Kerrie Noor | Updates

Planet Hy Man And Beyond -The Diaries

Kerrie Noor — Wed, 16 Oct 2024 05:45:09 -0400

Pete is a robot who spent some time on Earth his diaries are as indescribable as Trump but hopefully, make more sense.

Men In Overalls

An overall is like a strapless handbag, there is a pocket for everything.

Thanks to a bump on the ferry from a van driven by (as Don put it) a geriatric reversing with her reading glasses on Don’s car had been bashed within an inch of its life.

And Don, swearing like Bunnie on the wrong side of a hangover, insisted on visiting the ‘lads’- a squad of mechanics who happily do ‘discounted cash payments’.

We were heading for a garage, a place I was curious to see until Woody explained it wasn’t a band or a sale but merely a place where cars were fixed.

The rain was, to quote Bunnie, “pelting down”.

“There are three sorts of rain,” she said. “Smirr or was it smear?————heavy and ‘run for cover’.”

“Run for cover?” said Mex, still looking green from her ferry/sugar sickness. “On Planet Hy Man we have only one sort of rain ‘dig a dam or drown’.”

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The Three Omigo's

Kerrie Noor — Sun, 22 Sep 2024 15:57:13 -0400

A five-part comedy-saga of three elderly men and the women who inspired them to strip down to their Long Johns.

The Three Amigos

The Three Amigos were three seventy-something men who fed up with bingo, lunch clubs with piss-weak tea, and queues at the Co-op had decided they wanted more.

What that more was they had no idea until they, under the influence of a pretty decent malt spied The Back Street Boys on TV.

It was back in the good ole days, when blogs were still read, kindle books were a mere pipe dream, and Madonna’s plastic surgery was still believable. The world hadn’t ended as some cults had predicted, Tom Cruise was a believable hero in the second Mission Impossible, boy bands were all the rage, and the music from the Full Monty film was played everywhere in Argyll.

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A Dog Called Izzy Than Wire

Kerrie Noor — Tue, 2 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The Glasgow boys

You can never have a big enough towel in a changing room…

My hubby and I were staying in a hotel in Glasgow, swimming in the ‘spa pool’, an out-of-date affair with peeling paint, cracked tiles, a minute gym, and a jacuzzi so hot you could boil an egg in it. (I guess anything is hot when you spend your morning in a Scottish lock).

There was no privacy in the changing room to drop your kegs, and it was so small that arse bumping was a given.

The hotel, being in the center of Glasgow, was full of tourists and charged a fortune, even before you parked the car. The toiletries were nailed down, there was only one packet of biscuits to accompany the ‘complimentary’ Nescafé, and any eggs other than scrambled were considered ‘extra’ for breakfast. Which had an American moaning, “‘Since when did a fried egg become the height of luxury?”

Not that I cared.

My hubby had been in Bangladesh for over two months, and fried eggs were the last thing on my mind.

The pool was full when hubby and I ventured in. He, in his makeshift bathers (rolled up pajamas that almost worked), headed straight for the sauna, while I, with a belly full of scrambled egg, was boiling my bits in the hot tub, people watching.

In the corner of the pool were three old boys with the sort of Glasgow accent that spelt ‘comfortably retired, one was stretched out on the lilo catching up on the news while the other two were discussing it. They looked like naughty schoolboys, escaping wives who didn’t like swearing or coffee rings on tables, who spent their time in the bowling club, drinking gin and tonic while chatting up any barmaid who stood still long enough.

After nearly dislocating myself ‘arse-avoiding’ while changing, I met Hubby after the swim. He, clutching his make-shift bathers in a plastic bag, looked a little flustered. He is a Muslim and, being modest, likes to change under a towel like an embarrassed teenager whose pubes haven’t grown in.

He started to tell me about three old men who, naked, strutted about the changing room like Tarzan, their bits swinging about like a decorated elephant’s trunk. “I think they were racist,” he said.

“Why”

“They were laughing at me changing under a towel. What are you hiding? Is it gold-plated? Extra large? You hung like a donkey.”

“Maybe it was your PJs,” I said.

“No, I think it was the color of my skin.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I dropped my towel.”

“And?”

“They laughed…and made a joke about the size of my towel.”

I looked at him, “I told you that was a hand towel.”

You can check out the rest on my Substack post

https://open.substack.com/pub/kerrienoor/p/a-dog-called-izzy?r=1ihvn&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=false

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A serial comedy on Medium.

Kerrie Noor — Tue, 18 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The Woman Who Wanted To Be Funny

Katie dreamed of entertaining like a comedian, but life in the kitchen got in the way, until she met the Coach, a man her husband hated...

Prologue

Eyebrows are the side dish of a face, not the main.

I was sitting in the dressing room avoiding Felicity, the so-called makeup lady. She has a way of putting on makeup that makes anyone look like a drunk Bette Davies.

She has a thing for eyebrows, claims they’re the “handle of the face” and “should be seen” — like a mile away — at least!

Pete thought it was hilarious when I arrived home with my “war paint”.

“Me big chief Indian,” he said, ignoring my PC comment.

I told him she had buggered up my face during the dress rehearsal, that it had taken half a packet of wet wipes to get to this “big chief Indian” half removed look, and did he listen? He poured me a dram, kissed my head, and returned to watching Sky Sports.

