by Harry Morris
Begin the Begin
• • •
A cop returned home after a long and arduous back shift, sat down in his favourite chair in front of the fire, turned on his TV and said to his wife, ‘Quick, hen! Bring me a cool beer out the fridge before it starts!’
The wife gave him a puzzled look, but brought his beer.
As soon as he had finished it, he said, ‘Quick, hen! Bring me another cool beer, it’s definitely going to start soon!’
This time the wife looked a little angry, but brought him the beer.
After he drank this one down, he again said, ‘Quick, hen! Another beer before it starts!’
The wife stared at him for a moment before blowing her top.
‘You big bastard! You waltz in here, flop your big fat arse down on the seat, don’t even say hello to me, but you expect me to run around like a bampot, serving you drink. Don’t you realise that I cook, clean, wash and iron all bloody day long while you’re out?’
The cop looked at her, sighed and said, ‘It’s started!’
The Office Cleaner
• • •
From The Adventures of Harry the Polis
(Harry arrived at work and heard someone talking out in the front office.)
HARRY: Who is that out in the front office?
SPOOK: Dat’s da new cleaning lady.
(Harry walks out to the front and immediately recognises her as an old flame of his.)
HARRY: Thelma Moffat!
THELMA: Crikey, Harry the Polis!
(They both cuddle each other.)
HARRY: What are you in here for, soliciting?
THELMA: You must be joking, I’d need to pay the punters. No, I’m your new cleaner.
HARRY: I thought you’d be a woman of leisure.
THELMA: And I thought you’d be retired by now!
HARRY: No way, there’s a few miles left in my engine!
(Harry reached out and grabbed her around the waist and gave her a gentle squeeze.)
THELMA: Well, if you want a service, go to a church!
Nursing Homes
• • •
I was watching a programme on television recently regarding the ill-treatment of the elderly and infirm while in the residential care of a nursing home.
Now you are bound to get the occasional isolated incident in the news, where an inexperienced carer loses his or her patience with an elderly person, but in general, I would say that the majority of the homes were extremely well managed with a caring, patient staff.
I regard care homes now as a necessity in today’s society, particularly when you get to a stage where you are unable to look after yourself and thus become a danger not only to yourself but to others.
Simple things become more difficult as we get older and forgetfulness is one of the major problems, like forgetting to turn off the bath water, or switch off the cooker, or even just forgetting to eat.
That is why we need to have a place for them to go, in order to be cared for and looked after, but, more importantly, to feel safe!
A friend contacted me recently and related the circumstances of his widowed father’s behaviour, as a result he’d been admitted into a care home.
It was strange for his father for the first few days trying to adjust, but after almost a week he seemed to be settling in to his new surroundings.
On a visit, my friend said to his father, ‘You seem more settled today, Dad, are you beginning to like it?’
‘I am, son, and I’m not. I’ll tell you for why,’ his dad replied. ‘I was coming out the bath the other night and the young nurse gave me a hand and helped dry me off, after which she helped me on with my clean pyjamas and slippers, before sitting me down with a cup of tea and toast. About half an hour later, I was getting into my bed, when an older nurse came into my room to check on me. “You didn’t comb your hair, Mr Brown?” she said. At that, she leaned over and took my comb from my bedside cabinet and proceeded to comb it. “There you are, Mr Brown, you definitely look more handsome now!” At that she began to tuck me in, when she noticed a wee bump in the bed. “What’s this, Mr Brown? What do we have here?” she said, as she put her hand under the covers and grabbed hold of my semi-erect penis. “We can’t let this go to waste.” And at that she began to masturbate me—’
My friend interrupted him at this point: ‘Well, there you go, Dad. That can’t be all bad! A carer who provides you with the occasional sexual favour!’
‘Aye, but there’s more, son. I’m not finished with my story yet,’ his dad replied.
‘OK then. Carry on with it,’ my friend said.
‘Right! Next morning, I got up out of bed, jumped into my Zimmer frame and was slowly making my way along the corridor to the dining room for my breakfast, when my pyjamas fell down to my ankles, tripping me up and causing me to fall over my Zimmer frame, with my bare arse sticking up in the air.’
‘Well, these things happen, Dad. It’s just an accident!’ my friend said.
His dad put his hand up to his face and said, ‘Hold it, son! I’m not finished yet. Anyway, while I’m lying there totally helpless with my bare arse sticking up in the air in this embarrassing position, a big male nurse appeared from nowhere and sexually abused me from behind!’
My friend was gobsmacked for a few moments, as he tried to come to terms with what his dad had just told him, and at the same time he was trying desperately to think of a suitable explanation to give for it.
‘Well, Dad, you enjoyed being masturbated by the nurse last night and today, well, you were buggered. Sometimes you’ve just got to take the good with the bad.’
Whereupon his dad replied, ‘That’s very true, son. But let’s face it … I’m lucky if I get an erection twice a year … Whereas, I fall down at least three times a bloody day!’
