I looked at Tommy my cat, there he sat, the GREAT Tommy, eating larks' tongues and ice cream with an Edwardian silver spoon. Oh how I hated him, sitting there, with his wee furry paws, yellow slitted eyes and long curled tail. Little Lord Tommy, not a care in the world. He never did any work around the house. He never brought in coal or took out the ashes, apart from the time he threw my granny's urn into the dustbin. I had to dig through a mountain of rubbish at Belfast dump to get her again, and by the time I got there, the rats had made off with one of her legs. I felt my gorge rise. I got a shoehorn and pushed it back down again, giving myself a good dunt in the gizzard as I did so. I watched with mounting anger as Tommy picked up a glass of red wine, took a sip and said, "Aah, the fruit of the vine, simply-divine." I was shaking all over, with pent up anger. Blood was throbbing in my temples and my toes were curling and uncurling in my vivid pink Ugg boots. I could stand it no more. I put my brain into gear, pressed my foot on the pedal and roared.
"Tommy?"
"Yes, old girl?" said Tommy.
Did you hear that? The filthy feline said, "Yes, old girl?" What kind of cat goes round saying, "Yes, old girl?"
"Tommy," I said, "I hate you."
"I detest you," replied Tommy.
"I loath you," I yelled.
"I despise you," said Tommy.
"I dislike you," I roared.
"I execrate you," said Tommy.
" I-ah-I-ah-I contempt you," I yelled.
"No, no, old girl." said Tommy "It really won't do at tall, You have run out of verbs, leaving me the winner. If you want verbs, run up to my room and you will find a big cardboard box of verbs under my bed."
"Damn you, Tommy cat," I roared ,"You have beaten me again, but someday, someday, I will shove verbs down your throat until you end up as fat as Steven Nolan." Tommy just sniggered, picked up his banjo and began to play, "My Dixie Darling."
Next morning I got up with the crow, poured some liquid dog faeces into all four of Tommy's socks and set off round Belfast, dressed as John Daly's bald head. As I rounded a corner on one Ugg boot, who did I run into but little Hugo Duncan. The wee man from Strabane was bopping along singing, "Oh Lord, but it's hard to be humble, when you fall on your ass from a tumble." I put the warbling out of the wee man. I grabbed him by the throat, shoved him up against a wall and growled. "Listen punk, I ain't got a lot of time-see? I just want the facts-see?" "See-see," gasped Hugo ,"What do you want to know?" "I want the answer to one question," I hissed. Hugo leaped back, but too late, his little Ugg boots were splattered. "Listen Punk," I said, "and listen good, just who was Martha the flower of sweet Strabane?" A look of fear appeared on Uncle Hugo's face. His new gnashers began to tremble. The little man looked all around and whispered "All right, I'll tell you, but you didn't hear it from me-right?" "Spit it out punk,"I growled, "and it better be good."
"What I'm about to tell you," whispered Hugo, "is a secret that Strabane has kept for many, many years. Strabane has a name as a tough town, a lot of hard men live there, and if this secret got out, it would make Strabane a laughing stock. The truth is--and remember you didn't hear this from me, the truth is, Martha the flower of sweet Strabane was a--MAN!"
"Get away," I yelled.
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
The petite Hugo looked all around and whispered, "Martha was really--Willie John McGarrigle, Strabane's first--transsexual!"
"Get away!" I yelled
"It's true," said Hugo.
"Get away!" I yelled.
"No wonder the citizens of Strabane want to keep that a secret" I said.
"You're not wrong," said Hugo, "but it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Wonder about what?" I said.
"Mary from Dungloe" said Hugo. "The pretty little girl from Omagh, Eileen, the girl who was taken home, Molly Malone, the pride of the old county Down, Kathleen, Kitty, and Maude, who was taken into the garden".
"You don't mean?" I shrieked.
"If I let you into a little secret," said Hugo, "Do you promise to keep it to yourself?"
"Sure Hugo, sure Hugo, sure, sure, sure," I yelled.
"All-MEN." said Hugo. "Every song in Ireland that is written about a woman--all transsexuals, transsexuals to a-man!"
