by Harry Morris
As a result of this action by the dog, I naturally assumed it belonged to the householder.
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked the woman of the house.
‘That is,’ she replied, pointing to the dog that had followed us inside. ‘It’s not mine, and whenever anyone comes to my door, it won’t let them leave the garden!’
Trapped in her house, I sarcastically thanked her for informing the police control of the precise problem.
As we attempted to leave and return to our police vehicle, the once placid-looking dog bared his teeth, snarled and growled at our slightest movement.
Earlier in my police service I had the unfortunate distinction of having been attacked by an Alsatian dog and was not about to allow this to happen a second time. So I pushed the young policewoman in front of me for protection …
No I didn’t, I’m only joking, but it did cross my mind!
I quickly came to the decision that this was an occasion where I might just be required to use my PR24 police baton.
Drawing it from my holster I flicked it outwards in order to extend it fully, and remembering my training, I swung it around at waist height in an attempt to smack the dog on the nose.
This was apparently a tried and tested method of chasing off neds, so therefore it was sure to have the same response with an aggressive dog!
However, in the adrenalin-filled excitement of trying to fend off the dog, I completely missed my target and unfortunately struck my young female colleague, who was standing behind me, waist high!
She immediately let out a scream of pain and doubled over.
My response was to look at her and say, ‘For Christ’s sake, stand up and try and look professional. People are watching you!’
In all the confusion taking place, the dog received such a fright that it ran like the clappers along the road. Obviously it was thinking to itself, ‘If he does that to his colleague, what might he do to me?’
We made it back to the police vehicle, where I checked if she was alright, to which she whimpered and moaned.
I apologised for the entire episode and volunteered to kiss her tummy better, trying to humour her.
‘You didn’t hit my tummy! You’re not that good at aiming!’ she replied in a slightly deeper voice.
As a result of my wild swing at the dog, I had actually struck her downstairs in the ladies’ department.
Totally embarrassed by this, my face turned bright red, but I couldn’t resist reiterating my initial offer to kiss it better, should she feel the urge to take it up!
From that day onwards, my PR24 police baton remained in its holster. Mind you, this was the second time that disaster had struck, having previously in my probation inadvertently clobbered a former colleague with my old-fashioned wooden baton, breaking his wrist and his LCD ‘Kojak’ watch. Purely by accident, of course.
Honest!
God Bless Us All
…
The policeman on duty outside the entrance to the House of Commons once asked the House Chaplain if he ever prayed for the members.
The Chaplain replied with a straight face. ‘No! I usually take one look at them and pray for the country!’
Polis on a Horse
…
A mounted police officer patrolling on his horse had occasion to stop a little girl while she was riding along the road on her bicycle.
He asked her, ‘Did you get that bike for your Christmas, from Santa Claus?’
‘Yes!’ the little girl replied, pleased with herself.
‘Well!’ the police officer said. ‘The next time you write him a letter, you inform Santa that you require to have fitted to your bike a red reflective light at the rear and a white light to the front of it!’
At that, he fined her for committing the offence and issued her with a £5 ticket.
The little girl took possession of the ticket, then looked up at the mounted police officer and said, ‘That’s a nice horse you have there, Officer, did Santa Claus bring you that for your Christmas?’
The police officer chuckled and replied, ‘He sure did, sweetheart.’
At which point the little girl responded, ‘Well the next time you write him a letter, you tell Santa that the dick goes under the horse, not on top of it!’
Bridget’s Date
…
When Bridget the policewoman was a teenager she contracted a disease of the gums and had to have all her teeth extracted by the dentist and false teeth fitted.
This particular evening she had been to the dancing and her date asked her on the way home if she would like a bag of chips, to which she replied, ‘Yesh!’
As they sat at the rear of the bus with their chips, munching away, Bridget suddenly sneezed. As a result of this her newly fitted false teeth came flying out of her mouth, landing in his chip poke.
Her date immediately burst out laughing at this, and seeing the funny side of it herself, Bridget laughed as well. In fact she laughed so much and so hard that she couldn’t stop herself from farting out loud. This unexpected burst of flatulence coincided with a huge snotter bubble appearing out of her nose.
The two love birds laughed uncontrollably at the rear of the bus, him with Bridget’s false teeth decorating his chip poke and her with snotters and tears blinding her from laughing so loud, all accompanied by the intermittent sound of flatulence being passed.
But after that memorable night, she never heard from him again.
I wonder why, Bridget? Maybe some guys just have no taste!
A Rouble Millionaire
…
After an exhausting, energy-sapping concert, all we wanted to do in the band was head back to our hotel room and crash out on the bed – with a large whisky in one’s hand, I might add!
However, we had performed live on Russian TV earlier on that afternoon and the producer of the programme and well-known celebrity and quiz show host from Moscow, Dimitri Deeprov, had invited us all out for a meal after our concert that evening.
