Wednesday morning found me and Tommy my cat going through our Wednesday morning routine. I was rolling round the floor, wearing a brown catsuit pretending to be an orphaned Malteeser. Tommy was chug-chugging round the room pretending to be the last train to Clarksville. If you haven't tried it, don't judge us. Some people just get up, eat tea and toast and watch Jeremy Kyle-and you have the cheek to call US weird? A rolling stone may gather no moss, but a rolling malteeser, gathers a lot of fluff. If if you don't believe me, I will send you a drawing of my brown catsuit. Tommy says that the fluff sticks to the catsuit, but I believe that the catsuit sticks to the fluff. Will we ever know which theory is correct? Probably not, now that the days are getting shorter. Why are the days so stupid as to take fashion advice from old father time? Bimbos, that is what the days are-Bimbos, air heads, without a brain in their pretty little heads. The nights are so different. They have been wearing black for as long as I remember and black suits the nights so well, for one or two are a little pudgy. The night before Christmas is a lovely night. If there was an X-factor for nights, I think the night before Christmas would win it. The night after Christmas, is a big roly-poly and would be sent packing by Simon Cowell and his minions. You may disagree, that's up to you. That's why God gave you a brain and the hands to scratch it.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
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I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.
Monday, 22 September 2008
Monday, 8 September 2008
I BET MY DRAWERS ON FOUR ACES.
"NOT THE DRILL,ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL" I screamed, as the dentist and I fought like Suni and Shia in the surgery. Dental instruments and gauze flew everywhere, as the dentist grabbed me in a head-lock and dragged me towards the chair. I dug in my heels and yelled, "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I headbutted the dentist in the groin. He gasped but with a twirl of the toes, soon had me in a half nelson, I kicked and flung as he pushed me towards the chair of torture. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I screamed. "Don't be a big baby," panted the dentist. "All you will feel is a little prick."
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
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"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
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"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
Saturday, 30 August 2008
ALLERGIES, ALLEGATIONS, ALLEVIATIONS AND ALLELUIA
It was a lovely Summer morning, a really lovely morning, bright and fresh. It was the kind of morning, you would like to line a drawer with to stop your knickers from turning green from mildew. The house work had to be done , so I spit on my knees and grabbed the bull by the horns. I dragged Rufus the bull to the door and gave him a good riser to send him on his way.
Rufus the bull comes in for the odd chat, but all he does is sit dozing in the corner, a bulldozer if I ever saw one. I was hoovering up dirt with my mouth, when there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in some strange material. I grabbed my coat, a sample of the material and made my way to the, "SO YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS" laboratory. I sat there, chewing the nails of the man beside me to the quick. He too was covered in stuff and had come to the laboratory to have it analysed. The stuff he was covered in was brown and smelled horribly. Most people would have known what it was immediately, but apparently this man did not, but let's not be critical, he could be from the country or suffering from Do-Lallyness. The doctor came out, pointed at me and said, "See you, you are covered in-dust, so you are!" I was so relieved, I threw my arms up in the air, thank God they came down again. I was so thankful, I bent down, put my ear to the man beside me and told him what he was covered in.He leapt up and yelled, "I knew it, but Poppy my wife said it was French mustard!"
Four hours later, I got back home and began an investigation right away. "TOMMY" I yelled, "Put down what you're doing and get down here right away!"
For the second time today, there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in, what I now know to be dust. Tommy my cat came into the room, chewing chewing gum and strumming on a small banjo. "Tommy!" I yelled "Are you the instigator behind the two almighty crashes here today?" Tommy, gave a strum, blew a bubble and said--"Yup." "TOMMY!" I yelled, "What did you do? How did you instigate two almighty-crashes?" "I was up in the attic," said Tommy "looking for mice, or indeed-mouse, which as you know, is the singular of-mice, any way, I noticed the roof was a bit lop-sided, so I lifted the roof with one paw and tried to slide a book under it with the other, but, unfortunately, as you know, the roof slipped twice. It's really a two man job." I looked at Tommy with love, devotion and my eyes and ran to hug the adorable feline. Tommy began to sneeze and said, "That's it, I've been sneezing all week, I'm off to the vet, where did I leave my flat cap?"
It was late when Tommy got home and oh he did look queer. I began to fear that he had the snip, that dare not speak its name. "Tommy!" I yelled, "What's wrong lad? Eeh, you look proper down, sit down chuck and tell me what ails thee." Tommy fiddled with his thumbs, most people use a bow and said, "The vet said, I've got an--allergy." I ran to foot of our stairs, came back and yelled, "Nay lad, Nay, Nay,Nay, thee ain't got an allergy, I know an allergy when I see one and thee ain't got an allergy, thee might be allergic to something, but thee ain't got an allergy. Nay lad, Nay." Tommy sniffed, sneezed and said, "Yes, I am allergic to something. I'm allergic to--you." "Bloody Nora!" I yelled, as I ran to the foot of our stairs again. "Can nought be done?" I yelled, "Can nought be done? Is medical science baffled? Get a second opinion, then a third and a forth and a fifth." "There is a cure," said Tommy "but it involves-you."
"Anything!" I yelled, "I'll give you a kidney, a lung, an arm, a leg, the sash my father wore, just tell me what I've got to do." Tommy looked at me and said, "If you love me--really love me, you must bathe each morning and night in buttermilk, fish heads, soiled nappies and this brown stuff. He gave me a big box full, I have to stir three spoonfuls into your bath. There's no label on the box, I wonder what it is?" I knew what it was, the aroma coming from the box, brought back memories of the man at the laboratory covered in brown stuff.
Well, I did it. I bath twice a day in the foul smelling liquid, because I love little Tommy and touch wood, little Tommy hasn't sneezed once.
