Chapter 1 – The hero

The screams were unmerciful.

It was as though all the sinners of the world had combined into one unholy union and screeched their anguish into a synthesised megaphone.

Was someone being whipped a cripple?

The yelps of misery continued but fluctuated with a moaning like the desperate sob of a Brontosaurus attempting to open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Gregory the Goblin lurched silently toward the sounds, his fear being overtaken by his rubber-necked curiosity.

What could be making such a noise?

Here he waltzed, deep in the Dingleberry Dell, renowned for being one of the safest havens on the whole of Uranus. Could it be that one of the Ogres of The North had lost his way and fallen into disarray? Or perhaps a Harpy had crash landed and was pissed off at the lack of decent runways.

He inched forward.

The desire to witness someone in pain is strong, stronger than the desire to put someone in pain; which probably explains the profusion of Dentists, Teachers, Pox Doctors, Taxmen and Karaoke Singers.

Greg tried to move as quietly as possible, but being a lumbering galoot made that near impossible.

Another terrific squeal wrenched the Worried Woodland. Here lies bitter anguish, thought Greg. Here is a guilty party caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Or maybe even a cricketer bowled to middle stump without a box.

He tried to stoop, but remembered that he was bowlegged with a bad back, so just moved as normal. The Woodland thinned and the light grew stronger as Greg took the challenge of moving just that little bit more. The sneaky beaky instinct of a feral soldier lay deep in his Psyche. He peered out from behind one of the last trees and beheld an image that would haunt him for the rest of his days.


There in the middle of the glade, writhing like a demented eel in a bucketful of snot, was his old friend Peter the Pixy. He rocked and rolled across the ground, both hands grabbing tightly onto his arse, screaming for help.

“The Ring! The Ring!” he cried.

Greg watched for a while, keeping himself hidden in the gloom on the edge of the opening. This could be a dangerous trap.

Wizards, Warlocks and Wives are the only creatures with magic rings.

Perhaps some evil Wizard was watching and waiting, using Peter as bait to try and capture and enslave the unwary. Should he sidle off backwards and leave Peter to his fate, recalling later in life that it was either kill or be killed, and that a blast form a Wizards staff was not quite what he had in mind that day.


Or should he be a tough guy and dive in there, facing up to whatever Beastie was trying to destroy his old friend.


Greg watched as the pain ripped across his old friends face, dancing a Calypso as it pulled down the corners of his mouth, wrinkled his nose and made his eyes bulge like a Bubble Eye Goldfish!


As he pondered this dilemma Peter rolled closer and caught his eye.

“Greg you idle bastard get over here and help me!” yelled the noble Pixy. “My rear is on fire and I don’t have a way of extinguishing the flames.”

Greg hesitated for just a short while as the news was assimilated into his delightfully slow brain.

“Ok!” he said, casually sauntering toward his stricken pal, as he dabbed a handkerchief on the eye which Peter had caught.

Greg was a bit slow in the head but he had been trained well at the Goblin Military Academy in Goblin Town as a part of his Yoof Training Programme. He knew how to assess a situation, searching for emergency exits and potential traps. He was also rather good at First Aid, having spent some time doing a Lifesaver course with the St. Johnswort Ambivalence Brigade. He felt competent to assess the situation and to then formulate a plan.

“Dr ABC and two packets of Fishcakes! What’s the matter then mate?” asked the Goblin.

“Hell and high water!” squealed the Pixy, “I’ve been stricken by the Dukes!”

How the Fates laughed.

(Though nobody else did)

Only the good die young, they say; everyone else is destroyed slowly by the Dukes! What kind of dice did God have when he invented ailments?

‘Here’s a good one’ mused Odin; ‘I’ll let the veins pop out of their ringpiece!’

Bacchus saying ‘Look lets make them get addicted to this so that their livers stop working and they lose family and friends and spend nights with pox riddled whores!’

And the Lord put emerods in their secret places.

Still, without ailments, how would we ever get to heaven?

Greg surveyed, perused and summed up the situation. There were no evil monsters waiting to grab him; no Harpies with Herpes; no wee timorous beasties desirous of nesting in his underpants; no Double Glazing salesmen hovering on the edge of Time with a Special Offer from The Manager that can only be held open until six o´clock that evening; and certainly no Timeshare tarts ready to enslave his income for the rest of his life.

Just his old friend Peter writhing in agony whilst clutching tightly onto his buttocks.

