by Harry Morris
So here is some expert advice.
If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a taser, then one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself, for as sure as shit in a weans dirty nappy, you will not be able to let go of that fucking thing until it is dislodged from your hand by some violent thrashing about of your body on the floor.
A three-second burst would be considered conservative.
Son of a bitch, that hurt like hell!
A minute or so later, I can’t be sure, as time was not a relevant thing for me at this point, I collected my wits about me and sat upright, while I surveyed the room.
My bent reading glasses, which I had been wearing on my face, were now perched on the mantelpiece.
My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching away by themselves.
My face felt as though it had been shot up with novocaine and then placed under a sunbed for an hour.
I am presently searching intently for my testicles and I’m prepared to offer a substantial reward for their safe return.
A description and photo of same will follow!
Kleptomaniac, Now That’s the Word
• • •
A woman was arrested for the umpteenth time for shoplifting and taken in by the Central Shoplifting Squad, where she was charged and processed for the court.
The detective asked her, as a regular offender, why she was compelled to persistently shoplift.
The accused replied, ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really know, but I think I must be a nymphomaniac.’
To which the detective joked, ‘Unfortunately for you, hen, that’s a completely different thing and something of an active sport, but you might want to consider taking it up on your release!’
Gordon Bloody Ramsay
• • •
I received a call one night from a flustered woman motorist, who said she had just hit a pheasant on the Blantyre Farm road.
I confirmed that no one else was injured, her car wasn’t damaged and was still driveable.
After I had noted all the relevant details I was required to ask her about, I informed her there was no need for a report.
Still upset by the incident, the lady driver asked me, ‘What should I do with the pheasant now?’
To which I couldn’t resist replying, ‘Well, if you like, I could give you a right good recipe!’
Fix yer Motor?
• • •
Having paid an extortionate £30 for my first motor car, the infamous Morris Mini that continually displayed teething problems and was as often as not having to be repaired, I was fortunate to secure the services of my old Glesca polis mucker Jimmy Clark.
‘Whit’s up with it now?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Jimmy. It was as though something snapped and I had no power any more,’ I replied.
‘OK, Harry boy, let’s have a wee look. Lift the bonnet.’
At that, I lifted the bonnet of the car and Jimmy surveyed what was before him.
After a few minutes, he had diagnosed the problem.
‘Got it! It’s only your accelerator cable that’s come loose.’
Jimmy then grabbed hold of the loose cable and fed it back through the hole where it was held and, taking a screwdriver, he began to tighten the screw in order to secure it in place.
Unfortunately one turn too many and the securing cable part snapped off.
‘Not a problem!’ Jimmy said. ‘We’ll just nip down to a scrapyard and get one off another Mini.’
Off we went in his car to the local scrappy, only to discover, being a Sunday, it was closed.
Back we went to my car, to allow Jimmy to have another look and form a second opinion.
‘I was right the first time, it’s not a big problem. However, with this second look, I have to concede, Harry, without the part it’s fucked and so are we.’
Now let me say at this point, I did not need it to be diagnosed as fucked, because we were both travelling together to the Tulliallan Police College the following morning in it.
Plus the fact that Clarky’s car required an MOT certificate and an Excise licence to make it legal to be used on a road.
So, we were doubly fucked!
As we stood on the road pondering our next move, Jimmy looked over at another Mini parked several spaces away from mine.
‘Whose it that?’ Jimmy asked.
‘My neighbour down the stairs,’ I replied, ‘he works away on the oil rigs,’ not for a minute anticipating what was coming next.
‘Come here a minute, Dominic,’ he called to his six-year-old son.
As Dominic walked over to him, Jimmy said for him to go over to the street corner and shout ‘Daddy’ as loud as he could, if anybody came near.
He then turned to me and said, ‘Quick! You open up the bonnet and I’ll take the part off of yer neighbour’s motor and repair yours with it!’
I should have protested at such an illegal request, but having rapidly weighed up the alternatives, i.e. having to get an early morning train to Stirling, or even worse, a bus, I immediately rounded on my neighbour’s mini and released the bonnet catch to open it, as requested.
Jimmy moved in and within moments had removed the part we required to fix my car, thereby providing us with the necessary transport to get us up to Tulliallan Police College the following morning.
It was agreed that Jimmy would call back at my house the following week on our weekend break, whereby I would have purchased the required part to repair my neighbour’s car.
As a result, no harm would be done and nobody, particularly my neighbour, would be any the wiser.
Armed with the new part, Jimmy and I went downstairs to effect the repair, only to arrive at the corner of the street to discover my neighbour had returned from his working away on the rigs early and was presently bent over the engine of his Mini, trying to work out why it wasn’t working, but more importantly trying to work out where the accelerator cable part had gone.
