"COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-NO!" I yelled, pulling the blankets over my head. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO-NIGH!" cried the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-your-ass!" I yelled. "COCK-A-DOODLE-DO!" cried the rooster. It was no good, I had to get up, but I got up with bad grace. How Grace got into my bed last night, I'll never know. She said she had an invite, but when pressed, couldn't produce it. Maybe she did. I remember sending out a bunch of invitations, inviting people to join me in bed. I searched under the blankets and the pillows, but no sign of Hugo Duncan. I suppose he thinks he's better that me now he's got the new false teeth. I sang as I dressed. "Giddy-up, giddy-up a ding dong!" I yelled as I stepped into my little black number. I just love that bin liner. I found it in a wheelie-bin on the Malone Road, so it's got class. Shoes, shoes, shoes, the same decision every morning, what shoes should I wear? I decided to compromise and slipped into a pink, 8 inch heel stiletto and a lime green wellington with the top rolled down. I stood at an angle, admiring myself in the mirror. "You got it girl!" I yelled to my reflection. "You don't need Trinny and Suzanna to tell you what to wear."I clamped a brown bonnet on my head, wrapped a West Ham football scarf round my gullet and I was ready. I tripped down the stairs like Maggie Poppins, the half sister of Mary singing merrily, "Hit me, hit me, hit me with your rhythm stick." I leapt over the banister yelling, "GERONIMO!" and burst into the living room and found my cat Tommy in a state of confusion, delusion, but devoid of any conclusion. Tommy was down on the floor on his hands and knees, shaking the money out of his piggy bank. There was a look of-madness in the feline, slitted eyes. "Tommy, Tommy!" I yelled. "What are you up too lad? Are you compos mentis? or are you in a state of do-lalliness, bordering on full blown, 24 caret, 100%-madness?" Tommy looked up, his eyes filled with horror and hissed,( he'll clean that up later), "I must get my life savings out of this bank," screamed Tommy. "Why Tommy?" I said. "Because this bank could go bust at anytime," shrieked Tommy. "Surely not," I said, "It looks like a good, strong substantial bank to me, made out of the strongest plastic." "You don't understand," screamed Tommy, "banks are falling like wino's on a Saturday night. American banks, UK banks, German banks and the last bank in Iceland fell during the night. Bank robbers, with guns are walking the streets, dazed and confused." "The poor wee doats," I said "I didn't know things were that bad. What can I do Tommy?" I shrieked. "What can I do to help? Tommy didn't answer, he pulled his hair out by the roots, rent his garments, kicked a poof and yelled, "Damn Freddie and Fanny, damn them I say." "Have Freddie and Fanny hurt my little Tommy?" I yelled. "Tell me where this Freddie and Fanny live and I'll go round there and punch them up the gub." "Freddie and Fanny are American banks," yelled Tommy. "They were the first banks to go bust and the rest followed like sheep." "But where did the money go Tommy?" I asked. "It-it-just disappeared," yelled Tommy. "No one knows where the money went. It went into a computer and never came out again." ""What is President Georgie Bush doing about all this?" I yelled, striking a Nelson pose. "George Bush, is acting like-George Bush," said Tommy. "What's the maverick doing," I cried. "What is old John McCain doing? He's a maverick, you know, surely he must be doing some mavericky things." "The maverick," yelled Tommy "is walking around in a daze, with a moose hunter from Alaska, calling everybody--my friend.". "Durn blast the hoggle-swoggle son of a gun from Arizona" I yelled. Tommy sat down and began to count his money, starting like every good mathematician with--"ONE." I paced the floor, banging one fist into the other. My eyes had a steely glint and my nose had a reddish hue. "It's all here" screamed Tommy, "its all here, every penny. I haven't been wiped out by the big crash." "How much did you have in the bank Tommy?" I said. "One pound and 87 pence," said Tommy and his little feline cheeks were glowing like apples. "Well done Tommy," I cried. "If you had another 13 pence, you would have even more money." "Put the TV on," yelled Tommy "put the TV on,.I want to laugh at the suckers who lost their shirts." Steven Nolan's great big face filled the plasma screen and the speakers vibrated as Tubby roared into the camera. "I lost it all, every penny I had. I lost my shirt, underpants and three pair of socks. I'm wiped out, I haven't even the price of a hamburger. And it's all down to Freddie and Fanny. I'm sorry for Freddie, but I should have known that tramp Fanny was a money grabbing harlot the way she pulled me up the stairs in Las Vegas." "Tommy killed himself laughing and chortled, "Fat boy not happy." "No indeedee" I said, "Fat boy not happy. Fat boy wiped out. Fat boy loose many spondulecks." Tommy and I sat watching as Steven "Tubby" Nolan sang into the camera with tears streaming down his massive face.