"Hey Toots!" yelled Steven "Tubby" Nolan, as he ate his way out of a buffalo, "What's that bewitching perfume you are wearing tonight my little chick-a-dee?"
I smiled, by pulling my lips back and replied, "It's called, Sexy Kitty.". "I like it," said the oval one. "Give me a big sniff up my hooter. Ah, yes, now that's what I call a perfume. It floats my boat, if you know what I mean." "Your boat will never float." I yelled "Your boat is the--Titanic and lies in the depths of the see." Then I skipped home to little Tommy, pursued by dogs, led by a Spaniel called--Noel Thompson.
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www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, you could do worse than talk to this man.
www.jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Rufus the bull comes in for the odd chat, but all he does is sit dozing in the corner, a bulldozer if I ever saw one. I was hoovering up dirt with my mouth, when there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in some strange material. I grabbed my coat, a sample of the material and made my way to the, "SO YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS" laboratory. I sat there, chewing the nails of the man beside me to the quick. He too was covered in stuff and had come to the laboratory to have it analysed. The stuff he was covered in was brown and smelled horribly. Most people would have known what it was immediately, but apparently this man did not, but let's not be critical, he could be from the country or suffering from Do-Lallyness. The doctor came out, pointed at me and said, "See you, you are covered in-dust, so you are!" I was so relieved, I threw my arms up in the air, thank God they came down again. I was so thankful, I bent down, put my ear to the man beside me and told him what he was covered in.He leapt up and yelled, "I knew it, but Poppy my wife said it was French mustard!"
Four hours later, I got back home and began an investigation right away. "TOMMY" I yelled, "Put down what you're doing and get down here right away!"
For the second time today, there was the most almighty-CRASH. The house shook, the ceiling trembled and I was covered in, what I now know to be dust. Tommy my cat came into the room, chewing chewing gum and strumming on a small banjo. "Tommy!" I yelled "Are you the instigator behind the two almighty crashes here today?" Tommy, gave a strum, blew a bubble and said--"Yup." "TOMMY!" I yelled, "What did you do? How did you instigate two almighty-crashes?" "I was up in the attic," said Tommy "looking for mice, or indeed-mouse, which as you know, is the singular of-mice, any way, I noticed the roof was a bit lop-sided, so I lifted the roof with one paw and tried to slide a book under it with the other, but, unfortunately, as you know, the roof slipped twice. It's really a two man job." I looked at Tommy with love, devotion and my eyes and ran to hug the adorable feline. Tommy began to sneeze and said, "That's it, I've been sneezing all week, I'm off to the vet, where did I leave my flat cap?"
It was late when Tommy got home and oh he did look queer. I began to fear that he had the snip, that dare not speak its name. "Tommy!" I yelled, "What's wrong lad? Eeh, you look proper down, sit down chuck and tell me what ails thee." Tommy fiddled with his thumbs, most people use a bow and said, "The vet said, I've got an--allergy." I ran to foot of our stairs, came back and yelled, "Nay lad, Nay, Nay,Nay, thee ain't got an allergy, I know an allergy when I see one and thee ain't got an allergy, thee might be allergic to something, but thee ain't got an allergy. Nay lad, Nay." Tommy sniffed, sneezed and said, "Yes, I am allergic to something. I'm allergic to--you." "Bloody Nora!" I yelled, as I ran to the foot of our stairs again. "Can nought be done?" I yelled, "Can nought be done? Is medical science baffled? Get a second opinion, then a third and a forth and a fifth." "There is a cure," said Tommy "but it involves-you."
"Anything!" I yelled, "I'll give you a kidney, a lung, an arm, a leg, the sash my father wore, just tell me what I've got to do." Tommy looked at me and said, "If you love me--really love me, you must bathe each morning and night in buttermilk, fish heads, soiled nappies and this brown stuff. He gave me a big box full, I have to stir three spoonfuls into your bath. There's no label on the box, I wonder what it is?" I knew what it was, the aroma coming from the box, brought back memories of the man at the laboratory covered in brown stuff.
Well, I did it. I bath twice a day in the foul smelling liquid, because I love little Tommy and touch wood, little Tommy hasn't sneezed once.
"Hey Toots!" yelled Steven "Tubby" Nolan, as he ate his way out of a buffalo, "What's that bewitching perfume you are wearing tonight my little chick-a-dee?"
I smiled, by pulling my lips back and replied, "It's called, Sexy Kitty.". "I like it," said the oval one. "Give me a big sniff up my hooter. Ah, yes, now that's what I call a perfume. It floats my boat, if you know what I mean." "Your boat will never float." I yelled "Your boat is the--Titanic and lies in the depths of the see." Then I skipped home to little Tommy, pursued by dogs, led by a Spaniel called--Noel Thompson.
Go now to
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, you could do worse than talk to this man.
