Whit happens when yer on yer phone too much

Thir wis this wee lassie (and this isnae the same wee lassie fae the last story – it’s a different wan) called Rosie and she wis always glued tae her phone. Day, night, didnae matter. Always on it. Her phone wis always telling her tae fucking gee it a break but she wuldnae. And dae ye know whit? It jist had enough.

She wis oot wae her Da having a curry at the Simla n she didnae even look up fae her phone. No even once! 

After a near 14 hour marathon ae flicking through the facebooks n the wan wae awe the photies n the other wan the phone (called Graham if ye wir interested) decided tae blow itsel up. Red hot, n faced wae another four hour, it went fir it.

A wee fizzle n bam Graham wis on fire. He burned the hands aff Rosie and died screaming in agony. 

Rosie’s Da wis delighted, watching his daughter run aroond the restaurant wae melted hands, begging fir help.

“Serves ye right ya wee bitch. A telt ye no tae be on that hing awe the time.”

Lessons wir learned n efter that everything in the world wis it peace n nae bad hings ever happened again.


Lee-Lee and Hazel

This wee lassie called Lee-Lee went tae the Chilterns auld folks home across fae the Moor Park tae visit her granda. He wis busy having a sponge bath and told her tae fuck aff. So while she waited, she made awe the auld yins in the living room sit on the floor in a circle fir a game. 

They awe get tae flip her special coin, she explained. One side is a skull, the other a parrot. If it lands on the parrot side, ye huv tae pet Hazel the dead killer bee who lives in her bag. If it’s the skull, ye get tae buy her ice cream and a cola bottle.

But being auld senile fucks they didnae quite get the rules. She explained again, one final time, on the verge ae loosing her temper.

“Right, let’s play. Who’s going first?” Nabdy answered, so she placed the coin in Mrs McGacky’s hand and it fell oot.

Landed on the parrot. 

Lee-Lee squeeled wae laughter and unzipped her wee pink bag.

“Pet Hazel! Pet Hazel.” 

Mrs McGacky peered intae the bag and a fat bee flew oot n bit her chin. Hazel bolted aboot the room and wis in a right mood. Being allergic tae bees the wee wuman collapsed. Everyone wis in a fit ae laughter as her auld heed swelled like a ballon n she hud a heart-attack.  

“Hazel isnae deed! She wis jist sleeping. This is the best day ever,” Lee-Lee shouted. She ran aboot wae her hands in the air as Hazel proceeded tae sting its wee heart oot and send them awe tae heaven.

Eat Me Instead

Gav found a cockroach wae a wee flag sticking oot its back. 

Eat me instead, it said.

He stamped on it and tossed it in the bin, bewildered wae how the fuck it got intae his Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle.

The next day, wid ye believe it, the same hing happened again. Same wee flag, same wee message, but this time it wis in his packet ae crisps.

“The fucks going on? Nae chance am eating that shite.”

He tossed it away and fucked off tae work.

The next day, same again. Every day fir almost a year this happened. Found it in his jam pieces, his chocolate biscuits, sausage rolls, n even on his rolls n chips wae gravy. 

Wan day he hud enough and ate the cockroach, wee flag n awe. Gobbled it right doon. 

“Right a fucking ate ye. Ye happy no?”

Thir wis a chap on the window. A strange looking auld fella wae black teeth wis pointing at him. 

“Ha! Ya bug eating bastard ye! A got ye! Ye fell fir it! Ha!” And he ran away.

Gav smiled. “Oh he got me awe right. Cannae believe a fell fir it.”

Pishy Gub

Thir wis this junkie eyed guy called Dan who was living in St Barbara’s gym hall since his hoose wis burnt doon after a mysterious fire in the pub spread. He wis cooped up wae 40 odd other folk and he wis at his wits end. Awe the snoring. Awe the weans greeting. Awe sorts ae shite wis annoying him. So he decided that thir wis nothing else tae be done but start the raping. He wis going tae rape them awe. No jist the wumen – and he wisnae a bender – cos they awe deserved it. 

Sadly his raping plan didnae happen as he said it oot loud instead ae in his head n his tadger wis cut aff in the showers. They sewed him right up efter n he hud tae pish oot his mooth. Don’t ask how that happened. It jist did. 

Poor Dan became known as Pishy Gub and had tae live oot the rest ae his days wae the Mount Ellen gypsies eating grass and shoes. When he got auld n couldnae run the gypsy weans threw bricks at him and chased him intae in the loch where he drowned like a soggy biscuit in a roasting hot cup ae tea. A sad sad day.