"No body know, da trouble I've seen
No body know my sorrow
No body know da trouble I've seen
By jeekers and begorragh."
As Fred Dibnah would say, "Did you like that?"
Go now, right away, don't delay to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And you can order Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Saturday, 4 October 2008
HIGH FINANCE AND LOW FINESSE
As the sun broke over Belfast, it found the city exactly where it had been last night. It hadn't moved an inch, had not tried to make an escape during the hours of darkness. I think that says a lot about Belfast and the people of Belfast. Citizens of Belfast, stand up and take a bow. If you haven't got a bow, get on to eBay immediately. If you can't find a bow in your size, you could always buy a curtsy or a snappy salute. It's up to you, good people of Belfast, how you show pride in the populace. Far be it for me to dictate how you should celebrate your bravery. But, good people of Belfast, don't squander this glorious moment. Take a bow, pat yourself on the back and the next time you meet yourself, invite yourself in for a wee dram. Och-Aye.
I groaned wearily as I crawled out off the toilet bowl, I had been in there for two weeks, pretending I was the American economy. Tommy my cat was sprawled on the carpet, pretending to be the fallen dollar. Suddenly, Jim Rodgers stuck his nose through the letter box and screamed, "HI-big bail out for the American economy-NIGH!" Seven hundred billion. I could feel it doing me good already. Tommy jumped up, grabbed for a Cockney accent and began to sing in the oddest voice, "What do you want, if you don't want money?" I twirled myself round the room, then I grabbed my hand and danced The Walls of Limerick to the sound of the slapper with the hoover next door. What a relief! At one point I thought I was going down the pan and poor Tommy was so weak, the Japanese yen was battering the face of him. And now!-now we had got a transfusion of money from the American tax payer. I whipped out my wok, found it was a stone that Jonathan Ross had given me for my birthday, and grabbed the frying pan instead. In no time I had whipped up a celebratory banquet of cardboard, string and dust mites. As Tommy and I sat, toasting the financial bail -out with goblets of Fairy washing up liquid. I looked at Tommy and said. "Tommykins, you're a smart Cookie. What was the reason for the collapse of the American economy?" Tommy took a sip of Fairy liquid, boaked into his dinner and said, "GREED" "Greed?" I yelled, running to the foot of our stairs, bolting the door and drawing the blinds with a pencil. "GREED," said Tommy. "That's the cause of all the caffuffle. Nothing but good old fashioned-greed!" "It can't be!" I yelled to Pansy the parrot. "Oh yes it can," squawked Pansy. "I don't understand," I cried to the light bulb. "Hey man," said the light bulb, "Don't drag me into it. I'm just hanging around, minding my own business." "GREED?" I shrieked to the whispering grass, who tried to tell the trees, but the trees didn't want to know. "Tommy1" I yelled, "what can we do to make sure this, this-ah meltdown, this horlicks doesn't happen again?" Tommy wiped his feline lips with a sleeping kin, no, sorry, a napkin, got to his feet, stood at the fireplace, lit a cigar, put one thumb into the pocket of his canary yellow waistcoat and said. "Fiscal responsibility." "You what?" I yelled. Tommy sauntered over to the piano, tinkled on the ivories, filthy habit and said, "We must tighten our belts, cut our cloth to suit our means, knuckle down on credit, tie a knot in our galluses, always carry a clean hankie, keep our powder dry, never look a gift horse in the mouth and flush the toilet after using it." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe. What a smart little cat, what a cute little feline. Then Tommy's cigar exploded with a BANG, blew off his bow tie and left his little face all black. I just laughed like the gulpin I am, as I looked at Tommy, searching frantically for a banjo while singing, "MAMMY-MAMMY."