“The Dukes!” mused the gregarious Goblin. “How did that happen?”

There was anguish, fear and guilt in the eyes of the Pixy.

Greg mused again – if we need to vote I´d say the eyes have it.

“I will tell you the whys and wherefores after you have extinguished or at least dampened the burning!” strained Peter.

Greg considered.


As usual he was carrying his rather useful twenty five litre day pack, with integral meshing, a top pocket and a double zip; with a breathable day sack and neoprene labels. It contained all of the items any person could expect for emergency aid, including a mobile phone with GPS, three glue sticks, a tampon, a calculator, a cuddly toy, three banjo sprockets, a camel pack and a packet of camels, stapler and hole punch, a crocodile clip and an alligator clasp, a First Aid Kit from Boots the Shoe Shiner, a torch, three felt tip pens in contrasting colours, a waterproof pad and pencil and a pack of cheese and chutney sandwiches, on wholegrain, wrapped carefully in a resealable bag. He dug deep and found a fire extinguisher.

“Get you kecks off mate.”

Peter paused his pulsating writhing.

“What Class of Fire Extinguisher is that?” asked the pained Pixy.

Greg checked carefully.

“Foam,” he said, “suitable for both Class A and Class B fires.”

“I´d much prefer a powder extinguisher as they are far more suitable for organic materials,” rejoined Peter.

“But devilishly difficult to clean up the mess later, and if inhaled could cause damage to the upper respiratory system,” explained Greg.

Peter paused and felt the fire burning in his ring.

“Feck it, foam will do!” he squealed in agony.

There was a scything whoosh as a jet of freezing foam attacked the burning in the Pixys bum. The air froze momentarily as ecstasy overtook Peter’s mind. Endorphins poured around his brain, having been relieved of the duty of trying to hide the pain, they now decided to give him a party in his head.


Where once the throngs of decay had waltzed on his face Peter now felt the Bosa Nova shimmying across his physiognomy.

This was pleasure.

This was relief.

This was foam up the jacksy.

“Another squirt please mate!”

Time passed slowly, but then it always does when waiting for something to happen. Like waiting for last nights conquest to leave your apartment the next morning, without dying of embarrassment; Or waiting for the government to make a decision about pay rises for key workers; Or sitting through a Maths test; Or watching teenagers have a great time at a Halloween Disco organised by Mrs. Skank.

For Peter the natural opiates dissipated their relief, causing the Pixy to start assessing his anal situation seriously. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days walking round with a fire extinguisher, dreading an attack and the ensuing embarrassment. Dropping his trousers mid dinner party would be quite a social faux pas.

Oh how the other Pixy’s would gossip!

“Well there I was just about to take a sip of my Cranberry juice when low and behold Peter puts his bare bottom in the middle of the table and shoots it full of Foam; I mean really!”

The two friends sat nervously on the grass, Greg repacking his daysack while Peter pulled his kecks up and tried his best to sit on one buttock at a time. Peter could tell that Greg was slowly disapproving of his old friend.

Old Friend!

A Pixy and a Goblin with a close friendship was certainly a rarity on Uranus. The Class Consciousness of Uranus makes the Gimps of Britain look relatively Socialistic.

It was the reforms of the Great Fairy King, Peter the Grate, that established a ranking system on Uranus. The Fairies are at the top of the Social tree, being more naturally gifted, talented and good looking than anything else you would find. The current Absolute Constitutional Ruler was Innocent, King of the Fairies, who had ruled for many a happy and glorious year along with his wife Queen Dillberry.

The Pixy’s liked to consider themselves as the next level in Society even if this was often disputed by the Elfs and the Brownies. Then somewhere below this came the Orcs and Goblins; though with the high tech world on Uranus, and a good understanding of the Financial Markets, many of the Orcs were making their way up the slippery social ladder.

So with potentially four ranks between them, a Pixy and Goblin really shouldn’t be close friends.  The reality is they shouldn’t even spend time at the same urinal.

The thing is, see, they are the same age, give a day or two, and enjoy the same interests and pursuits. Both have marvellous stamp collections, Peter specialising in blue coloured stamps, Greg having a post-modernist compilation of red examples. Both had a penchant for model railways, spending many a happy hour arguing the merits of the different gauges available (even though mostly by mail order). They loved to go fishing, hiking, camping and drinking together. The drinking sometimes caused a few problems, as the more respectable boozing dens were not too keen on letting Goblins onto the premises.