"In the name of the ragged beard of David Ford," I yelled. "So no woman in Ireland, has ever had a song written about her?"
"Not one." said Hugo. "All the famous Irish love songs, were written about-MEN!"
"HUGO," I yelled grasping him by the toggles of his duffel coat. "We must remedy that! Someone must write a song about an Irish woman"
"But-WHO?" cried Hugo.
"YOU!" I yelled.
"ME?" said Hugo.
Yes-YOU!" I cried.
"But who, or indeed-Whom shall I write about?" screamed Hugo.
"Lynda Byrons!" I yelled. "I know for a fact that Lynda is a woman. I saw her reverse down a one way street."
"Lynda is a nice wee doat," agreed Hugo,"but no words rhyme with Lynda-or-Byrons."
"There must be someone." I yelled ."All famous Irish songs can not be the sole property of-transsexuals--not that I have anything against them."
Hugo clapped his little chubby hands and cried, "I know, Donna Trainor, I will write an Irish love song about-Donna Trainor."
"You wee cracker!" I yelled, planting a kiss on Hugo's chubby nose. "You wait here and I will run into this music shop for a quarter of, diddly-dees."
Hugo Duncan is no song-writer, four hours later, the best he could come up with was....
THE NICE WEE GIRL CALLED DONNA.
OH, BEAUTIFUL AND FAIR IS DONNA TRAINOR
MANY GIRLS ARE FAR MORE PLAINER
I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER SLENDER HAND
AND THANK THE LORD SHE AIN'T A-MAN.
I picked up my bag of diddly-dees and went home for supper, consisting of, home made bread, home made cheese and home make sausages. Don't ask about the sausages, believe me, you don't want to know!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to any Eason's or the guy below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And get Rosie's blog at. www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Wee Hugo never did finish the song, he was nicked by the police for busking and deported to-STRABANE!
Thursday 27 November 2008
Saturday 22 November 2008
TOMMY THE CAT,WHAT A LITTLE BELTER
I looked at Tommy my cat, sitting on an exercise bicycle in the middle of the room. He was wearing a yellow jersey with, "Tour De France" written on the back and black lycra pants.
Tommy was peddling furiously with his little furry legs, and was bent over the handlebars, staring straight ahead through a pair of dark shades. I watched with love in my eyes and wax in my ears, as Tommy indicated right and turned into some imaginary French street in his little feline brain. Ah, there he was, my little Tommy, my "raison d'etre", my life long friend, my little feline chum. Who brought me tea in bed? little Tommy!. Who left out clean knickers for me every morning? little Tommy! Who gave me first chance to catch a scurrying mouse? Yes, little-Tommy. There is nothing I wouldn't do for little Tommy. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, walk over broken glass,--NO, but I would do other things for little Tommy, such as, tying a tin can to his tail, so he could go faster when I send him to the corner shop for lollipops and buckets for diggers. I felt a tear enter my eye, I tore its ticket in half, got my torch and showed it to a seat. I began to-whimper, I gathered the whimpers in a bowl and put them in the fridge, they go very well with new potatoes and ice cream. I looked at Tommy, still peddling furiously and yelling, "Monsieur, how far to the, how you say? slash house?"
With no one to talk with, I found myself at a loose end. I looked at the clock, the clock stared back with it's big, round white face. I tried to out stare the clock, but after two minutes, my face got red and I averted my eyes. Damn that clock, with it's big white face, it had won again, but someday I will out stare the time-piece and make IT turn away first. I sat on a hard chair and pretended to be First Minister Peter Robinson. I spat venom from between my teeth and yelled, "NO, Mr Mc Guinness, you can not take the police home with you and play with them." "Jeffery, come in here you lackey and clean the dog muck off my shoes". "Iris-Iris, my little dumpling, wear the red dress tonight and I'll have roast duck, bamboo shoots and the raw heads from two herring, but none of them carrots that grow into obscene shapes, I find them an Abomination! Ester Ranzen, the buck-toothed Shinner may find them funny, but I-DON'T!" Then I got up, gave myself a pay raise and went to my bed for a nap.