Two stone of biscuit crumbs had accumulated in the fork of Steven Nolan's huge trousers. There we lay, beside the landfill site, swatting flies and yelling-"Shoosh" to the hungry rats. I gazed at Tubby with my eyes full of passion and pus. Dear Steven gazed back and fluttered his eyelashes. My beret flew off my head and my wig slid over one ear. Steven eased up on one gigantic hip, broke wind so romantically and said, "Lie down Toots, I've got something for you." I shrieked like a rat in a trap, as dear Steven picked up a hurdy-gurdy and began to croon.
"I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
I'm so full I'm brustin, I'm gonna need some pos
So If you really love me
Have them lined up in neat rows."
As the haunting love song drifted up with the smoke from the landfill site, the sun slowly sank in the West, leaving the city of Belfast in darkness. But would Belfast be there in the morning when the sun rose in the East? I sighed and threw myself on Tubby, grabbing and groping at his little hurdy-gurdy.
You will find Rosie Ryan at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And you can buy Rosie's book at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And remember, be good and if you can't be good--be bad.
I groaned wearily as I crawled out off the toilet bowl, I had been in there for two weeks, pretending I was the American economy. Tommy my cat was sprawled on the carpet, pretending to be the fallen dollar. Suddenly, Jim Rodgers stuck his nose through the letter box and screamed, "HI-big bail out for the American economy-NIGH!" Seven hundred billion. I could feel it doing me good already. Tommy jumped up, grabbed for a Cockney accent and began to sing in the oddest voice, "What do you want, if you don't want money?" I twirled myself round the room, then I grabbed my hand and danced The Walls of Limerick to the sound of the slapper with the hoover next door. What a relief! At one point I thought I was going down the pan and poor Tommy was so weak, the Japanese yen was battering the face of him. And now!-now we had got a transfusion of money from the American tax payer. I whipped out my wok, found it was a stone that Jonathan Ross had given me for my birthday, and grabbed the frying pan instead. In no time I had whipped up a celebratory banquet of cardboard, string and dust mites. As Tommy and I sat, toasting the financial bail -out with goblets of Fairy washing up liquid. I looked at Tommy and said. "Tommykins, you're a smart Cookie. What was the reason for the collapse of the American economy?" Tommy took a sip of Fairy liquid, boaked into his dinner and said, "GREED" "Greed?" I yelled, running to the foot of our stairs, bolting the door and drawing the blinds with a pencil. "GREED," said Tommy. "That's the cause of all the caffuffle. Nothing but good old fashioned-greed!" "It can't be!" I yelled to Pansy the parrot. "Oh yes it can," squawked Pansy. "I don't understand," I cried to the light bulb. "Hey man," said the light bulb, "Don't drag me into it. I'm just hanging around, minding my own business." "GREED?" I shrieked to the whispering grass, who tried to tell the trees, but the trees didn't want to know. "Tommy1" I yelled, "what can we do to make sure this, this-ah meltdown, this horlicks doesn't happen again?" Tommy wiped his feline lips with a sleeping kin, no, sorry, a napkin, got to his feet, stood at the fireplace, lit a cigar, put one thumb into the pocket of his canary yellow waistcoat and said. "Fiscal responsibility." "You what?" I yelled. Tommy sauntered over to the piano, tinkled on the ivories, filthy habit and said, "We must tighten our belts, cut our cloth to suit our means, knuckle down on credit, tie a knot in our galluses, always carry a clean hankie, keep our powder dry, never look a gift horse in the mouth and flush the toilet after using it." I looked at Tommy in shock and awe. What a smart little cat, what a cute little feline. Then Tommy's cigar exploded with a BANG, blew off his bow tie and left his little face all black. I just laughed like the gulpin I am, as I looked at Tommy, searching frantically for a banjo while singing, "MAMMY-MAMMY."
