Grandma Grunt

Published and designed by:Hayes Design, East Sussex, Englandwww.hayesdesign.co.uk/books

Copyright © Clifford James Hayes 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy,recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can itbe circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published andwithout similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

Grandma Grunt is also available as an eBook and in the Hairy Tales collection of stories.

Grandma Grunt

clifford james hayes

hayesdesign.co.uk/books

IntroductionAs with all the characters in my booky-wooks, GrandmaGrunt is (or was) a real person - or at least, she is (or was)an amalgamation of several real persons. If you melted thereal persons down, added a tiny sprinkle of nastiness, atitchy dollop of insanity and a smidge of overpowering,stomach-churning stench, then you’d end up withGrandma Grunt.

I certainly have nothing against grandmas, but theyreceive far too much good press in my opinion, and so thislickle tale is an attempt to redress the balance. Most oldwomen are barking mad (which isn’t a bad thing) and theyoften smell (just as much as the rest of us, if not more so).We should stop pretending they’re all sweet, fragrantloveliness and the epitome of wisdom and charm, and justaccept them for what they are; old, mad and smelly! Butbe nice to them (even if you have to put a peg on your noseto block the whiff ), as they’re usually pretty generouswhen it comes to treats and so on.

Anyway, that’s (almost) enough of my introductoryranting, so I’ll shut up now apart from inserting this briefdisclaimer about the contents herein (included to try anddissuade angry parents from having a go at me about myhorribly unsuitable stories). Ahem, as follows:

Please find herein a short tale about a hideousgrandma, intended for persons of a youthful disposition.There is also a separate poem-story-thing called TheLurgatron - this is about influenza, bogies (or boogers, as Ithink they say in America) and sickness, and another oneabout a horrible clown named Creepy.

You may find these tales weird and a bit stupid. And abit horrible. Hopefully one or two adults may enjoy themtoo (I doubt it); they are a bit naughty and yucky (but in anice way). And there are plenty more of such tales in mybooky-wook Hairy Tales, if you’re interested in this sort ofnonsense!

Author’s note:

This slightly updated version of Grandma Grunt contains a fewgrammatical tweak-ettes. It may seem as if there are many, manyshocking inaccuracies and punctuation niggles lurking within thisbook’s waffle - however, these are entirely deliberate. Please bear inmind that this tale is set in the land of Hairy Make-Believe, wherebad grammar is commonplace and quite the norm.

Well, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.

Grandma Grunt

When you think of grandmas, you probablythink of nice, scented old ladies - the kind ofdoddery old dears who drink endless cups of

tea and spoil their grandchildren with sugary, stodgyhome-made cakes. Your grannie is there to make you feelsafe, warm and all gooey inside.

Grannies have cuddly, nursey mannerisms and aslightly bonkers too-old-to-care approach to life; theyallow their grandchildren to get away with all manner ofslightly naughty acts and misdemeanors. Eating toomuch cake? Breaking a china plate? Going to bed withoutcleaning your teeth? Such naughtiness may never beallowed at home, but a grannie will usually find childishhijinks, tomfoolery and slovenliness to be quite acceptablewhen you stay at her place.

All this talk of sweet old dears gurgling tea and bakingbad-for-you sugary cakes may possibly remind you ofenjoyable visits to your own grandmother - and as aconsequence give you soft, fluffy memories of never beingscolded, of endlessly eating candy until you felt queasyand of always being well looked after.

Unfortunately, these were not the memories of Edgarand Wilhelmina Grunt. The grandmother of Edgar andWilhelmina Grunt was not a nice, scented old lady. Thegrandmother of Edgar and Wilhelmina Grunt wassomething else entirely.

The grandmother of Edgar and Wilhelmina Gruntdid not make sugary cakes, nor dish out too many sweets.The grandmother of Edgar and Wilhelmina Grunt didnot make you feel warm and squishy inside.