On arriving back at the hotel, we quickly unloaded all of our equipment and instruments and changed out of our concert clothes of tartan kilts and sark shirts.
Dimitri arrived right on time and joined some of us in my room for a few large glasses of Black Bottle whisky, prior to heading out.
As we prepared to leave the hotel, Dimitri said we should bring the whisky with us, as it was only a short walk to the restaurant and we could finish it on the way.
Now, in Moscow, it is not an offence to drink on the street, so being greedy whisky drinkers, we took advantage of their laws, and brought along an extra bottle to down on the way!
As we reached the restaurant, we stood outside for a few moments while we emptied our bottles of the remaining amber liquid, then entered the restaurant and were shown immediately to our table, which had been reserved by Dimitri.
Several diners came over and asked Dimitri for his autograph and, while signing for them, he introduced us. Not being clad in our costume gear of tartan kilts, etc, we were not instantly recognisable at that time, although we were getting plenty of exposure for our visit from the newspapers and TV station.
We settled down and the waiter appeared with what looked like two jugs of water in fancy crystal decanters, but turned out to be their very own brand of 45% vodka, straight from the freezer.
‘A toast!’ Dimitri said, getting to his feet, while the waiters topped up our small shot glasses with this aircraft fuel.
There was a pause while we waited for the restaurant owner and a photographer to join us at our table.
Glasses in hand and up to the mouth. ‘Nostrovia!’ from the host and ‘Slainte!’ from us as we all in unison downed our glasses.
At this point I might add that drinking shots of 45% vodka, with no label to describe it, on top of all that Black Bottle whisky, might just seem like a good idea at the particular moment, but it was not the most refreshing thing I’ve ever drunk, that’s for sure!
Now the custom is, you co
ntinue downing the vodka until your food arrives, but unfortunately for us, this wasn’t a fast-food venue!
By the time the food was being served, I had made two visits to other diners’ tables to retrieve and restrain Angus, who had climbed up on top of one table and was attempting to demonstrate some kind of Highland Fling, while dancing between their cutlery.
Every one of us was now ravenous and prepared to eat the waiter if he didn’t hurry up and place the food on the table.
We were like a pack of wild dogs as we wolfed the food down. I didn’t know what I was eating, but under the influence and having consumed so much alcohol, I didn’t really care what it was.
‘Would you like asparagus?’ the waiter asked, referring to the soup.
‘No thanks, I don’t eat sparrows and, please, don’t call me Gus!’ quipped Angus, who then asked the waiter to bring him chopsticks and had to be reminded that we were in Russia, not China. So because he couldn’t get chop-sticks, he used his fingers to eat his food, and ended up wearing most of it on his face and shirt.
It was time for Angus to bid farewell to the rest of the diners and head for his kennel – sorry, hotel room.
He could hardly stand on his own two feet, as the alcohol had now totally overcome him.
I helped him up, made excuses for him and, with my arm under his shoulder, holding him up, I left the restaurant for the comfort and safety of the hotel room.
As we walked the short journey back to the hotel, Angus became heavier and heavier as his legs appeared to give up performing any natural function of their own.
We continued to sway from side to side, narrowly avoiding the high drop from the pavement onto the busy five-lane road.
At last, the doors of the Marriott Hotel were in sight, however, unfortunately for us, so was a big Russian polis, who was standing between us and the door entrance, clad in his impressive police uniform and jack boots with a Kalashnikov machine gun hanging from a shoulder strap.
Just beyond him, sitting in their patrol car was his partner, looking out at us.
‘Angus! Angus! Get a grip of yourself and try and act normal, there’s a big polis with a gun blocking our path to the door of the hotel, so let me do the talking!’
As I went to negotiate my way around him, carrying Angus, he put his hand across my chest, stopped us and began shouting at me in Russian.
Despite having just drunk half of Moscow’s vodka supply, it still didn’t help me to understand him, or for me to be able to converse in Russian, so I tried to explain.
‘We are Scotlandia, we stay in this hotel!’ I shouted back.
That said, I tried to walk past him to the hotel entrance.
He quickly put his arm across my chest like before, only with much more force, and started shouting again.
So I tried explaining again.
‘We are Scotlandia, we stay in this hotel, here, comrade!’
Again he put his hand across my chest, blocking me.
I pulled Angus up and said, ‘Well, son, I think we’re getting the jail, so keep cool and say nothing!’
No sooner had I said these words, when Angus tried to put his arm around the policeman’s neck and said, ‘Och gie’s a cuddle ya big hunk!’
He immediately pushed Angus’s arm away, stepped back and pointed his gun at us, as his partner got out from the police car.
‘Woah! Woah! Cool the beans, big man, we’re only two drunken Scotsmen, we’re no’ exactly terrorists,’ I responded, gripping hold of Angus and holding him up.