As I skipped around Belfast, dressed as, the lady with the lamp, old Maggie Titanic from No 7 Rodent Street, who has just got her electricity cut off, I gazed in wonder at the gaggle of black Goths hanging round the city hall. "Greetings little Gothics" I yelled, "Why the long faces?"
A young man approached me, by walking towards me, he was dressed all in black, the only splash of colour was his green teeth. "Hi dude" he moaned, "What's the use man? we're all going to die anyway." "Come, come," I cried. "Where? where?" said the little Gothie. I sat the little Goth on my knee and began to croon.
"Climb up on my knee, wee black man
Think of a Christmas tree and hold my hand
When there are grey skies, get drunk and eat pies
You should be out joy riding,-black man
Friends may forsake you, never mind, sniff glue
But I still love you, wee, black-man".
The little Goth jumped of my knee and yelled, "I'm cured, I'm cured, I feel so-HAPPY!
The last I saw of him, he was skipping down the street, wearing a rainbow suit and singing.
"The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip- hip hooray
I'm going home to mammy for a lovely cup of tay".
"Well, well, well, has it come to this?" said a voice. "I know that smell," I cried and spun round to behold the massive face and figure of-Steven Nolan. "Push off Tubby," I yelled. "Do you not see I am about my granny's business, converting-Goths?" Suddenly, the fat boy fell to his chubby knees and roared. "I am a sinner, a dirty, low down sinner, I have sinned against pies by thought, word and deed. Convert me, I want to be--born again!" "It's going to take some pair of forceps" I muttered. "Come with me my son" I said. "Come with me to the holy river Lagan and I will baptise you" "Will I have to strip off?" said Tubby, fumbling with the mighty zip on the fork of his trousers. "No, No" I said "we don't want to frighten the fish". And low, it came to pass. I led the Tubby one to the river and verily did nearly drown him. But now, everyone is blaming ME for the giant tsunami that flooded most of Belfast! It's not easy doing the Lord's work. You make a lot of enemies. I get hate mail from Nelson Mandela AND the Samaritans!
But as I watched Tubby lumbering off rejoicing, with gallons of water spewing from the gigantic fork on his trousers, I knew, I had at last, found my vocation. From now on, you will find me at the side of the Lagan, plunging fat men into the water, giving them a holy riser with my toe and crying, "Go now, and eat no more!"
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson for Christmas? Go to any Eason book store or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie is up too, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
There will be a mass baptism of Tubbies at the Lagan on Saturday. Everyone welcome. A silent collection in plastic buckets will be taken up later. Give generously, 5% of the collection goes towards the conversion of Tubbies! 'Tis the Lord's work I do.
Tommy was peddling furiously with his little furry legs, and was bent over the handlebars, staring straight ahead through a pair of dark shades. I watched with love in my eyes and wax in my ears, as Tommy indicated right and turned into some imaginary French street in his little feline brain. Ah, there he was, my little Tommy, my "raison d'etre", my life long friend, my little feline chum. Who brought me tea in bed? little Tommy!. Who left out clean knickers for me every morning? little Tommy! Who gave me first chance to catch a scurrying mouse? Yes, little-Tommy. There is nothing I wouldn't do for little Tommy. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, walk over broken glass,--NO, but I would do other things for little Tommy, such as, tying a tin can to his tail, so he could go faster when I send him to the corner shop for lollipops and buckets for diggers. I felt a tear enter my eye, I tore its ticket in half, got my torch and showed it to a seat. I began to-whimper, I gathered the whimpers in a bowl and put them in the fridge, they go very well with new potatoes and ice cream. I looked at Tommy, still peddling furiously and yelling, "Monsieur, how far to the, how you say? slash house?"
With no one to talk with, I found myself at a loose end. I looked at the clock, the clock stared back with it's big, round white face. I tried to out stare the clock, but after two minutes, my face got red and I averted my eyes. Damn that clock, with it's big white face, it had won again, but someday I will out stare the time-piece and make IT turn away first. I sat on a hard chair and pretended to be First Minister Peter Robinson. I spat venom from between my teeth and yelled, "NO, Mr Mc Guinness, you can not take the police home with you and play with them." "Jeffery, come in here you lackey and clean the dog muck off my shoes". "Iris-Iris, my little dumpling, wear the red dress tonight and I'll have roast duck, bamboo shoots and the raw heads from two herring, but none of them carrots that grow into obscene shapes, I find them an Abomination! Ester Ranzen, the buck-toothed Shinner may find them funny, but I-DON'T!" Then I got up, gave myself a pay raise and went to my bed for a nap.