Felicity has just completed an advanced-stage makeup course that involved a mountain of brushes and a suitcase of pots. There I was, one foot in my Dick Whittington boots when she grabbed me, and with a “sit” horsed me into a chair. I watched her spread her tool kit across the table, hoping for a facial miracle… a Jane Fonda or… Helen Mirren look?

I should have known better when I saw Fairy Bowbells dive out the door.

Felicity’s ability to ruin a face, it seemed, was legendary. She spent what seemed an eternity working contours on my round face until Kenny, the director, bounded in, flicked on the kettle, glared at the array of brushes and pots and huffed…

“Is all that absolutely necessary?”

Felicity threw him a look, the sort only a sister could get away with. “I am practicing my new skills,” she said.

“Practising,” I stuttered. “I thought you knew what you were doing.”

“Keep still,” hissed Felicity, grabbing my jaw.

Kenny, a retired plumber, is a no-frills sort of guy. He directs like he’s sorting a toilet like there’s a solution for everything, or “a washer for every occasion” which he often yells when faced with scenery, budget, or wardrobe problems. And the only one who ignores him is his artistically frustrated way younger sister, Felicity.

“Now for a few eyelashes,” her tweezers loomed closer.

“There’s no need,” I stuttered. “It’s only a dress rehearsal.”

“Yes, but we must practice.”

“But I’ve never worn false eyelashes…” I lied. I had once, and it was a nightmare of watery eyes and itching.

“Just keep still,” she hissed, brushing away my protests.

The dress rehearsal was a blur of teary eyes, and I was halfway through the first scene when I clocked my face in the stage mirror. A single eyebrow stretched across my forehead, screaming: this woman needs “Nair, but she don’t care”.

Felicity paints abstract art in her spare time, the sort that no one knows which way up to hang, and when I clocked my face, I wondered the same thing. My eyebrows — sorry eyebrow looked like a cartoon caterpillar with postmortem rigidity. Thank god it was the dress rehearsal. The audience was the janitor waiting for a cataract operation and three women from the WRI who were more interested in arranging chairs than me.

I learned to avoid friggin’ Felicity after that.

to read more:-

https://medium.com/@kerrienoor

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The Loud Mouth

Kerrie Noor — Tue, 11 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Advice, when not asked for, is often received with a lot of under-your-breath swearing.

I was in Nairn last weekend for our final performance for the year. And I did it all via public transport.

A few of us were traveling together, and I reveled in the company, with a decent amount of loud banter that would have my mother and ‘ex’ giving me ‘dagger’ looks, while hissing ‘be quiet’.

We went for a swim in the Nairn beach, a long sandy beach reminding me of Australia, well apart from the missing sun. It was freezing. The sort of freezing that requires an I’m mad and I’m not going to take any more dash into the water, and shrinks up your bits and pieces, giving you hope of botox firming.

Who am I kidding?

I was heading to Stonehaven via Aberdeen afterwards for my customary conjugal rights with the Hubby and was pondering train, or bus, over a cappuccino and a healthy bean affair, when unwanted advice wiped the smile off my face.

There were a few from the caste at the table and a couple who had watched the performance the night before. They walked in to an over-the-top ‘way-hay’ greeting from me, which the male( name forgotten) seemed to enjoy, while the female (name also forgotten) responded with a motherly “shh.”

It’s been a long time since my loudness had been moaned about. I thought at sixty-five nobody cared, that my free bus pass and wrinkles had earned me the right to be as loud and as sweary as I wanted.

“I am embarrassed for you,” she said, which had me stumped.

We talked of heading home, I about heading to Stonehaven (minus the Congicgal rights joke), and he (the unknown male) started giving me advice like I had never been to the friggin place.

“You’d better be off with the bus,” he said.

Wish I’d made the conjugal rights joke now.

Then he threw me a look like I had the legs of a geriatric who struggled to balance on an escalator and said. “The train station is a mile away from the centre in Stonehaven.”

Listen, buddy, I wanted to yell, I have sex on a mile-high bed a mile, sometimes without lubricant (bit of an exaggeration), a mile walk is ‘a walk in the park’ for me.

But I didn’t; instead, I gave him and his wife of no name an extra loud, hyper enthusiastic ‘way-hay’ goodbye and stupidly went with his advice.

Well, the bus is free for an occasional-get-her-end-away ole codger like me.

The next day, way too early for my booked bus, I appeared to find a double-decker, stop-at-every-corner red bus parked, engine running, with Aberdeen blazoned across the front. The chatty he/she/other driver was having a fag and nearly coughed her/he/other self stupid when I asked how long it would take to get to Aberdeen.

“Just over a couple of hours,” the driver spluttered with a vague wave south, and I, figuring that it was better than a half-hour wait in the rain, for the bus I booked stupidly believed the driver.

I jumped on..

Take in the sights and sounds, I thought as the bus began to fill with local accents. Let the writer in you drink in the conversations, be inspired as a fight broke out.

An hour, two fights, and stops heading into double figures later, we finally arrived at a shopping center. The bus emptied, the he/she/other driver jumped off with a ‘have fun’ wave at me, and a new all-male driver sauntered on, followed by a pile of new local accents —one with an approachable face.

I asked, “How long for Aberdeen?”

