Great show yesterday kid. A great show, blamed erroneously as it turned out for the sun spot that shrivelled up the dirty, grey, long johns of Smoking Joe Frazier look-a-like, Hector Wonk from Desertmartin. As the official inquiry later revealed, the shrivelling of the drawers occurred when Hector's wife Dipsy got her Daz washing powder mixed up with highgrade, enriched plutonium. A simple mistake that could happen to anyone.
Tommy my cat appeared at the door wearing a crimson,red,silk dressing gown and matching cravat. He yawned-languidly and said in a world weary tone,
"Where is the excitement in my life?
Every day is the same old boring routine.
I get up, I look at you, boke and sit on the couch like a potato.
Where is my Mount Everest?" screamed Tommy.
"Where is my Gobi desert? My mission impossible?"
"Shut up Tennessee Williams," I said. "If you want a challenge go and find the East pole or the West pole. Even C list celebrities are dandering to the North and South pole, but the West and East pole have still to be discovered."
Tommy leaped to his feet and yelled,
"Huskies! I will require huskies!"
"Jordie Tuft will provide all your husky needs," I said. "He will also teach you how to live off the land and drink your own urine."
"DRINK MY OWN URINE?" yelled Tommy. "That's disgusting! I have no trouble drinking other people's urine, but I draw the line at drinking my own urine!"
"THEN SIT DOWN!" I yelled. "You will never amount to anything if you are not prepared to drink your own urine. All the great explorers drank their own urine."
Tommy and I sat there, listening to the comforting tick-tock of the spiked, world war two mine behind the sofa.
Tommy coughed softly and said,
"Would you mind turning on Jeremy Kyle. It's time for the DNA results."
"That fat, ugly slapper is a liar!" I yelled. "That poor, bald, tattooed yob is not the father of her sprog."
"Yes he is!" yelled Tommy.
"Is not!" I roared.
"Is!" yelled Tommy.
"Is not!" I roared.
Then the smarmy Jeremy Kyle appeared to put us out of our misery.
Apparently the yob was not the father of the unwanted sprog, but the yob's daddy was!!!
You couldn't make it up. I tried and failed.
WHO IS "YOUR" DADDY???
Thursday 20 January 2011
Wednesday 19 January 2011
Advice For Gerry
Deer Gerry, 'Tis I, the Clougher enchantress Rosie Ryan 'ere. When I heard you were running the Knew York marathon my hart swelled with pride and my knees turned too Chivers jelly.
"Gerry Anderson, 26 miles?" yelled my sun Bon Jovi.
"That does knot compute.
"I fear uncle Gerry may sucumb to fatigue and lie down on the road like a dead badger".
"Rubbish!" was my retorter.
"Gerry has ran before, from the law and crowds of angry dancers looking for their money back".
"That was different" yelled Bon Jovi.
"A marathon is 26 miles, that's nearly half way too the moon!".
I lifted my foot and gave Bon Jovi a riser that brought a yell of, "CARAMBA!" from the doubting little gulpin.
Gerry, I am nitting you a pear of running drawers.
Its the least I kan do.
The drawers wool come down to below your knee and I have chosen the colour white.
When the drawers are nitted, I wool embroider them with green shamrocks round the fork and on the backside a likeness of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
There will be too pockets to hold your fags and mobile fone.
You don't want to be restricted when running, so there wool be ample room round the fork.
Pace yourself Gerry. A marathon is all about-pace.
Don't set off like a blue-arsed fly when you hear the gun.
And liquids are very important. On the weak before the race, drink a bottle of vodka a day. This could be upped to a bottle and a half on the day of the race.
If you require a pee as you run, go ahead, the heavy woollen material wool soak it up like a sponge.
I wool send the drawers up to you by Parcel Force so hang around the house to sign for them.
We are all behind you Gerry. So do your best.
Don't give Bon Jovi the satisfaction of lying down on the road like a dead badger.
Remember the words of the grate Chuck Berry.
"Run, run, Gerry, you got to make it to town
Run, run, Gerry, keep them drawers from falling down"
From your friend and amigo, Rosie Ryan xxx
"Gerry Anderson, 26 miles?" yelled my sun Bon Jovi.
"That does knot compute.
"I fear uncle Gerry may sucumb to fatigue and lie down on the road like a dead badger".
"Rubbish!" was my retorter.
"Gerry has ran before, from the law and crowds of angry dancers looking for their money back".
"That was different" yelled Bon Jovi.
"A marathon is 26 miles, that's nearly half way too the moon!".