Two stone of biscuit crumbs had accumulated in the fork of Steven Nolan's huge trousers. There we lay, beside the landfill site, swatting flies and yelling-"Shoosh" to the hungry rats. I gazed at Tubby with my eyes full of passion and pus. Dear Steven gazed back and fluttered his eyelashes. My beret flew off my head and my wig slid over one ear. Steven eased up on one gigantic hip, broke wind so romantically and said, "Lie down Toots, I've got something for you." I shrieked like a rat in a trap, as dear Steven picked up a hurdy-gurdy and began to croon.
"I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
I'm so full I'm brustin, I'm gonna need some pos
So If you really love me
Have them lined up in neat rows."
As the haunting love song drifted up with the smoke from the landfill site, the sun slowly sank in the West, leaving the city of Belfast in darkness. But would Belfast be there in the morning when the sun rose in the East? I sighed and threw myself on Tubby, grabbing and groping at his little hurdy-gurdy.
You will find Rosie Ryan at..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And you can buy Rosie's book at..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And remember, be good and if you can't be good--be bad.
Saturday, 27 September 2008
THROW ANOTHER FAGGOT ON THE FIRE FANNY
As Dawn broke wind, sunlight streamed through the broken window of our house. Tommy my cat and I built a dam with sandbags but we couldn't keep it out. Soon my living room was up to the oxters in-sunlight. I stood with hands on hips and said, "Well, this is a right howdy-do."
Howdy-do to you too," said Tommy, surveying the damage. "How are we going to get this sunlight out of the house?" "Grab some brooms" I yelled "and sweep the sunlight out to the street!" "Good idea!" cried Tommy, grabbing a broom in his feline paws and sweeping furiously.
"It's no good," gasped Tommy, "the more I sweep the sunlight out, the more it streams back in again.""Shut up and keep sweeping," I yelled, "before the sunlight ruins my one piece suite and damages my daddy's nick-nacks!" "Those nick-nacks should be in the coffin along with your dead daddy," cried Tommy. "What kind of monster are you, to send a man to meet his maker nick-nackless?" "He was my daddy," I yelled, "not your daddy. When my alive daddy died, I was heartbroken. I wanted something to remind me of dear daddy, so I took his nick-nacks."
"Could you not have cut off his tie instead?" roared Tommy, up to the waist in sunlight.
"My daddy loved that tie!" I yelled "It was the regimental tie of the Irish Guards and my late daddy would have joined the guards if his height and his IQ had been bigger."
"It's no good!" cried Tommy "The sunlight is streaming in. It's a deluge, a deluge of sunlight. Why did Frank Mitchell not warn people about a flood of sunlight on TV last night?"
"Frank Mitchell, my aunt Fanny!" I screamed, "Frank Mitchell was too busy trying to convince people that wet bag was Coleraine on the 'Name That Town' teaser last night." "I saw that," said Tommy. "Frank certainly fooled me. I thought wet bag was-Cullybaccy. Even the dogs in the street know that cully is Arabic for-wet and Baccy is Ulster/Mongolian for-BAG." "Shut up Tommy!" I screamed, as I grabbed a signed photograph of Steven Nolan before it was washed away by the sunlight. "It's hopeless," I yelled, "the sunlight is half way up the stairs now! There's only one thing to do." Tommy gasped and said, "You don't mean?..."
"YES!" I cried, "It's time to send for super hero--JIM RODGERS. Then Tommy and I sang the Jim Rodger's song, which goes after this fashion. Ah one, ah two, an three, ah four.....
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Jim Rodgers arrived on a bicycle, ringing the bell, his purple cape fluttering behind him.
"NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh Jim," I screeched, "thank goodness you're here! My house is flooded by pesky-sunlight."
"Stand back," screamed Jim "this is a job for super hero--JIM RODGERS!"
Tommy and I clapped, cheered and broke once more into the Jim Rodger's theme tune.
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, Jim Rodgers, super hero ran into the sunlit house and banished the sunlight by--pulling the curtains.