As I skipped around Belfast, dressed as, the lady with the lamp, old Maggie Titanic from No 7 Rodent Street, who has just got her electricity cut off, I gazed in wonder at the gaggle of black Goths hanging round the city hall. "Greetings little Gothics" I yelled, "Why the long faces?"
A young man approached me, by walking towards me, he was dressed all in black, the only splash of colour was his green teeth. "Hi dude" he moaned, "What's the use man? we're all going to die anyway." "Come, come," I cried. "Where? where?" said the little Gothie. I sat the little Goth on my knee and began to croon.
"Climb up on my knee, wee black man
Think of a Christmas tree and hold my hand
When there are grey skies, get drunk and eat pies
You should be out joy riding,-black man
Friends may forsake you, never mind, sniff glue
But I still love you, wee, black-man".
The little Goth jumped of my knee and yelled, "I'm cured, I'm cured, I feel so-HAPPY!
The last I saw of him, he was skipping down the street, wearing a rainbow suit and singing.
"The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip- hip hooray
I'm going home to mammy for a lovely cup of tay".
"Well, well, well, has it come to this?" said a voice. "I know that smell," I cried and spun round to behold the massive face and figure of-Steven Nolan. "Push off Tubby," I yelled. "Do you not see I am about my granny's business, converting-Goths?" Suddenly, the fat boy fell to his chubby knees and roared. "I am a sinner, a dirty, low down sinner, I have sinned against pies by thought, word and deed. Convert me, I want to be--born again!" "It's going to take some pair of forceps" I muttered. "Come with me my son" I said. "Come with me to the holy river Lagan and I will baptise you" "Will I have to strip off?" said Tubby, fumbling with the mighty zip on the fork of his trousers. "No, No" I said "we don't want to frighten the fish". And low, it came to pass. I led the Tubby one to the river and verily did nearly drown him. But now, everyone is blaming ME for the giant tsunami that flooded most of Belfast! It's not easy doing the Lord's work. You make a lot of enemies. I get hate mail from Nelson Mandela AND the Samaritans!
But as I watched Tubby lumbering off rejoicing, with gallons of water spewing from the gigantic fork on his trousers, I knew, I had at last, found my vocation. From now on, you will find me at the side of the Lagan, plunging fat men into the water, giving them a holy riser with my toe and crying, "Go now, and eat no more!"
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson for Christmas? Go to any Eason book store or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And to see what Rosie is up too, go to...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
There will be a mass baptism of Tubbies at the Lagan on Saturday. Everyone welcome. A silent collection in plastic buckets will be taken up later. Give generously, 5% of the collection goes towards the conversion of Tubbies! 'Tis the Lord's work I do.
