Monday, 22 April 2019

Brexit The Planet Hy Man Way

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man.

He has a way of looking at things that has you wondering, laughing, and at times, glad you’re not a robot on a strange planet.

Pete is a robot that bends like playdough, smells like something familiar and, for those into licking… tastes like something you’d like to lick again…

Mex has licked once, by mistake, in the dark. It’s a story involving a power cut, candles, and a storage heater. A story both Mex and her robot Pete agreed to “keep to themselves’ as the licking of robots by a Man Spy is strictly prohibited on planet Hy Man and, judging by Bunnies’s reaction, not much admired on earth.

Please read on...

I have spent the last month listening to the radio while learning to drive and my confusion has reached greater depth than when Bunny tried to explain to me the “keep em keen treat em mean” approach favoured by both her and her so-called platonic pal Don.

A platonic relationship which as Woody maintains is as plausible as him being a “six-foot giant,” and as Woody struggles to reach the top shelf of a news-stand, I assume he is being sarcastic.

Woody's sarcasm has reached new heights since trying to teach me to drive. Which if I had a heart, I would find hurtful. I mean it was he who talked me into it, claiming that teaching me would be a breeze.

“You’re a robot,” he said. “Driving should be like second nature to you.”

I didn’t the heart to tell him I am a robot of great flexibility and not designed for mechanical things. When I turn my head, it swivels 180 degrees which makes exiting a roundabout about as safe as lighting a fire blindfolded with a flame thrower.

Mex, however, tried to educate Woody, not easy when sucking on a mega sour apple. Now completely off the sugar, she was working her way through whatever she could find to suck, and she looked like she had a mouthful of vinegar.

“Only the lowest order robot drive on Planet Hy Man,” said Mex wiping a dribble from her chin.

Woody looked at her and laughed-spurning Bunnie into action.

“If you're going to teach X man (referring to me) to drive then we are coming too. You can take us to Asda.” She said.

“Asda?” Said Woody, “what about the roundabouts…the junctions.” He looked from me to Bunnie. 

“He’ll never make it.”

Bunnie unmoved had made her mind up, she was hellbent on finding Mex something sugar- free, dairy-free and as they were going to Asda, cheap as chips.

“If you must suck on things,” she said to Mex “then at least choose something softer, tastier and…”

“Lick-able?” Muttered Mex followed by a forget I said that blush.

“I was actually going to say something less dribble-ie.” Muttered Bunnie bristly shoving Mex out the door.

I wanted to impress my friend, show him what I was made of, so I didn’t argue. And when the two women flopped into the back seat giggling about “standing on ceremony” and “this will be a hoot.” I let my head back with my best care-free laugh, flicked the car into gear, turned the ignition on and stalled it.

Which being as it was an automatic had them all, I think, impressed…

Mex and Bunnie sniggering like school girls began flicking through the radio channels…they had a love for all things newsie; obsessing about Brexit, independence and the need for coexistences.

“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’ I said finally starting the car.

Woody told me to concentrate and as we headed towards the first roundabout my stomach lurched.

It was the size of a launchpad which Woody explained was a bonus. The size scared me, I began circling it fearing the exit and after the fourth circle, Woody began to grind his teeth as Bunnie joked about “dogs chasing their tails”.

After the fifth circle, Woody gave up reassuring me favouring instead an army like order.

‘Forget about Brexit and take any frigging exit.” Were his exact words…

I, in the middle of trying to understand the difference between a speed sign, the actual sped of a car and the rich tapestry of fingers gestures, stalled yet again.

His shouting didn’t help, and I was just thinking of telling him as much when a horn blasted from a juggernaut of a lorry loomed up my rear.

Even the women stopped laughing.

‘Just frigging indicate and exit.” Woody hissed.

As I headed off some exit to god know where Bunny started talking of “political exits”, “dickheads in power, and “it is all going nowhere just like “X man here”.

“There is always someone uselessly tooting his horn.” Said Bunnie.

And Mex, instead of her usual “she doesn’t know what she talking about” comment agreed, even laughed when Bunnie asked, “if Hy Man also sported dickheads”.

