Picture yourself (with a little man) in a boat on a river.

Hanny had made up her mind and taken leave of King Innocent.

“Why are you leaving me girl?” asked the King.

“Oh Majestic Majesty, King of Kings, Lord of the Dance, and Suzerain of Suspect Undies! I need to find myself! I need adventure beyond your nethermost sphincter! I seek a great Quest to be the Best of the Best to flee the Nest! I will not Rest until I pass a test or wear a string vest! Washing your smalls no longer cuts it for me! I want romance! I want Escapades! I Favour Fabulous Exploits in Far Flung Fatherlands! Magnificent Memories of Mutinous Motherlands! I want to liberate a Libellous Land! And I could do with a firkin good seeing to!”

The unseemly fat twat of a King shifted uncomfortably at the last part. He would happily have complied with the latter request, though he knew that such a course of intercourse would lead to Queen Dillberry separating his sweetmeats from the rest of his body, and serving them up to him on toasted Rye Bread. Or even putting them into a mixture of four ounces of butter, four ounces of  caster sugar, a couple of top quality free-range eggs, possibly a teaspoon of  vanilla extract, four ounces of self-raising flour, a dash or two of milk, cooking for about ten minutes then shouting ‘How’s about that then for a couple of King Size Fairy Cakes’.

He knew his Queen well.

She had a face like a cats arse on fire, but she was his Queen, His Consort, and His Mill Stone.Fairy Hanny

And he loved her dearly…

“So, what are your plans then love?” asked the Minging Majesty.

“I am going to join the Sankyu Fairies and save the little people on the High Seas! Vanquish the Pirates of Penns Aunts and those from the Carob, Ian!”

“Yes he’s a nasty piece of work is Ian the Carob. And those vicious Aunties of William Penn can be an absolute pain in the bung hole! Well go safely my sweet and make sure you don’t surrender your patooty to some loser like that Pixy whose arse you fixed! Go with my Grace; never forget me.”

How the fuck could she ever forget?

Endless days of scraping the winnits from his arse, washing his soiled pants and adorning an FFP3 respirator to get into his armpits.

“Thankyou Majesty. I’ll be off then!”

Hanny departed the Royal Palace to forget the Royal Fat Ass. As a parting pledge she had arranged with her long-time friend Fairy Nuff to find a replacement in the regal bottom cleansing trio; Nuff at once came back with her cousin Hadi Nuff. She had a vague idea to head West to Hlither Poler to meet her cousin, should she still be based in that fine City.

And so it was she walked along the banks of the River Thyme, hoping beyond all hope to get to Hlither Poler to meet her cousin .

When you are standing on the Edge – on the Edge of Time – coincidence becomes more likely. So it was that Hanny drifted toward the Bridge of Size as Tom, Magdalene, Ken and Wayne stood perusing and adjusting.

The Bridge of Size spans the Thyme not too far from the Ghetto (the Ghetto), being a great place for males to assess appendages.Flying fish

Tom was very impressed.

“You have a really big nose!” he said to Wayne. “And hands to match!”

Thanyuverrmuch,” said Wayne.

“You know what they say about men with big noses?”


“They must have lots of handkerchiefs!”

They laughed in a simpering chuckle at the lack of double entendre.

“And is this really the way to Itchy Coo Park?”

“No – you need a few sessions with the girls from the Ghetto (The Ghetto) if you want Itchy Coo. You need to see Saint Annie, Sweet Melinda or Nurgul; they’ll sort you out. Then there’s plenty of cream available from the Farmer!”

“The Farmer?”

“Yes, but don’t go to A or B!”

“Which one should I go to?”

“Farmer ‘C’!”

Hanny enjoyed the mist that rose from the river, so sang a tribute to the fog on the Thyme, just like all the Fairies are meant to do. She pranced about flapping her wings and winging her flaps, singing a song that she made up on the spot.


“Oh Fog on the Thyme

Can you be mine

And see me through

The mists of Time

Tra la!”


