When Monday morning came to our house, neither Tommy my cat nor I being loose cannons or mavericks, we got out of bed like everyone else. "I bet," said Tommy, struggling out of his Sex In The City pyjamas, "I bet James Nesbit is still in bed." "Of course he is," I said, "Lying with a wee cheeky smile on his Ulster gub and revelling in his maverickism and loose cannoness."
Tommy and I got to work. I scattered crumbs for the birds, while Tommy hoovered the room with little Henry the vacuum cleaner and good friend of both off us.
"Hoi!" yelled Tommy and Henry in unison, "you're supposed to scatter the crumbs in the front garden." "Oh Ryan Air!" I yelled, "where does it say in the Bible, the Koran or the new Littlewoods Winter catalogue, that I have to scatter the crumbs in the garden?"
"Any fool would know that." chirped a bald-headed vulture who was standing outside the door, with a knife and fork in his prehistoric claw. "Begone!" I yelled, "Did you not know that Patrick Kielty is dying at the Odyssey?" The vulture took off with a flap of leather parchment wings croaking, "Oh, I do like a good comic." So far the day had been uneventful, then, Edwin Poots burst from a sedan chair and rushed into the house like Tim Hitler, the younger and better behaved brother of Adolf. Oh, he were in a state. Tommy loosened his clothing, while I poured brandy down my gurgling gullet. Tommy held his feet to the fire, while I stuck his head into the refrigerator. Eventually the dear boy came round, "Pootsie" I yelled, "Pootsie my dear old friend, what in the world has come over-you?"
Poots sat in front of the fire, sipping a glass of Fairy lemon scented washing up liquid and mumbled, "It's true what they say you know, all great political careers, do end in failure."
"Well thank your lucky stars you didn't have one." I said "You were only Minister for Development and the only thing that developed was that you got the sack."
"Damn and blast that football field!" screamed Poots, It brought me down like a sack of spuds."
"You should have made a decision!" yelled Tommy "but no, you hummed and hawed and now look where you are, up excrement creek without a paddle!"
"What do you do all day up at Stormount?" I yelled, "Watch Jeremy Kyle and Countdown?"
"Yes" mumbled Poots "And we sometimes watch Blue Peter too."
"Sinn Fein are as bad!" I yelled in Irish, "When are they going to make a decision on education ? And in the mean time, children are leaving school as thick as two short planks and taking up low paid jobs in television." "Come on Pootsie!" yelled Tommy, "you used to have your ear to the ground. What are the Sinn Fein plans for education?"
"They want to go back to the old hedge schools." whispered Poots. Tommy and I took off for the foot of our stairs. "Yes" said Poots. "Sinn Fein want to put the clock back and have children staggering from mud cabins, rattling with rickets, with a turf under their arm"
"So that's their plan." I mused "And a damn good plan it is. That will stop the little hoodies from hanging round the corners and calling me, rat features".
"No one in the DUP came to my aid when I fell," moaned Poots, "not one."
"What about Iris Robinson?" yelled Tommy, "Where is her christian charity?"
"She keeps it under her bed in a shoe box," said Poots, "beside her broomstick."
Tommy giggled, turned red and said, "I don't know about you lot, but I find Iris damned attractive in a scary, unnatural sort of way." "Tommy cat!" I yelled, "go to the bathroom and wash your feline gub out with Camay soap."
"No, Tommy's right." sighed Poots, "There's something about Iris Robinson, she attracts by her very repellence,Iits the wicked witch of the West syndrome, the lure of-danger, the preying mantis effect. Would one kiss be worth one's life?"
"The love of which you talk," I yelled "Is the love that dare not speak its name. It is an abomination. Beware my little flies that you do not fly too close to the web of--IRIS."
In the silence that followed, Tommy wrote a book, I painted the house puce and Poots danced the Walls of Limerick with a gang of escaped lunatics from Southend-On-Sea.
I kicked a stone--I think it was Charlie Watts and said, "I suppose Sammy Wilson still wears belt and braces?" "Oh yes," muttered Poots, "It's mandatory since the---incident."
Then tubby Steven Nolan went past eating a roasted Hereford cow and Poots, Tommy and I took after him yelling,
"I may be right, I may be wrong
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
Steven Nolan ate a wildebeest
And left nothing but the hair!"
Ah they don't write them like that anymore. Now a days, it's all--BOOM-BOOM!
HEY, it's Rosie time, go now to.....
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Want to buy Rosie books? Why not try me, I wrote them.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And with that, I return you to the studio, where Noel Thompson and Donna Trainor are walking about. Ah, it wasn't like that in my granny's day.
Sunday 27 July 2008
Monday 21 July 2008
ONLY FOR MY PUSSIE I'D GO MAD
On Monday, which wasn't pancake Tuesday, I leaped out of bed with Alacrity, pushed a pound coin into his hand and whispered, "Give me a call when you learn how to work a telephone." Alacrity nodded and went off to look for Clarity and Transparency, the other two members of the folk group Agreement. I looked down the street. Every doorway held a Milly. Each Milly was wrapped in either a blue or pink dressing gown. The Millies were shod in fluffy bedroom slippers and every tobacco stained hand contained a cigarette. I stood and listened to the dawn chorus of the Millies. "So, I said to him and he said to me--and I said, "What do you think I am?" and he said--and I said, "Sure I'm not even sure if it's yours."
Ah, you can keep the country, give me auld black Belfast, with the Millies twittering and the winos coughing their lungs up in cardboard boxes. I stood there and sniffed the smoky air, as a hundred thousand chimneys, turned the sky black, with the smoke from a hundred thousand Ulster fries. A wee man in a muffler, with the paper under his arm, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and growled, "See me Hi? I'll walk up any damn road I like, so I will."
"Good morning, Reverend Hamilton!" I shrieked, "See you in church-at my funeral."
Belfast, where would you get the like of it? Home of the Titanic and Van Morrison, one launched in the Lagin and the other lunched in the White House. Belfast, built on a solid foundation of soda bread and Woodbine. Belfast, where the man are all called, Sammy and the girls are called, Hi-You.
After breakfast, consisting mainly of food and liquids, Tommy my cat and I played at being the Kray brothers. I played Reggie Kray, Tommy played Ronnie, because Tommy is, how shall I put this? more--sensitive than me. Oh what fun we had. Tommy nailed my hand to the window sill, then I tied Tommy into a chair and pulled out three teeth with a pair of dirty pliers. Oh how we laughed. "This is the best game ever." lisped Tommy, with the blood running down his feline chin. "Yes it is!" I yelled, "and the great thing about it is--we only ever hurt each other."