Grandma Grunt 3

Imagine a grandma with a strong, lingering, rotten-vegetably smell - the kind of putrid stench that made youcough up a little bit of sick every time you got downwindof her. Imagine a grandma who spoke words so rude evena foul-mouthed football hooligan would be tooembarrassed to repeat them. Imagine a grandma thatliked to encourage spiders and other creepy-crawly thingsto live in every nook and cranny of her dilapidated,unclean home, and who fed her grandchildren food offplates that had never been washed in over forty years.Imagine a grandma whose endless procession of wiltingcigarettes in her mouth had worn a brown, stained grooveinto her lower lip, and who only ever drank a home-madebrew that also doubled-up as paint-remover. Imagine agrandma with a voice like rumbling thunder, who woredark sunglasses over tiny, darting eyes and who wouldalways make you play (and lose at) poker. Imagine agrandma regularly visited by dubious-looking individualshanding over briefcases full of used banknotes. Imagine agrandma firing an ancient blunderbuss gun at those samedubious-looking individuals when she’d decided they’ddouble-crossed her. Imagine a grandma displaying amountain-range of lumps over every inch of exposedflesh, with hairy moles that looked like baby tarantulas,with blackheads the size of buttons in her nose and withcoarse, bristly hair growing in the strangest of places (evenout of the gums between her blackened teeth).

Now you’re getting a picture of Edgar andWilhelmina Grunt’s grandmother.

To top it all, Edgar and Wilhelmina Grunt’s

grandmother was quite mad. An absolute fruitcake, infact. Her favourite book was The Frogs of War - a woefultale about pond-life taking over the world. GrandmaGrunt was convinced the book was a prophecy - that oneday the globe would indeed fall beneath the webbedjackboot of militaristic amphibians. She read the bleak,miserable book again and again and again to her terrifiedgrandchildren, filling their heads with images of war,atrocities and destruction ...

Soldier toads, and frogs of war,Built for fighting, blood and gore.Hop o’er land, break down your door,Take it all, then take some more!We’re the toads and frogs of war,Croak and ribit, belch and roar!

And in the lightning flashes, peering at her throughthe windows of her cottage, poor Little Mishka sawthe heavily-scarred, pockmarked face of their toadleader - General Wartback - staring at her with hisone good eye. He slowly raised a green, calloused fingerto the window - to show Little Mishka she’d been seen.To show her she would be taken. Then the veterantoad soldier swelled his throat to such a size theterrified child thought he would explode, before hereleased a deafening, petrifying cry; ‘Bwooooorrrp!’

She ran to hide beneath her bed, but her cottage’sentrance was ripped asunder and slimy claws draggedher screaming into the blackness outside. Little Mishka

Grandma Grunt 5

was to discover there could be no escape from the frogsof war ...

She called the book ‘The Froggy Scriptures’, and readterrifying excerpts such as the above to Edgar andWilhelmina every time they came to stay. Once satisfiedshe’d scared the living daylights out of her grandchildren,Grandma Grunt made them eat ‘Grot’ - a grey, semi-liquid concoction of her own design. Part-porridge, part-soup, part-whatever-was-found-in-the-backyard.Anything unfortunate enough to be slow and easy tocatch often went into her vat of Grot - she had aparticular fancy for snails and slugs, and even squeezedthe ‘juice’ out of a dead seagull once, in order to add it tothe putrid gruel.

Her madness manifested itself in other strange andremarkable ways. Despite her ancient (but indefinable)age, she was something of an electronics and engineeringgenius (thanks to time spent as a bank robber in heryouth, when she’d regularly disable alarm systems,detonate locked doors and crack open sophisticatedsafes). Determined to ruin the enjoyment of anyone livingwithin the vicinity of her home, she used her engineeringprowess to design possibly the most disgusting inventionof all time; the ‘zeppelin poobomber’. This gruesomedevice was a miniature, helium-filled airship-like balloon,driven by tiny motorised fans and steered by remotecontrol. Beneath the balloon was a payload, which wouldbe filled with ... well, you guessed it ... poo. Whenever aneighbour was foolish-enough to think an open-air

Grandma Grunt 7

garden party would be quite a nice way to spend a warmsummer evening, Grandma Grunt would load up thezeppelin with any animal droppings she could find in herbackyard. She would then launch the miniature blimpinto the skies and steer it via remote control on a silentflight toward the neighbour’s premises. Once it was inposition, Grandma Grunt would release the filthy payloadover the heads of her neighbour’s guests. The zeppelinpoobomber came with a camera, allowing GrandmaGrunt to control the airship and release its cargo withconsiderable accuracy; if no-one was about, she wouldslyly drop its poo-bombs into the party food and drinks,for the guests to discover later in the evening.