Monday 17 November 2008
TOMMY MY CAT IS FELINE FINE
"Cut me down Tommy," I yelled to Tommy the cat, "Cut me down!""Keep your drawers on!" yelled Tommy, as he flicked frantically through the Argos catalogue looking for a Swiss Army knife. When Tommy found a picture of a Swiss Army knife, he cut carefully around it with a small brass chainsaw, and then used the Swiss Army knife to cut through the rope that kept me suspended from the ceiling. As the last fibre parted, I yelled, "GERONIMO!" and hurtled towards the floor, with my face out in front of me, so I wouldn't hurt my hands. I tell you my friends, no matter what they say in the house of Lords, floors are not getting any softer. When I hit the floor with a THUD, my old paratrooper training kicked in and I bent my knees before I passed out. Tommy brought me round by pulling my hair and sprinkling two litres of cranberry juice over my feet. When I was as right as I'm ever likely to be, Tommy looked at me and said, "It's not as easy as it looks, is it?" I concurred with Tommy by saying, "No, it's not," and looked up at the hook in the ceiling. For three months I had swung from that hook, wearing nothing but green ankle socks and a strait-jacket. Tommy had bound me with chains and ropes and then hired four Egyptian dwarfs to hoist me up to the hook in the ceiling. I was trying to emulate my hero Houdini. Harry Houdini was an escapologist. He could escape from anything, except the horrible christian name his mother gave him. For three long months I had swung from that hook, kicking and flinging, flinging and kicking, trying desperately to escape from the ropes, the chains and finally-the strait-jacket. Three long months, trying everything, anything to escape my confinement and baffle Tommy my cat with my skill as a escapologist. But alas, it was not to be. No amount of kicking or flinging could loosen the ropes, chains or straight-jacket that bound me. I don't know how Houdini did it, but it was certainly not by kicking and flinging. "There must be a knack to it!" I yelled, looking hard at the key in the front door, "but what ever the knack is, only Houdini knows and he can't tell us now, because he is-dead. Ah, Harry, Harry, you got into one box too many!"Tommy looked at me with concern and said, "Three months hanging from a hook in the ceiling? Eeh, I don't know. You must be fair done in. Sit down and I'll make you a nice bit of toad in the hole. You like toad in the hole don't you? I know you like toad, so if I put toad in a hole, you'll like it even more, won't you?" I leapt to my feet, both of them and yelled, "I am neither hungry or thirsty. During the three months that I hung from that ceiling, like a 40 watt bulb, I existed on-will power, I ate and drank-will power.". "Eeh," said Tommy, "poor wee Will Power and him such a nice lad, what will I tell his mum?" "Tell her to--tell her to-eat cake!" I yelled with a dramatic flourish, that sent my beret flying from my head and my drawers falling around my ankles. After order had been restored, Tommy sidled over to me and whispered, "Look, after three months hanging from a hook from the ceiling, you must at least want a-pee, shall I go and fetch the...
"HALT!" I cried, "Do you not know that times are bad, banks are closing, the pound in your pocket, isn't even in your pocket any more. All over the country, people are going, "Ooh!" as belts are being tightened and galluses hitched higher and higher. The worst financial disaster in living memory and you have the gall to stand there and ask me if I want a-pee? It would be the height of irresponsibility and fiscal madness for you to go and open a tin, so that I could have one-pea." "I'm sorry," said Tommy. "So you should be," I thundered. "I won't do it again," muttered Tommy. "See that you don't" I yelled, "And another thing, in a climate such as this, you have to, think on.". "I am, thinking on," muttered Tommy. "It doesn't look like it to me," I yelled, "Let me see your face." Tommy came closer and stuck out his face. "That doesn't look like a face that is-thinking on," I cried. "Well, I am," said Tommy, "I'm thinking on." "Well, continue thinking on," I said, "and when you've done that, think on some more." "I will," said Tommy, "I promise to-think on." So we left it at that, then we joined hands and danced the Mason's apron to the sound of a threshing machine going past the house. Irish culture? You couldn't beat it with a big stick. Next morning it was all forgotten and Tommy and I spent a lovely time looking over the roof spouting, pretending to be two big clumps of grass. As I looked down the street, I saw a lot of people were doing the same. To those who say that little Ulster is finished, I say, "Have you not seen the number of people who peer over roof spoutings pretending to be big clumps of grass? With people like that, Ulster will never be finished. So, think on!"
After three hours with a Dyson, I had the crumbs in the pleats of Steven Nolan's massive fork all hoovered up. I lay in the long grass and nettles, gazing up at my Phoenician Adonis. What a sight, as he stood there, silhouetted against the Belfast sky with the two giant cranes. The Tubby one, flicked back a wisp of hair and sank his BBC gnashers into a suckling pig on a stick. What poise, what grace, what-beauty. I grabbed him by his chubby ankles and cried,
"THE BOY STOOD IN THE TAKE-A-WAY
TEARS RUNNING FROM HIS EYES
HE HAD JUST BEEN TOLD, TO HIS CHAGRIN
STEVEN NOLAN, ATE ALL THE PIES."