I was reaching for the power drill when, rat-tat-tat. Tommy and I stood quite still.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered, "Yes" whispered Tommy, "it sounded like tat-tat-rat."
"It was no such thing," I hissed, "it was rat-tat-tat." "I beg to differ," said Tommy, "what I heard was-tat-tat-rat." Then, the sound came again, rat-tat-tat.
"By gum you're right" said Tommy, "It was, rat-tat-tat."
"But what could it signify?" I muttered. "Hard to tell" said Tommy. "It could signify the end of civilisation as we know it." "No, no" I said, "It's too early in the mornin."
Tommy kick-started the computer and Googled in, 'rat-tat-tat'.
We stood there with mouths agape and whispered in unison," rat-tat-tat, a knock at the door."
"Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs," cried Tommy and true to his word-he did. I found my voice under a dirty dish cloth and yelled, "Is someone out there going, rat-tat-tat on my front door?"
"Yes!" cried a voice from without. "Who is it?" I yelled. "Me." said the voice. "What do you want?" I cried. "I want to come in." yelled the voice. "Why?" I roared. "Because I'm fed up standing out here." said the voice. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?" I yelled and I rolled the huge boulder away from the door and opened it.
When we saw who it was, Tommy and I cheered and clapped our hands. Lor' love a duck, if it wasn't only the bonny wee Lord Laird, he of the Ulster/Scots association, don't you know and all that malarky. Lord Laird stood there resplendent in tartan kilt and freshly shot sporran and yelled, "HOOTS!" "No thank you," I said, "I'm off it until Lent," Bonny wee Lord Laird, took out a bonny wee silver box, took a pinch of hoots and sniffed it up his hooter. "Ah, that's better" he gasped, as he clung on to the tall boy who was standing trembling in the corner. Lord Laird rolled back the carpet, which was some job, due to the fact that we didn't have one, then he said in a very Scottish way, "I have been practising a little something for Burns night. I want to know what you think of it and before we could stop him, he gave a spring and did a hand stand in the middle of the room with his bonnie wee kilt hanging over his head. Tommy and I looked at each other.Sso it was true, then, before we could speak, bonny wee Lord Laird yelled out, "What do you think of that for a table lamp?". At this point the cat had got my tongue, so I looked at Tommy and Tommy roared, "It's good, but it's not right, Steven Nolan does a far better impersonation of a wee tea pot, complete with sound effects." Bonny wee Lord Laird, turned into a wee dour Scottish mon, grabbed his kilt and ganged hame.
As I jumped into bed with Alacrity, later that night, I pressed another pound into his hand and said, "What are the chances of that happening--EH?"
Email jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to--www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you can't tell stork from butter, you should not be let near big birds.
Ah, you can keep the country, give me auld black Belfast, with the Millies twittering and the winos coughing their lungs up in cardboard boxes. I stood there and sniffed the smoky air, as a hundred thousand chimneys, turned the sky black, with the smoke from a hundred thousand Ulster fries. A wee man in a muffler, with the paper under his arm, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and growled, "See me Hi? I'll walk up any damn road I like, so I will."
"Good morning, Reverend Hamilton!" I shrieked, "See you in church-at my funeral."
Belfast, where would you get the like of it? Home of the Titanic and Van Morrison, one launched in the Lagin and the other lunched in the White House. Belfast, built on a solid foundation of soda bread and Woodbine. Belfast, where the man are all called, Sammy and the girls are called, Hi-You.
After breakfast, consisting mainly of food and liquids, Tommy my cat and I played at being the Kray brothers. I played Reggie Kray, Tommy played Ronnie, because Tommy is, how shall I put this? more--sensitive than me. Oh what fun we had. Tommy nailed my hand to the window sill, then I tied Tommy into a chair and pulled out three teeth with a pair of dirty pliers. Oh how we laughed. "This is the best game ever." lisped Tommy, with the blood running down his feline chin. "Yes it is!" I yelled, "and the great thing about it is--we only ever hurt each other."
I was reaching for the power drill when, rat-tat-tat. Tommy and I stood quite still.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered, "Yes" whispered Tommy, "it sounded like tat-tat-rat."
"It was no such thing," I hissed, "it was rat-tat-tat." "I beg to differ," said Tommy, "what I heard was-tat-tat-rat." Then, the sound came again, rat-tat-tat.
"By gum you're right" said Tommy, "It was, rat-tat-tat."
"But what could it signify?" I muttered. "Hard to tell" said Tommy. "It could signify the end of civilisation as we know it." "No, no" I said, "It's too early in the mornin."
Tommy kick-started the computer and Googled in, 'rat-tat-tat'.
We stood there with mouths agape and whispered in unison," rat-tat-tat, a knock at the door."
"Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs," cried Tommy and true to his word-he did. I found my voice under a dirty dish cloth and yelled, "Is someone out there going, rat-tat-tat on my front door?"
"Yes!" cried a voice from without. "Who is it?" I yelled. "Me." said the voice. "What do you want?" I cried. "I want to come in." yelled the voice. "Why?" I roared. "Because I'm fed up standing out here." said the voice. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?" I yelled and I rolled the huge boulder away from the door and opened it.
When we saw who it was, Tommy and I cheered and clapped our hands. Lor' love a duck, if it wasn't only the bonny wee Lord Laird, he of the Ulster/Scots association, don't you know and all that malarky. Lord Laird stood there resplendent in tartan kilt and freshly shot sporran and yelled, "HOOTS!" "No thank you," I said, "I'm off it until Lent," Bonny wee Lord Laird, took out a bonny wee silver box, took a pinch of hoots and sniffed it up his hooter. "Ah, that's better" he gasped, as he clung on to the tall boy who was standing trembling in the corner. Lord Laird rolled back the carpet, which was some job, due to the fact that we didn't have one, then he said in a very Scottish way, "I have been practising a little something for Burns night. I want to know what you think of it and before we could stop him, he gave a spring and did a hand stand in the middle of the room with his bonnie wee kilt hanging over his head. Tommy and I looked at each other.Sso it was true, then, before we could speak, bonny wee Lord Laird yelled out, "What do you think of that for a table lamp?". At this point the cat had got my tongue, so I looked at Tommy and Tommy roared, "It's good, but it's not right, Steven Nolan does a far better impersonation of a wee tea pot, complete with sound effects." Bonny wee Lord Laird, turned into a wee dour Scottish mon, grabbed his kilt and ganged hame.
As I jumped into bed with Alacrity, later that night, I pressed another pound into his hand and said, "What are the chances of that happening--EH?"