So yes, Grandma Grunt was quite vile. And she hadcomplete power over her grandchildren. And she liked tolet them know she knew it.

So it perhaps goes without saying that Edgar andWilhelmina didn’t exactly look forward to their visits toGrandma Grunt’s house. And there’s so much more totell, of course; once she had filled their heads with herbonkers frog-war-gore stories and filled their churningbellies with Grot, they would be dispatched to bed by nolater than 4.30 in the afternoon. Naturally, their mildewed,airless bedroom was padlocked from the outside, and hadno lighting nor any windows. The small sweaty, stainedmattress they had to share had no pillows, sheets orblankets, and sharp, rusty springs poked and scratched thechildren throughout the night. Edgar and Wilhelminahardly ever slept, due to the creeping, skittering things thatshared their nocturnal prison with them.

As if all this wasn’t bad enough, their grandmotheralso enjoyed making sure their unpleasant evenings wereimmediately followed by even-worse mornings. A crueland demented device Grandma Grunt had inventedmade sure Edgar and Wilhelmina were always awake wellbefore dawn. ‘Papa Whuppin’ (as the mad machine wascalled) was attached to a non-adjustable alarm clock. PapaWhuppin’s whirling robotic arms had mouldy, wornslippers attached to them and would beat them awake assoon as it turned 4am. Edgar and Wilhelmina would thenhave to beat on the door of their prison (whilst still being‘slippered’ by Papa Whuppin) until their grandmotherever-so-slowly shuffled to it and unlocked the padlock.Grandma Grunt would then return to bed, leaving themto begin their chores of quietly cleaning and preparingfood for the coming day while she contentedly snoredand farted until it was almost noon.

So, a typical day spent with Grandma Grunt beganwith the aforementioned pre-dawn slippered awakening,followed by hours of laborious cooking and cleaning.Once Grandma Grunt was semi-conscious, Edgar andWilhelmina would have to drag her vast, blubbery bulk tothe bathroom, and give her a good wash in the bathtub. Itwas Edgar’s job to scrub Grandma Grunt’s back andsmelly armpits, and Wilhelmina’s job to carefully squeezethe huge, greasy spots on her face. Then they both had totowel her dry and get her dressed, place her at the diningtable and feed her. Later, she would put a vat of Grot onto a slow cook, so that it would be ready to give to hergrandchildren for supper (at 4pm).

Grandma Grunt 9

While the grey gruel was bubbling away on top of thecooker, Grandma Grunt would usually like to goshopping - though of course, she didn’t shop wherenormal people liked to buy things. She would always goto Uncle Disgusting’s Emporium, which was probably themost horrible shop on the entire planet.

Uncle Disgusting was Edgar and Wilhelmina’s uncle(and Grandma Grunt’s eldest son). As you may haveguessed, ‘Disgusting’ wasn’t his real name - but whateverit was, it was lost in the mists of time. If you met himwithout knowing his name, you’d probably guess it wasUncle Disgusting just by looking at him - he wore a tall,black hat (the kind that undertaker’s wear at funerals) andan ill-fitting old suit that he never, ever took off. He hadfew remaining teeth, and all of them were brown. Hishands were covered by worn, grey mittens, out of whichlengthy skeletal fingers protruded. His fingernails were(perhaps unsurprisingly) black and untrimmed. A soggyroll-up cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouthand he coughed and hacked constantly, sending the wetand slimy contents of his throat spraying in all directions.There wasn’t much hair on his head, but the strands thatremained were scraped from one ear to the other. Hisfavourite book was a revolting title called Tales from theToilet - a collection of grubby stories even more yukkythan the one you are reading right now.

Uncle Disgusting had a keen eye for business; heknew that the world was full of ‘nice’ shops, that sold ‘nice’things that ‘nice’ people needed - groceries, clothes,furniture, cleaning essentials, TVs and so on. Uncle

Disgusting, however, was a proud purveyor of the ‘not-nice’. He had no interest in selling ‘nice’ things, and onlysold goods and consumables you and I would onlydescribe as, well, horrible.

Why would people buy horrible things, you might ask?Simple, really; the things he sold were so weird, grottyand gruesome they attracted the kind of weird, grotty andgruesome people that wouldn’t shop in ‘nice’ shops. Peopleexactly like Grandma Grunt.