I lifted my foot and gave Bon Jovi a riser that brought a yell of, "CARAMBA!" from the doubting little gulpin.
Gerry, I am nitting you a pear of running drawers.
Its the least I kan do.
The drawers wool come down to below your knee and I have chosen the colour white.
When the drawers are nitted, I wool embroider them with green shamrocks round the fork and on the backside a likeness of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
There will be too pockets to hold your fags and mobile fone.
You don't want to be restricted when running, so there wool be ample room round the fork.
Pace yourself Gerry. A marathon is all about-pace.
Don't set off like a blue-arsed fly when you hear the gun.
And liquids are very important. On the weak before the race, drink a bottle of vodka a day. This could be upped to a bottle and a half on the day of the race.
If you require a pee as you run, go ahead, the heavy woollen material wool soak it up like a sponge.
I wool send the drawers up to you by Parcel Force so hang around the house to sign for them.
We are all behind you Gerry. So do your best.
Don't give Bon Jovi the satisfaction of lying down on the road like a dead badger.
Remember the words of the grate Chuck Berry.
"Run, run, Gerry, you got to make it to town
Run, run, Gerry, keep them drawers from falling down"
From your friend and amigo, Rosie Ryan xxx
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Old Folk and Bed Baths
Great shows last week kid. Great shows which helped in no small way, to quell the riot at Plumbridge Old Folks's Home. The old folk were up in arms about the lack of waterproof nappies and the rough way nurse Paula Pot was inserting catheters.
The leader of the riot, an old codger who wishes to remain anonymous said,
"We is over the moon. All our demands have been met. As a sign of good faith, we, the old folks promise to keep our caterwauling to a minimum when our catheters are being inserted."
Tommy my cat drew a picture of Hitler on the wall, blasted it with a burst of machine-gun fire and said,
"Hey rubber lugs,from the 16th to the 22nd of January-inclusive I will not be available to spoon gruel into your gaping, cavernous gub."
"Hauld on!" I cried. "Hauld on! You are my helper. You get carer's allowance for looking after me."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "On the 16th of January I shall dress in stout all-weather clothing,hiking boots and rucksack and travel the highways and byways looking for the first snowdrop of the year."
"And what shall you do when you find the first snowdrop," I yelled,"place it in your button hole, or press it between the well thumbed pages of your Koran?"
"I shall enthuse," cried Tommy. "I shall-exult,depending on the terrain. I will mount a small mound, hillock, or raised feature in the landscape and proclaim my thanks to the great God Ra. Winter is over, soon the Lagan will flood its banks and catholics and protestants alike shall walk like an Egyptian as they till the fertile soil with bullocks and straining buttocks."
"Sounds like a firm of solicitors" I giggled. "Have you had an accident at work? If so,phone Bullocks and Buttocks NIGH!"
Tommy flicked a speck of dust from his spleen and said,
"Apropos to someone stuffing nourishment down your gannet gullet, while I go snowdrop hunting I have made arrangements."
"Not Steven Nolan!" I yelled. "The last time Tubby looked after me I lost three stone and the oval one nibbled all the hems of my curtains."
"I speak not of bucketbake," said Tommy. "The man I have hired to look after you is a paragon of virtue his name is....."
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers leaping into the room dressed in a nurse's uniform, complete with flat shoes and upside-down watch pinned to his manly bosom.
The next thing I knew, Jim had me down at the carwash giving me a bedbath!
I don't care if Tommy "Snowdrop" ever comes back. Jim Rodgers is looking after me like a baby. All I have to do is wink and Jim will leap to his feet, grab me by the scruff of the neck and run me to the carwash for another bedbath. He has very tender hands as he applies the Lifebouy soap.
Splish-splash I was having a bath
Lord I thought that I would die
Jim Rodgers, was lathering my back
While screaming out, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!"
The leader of the riot, an old codger who wishes to remain anonymous said,
"We is over the moon. All our demands have been met. As a sign of good faith, we, the old folks promise to keep our caterwauling to a minimum when our catheters are being inserted."
Tommy my cat drew a picture of Hitler on the wall, blasted it with a burst of machine-gun fire and said,
"Hey rubber lugs,from the 16th to the 22nd of January-inclusive I will not be available to spoon gruel into your gaping, cavernous gub."
"Hauld on!" I cried. "Hauld on! You are my helper. You get carer's allowance for looking after me."
"Be that as it may," said Tommy. "On the 16th of January I shall dress in stout all-weather clothing,hiking boots and rucksack and travel the highways and byways looking for the first snowdrop of the year."
"And what shall you do when you find the first snowdrop," I yelled,"place it in your button hole, or press it between the well thumbed pages of your Koran?"