Email jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to--www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you can't tell stork from butter, you should not be let near big birds.
Monday 14 July 2008
I WAS FINED £50 AND GOT THREE POINTS ON MY POETIC LICENCE
I ran into my front room, which is at the back of the house, to confuse burglars and architects, I was laughing, chuckling, sniggering and tittering. "Tommy!" I yelled to my feline friend, "Come and listen to this poem I have written about Steven Nolan, if you are sitting comfortably, I will begin." "Hold on, hold on!" yelled Tommy. "If you're going to read a poem, you must look like a poet, thin, wan, pale and starving. You look like a big lump who has just eaten all the pies."
"You're right!" Tommy I yelled, "and when you're right, you're not wrong. Wait here, while I go up to the garret and starve for two years." "I'll be here." said Tommy, and true to his word he was. When I staggered down the stairs two years later, Tommy was sitting in the same chair, squeezing the same black head. Tommy looked up and said, "That's much better, you look thin, wan, pale and starving, just like a poet, go on now and read your poem about Steven Nolan."
"Tommy!" I gasped, "help me to the podium." "You can't have anything left to do." said Tommy. "It's just an urge, ignore it and it will go away." So here is the poem, read by me and listened to by Tommy. I shall recite the poem in a clipped, British accent.
He did not wear his brand new jeans
For they were far too tight
His cahonies were impressive
But he kept them out of sight
And examined them for chafing
In his bedroom every night.
Alas the weight was piling on
The jeans no longer fit
The gusset couldn't take the strain
So it just up and quit
The Greek said, "I can't help him"
His defeat he did admit.
He walks among the Tubby men
In a suit of shabby grey
The thin lad with the lean good looks
Alas he's gone away
"Burger, chips and onion rings"
I heard the fat youth say.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Standing at the chip shop
Staring at a pie
The look of love was on his face
And a tear was in his eye.
For each man eats the things he loves
Be it crisps or bars of Mars
Which leads to excess poundage
And the letting out of drawers
The stench of flatulence and curry
As he eats beneath the stars.
Some gobble food when they are young
And some when they are old
The poor with hands of poverty
The rich with spoons of gold
But worst by far is the man who eats
A curry when it's cold.
Some eat every thing in sight
They always clear their plate
Some eat food in bed each night
While chins-accumulate
Some even eat as they shed tears
And ponder on their fate.
Another pair of trousers-pop
As the belly grows too big
Some get disbelieving looks
From hippos and from pigs.
The greatest fiddler in the land
Couldn't make them dance a jig.
No, he did not wear his brand new jeans
When I saw him last night
He wore Pavarotti's trousers
And even they were getting tight
He grabbed greedily for his take-a-way
And then lumbered out of sight.
"Great!" yelled Tommy, "Satire at its best. You are indeed the greatest poet, that ever sat on a po." Then the poetic police burst in and dragged me away, for plagiarism--well, it could have been worse, they could have charged me for copying some one's work. Like I said at the top of the page, I was fined £50 and got three points on my poetic licence.
Next time I take a poem out for a run, I will obey the highway and indeed, the low way code.
Go now to.. www. rosie-ryan. blogspot. com
Toodles for now, and remember, if you're passing, keep on going, don't drop in. Kay-me-a-fault-yah. Or in Ulster/Scots-winny nee scunner coulters 'n' cromets-the noo.Parity of extreme.
"You're right!" Tommy I yelled, "and when you're right, you're not wrong. Wait here, while I go up to the garret and starve for two years." "I'll be here." said Tommy, and true to his word he was. When I staggered down the stairs two years later, Tommy was sitting in the same chair, squeezing the same black head. Tommy looked up and said, "That's much better, you look thin, wan, pale and starving, just like a poet, go on now and read your poem about Steven Nolan."
"Tommy!" I gasped, "help me to the podium." "You can't have anything left to do." said Tommy. "It's just an urge, ignore it and it will go away." So here is the poem, read by me and listened to by Tommy. I shall recite the poem in a clipped, British accent.
He did not wear his brand new jeans
For they were far too tight
His cahonies were impressive
But he kept them out of sight
And examined them for chafing
In his bedroom every night.
Alas the weight was piling on
The jeans no longer fit
The gusset couldn't take the strain
So it just up and quit
The Greek said, "I can't help him"
His defeat he did admit.
He walks among the Tubby men
In a suit of shabby grey
The thin lad with the lean good looks
Alas he's gone away
"Burger, chips and onion rings"
I heard the fat youth say.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Standing at the chip shop
Staring at a pie
The look of love was on his face
And a tear was in his eye.
For each man eats the things he loves
Be it crisps or bars of Mars
Which leads to excess poundage
And the letting out of drawers
The stench of flatulence and curry
As he eats beneath the stars.
Some gobble food when they are young
And some when they are old
The poor with hands of poverty
The rich with spoons of gold
But worst by far is the man who eats
A curry when it's cold.
Some eat every thing in sight
They always clear their plate
Some eat food in bed each night
While chins-accumulate
Some even eat as they shed tears
And ponder on their fate.
Another pair of trousers-pop
As the belly grows too big
Some get disbelieving looks
From hippos and from pigs.
The greatest fiddler in the land
Couldn't make them dance a jig.
No, he did not wear his brand new jeans
When I saw him last night
He wore Pavarotti's trousers
And even they were getting tight
He grabbed greedily for his take-a-way
And then lumbered out of sight.
"Great!" yelled Tommy, "Satire at its best. You are indeed the greatest poet, that ever sat on a po." Then the poetic police burst in and dragged me away, for plagiarism--well, it could have been worse, they could have charged me for copying some one's work. Like I said at the top of the page, I was fined £50 and got three points on my poetic licence.
Next time I take a poem out for a run, I will obey the highway and indeed, the low way code.
Go now to.. www. rosie-ryan. blogspot. com
Toodles for now, and remember, if you're passing, keep on going, don't drop in. Kay-me-a-fault-yah. Or in Ulster/Scots-winny nee scunner coulters 'n' cromets-the noo.Parity of extreme.
Wednesday 9 July 2008
TOMMY SITS AMONG THE CABBAGES AND PEAS
I looked out at Tommy my cat, labouring away in the vegetable garden. "Look at him" I said to the stuffed parrot, "Look at our little Tommy, the Alan Titmarch of the feline world."
