by Harry Morris
…
A wild party was going on at the Lochinch Police Social Club and, as per usual, it was well attended.
Over at the end of the bar, seated in his usual position, propping up one end of it, was Jimmy McDermott.
Suddenly the bar door swung open and in walked big Maggie Forbes, a larger than life Force Support Officer, who loudly announced, ‘If anybody in the bar can guess my weight, they can sleep with me!’
Jimmy afforded her a fleeting glance through the bottom of his beer glass, while emptying the remaining contents down his throat, then blurted out sarcastically, ‘You’re about 92 stone, ya fat ugly cow!’
Quick as a flash, Maggie grabbed hold of his arm, yanked him off his stool and said, ‘That’s close enough for me, ya lucky bastard!’
The Robbing Mail
…
There was an 83-year-old widow from Paisley, who lived alone, surviving on her state pension. As it was coming up to Christmas, she decided for a change to invite her two sisters over and make the festive turkey dinner, thereby securing some welcome company. However, on her way to the shops, someone had stolen her purse containing the £50 she had saved to pay for this special occasion.
As a woman of simple faith, she sent off a handwritten letter to God, explaining her predicament and seeking his divine help.
A few days later her letter duly arrived on the desk of the manager for the Royal Mail sorting office, whose main job was to deal with ‘undeliverable’ mail such as this.
As he read over the elderly widow’s letter, he was touched by her tragic story and decided to help her out, along with some of his fellow workers within the sorting office, who had also been moved by her letter. They had a whip round and collected a fair amount of money.
They then placed the proceeds from their collection into an envelope and posted it through her letterbox as a surprise.
Several days after Christmas, the sorting office manager was back at work, sifting through the mail, when he came across another letter addressed to God and recognised the handwriting as that of the elderly widow. He quickly summoned his colleagues to gather round while he read it out.
The letter read as follows:
‘Dear God, How can I ever thank you enough for what you did for me? Due to your kind generosity, I was able to put on a wonderful festive dinner for my sisters to enjoy and we had a lovely day together. Kind regards, Daphne Brown.
PS. By the way, God, there was £4 missing from the envelope. I’m pretty sure it was those robbing bastards at the post office!’
You’re Booked
…
It’s hard to believe that pop singer/performer Alvin Stardust wasn’t a bigger star, when you learn that his agents were those well-known stars of TV entertainment, Reggie and Ronnie Kray!
Just Like Amy
…
A senior cop was out on patrol with a young police probationer the other night and she was chatting about her taste in music.
It turned out her favourite singer just happened to be Amy Winehouse.
The senior cop screwed up his face and told her that while he was over in New York on annual leave that year, he had managed to obtain tickets to go to the David Letterman Show and it just so happened that Amy Winehouse was the guest singer.
The probationer appeared very envious of him, but he told her that he didn’t know what the Americans would have thought of her with her 60s beehive hairdo.
He also described how she was wearing a black slimline sleeveless dress which showed off her Popeye the sailor tattoos on her arms to the full.
He then went on to say that he was personally disgusted with her and that he hated tattoos on a woman.
‘What makes them do it? Scarring their skin for life and then they end up regretting it when they are older after it has lost its colouration and cannot be removed, unless you have lots of money to pay for expensive, painful laser treatment.’
All the while, the young probationer sat there listening to him ranting, without interrupting him or attempting to argue back.
At the completion of their shift, she was leaning over the rear seat while getting out their equipment and her vest rode up at the back, along with her blouse, revealing a large, colourful, ornate tattoo across her lower back.
Oops!
Pension Day
…
A retired cop returned home after having been out to buy a few messages for the house.
‘What kept you? You’ve been away for ages!’ said his wife.
‘It was that new lassie in the post office; she made me show her the grey hairs on my chest before she would give me my pension!’ he replied.
His wife responded by saying, ‘You should have showed her your willy, and she might have given you disability benefit at the same time!’
Car Boots
…
Walking through a car boot market the other day, I stopped to peruse a stall and the articles on display.
While browsing through some of the junk I came upon an old mobile phone, often referred to as a ‘brick’ due to its size and old-fashioned shape.
‘How much for this?’ I asked the elderly stallholder in a foreign-sounding accent, while holding it up.
‘It’s a mobile phone!’ she replied.
I knew that instantly on picking it up, for it was like comparing a new digital radio with an old valve wireless.
‘I know it’s a mobile phone, I’m asking how much?’
‘Eh! Give me a pound,’ she said.
‘Does it work?’
‘Of course it works. It just needs charged.’ At that, she handed me a large black plug-in charger, even bigger than the phone.
I fiddled about with the phone, trying to switch it on, but to no avail.
‘It’s not switching on.’
‘Well it was,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘Here, let me see it.’
She took possession of it and started pressing all the buttons for a few moments, then said, ‘It was working a minute ago. It’ll just need charged! Take it for fifty pence.’
Now I’m really on the wind up, so I ask her, ‘How do you work camera? So I can take pictures and send them home.’