As for Jimmy and me, we did the honourable thing …
We both buggered off sharpish back up the stair to my house and closed the door and hid in there until he had gone away … on the bus!
Vroom, vroom!
Describe It for Me?
• • •
A woman walked into the police station one day with a blind person’s Labrador guide dog, still wearing the straight-handled lead, harness and fluorescent yellow vest.
She then explained to the station officer that she’d found it wandering about by itself on the footpath, no apparent owner with it.
The station officer noted the details and afterwards led the dog out to the stray kennels situated in the rear yard of the station.
Later the same day, a young newly promoted sergeant received a telephone call at the police station from the owner of the guide dog, reporting it missing.
‘Well, you’re in luck, because a guide dog was brought to the station earlier today, apparently wandering about the footway unattended.’
‘Oh, thank goodness for that, as I feared the worst for her. She’s relatively young and new to the service,’ the relieved caller replied.
The young sergeant responded by asking, ‘Just to make sure we have the right Labrador dog, can you describe its colour for me?’
To which the caller reacted rather indignantly, ‘How would I possibly know that? I’m totally blind!’
A Well-hung Surprise
• • •
We all know the horrific story regarding John Wayne Bobbit. Just the thought of it is making my eyes water. However, I have managed to uncover some new eyewitnesses and their account of the aftermath.
Apparently, Lorena Bobbit, the accused wife of the victim, after cutting off his penis, decided this was her divorce settlement and, with it still held tightly in her hand, she jumped into the family car and drove away.
After driving for several miles along the highway, holding on tightly to his sever
ed manhood, she suddenly opened the window and threw it out the car.
Now, by pure coincidence, Georgina and Willie Hill, a family from Glasgow, just happened to be on a fly-drive holiday in Virginia, USA, driving along the highway behind another car, believed to be the accused, minding their own business, enjoying the scenery, while munching away on pickled eggs, all washed down with cans of Irn Bru they had brought with them from Scotland, when all of a sudden – thud!
The penis scudded off the windscreen of their rented car, almost wedging itself under the wiper.
Quick as a flash, Willie blurted out, ‘Christ, Georgie! Did you see the size of that midgie’s dick?’
Now the story gets better, because after Lorena Bobbit discarded her cheating husband’s manhood out the window of her car, she about-turned and drove back home where she was promptly arrested by the highway patrol, and it was nothing to do with the fact that she threw ‘litter’ from the window of her car on to the highway.
‘Right, Mrs Bobbit, where is it?’ the police captain asked her.
‘Where’s what?’ she responded, acting dumb. (She was after all a blonde!)
‘The penis?’ he said.
‘What penis would that be?’ she replied sarcastically.
‘Come on, Mrs Bobbit, we know you did it, so you might as well tell us where it is,’ the police captain answered, trying to reason with her.
‘Oh, awright! I threw it away,’ she answered.
‘What?’ the captain gasped in horror.
‘I threw it away – gone – vanished!’ she replied.
‘Where did you throw it away?’
‘Along the highway, about three or four miles away.’
Some hungry coyote has probably eaten it by now
‘Right!’ the captain said. ‘You’re coming with me to show me exactly where you threw it.’
At that, he took her into the police car and they drove the few miles along the highway.
Meanwhile, J. W. Bobbit was squealing like a stuck pig and bleeding profusely from the area where his genitals used to be, and was now looking more like a transsexual who has just undergone a failed sex-change operation without the anaesthetic. (Readers, my eyes are welling up as I write this part.)
However, after directing the police to the area where she had discarded her husband’s penis, the police captain organ-ised a search party to comb the area, in order to try and find Mr Bobbit’s boaby for the surgeons to try and attach back on to his five-inch stump. (I’m joking!)
Now, if it is anything like Glasgow, when we used to get calls reporting a streaker had been sighted running along Clarkston Road, we would immediately call the radio controller and ask what was the sex of the streaker.
If it was a woman, every bugger within a six-mile radius would volunteer to attend, but if they said it was a male …
No bugger would bother their arse with the call.
So, try and imagine what was said during this part:
They would all spread out and methodically begin their search of the area, when a call would go out.
‘Here it is. I’ve found it!’ shouts a cop, as several others come running over for a look at it.
‘Crikey! It’s not a bad size, is it?’ an officer remarks.
‘Well, put it this way, I’ve seen much smaller,’ remarks a gay officer before clarifying his statement: ‘Purely in a professional capacity, I might add!’
Then they both look over at the officer who has found it and say, ‘Well, don’t look at us. Pick the bloody thing up!’
‘That’ll be right! I’m not touching that! Frigging hell, who knows where it’s been?’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter now where it’s been, it’s where it’s going that matters. Now pick it up,’ the senior cop orders.
‘No way! … Look, I think it’s still moving! … It is, it’s still moving, it’s alive! You pick it up!’ the cop replies.