Midlife Crisis
• • •
My former colleague met with me for a drink one day and told me he was recently talking with his wife and said, ‘Honey, twenty-five years ago, we had a one-bedroom apartment, a second-hand car, we shared a sofa bed and watched a portable black and white TV, but I got to sleep every night with a hot twenty-five-year-old buxom blonde. Twenty-five years on, having worked my way up through the ranks, we have a detached bungalow, two top-of-the-range Mercedes cars in the driveway, we share a super-king-size-bed and have a forty-eight-inch plasma screen TV, but now I’m sleeping with a fifty-year-old woman. It seems to me like you are not holding up your side of things!’
His wife is a very reasonable woman, so she said, ‘Tell you what, darling – if it makes you feel better, you go out and find yourself a hot twenty-five-year-old buxom blonde and I will make sure you go back to living in a one-bedroom apartment, driving a second-hand car and sleeping every night on a sofa bed.’
Don’t you think older women are brilliant?
They really do know how to solve a mid-life crisis!
Suits You, Sir!
• • •
I was driving home after giving evidence at a High Court trial and I stopped at a pedestrian traffic light.
As I waited for the pedestrians to cross the road and the light to change to green, I looked over to my left at a charity shop for the Chest and Heart Foundation and there, displayed in the front window, was a beautiful double-breasted suit.
I couldn’t resist the chance of a bargain, so I pulled in to the side of the road and parked the car to go and see it.
It was an absolute cracker of a suit and just happened to be the style I like to wear, so I asked the assistant if I could perhaps try it on.
‘Certainly, sir, just go in there.’
At that, she directed me to a changing room.
Once inside, I quickly slipped off my trousers and tried on the suit … It was a perfect fit and very smart looking; I felt really good in it.
‘I’ll take it, hen,’ I informed the assistant.
I then returned to my car and continued my journey home, where I couldn’t wait to show it off
to my missus.
‘Look, darling! Check this out – it fits me perfect and it was only fourteen pounds out the charity shop down the road … What do you think, is it not a beauty? In fact it’s not unlike the one I have in my wardrobe, and I paid a fortune for that, as you know.’
At that I slid my wardrobe door open to compare it with my own one.
‘Where’s my suit?’ I asked, turning around to look at my missus, who was trying to quietly slink out of the room unnoticed.
Then the penny dropped and I asked her again, with a more serious tone of authority in my voice: ‘Marion! Where’s my suit?’
She turned to look at me, fluttered her eyelashes and said, ‘I’m afraid to say, but you’re holding it, darling.’
WPC Blonde
• • •
The door of the writing room was thrown open and my female police colleague entered and began ranting and raving.
‘That’s it! I’m fed up with every male chauvinistic pig in this office who assumes that because you are a blonde female, you are a dim-witted bimbo, totally stupid, daft, simple, idiotic, dumb, or naïve!’
She then paused for a moment to calm down, then asked me, ‘You don’t think I’m like that, do you, Harry?’
To which I promptly responded, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous … ya silly cow!’
Hello There
• • •
I was out with the missus today, doing the weekly shopping, when an elderly man, smart in appearance, approached me in the supermarket, all smiling as if he knew who I was, and seemed to be really pleased to see me.
I was quite delighted at the thought of being recognised by him for whatever reason, but slightly embarrassed that I couldn’t remember who he was.
‘How are you doing? I hardly recognised you there,’ he remarked.
‘Is that so?’ I said.
‘Most definitely, you’ve altered your appearance so much. Your hair looks a different colour, you appear much shorter than you were before and I see you’re not wearing your glasses any more. What the hell is going on with you, Brown?’
I looked at him standing there, looking back at me intently, genuinely believing he knew me and said, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’m not, Mr Brown, I’m Harry Morris!’
To which he responded, ‘Bloody amazing – so you’ve even changed your name!’
Accidents Happen
• • •
I was on a ‘speed computer’ course, whereby two unmarked cars were occupied by four police officers in each and fitted out with the new, sophisticated VASCAR unit.
Now the VASCAR unit is short for ‘visual average speed computer and recorder’ and, in a simplified explanation, it records the time it takes to cover a measured distance and the computer then works out the average speed that the vehicle was being driven at.
Both cars were supervised, with an inspector in one and a sergeant in the other.
It was nearing the end of our working day and the front police car, which was occupied by the inspector, was hurtling down the M8 motorway at a speed well in excess of the 70mph limit and was closely pursued by the ‘chasing’ second car, whose front-seat passenger was performing the duty of operating the VASCAR to accurately record the average speed the front car was being driven at.
All of a sudden, for no apparent reason, the front car swerved and careered off the motorway, down an embankment, where it overturned several times, before coming to rest upside down in a field.
Fortunately not one police officer sustained an injury in the accident.
At least, that was the case for several moments after it had come to rest, until an older, senior officer suddenly panicked and began shouting and screaming uncontrollably, ‘Mammy, Daddy! Mammy, Daddy!’ as he tried desperately to climb out of the overturned car, fearing it was about to burst into flames.