The last King ae the Pints

Thir wis this belter ae a pint glass that hud lived in the pub fir going on 30 year. A right thick wan wae a handle n awe that n it wis aff its nut. Ye could drap it aff a bridge n it wouldnae shatter. That kind ae glass. 

His name wis Rab and he wis the gaffer ae awe the glasses. So Rab had jist heedered a fair few nancy boy Guinness pints that always turned up in March and wis feeling brand new, by the way, pure brand new. Ye could feel his bravado radiating awe oer the place. This wis a glass that took nae shite fae nabdy. Nabdy!

It wis the end ae another Saturday night n Rab wis wondering who else he would smash before bed time. Could it be another shot glass? Too easy. Or wan ae them half pint poofters? He smiled. Too right it would.

“Right, whit wan ae you cunts is wanting a square go the night?”

“Oh come on, Rab. Ye smashed wee Gavin last night. Gee us a rest n go for the wine glasses.”

The wine glasses shivered n started greeting. 

Rab cleared his throat. “Seeing as am a fair sort ae fella, al tell ye whit al dae—“

Before he could finish an unexpected hand grabbed his handle and fucked him against the wall. Whack! 

Poor Rab cracked and they awe gasped. A cheer went oot only fir them tae realise awe the glasses wir getting smashed. Big Angnes hud found oot that auld Tam wis pumping that wee hairy he hired tae pour pints n she wis destroying the whole fucking place. 

Big Agnes went mental so she did and a mean mental. She ended up no jist burning the pub tae the ground but the whole street! Fuck it wis a disaster.

The Muirhead polis let her aff tho cos they couldnae be arsed wae all these fannies greeting aboot no huving a hoose so they put it doon tae being a wee accident and shipped them awe aff tae live in St Barbara’s gym hall. Case closed. Fuck aff the lot ae yeez. 

A Scunnered Clock

Them baskets up the Muirhead Co-op wir huving a wee chat efter the day wis over.

“Oh wait tae a tell ye aboot whit a hud in me today. Pea soup, square sausages, a lovely slice ae apple cake, custard, n some diet Irn Bru.”

“Oh did ye?! That’s something intit?”

“Ah no, right? A wis amazed!”

The clock peered doon n gee them cunts a dirty look. A right dirty wan.

“Hod on a minute, how is that something? Whits so special aboot those items?” the clock said. 

The baskets wir taken aback. The cheek ae that fucking clock.

“Jist is. Pea soup! Square fucking sausages! Custard n cake! Whits no tae be surprised aboot?”

“Youse huv awe fucking lost the plot so yeez huv. Whit did ye expect tae be there? Jesus! A cannae dae this anymare. Every night it’s the same pish.”

“Never mind that moon-faced cunt.”

“A wulnae. Right where wis ah? Aye so there wis pea soup, square sausages, a lovely slice ae apple cake, custard, n some diet Irn Bru.”

“Oh that’s something intit?”

The clock decided enough wis enough. And tae be fair ye cannae blame it, kin ye? 

“That’s it! Am no jist a clock – am a fucking bomb! And youse ir getting blown tae bits, ya bunch ae junkie bastard cunts youse.”

“Calm doon up there. We—“


“Look we’re sorr—“




The baskets wir greetin like weans so they wir n dived fir cover under the til.



But sadly fir the clock nothing happened cos it wis only a pound shop clock no a bomb. The baskets spat on him and discussed in detail every customer’s messages until the clock shat oot his batteries and died at 05:09.

A Christmas Miracle

There wis this turkey leg that wis swimming aboot in gravy n huving the time ae her life. Lipstick wis on, eyes awe painted wae that eyeshadow stuff n the likes. Making the best ae her new life efter being lynched, cooked, n separated fae the rest ae her wee turkey body so she wis.

“Senga dae ye want tae mooj, ya cow?” said a roast tattie wanting some ae that gravy action. “Am fucking freezing.”

“Awain suck ma boaby red raw till ma baws faw aff, ya wee prick.”

The sweetcorn n carrots wir singing Christmas songs n pissing that tattie right aff. Senga welcomed them intae the gravy n that wis the last straw fir the tattie.

“If am no getting in, none ae yeez ir! Bastards!”

It jumped on the corner ae the plate and tipped them awe on tae the floor where a wee dug proceeded tae much fuck oot ae them. But Senga managed tae escape the jaws n bolted oot the windy tae freedom. A Christmas miracle it wis. Christmas Miracle!

Did that craft turkey leg ken that the tattie would dae that? She did, didn’t she? Wow! A hope she made it oot ae Muirhead n found a nice wee spot in Crowwood woods tae huv a lovely wee Christmas n live oot her days in peace. But something sadly tells me a mad gypsy dug will huv her in its chops before she even gets past the pub.