www.jpmcmenamin.co.uk
Friday, 22 August 2008
FOR WANT OF A NAIL A SHOE WAS LOST FOR WANT OF A SHOE WE GOT CINDERELLA
I was standing at the window, looking out at the cobble-stoned street. My mind was else where, the woman next door had borrowed it to do a jig-saw puzzle. I began to talk to myself and it came out thus, "I wonder how many women with cats are standing looking out of their window at the cobble-stoned street and saying, I wonder how many woman with cats are standing looking out of their window at the cobble-stoned street and saying.....STOP IT! I yelled to myself, this could go on for ever." I turned away from the window and sat down. Only a chair was there, I would never have attempted it. I was bored, so bored. I looked at the cuckoo clock. it would be eleven minutes, before little Henry popped out and he never stopped to talk, just a quick--CUCKOO and he was gone before I could say, "Henry, bide a while, the kettle is on the boil and I have a packet of custard creams in the pantry."Will Henry and I ever have a serious talk about fiscal responsibility, global warming and the antics of Laurel and Hardy? The chances are slim. It seems the highly complicated expertise of the Swiss clock makers is against us. Damn those Swiss and their attention to detail. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, straight out of the blue, I got a wild hankering for a--lucky bag. I began to sweat and shake. My nerves were on edge. I was going through cold turkey--or cold cuckoo. I wanted a lucky bag and I wanted it--NIGH. But I had no money, not a penny. I spent it all on what the butler saw. Damn that Paul Burrell and his greedy, grasping love of money. I grabbed a crayon and tried to draw a five pound note. It was hopeless, no shop would ever accept a fiver written in green crayon and putting a moustache on the Queen was the work of a mad woman. I frantically searched down behind the sofa.My grasping fingers withdrew two fish suppers, a coal shovel, a very poor copy of the Mona Lisa by Fred Nitts from Cullybaccy and volumes 2 to 12 of, "Now You Too Can Be A Brain Surgeon" by Ronson Gatsby, a resident of Saint Dermot's home for the bewildered and confused in Harley Street. But no money, not a single penny. Where was I going to get money? I wanted a lucky bag and I wanted it--NIGH. Then it hit me, the bath fell through the ceiling and hit me. As I crawled out from under it, I came up with a cunning plan, Tommy would have money. Tommy my cat always had money. He would strut about in his grey flannels jingling money in his trousers pocket and shrilly whistling, "You Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two."
Tommy was in bed, after a late night on the tiles. I crept into Tommy's room on my hands and knees. Tommy's room was-immaculate, everything matched, the pink curtains, the pink duvet and the pink mat that kept Tommy's little toes as hot as toast on cold, winter mornings. Tommy was sleeping with his back to me. His little trousers hung from the bedpost. I rifled through the pockets and found one pound twelve pence, more that enough for a lucky bag. In the other pocket I found a photo of Lynda Byron's and two toffees covered in fluff. I popped them into my mouth and headed for the shop on the corner.
As I skipped back home with the lucky bag clutched in my hot little hand, I came upon a scene straight out of LA Law, The street was choc-a-block with police cars, peelers, with dogs were everywhere, a helicopter flew low over head. Tommy and Sir Hugh Orde stood at the door, Tommy was dressed in a simmet and gesticulating frantically. Could he not have waited until the police went away? When Tommy saw me, he grabbed Sir Hugh Orde by the fork of his police issue trousers (Well, he is very small) and yelled, "There she is, there is the female felon, who crept into my room like a thief in the night and stole mt spondulecks from out of my trouser pockets!" Sir Hugh, happed his baton of my head, got me in a neck hold and yelled, "Right chummy, the games up, there has been a spate of cat burglaries recently and I have good reason to believe that you are the Mister Big behind it!" "I'm not Mister Big," I yelled, "I'm missus wee." It was no good, I might as well have been talking to an English policeman, who was sent to Northern Ireland to clean up the RUC. As I was thrown into the back of a land rover, Steven "Tubby" Nolan went by, eating a haunch of Wilderbeest. The fat one giggled and sang, "They're coming to take you away ha-ha." I waved my shackled hands at Tubby and shrieked, "Damn you Nolan, if I'm going down you're going down with me. I'll tell the police all about the big mars bar caper." Nolan blanched, broke wind and took to his heels crying, "Mummy, it wasn't me, I'm a good boy mummy." I was thrown into a cell containing three of the hardest men in Belfast. Half an hour later, they were begging to be changed to another cell. My flatulence can be flavescent in a confined space. I lay on my bunk, wailing on a mouth organ and singing, "Lord, I feel so doggone blue tonight." Tommy relented and bailed me out four hours later. As we walked home hand in hand, we skipped gaily and sang, "Old friends, sitting eating Irish stew, with a dishevelled kangaroo, old friends, old friends, old friends."
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And get Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson from, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Tommy was in bed, after a late night on the tiles. I crept into Tommy's room on my hands and knees. Tommy's room was-immaculate, everything matched, the pink curtains, the pink duvet and the pink mat that kept Tommy's little toes as hot as toast on cold, winter mornings. Tommy was sleeping with his back to me. His little trousers hung from the bedpost. I rifled through the pockets and found one pound twelve pence, more that enough for a lucky bag. In the other pocket I found a photo of Lynda Byron's and two toffees covered in fluff. I popped them into my mouth and headed for the shop on the corner.
As I skipped back home with the lucky bag clutched in my hot little hand, I came upon a scene straight out of LA Law, The street was choc-a-block with police cars, peelers, with dogs were everywhere, a helicopter flew low over head. Tommy and Sir Hugh Orde stood at the door, Tommy was dressed in a simmet and gesticulating frantically. Could he not have waited until the police went away? When Tommy saw me, he grabbed Sir Hugh Orde by the fork of his police issue trousers (Well, he is very small) and yelled, "There she is, there is the female felon, who crept into my room like a thief in the night and stole mt spondulecks from out of my trouser pockets!" Sir Hugh, happed his baton of my head, got me in a neck hold and yelled, "Right chummy, the games up, there has been a spate of cat burglaries recently and I have good reason to believe that you are the Mister Big behind it!" "I'm not Mister Big," I yelled, "I'm missus wee." It was no good, I might as well have been talking to an English policeman, who was sent to Northern Ireland to clean up the RUC. As I was thrown into the back of a land rover, Steven "Tubby" Nolan went by, eating a haunch of Wilderbeest. The fat one giggled and sang, "They're coming to take you away ha-ha." I waved my shackled hands at Tubby and shrieked, "Damn you Nolan, if I'm going down you're going down with me. I'll tell the police all about the big mars bar caper." Nolan blanched, broke wind and took to his heels crying, "Mummy, it wasn't me, I'm a good boy mummy." I was thrown into a cell containing three of the hardest men in Belfast. Half an hour later, they were begging to be changed to another cell. My flatulence can be flavescent in a confined space. I lay on my bunk, wailing on a mouth organ and singing, "Lord, I feel so doggone blue tonight." Tommy relented and bailed me out four hours later. As we walked home hand in hand, we skipped gaily and sang, "Old friends, sitting eating Irish stew, with a dishevelled kangaroo, old friends, old friends, old friends."