Fairy’s end every song with tra-la!

Hanny knew that somehow she had to get to the coast, a long way to the west, then along the Mere Sea to meet her cousin Mutch. She hoped beyond hope to find some travelling companions to take her to the Mouth of the Thyme where it meets the Mere Sea. From there she knew it would be tough sailing as the Mere Sea is shiny bright and rough as a bears arse. But then she could become a Fairy across the Mere Sea, and take her to the land she might love. And there she’ll stay. Her life could go on day after day and see hearts torn in every way.

Then the appeared to be a manipulation in the rivers of Time and Thyme. Mad Toms wrist worked furiously in his pants and then…

Thyme and Time again.

“I thought about this next week,” said a slightly irate Tom of Bedlam as Hanny made her way under the Bridge of Size. “I know this is a Fairy of some renown, a Fairy of some repute, and she is cute and she could be our new recruit!”

“Have you forgotten already?” asked Mad Magdalene.

“Maybe,” replied Tom cautiously.

They moved a little distance from Ken and Wayne to have a quieter discussion.

“This is her!” said Magdalene. “This is the Fairy we sent to the Isle of Faery next year! And we brought her back from the Lake of the Gloompty Fish with the bottomed bothered Pixy! Have you forgotten already?”

“Of course I forgot because if we do it next year my brain can’t always recall what happens in the future,” explained Tom.

Fairy Hanny came bounding up to them, her fulsome bosom wobbling like oscillating trampolines under the gravitational impulse of an overweight Ogre.

Ken and Wayne readjusted their trousers on the Bridge of Size.

“What high and what ho?” asked Hanny.

Ken thought she intended doing some gardening whilst under the influence of his produce.

Wurlitzer!” he said.

Hanny scanned this collection of ragamuffins and ne’er do wells. She was used to the stares of rambunctious Elves as they became enthralled by her bodily undulations, but these other two weirdo’s… there was a sense of familiarity about them. The guy with the bright blue eyes and the lady with the golden hair; could it be a memory of the days of future passed? Those moody blue eyes had her captivated. Then her good old common sense kicked in. Elves and strangers would only mean trouble or adventure. She steeled herself for the encounter – or did she stole herself?

Hanny intended setting the ground rules; and if the Elves started any nonsense their testicles would be ground into mush under her brutally black, twenty four lace-hole boots.

Yes Fairys wear boots and you’ve got to believe me.

She did not realise at this moment, but Another Great New Adventure had begun.20100425132030!Hieronymus_Bosch-Removing_the_Rocks_from_the_Head-Detail

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Catching Up – and other movies!!!!

Well it has been a little while. I have not been idle but my Fantasy writing fell behind.

My day job is Full Time Teacher of Mathematics and we have been extra busy with this, as we are a new school in Morocco! Part of my life plan was to travel so when my sons grew up I started – I´ve now spent time teaching and travelling in Qatar, USA, Abu Dhabi, China, Kazakhstan, Spain and a lot of time in the UK!

I´ve also recently discovered a fantastic project for teaching young people about Finance in a very motivational method ie Learn about Finance and make money! Check it out here


However I am back to publishing the second book in the ‘Fairy Hanny’ series.

Here is an extract – enjoy –

Jolly boating TUE.pngwhether or knot.

Carefully tucked away in a corner by a river near a development and a small hamlet on the outskirts of the great city of Setebos, home of King Innocent the most munificent King of the Fairies, lies the Magic Mushroom Farm of Sam and Janet Evening. It is a beautiful farm with trees and hedges, and birds that sing, and a flute that toots, and grass that shoots like some green, green grass from home, and tulips from Amsterdam, and partridges ensconced in a pair of trees, and cows that poop automatic fertiliser, and goats that choose cheese, and three packets of peas. There should be sheep that weep or pigs with gigs or Bulls with pulls or Ostriches that run fast. Maybe a petting farm for small children to be startled by goats farting and stunned by rabbits eating their own droppings and Guinea pigs that can fly.