“Keep an eye on that Goblin or it will steal something” was a common taunt. Rightly so as it turned out, as Greg loved to take cutlery and coffee cups from wherever he went.

Still, that’s life.

Or is that Still Life?

Peter turned back to the immediate.

“Listen, Greg, I need a proper cure for this problem.”

Greg paused.

“What caused it?”

Peter paused.

It was clearly a time for pauses, though just at this moment there was a distinct absence of canines.

Peter did not like to admit to his mistakes. In fact he oafishly boasted that he no longer made mistakes, claiming that whatever action he took was the right one at the time and of course hindsight would often show he should have made a different decision.

But you can’t.

When it’s done it’s done.

Live for today and tomorrow and forget the past.

Actually if we forget all of the Living in the Past there would never be any need for Historians, Archivists, Librarians, English Teachers or Jethro Tull.

Peter guiltily reflected on his actions in the last few months.

He had always been happy with the food he had eaten for so many years. Yes it was getting a bit repetitive but it was solid sustenance.  Double burger and chips and beans Pixy style; Acorn soup; Macaroni cheese; Cauliflower in gravy; Avocado if it was in season; Cheddar Cheese on Water Biscuits; a Partridge in a pear tree; Full English from the Greasy Spoon; Chips and Curry; Naan and a Balti;  and Whisky on a Sunday.

But as he got older he began to crave some excitement. He wanted to let himself into the kitchens of the Fairy King and feast on Fairy Cream Pies. He knew this could be dangerous as the inner workings of a lowly Pixy must, by definition and nature, be very different to the plop producing biomes of the higher echelons. Does a Pixy produce the same food reducing enzymes as a Fairy? Would both creatures have the same number of Villi? Perhaps Fairies could break down cellulose and avoid the need ever to poop! Did they even possess a colon? And how many Angels can dance the Light Fandango on the top of a pin? These questions soared through his brain, tempting and teasing him into action.

It is irrelevant and dangerous to allow ones mind to wander like this.

Still Peters craving for a nice bit of Fairy Pie persisted.

As a Pixy, Peter was very much amongst the privileged members of Society in the Government City of Setebos. He didn’t have to live under a bridge like a Troll, or collect pieces of hazardous waste like a Gremlin. He could have as much mischievous fun as an Imp without carrying the stigma or he could be as imperious as a Fairy without having to keep a rod up his backside. It was the best position to have in Society, being near the top but still having the fun of the bottom feeders.

Still the craving persisted.

Fairy Pies and Fairy Cakes.

He thought about the Queens dainties and the Kings Hot Cross Buns. He dreamt about Fairy Cakes and Custard Cream Pies; of Apple Crumble and Raspberry Tarts.

Of Battenberg and Muffins.

He dreamt of Fairy Muffin until it became an insatiable craving.

It was the Queens Tarts that got him in the end.

“I sneaked in to the Fairy kitchens and stole a Tart,” he admitted.

Greg was dumbstruck, dumbfounded and dumb.

“Of all the most stupid and reckless things to have done!” squawked the Goblin. “Did you forget the prophecy?”

Peter reflected again.

“Where did you get that mirror?” asked Greg.

Peter chewed his bottom lip in contemplation of his silly misdeed.

Of course he knew the prophecy.

Every Pixy knew the prophecy, but it became so much of a myth, such as old wives tell, a bedside story for Pixylets, that he didn’t really believe it. Just a way for the anally retentive Fairies to try and keep us in our place, he thought.

Greg chanted out the old verse to remove Peter´s self-indulgent reverie;


“If a Pixy does eat some Fairy Tarts

The first he’ll feel is strangled farts,

And though such sounds produce big smiles

His bum will soon be bulging piles”


It was a daft prophecy.

Though in this case it turned out to be true.

When it comes to prophecies and old sayings Peter personally preferred the one about ‘he who smelt it dealt it’.

“My poop chute hurts so much mate, you’ve got to help me sort it out!”

Greg felt sympathy well up as rapidly as a slug on Valium.

In his book ´sympathy´ lay somewhere between ´shit´ and ´syphillis´.

The Military training took over with the grave Goblin. ´There is no such thing as a problem, only a solution´, he glibly said to himself.

“Listen Old Peter Old Pixy Old pal. I can get you a series of temporary solutions but you’re gonna have to sort yourself out in the long run. It’s relatively easy to get a short term cure for the pain but in the end you need to go deep inside your head and find out what possessed you to go chasing after an unattainable Tart.”