‘What camera? It doesn’t have a camera,’ she replied.
‘So how do you take pictures?’ I asked her in all seriousness.
‘You don’t! It’s a mobile phone, no’ a bloody Polaroid.’
‘So you not take pictures with it?’ I said in my fake broken English.
‘No, you can’t take pictures … But you can use it to phone a friend to come round and take pictures for you!’ she said, winking at the stallholder next to her, bringing some humour into the situation.
‘But the phone, it doesn’t work,’ I said, reminding her.
‘Well borrow somebody else’s phone to call them while you charge that one up!’ Then she turned and mumbled out of the side of her mouth, ‘Frigging hell, I think I must attract them.’
So I stood there, turning it backwards and forwards as if I was examining it, but looking confused and I could feel her eyes penetrating me as I did, so I thought I’d lead her on a wee while longer.
‘Has it got MP3 player?’
‘What in hell’s name is an empty three player?’ she asked, exasperated by my latest question.
‘No! Not empty three player, but MP3 player,’ I said. ‘Music! I want to hear music!’
‘Och, it’s a bloody stereo you want, no’ a phone!’ she replied, before turning to the nearby stallholder and whispering, ‘Fucking two minutes in the country and they’re already trying to educate us. Next he’ll be running my stall and I’ll need to pay him just to take my stuff!’
I could hear her talking, so I said to her, ‘I might be foreign person, but I not deaf!’
‘I never said you were daft, ya bam! I said you no understand the lingo very well, that’s all!’ she responded, trying to back track, but not very convincingly.
‘What is lingo? Does phone have li
ngo?’ I asked.
‘Oh definitely, and it’s got it in colour as well. None of your black and white shite, but full colour, all for fifty pence cash! No paying it up, either. Cash only!’
‘It has TV screen?’ I said.
‘TV and the full Sky package with all the premier films and all for fifty pence!’ she replied sarcastically.
‘How many channels?’ I asked.
‘Full package, I told you! Are you no’ listening, or are your ears painted on?’
I paused for a moment, screwing up my face as if trying to understand, then I asked her, ‘You are giving me fifty pence to take phone?’
She looked at me, then scratched her head and said, ‘You know something, son, it would be worth giving you fifty pence just to get rid of you.’
She then started to rummage about in her money bag until she found a fifty-pence piece and, handing it over to me, she said, ‘Here, son, take that and piss off and annoy somebody else!’
I looked at her, puzzled, and said, ‘How much are ye wanting for yer phone hen, afore a piss aff?’
She stared at me, unsure for a moment, then said, ‘Ya big bastard! You’ve been winding me up and I believed you were a refugee. Ya bastard!’
I started to laugh and was soon joined by the female in the next stall, and as I looked back at the stallholder, she said with a straight face, ‘If you want the phone, it’s back up to a pound, Mr smart arse!’
Home Made Soup
…
An old man contacted the police after returning home to discover his house had been broken into.
The police attended at his house and obtained the necessary details for their report.
As it was, nothing had been stolen, but the suspects had vandalised several items within the house.
‘So, you’re definitely sure there is nothing missing from the house?’ the cop asked.
‘Nothing! Not a thing. Just some damage,’ replied the old man, before adding, ‘Although some dirty bastard did a big toley in a pot of soup I’d just made …’
Then he paused for a moment before adding, ‘I’ve had to throw half of it out!’
PART FOUR
Renovation Time
…
I’ve just bought a new house and I’ve been renovating it along with my brother Hughie.
The other day, along with Hughie, I had to attend at a female friend’s house who was advising me on my finances.
‘Have you a lot of work to do to it?’ she asked Hughie.
Hughie replied that he was having to strip the wallpaper off all the walls in the house.
There was a pause for a few moments before she asked Hughie, ‘Do you have a steamer?’
To which Hughie responded by saying, ‘I do! But I didn’t think you’d notice it under these overalls!’
True Fact!
…
Dr Harvey Kellogg intended his first breakfast cereal product to be an antidote for masturbation. Personally, I prefer porridge!
Moral of the Story
…
Whilst at Tulliallan Police College, one of the instructors asked the class to think of a story that has a moral.
Ricky Gray was the first to go and said, ‘Last week when I was driving my mother back from the farmers’ market, she was holding onto a basket of eggs, and suddenly I hit a bump in the road causing some of the eggs in her basket to break.
‘The moral of my story is: don’t put all your eggs in one basket!’
‘Very good, Ricky,’ the instructor said. ‘Okay, who’s next?’
Maggie Mulligan stood up and said, ‘My granddad kept chickens and put five of their eggs into an incubator, but only three of them hatched out.
‘The moral of my story is: never count your chickens until they’re hatched!’
‘Again, very good,’ responded the instructor. ‘Next.’
Jimmy Clark got to his feet and said, ‘My wife’s uncle Bert was in Afghanistan when his helicopter was shot down and crashed behind enemy lines. All he had in his possession was a machine gun, his army knife and a case of Stella Artois beers.
