by Harry Morris
‘Bollocks! Now tell me what really happened?’ I said.
He looked up at me with his sad, sorry eyes. ‘Okay! Ye know that Staffordshire bitch fae Busby that I was accused of giving one to? Well her brother obviously found out where I lived and was waiting to ambush me from behind and set about me. The vet said I've got more holes in my neck than a kitchen colander. All I can say is, he was very lucky I didn't see him coming!’
‘So what are you going to do now?’ I asked.
‘Firstly, I'm gonnae get better, after which I'm going to get myself a personal trainer, like big Floyd up the next close!’
‘You're not seriously telling me you're going into training to take on a Staffi terrier, are you?’ I asked, fearing for his life.
‘No way, Jose! I'm gonnae bribe Floyd with a big bone tae dae that.’
The Garden Plot!
• • •
A widowed Glesca pensioner lived alone in the Carntyne area of the city. He wanted to plant his annual vegetable garden, but it was very difficult to do so, due to the ground being very hard to dig.
His only son, Frankie, who used to help him with this by preparing the ground for planting, was serving a custodial sentence in Barlinnie prison.
The old man decided to write him a letter describing his present predicament, hoping for a solution.
Dear Frankie,
I am feeling very sad, because for the first time in years, it looks like I won't be able to plant my vegetable garden. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here, son, it would be no problem to you. I know how you enjoyed digging the garden for me, like in the old days.
What to do?
Love Dad
A few days later the old man received a letter back from his son.
Dear Dad,
For God's sake, whatever you do, don't even attempt to dig up the back garden. That's where all the bodies are buried!
Love Frankie
At six o'clock the following morning, the old man was awakened by forensic officers and uniformed police, arriving at his house, where they proceeded to dig up the entire garden area, without finding any bodies.
After several hours of searching, they made their apologies to the old man and left.
The very next day the old man received another letter from his son Frankie.
Dear Dad,
If everything has gone to plan, you should now be able to go ahead and start planting your vegetable garden.
That's the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you Dad,
Frankie.
Who said the prison authorities don't read your mail?!
OAP Femme Fatal
• • •
And here I thought it only happened in Glesca, but no matter where you go, and there are OAPs about, it'll happen.
Last week I was down in London, queuing up to purchase my Oyster Card in the post office and the little old lady in front of me let one drop. ‘Bbblllerreuuuupppp!’
Nothing! No flicker of an eyebrow from her. Not even an apology and it was totally minging!
I immediately looked behind me apologetically, then thought to myself: Why? I didn't do it, but she made me feel guilty by her actions – or should I say, her lack of reactions.
I made the usual facial expressions, as you do, waving my hands in front of me before pointing the finger at her.
I tried to casually compose myself moments later, having dissipated the smell by my constant hand waving before returning to my position in the queue.
No sooner had I done this when, ‘Bbbrrrrruuuuuuupppphh!’ She farted again. The noise smothered out that of the annoying Royal Mail CD they play on the public side of the counter, while you wait your turn to be served.
This was followed by a horrible stench of bowfin’, bowel flatulence, wafting its way through the customers in the queue.
‘That was definitely not me!’ I announced innocently, if not too convincingly. I pointed an accusing finger at the little ol’ lady in front of me, in my attempt to divert any blame.
‘It was her – honest!’ I said, pathetically whispering.
The fact that the little old lady didn't bat an eyelid, or disturb a hair of her purple rinse, appeared to say it all, and no amount of pleading my innocence was going to convince my fellow queue members otherwise, even when, after being served, she looked at everyone in line with her pathetic wee face, apologised for taking so long, and then directed a big smile in my direction.
Glesca Euthanasia
• • •
Last night, my missus and I were sitting in the living room watching the telly and I just happened to turn to her and say, ‘I never want to live in a vegetative state, where I'm dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If you ever see that happening to me, just pull the plug.’
At that, she got up out of her seat, unplugged the TV, and poured my bottle of malt whisky down the sink.
She's such a bitch!
Exposed
• • •
It was a hot summer day and the newly appointed female Metropolitan Police Commissioner, who was very much a sun worshipper, decided to go up onto the roof of police headquarters for some much-needed sun bathing.
She lay down in a likely sun spot, but after a few minutes she saw the dark shadow of a nearby office building beginning to shade her legs.
She sat up and looked around for a better location, when she noticed to her right a large, clear flat area that couldn't be obstructed or overshadowed, so she moved over to it.