"I shall enthuse," cried Tommy. "I shall-exult,depending on the terrain. I will mount a small mound, hillock, or raised feature in the landscape and proclaim my thanks to the great God Ra. Winter is over, soon the Lagan will flood its banks and catholics and protestants alike shall walk like an Egyptian as they till the fertile soil with bullocks and straining buttocks."
"Sounds like a firm of solicitors" I giggled. "Have you had an accident at work? If so,phone Bullocks and Buttocks NIGH!"
Tommy flicked a speck of dust from his spleen and said,
"Apropos to someone stuffing nourishment down your gannet gullet, while I go snowdrop hunting I have made arrangements."
"Not Steven Nolan!" I yelled. "The last time Tubby looked after me I lost three stone and the oval one nibbled all the hems of my curtains."
"I speak not of bucketbake," said Tommy. "The man I have hired to look after you is a paragon of virtue his name is....."
"NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers leaping into the room dressed in a nurse's uniform, complete with flat shoes and upside-down watch pinned to his manly bosom.
The next thing I knew, Jim had me down at the carwash giving me a bedbath!
I don't care if Tommy "Snowdrop" ever comes back. Jim Rodgers is looking after me like a baby. All I have to do is wink and Jim will leap to his feet, grab me by the scruff of the neck and run me to the carwash for another bedbath. He has very tender hands as he applies the Lifebouy soap.
Splish-splash I was having a bath
Lord I thought that I would die
Jim Rodgers, was lathering my back
While screaming out, "NIGH! NIGH! NIGH!"
Thursday 13 January 2011
A Poetic Loner
Great show yesterday kid.
You and Mr Coyle are indeed the Torville and Dean of the radio.
Tommy my cat hurled a hand grenade into his bed to kill the fleas and said,
"I stood all alone on the cliff-top
The night the Majestic went down
Wearing a gansy in yellow
And trousers, conspicuously-brown."
"Send that to Gerry!" I yelled. "It's much better than some of the rubbish he reads out."
Tommy looked out the window and said,
"I am a poetic loner, a vagabond rhymer. I have no wish for fame or success. I leave that to the Seamus Heaneys of the world."
"Give us another one Tommy!" I cried.
"Go on, go on Tommy,give us another auld poem."
Tommy put one foot up on the coal bucket, looked up at the ceiling and roared out like a town crier,
"They never did find her knickers
Though they searched from the dusk 'till the dawn.
It was plain that her knickers were purloined
By the red-headed stranger called, John."
"GET OUT!" I yelled. "GET OUT! and take your auld filthy poems with you, you vile, perverted,wee pussy!"
With Tommy out of the house I decided to write a wee poem myself.It couldn't be that hard. I screwed my face up like Seamus Heaney and wrote the following doggerel.
"He was old, he was frail and decrepit
He was Bosco who came from the Falls.
In a shrill voice he cried out, "Cajhones!"
Which I suppose is much better than, ba.....
NO! I will not go down the filthy, slimy, poetic path.
I washed out my mouth with Lifebuoy soap and sat down to read the bible.
"In the beginning was the word.
No men or woman or wee, wee bird
Then Eve went out some apples to gather
And that was the start of, how's your father?"
Filled with the holy spirit, I rolled round the floor, yelping like a dog. The spirit was in me.
What I needed now was rattle snakes. Lethal, poisonous rattle snakes writhing over my naked body.
PRAISE THE LORD!
You and Mr Coyle are indeed the Torville and Dean of the radio.
Tommy my cat hurled a hand grenade into his bed to kill the fleas and said,
"I stood all alone on the cliff-top
The night the Majestic went down
Wearing a gansy in yellow
And trousers, conspicuously-brown."
"Send that to Gerry!" I yelled. "It's much better than some of the rubbish he reads out."
Tommy looked out the window and said,
"I am a poetic loner, a vagabond rhymer. I have no wish for fame or success. I leave that to the Seamus Heaneys of the world."
"Give us another one Tommy!" I cried.
"Go on, go on Tommy,give us another auld poem."
Tommy put one foot up on the coal bucket, looked up at the ceiling and roared out like a town crier,
"They never did find her knickers
Though they searched from the dusk 'till the dawn.
It was plain that her knickers were purloined
By the red-headed stranger called, John."
"GET OUT!" I yelled. "GET OUT! and take your auld filthy poems with you, you vile, perverted,wee pussy!"
With Tommy out of the house I decided to write a wee poem myself.It couldn't be that hard. I screwed my face up like Seamus Heaney and wrote the following doggerel.