‘He quickly drank down all the beers before shooting twenty-four Taliban. Then he ran out of bullets, so he stabbed another fifteen with his knife. Then his knife blade broke, so he strangled another six with his bare hands, before plotting his escape across dangerous terrain to safety!’
There was silence for a few moments, before the instructor asked Jimmy, ‘So what is the moral of your story then?’
To which Jimmy replied, ‘Simple! The moral of my story is: don’t fuck with the wife’s Uncle Bert when he’s drunk!’
True Fact!
…
In Iran in 1994 Mohammad Esmail al-Bahrami, aged 105, filed for divorce from his wife, Fatemeh Razavi, aged 100.
Apparently his mother warned him it would never last!
Wednesday Shopping
…
Wednesday is shopping day. It’s the day I take my elderly mother out for her messages to Morrison’s superstore, followed by some lunch before I take her back home.
As we were walking round the store, she asked, ‘Gonnae go and see if they have my Dutch Crispbake biscuits in this week. They didnae have them last week and I ended up buying they bionic ones, they’re bloody disgusting, it’s like eating cardboard! I ended up handing them in to Isobel next door. She likes awe that bionic stuff.’
‘It’s organic, not bionic!’ I said, correcting her.
‘Och, it’s the bloody same thing, you know what I mean!’
Off I went to look for her biscuits, returning a few minutes later with the news that there were none on the shelf.
‘Aw that’s a bloody disgrace. They’re at it in here. I’ve no’ managed to get them for a few weeks now,’ she said.
Then she spotted a store supervisor. ‘Excuse me, son, but where are your Dutch Crispbake biscuits?’ she asked in a soft, plausible old lady’s voice. ‘Cause I don’t see them, son, and you didnae have them in last week either! In fact, I ended up buying those bionic ones, but they’re absolutely tasteless.’
‘I’m very sorry, dear, but we have none in stock, and there’s none at the warehouse either, so it’s only the organic ones we have in stock, but we’re waiting for an order to come in any day,’ he replied apologetically.
‘Aw that’s good, son, ‘cause I miss them. Thanks for that!’ she said with a smile on her face. Then as the supervisor walked off, she turned to me and her expression changed and she said, ‘What a bloody liar! A big store like this and they don’t have any Dutch biscuits! He’s at it! Probably got boxes of them in the back shop, but he’s trying to get rid of that bionic crap first!’
I just shook my head at her and said, ‘Organic, Mam. Organic!’
All My Life’s a Circle
…
Two youths were found guilty of drug abuse and, as it was their first offence, the Sheriff decided to be lenient towards them, so he sentenced them both to go out onto the streets and convince other youths about the evils of taking drugs.
Two weeks later, they were back in court to report to the Sheriff as to how they each got on.
The first youth proudly announced that he had persuaded ten youths to give up drugs, by showing them a piece of paper with two circles thereon, a big one and a smaller one.
He explained to them that the big circle represented the size of their brain before drug abuse, and the smaller circle was the size of their brain after drug abuse.
The Sheriff was very impressed. He turned to the second youth and asked, ‘And how many young people have you managed to convert?’
The second youth blurted out ecstatically, ‘Two hundred and thirty, m’lord, with many more to follow!’
‘Holy shit!’ responded a surprised Sheriff. ‘And just how did you manage to do that, young man?’
The youth replied, ‘It was relatively easy m’lord! I just used the same principle of the two circles.’
Then pointing to the smaller
one of the two, he said, ‘I told them, this is the size of your arsehole before you go into prison!’
Disastarrgghhh!
…
One of the great things I liked about being a police motorcyclist was the fact that you were allowed to work by yourself, unsupervised.
However, there came the odd occasion where disaster struck, and never more so than the day I had to escort a chapter of the Orange Lodge from Maryhill to Blythswood Square, and congregate with other lodges, to form their annual parade.
Having started them off on their march, after fifteen to twenty minutes I got bored with the slow pace we were marching at, so I decided to slip away and bugger off home for a short break and some much needed bacon and egg.
As it was, I lived in the Clarkston area, on the south side of the city, the complete opposite side of the river from where I was working.
I decided to take the chance that I wouldn’t be missed and, about a mile from my home, I stopped off to buy some morning rolls and a newspaper.
On doing so, I parked immediately behind a large delivery van, and as I dismounted my motorcycle, putting it up onto its stand, I extended my flashing blue light in order to warn oncoming traffic that I was parked, stationary.
It was while I was standing within the queue in the newsagents’ shop, with my rolls and newspaper in my hand, and looking out of the window, that I saw the driver of the large delivery van return to his vehicle, jump into his cabin, start up his engine, engage gear and promptly reverse backwards over the top of my police motorcycle.
This was one particular incident that took an awful lot of explaining to the Road Patrol Inspector, as to why I just happened to be parked over on the south side of the city when I was meant to be some twelve miles away, on the north side, escorting the Maryhill chapter of the Orange parade, en route to their city-centre rendezvous.