“At least an hour,” she said, followed by a soaked of pity, “love.”

Her pal expertly looked it up on her phone. “Yes, a bit over an hour.” She threw me a patronising friggin look. “You should have gotten the number “9-blah blah-blah” like I had asked for her opinion.

I arrived at Aberdeen’s space shuttle bus/train terminal, and without even thinking, jumped on the train to Stonehaven. My back to a table of four high on hangover caffeine and jokes like they had been celebrating New Year early.

One woman’s laugh was particularly loud, and the other talked like she was addressing parliament occasionally waking me from a nap.

That is how I sound, I thought with more than a hint of embarrassment.

You can read the rest on substack link below

https://open.substack.com/pub/kerrie/p/the-loud-mouth?r=1ihvn&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

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Kerrie Noor — Tue, 2 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My performance on ‘that’ Saturday was a lot of fun, although I could have done with a bit more brushing up on the belly dancing.

I met up with the Howling Fruitcake, one of Luke Wúrmli-Quan's comedy characters. Luke has spent a lifetime performing and has more stories of musicians than my substack page.

You can check out the Howling Fruitcake on the link below, but only if you don’t mind a bit of swearing…

Howling Fruitcake

The following week, I was performing with The Flames in the Edinburgh Festival, where I drank way too much coffee. It is storytelling on steroids, accompanied by music and black-and-white footage in the background. The performance is a celebration of age, and I’m so grateful to be a part of it.

You check out more below…

The Flames

The Egg Shed Recap

Mex explains to Bunnie and the gang about fertilization on Planet Hy Man, which, according to Don, sounds as much fun as peeling a hard-boiled egg.

The Egg Shed Part Two

Bonding doesn’t always require words

Woody arrived back as the Ferry appeared on the horizon. He slid into the back, balancing a tray of cappuccinos and bags of rolls, catching the tail end of Mex’s ‘how I saved Planet Hy Man from the perils of men and their inability to put down the toilet seat’ speech…

The toilet seat being a wee joke she had picked up from Bunnie.

When Mex appeared at Bunnie’s door, head to toe in leather—plus whip Bunnie assumed she was heading for a fancy-dress/fetish party and was lost.

Mex was an imposing sight until she removed her six-inch heels, and now, dressed in a ‘leisure suit’ and trainers with a confused look, she was as impressive as an empty bag of crisps. She was more lost and vulnerable than fetish-like, and Bunnie ached to help.

Bunnie assumed that Mex, being a woman, felt the same things she did, that she was bondable. She had no idea that Mex, a man spy who defended her city, had as much oestrogen in her system as a Mallee bull. Just as she had no idea that her woman-to-woman chats were as confusing to Mex as the roll-on-off system of the ferry, she just assumed Mex always looked that way.

But this shed had her intrigued.

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Planet Hy Man And Beyond:-https://kerrienoor.substack.com/

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Mavis and Me “Do” Half-Life

Kerrie Noor — Fri, 22 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

It's been a busy weekend. I spent Saturday trying to remember three stories for a performance in Arrochar. So I have given The Red Cross Shop And The Codpiece a rest this month and treated you to Mavis and Me 'Do' Half-Life. A short story from A Dress For A Queen, an anthology I published a few years ago.

Mavis and Me “Do” Half-Life was my first commission.

“Half Life” was an outdoor art installation held in Argyll that ran for a month. Art and sound pieces were created on ancient stone sites in the area, along with a performance that was so arty I had no idea what it was about.

A booklet was written to accompany the exhibition, and I (being a local writer) was asked to add something, which gave me free access to everything, including the drinks, ‘do’ afterwards.

Mavis and Me “Do” Half-Life

Mavis and I walked into the Argyll for a quick one; I had my walking shoes and dad’s jacket on for warmth, while Mavis had opted for leather, lipstick, and flowery wellies.

Mavis, poised by the bar; she had two tickets for the Half-Life show and a novel’s worth of opinions about it. Mavis likes to think she’s arty. Me? I’m more a Rubens fan: lots of fat women, safely framed and hanging in a warm room with coffee and a toilet nearby.

For a woman of a certain age, that’s comfort.

“You headin’ for the Antarctic?” said Malcolm, the barman.

Malcolm is the sort of guy who thinks culture is anything written in French, and Gaelic is what the French cook mushrooms in; he wouldn’t know art if it jumped up and ripped his nails out one by one, and he wasn’t impressed when we told him about Half-Life.

“What’s that when it’s at home?” he said.

“It’s outdoor art,” said Mavis, “something to do with bones and cremation, and we’ve been invited.”

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Getting Through The Day With Comedy:-https://kerrie.substack.com/

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The Egg Shed

Kerrie Noor — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Pete’s Memoirs

I am taking a break from Pete’s Memoirs this month. Instead, I am treating you to the first part of a short story from “Sitting Comfortable” (working title) from a work-in-progress anthology.

I’m trying to prepare for a performance on Saturday, and I’m brushing up on my storytelling with a hint of belly dancing in it..

I hope you enjoy The Egg Shed…so much so that if you didn’t shout, ‘When will that anthology be published? I want more!” last time. You will this time.

The Egg Shed

Age is but a number until you get to a certain age

Mex was sitting in Don’s eight-seater, focusing on the tartan-clad blanket thrown over the seat in front. The landscape changed constantly, and she with a stomach full of toffee, had made the fatal mistake of watching it. Don had told her to stare ahead, focus on a spot, and now she felt worse.