"MY HERO!" I cried as Jim rode off on his bicycle screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!"
Tommy began to sing, "IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF IN TROUBLE." I took the cuff off my sleeve and let Tommy have it round the ear. Tommy and I clasped hands, danced the Mason's Apron to the sound of a stone sliding down a corrugated tin roof and then skipped-gaily into our sunless abode. But for months after, I kept finding little bits of sunlight stuck down the back of the sofa. I cupped them carefully in my hands, ran to the door and threw them up into the sunlit sky. "Fly my little one!" I yelled. " Fly to the shinning orb up in the sky, that is made up from 72% hydrogen, 28% helium and just a little, teeny-weenie smidgen of carbon."a
Later that night, or was it tomorrow night? Tommy my cat looked on with disapproval as I went to bed with cocoa. "I don't care, I don't care what people think, let them talk. Sure Coco is a clown but when he takes off his big shoes and baggy trousers, he knows how to make a girl happy--and he makes me laugh. And do all women, not put at the top of their list for the ideal man--a good sense of humour? So ladies, if you want a man who makes you laugh, go out and grab a-clown. You will find lots of clowns in the circus--and up at Stormont.
Rosie Ryan is looking for you, you will find her waiting at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot,com and if you want to buy her book, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Howdy-do to you too," said Tommy, surveying the damage. "How are we going to get this sunlight out of the house?" "Grab some brooms" I yelled "and sweep the sunlight out to the street!" "Good idea!" cried Tommy, grabbing a broom in his feline paws and sweeping furiously.
"It's no good," gasped Tommy, "the more I sweep the sunlight out, the more it streams back in again.""Shut up and keep sweeping," I yelled, "before the sunlight ruins my one piece suite and damages my daddy's nick-nacks!" "Those nick-nacks should be in the coffin along with your dead daddy," cried Tommy. "What kind of monster are you, to send a man to meet his maker nick-nackless?" "He was my daddy," I yelled, "not your daddy. When my alive daddy died, I was heartbroken. I wanted something to remind me of dear daddy, so I took his nick-nacks."
"Could you not have cut off his tie instead?" roared Tommy, up to the waist in sunlight.
"My daddy loved that tie!" I yelled "It was the regimental tie of the Irish Guards and my late daddy would have joined the guards if his height and his IQ had been bigger."
"It's no good!" cried Tommy "The sunlight is streaming in. It's a deluge, a deluge of sunlight. Why did Frank Mitchell not warn people about a flood of sunlight on TV last night?"
"Frank Mitchell, my aunt Fanny!" I screamed, "Frank Mitchell was too busy trying to convince people that wet bag was Coleraine on the 'Name That Town' teaser last night." "I saw that," said Tommy. "Frank certainly fooled me. I thought wet bag was-Cullybaccy. Even the dogs in the street know that cully is Arabic for-wet and Baccy is Ulster/Mongolian for-BAG." "Shut up Tommy!" I screamed, as I grabbed a signed photograph of Steven Nolan before it was washed away by the sunlight. "It's hopeless," I yelled, "the sunlight is half way up the stairs now! There's only one thing to do." Tommy gasped and said, "You don't mean?..."
"YES!" I cried, "It's time to send for super hero--JIM RODGERS. Then Tommy and I sang the Jim Rodger's song, which goes after this fashion. Ah one, ah two, an three, ah four.....
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Jim Rodgers arrived on a bicycle, ringing the bell, his purple cape fluttering behind him.
"NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!" screamed Jim. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh Jim," I screeched, "thank goodness you're here! My house is flooded by pesky-sunlight."
"Stand back," screamed Jim "this is a job for super hero--JIM RODGERS!"
Tommy and I clapped, cheered and broke once more into the Jim Rodger's theme tune.
WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE
DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME ON BODGERS
IF YOU NEED A SUPER HERO
SEND FOR--JIM RODGERS.
Thinking nothing of his own safety, Jim Rodgers, super hero ran into the sunlit house and banished the sunlight by--pulling the curtains.