Go now to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And get Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson from, jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Sunday, 17 August 2008
THAT'S A LOT OF MONEY FOR A--B !,
Tommy my cat came running into the house, oh he was in a tizzy, I've seen Tommy in a tizzy before, but this tizzy was bordering on acute, chronic--tizziness.
"Tommy" I yelled "get out of that tizzy, it's scaring me, you know fine well that when I see someone in a tizzy, I go into a tizzy myself." Tommy switched the tizzy off , it slowly ran down, until all the tizzy had tizzied out of it. "That's better" I said, taking off my anti tizzy suit, "Now sit down and tell me, why you rushed into the house in a--tizzy."
Tommy fluttered his arms, I suppose he saw the birds do it, wiggled his ears, fluttered his eye lashes and said, "I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself." I ran for po and toilet paper and said, "Sit down Tommy lad, I've never seen you so excited since the night you won a tenner on the Lottery, now sit down and take a deep breath, have one of mine, they are menthol flavoured." Tommy took a breath from my box of twenty, breathed in and said, "Ah, that's better, but I shouldn't you know, I'm trying to stop breathing, the doctors say it shortens your life." "Rubbish," I yelled, "my old Granny went through 80 breaths a day and she lived until she was 42. Now sit down and tell me why you were in such a--tizzy."
Tommy reached for another breath and said, "You'll never guess what has happened, great news, great news for Belfast." I went into a-yes, a-tizzy and screamed, "The Titanic is all right, the whole story was just an April fool joke that got out of hand.""No," said Tommy, "the Titanic did go down, but listen, Belfast has got a new--LOGO!"
I went haywire, I screamed, I shrieked, I yelled, I danced, I sang, then I looked at Tommy and said, "What is a-Logo?" "A logo," said Tommy walking around the room, with his thumbs in his braces, "is a-a symbol that symbolizes the symbolic symbolization of the symbol it symbolizes."
"I knew that," I yelled, "it was on the tip of my tongue, but it slipped and got stuck in my false teeth." "Yes," said Tommy, staring out of the window, at a wino being sick, "great times lie ahead for the city of Belfast. With this new logo, Belfast will rise from the ashes, like a magpie and take its rightful place among the great cities of the world. This logo will renew the city and it only cost half a million pounds.". I ran like Groucho Marx for the foot of our stairs. "Half a million pounds?" I shrieked. "Half a million pounds for a logo? Gee, it must be some work of art. I can't wait to see a half a million pound logo. What does it look like Tommy?"
Tommy looked down at his shoes, shifted from foot to foot and mumbled, "Well, it's just a--B."
"A-bee?" I cried, "What has a bumble bee got to do with Belfast?" Tommy shuffled and mumbled "Well, it's not actually a bumble bee, its just the letter--B." Once more, in the guise of Groucho Marx, I ran to the foot of our stairs. "Whose idea was it?" I yelled. "Who had the bright idea to pay half a million pounds for the letter-B?" "It was Jim Rodger's idea," mumbled Tommy.
"I should have known," I yelled. "I suppose we should be grateful that Mr Jimmy Rodgers didn't buy the entire alphabet and bankrupt the city. Wait until I see him," I screamed, "I will give him a piece of my mind, a very small piece mind you but it will come from my mind."
The Jim Rodgers is a wary little creature, very hard to trap but I had a cunning plan. I painted a hole on the pavement with black paint, covered it with twigs and leaves and waited for Jim Rodgers to fall into it. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a loud-thump and a high, excited voice screaming. "Hi, Hi, let me out--NIGH!" I had caught my Jimmy Rodgers.
I stood beside the drawing of a hole and cried, "You are trapped Mr Rodgers, there is no way out. In that deep hole you shall stay for wasting tax-payers' money." "Jim looked up from the depth of the hole and screamed, "You fiend, you-evil-evil fiend. Let me out, let me out--NIGH!"
I peered into the hole, gave an evil laugh and said in a very sinister way, "Come 'ere, there's more, I am going to tell Tubby Nolan that this is a toilet for the use of the public."
Such a scream erupted from the gub of Jim Rodgers. Maybe that will teach him a lesson, for paying half a million pounds for the letter-B, that could stand for Belfast, but could also stand for--BAMBOOZLED. I went on my way with a merry gait that I found in Farmer Giles meadow.
If you need any Rosie Ryan books and let's face it, who doesn't, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit the lady herself at,,www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Writing that took a lot out of me, I think I'll get up and go back to bed and you should do the same, see you under the duvet.
"Tommy" I yelled "get out of that tizzy, it's scaring me, you know fine well that when I see someone in a tizzy, I go into a tizzy myself." Tommy switched the tizzy off , it slowly ran down, until all the tizzy had tizzied out of it. "That's better" I said, taking off my anti tizzy suit, "Now sit down and tell me, why you rushed into the house in a--tizzy."
Tommy fluttered his arms, I suppose he saw the birds do it, wiggled his ears, fluttered his eye lashes and said, "I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself." I ran for po and toilet paper and said, "Sit down Tommy lad, I've never seen you so excited since the night you won a tenner on the Lottery, now sit down and take a deep breath, have one of mine, they are menthol flavoured." Tommy took a breath from my box of twenty, breathed in and said, "Ah, that's better, but I shouldn't you know, I'm trying to stop breathing, the doctors say it shortens your life." "Rubbish," I yelled, "my old Granny went through 80 breaths a day and she lived until she was 42. Now sit down and tell me why you were in such a--tizzy."