Grandma Grunt would come into Uncle Disgusting’sEmporium and buy a bag of sick on a Monday, a jar ofgreasy back-scrapings on a Tuesday, a tin of used belly-hair on a Wednesday, a tub of blackstuff-from-between-your-toes on a Thursday, a family-size tube of nostril-contents on a Friday and some earwax candles on aSaturday. If it was nearly Christmas, Uncle Disgustingwould even open on a Sunday for his clientele - whichwas a treat for Grandma Grunt as it meant she couldcome and buy a big jar of wart bonbons.

You might be wondering what she did with all thosevile items. Let’s just say it had something to do with thegrey, horrible Grot she’d give to her grandchildren oncethey’d returned from the shopping excursion.

Anyway, you may have noticed by now that I’ve givenyou a lot of unsavoury background about Grandma Gruntand her relatives, but precious-little story as yet - so Ithink it’s about time I got things underway ...

It was early autumn, and Edgar and Wilhelmina wereforced to stay with their gran for the weekend as theirfather was away. As I briefly mentioned earlier, their dad

Grandma Grunt 11

wasn’t a bad fellow, and in truth he regretted having to lethis children stay with his hideous mother. Unfortunatelyhowever, Edgar and Wilhelmina’s mother had died yearsearlier, and their father had the kind of job that took himaway from home for several days at a time. On occasionssuch as this, staying with Grandma Grunt was the onlyoption.

Once they finished school, despite their usualconcerns and trepidations about what a weekend withtheir grandmother would hold in store for them, theyheaded straight to her house and had made it to theslightly shabby street she lived on by 4pm; they dreadedto think what might happen if they arrived after theircurfew 4.30pm bedtime.

They were almost at the front of her dishevelledhouse when they heard the whirr of rotors and enginesabove their heads. Looking up, they saw theirgrandmother’s zeppelin poobomber passing-by; thoughwarm for the season, it was probably too late in the yearfor their neighbours to have a barbecue, so the childrensurmised she must be giving her favourite toy a test flight.As they briskly walked round the side of theirgrandmother’s home, they realised they’d been correct intheir assumptions; there in her backyard squattedGrandma Grunt, furiously playing with the mini-airship’sremote control, her head tilted skyward.

Their grandmother became aware of their presencebut didn’t bother to acknowledge her grandchildrenmuch. ‘Get yerselves inside,’ she barked, ‘it’ll be dark soon.Nearly bedtime. Go on - move it.’

‘Nice to see you too, Grandma,’ grumbled Edgar, as heand his sister grudgingly headed inside.

‘I got a surprise fer yer tomorrow,’ she growled inresponse, without taking her eyes off the small blimpcircling overhead. ‘We’re goin’ out.’

‘Oh, really?,’ said Wilhelmina, with more than a littletired and knowing sarcasm in her voice. ‘Where to?Somewhere delightful, like the riverside, or a picnicbeside the cricket grounds? Or perhaps a spot of elevensesin the tea-rooms?’

‘Uncle Disgusting’s Emporium,’ replied hergrandmother, with a cruel smile. ‘Just for a change. Won’tthat be lovely?’

‘Can’t wait,’ the children groaned.‘Good,’ their grandmother responded. ‘And you’ll be

pleased to hear there’s a lovely vat of Grot bubbling awayin the kitchen, so go an’ help yerselves to a bowlful or two,while I make some modifications to my poobomber.’

‘What modifications are you making, Grandma?’asked Edgar. ‘A backup turd-launcher, or a new firingsystem to spray wee on to your neighbours, perhaps?’

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ his grandmother barked. ‘Though asit ’appens, yes - that’s exactly what I’m adding to myzeppelin. An’ I’ll tell yer why - because them frogs an’toads is making murderous plans against us even as wespeak.’ The children rolled their eyes as they knew whatwas coming next. ‘My poobomber’s my first line ofdefence against ’em; I only practice attacks on theneighbours’ parties in preparation for the amphibianonslaught that’s to come.’

