Lost Keys

A guy came home fae work. Couldnae find his hoose keys. Checked his pockets n everything. Lived hisel so he was fucked.

He wandered around the ootside, checking that mibby he’d left a windy open but naw. Whit tae dae, eh? Whit tae dae?

He chapped the door. Nothing. Chapped again.

“Whit is it? A wiz sleeping there,” his couch said.

“It’s me. Ave lost ma keys.”

“Hiv ye, aye?”

“Aye. Kin ye let me in.”

There was silence.

“Naw. It’s ma hoose noo. So fuck aff.”

“Whit? Come on tae fuck. How is it your hoose? A bought the hing, no you, n you ir a fucking couch. Quit being in wan ae yir moods and open the door.”

“Ave been in this hoose 20 year. You’ve been in it almost five. Correct?” the couch said.

“Aye, but-”

“Case closed. Aff ye go.”

After a lengthy discussion wae Muirhead’s finest, the polis sided wae the couch and the guy was homeless.


The Exorcist

There was this lovely guy sitting in the pub. He was brand new by the way. Brand new. Some stinking workies wir on his usual seat by the pool table so he had tae make do wae a seat at the bar next tae this moany auld fenian bastard.

So this lovely guy turned tae the barmaid and said, “Ma nickname is the exorcist coz when a leave the pub thirs nae spirits left. Ahaha.”

She gee him a cheeky wink ae approval.

“But you only drink lager. You’re in here every night and you only drink lager,” the auld guy beside him said.

“Aye, but you get what a mean.”

“Naw a don’t. You’re no the exorcist. A drink gin so if embdy is getting called the fucking exorcist it’s me.”

“Whit? Your nickname is auld fenial bastard. Am the exorcist. No you. Me!”

“Is that right? Am jist here having a quiet gin and a have tae listen tae your shite patter-”

The exorcist sank his pint and glassed auld fenian bastard over the head. Grabbed him by the hair.

“Who is the exorcist?”

“You, big man, sorry.”

“Too fucking right a am.”

That should have been the end ae that but auld fenian bastard’s gin and tonic was pure raging. It grabbed a lighter, set itsel on fire and jumped intae the exorcist’s mouth.

Auld fenian bastard mouthed a thank you tae the herioc gin as both it and the exorcist died in a loving firey embrace.

The Tale of the Missing Boaby

Pete woke up wan morning efter a heavy night a drinking tae find his boaby missing. Thir wisnae even a scar or anything in its place.

He stumbled intae the bathroom but couldnae go fir a pish as thir wisnae even a wee hole there either.

“The fucks going on?”

“Try the fridge,” the toilet paper whispered tae him.

Low and behold, in the fridge was his boaby tucked in beside a packet ae Wee Willie Winky sausages. He pulled it oot and ran tae the hospital.

They awe laughed when they seen it and the doctor threw it in the bin.

Sadly, Pete’s bladder burst later that day and he died. Nabdy was laughing then but whir they?  Nabdy.

Dream Sculptures

This guy was pished oot his box sitting in his hoose on a boring Tuesday night. Tanned a crate a Jakey T and a few bucky while watching that Grand Designs show.

He fell intae a deep sleep where he made these pure mad dream sculptures. Massive buildings ae untold beauty.

But the best was wan ae a new Tavern; his beloved pub that sadly closed. The new Tavern was 100 feet high and made ae ginger bottles and those bricks folk huv in their driveways. Most beautiful hing he’d ever seen.

He woke up the next morning wae a finger in the air. “Am gonnae built the New Tavern!”

After a brief trip tae B&Q, he headed fir the ruins ae the auld Tavern n set aboot building the new wan. And build it he didnae!

Since it was private property the polis though he was stealing and had nae choice but tae pump him full a bullets.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday and the auld Irish priest was geeing oot ashes up at the Muirhead chapel. Pure scunnered so he was. Jist wanted tae get back tae watching the hurling on the telly and eating the rest ae them pancakes fir lunch.

A pure mob a cunts turned up tae the chapel. Hidnae seen half ae them in his 50 year up there afore and nae doubt most ae them would be dain fuck awe fir Lent.

He dipped his thumb and crossed a wee laddie. Never fucking ending so it was. He goes tae dip his thumb intae the ash again but thir’s none left. This bald guy was looking at him wae ‘geez ma ashes ya auld cunt’ eyes. Priest jist loses it.

“Is that right?”

The guy looked surprised. “Is whit-”

“Well, how’s this fir ashes.” He grabbed the guy by the neck and malkied him.

“Embdy else want thir ashes? Naw? Didnae hink so. Go the mass has ended. Awe ae yeez get tae fuck.”

A Bad Yin Dentist

This wee lassie was in the Muirhead dentist pure shitening hersel coz she was getting three teeth pulled oot.

“Here, hen. Calm doon,” said the dentist. “It wulnae hurt.”

“Ye promise?”


But the dentist was a lying bastard. It was going tae hurt like fuck n he knew it.

“He’s lying,” said wan ae the wee lassie’s fillings. “Don’t let him dae it.”

The wee lassie thought aboot it fir three seconds then agreed wae her fillings. She smashed the dentist cunt wae a drill and proceded tae drill awe his teeth oot. Once free, the teeth ran away oot the windy, laughing. They wir aff tae burn his hoose doon.

The bad dentist learned his lesson never lied again. He retired fae the teeth game and lived oot the rest ae his days as a dug fluffer fir the Mount Ellen gypsies.

The Life Ae A Tree

Thir was this tree planted up Shitebag’s Alley and it was feeling happy coz winter was awe but over n it was getting its wee leaves back. Spring was a joy. Loved the spring so it did.

It was having a wee blether wae its best pal, an 1984 empty packet a cheese and onion crisps, when some cunt jumped over the railing and started pishing awe over it.

“Haw! The fuck’s going on?”

The guy gee the tree a mad-wae-it look and continued pishing. The packet a crisps was getting filled right up wae the pish an awe.

“Whit a place fir a pish, by the way. Nabdy kin see me. Cannae believe ma luck,” the guy said.

“Naw! It’s a shite place fir a pish. Am no a fucking lavy!” The tree said.

The guy finally stopped and fucked aff. Both the tree n the crisp packet wir greeting their eyes oot. A wee shame so it was.

“At least it wisnae a shite,” the crisp packet said.

The tree sighed. “Aye.”

It put on a brave face face fir its pal but inside it wished itsel dead. It felt like hings couldnae get worse.

But they did.

Fir the rest ae its life the tree became known as ‘The Sneaky Pish Tree’ and was frequented by jakies every night ae the week until the stench a pish soaked intae its bark forced the Muirhead council tae cut the hing doon.