"MY HERO!" I cried as Jim rode off on his bicycle screaming, "NIGH-NIGH-NIGH!"
Tommy began to sing, "IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF IN TROUBLE." I took the cuff off my sleeve and let Tommy have it round the ear. Tommy and I clasped hands, danced the Mason's Apron to the sound of a stone sliding down a corrugated tin roof and then skipped-gaily into our sunless abode. But for months after, I kept finding little bits of sunlight stuck down the back of the sofa. I cupped them carefully in my hands, ran to the door and threw them up into the sunlit sky. "Fly my little one!" I yelled. " Fly to the shinning orb up in the sky, that is made up from 72% hydrogen, 28% helium and just a little, teeny-weenie smidgen of carbon."a
Later that night, or was it tomorrow night? Tommy my cat looked on with disapproval as I went to bed with cocoa. "I don't care, I don't care what people think, let them talk. Sure Coco is a clown but when he takes off his big shoes and baggy trousers, he knows how to make a girl happy--and he makes me laugh. And do all women, not put at the top of their list for the ideal man--a good sense of humour? So ladies, if you want a man who makes you laugh, go out and grab a-clown. You will find lots of clowns in the circus--and up at Stormont.
Rosie Ryan is looking for you, you will find her waiting at...
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot,com and if you want to buy her book, go to...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
FLOGGING A DEAD CAT
Monday morning found Tommy my cat and I up to our old tricks. Tommy had me in a box and the wily feline was sawing me in half with a saw. Tommy stopped sawing after my 21st shriek and rushed me to casualty on the back of a Mexican burro called Anthony. The doctor patched me up, patched me down, rolled me over, took my temperature and said. "Goodness gracious me, what a crazy lady!" gave me a Bombay riser with his toe and yelled, "NEXT!" "Damn you doctor, Ali Murphy!" I yelled. "I'll bring down the Indian economy. I'll never eat curry again." "You fixed his wagon," said Tommy. "Let's see how he likes them apples." I grabbed Tommy by the scruff of the neck, found a darkened corner and gave him an enema he'll remember for the rest of his life. All that from one small cat? Amazing, truly-amazing.
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!
Later that night, or was it in the morning with two different people? who cares? lives too short for such frivolous frizzle-frazzle, Tommy and I stood in our local Chinese restaurant, The Rickshaw and Parrot. Tommy and I were incognito, the circus was in town and-well, you can't be too careful. Tommy and I were dressed up as, Peter, Paul and Mary, fooling darn near everyone, except die hard fans of the folksy threesome. Mrs Wong appeared from behind a beaded curtain, with a chopper in her hand, I felt a joke coming on but squashed it with a small blacksmith's anvil, I always carry in my clutch bag. "Mrs Wong!" I screeched, "where is Mr Wong?" "Mr Wong, not light," said Mrs Wong. "Mr Wong is not right?" I shrieked. "Mrs Wong, what is wrong with Mr Wong?" Mrs Wong, fingered her chopper---Right, that's it, you at the back, GET OUT, this is a decent blog, written for decent bloggers. OUT-and never show your ugly face in here again-Madonna! "Mrs Wong," I cried, "dear, dear Mrs Wong, please tell why Mr Wong is not right."
"Mr Wong," said Mrs Wong, "not light, not light in the head. Men come with white coats, the whole caboodle and they take Mr Wong away, because Mr Wong is not light, not light in the head, you savvy now, you Doodlebug?" Suddenly, it all made sense, Mr Wong had gone Do-Lally and was carted off to the funny farm. I looked at Tommy my cat with tears in my eyes and said, "They came and took him away--ha-ha.". "Yes," said Tommy, "the ultimate Chinese take-a-way." As we skipped round the corner to the chip shop, I said to Tommy, "Should we send Mr Wong some grapes?". "Nah," said Tommy, "he'll be heavily sedated. It will be a long time before he's fit enough to do any gardening." I looked at Tommy and thought, "You little belter, what a smart, intelligent little-belter you are."