Settling down, she turned around slowly and noticed that there was no one around. Finding herself all alone, she proceeded to remove her blouse, then her suit skirt, laid face down with her head to one side, draped a towel across her bare bottom, and drifted off to sleep.
A short time later, she was aroused and slowly opened her eyes to see a pair of brightly polished shoes immediately in front of her.
She glanced up to see the headquarter's commissionaire, an officious-looking male officer in formal attire, standing at attention, carefully diverting his eyes to the side. ‘Begging your pardon, ma'am,’ he said stiffly. ‘But I'm afraid you cannot sunbathe here’.
‘And why not?’ she asked. ‘I'm up here by myself and I'm not bothering anyone.’
The commissionaire cleared his throat uncomfortably before replying, ‘True, ma'am, but you're sunbathing face down on the glass roof of the headquarters canteen!’
Practical Jokers
• • •
The police force is just like any other job, where your fellow workers enjoy playing practical jokes, particularly on the latest recruits to join the shift.
Such was the case with Peter, who after completing his training was sent to work in Motherwell police station, where he walked the beat one night with his tutor cop Stuart.
About three a.m. they were walking past some shops and about to turn the corner when Stuart suddenly looked up and said, ‘For fuck's sake, would you look at that daft bastard on the roof?’
Peter looked up towards the dark skies to see the silhouette of what looked like a naked man about to jump off the roof. This was followed by a male voice calling out, ‘Don't try and stop me! Ah'm gonnae jump!’
Poor Peter, to witness an incident such as this on his first night on the beat, caused him to almost physically shit himself.
Worse was to follow, as moments later, the naked male jumped off the roof, hitting the road below, breaking into pieces.
Peter did not witness the landing, however, having closed his eyes tightly prior to the jumper making contact with the ground.
Almost fainting at the thought of it, he eventually opened his eyes to see Stuart and a few other police colleagues standing in front of him laughing hysterically at his reaction.
It appears that two other members from his shift had found an old mannequin at the rear of the local Burton clothes shop earlier on in the evening and, along with Stuart, they had arranged the special
surprise for Peter the rookie!
They had climbed up the rear fire escape and balanced it on the edge of the roof, while holding it up with a rope until Stuart arrived with Peter, then let the rope go, for what was considered to be his initiation to the shift and a great practical joke!
Theology
• • •
My son is studying Theology and during a class at college, the students were instructed to write a short story in as few words as possible. The instructions were that the short story had to contain the following three things:
Religion
Sexuality
Mystery
And the winning story was: ‘Good God, I'm pregnant. I wonder who did it!’
A Genuine Fake
• • •
I recently went on holiday to Marmaris in Turkey and was amused by a sign outside a shop that advertised, ‘Genuine Fake Watches!’ Apparently by declaring this, it makes it legal to sell them.
For a fraction of the cost, you could purchase a fake Rolex, Tag Heuer, Breitling, you name it. Mind you, they probably wouldn't last for any length of time!
During my stay, I was speaking to an English couple who were also on holiday and we were talking about the number of fake items available to buy and he was saying that he'd asked one of the sellers if the Breitling watch he was offering for sale at twenty-five Euros actually worked. To which the trader replied, ‘Don't be silly, sir. If it actually worked I would be asking for fifty Euros!’
A bit like the seller at a car boot sale who once offered to sell me the Beatles’ famous ‘White’ album for the princely sum of £10.
While I mulled over his offer and was deciding whether to buy it or not for £10, he interrupted my contemplating by insisting, ‘I'm dayin’ ye a right favour here, big man. I've been offered £200 for it on Ebay!’
Well, you never know. Some people might have believed him!
Call me cynical, but I reluctantly declined his offer of doing me a ‘right favour’!
Lucky White Heather
• • •
An off-duty police officer was working on his motorcycle on the patio at the rear of his house.
While running the engine, the motorcycle accidentally slipped into gear and, while still holding onto the handlebars, he was dragged along as it crashed through the double-glazed patio doors.
On hearing the crash, his wife ran into the room to find her husband cut and bleeding, lying across the damaged motorcycle and shattered patio door. She called for an ambulance to attend her husband.
While the paramedics were tending to him, the wife managed to push his motorcycle outside. (She was a big wummin!)
She also soaked up the spillage of petrol with some paper towels and disposed of them into the toilet.
After being treated by the paramedics, the off-duty policeman returned home, looked at the shattered patio door and the damage to his motorcycle.
