There's Been a Murder!

by Harry Morris

  She breathed a huge sigh of relief on hearing this and at the end of the conversation she just happened to mention to him that she'd given her daughter some ant poison to eat in order to kill the ants she had eaten.

  He responded by telling her that she had better bring her young daughter into the emergency room immediately to be treated for the poison that she had fed her.

  Here's your sign, momma! Wear it with pride, girl.

  Name that Chib?

  • • •

  A wee Glesca punter travelled down south to watch a rugby match between England and Scotland and was sitting at a bar in the Twickenham area when this huge English guy wearing the English national rugby shirt entered the bar.

  As he brushed passed the wee Glesca punter, sitting decked out in his colourful tartan kilt and Saltire shirt, he made an unprovoked attack on him, striking him on the back of the neck, knocking him clean off his bar stool and onto the floor. He then announced to everyone present, ‘That's what you call a karate chop from China.’ He then walked over and took his seat at a table.

  The wee Glesca punter recovered, shook his head, got back up onto his bar stool and carried on drinking his whisky.

  A short time later, the same big burly Englishman got up from his seat to go to the bathroom and as he walked past the wee Glesca punter, he hit him on the other side of the neck, again knocking him clean off his bar stool onto the tiled floor.

  ‘That's what you call a judo chop from Japan’! he announced to everyone in the bar, before walking off.

  The wee Glesca punter once more picked himself up from the floor, shook his head and, deciding he'd had enough, left the pub.

  An hour later he returned to the pub, and seeing that the big burly Englishman was now sitting comfortably on the bar stool he had vacated earlier, he casually walked up behind him and whacked him over the head, knocking him clear off the stool, rendering him unconscious on the floor.

  He then turned to the bartender and said, ‘When that prick wakens up, tell him that's what you call a fuckin’ big metal tyre lever from a Ford Transit van.’

  Gorbals Cross!

  • • •

  One Saturday morning, during the celebrations of the Orange Parade, I was detailed to perform traffic duties at Gorbals Cross.

  As I carried out this duty, I would occasionally stop the flow of all traffic in every direction controlled by the busy junction and shout, ‘Okay, pedestrians, cross now.’ Then I signalled for them to cross over while the traffic was at a stop, before allowing the vehicular traffic to flow again.

  I had carried this out several times, but a little old lady dressed in a tweed coat and head scarf remained standing on the sidewalk looking on.

  After a short while I shouted for the umpteenth time, ‘Pedestrians cross now!’

  Suddenly, this little old lady sauntered over to me and said in a broad Irish accent, ‘B'Jesus! Is it not about time ye let some of us Catholics across the bloody road?’

  Sex, Glesca Style

  • • •

  While on holiday, a wee Glesca ned propositioned the services of a local prostitute from the Mosside area of Manchester.

  ‘How much dae ye charge for an hour, doll?’

  ‘£100!’ she replied.

  ‘Can ye dae the Glesca method?’ he asked her.

  ‘No!’ she replied, shaking her head.

  ‘I'll give ye £200 tae dae it the Glesca method.’

  ‘No way!’ she said, unaware of what the Glesca method even was.

  ‘I'll give ye £300!’

  ‘No!’ she reiterated. ‘Now piss off!’

  ‘Awright, awright. I'll give ye £500 then.’

  ‘No!’

  Finally he said, ‘Tell ye whit, doll, I'll put ye down for a grand if ye'll dae it the Glesca method?’

  She thought for a moment, considering the offer being made, and said to herself, ‘Well, Helen, you've been in this game for nearly twenty years, you've slept with just about every weirdo out there and took part in some kinky sessions with punters from all over the world, but you've never been offered this much before! How much different can the Glesca method be?’

  ‘Awright lover boy,’ she said aloud, ‘You're on … £1000 to do it the Glesca method!’

  And so they stripped off and did it in every way possible, with some impossible ‘XXX’ positions thrown in.

  Finally, after several hours, they finished. The exhausted prostitute turned to the punter and said, ‘Here you, I was expecting something weird, perverted and disgusting, but that was bloody good. So why is it called the Glesca method?’

  To which the wee Glesca punter replied, ‘Because tae get paid, ye need tae send your invoice tae the Social!’

  True Love

  • • •

  I was invited to an old colleague's home for dinner one evening, during which I was impressed by the way my old buddy preceded every request to his wife with endearments such as ‘darling’, ‘honey’, ‘sugar’, ‘pumpkin’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘love’, and so on.

  They had been married almost sixty years and clearly were still very much in love.

  While the wife was in the kitchen, I leaned over to my friend and said, ‘I think it's amazing after all these years, you still call your wife those loving names.’

  My old colleague hung his head and said, ‘I have to tell you the truth, Harry. I forgot what her name was about six years ago, but I'm too frightened to ask her what it is!’

  The Untouchables

  • • •

  As you probably know, the nickname ‘The Untouchables’ comes from a TV crime series about the great Eliot Ness in Prohibition-era USA.