"Don't talk to me," said the parrot, "I'm stuffed, I should never have had that second helping of stewed steak." "The great thing about stewed stake," I said "is it leaves you with a mouthful of wooden splinters, tooth picks to pick your teeth with." The stuffed parrot burped but made no other comment. Acting on impulse, which is a very good deodorant, it sneaks up on BO and strangles it with a garrote, I instructed my brain to tell my legs to take me out to the garden, which it did, but it took half an hour. I must get someone to look at my brain. It's never been the same since I took it out to clean it.
"Greetings, little tiller of the soil!" I yelled to Tommy. "I hope your onions are small and round and your rhubarb flourishing with luxuriant,vigor, bordering on ostentatiousness." Tommy looked up, smiled, took off his flat cap, wiped his sweating forehead and cried, "Hello Mamma Mia.""Tommy!" I shrieked, "You've done wonders with this piece of land. It used to be a school for the blind, but you threw them out and look at it now--it's full of vegetables." Tommy leant on his spade and said, "Hard work, that's the secret, hard work and plenty of dung." "Well you should know about that." I said "Every time I look out of the window, I see you with a hump on your back and your tail up in the air." Oh how we laughed.
"You don't do so bad yourself" laughed Tommy, "You haven't used the toilet yourself for months, why there is a veritable spider's web over the bowl."
"It's so handy." I said, "No climbing stairs, just scoot out the back door and then--scoot."
After we had laughed for an hour and a half, Tommy became serious, "You don't think" said Tommy, looking at me keenly, "you don't think there's a bit of a-pong do you?"
"Bit of a pong?" I scoffed, "Bit of a pong? Don't make me laugh. This garden is an oasis of freshness in a city of squalor. Bit of a pong? Bit of a pong my ass."
As I took a cigarette from behind my ear,--no--I'm not a magician, I had put it there earlier. As I took a cigarette from behind my ear and went to light a match on my corrugated-iron knickers, a white van pulled up and six men wearing white anti-contamination suits leaped out.
"Don't light that match!" yelled one from behind his gas mask, "Or the whole street will go up."
Tommy and I were rudely informed that our little garden was full of vile, obnoxious gasses and a breeding ground for mosquitoes and cholera, brought about by some stupid, ignorant people using the garden as a-toilet? Tommy and I looked at each other in disbelief, what was the world coming too? The PSNI should crack down hard on the dirty, squatting little hoodies.
The garden is out of bounds and will be for the next 2,000 years, until the soil renews its self.
Ah well, time to get a brush and remove the cobweb from the toilet bowl. Oh, and I must buy some toilet roll, now that the cabbage leaves are no longer available.
I lay in the crook of Steven Nolan's arm, feeding on chocolate crumbs that fell like manna from his large, cavernous mouth. I glanced up in wonder at his large, inscrutable, Sphinx-like face. What gluttonous thoughts were going on behind those little beady eyes?
As his huge jaws went up and down, I thought, "Here is a source of energy if we could but harness it." I was thrown two foot in the air, as his huge belly rumbled. It was like sitting on top of a volcano. If he blew, how many would be killed by what, to some, could look like lava?
He rumbled again and a whiff of smoke appeared from the rear. Was I safe? Should I stay or should I go? "Stephen," I whispered, "Dear wonderful Steven, why are we perched on the top of this disused, 200 foot high factory chimney?"
"To keep sweet nickers, chocolate bandits and crisp robbers away." replied the man with lard in his veins. "Steven," I whispered, "Dear, wonderful Steven. I carried you up here on my back, but I don't think I can carry you down." Tubby burped and growled, "Don't worry about that. I have hired a Chinook helicopter to pick us up here at five in a large net."
"Steven," I whispered, "Dear wonderful Steven". "What is it now?" growled the oval one.
"Steven," I whispered, "may I kiss your pouting, velvety, rose bud lips?"
"And smudge my chocolate?" yelled Tubby, "I don't think so, do you?"
The night got darker, the wind blew cold and I clung on to Steven Nolan on top of the high chimney, like little Fred Dibnah. Oft in the stilly night, I heard the sound of rotor blades.
(Go now to... www. rosie-ryan. blogspot.com
Tell her I sent you.
"Don't talk to me," said the parrot, "I'm stuffed, I should never have had that second helping of stewed steak." "The great thing about stewed stake," I said "is it leaves you with a mouthful of wooden splinters, tooth picks to pick your teeth with." The stuffed parrot burped but made no other comment. Acting on impulse, which is a very good deodorant, it sneaks up on BO and strangles it with a garrote, I instructed my brain to tell my legs to take me out to the garden, which it did, but it took half an hour. I must get someone to look at my brain. It's never been the same since I took it out to clean it.
"Greetings, little tiller of the soil!" I yelled to Tommy. "I hope your onions are small and round and your rhubarb flourishing with luxuriant,vigor, bordering on ostentatiousness." Tommy looked up, smiled, took off his flat cap, wiped his sweating forehead and cried, "Hello Mamma Mia.""Tommy!" I shrieked, "You've done wonders with this piece of land. It used to be a school for the blind, but you threw them out and look at it now--it's full of vegetables." Tommy leant on his spade and said, "Hard work, that's the secret, hard work and plenty of dung." "Well you should know about that." I said "Every time I look out of the window, I see you with a hump on your back and your tail up in the air." Oh how we laughed.
"You don't do so bad yourself" laughed Tommy, "You haven't used the toilet yourself for months, why there is a veritable spider's web over the bowl."
"It's so handy." I said, "No climbing stairs, just scoot out the back door and then--scoot."
After we had laughed for an hour and a half, Tommy became serious, "You don't think" said Tommy, looking at me keenly, "you don't think there's a bit of a-pong do you?"
"Bit of a pong?" I scoffed, "Bit of a pong? Don't make me laugh. This garden is an oasis of freshness in a city of squalor. Bit of a pong? Bit of a pong my ass."
As I took a cigarette from behind my ear,--no--I'm not a magician, I had put it there earlier. As I took a cigarette from behind my ear and went to light a match on my corrugated-iron knickers, a white van pulled up and six men wearing white anti-contamination suits leaped out.
"Don't light that match!" yelled one from behind his gas mask, "Or the whole street will go up."
Tommy and I were rudely informed that our little garden was full of vile, obnoxious gasses and a breeding ground for mosquitoes and cholera, brought about by some stupid, ignorant people using the garden as a-toilet? Tommy and I looked at each other in disbelief, what was the world coming too? The PSNI should crack down hard on the dirty, squatting little hoodies.
The garden is out of bounds and will be for the next 2,000 years, until the soil renews its self.
Ah well, time to get a brush and remove the cobweb from the toilet bowl. Oh, and I must buy some toilet roll, now that the cabbage leaves are no longer available.