Don was driving, ignoring the directions shouted at him by his partner, Bunnie, who always maintained she was a better driver. It was a constant argument between them, but as Bunnie had a few whiskies the night before and still had a whiff of alcohol about her, Don won the argument.

Mex stared out the window. She was sitting behind Bunnie and Donnie, doing her best to ignore Woody and Pete rifting behind her. Mex, along with Pete, had been on Earth for a week or was it two? She couldn’t remember, but it was long enough for her to lose the confidence she had on her planet. Here she was, but a middle-aged woman dressed in hand-me-downs from Bunnie, a B&B owner who had taken her “under her wing”.

Pete, her android or PA as he now called himself, wasn’t much help either; he had taken to Earth like it was his real home, turning into an annoying know-it-all who was irritatingly right. He had grasped with a flick what a straw was; where it went and how to change the channel on the car radio. And was at home dressed as a woman, comfortable in his padded bra, heeled shoes, and Donnie’s jokes, while she staggered about in trainers like a half-cut teenager, jokes going over her head like a power shower.

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Planet Hy Man And Beyond:-https://kerrienoor.substack.com/

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Left For Dead

Kerrie Noor — Mon, 28 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The seagull is back!!!!

Peering at me through a downpour with a ‘let me in’ look. Like that’s going to happen.

I started pulling faces at him when Hubby was at work, fell asleep, and woke to three faces scowling at me. Was I dreaming? Am I paranoid? I don’t know but lets just say my car was covered in bird shit…

And I just had it washed.

Pete’s Memoirs

Join me in looking at the world through the eyes of an android called Pete, and discover his past along the way.

So let’s recap…

Pete is no longer enjoying the tender touches of Woody. Pope (not The Pope, but Pete’s robotic nemesis Pope) has not only made contact but has won over Pete’s entourage, and Pete is spitting microchips; find out why.

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Planet Hy Man And Beyond:-https://kerrienoor.substack.com/

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The Red Cross Shop And The Codpeice Part Seven

Kerrie Noor — Mon, 21 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My hubby lives five hours away.

That’s five hours of driving — long enough to make arguing over the TV remote as remote as he is. I’ve done the trip so many times I know every decent coffee shop and loo with toilet paper stop.

It’s the sort of distance where the thrill of conjugal rights rises, then falls somewhere around Crianlarich (a third of the way in). By the time I’ve made it halfway through the latest P.G. Woodhouse audiobook, I’m lucky if I’m up for a walk, let alone anything else.

I arrived after hours of beautiful scenery, crashed up the stairs —side-stepping the clutter —dumped my whatever on the mile-high bed…and there it was, the seagull peering in like I’d brought a picnic.

It hobbled about the roof, eyes fixed on my unpacking. Then, realising there was nothing but underwear and a tube of lubricant well past its best-before date, it flew off with a squawk that had me leaping higher than I did when I swam over a crab the size of a toastie.

Still twitching, I staggered into the sunlight and made for the beach, clutching my buy-six-and-the-seventh-is-free cappuccino.

And there he was, giving me what looked like an I’m about to nosedive glare.

Maybe I should avoid the double espresso at Crianlarich next time.

So let’s recap

The Red Cross Shop and The Codpiece have hit George's early years, where he meets Beatrice for the first time.

George has not only suffered the humiliation of crashing his bike in front of Beatrice, but his shirt ripping open, exposing a 3D 48 GG pair of tits-tattooed in henna across his chest.

Will he go back to wash her car?

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Getting Through The Day With Comedy:-https://kerrie.substack.com/

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Kerrie Noor — Tue, 13 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The May sunshine has given me a heat rash, more freckles than necessary and a spurt of weeds that require the digging of an archaeologist; not to mention bird shit. There is enough on my car to fertilise a few pots and enough on the window to make me get out cleaning equipment, which haven’t seen the light of day since lockdown.

As I write this I am staring out of my loft window at an elderly seagull staring back at me, like it is my fault there is bugger all to eat. He has been there for days, mesmerized by a plate of biscuits… like he can will them to levitate through the window and beyond…

Or perhaps I’ve just had too much coffee?

You can check out the rest of my newsletter on

Getting Through The Day With Comedy:-https://kerrie.substack.com/

and

Planet Hy Man And Beyond:-https://kerrienoor.substack.com/

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Serials-no not breeakfast but serial as in netflix!

Kerrie Noor — Tue, 13 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

. It's here

A Dame Called Derek in serial style, on Ream- the snap, crackle, and pop of fiction.

If you haven't read the first in the Diva Diaries Series- Backstage Love Stories, now's your chance. Just click on the link below...

https://reamstories.com/kerrienoor

and click on A Dame Called Derek, it is the first in the series, and free to read...

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Serials-no not breeakfast but serial as in netflix!

Kerrie Noor — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

It's here

The Rise Of Manifesto The Great in serial style, on Royal Road- the snap crackle and pop of fiction.

if you haven't read the first prequel in Planet Hy Man now's your chance just click on the link below... and dive in one chapter at a time with odd comment from me

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/99013/the-rise-of-manifesto-the-great

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The Gig

Kerrie Noor — Mon, 17 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Ice Breaker
Pleasing an audience is easier than pleasing my mother

She entered the restaurant with a walking stick and my heart sank. Admittedly it was a fold-up one but still—a walking stick.