Tommy reached for another breath and said, "You'll never guess what has happened, great news, great news for Belfast." I went into a-yes, a-tizzy and screamed, "The Titanic is all right, the whole story was just an April fool joke that got out of hand.""No," said Tommy, "the Titanic did go down, but listen, Belfast has got a new--LOGO!"
I went haywire, I screamed, I shrieked, I yelled, I danced, I sang, then I looked at Tommy and said, "What is a-Logo?" "A logo," said Tommy walking around the room, with his thumbs in his braces, "is a-a symbol that symbolizes the symbolic symbolization of the symbol it symbolizes."
"I knew that," I yelled, "it was on the tip of my tongue, but it slipped and got stuck in my false teeth." "Yes," said Tommy, staring out of the window, at a wino being sick, "great times lie ahead for the city of Belfast. With this new logo, Belfast will rise from the ashes, like a magpie and take its rightful place among the great cities of the world. This logo will renew the city and it only cost half a million pounds.". I ran like Groucho Marx for the foot of our stairs. "Half a million pounds?" I shrieked. "Half a million pounds for a logo? Gee, it must be some work of art. I can't wait to see a half a million pound logo. What does it look like Tommy?"
Tommy looked down at his shoes, shifted from foot to foot and mumbled, "Well, it's just a--B."
"A-bee?" I cried, "What has a bumble bee got to do with Belfast?" Tommy shuffled and mumbled "Well, it's not actually a bumble bee, its just the letter--B." Once more, in the guise of Groucho Marx, I ran to the foot of our stairs. "Whose idea was it?" I yelled. "Who had the bright idea to pay half a million pounds for the letter-B?" "It was Jim Rodger's idea," mumbled Tommy.
"I should have known," I yelled. "I suppose we should be grateful that Mr Jimmy Rodgers didn't buy the entire alphabet and bankrupt the city. Wait until I see him," I screamed, "I will give him a piece of my mind, a very small piece mind you but it will come from my mind."
The Jim Rodgers is a wary little creature, very hard to trap but I had a cunning plan. I painted a hole on the pavement with black paint, covered it with twigs and leaves and waited for Jim Rodgers to fall into it. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a loud-thump and a high, excited voice screaming. "Hi, Hi, let me out--NIGH!" I had caught my Jimmy Rodgers.
I stood beside the drawing of a hole and cried, "You are trapped Mr Rodgers, there is no way out. In that deep hole you shall stay for wasting tax-payers' money." "Jim looked up from the depth of the hole and screamed, "You fiend, you-evil-evil fiend. Let me out, let me out--NIGH!"
I peered into the hole, gave an evil laugh and said in a very sinister way, "Come 'ere, there's more, I am going to tell Tubby Nolan that this is a toilet for the use of the public."
Such a scream erupted from the gub of Jim Rodgers. Maybe that will teach him a lesson, for paying half a million pounds for the letter-B, that could stand for Belfast, but could also stand for--BAMBOOZLED. I went on my way with a merry gait that I found in Farmer Giles meadow.
If you need any Rosie Ryan books and let's face it, who doesn't, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And visit the lady herself at,,www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Writing that took a lot out of me, I think I'll get up and go back to bed and you should do the same, see you under the duvet.
Monday, 11 August 2008
THE FELINE WAS FEELING FINE BUT I WAS FEELING KNACKERED
"I'm falling" I screeched," I'm falling!" "No, you're not." gasped Tommy my cat." "Hold on to my hand, I won't let you fall." "I can't go on Tommy!" I shrieked. "I can't go on, I want to turn back."
"You can't turn back now." said Tommy, "y=You're nearly there, just a few more steps."
"It's no good!" I screamed "I'll never make it, oh why did I ever set out on this fool-hardy venture? I must have been mad, mad do you hear me-MAD!""Don't give up now." said Tommy, "Think how proud you'll be when you reach the top." "I'll never reach the top." I roared. "I'll die here and remain here for the rest of my life." "One more effort." cried Tommy. "Come on, you can make it, lift your lovely primrose yellow climbing boot up one more step."
"TOMMY!" I shrieked, "I'm falling, I'm falling." "DON'T look down!" yelled Tommy, "Hold on to my hand, we're almost there." I gritted my teeth, well they do get very slippery with plaque, girded my loins 'till my eyes watered and made one superhuman effort. I made it, I made it! I couldn't believe it. I looked down. What a view, the climb was worth it for the view alone.
I hugged Tommy and sang, "We are the champions." I was giddy with success. I danced, I sang, told a few gags and ended with a dance number. "Tommy," I said, "Tommy, my little Tommykins, I made it, but I would never have made it without you. When I write my bestseller book about this venture, I will give you full credit."
Little Tommy, blushed, hung his head and said, "Ah gee shucks, it was nothing."
"NOTHING?" I yelled, "Tommy, without you I would never have got up here, I would still be at the bottom, looking up."
"Well, you're up here now," said Tommy, "and that's all that matters. You will find the toilet at the end of the landing, if you need any help getting down, call me, I'll be at the foot of the stairs."
I opened the toilet door, looked back at Tommy and said, "I'm going in and I may be gone sometime." I know what some of you are thinking. Why did she do it? Why did she climb the stairs to go to the toilet, when there was a coal bucket sitting by the fire?
Well, I'll tell you, by quoting the words of Sir Edmond Hillary.
I climbed the stairs, because they were--there.