I lay in the crook of Steven Nolan's arm, feeding on chocolate crumbs that fell like manna from his large, cavernous mouth. I glanced up in wonder at his large, inscrutable, Sphinx-like face. What gluttonous thoughts were going on behind those little beady eyes?
As his huge jaws went up and down, I thought, "Here is a source of energy if we could but harness it." I was thrown two foot in the air, as his huge belly rumbled. It was like sitting on top of a volcano. If he blew, how many would be killed by what, to some, could look like lava?
He rumbled again and a whiff of smoke appeared from the rear. Was I safe? Should I stay or should I go? "Stephen," I whispered, "Dear wonderful Steven, why are we perched on the top of this disused, 200 foot high factory chimney?"
"To keep sweet nickers, chocolate bandits and crisp robbers away." replied the man with lard in his veins. "Steven," I whispered, "Dear, wonderful Steven. I carried you up here on my back, but I don't think I can carry you down." Tubby burped and growled, "Don't worry about that. I have hired a Chinook helicopter to pick us up here at five in a large net."
"Steven," I whispered, "Dear wonderful Steven". "What is it now?" growled the oval one.
"Steven," I whispered, "may I kiss your pouting, velvety, rose bud lips?"
"And smudge my chocolate?" yelled Tubby, "I don't think so, do you?"
The night got darker, the wind blew cold and I clung on to Steven Nolan on top of the high chimney, like little Fred Dibnah. Oft in the stilly night, I heard the sound of rotor blades.
(Go now to... www. rosie-ryan. blogspot.com
Tell her I sent you.
Monday 7 July 2008
THEN THE FLOOR COLLAPSED AND I WAS LEFT HANGING ONTO THE CHAIN!!!
I was standing vacantly staring out of the window, at a 12 stone Icelandic dwarf, who was standing on a crate of various woodland creatures, staring vacantly back at me.
I gave him the fingers. "Ah, Bird's Eye!" he screamed ebulliently and went on his merry, but if I'm any judge of Icelandic dwarfs,-sad and pathetic way.
Suddenly, I heard a dragging sound. I focused my twin occulars and beheld-Tommy, my little Tommy, my feline friend and bridge partner. Tommy was dragging a large brass bound chest up the street. Seeing no female attached to the said chest, I instructed my lungs to utter a sigh of relief and ran to the door, making full use of knees, ankles and feet. If you've got them,why not use them, I always say.
"TOMMY!" I screamed, "What treasure is concealed, contained and hidden in that brass bound chest?"
Tommy fixed his slitted, yellow eyes on me and said, "Aar Jim lad, this be a heavy chest. Don't stand there like a landlubber, avast-aye-avast may hearties, shiver me timbers and stone the crows, come forwa'rd and give me a hand."
I gave a funny high-pitched-yelp,skipped into the house like Giant Haystacks, grabbed the hand I found in the graveyard and helped Tommy drag the large chest into the house.
"Thanks for the hand," said Tommy, as he combed his perspirating Elvis quiff with it.
"Don't thank me." I said "Thank Ricky McGutts, born 1890 died 1959 and sorely missed by wife and grieving family."."I'll take him some flowers," said Tommy "And if the florist isn't open, I'll take him a fish supper. I wonder did he take salt and vinegar?"
"TOMMY!" I screamed, "TOMMY, what's in the chest? And where did you get it?"
"I got it at an auction." said Tommy with pride in his voice. Knowing full well, that pride came before a fall, I threw myself down the stairs, just so we could get the whole thing out of the way.
I was so excited, I clapped my hands, barked like a seal and danced a horn-pipe on the
mantlepiece. "You'll never guess what's in the chest." laughed Tommy,=. "Go on, have a guess."
"Oh, I don't know!" I screamed. "It could be anything, is it--a smaller chest for keeping things in?" "NO!." yelled Tommy and he threw back the lid....."Buttons?" I whispered.
"Not just buttons" crowed Tommy "BRASS-buttons, 509 brass buttons."
To say I was-speechless, would be quite correct. "Tommy!" I wailed, "Why did you spend your
whip-lash compensation money on-509 brass buttons?"
"Elementary my dear rat bag." said Tommy "You never know when someone might give me a-blazer."
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes. I could see. I was reminded of the old adage,then my attention deficit kicked in and I thought of an old saying instead.
"For want of a horse, a nail was lost, for want of a shoe, a dog got tossed."
Tommy had been thinking ahead, thinking outside the box. The lad was as crafty as a fox. I know a little cat who won't be without a brass button for Rememberance Sunday, or picnics to the Somme. I ran out, bought a hat, ran back and took it off to Tommy.
509 brass buttons, why can something wonderful like that, not happen to me???
Steven Nolan and I were lying in a long lane with no turning,in a nest of chocolate bar wrappings. I looked at Steven in awe, the firm jaws, the steely blue eyes, the tide mark of chocolate around his rose-bud lips. The way his marrow-bone white gansy went up and down, with every wheezing breath. The vast acreage of his trousers, the stout zip, securly fastened with a combination lock. So this was-MAN, this was what God created, when he lifted two large handfuls of muck and clabber. This was the pinnacle of God's work. It didn't get any better than this. The marvel of nature, broke wind, threshed around in the grass until he could sit up and whispered in my wax dripping ear.
"Hey, honey bun, want to see my life time achievement?"
It's always the same, you wait and wait, then when it's there before you--I felt-well-cheated. I thought it would be larger, with a logo maybe.
But a girl's got to take what she can these days, with the high cost of fuel and the bustle threatening to make a come back.
NOW-wait, wait, not yet, now, go to.....
www. rosie-ryan.blogspot.com Where Rosie is just about to put the kettle on.
I gave him the fingers. "Ah, Bird's Eye!" he screamed ebulliently and went on his merry, but if I'm any judge of Icelandic dwarfs,-sad and pathetic way.
Suddenly, I heard a dragging sound. I focused my twin occulars and beheld-Tommy, my little Tommy, my feline friend and bridge partner. Tommy was dragging a large brass bound chest up the street. Seeing no female attached to the said chest, I instructed my lungs to utter a sigh of relief and ran to the door, making full use of knees, ankles and feet. If you've got them,why not use them, I always say.
"TOMMY!" I screamed, "What treasure is concealed, contained and hidden in that brass bound chest?"
Tommy fixed his slitted, yellow eyes on me and said, "Aar Jim lad, this be a heavy chest. Don't stand there like a landlubber, avast-aye-avast may hearties, shiver me timbers and stone the crows, come forwa'rd and give me a hand."