As they all three start arguing about who should pick it up, when a large female officer barges them all out the road and with one swipe, she bends down and whisks it up into her hand, walks back to her patrol car, and drives off to the hospital where a team of surgeons are standing by to perform this very difficult and delicate operation of trying to reattach it.
I’ll tell you this: after I heard about this drastic action taken by Mrs Lorena Bobbit, I held on to both my wife’s hands in bed at night, as well as perfecting the art of sleeping with one eye open.
I also made sure I gave my wife every pay packet I earned, unopened, for several months afterwards.
However, John Wayne Bobbit’s delicate, pioneering penis transplant operation was a relative success.
The only thing, in all the excitement of performing such an unusual operation, the elderly surgeon mixed up his notes and stitched the penis on back to front.
Message Boy
• • •
Some of the elderly people in the Lesmahagow area really need to be advised about what is meant by community policing.
The local community cop for the area received a call from his control room about an elderly woman wishing to make a complaint.
Could he attend and see her about it personally, as she did not wish to relate the matter over a telephone?
Later that day, the officer telephoned the woman at her home and arranged a time and date to call and see her, which was amicable, but as a precautionary measure, in case he became engaged with something unexpected, he supplied her with his mobile telephone number.
The following day, when the officer had agreed to call and see her, he received a missed call on his mobile phone, with a message left.
When the officer played it, the message was from the elderly woman, which said, ‘Hello, Constable Anderson. It’s Mrs Gow here. Since you are coming to see me, do you think you could bring a pint of milk and two nice buns from the baker on the main street for a wee cup of tea together?’
Bad Boy, Nice Hair
• • •
At a recent book publishing event, I was talking to a manageress from a big book store and she was telling me about how, for the first time, she had been engaged in jury duty the previous week.
The accused male in the dock sat impassively throughout the entire week-long trial, displaying absolutely no emotion or remorse whatsoever for the vicious crime he had committed, or to the evidence against him, as detailed by each and every witness.
By the end of the trial, it was without doubt, in her opinion and that of every other person present in the court, that the accused was guilty as charged.
The jury were directed to the jurors’ room by the presiding judge to deliberate on the evidence they had heard and subsequently decide upon their verdict.
As the jury members sat around a table, to begin their discussions regarding the evidence, one juror immediately showed her hand by stating, ‘Well, I’m voting not guilty. Ah mean tae say, ye heard his solicitor – it’s the boy’s burfday next week and I don’t think it would be fair tae lock him up during it. Ah mean, how would you like tae open yer burfday presents in a prison cell?’
This was closely followed by a second woman, who decided that she also was voting for not guilty.
In her opinion, ‘He’s just had his hair cut and he suits it short. I think he looks quite handsome!’
Fortunately the evidence supporting his guilt was overwhelming and he was subsequently found guilty by the jury, who were aware of their jury duties and responsibilities to the justice system, but it certainly won’t harm your defence if you look handsome and sport a brand new neat haircut when appearing at court, particularly if you get jurors like the two described, who are more intent in checking out your appearance than checking out the evidence.
Suffice to say, as he was being taken down, this good-looking young man with the neat haircut couldn’t resist gesticulating towards the jury by sticking two fingers up at them, as an obvious ‘thank you’.
Now, I wonder if he received a nice wee ‘burfday’ c
ard and a home-made cake with a file in it from his two ‘groupie’ jurors.
Poor wee bugger had to spend his birthday by his cell!
Johnny Cash
• • •
Just heard from my nephew that there is a social work van comes around the housing scheme and gives out condoms for free to anybody requiring them.
Apparently they are nicknamed the ‘Johnny Cash’ van, because they get them for nothing and save themselves some money.
You Look Familiar
• • •
The duty inspector at the station had not been enjoying the best of times recently. Having been knocked out of the divisional bowling tournament, later the same day he returned to his car, parked in the car park, to discover it had been broken into and several items stolen.
A few days later, whilst performing custody officer duties, he was processing a suspect who had been brought in for car theft crimes.
As he was noting the suspect’s details, he suddenly felt there was something very familiar about him.
At first he thought he had arrested him before, but no.
After several moments, the penny dropped and he realised why the ned was familiar.
He was dressed in the officer’s clothing, stolen from his car during the break-in.
The youth was arrested on further charges and the items of clothing taken and lodged as productions.
‘How did you know the gear was stolen?’ the suspect asked.
‘Because we know who owns them,’ the inspector replied as he entered the extra charges on his computer.
‘Right, tell me who owns them then?’ he asked smugly.
The inspector lifted his head up from his PC terminal and replied, ‘The man deciding whether or not you get released on report or detained in custody!’
Who’s Been Eating Ma Piece?
• • •
One day on the early shift, the ten o’clock ‘piecers’ returned to the station to have their meal break and the compulsory game of cards.