The sun sank in the West, and Tubby just stood there, mean, moody, magnificent and-FAT!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to Eason's or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit Rosie herself at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
"HALT!" I cried, "Do you not know that times are bad, banks are closing, the pound in your pocket, isn't even in your pocket any more. All over the country, people are going, "Ooh!" as belts are being tightened and galluses hitched higher and higher. The worst financial disaster in living memory and you have the gall to stand there and ask me if I want a-pee? It would be the height of irresponsibility and fiscal madness for you to go and open a tin, so that I could have one-pea." "I'm sorry," said Tommy. "So you should be," I thundered. "I won't do it again," muttered Tommy. "See that you don't" I yelled, "And another thing, in a climate such as this, you have to, think on.". "I am, thinking on," muttered Tommy. "It doesn't look like it to me," I yelled, "Let me see your face." Tommy came closer and stuck out his face. "That doesn't look like a face that is-thinking on," I cried. "Well, I am," said Tommy, "I'm thinking on." "Well, continue thinking on," I said, "and when you've done that, think on some more." "I will," said Tommy, "I promise to-think on." So we left it at that, then we joined hands and danced the Mason's apron to the sound of a threshing machine going past the house. Irish culture? You couldn't beat it with a big stick. Next morning it was all forgotten and Tommy and I spent a lovely time looking over the roof spouting, pretending to be two big clumps of grass. As I looked down the street, I saw a lot of people were doing the same. To those who say that little Ulster is finished, I say, "Have you not seen the number of people who peer over roof spoutings pretending to be big clumps of grass? With people like that, Ulster will never be finished. So, think on!"
After three hours with a Dyson, I had the crumbs in the pleats of Steven Nolan's massive fork all hoovered up. I lay in the long grass and nettles, gazing up at my Phoenician Adonis. What a sight, as he stood there, silhouetted against the Belfast sky with the two giant cranes. The Tubby one, flicked back a wisp of hair and sank his BBC gnashers into a suckling pig on a stick. What poise, what grace, what-beauty. I grabbed him by his chubby ankles and cried,
"THE BOY STOOD IN THE TAKE-A-WAY
TEARS RUNNING FROM HIS EYES
HE HAD JUST BEEN TOLD, TO HIS CHAGRIN
STEVEN NOLAN, ATE ALL THE PIES."
The sun sank in the West, and Tubby just stood there, mean, moody, magnificent and-FAT!
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to Eason's or..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit Rosie herself at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Tuesday 11 November 2008
LIFE WITH A FELINE IS PURR-FECT
Welcome to the house of fun. At a time when fun is rationed and gaiety, merriment and jollification can only be procured with a nod and a wink from someone in the know, it is imperative that people know how to make their own-fun. Our parents and grandparents knew how to make their own-fun. Rickets, scabies, boils and two world wars, is historical proof that our ancestors were never at a loose end when it came to-fun. As this is a time of remembrance, let's remember those who have gone before us. Let us dress in black, pack a picnic hamper and make our sad way to the cemetery, partake of a small collation of colcannon and cranberries and as the sun sets in the West, salute, pull your simmet up over your belly button and sing lustily and loudly,
"YOU WENT AWAY AND LEFT ME, LONG TIME AGO
BUT NOW YOU'RE KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, BUT YOU CAN'T COME IN
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG."
The peace and comfort, that will come from this simple act, is unbelievable. You will leave the graveyard with a lilt on your face and a smile in your step.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was peeing into the coal bucket, as he reinacted the relief of Mafeking. I was rolled up in a ball in the corner, pretending to be a hibernating, Hibernian hedgehog dreaming of Jennie with the light brown hair. Time ticked slowly away, soot fell down the chimney, the television chose that moment to explode in shards of glass and there we were, woman and cat, united in the age old practice of making our own fun. Then a butler from Butler street, ran in and rang the dinner gong. Soon it was all go as Tommy and I peeled spuds, diced carrots, cut the hind quarters from a wildebeest, filled a large pan with Crisp and Dry cooking oil and then put on our coats and went out for a fish supper. After dinner, Tommy and I gathered round the old family piano, which was lying in the city dump full of woodworm and death watch beetles. There we stood, surrounded by rats and sang all the old songs. The songs we used to sing, when a wet nappy was a reality and the thought of having teeth--just an unfulfilled-dream. As we walked back home under the twinkling stars, I hooked my arm in Tommy's, looked deep into his little, yellow, slitted eyes and whispered.