I had no idea she used one.

Then she asked me if I could drive to the comedy club.

“I thought we might walk,” I said, “it’s only five minutes.”

She pulled a ‘hardly’ face and my heart sunk further. Was this a good idea? Her watching me do my thing?

When my pal offered to come with me to the comedy club, I had to admit I was surprised.
Comedy clubs in Scotland are the Jazz clubs of spoken word venues. They tend to be dark places full of young people used to swearing, sex jokes, and alternative people who aren’t shy about expressing it— hardly the sort of place I saw my pal sitting in.

My pal is more of a poetry-reading in Waterstones sort of person, but when she talked of “getting out of her comfort zone” I took her at her word. She had just returned from Australia and seemed all fired up with ‘getting out’ and ‘making the most of things’.

“I don’t feel seventy-whatever,” she said more than once. “And I hate knitting.”

What knitting had to do with comedy I had no idea, and as I made a joke about the waiter mincing about like a Panto dame she giggled.

Whew! I thought. Maybe it will work after all?

The gig was in the basement of a student pub which had my pal immediately talking of claustrophobia. She took one look at the tattooed barmaid and muttered. “Don’t suppose you have any sherry.”

The place was empty when we walked in and sat at the back.

“You’re on second,” said the buoyant compare as he youthfully strode by.

“Thank heavens,” said my friend eyeing a couple of women propped up on bar stools looking as comfortable as a tightrope walker in stilettos. She sipped her tonic water with distaste as the room began to fill up with noisy students reeking of dope, and other comedians.

The compare bounced on stage to check the mike. He had more energy than a hyperactive after a caseload of coke (the drinking kind), not the other.

“Can you all move up the front?” he said with an appealing look at us. “Make room for the others.”

“There’re others?” Said my pal then catching a glance at a group of hoodies made for the front table.

Before we knew it we were hemmed in from all sides, squashed into our seats, me with a knee at my back, and inches from the stage—so close I could see the nasal hairs of the compare.
My pal stared at the back as more packed in.

“What happens in a fire,” she muttered.

“I’m sure it will be ok” I turned to the front. “You can always toss your tonic water.”

Ignoring my tonic joke she began to talk of palpitations and emergency exits—which she had as much chance of as me growing a third head.

The first act had my pal laughing. “Your next” she turned to me.

The comedian bounced off stage, the compare bounced on.

My heart pounded…

He introduced another act.

“I thought you were next,” huffed my pal.

I wanted to tell her to shut it.

More comedians appeared.

A rap artist joking about Grannie’s private parts.

A comedian who said he felt invisible.

An intimidating woman with catholic issues.

And a man with quite a bit to say about mental health.

They all got their fair share of laughs.

“Time for a break,” said the compare.

The lights flashed on. We watched the mass exodus to the bar as the compare flashed past us. My friend grabbed his arm. “I thought you said she was second,” she gestured to me like I was an off-bit of fruit.

I was beginning to feel like I was with my mother.

“In the second session,” he said with a fixed smile.

We watched his back disappear. “He could have said” she muttered.

I tried to focus on my set, was it too long?

“I may have to go outside,” said my Pal.

Or too dirty?

I looked about the crowd—not dirty enough?

My heart began to pound as my pal and I left the basement, me attempting to go over my set, my pal for the toilet. The toilet was a tiny place with a large mirror angled to make you feel like were in another room—weirdly disorientating especially if you had a few wines.

My pal reappeared, like a child who had got something ‘useful’ for Christmas.

“Can’t go in there, it’s all complicated,” she muttered.

“Just a mirror,” I said, “In a funny place.”

She didn’t hear but moved back into the basement securing a seat at the very back with a clear passageway to the exit.

As the crowd returned clutching drinks, some wafting of dope, my pal moaned about not being able to see. She didn’t seem to notice the smell and for a moment I idly wondered about her past, until my stomach tightened reminding me I was on in five minutes.

My set went well, I got laughs, more than I expected it was a great crowd.

I plumped down beside my pal beaming.

“You're very,” she paused, “earthy”.

“That’s what my mum would say” I laughed.

We left soon after, and as we headed out the door a group of young girls grabbed me to say how much they liked my story.

“You performed from the heart,” said one.

“Can’t wait to see you again”, said the other.

“Calling Frank dyslexic for wank is one of the best lines of the night.” Said an onlooker.

My pal was silent.

I floated to the car on a complete high.

My set is an exaggerated story about my mum, who I’d managed to disappoint more times than a politician lies. For me it was a liberating experience, my pal, however, seemed unimpressed she even had the same disappointed look as my mother.

“There is a side to you I had no idea of,” she said. “A side I’d rather not know.” She heaved into the car, slammed the door, and with a grunt slid on her seat belt. “I liked the invisible man,” she said. “He was the best.”

I started the engine.

“He was clever, and he didn’t swear.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her she sounded just like my mother not that I cared.
With laughs like I got, disappointing my mum was the last thing on my mind.