Grandma Grunt 13

Grandma Grunt caught Wilhelmina sniggering andgave her a withering stare. ‘You can laugh all you want, mygirl,’ she growled. ‘But one day you’ll see. One day thishouse’ll be surrounded by those ’orrible, green littlebleeders an’ you’ll be beggin’ me to save yer.’ She pausedfor a moment, and the children could see a moment ortwo of genuine frog-fixated fear and loathing in theirgrandmother’s eyes. Then it was gone, and she composedherself once more. ‘Anyways, as I said before, get yerselvesinside, an’ get some Grot down yer gullets before I lockyer’s up fer the night. I’ve got some guests and businessassociates comin’ round this evening, an’ I want you bothout of the way.’

And so the routine began. At 4.30pm exactly, Edgarand Wilhelmina were padlocked in their room, strugglingto keep down their grandmother’s ‘cooking’. Before long,they could hear the muffled sounds of the usual unsavourycharacters making their way into the house for a night of(in this order) drinking, playing cards, gambling, moredrinking, eating, dancing to awful music, more drinking, abit more gambling, arguing, fighting, more drinking,fighting, throwing around the furniture, yet moredrinking, dreadful singing, drunken tears and (finally)being thrown out by Grandma Grunt. All of the aboveunpleasantness would be punctuated with foul language,shouting and raucous laughter, as you might expect.

It was almost 3am when the exhausted-but-still-wide-awake Edgar and Wilhelmina heard the last of the visitorsleave, and Grandma Grunt finally slope off to bed.

‘This is not an environment conducive to the wellbeing

of children,’ Edgar said, as silence fell at long last.‘Well, we’re going to have to do something about it,’

his sister replied. ‘Because no-one else can. Dad’s got toomuch on his plate, and no-one else would believe us.’

And so the seeds of rebellion began to form in Edgarand Wilhelmina’s minds. They spent the little remainingtime they had that night deep in thought andconversation, before being startled from their plans byPapa Whuppin sparking into life at 4am precisely. Therobotic spanking machine came at them with its rotating,worn old slippers and began walloping them about thehead. In response, the children banged on the doorfuriously in order to call Grandma Grunt from herdrunken slumbers. It took the best part of ten slipper-whupped minutes before they heard the rustle and clunknoises of the padlock being removed. Still fighting offPapa Whuppin, they scrambled past the hideousapparition that was their 98% asleep grandmother andmade their way to the kitchen to begin their pre-dawnchores. Grandma Grunt shuffled back to her bedroomand lay unconscious on her bed for the next eight hours.She lay there unmoving, snoring like a warthog andbreaking wind constantly, as the children set aboutcleaning-up her home after the previous night’s revelry.

Despite their tiredness, they worked through their taskswith renewed vigour; taking advantage of theirgrandmother’s drunken slumber, they whispered asuccession of ideas and schemes amongst themselves untilby mid-morning they had formulated ‘The Plan’. Now allthey had to do was choose their moment to set it in motion.

Grandma Grunt 15

Noon came, and Grandma Grunt finally started tostir. Edgar and Wilhelmina knew the signs; when shestarted grumbling in her sleep about frog assaults andtoad wars, it meant she was moments away fromconsciousness. With a sudden, startled cry of ‘Gahhhh!!’,her bulbous eyes popped open and she sat bolt upright.She spent a moment or two taking in her surroundings,and shook her head violently in a fruitless attempt to getrid of her monster hangover. Giving the air a sniff tocheck the grandchildren had been cleaning the house, shegrunted with reluctant satisfaction.

‘Fetch me my slippers an’ dressing gown,’ she barked. ‘You’re already wearing them,’ Wilhelmina icily

responded. ‘We’ve already bathed and dressed you.’ Withanother grunt, the vile old grandma realised hergranddaughter was telling the truth.

‘Well, give me a hand an’ get me t’ the dinner table,’the old hag replied. ‘Can’t yer see I’m just an old, frail anddefenceless pensioner?’ Cursing to themselves, thechildren trudged into her boudoir and heaved her off thebed. Ignoring her groans and protestations, they placedher arms around their shoulders and carried her to thedining area, before unceremoniously plonking her on toher favourite dining chair.

‘What’s fer breakfast?’ she grumbled, as her handsdarted for the packet of cigarettes and lighter Edgar hadplaced nearby for her.

‘Whatever I could find that looked vaguely edible,’ hereplied. ‘Which wasn’t much.’