"Tommy cat!" I yelled, "Come out of that corner." "No!" roared Tommy. "Tommy cat" I yelled, "Come out of that darkened corner, where the shadows lurk and strange things happen. Strange things that would make your blood run cold and the very marrow freeze in your bones." "Oh, all right," said Tommy, "if you put it like that." "Now Tommy cat," I said "you have to be punished." "What did I do?" yelled Tommy. "Today," I cried, "at seven and a half minutes past three, you were sitting on the dustbin in the back yard." "What if I was?" said Tommy, "It's not a crime, is it? It's not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon." "You were talking to the tabby cat next door," I said. "What if I was?" said Tommy "It's not a crime, is it? Not a crime to sit on a dustbin of a sunny afternoon and talk with a friend. It's not a crime, is it?" "During that feline conversation," I said, "I put it to you, that you maligned the good name of-Mark Durkin!"
"Never!" cried Tommy "I never done it, I swear."."During that catty conversation," I said, "you said-and I quote, "Old Mark Durkin has had his day. It's over for old Markus. He is yesterday's man, GONE, FINETTO, KAPUT"
"I never," said Tommy.
"You DID!" I cried.
"I never," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, you DID!" I cried.
"How could you?" I yelled. "How could you, malign the good name of-Mark Durkin?"
"I didn't mean to," cried Tommy. "My words were taken out of context."
"Bend over my knee," I said. "You what?" said Tommy. "Bend over my knee," I said. "I am going to give you six of the best, with this hairbrush of John Daly's that I bought on eBay"
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"No, you ain't," said Tommy.
"Oh yes, I am," I cried.
There then followed a fierce three hour struggle, in which punches were thrown, kicks kicked, hair pulled out by the roots and angry words exchanged by both parties. The eventual outcome was, that I found myself lying over Tommy's knee, where I got six of the best, from John Daly's hairbrush. But I think Tommy got the message. Don't say bad things about Mark Durkin, the man who is up there with Einstein. Einstein discovered relativity and Mark Durkin discovered reality and today, thanks to Mark Durkin, children know that the reality-IS. YES, the reality-IS, it always was-IS and it will always be-IS and it's all due to Mr Reality himself--Mark Durkin.
DOH--and on that note, I'll finish.
Want to see what Rosie Ryan is up too? go to..
www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Read Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson by contacting this head-banger..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
So, until we meet again--HELLO!
Monday, 22 September 2008
THE FIRST THING I DO IN THE MORNING IS LOOK FOR MY PUSSY
Wednesday morning found me and Tommy my cat going through our Wednesday morning routine. I was rolling round the floor, wearing a brown catsuit pretending to be an orphaned Malteeser. Tommy was chug-chugging round the room pretending to be the last train to Clarksville. If you haven't tried it, don't judge us. Some people just get up, eat tea and toast and watch Jeremy Kyle-and you have the cheek to call US weird? A rolling stone may gather no moss, but a rolling malteeser, gathers a lot of fluff. If if you don't believe me, I will send you a drawing of my brown catsuit. Tommy says that the fluff sticks to the catsuit, but I believe that the catsuit sticks to the fluff. Will we ever know which theory is correct? Probably not, now that the days are getting shorter. Why are the days so stupid as to take fashion advice from old father time? Bimbos, that is what the days are-Bimbos, air heads, without a brain in their pretty little heads. The nights are so different. They have been wearing black for as long as I remember and black suits the nights so well, for one or two are a little pudgy. The night before Christmas is a lovely night. If there was an X-factor for nights, I think the night before Christmas would win it. The night after Christmas, is a big roly-poly and would be sent packing by Simon Cowell and his minions. You may disagree, that's up to you. That's why God gave you a brain and the hands to scratch it.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
Go now to www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's new book go to jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
Go now to www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want Rosie's new book go to jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.
Monday, 8 September 2008
I BET MY DRAWERS ON FOUR ACES.
