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.


A wee Heater

There wis this wee heater called Colin that had been brung oot the garage fir the winter. A wee 2 bar electic wan fae 1979 that still had some juice left. Thought ae himsel wan ae the good guys so he did.

“Am back, fellas,” it said tae the sofa and rug.

“Och no this prick again.”

“Away you n fuck aff. We’re no listening tae yer pish chat.”

“Aye yeez ir. So where wis ah? Fitba? Politics? Ah ye that’s right, a wis talking aboot how awe the darkies need tae go hame and go back tae eating monkies in the jungle. It’s the proper wae ae hings.”

“Oh here we go again. Ye’ve been spoutin this shite fir years n we’re sick ae it.”

“Am jist sayin, wid ye like a darkie sitting on ye wae his stinking arse? Or worse, a curry-tongue?”

“Like big Tam is a clean fella when he plonks his big sweaty arse on me efter a day’s graftin,” the sofa said.

“Ay but he’s wan ae the peeple. God’s chosen wans. A good protestant is oor Tam. Darkies aint. They ir awe juju loving bastards.”

“Fir fuck’s sake…”

Big Tam burst through the door and kicked aff his workie boots and almost made the sofa puke wae the smell.

“Big Tam is hame,” Colin said like an excited puppy. “Big Tam is hame!”

“Becky, where the fuck is ma dinner? Am starvin, ya wee bitch.”

Becky lit up a fag in the kitchen and spat in Tam’s direction, landing on the rug. 

“There’s yer dinner, ya pedo cunt.”

A big cheeser burst oot on Colin’s face. He wis hoping Big Tam would leather her like last winter and fill the room with delicious screams.

“The fuck is this hing dain back in the hoose?” he said, grabbing Colin’s handle.

“It’s freezing!”

“Wear a fucking jumper then. Am no paying extra fir this lump ae shite.”

The sofa n carpet waved bye bye tae a greetin-faced Colin as he was paped oot intae a freezing cold wheelie bin and sent tae the dump.

Jeff and Brankie

In a wee shed in a garden across fae Soaves cafe, there wis a lot ae noise. A fuck ton fir 6am so it wis. Something wis singing country western music.

“Cunt tree roads… take me hammmmme… Oh yer up, big man. See if ye faw intae a bed ae nettles, it’s hard tae ken whit wan stung ye like eh? That’s whit ma ex-wife telt me when she wis up the duff.”

Terry the spider had crawled out ontae his web tae find a fly called Jeff trapped in his web. Wisnae even hungry but that hing had tae wheesht. 

“A sais if ye faw-“

“A heard ye. Shut the fuck up. Should you no be panicking like fuck cos am gonnae eat ye?”

“Naw am fine tae die. That’s why ave been singing awe morning tae wake ye up. And might as well pass on hings ave learned.”

Terry sighed. Another wan ae them daft flies. He coughed up some silk and prepared tae much the wee bastard.

Jeff burst oot laughing and shouted, “Now!”

Terry turned around tae see a bogging gardening glove jump aff the floor and squish him. 

The glove freed the wee fly and destroyed the rest ae the web.

“Cheers, Brankie.” 

“Nae bother, wee man. Where tae next?”

“We’ve cleared oot the sheds on this street. How aboot a hoose?” 

“Ye read ma mind.”

And so Jeff the wee fly and Brankie the glove upgraded tae hooses and had the time ae their lives wiping oot awe the spiders and the odd pensioner. Two heroes so they wir. Two heroes dishing oot justice where it wis needed the most. 

Gordon The Golf Baw

There wis this wee golf baw called Gordon that hud been abandoned in the Crowwood woods since 1972. And he wis lovin it! Hudnae been whacked fir pure ages n his wee body hud finally healed up and he felt pure brand new again. 

Gordon went fir his usual swim in the swamp and found a nice wee patch ae grass tae sunbath in. Life wis perfect. Long gone wir the days ae been battered black n blue by some posh cunt fae Lenzie. Not a worry in the world he had. Not a worry. 

Gordon wondered who tae take oot that evening fir a wee date: a can ae red spray-paint called Sophie, or a porno mag fae the 1990s called Janice. Both wir some kissers by the way. It wis a win-win situation. Gordon had a wee chuckle tae hisel and wondered whit—

“Ave found wan!” a wee Mount Ellen ned said, stuffing Gordon intae a bag full ae other greetin golf baws.

“Ah Jesus naw! Put me doon. Let me oot, ya wee bastard ye. LET ME OOT!”

Sadly the wee ned selt Gordon back tae the golf club and he wis whacked fir 50 years straight until his back finally gee in and he fell apart.

Wee Gym Gutties

There wis this wee pair ae black gym gutties that hud been living in a long-forgotten school cupboard since 1994. Ages by the way. Pure ages. Bored oot their nut so they wir. Longed fir the aulden days ae running around that soggy ash pitch n scoring goals. Even efter Joe the Janny would tell them tae get aff the pitch when it wis bucketing ae rain the wee guys would keep on playing. They wir born tae break the rules. Born tae be oot on that pitch no-matter whit. 