A lightning-fast swipe from the back of Grandma

Grunt’s hand caught the back of Edgar’s head. ‘Less ofyer cheek,’ she coughed. ‘Nothing wrong with the vittlesin this house.’ Her eyes darted from her grandson andtoward the Grot stew that was bubbling away on top ofthe stove. ‘How’s it lookin’?’ she asked, gesticulatingtoward the manky pan on top of the cooker.

‘Grandma, it’s Grot,’ replied Wilhelmina. ‘How doesit always look, other than grey, foul and repulsive?’

The foul grandmother’s slit-like eyes slowly passedfrom one child to the next. ‘I don’t like this new-foundinsolence,’ she replied, coldly and slowly, ‘though I knowwhere you get it from. You’ve got too much of yer fatherin yer.’

‘Good job,’ replied Edgar. ‘He’s the only one with anounce of sanity in this whole family.’

‘Oh, just keep that up,’ Grandma Grunt snarled, ‘andsee where it gets yer. Don’t forget - after breakfast, we’regoin’ shopping. Plenty of things in the Emporium to putinsolent little tykes like you two in their place. And trustme, Uncle Disgustin’ is very keen on teaching you bothsome manners and respect, seein’ as yer dad does such alousy job of it.’

The two children responded how you might expectwhen their own father had been insulted, but GrandmaGrunt merely cackled over their protestations and beganeating.

‘Mmm, nice bit of gristle, this,’ she remarked, as shegnawed on something chewy and meat-like. ‘Now, whydon’t you two nice little children run along back to yourchores and leave me in peace while I have my breakfast.

Grandma Grunt 17

We leave for the Emporium in half an hour.’

It was becoming an unseasonally hot, humid day, andgetting muggier by the hour. The children did their bestto ignore the heat and attended to the chores GrandmaGrunt had set them to do, while she finished her food andshuffled off to the toilet. Edgar and Wilhelmina did theirbest to ignore the unpleasant sound-effects coming fromthe bathroom as they scrubbed and cleaned, washed andscrubbed some more. The thirty minutes allocated bytheir grandmother passed, and it was soon time to goshopping.

‘Right, get me coat,’ Grandma Grunt eventuallybarked from the loo. ‘Time to go.’ She didn’t like touchingtoilet handles, so it was left to one of the children (Edgar’sturn this time) to fight through the noxious whiff andflush-away the vile contents of Grandma Grunt’sdropped guts.

Very soon after, Grandma Grunt was trundling alongthe road in her souped-up wheelchair and heading atspeed towards Uncle Disgusting’s Emporium. She’dconverted it herself; it had a turbo-charged engine from ahovercraft, low-profile alloy-rimmed tyres, reverse-parking sensors, a leather seat and a walnut-veneereddashboard. It was a speedy, formidable machine, but asthe children were there she let them push her all the way(as it saved on petrol).

After an hour of huffing and puffing (uphill,naturally), the children eventually managed to get theirdear grandmother to their nasty uncle’s shop. There was a

quicker, shorter route, but this went by a large lily-pond -Grandma Grunt’s fear of amphibia dictated the directionthey’d had to take.

Knowing his mother’s routine, Uncle Disgusting wasalready at the front door, waiting to greet her with hisusual sly, smarmy smile on his face.

‘Nice to see you, mother my dear,’ he wheezed in hisnasal tone, as he sucked on his usual dog-end of acigarette. ‘Hot, isn’t it? Reckon we’ve a storm comingtonight, and a bad one.’ Uncle Disgusting cast adistasteful-looking glance at Wilhelmina and Edgar. ‘AndI see you’ve been obliged to bring them along once more.’He sneered at the children, making no effort to help themhoist Grandma Grunt from her wheelchair’s comfy seat.

‘Always a pleasure, Uncle,’ hissed Wilhelmina, with alook of obvious disgust on her own face.

Her vile uncle bared his yellow, ratty teeth at his niece.‘I do hope my dear brother’s showing a modicumgratitude, mother, for selfishly dumping his offspring onyou yet again.’

‘’Course he ain’t,’ growled Grandma Grunt. She spatat the ground in disgust. ‘Never see him, do I? All I see isthis pair of ungrateful wretches, week in, week out.’

Uncle Disgusting tutted in mock disgust. ‘A disgraceit is, if you don’t mind me saying. All Jack ever cares aboutis making money from that fancy job of his.’