I´d like a farm like this! Alas it is my lot to sit in a barren chamber somewhere between Casablanca and Barcelona.

On this very special day, the day we choose to start our Great New Adventure, the farm is manned by a charming pair of Elves who epitomise the expression lazy; they could become TV stars if ever there was a popular Saturday Evening programme with the imaginative title Bone Idol. They could be lazier than a teenager waiting for someone to find them a pen to finish the essay that horrible English teacher set – so unfair! Or lazier than a Sloth that sat amongst the rainforest treetops as it could not be arsed to climb down and have a shite. Or as lazy as a Tory who could not be bothered to engage with the taxpayers who pay for his fiddled expenses. Or as lazy as a journalist who couldn’t be bothered to get his facts straight.  Or as lazy as a grandad who did not know how many sugars he took in his tea.

I digress again.

Actually the farm isn’t Manned – it is Elved!

Sam and Janet had inherited the farm from some Ancient Mariner who continually wrote rhymes, though why a Mariner should have a farm is hard to fathom. But you know these sailors who get up to all kinds of tricks. I once saw Francis Drake balance a snake on a rake while trying to bake a cake. And Horatio, Lord Nelson, had a farm near Ipswich, though that was just a convenient way to house his Fanny, whilst banging away at Lady Hamilton’s back door. Once on site Sam and Janet decided everything was so perfect that there would not be mushroom for improvement, so spent their lives devouring the contents of their erstwhile estate while employing teams of Elves to run the place. Of course the Mushroom part was just a particularly nice cover for the real purpose of this establishment; but we shall come to that eventually when the travellers are more settled and you are more familiar with the machinations and perturbations of Uranus.

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Who Says Words With My Mouth?

I haven’t written much recently.

I was busy with the launch of Strange Things From Uranus on Amazon Kindle and Paperback. Then I began editing  Trans-Uranic Elements: The Dark Side of Uranus.

Then my blood pressure spike to the point called Hypertensive Crisis.

Why?  Teaching full time, working every evening on my books and my Internet Business and dealing with a financial hangover from my divorce and a new demanding partner…

So I came back to Rumi.

Who Says Words With My Mouth?

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,rumi
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober.  Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Flying fish
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Updated version, ready for the sequels.

Kindle and paperback version uploaded to Amazon today.

I will post links as soon as it is available.

Some comments from first time round…

“Just reading your novel…can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud reading a book!!! I’m hooked already and I’m only on page 7!!!”

“It’s one of nature’s great ironies that Uranus is full of methane”

cover 12.jpg

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29. Waiting; waiting for you.

Timelines run at funny angles.

So do ley lines, allegedly. As for Chi lines they travel up and down your body like nobodies business. Railway lines are all curved and paid for out of government funding. Tramlines run through Manchester but not Liverpool. The Tram in Istanbul can take you from the Grand Bazaar to the Dolmabahçe Palace. Fishing lines can get you caught out. Thick headed Presidents can get you into Soup Lines. And White Lines can get you into trouble if you drive across one while being watched by a Policeman in Gran Canaria.

Anyway back to modern day Uranus. Now as yet they had not invented the aeroplane, so it would take a long time for Jarse to get all the way to Setebos, explain his message, get his reward and lead the vengeful forces of Lord Chalfont to the Charnel House. This would take the suspense and derring-do out of the tale so we have to work in a few unlikely events and the odd coincidence.

Fat Larry woke the next day to hear jeering, ranting and raving outside his front door. He emerged into the glorious sunshine of a brisk cool morning to be confronted by an angry crowd from the village.

“Bastard Gremlins!” gargol.png

“Unruly demons of Chaos!”

“Red means Red!”

“Exit means Exit!”

“Many a muckle makes a mickle!”

“You can’t take it with you!”

“One swallow does not impune my reputation!”