  The City of Glasgow police had its own version of the untouchables, which was a team of ‘plain clothes’ police officers, formed in the city centre division, as a combative anti-crime unit. The officer selected to be in charge of the unit was a Sergeant Hector Boyce.

  Sergeant Boyce was well known for his unique under-cover disguises – for example, an old ‘Columbo’ type trench coat with his police radio receiver taped and concealed on his right shoulder to give the impression of a severely disabled person.

  He also had a wire with an ear-phone plug taped to the back of his ear, wore dark glasses and used a white walking stick, giving the impression that he was blind.

  This disguise was a far cry from the real Hector Boyce, who was a police cross-country runner and champion, allround athlete and regular competitor at the police athletics club meetings.

  Therefore it was no great surprise when, in his disabled disguise, he was targeted by neds to be mugged on several occasions in the busy Glasgow city centre.

  What was even more surprising – and extremely hilarious – was the look of horror etched across the faces of offenders when pursued and subsequently arrested by their blind disabled male victim with a noticeable disfigurement protruding from his back.

  As a master of disguises, Hector excelled in undercover detection, where the conviction rate of his team was exemplary.

  With his superb athleticism, and the support of his back-up team of ‘Untouchables’, it made them a unique crime squad.

  ‘Glesca's Untouchables!’ Will ye no’ come back again?

  Quick Wit!

  • • •

  This conversation took place in Glasgow several years ago.

  The Mounted Branch had been detailed to perform crowd control during an Old Firm football match.

  My friend Dick Bruce was a right patter merchant and on approaching a young, very pretty female police officer sitting astride a seventeen-hand-high chestnut horse, which was becoming quite restless due to the long periods of standing still.

  Dick decided to chat up the young policewoman and, as he approached her, he was trying to think of something witty to say, which would engage her in conversation.

  ‘Here, hen! Do you know your big horse is frothing at the mouth?’

  The young policewoman rider looked him up and down then
replied, ‘Listen, pal, if you were between my legs for eight hours a day, believe me, you'd be frothing at the mouth too!’

  Spiritual Guidance

  • • •

  One day while at the Ayr race course, gambling on the horses, my former police colleague big John Paton was having no luck whatsoever, until he noticed an elderly Catholic priest stepping out onto the race track, walking over and blessing the forehead of one of the horses lining up for the next race.

  Lo and behold, moments afterwards, the horse – an outside long shot – won the race at a canter.

  Before the next race took place, as the horses were lining up, big John watched with interest as again the old priest stepped onto the race track and, when the horses came to the starting gate, made a blessing on the forehead of one of the horses.

  John made a quick beeline for a betting window and placed a small bet on the horse. Again, even though it was another long shot, the horse the priest had blessed won the race.

  John collected his winnings and anxiously waited to see which of the horses would be blessed by the priest in the next race.

  The priest again blessed a totally rank outsider of a horse in the line-up. On seeing his choice, John put a big bet on it, and just like the others before, it won comfortably.

  John was ecstatic. He couldn't believe his luck.

  As the race meeting continued, the elderly priest kept blessing long-shot horses, and each one he blessed romped away from the other horses to come in first.

  By this time, big John had won some serious money and with the last race coming up, he knew his wildest dreams were going to come true, so he quickly headed to the nearest ATM and withdrew all the savings from his account, and waited for the old priest to administer the blessing that would indicate which horse he should bet all his money on.

  True to form, the priest stepped onto the track for the last race, walked over and blessed the forehead of an old nag that was showing the longest odds of the entire race meeting.

  John watched with interest as the elderly priest took his time in blessing the eyes, ears and legs of the old nag.

  At that moment, big John knew he had a sure winner and promptly bet every penny he had withdrawn from his account, along with his previous winnings, on the old nag.

  He then took up his position in the stand to watch the race.

  John was inconsolable as he watched, disbelieving, as the old nag sauntered up to the finishing line in last position, several furlongs behind the rest of the runners, who by this time were enjoying a leisurely rest in their horse boxes, waiting to be conveyed back home to their stables.

  John was in a complete state of shock at this unexpected result and made his way down to the horse enclosure area where the old priest was standing.

  John couldn't contain himself. He went over to confront the old priest, demanding some answers.

  ‘Father! What happened? All day long I've watched you bless horses before a race and every one you've blessed has turned out a winner. Then, for some unknown reason, in the very last race of the day, the horse that you picked, and you blessed, just lost by a country mile! Now, thanks to you, I've lost all my winnings and every single penny of my life savings.’

  The old priest nodded his head sympathetically at John and asked, ‘Are you a protestant, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes I'm a protestant! But what has my religion got to do with it?’ asked John.

  ‘It has an awful lot to do with it,’ replied the priest. ‘You see, son, the problem with all you protestants is you don't know the difference between a simple religious blessing and the administering of the last rites!’

  Choke!

  • • •

  In the early days, prior to the more advanced technology that we have today, we of the older generation used to have motor cars with a manual pull-out choke lever on the dashboard, to assist with starting your car's engine in cold weather.