"He was old, he was frail and decrepit
He was Bosco who came from the Falls.
In a shrill voice he cried out, "Cajhones!"
Which I suppose is much better than, ba.....
NO! I will not go down the filthy, slimy, poetic path.
I washed out my mouth with Lifebuoy soap and sat down to read the bible.
"In the beginning was the word.
No men or woman or wee, wee bird
Then Eve went out some apples to gather
And that was the start of, how's your father?"
Filled with the holy spirit, I rolled round the floor, yelping like a dog. The spirit was in me.
What I needed now was rattle snakes. Lethal, poisonous rattle snakes writhing over my naked body.
PRAISE THE LORD!
Wednesday 12 January 2011
A Sophisticated Lunch
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which was much appreciated by Eli Stagbutt who goes out each morning to count the four thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire.
"Eeh!" said Eli. "That show has set me up for the day. If I were younger I would go to the foot of our stairs."
Then his moleskin trousers burst into flames and poor Eli was gutted before the fire brigade came,proving once again, never carry a cigarette lighter in your trouser pocket. How many more men must be burned to the ground before the message gets through?
Tommy my cat did a pirouette in his heavy, Winter,sheepskin ballet dress and said,
"Let's sit down to lunch, I'm starving. Piccalilli?"
"No thank you Tommy," I said, "I would rather pick my nose."
Lunch was a sophisticated, fashionable, Oscar Wilde affair.Fly ones were whizzing round the room like bullets. When the port was gone, we began to drink bottles of Starboard.
How I laughed when Tommy wittily commented,
"ME live in Ballymena? Frankly my dear,I would rather take up abode in the vast builder's crack on Tubby Nolan's massive bum."
"That's a cracker!" I shrieked. "A builders cracker!"
Then, like the wild Atlantic ocean,Tommy's mood changed. He put down his golden goblet of methylated spirits and said,
"Gerry and Sean never did find it."
"Find what?" I said. "The meaning of life? The lost chord, or Tubby Nolan's inside leg measurements?"
"The Bo-Weevil," said Tommy. "The elusive Bo-Weevil. The Scarlet Pimpernel of insects."
"The Bo-Weevil must have crawled into the fork of someone's trousers," I said.
"The naughty,little weevil likes to hide in cramped, hot nooks and crannies."
Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"That means Gerry or Sean are Bo-Weevil carriers. I must inform health minister Michael McGimpsey."
Which is why kid, you and Mr Coyle must lie in a designated field today, legs wide apart, eyes tight shut as a crop duster flies over you,spraying your forks with a lethal pesticide.
Oh Lordy, I sure does like to pick a bale of cotton.
Yes, siree Bob.
If that Bo-Weevil gets loose, there won't be a cotton boll left in Ulster.
(Hey kid, Play Bo-Weevil by Fats Domino. Fats co-wrote this song)
"Eeh!" said Eli. "That show has set me up for the day. If I were younger I would go to the foot of our stairs."
Then his moleskin trousers burst into flames and poor Eli was gutted before the fire brigade came,proving once again, never carry a cigarette lighter in your trouser pocket. How many more men must be burned to the ground before the message gets through?
Tommy my cat did a pirouette in his heavy, Winter,sheepskin ballet dress and said,
"Let's sit down to lunch, I'm starving. Piccalilli?"
"No thank you Tommy," I said, "I would rather pick my nose."
Lunch was a sophisticated, fashionable, Oscar Wilde affair.Fly ones were whizzing round the room like bullets. When the port was gone, we began to drink bottles of Starboard.
How I laughed when Tommy wittily commented,
"ME live in Ballymena? Frankly my dear,I would rather take up abode in the vast builder's crack on Tubby Nolan's massive bum."
"That's a cracker!" I shrieked. "A builders cracker!"
Then, like the wild Atlantic ocean,Tommy's mood changed. He put down his golden goblet of methylated spirits and said,
"Gerry and Sean never did find it."
"Find what?" I said. "The meaning of life? The lost chord, or Tubby Nolan's inside leg measurements?"
"The Bo-Weevil," said Tommy. "The elusive Bo-Weevil. The Scarlet Pimpernel of insects."
"The Bo-Weevil must have crawled into the fork of someone's trousers," I said.
"The naughty,little weevil likes to hide in cramped, hot nooks and crannies."
Tommy gave a shriek and yelled,
"That means Gerry or Sean are Bo-Weevil carriers. I must inform health minister Michael McGimpsey."
Which is why kid, you and Mr Coyle must lie in a designated field today, legs wide apart, eyes tight shut as a crop duster flies over you,spraying your forks with a lethal pesticide.