On Monday I was too tired to cook dinner, so I just opened a couple of tins. I think it was slug pellets and engine oil. The doctor never told me when he pumped my stomach and my throat was too sore to ask. That's the kind of person I am. I take chances, I walk on the wild side, I never flush when I use the loo, that's for squares and I am not a square, I am a roundie. Sure I have a gang, we hang out by the post office and shout out to old people after they lift their pension, "Mind crossing the road now and watch out for muggers!"
Then we laugh, flip our cigarettes into a waste bin and go home in a quiet and orderly manner.
No one messes with us and if they do-we run away and tell a policeman.
Sure I have been lifted by the fuzz, but what a girl does at the weekend is her own business and we were all consenting adults. We're mean, we're bad and when we donate blood, we do it with a smirk. We ride round town on highly tuned 50cc mopeds, picking up litter and going, "OOH,AAH,look at him, who's a lovely wee man then?" at babies in pushchairs.
Yeh, you wouldn't want to meet us on a dark night, because we're afraid of the dark and would scream and scream and scream. Sure, our gang has a name, we're called the Samaritans--want to make anything of it punk?
Steven Nolan lay in the long grass, behind the school for people with severe twitches, you can enroll there with a wink and a nod. Steven was gnawing at a side of beef and reading a book. Sprawled across the vast acreage of the fork of his pleated trousers lay all 24 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannia. "Hey Stevie boy," I simpered, "what you looking for? What you looking for in the big books Tubby?" Steven spat out the femur of a cow and growled,
"I want to see what they have to say about me and the biggest show in the country."
After three weeks of avid reading, Tubby lumbered to his feet and yelled, "Diddly-Squat, there's diddly-squat in these learned tomes about me--or my show."
"Not so fast fat man!" I yelled, "Listen to this, "The Mammoth,biggest in the country, lives on prawn cocktail crisps, drives a Renault Clio and makes a hell of a noise."
"That's me." said Steven. "I must have been looking under the wrong heading. I was looking under-unique." "You're certainly that." I said "But hold on, it also goes on to say that you're-extinct". Steven blushed, which due to the size of his face took 45 minutes and said.
"I know I'm extinct, but I get terrible wind and have to blow off I must carry an air freshener with me." I left then, to go out into the desert and ponder.It was a nice day, but there were very little people in Ballymena. I wonder-why?
Go now to www,rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson go to--jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Turned out nice again, think I'll take my simmet off.
"You can't turn back now." said Tommy, "y=You're nearly there, just a few more steps."
"It's no good!" I screamed "I'll never make it, oh why did I ever set out on this fool-hardy venture? I must have been mad, mad do you hear me-MAD!""Don't give up now." said Tommy, "Think how proud you'll be when you reach the top." "I'll never reach the top." I roared. "I'll die here and remain here for the rest of my life." "One more effort." cried Tommy. "Come on, you can make it, lift your lovely primrose yellow climbing boot up one more step."
"TOMMY!" I shrieked, "I'm falling, I'm falling." "DON'T look down!" yelled Tommy, "Hold on to my hand, we're almost there." I gritted my teeth, well they do get very slippery with plaque, girded my loins 'till my eyes watered and made one superhuman effort. I made it, I made it! I couldn't believe it. I looked down. What a view, the climb was worth it for the view alone.
I hugged Tommy and sang, "We are the champions." I was giddy with success. I danced, I sang, told a few gags and ended with a dance number. "Tommy," I said, "Tommy, my little Tommykins, I made it, but I would never have made it without you. When I write my bestseller book about this venture, I will give you full credit."
Little Tommy, blushed, hung his head and said, "Ah gee shucks, it was nothing."
"NOTHING?" I yelled, "Tommy, without you I would never have got up here, I would still be at the bottom, looking up."
"Well, you're up here now," said Tommy, "and that's all that matters. You will find the toilet at the end of the landing, if you need any help getting down, call me, I'll be at the foot of the stairs."
I opened the toilet door, looked back at Tommy and said, "I'm going in and I may be gone sometime." I know what some of you are thinking. Why did she do it? Why did she climb the stairs to go to the toilet, when there was a coal bucket sitting by the fire?
Well, I'll tell you, by quoting the words of Sir Edmond Hillary.
I climbed the stairs, because they were--there.
On Monday I was too tired to cook dinner, so I just opened a couple of tins. I think it was slug pellets and engine oil. The doctor never told me when he pumped my stomach and my throat was too sore to ask. That's the kind of person I am. I take chances, I walk on the wild side, I never flush when I use the loo, that's for squares and I am not a square, I am a roundie. Sure I have a gang, we hang out by the post office and shout out to old people after they lift their pension, "Mind crossing the road now and watch out for muggers!"
Then we laugh, flip our cigarettes into a waste bin and go home in a quiet and orderly manner.
No one messes with us and if they do-we run away and tell a policeman.
Sure I have been lifted by the fuzz, but what a girl does at the weekend is her own business and we were all consenting adults. We're mean, we're bad and when we donate blood, we do it with a smirk. We ride round town on highly tuned 50cc mopeds, picking up litter and going, "OOH,AAH,look at him, who's a lovely wee man then?" at babies in pushchairs.
Yeh, you wouldn't want to meet us on a dark night, because we're afraid of the dark and would scream and scream and scream. Sure, our gang has a name, we're called the Samaritans--want to make anything of it punk?
Steven Nolan lay in the long grass, behind the school for people with severe twitches, you can enroll there with a wink and a nod. Steven was gnawing at a side of beef and reading a book. Sprawled across the vast acreage of the fork of his pleated trousers lay all 24 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannia. "Hey Stevie boy," I simpered, "what you looking for? What you looking for in the big books Tubby?" Steven spat out the femur of a cow and growled,
"I want to see what they have to say about me and the biggest show in the country."