Greg was stunned that his condescending friend readily agreed.

“Cripes, Are you Ok Peter,” asked the querying Goblin.

Peter paused.


“My arse is on fire and my future is probably blighted,” said the piqued Pixy.

“No I am not alright!”

Greg paused.


Never mind,” said Greg. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Greg paused as he waited for Peter to pause.

“Meanwhile you have to accept what I say,” said Greg once the pauses were complete.

Rummaging through his bag the Goblin withdrew a 454 gram block of lard.

“Here, stick this up your jacksy, it will act as a temporary lubricant, reduce the swelling and make you feel darned uncomfortable.”

“Why 454 grams?” asked the puzzled Pixy.

“Just pound it in there!” said Greg, secretly laughing at his own joke.

Peter rapidly followed his friends’ instructions, having no desire to put up with the pain of a broken bum for any longer than necessary. The lard worked, though made his nethers feel unpleasant. It was though he had followed through with a big pancake in his pants, without the embarrassment or the smell.

“What do I do next?” enquired the relieved Pixy as he pulled up his breeches.

“You may not like this bit but it has to be done.”


“We have to go and see King Innocent in the Court of the Fairies and ask his advice. If he can’t suggest a cure then you’re doomed to a lifetime of Foam Fire Extinguisher and lard.”

Peter reflected on this.

“That´s a really beautiful mirror,” observed Greg.

It had been oh so easy to get into this trouble.

A craving and a bit of daring.

A Tart.

Then trouble and strife.

A total pain in the bumhole.

How could a Fairy Pie cause so much trouble?

Now he needed to follow a plan to get himself out of this mess, a plan that would mean walking up the King and admitting what he had done. A plan that would take him to a place he had never visited before, where the streets have no names and the birds sing with French accents.

“No I will have no regrets.”

It would be the greatest challenge of his life, to finally admit that he had done something wrong and accept the consequences. Perhaps he would need to buy a pack of fags for the King and some Chocolates for the Queen.

“I’m ready,” said the chastened Pixy as he followed the lurching form of his old friend toward the City of Setebos and the Court of King Innocent.

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Strange Things from Uranus – Second Edition

I decided it was worth a second edition as there are now three in the series, so it makes sense to unite them properly. Enjoy the new Intro.


Fairies wear boots


It may have been the night before Christmas, or the night after Christmas or even Christmas night; well it was definitely the end of December.

I think.

And it was definitely a night.

It may have been Easter but Easter is in May.

Or Maybe not.

The clichés crowded my brain like a thousand railroad trains, though they didn’t give me all the confidence I lacked; still only Time will tell.  I told myself a thousand times to avoid the exaggerations but to no avail. I was having the time of my life and things would sort themselves out in a jiffy. Joey tried his best to mess me up – a day on the lash and a night on the hash and I rambled on without a care in the world.

Catherine Street.

Could be the name of an ex-girlfriend.

Paranoia was in a taxi and following close on my heels, I was certain of it. Turned left, turned right, left, right; military two-step in the back end of Liverpool. Oh hello Mr Hardman I seem to be stumbling down your street.

Bizzies eyeing me , waiting to pounce and complete their monthly quotas.

“I met my target Sarge!”.


Or just sleighted?

I had the moody blues in my days of future pissed.

As I was walking down this high street I heard a funny noise behind me. It could have been yet another cliché but my tingling spine told me otherwise.

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

I refused to look back.

I felt as brave as a lion but as weak as a kitten.

Liverpool City Centre can be wonderful or scary, like a diamond in the rough.

I was in fear of being beaten to a pulp with a crow bar, but I had nerves of steel and knees like jelly.

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

My pharmaceutically enhanced brain conjured evil clowns, demons, assassins and politicians scheming slyly in the theatre of my brain. Well not that slowly really, as the dope, beer and speed were sending my neurons round and round and round like electricity.

Which they are anyway – neurons and synapses and that.

But this was electricity with a spark.

I was confused – could it be Muriel?

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

I suspected a good pasting from an over zealous Scuffer; so I slowly turned.

If my eyes had been working properly I would have described the sight before me; being stoned I couldn´t. However now with the passage of Time I will attempt a recall.