With his arms and feet flailing about in such a small compartment, the panicking officer accidentally kicked out with his right foot and then stamped with his left foot on the inspector’s face, using his head and lack of good looks to prise himself upwards and out through the damaged car window.
As a result of the road accident, only extensive damage to the police car was sustained.
However, as a result of the panic-stricken police officer and his ‘Mammy, Daddy!’ actions, the inspector sustained a burst lip, severe bruising to his nose and a deep cut above his right eye that required three stitches.
However, the inspector was cheered up no end, and even tried to raise a smile, when he was informed by the police operator in the following car that their average speed before they lost control and careered off the motorway was recorded at 134mph.
I cannot reveal the true identify of the face-kicking driver, but can reveal he was thereafter nicknamed Mad Max for the remainder of his police service. Good, eh?
Deal or No Deal
• • •
One day my police colleague Jimmy Clark’s father was out working in his front garden when a large furniture delivery van drew up outside his house and the driver and his passenger alighted from the vehicle and approached him.
‘Here, faither! Are ye interested in a new carpet for the hoose? We’re jist finished fitting out a big new hotel and have a few extra rolls left,’ the driver said.
My colleague’s father looked at them for a few moments while considering his offer.
‘How much are they, son?’
The driver immediately replied, ‘Seenz I know you, faither, gie me twenty-five pounds and I’ll gie ye a roll wi’ enough tae carpet yer front lounge … Deal?’
Mr Clark paused while he thought about it, before replying, ‘Well, seenz I know you, son, and have clocked yer number plate and the name o’ yer company aff the side o’ yer van, I’ll gie ye twenty-five pounds and ye’ll gie me a roll wi’ enough on it tae carpet my entire hoose … Better deal?’
A Lotto Revenge
• • •
I heard a story on the news the other day about a man who thought he had won the lottery, and as a result, walked into his boss’s office, jumped up on to his desk, kicked his paperwork off it, then informed him in no uncertain terms where he could stick his job, only to find out later the big mistake of acting on impulse and not checking your ticket numbers thoroughly.
It reminded me of a story I heard about a policewoman who suspected her policeman husband was having an affair, and decided to try and catch him out.
As a result, she recorded the entire Saturday night lottery programme and the subsequent winning draw.
Later on that week, she went out to her local newsagent’s and wrote down the winning numbers from the previous week and submitted them as her choice for the following week.
On the Saturday night, her husband was in the bedroom, preparing to go out and ‘meet up with some of his shift colleagues’, when his wife switched on the prerecorded video tape of the previous week’s show.
As he entered the room, his wife nonchalantly handed him the lottery ticket with the previous week’s winning numbers.
‘Here, sweetheart, I bought you a Lucky Dip lottery ticket. Hopefully you’ll be lucky.’
As her cheating husband took possession of the ticket, she slipped her hand down and switched on a hidden tape recorder, while he stood facing the television, dressed to go out, awaiting the numbers to appear on the television screen.
As each number appeared, his eyes began to light up as the announcer reeled off the ‘lucky’ numbers on his ticket, one after another.
Having checked again that he had all six numbers, he shouted to his long-suffering wife, ‘Ya beauty! Ya fuckin’ beauty!
‘What is it, sweetheart? Have you got a few numbers up?’ she asked him, trying to sound genuinely interested.
‘A few! I’ve got the fuckin’ lot. I’ve won the jackpot!’ he stated ecstatically.
‘Oh, sweetheart, does that mean we’re rich and can buy anything we like?’ she asked him.
At which point he
looked at her and his expression changed dramatically.
‘No, sweetheart! It means that I can buy anything I like, ’cause I’m for the off. I was going to tell you soon, but I’m leaving you for good and I’m running away with Fiona Glenn!’
‘Fiona Glenn? That policewoman who left her man and baby son? She’s nothing but a tart. Every bugger in the Support Unit has slept with her!’ she said.
‘So what? I don’t care. You’re just jealous of her. We have been having an affair for several months and we’re madly in love with each other, so you can keep the house and the car. In fact, you can keep the whole fuckin’ lot, ’cause I don’t need any of it any more, I’m rich and you’re not … sweetheart!’
At that, he waved his ‘winning’ ticket in her face and promptly left the house, no doubt to tell his new woman of his surprise win.
His wife appeared shocked and stunned at first, as she sat down on her seat with her face showing no expression whatsoever, for several moments, then the video tape finished and her expression quickly changed.
As she sipped on her glass of wine, she burst out laughing.
She allowed herself a moment to compose herself, before stating with total conviction and complete satisfaction, ‘I’ve got a house and a car and now you don’t, ya dirty cheating bastard!’
Danny’s Dilemma
• • •
After a game of police football, big Danny McQuade invited some of us back to a local howf in his area, on the Great Western Road, where he knew the elderly landlady.
We all arrived outside in Gibby’s new red Datsun Bluebird and parked across the road.
As we entered the pub, Danny introduced us to Madge, the landlady, who promptly supplied us with a round of drinks, on the house, after which she informed us she was finishing early, but would leave us in the capable hands of her two daughters, Tracy and Lorraine, who would look after us in her absence.