"We are mad, aren't we?" "As two loonies in a bin," said Tommy, "as two loonies in a bin." What a great relief it is, to have one's worst fears confirmed by a common or garden-cat.
I met Steven Nolan at our usual place, down the entry behind the wheelie-bins. Lard for Brains was pacing up and down, cracking his knuckles and twitching like a hooker in a nunnery. "Did you get it?" hissed the Tubby one in his trousers. "Yes," I said, "keep your tent on." "Give it here," yelled the terror of weighing machines. I looked furtively up the ally, pulled a family size bottle of HP sauce from under my kilt and handed it to the trembling wretch. He who has mountains as cousins, grabbed the bottle and put it to his delicate, impish, rose-bud lips. "Ah, that's better" gasped Tubby, as he stumbled back into a group of Japanese tourists. "Ah, so" trilled a mandolin playing mandarin. "Listen, Toe-Joe,roared Tubby "any more jokes about the size of my bum and I'll brust you." I watched Tubby put the bottle to his mouth again. "You're hooked Kid," I said. "You have a monkey on your back, a monkey with a red arse and HP written on it." "NEVER," yelled Tubby ,"I could give up the sauce anytime. I just like a little nip every now and again. It makes me spicy and-fruity. I can't talk to girls without the sauce. I get tongue-tied, hog-tied and wide-eyed, but when I have the sauce in me, I turn into a silver tongued devil." "You lack confidence," I said. "You need to build up your self confidence and believe me Kid, the answer you're looking for, don't lie at the bottom of a HP sauce bottle." "But where can I get-confidence?" shrieked Tubby. "Listen Kid," I said, "I know a little trick that will build up your confidence. This little trick was shown to me by the Dali Lama, just after he read the Daily Mail. You stand there with your back to me, then when I yell, JELLY TOTS, you fall backwards and I catch you in my arms." "It's a trick," yelled Tubby, "a dirty rotten trick to see me fall flat on my bum." "No it's not Kid," I said, "You see, this is where the confidence comes in. You must be confident that I will catch you." "And you promise not to let me fall?" said Tubby, "or give me a riser as I topple backwards?" "Cross my heart and hope to lie," I said. "All right," said Tubby, "I'll try it, anything to get off the sauce. Big Audrey, my mammy, thinks I have turned into a vampire."Tubby Nolan stood there, staring at a brick wall, where someone had scrawled, "Nolan is a ball of lard." I braced myself and yelled, "JELLY TOTS." Steven creaked, groaned and then, like a giant redwood toppled towards me. It was four days before they found us. Four long days and nights, lying under the blubberous mass that was-Steven Nolan. I kissed the crane driver who lifted Steven off me. Steven lumbered to his feet, looked all around, smiled and cried, "I'm cured, I'm cured. Four days without even as much as a lick of HP sauce and I feel fine. The addiction for sauce has left me. Oh thank you, strange, weird creature," said Steven and he planted a big, wet, slobbery kiss on my upturned mouth. I watched him lumber off, FREE, free from the terrible addiction of HP sauce that had broken up so many happy families and turned parts of Cullybaccy into no go areas. I reached into my knicker pocket for my purse and skipped off to the Greasy Spoon for an Ulster fry, covered in HP sauce. See me Hi, I can hold my sauce.
Why not go now to
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Also try..
www,jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Turned out nice again, think I'll get a mirror and squeeze my spots, well, you're not going to do it, are you???
"YOU WENT AWAY AND LEFT ME, LONG TIME AGO
BUT NOW YOU'RE KNOCKING ON MY DOOR
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, BUT YOU CAN'T COME IN
I HEAR YOU KNOCKING, GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG."
The peace and comfort, that will come from this simple act, is unbelievable. You will leave the graveyard with a lilt on your face and a smile in your step.