After three weeks of avid reading, Tubby lumbered to his feet and yelled, "Diddly-Squat, there's diddly-squat in these learned tomes about me--or my show."
"Not so fast fat man!" I yelled, "Listen to this, "The Mammoth,biggest in the country, lives on prawn cocktail crisps, drives a Renault Clio and makes a hell of a noise."
"That's me." said Steven. "I must have been looking under the wrong heading. I was looking under-unique." "You're certainly that." I said "But hold on, it also goes on to say that you're-extinct". Steven blushed, which due to the size of his face took 45 minutes and said.
"I know I'm extinct, but I get terrible wind and have to blow off I must carry an air freshener with me." I left then, to go out into the desert and ponder.It was a nice day, but there were very little people in Ballymena. I wonder-why?
Go now to www,rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's letters to Gerry Anderson go to--jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Turned out nice again, think I'll take my simmet off.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
THE ONE WHERE TOMMY COMES OUT ON TOP--AGAIN
Right, let's set the scene before we do the dialogue. Belfast on a wet Monday morning. Flecks of soot mingle with the falling rain, a sense of-desolation, a sense of-hopelessness.
Small terraced houses huddle together in narrow,dirty streets. On a gable wall, someone has scrawled with chalk, probably a policeman or a priest, NO POPE, NO HOPE AND VERY LITTLE SOAP. In the misty morning gloom, the two big cranes, hold two industrial fingers up to the rest of the world. Off in the distance, the Cave Hill crouches like a sleeping prehistoric monster. Let it sleep or it will waken with a roar and destroy the city of Belfast, Titanic Town, built on shipbuilding, linen and soda bread.
I wonder is that enough scenery? No, let's introduce a typical Belfast Sammy, a hard wee man, a wee hard nut, a man who likes a pint on a Saturday and usually ends up in the gutter yelling, "Let me go, let me go and I'll beat the big head ofo him, so I will!"
Wee Sammy comes out of the newsagents with the Newsletter under his arm. His eyes are closed tight against the driving rain. He has a woodbine in his mouth and a flat cap on his head.
Does that sound all right? It's very formalistic. let's change it a bit to see if it reads any better.
Wee Sammy has a flat cap in his mouth and a woodbine on his head.
No-No, that doesn't work at all. It just makes me look stupid for writing it and you look even more stupid for reading it.Now the scene is set we will progress.
Inside my house, which I am reliably informed is made from bricks and mortar and not recycled cuckoo clocks as I had first thought, sat Tommy my cat and me. It was so comfy, the delph gleamed in the dresser, the budgie was cheerily whistling, "Here we go loopy-loo" and a big fire was roaring up the stairs. Tommy and I were reading. Tommy was reading, The Feline Art's Review and I was reading the Beano. I had my tongue between my teeth, well I think it was my tongue. I found it in my mouth and I was slowly following the adventures of Biffo the Bear, he with the red trousers, don't you know and all that malarkey.
"Tommy!" I whined, "Tommy, I've found a word I don't understand."
Tommy looked over his glasses and said, "What is it? I want to see how this ballet ends. It has gone into extra time and may be decided on a penalty shoot out."
"Tommy!" I whined, "Biffo has just said-Gosh. What does-Gosh mean Tommy?"
Tommy went, "Sacre Bleu!" and said, "Every time you come to the word-Gosh, just substitute,Be-Jeekers and talking about substitutes, one has just come on in the ballet, now leave me alone. I twiddled my toes, flexed my fingers, wiggled my ears and whined,
"Tommy, Biffo has just said, Be-Jeekers, what a super wheeze! What does super wheeze mean Tommy? "Gott in Himmel!" yelled Tommy, "Can I not get any peace to watch the ballet? Super wheeze means--that's some auld carry on". "Thank you Tommy," I said. "You're welcome," said Tommy. "I'm a wild nuisance, aren't I Tommy?" "It's all right," said Tommy. "I hate to bother you Tommy," I said,. "I know how fond you are of the ballet." "That's all right," said Tommy. "Just go back to your Beano now." "Tommy?" I said. "What is IT?" yelled Tommy. "I'm just going to go back to my Beano now Tommy and I'll not bother you no more, no, no more, not ever again."
I picked up the Beano and slowly read what Biffo said, "Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on."
As the humour of the humour hit me, I gave a scream, fell on the floor and rolled about letting shriek after shriek out of me. I rolled to the foot of our stairs and back again. The tears were streaming down my face and I had a fare indication that I had peed myself.
"Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on. How do them boys in Dundee think of them?"
Later, after tea and bikkies, Tommy looked at me and said, "What did you think of the Gerry show this week?" "Great!" I yelled, "Fantastic, over the moon, in the annals of great shows, that show must easily be, in the first five hundred".
"I'm worried, gravely worried about Mr Coyle." said Tommy. "His pauses are getting longer, bordering on Pinteresque." "What would do that Tommy?" I said, "Is the lad going do-lally?"
"Of course not." said Tommy, "It's all to do with the brain. The brain is a hive of electricity. When you want to speak, a nerve end in the brain causes a spark and that tells your mouth to speak."
"Mr Coyle must have a short circuit!" I yelled. "Maybe he washed his hair and water got into his brain." "I think not." said Tommy. "The brain is a very complicated piece of kit. It governs all our movements. I will prove it to you now. I want your brain to send a message to your right leg to jump up in the air". "Be-jeekers, that's some auld carry on!" I yelled. "What do you want me to do?" "Just tell your brain to make your right leg jump up in the air." said Tommy. "I am," I yelled, "but nothing is happening. What's wrong with me Tommy? have I got-Coyleitis?"