“A stitch in Time will save the denim!”

“I blame the parents!”

This last is a quite legitimate statement when dealing with Gremlins. Not that many of the Gremlins are legitimate which makes the first jeer quite appropriate too.

Larry was soon joined by Mrs White and the Dopey Dwarf, as well as the five travellers and a camel that suddenly appeared from the bottom of a wormhole which had recently passed over the Desert near Abu Dhabi. The camel spat at the crowd and walked away.

“What have they done this time?” asked Mrs White, knowing that Larry would soon be popping off to fix a broken spade handle or counting the leaves on the privets if the stress got too much.

One of the townsfolk held up an empty red paint tin.

“They’ve painted the Town red!” shouted an angry member of the mob who I can’t be bothered to name.

“Bastards!” declared Larry.

“Look folks I’d love to help you out but there are three broken brooms and a couple of dripping taps that are demanding my immediate attention. Mrs. White can you deal with this?” With that he turned round, fled into the House and set to on his broom repairing routine.

“Do you mean literally?” asked Hanny, “or did they just go out and get pissed?”

“Both!” said the unnamed inhabitant.

“You mean they shot up to the Land of Wails, found the village of Both and painted it red!”

“No not Both; both! As in they did both things you asked us about. They got pissed, with the aid of some mischievous Brownie I believe, and then they got all of these tins of red paint and painted the Town. Being pissed they didn’t do a very good job of it either. There are lots of streaks and missing bits!”

“What do expect us to do?” asked the pragmatic Mrs. White.

“Well,” said the spokesman, who is now known as Tom, “we actually like the colour Red. And overall it creates a really interesting post-modern look to the Town. It creates a mood that suggests these folk are a bit scary, a bit avant-garde, almost Bohemian. So we like that. It’s better than that mix of off white and shitty brown beams everywhere, with the twee window boxes and antique village pumps. Not that we’re a village. No; we’re a Town.  It’s just that they didn’t paint it very well and we think you lot should come and finish the job properly.”

Hanny was a little startled at this prospect. She had listened to all that had been said. She knew that painting and decorating could take a heavy toll on a girls hands, particularly if she had to clean brushes with turpentine. Besides they had mentioned a mischievous Brownie which could only mean one thing; Lord Chalfont would soon find out. Any delay caused by having to paint the town would allow enough time for the Brownie to get to Setebos, deliver his message and let Chalfont send a recce patrol to check out the lie of the land. This would have to be avoided at all costs.

“How much would it cost to bring in a team of professional builders and decorators to do the job properly?” asked Hanny.

“There’s no such thing in these parts!” declared Tom, feeling himself grow into the role of spokesman. Soon he would have a surname, possibly taking on a more important function in the story. Not really likely but it’s worth keeping his hopes up or he might stop offering interesting comments.

“The nearest place you can get professional Painters, Decorators and Interior designers is from the Town of Rougham Upper Bit, which is about half way between here and Setebos if my Geography is correct. There you will find the offices of Beane, Gorn and Dunnit decorators to Royalty. But that is too far away! We want to see the job finished as soon as possible before we feel a different decorating faddish makeover on the horizon! Maybe we will get visited by a long haired fop who thinks Purple is the new white; or a poisonous Dwarf who wants everything back to minimalism. Or some other shitty tend in home décor. In fact I bet there is some idiot out there who thinks pebble dashing could come back in fashion!”

“I´m good at that,” exclaimed Greg. “And I bet Peter could lay down a fusillade too if it wasn´t for those magic knickers!”

Mrs White and Hanny looked at the boys in disgust.

Steve went red with embarrassment.

Hanny felt Thwarted; he was one of the other dwarfs who now had a big smile on his face.

She understood the desire to make sure the townsfolk kept their houses looking fashionable, not wanting some interior designer to come along too soon and tell them that Towns painted entirely red were passé. Such a fop is likely to tell them something like ‘I see a red door and I want it painted Black!’ A Towns identity meant so much to some of the busybodies who have fuck all to do with their lives. She understood all of this, just as she felt the urgency of the Quest.