Oh Lordy, I sure does like to pick a bale of cotton.
Yes, siree Bob.
If that Bo-Weevil gets loose, there won't be a cotton boll left in Ulster.
(Hey kid, Play Bo-Weevil by Fats Domino. Fats co-wrote this song)
Tuesday 11 January 2011
Beware The Bo Weevils!
Great shows last week kid.
When your great shows were on, the streets were deserted except for hoodies, zombies and Sean Coyle look-a-likes. These strange, weird, men walk alone surrounded by a cloud of eerie, ghostly, Gothic silence.
Matt Baggott, the man with the handcuffs and baton, said,
"Like our old friend Tubby Nolan, these strange, walking men are a growing problem."
When asked how the public could help, Matt Baggott shook his pom-poms, twirled his baton like a high school cheer-leader and replied,
"I would ask the public to remain calm and be vigorously, vigilant in spite of vile, vilification."
I looked at Tommy my cat who was reading, "Stars, Bars and Drawers" and said,
"Any gossip in your showbiz magazine Tommy?"
"Just a story about Lady Gaga", said Tommy. "Apparently, the little songbird went out wearing her meat dress and had to run for her life when she met a gang of cannibals out exercising their Rottweilers."
"Now that would only happen in LA," I said. "Sean Coyle often walks the roads late at night with a pound of special mince in his pocket and has never seen hair or hide of Rottweilers or cannibals."
"Mr Coyle is playing with fire," said Tommy. "The hedgerows in Ulster abound with Bo-Weevils who just love special mince. Should Mr Coyle inadvertently take a pregnant Bo-Weevil home with him, his house could be infested with the little rascals. And do you know the worst thing about a Bo-Weevil?" said Tommy.
"Their bite?" I said.
"No", said Tommy.
"Their sting?" I ventured.
"Negative," said Tommy. "The worst thing about a Bo-Weevil is, you never know where they've been all day!"
Tommy and I reformed our old skiffle group, "The Swinging Blue Simmets" and began to sing,
"BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
WHERE YOU BEEN ALL DAY
YOUR MOMMA'S BEEN A LOOKING
SHE HASN'T STOPPED A LOOKING
SINCE YOU WENT AWAY.
BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
THERE AIN'T NO NEED TO WINCE
YOUR MOMMA WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
SHE REALLY WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
A POUND OF SPECIAL MINCE!
(Tommy will add the tuba solo later)
When your great shows were on, the streets were deserted except for hoodies, zombies and Sean Coyle look-a-likes. These strange, weird, men walk alone surrounded by a cloud of eerie, ghostly, Gothic silence.
Matt Baggott, the man with the handcuffs and baton, said,
"Like our old friend Tubby Nolan, these strange, walking men are a growing problem."
When asked how the public could help, Matt Baggott shook his pom-poms, twirled his baton like a high school cheer-leader and replied,
"I would ask the public to remain calm and be vigorously, vigilant in spite of vile, vilification."
I looked at Tommy my cat who was reading, "Stars, Bars and Drawers" and said,
"Any gossip in your showbiz magazine Tommy?"
"Just a story about Lady Gaga", said Tommy. "Apparently, the little songbird went out wearing her meat dress and had to run for her life when she met a gang of cannibals out exercising their Rottweilers."
"Now that would only happen in LA," I said. "Sean Coyle often walks the roads late at night with a pound of special mince in his pocket and has never seen hair or hide of Rottweilers or cannibals."
"Mr Coyle is playing with fire," said Tommy. "The hedgerows in Ulster abound with Bo-Weevils who just love special mince. Should Mr Coyle inadvertently take a pregnant Bo-Weevil home with him, his house could be infested with the little rascals. And do you know the worst thing about a Bo-Weevil?" said Tommy.
"Their bite?" I said.
"No", said Tommy.
"Their sting?" I ventured.
"Negative," said Tommy. "The worst thing about a Bo-Weevil is, you never know where they've been all day!"
Tommy and I reformed our old skiffle group, "The Swinging Blue Simmets" and began to sing,
"BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
WHERE YOU BEEN ALL DAY
YOUR MOMMA'S BEEN A LOOKING
SHE HASN'T STOPPED A LOOKING
SINCE YOU WENT AWAY.
BO-WEEVIL, BO-WEEVIL
THERE AIN'T NO NEED TO WINCE
YOUR MOMMA WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
SHE REALLY WENT AND BOUGHT YOU
A POUND OF SPECIAL MINCE!
(Tommy will add the tuba solo later)
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