I gave a funny high-pitched-yelp,skipped into the house like Giant Haystacks, grabbed the hand I found in the graveyard and helped Tommy drag the large chest into the house.
"Thanks for the hand," said Tommy, as he combed his perspirating Elvis quiff with it.
"Don't thank me." I said "Thank Ricky McGutts, born 1890 died 1959 and sorely missed by wife and grieving family."."I'll take him some flowers," said Tommy "And if the florist isn't open, I'll take him a fish supper. I wonder did he take salt and vinegar?"
"TOMMY!" I screamed, "TOMMY, what's in the chest? And where did you get it?"
"I got it at an auction." said Tommy with pride in his voice. Knowing full well, that pride came before a fall, I threw myself down the stairs, just so we could get the whole thing out of the way.
I was so excited, I clapped my hands, barked like a seal and danced a horn-pipe on the
mantlepiece. "You'll never guess what's in the chest." laughed Tommy,=. "Go on, have a guess."
"Oh, I don't know!" I screamed. "It could be anything, is it--a smaller chest for keeping things in?" "NO!." yelled Tommy and he threw back the lid....."Buttons?" I whispered.
"Not just buttons" crowed Tommy "BRASS-buttons, 509 brass buttons."
To say I was-speechless, would be quite correct. "Tommy!" I wailed, "Why did you spend your
whip-lash compensation money on-509 brass buttons?"
"Elementary my dear rat bag." said Tommy "You never know when someone might give me a-blazer."
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes. I could see. I was reminded of the old adage,then my attention deficit kicked in and I thought of an old saying instead.
"For want of a horse, a nail was lost, for want of a shoe, a dog got tossed."
Tommy had been thinking ahead, thinking outside the box. The lad was as crafty as a fox. I know a little cat who won't be without a brass button for Rememberance Sunday, or picnics to the Somme. I ran out, bought a hat, ran back and took it off to Tommy.
509 brass buttons, why can something wonderful like that, not happen to me???
Steven Nolan and I were lying in a long lane with no turning,in a nest of chocolate bar wrappings. I looked at Steven in awe, the firm jaws, the steely blue eyes, the tide mark of chocolate around his rose-bud lips. The way his marrow-bone white gansy went up and down, with every wheezing breath. The vast acreage of his trousers, the stout zip, securly fastened with a combination lock. So this was-MAN, this was what God created, when he lifted two large handfuls of muck and clabber. This was the pinnacle of God's work. It didn't get any better than this. The marvel of nature, broke wind, threshed around in the grass until he could sit up and whispered in my wax dripping ear.
"Hey, honey bun, want to see my life time achievement?"
It's always the same, you wait and wait, then when it's there before you--I felt-well-cheated. I thought it would be larger, with a logo maybe.
But a girl's got to take what she can these days, with the high cost of fuel and the bustle threatening to make a come back.
NOW-wait, wait, not yet, now, go to.....
www. rosie-ryan.blogspot.com Where Rosie is just about to put the kettle on.
Friday 4 July 2008
SO I SAID TO HER, "KNICKERS TO YOU, MRS MC HUGH!"
"Ah, go on you old rat bag," I yelled "Get back into your filthy house with your filthy children and your dirty old man of a husband!" "What?" I yelled "What? That's a damned lie!" I shouted.
"The Polish sailor and I were found in the long grass, because we had both been knocked down by a freak, petite, minute tornado." "WHAT?" I yelled. "WHAT? Take that back!" I roared.
"The red light above my door is to keep moths away and provide a warning for the poor wee blind bats." "WHAT?" I roared "WHAT? I refute that!" I yelled. "I refute that with all the refuteness in China. Knickers!" I yelled "Knickers to you, knickers to all your kith and kin, knickers to your cat and dog and knickers to the poor cuttie you has to sew your massive-knickers!" "WHAT?" I yelled "WHAT? I do so have knickers on---LOOK!"
And I lifted my skirt above my head and did a twirl.
"Will you come inside!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Will you come inside and don't be standing at the door, trading insults with her at number 27."
"She started it!" I yelled. "She made sinewy, insincere, insinuations about my front door step."
"What did she say about your front door step?" said Tommy.
I gulped like a goldfish and said "She said my front door step was-dirty."
"So it is!" roared Tommy. "For God's sake, it's covered in dog turds."
I threw my arms up in the air, gave a shriek, like this "SHRIEK!" and fell to the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter. Five minutes later,or was it an hour and twenty minutes, I looked up at Tommy and giggled "That's where I have her beat. That's not dog turds. I couldn't get my key into the lock last night and was overcome with acute heftedness."
And I rolled on the floor and let shriek after shriek out of me.
Tommy left the room, with a look of--disappointment in his eyes--but I knew where to find him, holding on to the bannister, at the foot of our stairs.
As I sashayed past a building site, the naughty little workers leered down at me and yelled. "HOI-YOU, get them out for the lads! Come on darling, get them out for the lads!" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and went all girly. I picked a daisy and patted a stray kitten on the head. "HOI,YOU!" roared the builders, "Come on then, get them out for the lads!" "Gentlemen, dear, lovely gentlemen I simpered "I was brought up in a vicarage, where modesty and chastity were the Ant and Dec of my childhood. I could not possibly agree to your request, to get them out for the lads." "Come on darling!" yelled a brute of a man,erend "Get them out for the lads and I'll come down there and give you a great, big, wet kiss, now, I can't say fairer that that" A Rev Gentleman, standing by with a camera said, "I think my dear, in this instance, it would be quite acceptable in the eyes of God-and me, to get them out for the lads."
"Oh, all right" I giggled "Here goes, one--two--three-and I opened my mouth, pulled out my false teeth and waved them in the air.
What a commotion....big strong men fainting, vomiting and the young apprentice crying for his mummy. Ask and you shall receive--but just be careful what you ask for.
Steven Nolan, Tommy my cat and I stood in a running brook with a piece of moss in our mouths. We were hunkered down, trying to get rid of fleas, the way foxes do. The fleas leave the body when they feel the water and gather on the piece of moss--then, when all the fleas are on the piece of moss, you simply spit it out and walk flealess from the stream.
I looked at the naked Steven Nolan, a shoal of minnows seemed to be fascinated by his dual, bouyant, inflatable sperm banks. They reminded me of angry customers round the door of the bankrupt Northern Rock bank. "Silly little fish," I thought, as I made a mental picture, that would end up as a charcoal drawing later that night.