Peter was talking gibberish most of the time due to the magic in his arse. Why he’d even tried pulling that Snow White bird!


And his chat-up lines were absolute shite.6915049cfc4eda542cd35b946c63aef6_original.png

‘Do you come here often?’

‘How do you like your eggs? Fried or fertilised?’

‘My love for you is like diarrhoea, I just can’t hold it in.’

‘Is that a mirror in your pocket? Cause I can see myself in your pants!’

‘Do your legs hurt from running through my dreams all night?’

‘If I could rearrange the alphabet I would put U and I together.’

‘If a fat man puts you in a bag at night, don’t worry I told Santa I wanted you for Christmas.’

This last one had stopped the conversation. To suggest to a woman that she could be kidnapped and put into a sack by an overweight fictional character was just too much. And then to be delivered in the sack to a sex mad Pixy – well not a situation to enthral any girl. (Yes I know they are all fictional characters but that does not matter when Snow White is being chatted up by a Pixy with a sore arse.)

Not that Hanny felt she had a claim on Peter now that he’d let himself down by overdoing the enchanting charms in his bottom. Suddenly she felt some relief herself; she was fond of Peter, in what she would now describe as a sort of sisterly way. It would be nice if she could set him up with a good looking bit of totty, then she could go back to her old lifestyle in Setebos, only having to concern herself with the Kings personal hygiene. This love and relationships business was just too much for Hanny. Love can take you half way round the world to meet a girl who flips you off on the first night.

Still the Quest had to proceed. It would be a feather in her cap if she were to return with evidence of the Permanent Cure. Yet a postponement for painting would allow time for the enemy to act.

She emerged from her reverie to hear Bogey Questioning Tom, who it appeared, had the surname Bomb.

“So are there any bridges in the Town?”

“Just the one,” said Tom Bomb hoping to take a leading role in the next piece of the tale.

“Is it painted Red?”Flying fish.png

“Does anyone live under it?”


“Sold! Look I’ll happily help you paint the rest of the Town if I can have sole occupancy of the space under the Bridge. I’ll maintain the Red Bridge to the best of my ability; all I ask is a licence to extract a toll from all users.”

Tom Bomb consulted with several other townsfolk. He was glad he’d come along to this meeting this morning as it had given him a new sense of importance. He felt like the lynchpin in some secret negotiations. His name would go down in the History of Gobroke as the guy who sorted out the colour scheme and bridge repair problem. Mind you, from now on Gobroke would be known as Redbridge, and at some future date would elect a man intent on killing off the poor, though that´s another story.

Funny really.

“Would you charge foot passengers?”

“If you want to carry passengers on your feet then I will have to charge a nominal fee which would be accepted graciously; I’d say ‘Have a nice day!’ as they crossed. Vehicles and animals would require a heavier toll as their weight would cause more damage to the underlying structure of the bridge.”

“It’s a deal!”

With that Bogey persuaded Peter, Greg and Steve to lend a hand. They listened to Hanny’s misgivings but ignored her totally. If you can’t beat them you may as well ignore them, said Hanny to herself.

So as the lads knuckled down to some hard graft with paint and brushes Hanny sat alone on a seat of stone and munched and mumbled on a bare old bone.

Timelines run at funny angles.

Without them stories just wouldn’t fit together properly.

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28. Heard it through the Grapes Vine.