  A choke basically pumped more fuel through the system, after which, once the engine started, you gradually pushed the lever back in to close it, allowing the engine to run normally.

  Bill Brydon, a former colleague who worked as a mechanic in the police garage, related a story to me about one of the few policewomen supervisors, who personally called at the garage to collect a panda car, which had been in for repair.

  She started the car up and promptly left the garage, only to call the mechanic several hours later, complaining bitterly that the engine was racing excessively fast, coupled with the fact that it was using up exceptional amounts of fuel.

  The female supervisor was advised to return the car to the garage for further inspection.

  A short time later, she duly arrived outside the garage with the panda car's engine roaring loudly.

  As she got out of the driver's seat, she immediately began berating Bill regarding the condition of the car. Bill calmed her down before checking out the car for a fault.

  Moments later, Bill had solved the problem of why the engine was racing and using up excessive amounts of fuel.

  Apparently, when starting the engine at the garage, she had pulled the choke lever out full, and instead of pushing it back in after she had started the engine, she decided to use the protruding lever to hang her heavy handbag on!

  The Showroom

  • • •

  The divisional commander walked into the police office one morning unaware that his trouser zip was down and his fly area was wide open.

  A female inspector approached him and said, ‘Excuse me, boss, but when you left your house this morning, did you forget to close your garage door?’

  The divisional commander told her ‘No’, that he knew he'd closed the garage door, and walked off into his office, totally puzzled by her question.

  As he finished his morning paperwork, he suddenly noticed his fly was wide open, and promptly zipped it up. He then understood why his assistant had made the remark about his ‘garage door’.

  He walked out to the front of the office for a cup of coffee and paused at her desk to ask, ‘When my garage door was lying open, did you see my Range Rover parked in there?’

  The inspector smiled and replied, ‘I certainly did not, but I did see an old minivan with two flat tyres!’

  Credible Witness

  • • •

  My elderly mother went to court as a crown witness and was called to the witness box by the court officer.

  The Procurator Fiscal got up from his seat, walked over to the witness box and asked my mother to tell the court her name.

  ‘Flora Morris!’ she answered loudly.

  ‘And do you know who I am, Mrs Morris?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I know who you are? Of course I know who you are, you're Martin James and I know your mother and father as well.

  ‘I have known you since you were a wee boy living up the next close, and dare I say it, you've turned out to be a real disappointment to your mother. You lie repeatedly, you cheat on your wife and you talk about people behind their backs; you think you're something special, but you're not and you never will be anything other than a jumped-up wee pencil pusher.

  ‘Do I know you? Oh yes, son, I know you very well!’ Flora replied.

  The Procurator Fiscal was totally stunned by her reaction and, not knowing what else to do, he pointed across at the defence solicitor and said, ‘Tell me this, Mrs Morris, do you happen to know Mr Jones sitting opposite?’

  ‘Tommy Jones? Of course I do, I've known him since he was a youngster as well and what a total waste of space he's turned out to be. He's a racist, a bigot, and he's totally bone lazy with a serious drink problem.

  ‘It was that bad, he couldn't hold down a normal relationship with a girl, and broke both his parents’ hearts when he was discovered one morning in a hotel bedroom, naked and handcuffed to the bedpost alongside a rent boy, who was snuggled up beside him in the foetal position.

  ‘I feel desperately sorry for his client in the dock.’ Then directing her attention to t
he accused, she said, ‘You'd be as well pleading guilty, son, because there's no way that he is going to get you off. You've absolutely no chance!’

  The accused looked over at his solicitor for some sort of reassurance. However, on hearing this outburst from my mother, the defence solicitor was in the process of quietly sliding down his chair, trying to disappear out of sight, under the table.

  At that, the Sheriff called for order in the court and instructed my mother to take a seat.

  He then summoned both the Procurator Fiscal and the defence solicitor to approach the bench, where he whispered to them both, ‘If either of you two idiots ask this witness if she knows me, I promise you, your names will be the first on the hangman's list should capital punishment ever be reinstated!’

  Jelly Babies

  • • •

  Retired police officer and cult figure Big Donnie secured a new job doing market research for KY Jelly. While out on his third day in Pollok, he knocked on a door and was greeted by a young attractive lassie, with four small children hanging around at her ankles.

  ‘I'm doing some research for a petroleum jelly company. Can I ask you if you've ever used the product?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have used it on many occasions.’

  ‘Well if you don't mind my asking,’ said Donnie, ‘can you tell me what you use it for?’

  ‘Certainly! We always use it when having sex,’ she casually replied.

  Big Donnie was taken aback with her forthright response. ‘Thank you for being so frank, hen, but most people lie to me and say they use it on their child's bicycle chain or on a squeaky gate hinge. But I know for a fact that most people do use it for sex. So I admire you for your honest response, and since you've been so frank so far, can you describe to me how you use it, when having sex?’

  This was not exactly a question on his market research question sheet. However, surprisingly the young woman agreed to tell him.

  ‘I don't mind telling you at all. My husband and I put it on the bedroom door-knob and we find it prevents the weans from opening the door and getting in’.