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One Alien One Gearstick

Kerrie Noor — Fri, 27 Dec 2024 00:00:00 +0000

AI Dosen't Always Know Best

Back in the days when Pete was on earth Pete kept a log, most of which was directed at Mex’s inability to “lay off the sugar”. Word has it he left it behind when he left for Planet Hy Man for those of us who want a gentle reminder of just what a queer bunch we humans are…

I don’t know about you but I think the idea of a robot made of Teflon driving a car is as queer as it gets.

Earth 2008 -In Search Of Legless

When Bunnie insisted on me driving, I thought she was “having- a-laugh;” apparently, she was as serious as Mex is about sugar.

“What about the roundabouts…the junctions,” I said.

“It will be a learning curve,” chuckled Mex who had developed a thing for phrases.

“Learning curve, he’s a robot,” said Bunnie.

“Android,” I snapped.

“He’s a walking microchip.”

“Microchips are more an earth thing,” I said.

“Driving should be second nature to him with all his… robotic…er… genes.” She looked at me. “He just needs to flick a switch or something.”

“Whatever,” muttered Mex peering into her empty fudge bag.

I stared at the TV willing it to turn on.

“Come on then,” said Bunny. “Up and at ‘em”.

No-one moved.

Bunnie lifted a cushion and began to fluff with vigor (a habit she had which made me glad I wasn’t a cushion) “Spock would turn in his grave if he saw you now.

“Spock in a grave?” Said Woody.

“I mean look at you, you’re nothing like Star Wars… I mean Star Trek. They’re always on the go, saving things,” she punched a cushion. “Captain Kirk never whined about roundabouts.”

“What’s Captain Kirk got to do with it?” said Woody.

“He’d be ashamed of the likes of you”.

“He is just a character in a TV show,” said Woody.

Bunnie looked at Woody like he had pulled a kidney from my side and slid it into a sandwich. “I know that,” she said. “But he went to other planets, did things, and never once did he….”

“It's a TV show,” said Woody.

“I am aware.”

“And he is a human—actor.”

“Come on,” she said with a toss of a cushion “let’s get this show on the road”.

I’d liked to say I jumped in the car, but I didn't I was ceremonially pushed!

I stared at the dashboard, it was as old-fashioned as the horse and cart. Cars, (which we call limos) on our planet are driven by computers, the only thing remotely human in the driver’s seat is a painted silhouette on the glass partition as believable as Bunnie's dentures.

Bunnie eased herself into the seat next to me while Mex and Woody piled into the back.

Bunnie nodded to the ignition with a “come on it won’t bite” look, then proceeded to talk me through the gears as my feet felt the peddles, I flicked the car into gear, turned on the ignition, and stalled.

Mex almost wet herself with laughter.

“That’ll be enough of that!” barked Bunnie with a turn and glare.

I jolted into second gear and at, (to quote Bunnie) "a slug’s pace" headed for my first roundabout. It was the size of a launchpad which Bunnie explained was a bonus. The size scared me, I began circling, fearing the exit, after the fourth, Bunnie began to grind her teeth - after the fifth, she was balling like our esteemed leader.

“Just indicate and take a friggin exit.”

I, in the middle of trying to understand the difference between a speed sign, the actual speed of a car, and the rich tapestry of finger gestures stalled yet again. Then a horn blasted from a juggernaut of a lorry looming up my rear.

Even Mex stopped laughing.

“There is always someone uselessly tooting his horn,” muttered Woody.

I took a deep breath and after a few calming yoga mantras screeched an exit favoured in TV dramas and sped through a red light.

“Fuck sake”.

“What?”

“Watch out for the cyclist.”

“Where?”

“Jesus”

“Jesus is riding a bike?”

“Just friggin slowed down.”

I slid the car into first, it jolted to stop, and cars beeped behind.

“Keep going for Christ's sake!” yelled Bunnie.

I attempted a hand brake start.

“You don’t need the break— just go.”

The car jumped “What…”

“I said....”

The car jolted again.

“Stop!” yelled Bunnie.

“You said…”

“Just pull over”.

Woody and I sat in the car as Bunnie and Mex headed to Asda. I looked at the dashboard feeling like an idiot, my hands clammy with anxiety. I was as frazzled as a fried egg. What had turned me into such a “I can’t do this” wreck? By the time we had pulled into the car park, the veins in Bunnie’s neck were pulsating, as she was giving me the lecture of the century, claiming that “I was a danger to mankind and that waving to every “Tom, Dick, and Harry” was as much use as my navigation system”— a total exaggeration.

Woody patted me on the back. “I wouldn’t worry I failed my test three times.”

“But I’m an android we are above mistakes.”

“Well, what would an android do behind a wheel then?”

“I don’t know I am not programmed….” I stopped. I recalibrate my programs all the time which is the difference between an android and a robot, we're as flexible as the Teflon we made from.

“Seriously if you were on your planet what would you do?”

“Get a refund on the driver,” I said.

“Think like a robot,” said Woody.

“Android”.

“Alright, an android then.”

I slid my hand on the wheel, “well, I would not feel for a start. I’d use my head.”

I looked at the speed dial focusing on the connections to the engine and my circuits started to buzz. The gear stick moved in first, the engine fired up, and as my vision zoomed in on the pick-up point the car drove towards it.

“That a boy,” muttered Woody.