The grapevine of spies that helped Chalfont keep his finger on the pulse on Uranus, extended beyond all expectations. There were times that Lord Chalfont himself was shocked by the information superhighway he appeared to control. It was almost like he had a propaganda machine that could reach out and gather vital data from every unsuspecting idiot on the planet. Just like a Social Media site. So it will come as no surprise to hear that Chalfont very quickly became alerted to the presence of the Questers in the Charnel House of Fat Larry. Still I suppose stories of sore bottoms will always be heard on the grapes vine.the-garden-of-earthly-delights-by-hieronymus-bosch-1

Of course Larry being a Pixy, his mission to look after the dead would be quite well known to Chalfont. Coupled with the fact that the gorgeous looking Ogres, Mr. and Mrs. VannBergen, had recently arrived in Setebos with a story to sell about a ravenous Fairy who had saved the arse of a bedraggled Pixy. This had  led the nasty Chancellor to concentrate his spies on the Eastern border of the Wild, not to far from Where Things Are More Pleasant and that.

As luck would have it one of his more scurrilous Brownies sat drinking in the little town of Gobroke, slamming back several pints of Lager with whisky chasers, when in came a dozen or more Gremlins all carrying tins of red paint. This particular Brownie went by the name of Hugh Jarse and coped well with hunting with the hounds whilst running with the fox; in other words he was a two faced, double crossing, junk bond dealing bastard. Never a one to let an opportunity slip, he soon got deep into conversation with the chaotic creatures who had entered the bar.

This did take some time as a dozen Gremlins trying to order beer was a magnificent sight to behold.

“Twelve pints of Lager please my good man,” would have been the expected comment from a spokesGremlin.

Not in this case.

Each of them tried to order a round of drinks simultaneously. There was no coherence to the requests; even the dimmest of bartenders could have recognised the same request if shouted at him twelve times. At a brewery the Gremlins would remain sober.

No so easy.

Some asked for twelve different drinks, some for seventeen. Others asked for three glasses of Babycham, Rum and Coke and a Bacardi and Coke. Then another ordered seven cups of Earl Grey Tea and a Cappuccino. One asked for two glasses of water and a crate of milk. There was also a request for a glass of Red Red Wine that would go straight to his head, and a fishbowl full of Tequila; while one brave soul requested two bottles of Dehydrated Water. The most confused of the Gremlins put in a request for Pie and Chips twice, a Sofa, a new pair of trousers and a bag of marbles.

The barman asked them to go and stand in a corner, leaving just one at the bar. All of the Gremlins disappeared to different corners, a couple climbing up the chimney to hide.

He tried again.

One was to stay at the bar so seven did, the other five hiding in the fridge. The barman was considering banning them but remembered they had already been banned dozens of times.

“It’s chaos when you lot come in!” he said, yet again. It was like asking the spoilt bastards of the Bullingdon Group to calm down and behave and take away that cuntish attitude.

Hugh Jarse decided to interrupt.


He knew that Fat Larry’s place was the only other possible refuge for the travellers should they come this way. He ordered twelve pints of Lager Shandy, paying for it by squeezing a Gremlins testicle until it dropped its money. He then told the Gremlins to cause as much confusion in the bar as possible. This was a double bluff leading the Gremlins into an internal spiral of misconceptions, deep reflections and uncertainty. Thus they stood perfectly still while trying to figure out what the fuck they were meant to do.

“Had any interesting visitors recently?” asked the devious Brownie of the one Gremlin that remained standing next to him.

“Yes and they’re


all dead but great fun to be with and lead me to feel that I am living a very satisfying and fulfilled existence!” decreed the chaotic oaf, quoting from Fat Larry’s


“Any living guests?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”


“Well we had this Troll come in today and you can never tell if they’re dead or not. Then there was this Pixy with a magic arse or something so he’s probably dead. Then there was a friendly Gnome and a Fairy with big tits. I liked her and would happily give her a good seeing to if only I could arrange it.”

“Fairy Hanny?”

“Yes I like that too!”

It was enough for Hugh.

The shifty little fucker had scooped the top story. Lord Chalfont would pay him a fortune for the information. Either that or have his tentacles removed and pinned to a wall. He bought the Gremlins another round of drinks. He left the pub as the Gremlins emerged in a frightful tizzy, ready to paint the town red.

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