"NOT THE DRILL,ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL" I screamed, as the dentist and I fought like Suni and Shia in the surgery. Dental instruments and gauze flew everywhere, as the dentist grabbed me in a head-lock and dragged me towards the chair. I dug in my heels and yelled, "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I headbutted the dentist in the groin. He gasped but with a twirl of the toes, soon had me in a half nelson, I kicked and flung as he pushed me towards the chair of torture. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I screamed. "Don't be a big baby," panted the dentist. "All you will feel is a little prick."
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
Go now to...www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want to buy Rosie's new book, go to..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
"I don't mind that." I leered, "BUT NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL." The dentist was pushing me closer and closer to the chair. What could I do? How could I get free? This was real life not a comic. There would be no, "then with a mighty bound she was free." I struggled, I wailed, I kicked, I shrieked, I flung, I screamed. Then I remembered an old wrestling trick I has seen on TV. I suddenly dropped to the floor, slipping out of the half nelson, then I shot backwards through the dentist's legs, hitting my head on something as I did so, but I didn't care, I was free, free. Then as I ran to the door to make good my escape, the wily dentist jumped on my fleeing back like a Tasmanian Devil. I was back in the clutches of the devilish dentist. "NOT THE DRILL. ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" I shrieked as we both crashed to the floor. He got a cut above the eye and I got a full syringe of Novocaine right in the ass. The dentist was down but not out, so I hit him over the head with a heavy book entitled, "How To Calm Patients Down For The Drill" and ran out the open door. I ran frantically down the Donegall Road screaming, "NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE DRILL!" A group of men working on the road looked up and said, "All right Missus, we'll use the shovels instead of the drill." I had to get home. I had to get home and throw myself into the arms of Tommy my cat. I needed-reassurance, I needed understanding, I needed--love. Then, the Novocaine began to work and my bum began to go numb. My legs began to move slower and slower as the paralysing drug coursed through my nether region, like an over dose of--Novocaine. I could hardly move my legs, they felt as heavy as lead. I conked out in the middle of the Donegall Road, standing like a statue, with one leg out in front of me. "HELP!" I yelled, "HELP-HELP!" Soon a crowd gathered and began to laugh at me. "You see Herbert," said a woman to her small son, "that's what happens if you get stuck into the red Biddy first thing in the morning." "Disgusting." said little Herbert, "Why the old slapper can't even walk." Then my Knight in shining uniform appeared. Sir Hugh Orde, leapt out of a moving land rover like James Bond and said, "ello-'ello-'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" Then he looked at me and said, "Stone the bleeding crows, is it you again? Wot is it this time?" I looked at Sir Hugh and yelled, "Numb Bum!" "Right," said Sir Hugh, "that's it. Throw the old Biddy in the back of the land rover, for insulting a member of her Majesty's constabulary." And that's how I got home. Sir Hugh thought I was calling him-Numb Bum. If I had said instead, "Overdose of Novocaine, I would be stood standing on the Donegall Road yet. Funny things policemen, a bit like tadpoles, only much bigger and unpredictable.
Tommy my cat, me and Steven Nolan were playing strip poker in the back room of the man, who rents the front room from Mrs Gannet. It was a high stakes game. All three of us were down to our underpants and simmets. I glanced at Tubby, trying to read his large, glacier-like face. He wasn't giving anything away, Tommy was wearing sunglasses, in case his little, glittering green eyes would give anything away. "Right" I growled, "this is the big one. Whoever loses walks out of here buck naked." A small smile played around Tubby's rose-bud lips. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket. Tommy's little furry knee was twitching. A bead of sweat ran down Nolan's fat face. 45 minutes later it reached his chin and clung like a raindrop from his massive visage. My guts were churning, and believe me, it wasn't butter. It was time to put up or shut up. Tommy turned his cards over first,--Four Aces. Tommy sat back with a smirk. Then Tubby showed his hand-a gasp went round the table--another four aces, now all eyes were on me, I kept them waiting and slowly, ever so slowly, turned over my cards, another--four aces.
As all three of us walked naked down by the City Hall, Tommy looked and me and said, "What are the chances of that happening-EH?"
Go now to...www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
And if you want to buy Rosie's new book, go to..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
"NOT THE DRILL, ANYTHING BUT THE-DRILL!"
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