“We had a Brexit type thing once on planet Hy Man,” said Mex, “the men tried to leave, set up somewhere else. They talked of truth, justice, and the manly way …it lasted as long as their so-called, manly ways did. In the end, they ran out of hemp, water, and matches.”

“This is why I didn’t want you to come.” Said Woody “how can anyone concentrate when you two talk bollocks?”

I took a deep breath and tried a few calming yoga mantras. I had just stopped at the traffic lights and was in the middle of attempted a hand brake start despite Woody insisting that a hand brake was not necessary. Woody was giving me the tutting of a lifetime and I was frazzled.

“Forget about all this Brexit bullshit.” He said. “Let's just get to Asda.”

I nodded to the finger gestures from the cars behind. “Are they laughing with me or at me?” I said.

‘Neither,” muttered Woody and finally took over.

As we headed into Asda I for the first time went straight for something sweet, sickly and long.
Mex laughed “something to lick?” she said at the cashier.

The attendant with a look of disdain on a par with the juggernaut driver asked Mex to leave.

“This is a family establishment,” she said showing Mex the door.

“It seems leaving Asda is a lot easier than other exits,” I said to Woody he laughed and this time it was Mex turn to mutter “dickheads”.

First Published

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.

Monday, 8 April 2019


Marmite by Kerrie NoorScottish Author | Author in Scotland | Sci-fi Author Scotland | Romance Author ScotlandScottish Author | Author in Scotland | Sci-fi Author Scotland | Romance Author Scotland

It was in 2006 and my first novel was still a mere baby of funny scenes strung together and I was under the illusion that it was the next Brigid Jones-and more. I along with six other Scottish writers had been offered a place on a weekend retreat. 

We were all working on our first project.

It was a weekend full of workshops, great food and an audience with a well-known agent.
I truly believed I had written a best seller. I was so excited, so close to my dream I couldn't touch my breakfast. 

Instead, like the others, I waited.

The agent was a woman with a packet of cigarettes a day voice and she didn't mince her words.

“You’re too coarse,” she said, “I mean describing her breast as…” she flicked through her notes “elephant ears?” She looked at me “why would you do that?”

“Is it not funny?” I muttered.

She didn’t even answer but instead gave me half an hour of her time. I took a page full of notes and tried not to think too much about my English teacher. She always sent my stories back covered in red marks and comments such as…

“I find this hard to believe.”

“Is there such a word?”

“Were you drunk when you wrote this?”

Her idea of constructive criticism was to tell me to get a job in MacDonald’s where “no spelling was required!”

I wandered the beach crying into my phone, ““what will I do if I can’t write,” I said to my pal. “I may as well…join a commune, take to chocolate, it’s all so hopeless.”

“Writing is like marmite,” she said sagely. “You either love or hate it-lukewarm, does not cut it with Marmite.”

For those of you who have never heard of Marmite, it is something very British, salty and considered good for you. Yeast in a dark sticky mass you either spread thick as you can on toast-like me or gag at the mere thought of unscrewing the lid.

My pal then launched into a list of writers from Ernest Hemingway to Agatha Christie who all experience wrist slashing reviews. Not one writers of comedy however were mentioned.

“What are you trying to say?” I said, “I should be writing mysteries; fishing for marlin?”
“Can you not take out the elephant description?” she sighed.

In truth the writing wasn’t finished. Once my tears were wiped away, I reread my notes re-grouped and re-plotted.

Years later, my first book rewritten, edited and self-published, a reader wrote to me, I love your book,” she said. “It touched me, and I laughed out loud.” A husband whose wife “just loved the book” asked me for an autograph. And my daughter’s friend, an English student, said “there is more to your book than first appears, worth a second read.”

Of course, the same book has received some pretty hurtful reviews too, some along the lines of “impossible to read”; “utter rubbish,” and as funny as a road accident” nothing I can’t handle without a jar of marmite by my side.

The lesson learned…
  • One reader’s funny bone is another readers snooze button.
  • What some called “racy and fast-paced” others call “impossible to follow”. And what some call a “cracking caste of full body characters” others called a “confusing entourage of women who do not attract a second read…”
When you think your work is finished your probably halfway there and steer clear of comic descriptions involving elephants.

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.
 Rebel Without A Bra' is also now available via Smashwords, Kobo and Nook Ibooks and Amazon