Fortunately, Dimitri and the others saw what was happening, had caught up with us and were there in minutes.
Dimitri intervened and was instantly recognised by the policemen.
He spoke with them for a moment then whispered out of the side of his mouth to me.
‘Go, Harry, go now with Angus!’
Now, having sobered up rapidly, I carried out Dimitri’s instructions to a tee and practically burst through the hotel door, tripping and falling over on top of Angus, whereby he sustained heavy swelling and a perfect black eye for his troubles.
Shortly after this, we were joined inside by Dimitri, who appeared to find the entire episode extremely funny.
He explained that you while can drink on the streets of Moscow, you can’t appear drunk or stagger about, otherwise you encounter the situation that we just did, and you get the jail.
How did Dimitri get us off? Simple: he hosts the Russian version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and supplied them with tickets for the show.
By the way, unlike in the UK where the winning contestant receives a million pounds sterling, in Russia you get a million roubles, which works out to be about £200!
Not exactly a fortune there, I can assure you.
Finally, the following day, our Russian tour agent called at the hotel and I informed him about the incident, and the fact that they were going to arrest us.
‘Not at all, Harry. They might have taken you to the station, but as soon as they found out who you both were, they would have released you both after five minutes. Trust me!’ he said.
‘Five minutes?’ I thought to myself. ‘That sounds like just long enough to be sexually abused by the entire station!’
Somehow, his reassurances didn’t sound too convincing to me!
Sophie’s Choice
…
…
A man woke up in the hospital today, to discover he was swathed in bandages from head to foot.
The doctor, doing his rounds came in to see him and said, ‘Ah, I see you have regained consciousness. Now, you probably don’t remember anything, but you were involved in a car pile-up on the motorway. You’re going to be okay, you’ll walk again and everything, but … well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, and I’m trying to break it to you gently, but the fact is your penis was chopped off in the accident, and the emergency services in attendance were unable to find it anywhere!’
The man was very upset by this tragic news and began to moan and groan, but the doctor continued.
‘However, the good news is you have £10,000 of insurance compensation coming to you and we now have the technology to build you a brand new penis that will perform as good as your old one did – in fact, probably even better! The only thing is, it doesn’t come cheap. It works out at £1,000 per inch!’
The man stopped groaning and perked up at this news.
‘So!’ the doctor said. ‘It’s for you to decide just how many inches you would like. But maybe it’s a decision you’d better discuss with your wife. I mean, if you had a five-inch penis before the accident, you might decide to go for double that, although she might be a bit put out. On the other hand, if you were well endowed before and had a ten-inch one, and you decide to invest in only a five-incher this time, she might be considerably disappointed. Therefore, as I said, it’s important that she play a role in helping you make the right decision.’
The man agreed to talk it over with his wife.
The following day the doctor returned to hear his decision.
‘So, did you talk it over with your wife?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ the man replied.
‘And did she help you to come to a decision?’
‘She has,’ the man said.
‘So, what is it going to be? Five or ten inches?’ the doctor asked.
To which the man replied rather dejectedly, ‘Neither! Sophie’s decided … we’re getting a new kitchen!’
Was That Sore?
…
A police officer became the unlikely and unexpected victim of assault whilst on uniform duty at a flower festival.
It appears that while he was in attendance, delivering to the members of the public the various methods of personal safety, security and advice on garden shed alarms, an elderly lady approached him and jokingly asked if she could view his PR24 police-issue baton.
The usual good-hearted banter and laughter spread among those present, particularly when the elderly lady gently
tapped him on the arm.
More laughter ensued as the police officer feigned injury at her blow.
Still giggling like a young schoolgirl and without the slightest warning of what was to come next, she took a full swing with the baton and struck the officer a WALLOP on his head, just as he was getting up from the floor.
His knees buckled from the blow and he had to be assisted.
As for the elderly lady, she almost collapsed with shock, having realised she had delivered such a hefty blow.
All became clear later, when she explained that she thought his police cap was made of a tougher material, like a helmet!
Oh, how times change. It used to be they asked to be handcuffed …
Now you’re talking!
Mental Hospital Phone Menu
…
Hello and thank you for calling the State Mental Hospital. Please select from the following options:
If you have an obsessive-compulsive illness, press 1 repeatedly.
If you are co-dependent, please ask someone nearby to press 2 for you.
If you have multiple personalities, press 3, 4, 5 and 6.
If you are paranoid, we know who you are and what you want, so stay on the line so we can trace your call.
If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be forwarded to the Mother Ship.
If you are schizophrenic, listen very carefully, and a little voice will tell which number(s) to press.
If you are manic-depressive, it doesn’t matter which number you press, nothing will make you happy anyway.
If you are dyslexic, press 96969696969696.
If you are bi-polar, please leave a message after the beep, or before the beep, or after the beep. Please wait for the beep.