Later, we climbed out nude, except for Steven Nolan, who seemed to be wearing a loose fitting gown made from-skin? We dressed in haste. I helped Tubby adjust his gusset with the help of a car jack and a crowbar, then we skipped down the Yellow Brick Road, like Dorothy and her friends singing----"Oh, we're off to see the wizard, who runs the Ku-Klux-Klan."
Just good simple fun, from three very simple people.
After a cup of Coco--or Ococ, why not go now to--and it's not far, go to......
www. rosie-ryan. blogspot. com YOU KNOW IT MAKES SENSE.
"The Polish sailor and I were found in the long grass, because we had both been knocked down by a freak, petite, minute tornado." "WHAT?" I yelled. "WHAT? Take that back!" I roared.
"The red light above my door is to keep moths away and provide a warning for the poor wee blind bats." "WHAT?" I roared "WHAT? I refute that!" I yelled. "I refute that with all the refuteness in China. Knickers!" I yelled "Knickers to you, knickers to all your kith and kin, knickers to your cat and dog and knickers to the poor cuttie you has to sew your massive-knickers!" "WHAT?" I yelled "WHAT? I do so have knickers on---LOOK!"
And I lifted my skirt above my head and did a twirl.
"Will you come inside!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Will you come inside and don't be standing at the door, trading insults with her at number 27."
"She started it!" I yelled. "She made sinewy, insincere, insinuations about my front door step."
"What did she say about your front door step?" said Tommy.
I gulped like a goldfish and said "She said my front door step was-dirty."
"So it is!" roared Tommy. "For God's sake, it's covered in dog turds."
I threw my arms up in the air, gave a shriek, like this "SHRIEK!" and fell to the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter. Five minutes later,or was it an hour and twenty minutes, I looked up at Tommy and giggled "That's where I have her beat. That's not dog turds. I couldn't get my key into the lock last night and was overcome with acute heftedness."
And I rolled on the floor and let shriek after shriek out of me.
Tommy left the room, with a look of--disappointment in his eyes--but I knew where to find him, holding on to the bannister, at the foot of our stairs.
As I sashayed past a building site, the naughty little workers leered down at me and yelled. "HOI-YOU, get them out for the lads! Come on darling, get them out for the lads!" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and went all girly. I picked a daisy and patted a stray kitten on the head. "HOI,YOU!" roared the builders, "Come on then, get them out for the lads!" "Gentlemen, dear, lovely gentlemen I simpered "I was brought up in a vicarage, where modesty and chastity were the Ant and Dec of my childhood. I could not possibly agree to your request, to get them out for the lads." "Come on darling!" yelled a brute of a man,erend "Get them out for the lads and I'll come down there and give you a great, big, wet kiss, now, I can't say fairer that that" A Rev Gentleman, standing by with a camera said, "I think my dear, in this instance, it would be quite acceptable in the eyes of God-and me, to get them out for the lads."
"Oh, all right" I giggled "Here goes, one--two--three-and I opened my mouth, pulled out my false teeth and waved them in the air.
What a commotion....big strong men fainting, vomiting and the young apprentice crying for his mummy. Ask and you shall receive--but just be careful what you ask for.
Steven Nolan, Tommy my cat and I stood in a running brook with a piece of moss in our mouths. We were hunkered down, trying to get rid of fleas, the way foxes do. The fleas leave the body when they feel the water and gather on the piece of moss--then, when all the fleas are on the piece of moss, you simply spit it out and walk flealess from the stream.
I looked at the naked Steven Nolan, a shoal of minnows seemed to be fascinated by his dual, bouyant, inflatable sperm banks. They reminded me of angry customers round the door of the bankrupt Northern Rock bank. "Silly little fish," I thought, as I made a mental picture, that would end up as a charcoal drawing later that night.
Later, we climbed out nude, except for Steven Nolan, who seemed to be wearing a loose fitting gown made from-skin? We dressed in haste. I helped Tubby adjust his gusset with the help of a car jack and a crowbar, then we skipped down the Yellow Brick Road, like Dorothy and her friends singing----"Oh, we're off to see the wizard, who runs the Ku-Klux-Klan."
Just good simple fun, from three very simple people.
After a cup of Coco--or Ococ, why not go now to--and it's not far, go to......
www. rosie-ryan. blogspot. com YOU KNOW IT MAKES SENSE.
Wednesday 2 July 2008
PEEPING TOM FINDS GOD
Nice to see Gerry Anderson and Sean Coyle back again. A month was quite lenient for creeping up behind Sir Hugh Orde, pulling down his trousers and yelling
"Now, that's what I call a copper's nark." But they were soon caught. They left footprints, finger prints and the artist formally known as-Prince behind them. Just goes to show, if you're gonna do a job,wear gloves and leave the petite, diminutive pop star at home. I hear they were model prisoners in Maghaberry. Gerry mopped the corridors, while Sean stood outside the toilets yelling, "MAN ON ONE!".
Have they learned their lesson? Only time will tell. I think Gerry may have, but I saw Sean Coyle yesterday, flying down the road on a bicycle, with 'Born To Raise Cain' written on his yellow fluorescent safety jacket.
As you know, last week was, 'Adopt a Peeping Tom Week'. Tommy, my cat and I were first in line to do our civic duty. It was early when we arrived at the Peeping Tom depot, to pick out a good tom. The peeping toms were lined up in a row, all wearing dirty overcoats and soft footwear. The first thing Tommy and I did was to inspect their teeth, which were lying in a heap in the corner. "Hoi!" I yelled to the keeper of the toms, "Why have you made them remove their false teeth? I am here to tell you that I have been peeped at by peeping toms for many years, but I have never been bitten by one."
"Health and safety," growled the official. "We got the idea from Mario in the Big Brother house, now pick a tom and get out of here, before I set Julian the rottweiller on you."
"Well I never!" I said. It was something I had heard in films, but I had no idea what it meant. We ruled half of them out due to special dietary needs. I'll be damned if I will sit up all night cooking filet mignon. Why can't he eat a small, boneless cut of beef from the underside of a sirloin, like the rest of us? Tommy and I finally narrowed our choice down to two, a long lanky one and a short plump one.
"Well ,Tommy," I said "Which will it be? Pete or Dude?"
Tommy put his hands behind his back and strutted up and down like Hitler's cat.
"Gentlemen" said Tommy "For you zee peeping is over. I will now conduct a word association test and you must shout out the first thing that comes into your head."
"Psychiatric assessment!" yelled the thin one. "I haven't started!" roared Tommy.
"Mastermind!" roared the small one. "Hauld on, hauld on!" screamed Tommy.
"John Hume!" yelled the thin one. "Will you stop?" screamed Tommy.
"Nellie McGroper from number 27!" roared the small one.