I looked at Tommy my cat, who was peeing into the coal bucket, as he reinacted the relief of Mafeking. I was rolled up in a ball in the corner, pretending to be a hibernating, Hibernian hedgehog dreaming of Jennie with the light brown hair. Time ticked slowly away, soot fell down the chimney, the television chose that moment to explode in shards of glass and there we were, woman and cat, united in the age old practice of making our own fun. Then a butler from Butler street, ran in and rang the dinner gong. Soon it was all go as Tommy and I peeled spuds, diced carrots, cut the hind quarters from a wildebeest, filled a large pan with Crisp and Dry cooking oil and then put on our coats and went out for a fish supper. After dinner, Tommy and I gathered round the old family piano, which was lying in the city dump full of woodworm and death watch beetles. There we stood, surrounded by rats and sang all the old songs. The songs we used to sing, when a wet nappy was a reality and the thought of having teeth--just an unfulfilled-dream. As we walked back home under the twinkling stars, I hooked my arm in Tommy's, looked deep into his little, yellow, slitted eyes and whispered.
"We are mad, aren't we?" "As two loonies in a bin," said Tommy, "as two loonies in a bin." What a great relief it is, to have one's worst fears confirmed by a common or garden-cat.
I met Steven Nolan at our usual place, down the entry behind the wheelie-bins. Lard for Brains was pacing up and down, cracking his knuckles and twitching like a hooker in a nunnery. "Did you get it?" hissed the Tubby one in his trousers. "Yes," I said, "keep your tent on." "Give it here," yelled the terror of weighing machines. I looked furtively up the ally, pulled a family size bottle of HP sauce from under my kilt and handed it to the trembling wretch. He who has mountains as cousins, grabbed the bottle and put it to his delicate, impish, rose-bud lips. "Ah, that's better" gasped Tubby, as he stumbled back into a group of Japanese tourists. "Ah, so" trilled a mandolin playing mandarin. "Listen, Toe-Joe,roared Tubby "any more jokes about the size of my bum and I'll brust you." I watched Tubby put the bottle to his mouth again. "You're hooked Kid," I said. "You have a monkey on your back, a monkey with a red arse and HP written on it." "NEVER," yelled Tubby ,"I could give up the sauce anytime. I just like a little nip every now and again. It makes me spicy and-fruity. I can't talk to girls without the sauce. I get tongue-tied, hog-tied and wide-eyed, but when I have the sauce in me, I turn into a silver tongued devil." "You lack confidence," I said. "You need to build up your self confidence and believe me Kid, the answer you're looking for, don't lie at the bottom of a HP sauce bottle." "But where can I get-confidence?" shrieked Tubby. "Listen Kid," I said, "I know a little trick that will build up your confidence. This little trick was shown to me by the Dali Lama, just after he read the Daily Mail. You stand there with your back to me, then when I yell, JELLY TOTS, you fall backwards and I catch you in my arms." "It's a trick," yelled Tubby, "a dirty rotten trick to see me fall flat on my bum." "No it's not Kid," I said, "You see, this is where the confidence comes in. You must be confident that I will catch you." "And you promise not to let me fall?" said Tubby, "or give me a riser as I topple backwards?" "Cross my heart and hope to lie," I said. "All right," said Tubby, "I'll try it, anything to get off the sauce. Big Audrey, my mammy, thinks I have turned into a vampire."Tubby Nolan stood there, staring at a brick wall, where someone had scrawled, "Nolan is a ball of lard." I braced myself and yelled, "JELLY TOTS." Steven creaked, groaned and then, like a giant redwood toppled towards me. It was four days before they found us. Four long days and nights, lying under the blubberous mass that was-Steven Nolan. I kissed the crane driver who lifted Steven off me. Steven lumbered to his feet, looked all around, smiled and cried, "I'm cured, I'm cured. Four days without even as much as a lick of HP sauce and I feel fine. The addiction for sauce has left me. Oh thank you, strange, weird creature," said Steven and he planted a big, wet, slobbery kiss on my upturned mouth. I watched him lumber off, FREE, free from the terrible addiction of HP sauce that had broken up so many happy families and turned parts of Cullybaccy into no go areas. I reached into my knicker pocket for my purse and skipped off to the Greasy Spoon for an Ulster fry, covered in HP sauce. See me Hi, I can hold my sauce.
Why not go now to
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Also try..
www,jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Turned out nice again, think I'll get a mirror and squeeze my spots, well, you're not going to do it, are you???
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