No more than three feet behind me and two foot tall stood a laughing gnome, his middle finger on each hand explaining quite clearly his contempt for my state of repair. He grimaced beneath his overly long beard, red eyes blazing amusement as I worked to comprehend this vision. Hallucinating again Mr Swifty?

I should have expelled an expletive but the connection between my conscious brain and my tongue had long ceased to operate.

Something really Strange was taking place. An overdose of beer?


I heard the sounds again and thought maybe laughter is the best medicine.

Was something triggering my clichés?

“Look up in the sky now!” he said. “Can you see any flying saucers?”

I looked.

Flying saucers, flying teacups and flying teapots.

“Feck, feck, feck and Feckity feck!” was the best I could manage.

“I bet you can’t catch me,” said the laughing gnome.

Well smoking and drinking was par for the course but I decided a cheeky little fecker like this would probably benefit from a decent kicking. I mean, it´s always the little things that drive me to distraction.

In my inebriated state I tried my best to say “Come here you little twat and I’ll kick your head in” but the actual utterance went more like


No matter.

We were off.

My tormentor, dressed in green (which I now understand is the favourite colour for visitors day) sped off down Hardman Street, his wheelbarrow kicking up dust and fag ends as his little legs carried him out of my reach. He shot across the road, weaving in between the cars, the drivers of which were attempting to get home before the breathalyser crews stopped them; the drivers not noticing him but cursing me with such dainties as “You feckin’ nutter!” or “You want yer ‘ead testin’ pal!” or “The cunt’s pissed!” or “He’s bloody bugs!” and “I say old chap, take a care with your running technique!”

No matter.

“Come here you bearded clam!” I screamed amongst the screeching tyres.

The Policeman held me up firmly by the collar. He tried to look me in the eye but became confused as they changed colour and focus like the lights on a Christmas tree.

His face told me he needed back up.

I told him I needed to catch that annoying little gnome who was taking the piss out of me.

His face told me he would be requesting an ambulance and the on-call trick cyclist.

The gnome stopped, smirked, gave me the middle finger again. The red mist that descended completed the evening’s clichés; a quick spin, push, kick and run ensured my name on a wanted list. The Rozza hit me in the head but it was tough like lead; so I punched him in the eye and he started to cry.

Another dodge.

A sidestep.

A shimmy.

The gnome was by St. Luke’s shouting Gimmee Gimmee Gimmee.

“I’ll get the little fecker now Officer and you’ll see what I mean!”

I ran through the gates, stopped and wondered.

I ran through the gates!

But they weren’t open!

I ran through the gates!

Feck – smoked too much!

Well you’d better cut down a little.


A burnt out shell since 1941when a drunken German Pilot dropped his load and shouted ´Gott mit uns!´only for the scousers to shout back ´we got mittens too!´

Or was that another terrible tragedy?

And here I am melting, running, transcending, going through the gates.

“Twat!” said the laughing gnome.

“Ha ha ha, he he he! I’m a laughing gnome and you can’t catch me!”

Somewhere inside a voice told me this wasn’t really happening and actually I was on the sofa at Joey’s brother’s house tripping the light fandango. A riff burst through my brain like a heavy metal thunder.

Then there she stood.

The most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.

Well not quite a girl.

A Fairy.

Not just any Fairy.

It was Fairy Hanny.

“Hello Swifty,” she said. “I thought you’d never get here!”

“Why didn’t you say ‘doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’?” I asked.

“Because I wasn’t just a walking down the street,” explained the succulent succubus.

She shimmered in a diaphanous rhapsody of light, the angel of the rainbow having cast his spell upon her. Her hair shone like the girl over there with the fair hair. Hanny is a vision of beauty in a way unknown.

Inexplicably stunning.

Deliciously described.

Her eyes milked the Milky Way, strode across the Universe, encapsulated the Galaxy, and glistened like raindrops on Mars. Like all of the heroines of such tales she was a lusciously lithesome lovely.

And she has big tits.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.




“Waiting for you!”

I drooled a bit, calculating my options; she didn’t seem to notice so it must have been a sly drool.

“Waiting for me? Have you tried writing letters?” I asked.

“You need to come with us so you can write your letters about all of us, and all of our lives, and all of our tales, and capture in words all of our souls,” she explained.

Then she laughed.

Music started – a Solar Music Suite played by a Lunar Music Person Of Restricted Growth.

It was the Gnome.

His wheelbarrow was now a Wordy Hurdy Gurdy, Music and Lyrics pouring out as if by Magic.

So Hanny began to dance.

