“The Hairy Tooth Fairy”

Here is my satirical poem “The Hairy Tooth Fairy”

The Hairy Tooth Fairy got up and got dressed.
With her flimsy work outfit, she was not impressed.
After a quick bite to eat and a small cup of tea,
Grabbed a bag full of money for you and for me.

Her boss is a tight arse who sleeps all the day,
And his girlfriend’s a right witch, who gets her own way,
So a roll your own smoke and a wee nip thrown down,
She made her way down to the nearest town.

She rushed out the door, ten minutes late,
Slid down the driveway and crashed through the gate.
Fast-paced down the road, she was winged by a van,
Huffing and panting, with her puffer on hand.

When she got to the first house, the whole place was dark.
She crept up the steps, to the call of a lark.
Going in through the window, she slipped on the ledge,
Caught her foot in a play box and collapsed on a sledge.

She got pulled herself up and got herself straight,
Looked at her watch, she was definitely late.
She rushed through the door and was hit by a can.
Maxwell House Coffee, that wasn’t the plan.

A few hours later, in the DCI’s car,
She knew that, in this job she would not go far.
Her Boss man, wouldn’t help her and his girlfriend just laughed,
But when a Fairy gets locked up, it’s all just a blast.


Can you pronounce these Scottish place names?

Here are a few of my favourite Scottish place names. Try to pronounce each one…

Pronounced “Mill-guy”. It is often said that the name derives from “Gavin’s Mill” but another possibility is that it comes from the Gaelic “muileann gaoithe” meaning windmill.

If you can get the ‘ch’ sound in the back of your throat without strangling yourself, this one is easy also. “Auchter” is from the Gaelic ‘air uachdair’ meaning ‘on top of” so the Fife town of Auchtermuchty means ‘high ground of the
pig rearing’.

Surprisingly, this Moray fishing village is pronounced “Finechty” with the accent on the first syllable. The name is from the Gaelic words “finn” meaning white and “dabhach” meaning a tub or vat.

Pronounced “Geerie”, this small Aberdeenshire community is in the shadow of the famous hill, Bennachie. The area has a large number of Pictish standing stones and cairns dating from 2000BC.

A small town near the Solway Firth in Dumfries and Galloway, pronounced “Kirkcoobray” with the accent on the second syllable.

How did you do? Let me know by commenting here or Tweeting me @AuthorMcGowan

“Bjorn & Bread” Prologue


Look closely.
This is Earth, but not the Earth, as we know it today. The lands are the same, with some containing hills and mountains; and some with deserts and random hopping creatures dotted about the place. Some have flowing rivers and mighty seas, while still others are a barren wasteland. Some places are warm in climate and others where a change in the weather means the rain falling from a different angle.

The World as it is and has been, has gone through many stages before the one we know, and love, came to be. The Earth of which this story is about is the first of those worlds. Earth beta, if you will. This is an Earth where Elves and Trolls still wander the lands; a place where Dragons fly in the skies and Mermaids swim in the seas. This is an earth where Dwarves mine and magic lives. Here Vampires and Werewolves still find a place to call home. Basically, this is where all the stories began.

All stories have to begin somewhere and this is where most have their origins. Tales happen and afterwards they leak out into other worlds, riding on the wind of possibilities and dreams, and that’s what’s important. Stories must survive, or why do we do anything, why are we here, if no one is going to remember.

And so the tales continue, usually in folklore and myths, but they do carry on. This is a tale of some such characters and the troubles they got themselves into. They may not be the biggest, strongest or the most handsome, but their efforts and plights are worth remembering, because they may just happen to you…

“Curse of the Anti-Santa” Chapter Teaser

“Some Time for Himself”

Take yourself back four weeks and a few thousand miles north. Imagine flying on the wings of a bird, over the vast white ice caps, and the endless white snowfields.

If you look closer, you’ll see, way, way down below, a small pool of blue.
Sitting, hunched over the pool, staring down into the depths, as still as is humanly possible, is a large man of about twenty stone. He has a long flowing white beard and a pair of red waders specially fitted and made by the best tailor in Lapland…. Himself.
He also wore a hat more readily worn by Mr. S. Holmes, and a red checked shirt lined with sheep’s wool.

Mr. Cringle sat there patiently, watching the long thin line, leading from his rod to the shimmering blue and white.

This was his time. Dedicating your life to the happiness of others is an honorable thing, but it comes with a terrible sense of wanting to go out and do something for yourself sometimes (Hence the fishing trips). It gave him time to be by himself and think things through.

Mrs. Cringle wasn’t too chuffed with the idea, but she knew that when Mr. Cringle got it into his head to do something, it was going to be done.

He wasn’t a hard man, quite the opposite. He would have this look on his face, like a child would when he wants something so badly, but knows that he’s not going to get it, and Mrs. Cringle would have to give in, and it would end with her forcing him to go.
Staring at the float bobbing up and down, he felt happy. Peace and tranquility was all his out here. And nothing could ever spoil it.

Just then, as the thought was going round his head, the float suddenly darted down below and stayed there unseen.

Mr. Cringle, smiling, slowly turned the handle on the rod and started to reel in his catch. As he did he got the shock of his life, for there wasn’t a fish on the hook. Instead, smiling with an evil little grin, which you would normally see on a Chucky doll, was an untamed, manic looking, circus midget.

“’Ello mate.” He said, and cracked him across the head with a metal bar. With that the lights went out and all Mr. Cringle remembered was the pain.


Jack Frost is a shortarse, with white spiky hair;
Frozen to the bare bone, but he doesn’t care.
He brings in the winter with the frost and the ice.
The North wind and snowfall he does so entice.

He likes what he does and has fun in the snow.
Cold air and icicles are all that he knows.
He starts in November and stops in the spring;
He laughs and he dances but surely can’t sing.

One morning he woke up and could not be arsed.
For the first time in his life, he thought it a farce.
He looked out the window and glared at the sun.
This was all too much effort and work just for one.

He put on his jacket, and sunglasses too.
He made himself tidy and nipped to the loo.
After a quick bite to eat and a wee nip thrown down,
Took a five mile trek down to the nearest town.

He went down the main street, and found the job shop.
He’d like to be a dentist, or maybe a cop.
Waiting in the queue, which we’ve all done sometime,
He caused a small cold spell, to clear up the line.

When he got to the front, and sat himself down,
A wee girl looked at him and gave him a frown.
She said, “What you doing? You’ve got work to do!”
And if he didn’t get to it she’d definitely sue.

He then asked her “why? Snow’s not all that good!,
And that warm winds and sunshine was the way that it should.”
She said to him straight up, “I’ve been waiting eight months,
To get out my sledge here, you wee stupid dunce!”

He sat there and listened, as she explained why
He should get up off his arse and go out and try.
At last it all made sense, as she told him off.
She waited a second and gave a wee cough.

He looked in her eyes, and felt slightly sad;
And said he was sorry, and that he’d gone mad.
He knew that this exchange he’d definitely lost,
And that’s how a wee girl saved our Jack Frost.