However, awe the other gym shoes wir loving life in the cupboard. Awe laughing their heeds aff awe day cos they hudnae been trampled on by scabby weans in almost 25 year. 

“Here, ave been hinkin we should make a break fir it,” the left gym guttie said tae the right wan and followed that wae a very convincing crafty-looking wink. Righty nodded. 

“Aye, let’s get back on that pitch. There must be wan ae them weans needing a good pair ae shooting boots. Ave still got 50 goals in me.”

“Oh we wir good, eh? We wir good. Right let’s go fir it. Ye ready?” Lefty smiled and nodded. They couldnae wait. Couldnae huv been more excited.

Sadly a pair ae My Little Pony trainers overheard their plan, and grassed them intae the king ae the cupboard – a burst 1990 World Cup fitba.

“A couple ae rebels on oor hands, eh? You wee goosegogs planning tae blow oor cover, wir youse? If youse left we’d awe be discovered and back on duty again. A set oot the ‘no leaving rule’ at ma coronation. A cannae tolerate this behaviour. Whit say the court?” the king said.

Awe the other gutties chanted fir death. A bit steep a know. But ye kin understand why.

“Come on, it wis jist a wee joke. We wirnae actually going tae leave,” Lefty said.

The king laughed and awe wis forgiven. 

They wir awe pals again fir aboot two minutes until Gary the lighter finally showed up and scorched the face aff the both ae them tae the sound ae cheering.

They wir swiftly tied up and buried under a pair ae brown-stained troosers fir awe eternity.


A Sexy Brontosaurus

Jessica wis a pure sexy Brontosaurus. She hud a wee school girl uniform n could speak in a high pitched voice – the kind that awe the fellas wir efter. But she was saving hersel fir a real fella. None ae them jakey dinosaurs wir going tae cut it.

She wis eating some grass n oiling up her brontosaurus legs, jist in case her dream fella appeared, when that cunt Barry the T-rex showed up.

“Here, Jessica. How aboot it, eh?” Barry said, dain a few helicopters wae his tadger.

“Get tae fuck. Even if a huv tae die alone. None ae youse fannies ir getting ma stuff.” 

“Suit yirself, hen. Yer getting auld. Soon none ae us will be efter ye.”

Jessica cried herself tae sleep. Where wis her dream man? Where wis he hiding? She knew the wrinkles wir appearing on her face. Awe her pals wir up the duff. By next spring it would be too late fir her. She hud tae pass on her good looks as awe the other Bronotosaurus lassies wir pure munters.

“Where ir ye ma love?” she whispered intae the wind. “Am waiting fir ye.”

But little did she know that it wis a magic wind, and it carried her voice awe the way tae 1974 Tokyo, Japan. Kenji wis in the Shinjuku office, working his 7000th day in a row, when he heard it. Thought he finally lost the fucking plot and decided tae jump oot the windy. A fire truck appeared at the scene but it wis too late. Kenji’s wee body splattered intae the windshield and he sadly passed away… or did he? Wink wink. 

Kenji’s consciousness transferred intae the fire truck and the magic wind carried that truck back in time. Awe the way back tae Jessica the sexy brontosaurus.

And it was love at first sight! Wan look at her in that wean’s school uniform had Kenji’s firehose swinging. Kenji quickly got her up the duff and they had hunners ae wee mad babies and lived happily ever after.

Sadly, the firefighters that wir unexpectedly trapped in the truck died screaming as a wee snack fir Barry. But they died wae the knowledge that Jessica wis finally happy and that’s awe that mattered.

A Tired Wee Wuman

There wis this tired looking wuman that worked in the offy that sold buckie tae the school weans. Jesus she wis scunnered wae her shite life. Thought aboot ending it awe the time. If it wisnae fir her two wee cats she would huv years ago.

She wis jist about tae sell a wee half bottle tae a boy that looked aboot ten when the buckie spoke.

“Here, hen. Fuck off! Ave no spent ma life maturing intae the perfect bottle ae tonic wine tae be selt tae a wean n whiteied up wae a bag ae chips an hour later. Gee the wee wank a White Lightening.”

“Shut yir hole and get in the bag!”


“Three quid, son,” she said tae the wee boy. “Dae ye want any ciggies tae go wae it?”

“That’s it! Am calling the polis,” the buckie screamed.

So the half bottle ae buckie called the polis and within ten seconds they burst in and the shop was shut forever! The wuman wis subsequently carted aff straight tae the jail fir selling alcohol tae minors. Nae trial wis needed.

“Ma cats! Somebdy needs tae look efter ma cats.”

“Fuck yer cats, hen. Dae we look like vets?” the polisman said, tanning that grass half bottle ae wine in wan go. “If yir lucky al shoot them after a rob yir hoose.”

But it wisnae awe bad news. Muirhead’s finest gee her a len ae a rope in her cell and she successfully hung hersel.