With veils of delight slipping sensually from her slender frame, lithesome litigious long legs looped through the trance that was her dance. Every nuance of nicety nestled neatly knowing nothing needed now to get me to follow her wherever she led.

Then I noticed.

Those luscious legs laden with boots.

Big black military boots.

High lace.

Twenty four lace holes.

Brightly polished to a parade ground mirror shine.

“Fairies wear boots!” I exclaimed.

“Of course we do; else how would I get to kick your arse into the rest of this narrative!”

Things became a little strange after that…

An awesome sulphuric smell filled the Church.

“Oops!” said the Hanny, “probably those Dwarf Beans I had for breakfast.”

Then I was choking, smoking, yoking in a rhythmic union, beside the Sun, the one, that makes all the flowers grow. Here and now and then.

It was what is and what should never be.

From the corner of my eye I caught the shimmering silhouette of a Floppy Haired Fop, fiddling with something in his pockets.

“Am I going Insane?”

A worm hole caught me in his majesty and spun me through the Seven Open Lotuses on The Pool of Life, past seven Sides of Heaven and introduced me to Dawn on the other side of the Sky, coughed just the once, then deposited me on an alternative surface of our Solar System.

I sang my song to keep me alive as I landed on Planet Number Seven at Seven on the Seventh day of the Seventh month of the Seventh year in the Seventh Heaven of Outer Space. The Sun smiled on my predicament, which of course can cause a chap to lose confidence in the Lady Department of the Great Supermarket in the Sky.

The Moon Chortled from his Dark Side.

“You’ve landed on Uranus,” he laughed.

From that day on I met them all.

Pixy’s, Goblins, Ogres, Brownies, Imps, Gremlins, Trolls and of course the beautiful Fairies.

So I was compelled to write down everything about the Strange Things From Uranus.


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Back again after a long delay

I cant believe it was Feb 2018 that I last wrote a post.

Then my password was compromised and I had to change it but just didn’t get around to it.  I was living in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria at the time and sort of losing direction. I´d gone back to teaching Maths and Physics and had enjoyed most of my time. I managed a decade of teaching in Qatar, Abu Dhabi, Chengdu (China), Almaty (Kazakhstan) and occasionally back in England but the pleasure was going again.

Don’t get me wrong – I still enjoy being in a classroom teaching. But I just can´t deal with the fact that I have to justify every second of every day, usually to someone who has no clue about what it means to be a teacher. Then the school in Gran Canaria allowed parents to send in anonymous complaints – a recipe for bullying.

I stopped writing as I was lost..

cover 1

Yes I have draft versions of “Trans-Uranic Elements: The Dark Side of Uranus” and “Fairy Hanny and The Sons of Turenn.” Plus I have outlines for three books featuring Inspector Hunter Flaange; then there is the semi-autobiographical trilogy “Going to California”. Picking up a pen to write or editing a document just became too much.

I went off on a tangent – not bad for a Maths teacher. I started writing lots of poetry with the plan to publish a book of my serious and humorous stuff – I’m still working on it.

Then travel got in the way. I spent the summer of 2018 in Spain (Granada and Gran

Canaria) and England then started a new job in Casablanca – here’s looking at you kid!

Again the writing went to the wall.

New years resolution was to start again and I have. I am rewriting “Strange Things From Uranus” as a second edition with new jokes. I am also working on a couple of online businesses, and as I learn more about that I will write a new blog to help guide others along that path.


So for now, I’m back – watch this space!

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Man Shook!

Something told me it was over;

Actually It was Etta James.


When I sensed,

You and him kissing.


Istanbul Modern walking down the rain poured path,

Clear my suede shoes.

They´re not blue!

No I left them at the causeway between here and now.






We both ended up wet in the rain of Galata Bridge wet fish.

“Over there is the Spice Market!”

“You took me there, I felt nothing!”


I mused on this as the rain seeped into my jacket.

Over a decade since I was awarded this honour.


Actually any lager will do – it´s a great place to hide. 

My father patrolled.

In a time before my time.

Purple helmets bursting into flames.


I hit a tree full of poets,

A poet tree.

Broken face would be dismissed by the new age of travellers.


It was just a consequence.



“Shall I grab this?”


Flattering at ten pm


Late night dalliances!

She would not come tomorrow,

Devout male needed, pure, chaste, unavailable-



Don´t do it boy!

But here,

Waiting, Subliminally smelling!