‘All he ever cares about is me and my sister,’ respondedEdgar, sharply. ‘Since mother died, he’s had to work allthe hours he can. If he had a fair share of your shop, likehe’s entitled to, then he wouldn’t have to work so hard.’

Grandma Grunt 19

If you’ve enjoyed these words of utter nonsense, please tell yourfriends about Grandma Grunt and command them to buy lotsof copies.

The following pages contain some info about my other booky-wooks (for grown-ups, children, and those surly in-betweenpeople). More details can be found online at Amazon, at other online stores and on my feeble website atwww.hayesdesign.co.uk/books

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BOOKS FOR GROWN-UPS:

MurkmyreBook One in the Misadventures of Prince Voltron Murkmyre

Betrayal. Revenge. Insatiable frogs. Prince Voltron Murkmyre wants twothings; revenge, and the throne of the Murkmyrian Empire for himself.Enduring a seventy-four year prison sentence - for crimes he didn’tcommit - has left him in a bit of a bad mood. To achieve his ambitions,he and his dogsbody slave Plip must evade his psychotic mother’sEmpire and many shadowy forces - and survive a series of unfortunatecrash-landings on worlds populated by ridiculous races andnonsensical creatures. And then there’s the mystery of the Darkstar ofGlümdyyk to unravel, a fabled gemstone of unimaginable power ...

A silly space fantasy for grown-ups about a dystopian dysfunctionaldynasty. With frogs, snails and slugs. This revised, reformatted editionof Murkmyre sets the scene for the apocalyptic events in Nocturnia -Book Two in The Murkmyre Saga.

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SlugtopiaBook Two-And-A-Half in the Misadventures of Prince VoltronMurkmyre

Available in paperback format from Amazon and all good booksellersand in eBook format.

The Complete Murkmyre SagaA science fiction epic like no other. Welcome to Dystopia’s mostdysfunctional dynasty! For the very first time, the anarchic, fast-pacedspace fantasies Murkmyre, Nocturnia and Slugtopia have beencompiled into this single volume. Meet the vile and unscrupulous PrinceVoltron Murkmyre, and join him on a series of hapless misadventuresthat will change the course of future-history. In his relentless quest toseize the Empire’s throne, Voltron (and his long-suffering slave, Plip)encounter amorous alien frogs, giant, vomiting slugs, vampiric spiders,lascivious snails and an endless array of vengeful ‘lesser beings’. Theperpetual wrath of the three Lady Tyrants (the bonkers SupremeGalactic Empress, the foul-smelling Queen of the Skanxian pirates andVoltron’s deranged sister Pestilencia) is also a matter of some concern.Oh, and then there's the mystery of the Darkstar of Glümdyyk tounravel, a fabled gemstone of unimaginable power. The CompleteMurkmyre Saga also contains the epic Murkmyre timeline and Planetsand People guide, plus many hilarious illustrations of its characters andcreatures. At over 470 pages in length, The Complete Murkmyre Sagais a remarkable achievement of grandiose storytelling ... so come andjoin the legion of frenzied, foaming-at-the-mouth fans of Prince Voltron’sdystopian universe!

Available in paperback format from Amazon and all good booksellers.

EBOOKS (A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR) :

I’ve recently converted ALL my literary curios to eBookformat, as a variety of separate titles - so now you candownload all my ramblings on to your Kindletron, and you’llnever be free of me.

More details of my eBooks can be found online at Amazon(search CLIFFORD JAMES HAYES on the Amazonwebsite), at other online stores and on my feeble website atwww.hayesdesign.co.uk/books

About the author ...Clifford James Hayes is a burnt-out, fat old woman in his earlyforties.

His neighbours think him mad, which he quite enjoys. He liveswith his spouse and daughterling; as soon as one of them hassecured alternate means to support themselves, he has everyexpectation of being booted out - his services to their indolentlifestyle no longer required. Two parasitic, perpetuallyvoracious (and seemingly immortal) cats live outside. He hopesthis winter will finish them off. He is always ill.

If you’re remotely interested in what he does as a ‘day-job’,please go to www.hayesdesign.co.uk, or drop him an email at:mail@hayesdesign.co.uk

Thank-you for buying and reading Grandma Grunt; in doingso, you’ve proved you’re bonkers, but very scrumptious.