Bunnie appeared, with Mex at her side and a trolley in front. Bunnie was looking a little frayed, while Mex, looking like (to quote Woody) she had “been on the piss all night” was pushing a trolley like the wheels had taken over.

I skidded a “TV cop” stop beside them, and the door opened. “Captain Kirk at your service,” I said.

That night I stared at the TV with Woody at my side. Mex was asleep tossing and turning apparently being chased by a Mars bar in her dreams, while Bunnie was in the kitchen doing what she loved best, cleaning with a hum.

“Star Trek is on” yelled Woody.

“I know luv.”

“You not coming to watch.”

“Don’t think so.”

Woody looked at me, “you up for a film then?”

I shook my head, “I had enough earth drama for one day. How about something real?” I said. “And no cars.”

Woody laughed and flicked onto a Star Wars film.

First Published in Substack December 2023

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Serials-no not breeakfast but serial as in netflix!

Kerrie Noor — Tue, 19 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

The Rise Of Manifesto The Great and all who sail after her will soon be serialized on https://www.royalroad.com.

Stay tuned for when...

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Recycling For Christmas

Kerrie Noor — Wed, 13 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Finding the end of sellotape is as easy as finding a man who uses a condom

I decided to say a Christmas thank-you to my son the only way I knew how—with chocolate. He lives in China, and apparently, it’s not that great there.

My husband, a man with more vouchers than Amazon, bought so much cheap chocolate I had to send it in batches.

Or eat it myself …

Every day he came in from work, looked at the pile of chocolate, and asked…

“Have you sent that chocolate yet?”

Sometimes I looked at him like he was stupid, other times I just said “Yes.”

Finally, my inertia got the better of him.

He waltzed in brandishing a chewed-up roll of Christmas paper which needed a little “drying out”, a roll of Sellotape so old it took half an hour to find the end, and an empty box mysteriously marked “adult’s only.”

Where he got the boxes from I haven’t a clue, but I suspect, like most things, in some dark corner at work where no one dares to linger…

Three broken fingernails later I looked up from the Sellotape, the end still stuck like super glue. My ability to breathe life into a has-been, Sellotape is legendary, but this thing had been glued together since the Thatcher years.

“Shall I just buy a new one?” I said.

He peered from his precision paper cutting with a “hardly” look.

Recycling is his middle name, in fact, if there was a recycling superhero he’d be it. He could recycle a used postage stamp if he put his mind to it. His cupboards are full of ancient underpants, mismatched socks, and jackets that don’t fit, usually from his twice-size brother or even worse, his sister.

When I first discovered such talent I was mesmerized and amused. His talent for recycling was on a par with his packing. I’ve seen him pack an eighty-inch flat-screen TV into the back of a Mini as precisely as a surgeon puts back organs. Hell, I’ve seen him parcel up a running machine to send home to his family in Bangladesh and still have change from a tenner. And how he does it is as much a mystery to me as getting a soufflé to rise.

I stared at my hubby folding paper around the mysterious adults-only box like he was making an origami H bomb. It was going to be an all-night job. My hubby likes to make a meal of things. What is a mundane task for me is truly saving the world for him.

The next morning, after an argument about my “flamboyant use of sellotape,” we headed for the post office.

A voluptuous elderly woman behind the counter admired hubby’s handwork.

“Get a load of this,” she gestured to her colleague.

Her colleague polishing her glasses, peered at the address while the voluptuous one praised my hubby for the excellent “taping of the corners”.

“That’s precision, that is,” she said, “impenetrable”.

Hubby beamed with pride.

“I have wrapped up more presents than Santa himself,” she said, “but never anything as, well…perfect.” She eyed Hubby. “You can wrap my parcel any day.”

She winked.

He gave her his best shy face.

“Pity,” said the Colleague.

“What?” I said.

“Well it's way too heavy for China,” said the colleague.

“Even by ship?” said the voluptuous one.

The colleague jiggled the box in her hands and blew through her lips.

Chocolate to China, it seems, is a lot harder to send than a running machine to Bangladesh.

She placed it on the counter like it was about to explode.

“It’ll never make it on a ship, way too suspicious.”

She threw me a look. “They’ll have the SWAT team after it in Peking.”

“SWAT team, in Peking?” Snapped the voluptuous one

“You need to make it into two .”

“Two?” Snapped the voluptuous one.

“Make that three.”

“Three?” Shrieked the voluptuous one.

“Well if you want to get it there before Christmas.”

I looked at my Hubby, silent but thoughtful. You can learn a lot from a decade of bed-sharing; one being when to say nothing and the other being when not to gloat.

His eyes scanned the back of the office stopping at the recycle bin…

The voluptuous one followed his gaze.

“Are those for recycling?” he said.

The voluptuous one, with a larger-than-life smile, picked a selection of scruffy padded envelopes out of the recycling bin that had, by looks of things, been around the world at least twice.

“I do like a man that recycles”, she said.

The colleague tutted.

My hubby, with his arms full of used envelopes, headed out the door, looked at the rain lashing down, and turned to me.

“There's still plenty of that Sellotape isn’t there?”

I said nothing.

True love is knowing when to feign deafness.

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Driving The Planet Hy Man Way

Kerrie Noor — Mon, 28 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Here is a wee extract just for you.

Earth 2008-In Search Of Legless.