We´ve done three of the eight, I said.

Not impressed, still down from the Dutch angle.


So as the sacred mystery loomed we did the deed then she tried to hide the body.

Green Café.

“I´ll see you there.”

Not wanting to return to the scene of her crime.

Wisdom packed into queues.


I cant be bothered this time.


She gleamed in the desultory sunshine!

“I have a new job! I am so happy! I will be so busy I will never see you again!”


I sat in the hotel, wet white sheets, crusted with missed love.

“OK I understand… 

Then he waited.

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Last Supper

And it came to pass that they were having a glass or two of vino.

Jesus looked but only saw 11 disciples. Yet in the place of Judas was a six pack of Guinness.

“What is that?”

“That´s Judas´Carry out” replied James.

“Will he be along later?”

“I doubt it,” said Thomas.

“What about some music? Peter you are the Rock star. Play some heavy metal.”

And Lo, Peter did play some Nine Inch Nails.

“Why are you dressed in all of those dark clothes?” asked Jesus.

“I thought it was a Black Sabbath,” said Mathew, Mark, Luke and John.

It was a great night though later on Peter let himself down a bit; you should never wait up for the cock.

And in the morning, Jesus Swept.

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My right foot

She who must not be mentioned says she must not be mentioned.

So I will talk about my right foot.


Karate and me, March 2017


It is still there, despite an attempt many years ago by a taxi driver, who due to lack of sleep and lack of intelligence, decided to drive his taxi through my motorcycle. This would have been fine save for the fact that I was astride said motorcycle at the time. Fortunately for me I was actually riding at the speed limit at the time, a rare event in those days. So in the collision I was only travelling at 30mph, a fact which, the investigating Police Officer eventually told, probably saved my life.

As a Physicist I understand the conservation of momentum. So motorcycle and rider moving at 30 mph becomes instantly motorcycle stopped then much of the momentum is transferred to the rider. This means the rider moves forward at a speed greater than 30 mph. Or he would do if his right leg was not between now stationary motorcycle and taxi!

I still remember flying forward over the bonnet, flipping in the air and landing with a sickening thud on the road. Strangely enough I landed in what First Aiders call ´the recovery position´. Except for one problem.

My right foot was next to my left knee!

Yes folks, my right leg had developed an extra joint, now bent in half mid shin.

Compound fracture right tibia and fibula, said my hospital notes.

“Are you alright?” as the taxi driver as he stepped out of his cab.

“Do I feckin well look alright?” I asked in a mixture of pain and anger.

The paramedics scraped me off the floor and took me to hospital where I spent six weeks without recovery. For the next 5 months I was back and forth to hospital for check-ups and advice.

But my break was not healing.

So my consultant brought me in.

“We need to try a bone graft,” he explained. “We take some slivers of bone from your left hip and put them into the break site so they will start to generate bone growth. This is our last option.”

“What if it doesn´t work?”

“We will have to amputate.”

Not the kind of thing you want to hear at 25, or at any age really.

It worked. 


PADI in Qatar


I still have my right foot though it doesn’t work properly. It droops when I get tired, aches in the November rain, and trips me up on pavements sometimes.


soldier! (2)

Training at Brecon, 2008


Despite that I went on to achieve Brown belt in Karate, Sailing coach, Army Cadet Officer, Climbing Instructor, writer, passed my PADI Open water scuba diving course and travelled much of the world. One long term after effect is that I can put stress into context – when you have a near death experience losing luggage on a flight becomes irrelevant.


So my right foot and no pictures of paintings.


I´m doing well.


As to my left foot..

That was a movie about Christy Brown, played by Daniel Day Lewis. Released in 1989.


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I suppose ´stupid´ is the best word

So there is this woman I know. Cute in a tall sort of way.

I´m not sure if you call her east European as she is from Belarus which apparently is still part of Russia. I never quite got a grip of the Decline and Fall of the Soviet Empire.

Anyway, she´s nice. We met at a few social functions, I got her number, we chatted online.

So I invited her to a few social events and a coffee!!! Always too busy – yes I get it. I´m an old codger and so I frighten 30 somethings! Actually not true in China or Kazakhstan.

Continue Mr M!

So I put together an impromptu BBQ at mine tomorrow night. Of course I sent her an invite.


“I must be a good girl this weekend. Have an important exam next week”

Then round about midnight she changes her profile pic to one at a nightclub…


So I will feck off!!!


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