in the surgery. Dental instruments and gauze flew everywhere, as the dentist grabbed me in a head-lock and dragged me towards the chair. I dug in my heels and yelled, "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I headbutted the dentist in the groin. He gasped but with a twirl of the toes, soon had me in a half nelson, I kicked and flung as he pushed me towards the chair of torture. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I screamed. "Don't be a big baby," panted the dentist. "All you will feel is a little prick."
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
Go now to...www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want to buy Rosie's new book, go to..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
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jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
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