The Hex Factor and Other Quirky Comedy Tales: Quintessentially Quirky Tales, #4

By Iain Pattison

Laugh-out-loud stories packed with gags, groans and great fun characters.

In this 4th off-beat collection of comedy mayhem and mirth by award-winning humorist Iain Pattison,  you'll encounter:

An old crone who finds her gingerbread cottage breaks planning regulations.

The Bethlehem hotel that takes unholy umbrage at Joseph's "No Room at the Inn" TripAdvisor review.

Pinocchio in serious trouble when puberty strikes.

Quasimodo causing a ding dong with late night Paris concert goers.

And an 18th century nobleman who scandalises polite society by accidentally inventing the wet bonnet competition.

From the droll and slapstick to the surreal and silly, this fun compilation is guaranteed to make you chuckle if you love Carry On Films, sketch shows, hysterical history and freaky fables. Buy it now to brighten your day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iain Pattison
• Release date: Dec 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215936818

Iain Pattison

Having discovered that he was not The Chosen One of which the ancient prophesises spoke, Iain Pattison ditched his kaftan, sold his sandals and vowed to eke out a living as an author and humorist. Between penning funny tales, he battles to give obscure words like eke a place in polite society. He resides in Birmingham, England but often feels a mysterious urge to return to his cave in Tibet for Bank Holiday weekends.

Book preview

The Hex Factor

and other Quirky Comedy Tales

Iain Pattison

DoubleQ logo orange hard crop 72dpi

First published in Great Britain in 2016

Second edition published 2022

All stories © 2016 by Iain Pattison

Cover illustration by Jean Hill

Editing by Maureen Vincent-Northam

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any persons, businesses, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

Designed and produced in the UK by DoubleQ Books

About The Author

Internationally-acclaimed humorist Iain Pattison has been entertaining readers on both sides of the Atlantic for more than 20 years with a succession of short stories that have won prize after prize, appeared in magazines and anthologies, and been broadcast on the UK’s most prestigious speech radio station, BBC Radio 4.

As well as penning quirky tales, he is a creative writing tutor, competition judge and after dinner speaker.

Originally from Glasgow, Iain now lives in Birmingham - which boasts more miles of working canal routes than Venice. However, Venetian dentists have asked him to point out that they do more root canal work.

To find out more about Iain follow him on Twitter @AuthorIain or visit iainpattison.co.uk

The Hex Factor

The unmistakable crunch of tyres on gravel alerted Marjorie that the police had returned. Tutting, she stopped stirring the large pot bubbling on the stove and went to the front window of the cottage.

Yes, the patrol car was there. And behind it were two large black official-looking cars. As she watched various men in suits got out and, together with two uniformed policemen, began walking towards the front garden.

Typical, she thought indignantly. I promise myself one day without any hassles then the whole world goes mad and beats a path to my doorstep.

Turning down the heat, she wiped her hands on her apron, ready to confront the forces of law and order for a second time. It wasn’t fair. At her time of life she shouldn’t have to be putting up with this.

Believe me, she said darkly, someone is going to pay for this. And it won’t be pretty.

* * *

It had been only a few hours since the fresh-faced constable and grizzled sergeant had turned up at her door, looking for a young brother and sister who’d gone missing.

Their parents are going frantic, the sergeant had told her. We’re doing door to door enquiries; asking if anyone saw the children today or might have spotted something out of the ordinary.

He’d said they were trying all the properties at the edge of the forest, but she’d known they’d come immediately to her door. It was inevitable. The superstitious villagers had sent them.

She knew about the rumours, the stories people told, the spiteful gossip. She was an old woman, living on her own with a black cat. She made remedies and potions from wild plants and roots in the woodland. She had a wart on the end of her nose. You didn’t need to be a genius to jump to the obvious conclusion.

They told you I was a witch, didn’t they? she challenged. And you took them seriously. You listened to all their harebrained claims. It’s ridiculous.

The young policeman flushed: Well, one or two people might have said something...

Actually more than one or two, his older colleague agreed, nearly the entire village. Our hands are tied. We’re duty bound to investigate. Not that we believe it...

Not for a moment, the younger officer added, but when two youngsters are missing we have to follow every possible lead.

Angrily, Marjorie had let them know how laughable it was. This is the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake - not The Middle Ages. I’m sick of all this stupidity. It’s the same nonsense every Halloween. Go on - look round. See if you can find the children. And while you’re at it, have a search for a broomstick, the place could do with a good sweep.

She supposed she didn’t blame them. They were just two dim-witted wooden-tops doing their job. She’d shown them every room in the cottage. They’d found nothing, of course.

After ten minutes, they’d apologetically left her to get on with cooking her casserole.

Smells good, the sergeant remarked.

Goat-herd stew. It’s an old family recipe, she’d explained, dipping in her spoon and tasting the bubbling, steamy concoction, passed down for generations. I always make a huge load to freeze to see me through the winter. Only trouble is... She sighed. ...it does need such a lot of fresh meat.

* * *

Marjorie knew it was naïve to think the police would leave it at that. But she hadn’t expected them back so quickly or in such numbers.

Breathing deeply, she composed herself for a moment. It didn’t pay to let her simmering fury show.

Hello again, officers, she said, opening the door. Did you forget something?

The sergeant shook his head.

Ah, there’s been a development? she suggested. In the search? The little loves have turned up?

No, he replied somberly. No such luck. The children are still missing. We’re really concerned now. We’re widening the search area and bringing in more men. And the force helicopter is going to fly over the woods with a thermal camera.

He jerked his head over his shoulder at the silent group of pin-striped individuals who were staring uncomfortably at their shoes.

I’m afraid we’re here about a different development.

He made a sour face. These gentlemen are from the council planning department. It seems that you don’t have planning permission for this cottage.

Marjorie was momentarily taken aback. She hadn’t been expecting that!

Ms Marjorie Weatherwax, the lead official began, clumsily opening his briefcase, letting a flurry of papers fall to the path, we’ve written to you countless times about this property but you’ve never replied to our letters. Or answered the door when we’ve called. Or responded to any of the messages we’ve left on your answer phone.

Marjorie gave him her most direct malevolent stare, the one guaranteed to turn heroic champions into water-kneed, lily-livered scaredy-cats.

"That’s because