We tossed a coin and took the small one home with us in a brown paper parcel. He was no trouble, very quiet, very tidy and he always made me a cup of tea in bed in the morning, when he was coming home after a hard night's peeping.
"Ramone," I said to him on his last day with us, "what are you going to do? What will become of you?" Tears sprang into Ramone's large peeping eye and he sobbed,
"Carry on peeping, I suppose. What else is for me? When I get too old to peep, like the song says--I'll lay myself down in a great big ball and--die."
"NO!" I yelled. "Religion will save you, yes, even a dirty, low down dog like you. You may be a tosspot, a toerag, the scrapings of humanity's shoes, a turd, a piss pot, but repentance is waiting. If you do but go, fall on your knees and confess your terrible, black, slimy, evil, filthy, obscene, shitty sins, God will pardon you".
"Praise be the Lord!" yelled Ramone. "I have seen the light. I will run now to Saint Jethro's. When I return my scarlet sins will be as white as snow. Go prepare the fatted calf. If you haven't got one, just open a tin of corned-beef."
I paced and repaced the floor, cracking my knuckles, waiting for the return of the prodigal peeper. A strange beam of white light followed me round the room. It was Sir Hugh Orde and his merry men checking up on me.
THEN---I saw Father Mc Prayus hurry up the garden path. I ran outside and yelled,
"Praise the Lord, how is the perverted sinner?" "Ramone is in the arms of the Lord" said the priest. I began to speak in tongues, Irish, Ulster/Scots, even Welsh.
"Praise the Lord and pass the buttermilk!" I shrieked, "Where is he? where is the dear peeping boy?" "Back at the church," said the priest. "When he was kneeling to pray, three of Sean Quinn's big, green cement lorries passed the church. The tremors dislodged a statue, causing it to fall on Ramone, crushing his skull like a hazel nut, When I get the statue lifted, I will bring Ramone home to you in two wheel barrows."
I stood at the window, watching Steven Nolan go by, eating a three tier wedding cake. A beam of sunlight hit me in the gub and I solemnly intoned.
"The Lord does work in a mysterious way--his wonders to-perform."
Hey, its Rosie time, go now to....
www, rosie-ryan. blogspot. com
"Now, that's what I call a copper's nark." But they were soon caught. They left footprints, finger prints and the artist formally known as-Prince behind them. Just goes to show, if you're gonna do a job,wear gloves and leave the petite, diminutive pop star at home. I hear they were model prisoners in Maghaberry. Gerry mopped the corridors, while Sean stood outside the toilets yelling, "MAN ON ONE!".
Have they learned their lesson? Only time will tell. I think Gerry may have, but I saw Sean Coyle yesterday, flying down the road on a bicycle, with 'Born To Raise Cain' written on his yellow fluorescent safety jacket.
As you know, last week was, 'Adopt a Peeping Tom Week'. Tommy, my cat and I were first in line to do our civic duty. It was early when we arrived at the Peeping Tom depot, to pick out a good tom. The peeping toms were lined up in a row, all wearing dirty overcoats and soft footwear. The first thing Tommy and I did was to inspect their teeth, which were lying in a heap in the corner. "Hoi!" I yelled to the keeper of the toms, "Why have you made them remove their false teeth? I am here to tell you that I have been peeped at by peeping toms for many years, but I have never been bitten by one."
"Health and safety," growled the official. "We got the idea from Mario in the Big Brother house, now pick a tom and get out of here, before I set Julian the rottweiller on you."
"Well I never!" I said. It was something I had heard in films, but I had no idea what it meant. We ruled half of them out due to special dietary needs. I'll be damned if I will sit up all night cooking filet mignon. Why can't he eat a small, boneless cut of beef from the underside of a sirloin, like the rest of us? Tommy and I finally narrowed our choice down to two, a long lanky one and a short plump one.
"Well ,Tommy," I said "Which will it be? Pete or Dude?"
Tommy put his hands behind his back and strutted up and down like Hitler's cat.
"Gentlemen" said Tommy "For you zee peeping is over. I will now conduct a word association test and you must shout out the first thing that comes into your head."
"Psychiatric assessment!" yelled the thin one. "I haven't started!" roared Tommy.
"Mastermind!" roared the small one. "Hauld on, hauld on!" screamed Tommy.
"John Hume!" yelled the thin one. "Will you stop?" screamed Tommy.
"Nellie McGroper from number 27!" roared the small one.
We tossed a coin and took the small one home with us in a brown paper parcel. He was no trouble, very quiet, very tidy and he always made me a cup of tea in bed in the morning, when he was coming home after a hard night's peeping.
"Ramone," I said to him on his last day with us, "what are you going to do? What will become of you?" Tears sprang into Ramone's large peeping eye and he sobbed,
"Carry on peeping, I suppose. What else is for me? When I get too old to peep, like the song says--I'll lay myself down in a great big ball and--die."
"NO!" I yelled. "Religion will save you, yes, even a dirty, low down dog like you. You may be a tosspot, a toerag, the scrapings of humanity's shoes, a turd, a piss pot, but repentance is waiting. If you do but go, fall on your knees and confess your terrible, black, slimy, evil, filthy, obscene, shitty sins, God will pardon you".
"Praise be the Lord!" yelled Ramone. "I have seen the light. I will run now to Saint Jethro's. When I return my scarlet sins will be as white as snow. Go prepare the fatted calf. If you haven't got one, just open a tin of corned-beef."
I paced and repaced the floor, cracking my knuckles, waiting for the return of the prodigal peeper. A strange beam of white light followed me round the room. It was Sir Hugh Orde and his merry men checking up on me.
THEN---I saw Father Mc Prayus hurry up the garden path. I ran outside and yelled,
"Praise the Lord, how is the perverted sinner?" "Ramone is in the arms of the Lord" said the priest. I began to speak in tongues, Irish, Ulster/Scots, even Welsh.
"Praise the Lord and pass the buttermilk!" I shrieked, "Where is he? where is the dear peeping boy?" "Back at the church," said the priest. "When he was kneeling to pray, three of Sean Quinn's big, green cement lorries passed the church. The tremors dislodged a statue, causing it to fall on Ramone, crushing his skull like a hazel nut, When I get the statue lifted, I will bring Ramone home to you in two wheel barrows."
I stood at the window, watching Steven Nolan go by, eating a three tier wedding cake. A beam of sunlight hit me in the gub and I solemnly intoned.
"The Lord does work in a mysterious way--his wonders to-perform."
Hey, its Rosie time, go now to....
www, rosie-ryan. blogspot. com
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