I had been on Earth a week, and my confusion had plunged to the depth of a coal pit, Woody’s “treat 'em mean and keep ‘em keen” lecture didn’t help, and neither was sitting in front of the TV when he did it.

We were watching a “romantic comedy” at the time and I was spellbound. We don’t have a TV on Planet Hy Man, we watch Earth’s, it makes us feel superior, like a scientist staring at a bug. But watching TV on Earth is way different, it sucks you in. And I was on the edge of my seat, feeling things I never felt before, like willing the couple on for a happy ending.

I have never been “on the edge” of anything, let alone “sucked in”. I didn’t even know what an “earth happy ending” was until this week. A happy ending for us androids is merely the right lubrication. As for feelings, the only thing I’ve ever felt was mild irritation from herself, Mex, the Man Spy I serve, a woman who refuses to listen to anything I say, although she does admire my ability to drop into the splits.

“What a load of bollocks” laughed Woody as I wiped my eyes— grateful that he hadn’t noticed the “load of bollocks” had just ripped my heart open and patched it back together again— a heart I wasn’t supposed to have.

We were in a Bed and Breakfast run by Bunnie a woman who Woody maintained “had been around the block a few times”. She knew all about our mission. Mex had arrived before me and having overdosed on anything with sugar had not only spilled the beans but was now so addicted to sugar, she had a sense of humor.

Here’s me trying to grasp the nature of an earthling while she, living it up on fudge, tablet, and chocolate was as high as a flag at full mast and as much help as an earth road map.

Earth is so confusing— take platonic, it sounds like some metal that makes a time - piece speak, but according to Woody, it is a type of relationship where “no snogging” is required. Drama on TV involving shouting which people seem to find “entertaining”, while “entertainment” itself is people fixing up houses or hitting balls with more types of implements than haircuts, and don’t get me started on cars. I mean how many types of cars does one need, what is wrong with sticking with one color, is coordination that big a deal? Woody says it is, he says it’s what gets folk up in the morning along with breakfast TV, and a decent coffee.

Running on Planet Hy Man is merely a mechanism of transportation, to get from “A to B”, there is no prize involved. Prizes are for wimps according to our esteemed leader just as balls are for knocking things down from a great height.

I stared at the credits wondering what “entertainment” was on next when Woody flicked the channel to wrestling— “for a laugh”.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Wrestling is what robots do on the “sly”. I guess it comes from being made of Teflon, it’s so flexible, that bending someone over your head is as easy as, well, laughing, and us androids love a good laugh, usually at the expense of the more ‘manual” robots.

After three body slams and a chair over the back smash Woody, bored with Macho Man and his tag team flicked the channel.

“This stuff is as plausible as me doing the high jump,” he said which had Mex perplexed enough to look up from her bag of fudge, even when he explained what a high jump was.

I laughed out loud, Woody is a dwarf who struggles to reach the top shelf, his sarcasm is on a par with the great wits on my planet, and for the past week, his wit has had me laughing more times than Mex has tucked into a Cadbury’s milk tray.

“There is as much truth in wrestling as there is meat in a sausage,” he said channels cruising.

I laughed again.

“Are you not a vegetarian?” Said Mex.

“Well yes but….” He smiled at me .“The two are not related.”

Bunnie walked in took one look at all three of us squashed up on the couch now staring at the shopping channel, grabbed the remote, and with a tut flicked off the TV.

“We need to go to Asda for supplies,” she said.

We all looked up.

“For this mission of yours,” she huffed. “I have a list here and…” she turned to Mex “...there is bugger all sweet stuff.”

Mex pulled a face.

“You need to detox, how are you going to save your planet high on toffee and the like.”

I stared at the blank screen I didn’t want to move. I wanted to watch another film, bugger the mission.

Bunnie talked of how she wanted to help, that helping was the very core of her being then she stopped and looked at me. “Why don’t you drive”.

“Drive? Why?”

“You’re a robot”.

“Android,” I said.

“You're supposed to know about these things. Besides Woody can’t reach the peddle.” She looked at Mex “and she….well,” Bunnie huffed again.

Thank you pickling Mex!

First published in Substack November 2023

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The Woman Who Wanted To Be Funny

Kerrie Noor — Wed, 16 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

And so it begins the serialization of The Woman Who Wanted To Be Funny check it out now on Medium.

Prologue

Eyebrows are the side dish of a face, not the main.

I was sitting in the dressing room avoiding Felicity, the so-called makeup lady. She has a way of putting on makeup that makes anyone look like a drunk Bette Davies.

She has a thing for eyebrows, claims they’re the “handle of the face” and “should be seen” — like a mile away — at least!

Pete thought it was hilarious when I arrived home with my “war paint”.

“Me big chief Indian,” he said, ignoring my PC comment.

I told him she had buggered up my face during the dress rehearsal, that it had taken half a packet of wet wipes to get to this “big chief Indian” half-removed look, and did he listen? He poured me a dram, kissed my head, and returned to watching Sky Sports.

click on the line below to read more

https://medium.com/serial-stories/the-woman-who-wanted-to-be-funny-e28bee09ea7f

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Story Telling In Glasgow

Kerrie Noor — Sun, 22 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

The Three Omigos are coming out to play and here is a preview only I'll be doing it without script...

Embedded Youtube video removed, see original post to watch.

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