Tommy made no reply, he just walked away mumbling, "How can you command something that isn't there?" Tommy and I stayed up very late playing the Peace In The Middle East game. It was after twelve when Tommy threw a 19 and got control of the Gaza Strip. Oh it was late and oh we were tired! I stood at the open door as Tommy left the empty milk bottles out. Suddenly, my right foot shot up in the air, giving Tommy a riser that send him flying into the bed of lupins.
"Tommy!" I yelled, "Tommy, my brain is working, my brain is working!"
Tommy's reply, was short, curt and worthy of Gordon Ramsey, the effing cook.
Want Rosie Ryan books? go to..jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
To see what Rosie is up too, go to..www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Small terraced houses huddle together in narrow,dirty streets. On a gable wall, someone has scrawled with chalk, probably a policeman or a priest, NO POPE, NO HOPE AND VERY LITTLE SOAP. In the misty morning gloom, the two big cranes, hold two industrial fingers up to the rest of the world. Off in the distance, the Cave Hill crouches like a sleeping prehistoric monster. Let it sleep or it will waken with a roar and destroy the city of Belfast, Titanic Town, built on shipbuilding, linen and soda bread.
I wonder is that enough scenery? No, let's introduce a typical Belfast Sammy, a hard wee man, a wee hard nut, a man who likes a pint on a Saturday and usually ends up in the gutter yelling, "Let me go, let me go and I'll beat the big head ofo him, so I will!"
Wee Sammy comes out of the newsagents with the Newsletter under his arm. His eyes are closed tight against the driving rain. He has a woodbine in his mouth and a flat cap on his head.
Does that sound all right? It's very formalistic. let's change it a bit to see if it reads any better.
Wee Sammy has a flat cap in his mouth and a woodbine on his head.
No-No, that doesn't work at all. It just makes me look stupid for writing it and you look even more stupid for reading it.Now the scene is set we will progress.
Inside my house, which I am reliably informed is made from bricks and mortar and not recycled cuckoo clocks as I had first thought, sat Tommy my cat and me. It was so comfy, the delph gleamed in the dresser, the budgie was cheerily whistling, "Here we go loopy-loo" and a big fire was roaring up the stairs. Tommy and I were reading. Tommy was reading, The Feline Art's Review and I was reading the Beano. I had my tongue between my teeth, well I think it was my tongue. I found it in my mouth and I was slowly following the adventures of Biffo the Bear, he with the red trousers, don't you know and all that malarkey.
"Tommy!" I whined, "Tommy, I've found a word I don't understand."
Tommy looked over his glasses and said, "What is it? I want to see how this ballet ends. It has gone into extra time and may be decided on a penalty shoot out."
"Tommy!" I whined, "Biffo has just said-Gosh. What does-Gosh mean Tommy?"
Tommy went, "Sacre Bleu!" and said, "Every time you come to the word-Gosh, just substitute,Be-Jeekers and talking about substitutes, one has just come on in the ballet, now leave me alone. I twiddled my toes, flexed my fingers, wiggled my ears and whined,
"Tommy, Biffo has just said, Be-Jeekers, what a super wheeze! What does super wheeze mean Tommy? "Gott in Himmel!" yelled Tommy, "Can I not get any peace to watch the ballet? Super wheeze means--that's some auld carry on". "Thank you Tommy," I said. "You're welcome," said Tommy. "I'm a wild nuisance, aren't I Tommy?" "It's all right," said Tommy. "I hate to bother you Tommy," I said,. "I know how fond you are of the ballet." "That's all right," said Tommy. "Just go back to your Beano now." "Tommy?" I said. "What is IT?" yelled Tommy. "I'm just going to go back to my Beano now Tommy and I'll not bother you no more, no, no more, not ever again."
I picked up the Beano and slowly read what Biffo said, "Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on."
As the humour of the humour hit me, I gave a scream, fell on the floor and rolled about letting shriek after shriek out of me. I rolled to the foot of our stairs and back again. The tears were streaming down my face and I had a fare indication that I had peed myself.
"Be-Jeekers, that's some auld carry on. How do them boys in Dundee think of them?"
Later, after tea and bikkies, Tommy looked at me and said, "What did you think of the Gerry show this week?" "Great!" I yelled, "Fantastic, over the moon, in the annals of great shows, that show must easily be, in the first five hundred".
"I'm worried, gravely worried about Mr Coyle." said Tommy. "His pauses are getting longer, bordering on Pinteresque." "What would do that Tommy?" I said, "Is the lad going do-lally?"
"Of course not." said Tommy, "It's all to do with the brain. The brain is a hive of electricity. When you want to speak, a nerve end in the brain causes a spark and that tells your mouth to speak."
"Mr Coyle must have a short circuit!" I yelled. "Maybe he washed his hair and water got into his brain." "I think not." said Tommy. "The brain is a very complicated piece of kit. It governs all our movements. I will prove it to you now. I want your brain to send a message to your right leg to jump up in the air". "Be-jeekers, that's some auld carry on!" I yelled. "What do you want me to do?" "Just tell your brain to make your right leg jump up in the air." said Tommy. "I am," I yelled, "but nothing is happening. What's wrong with me Tommy? have I got-Coyleitis?"
Tommy made no reply, he just walked away mumbling, "How can you command something that isn't there?" Tommy and I stayed up very late playing the Peace In The Middle East game. It was after twelve when Tommy threw a 19 and got control of the Gaza Strip. Oh it was late and oh we were tired! I stood at the open door as Tommy left the empty milk bottles out. Suddenly, my right foot shot up in the air, giving Tommy a riser that send him flying into the bed of lupins.
"Tommy!" I yelled, "Tommy, my brain is working, my brain is working!"
Tommy's reply, was short, curt and worthy of Gordon Ramsey, the effing cook.
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