He poured himself a large malt whisky, lit up a cigarette and disappeared into the bathroom to console himself while attending to his business.
Moments later, after he was finished, he stood up and flicked the cigarette butt between his legs.
Fortunately for him, his wife was nearby in the kitchen and heard the loud explosion, coupled with his screams of agony.
She rushed through to find him squirming about on the bathroom floor like a demented break dancer auditioning for ‘Britain's Got Talent’, with his trousers blown away and some serious burn marks on his bare buttocks, legs and groin.
Once again she contacted an ambulance and the same paramedic crew was dispatched to attend.
As the paramedics assisted her injured husband downstairs to the ambulance, they enquired from her as to how he had sustained the burns to himself.
After she told them, they both started laughing so hard, one of them slipped on the step, losing his grip of the stretcher, resulting in the husband falling down the remaining stairs, whereby he broke both his arms! Now be honest, ye just couldn't make this up!
The Hypnotist
• • •
It was entertainment night at the local retired police officers’ home.
Henry the hypnotist was booked for the night and declared, ‘I'm here to put you into a trance and I intend to hypnotise each and every member of the audience.’
The excitement in the home amongst the residents was electric, as Henry withdrew from his waistcoat pocket a beautiful antique fob watch with rose gold chain.
‘I want you all to focus your eyes on this antique watch. It's a very special watch and has been in my family for over six generations.’
At that, he began to swing the watch gently backwards and forwards while quietly chanting, ‘Watch … the watch! Watch … the watch! Watch … the watch!’
The entire assembly of retired police officers were totally mesmerised by Henry as he swayed his beautiful antique watch backwards and forwards, with the light gleaming off its highly polished surface.
Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed the swaying watch until suddenly, disaster struck and it slipped from the hypnotist's hand and crashed onto the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
‘SHIT!’ blurted out the Hypnotist, loudly.
Which, if you think about it, under the present circumstances, was not exactly the best choice of word to use …
Apparently, it took three days to clean up the retirement home and they still can't get the smell out of the carpet!
A Glesca Cracker
• • •
This wee court story was sent to me by one of my excolleagues who swears to me that it's true!
The scene is the Glasgow High Court and the witness is a ned, being cross-examined by a new and rather politely spoken Advocate Depute (AD) on behalf of the Crown.
‘You say you went out to your friends’ house that night. Can you tell the court why you went there?’ he asked.
‘Ah went tae get a tap!’ the ned replied.
‘So is your friend a plumber?’ asked the AD.
‘Naw he's no’ a plumber!’
‘Are you a plumber then?’ he asked.
‘Naw! Ah'm no’ a plumber either,’ responded the ned, who was a bit bewildered by this line of questioning by the AD.
The AD then noticed the court police officer signalling to him and rubbing the fingers of one hand together in the universal gesture for money.
The penny dropped with the AD and he quickly changed his line of questioning accordingly.
‘Ah, so you went to the house to borrow money?’ he said.
‘Naw!’
‘So, you went to the house to lend money then?’ he asked.
‘Naw!’ the ned again replied.
By this time the AD was totally exasperated and said, ‘You told this court you went to your friends’ house for a tap, so if it wasn't for a plumber or money, then what kind of tap was it?’
To which the ned replied in his total Glaswegian accent, ‘A Sellick tap!’
(For those of you not fluent in the Glesca tongue, this loosely translated as, ‘a Celtic football jersey’!)
Dope Story
• • •
One Glesca drug dealer is that cocky that when his clients phone up, his answering machine message says: ‘Sorry I'm not available, but if you want to buy marijuana, please press the hash key …’
Earls Court Road
• • •
Having won first-class tickets for the Caledonian Sleeper, from Glasgow Central to London Euston, my wife and I set the date to go down for a week of West End shows.
Not exactly the best bit of planning I've ever done, with the Queen's tennis tournament on, Britney Spears at the O2 Arena, England national football team playing a World Cup qualifier against Andorra and the bloody Tube station workers on strike. It was absolute chaos!
However, lots of fun and games were to lie ahead. Arriving off the sleeper, we had to drag the luggage outside the station and across the busy road to the bus stops where there w
ere literally hundreds waiting to pounce on the first sight of a minute space on a big red bus. That's the way it was going to be.
Carrying around three heavy articles of luggage certainly slowed me down in the race to get on. Suddenly, I looked over to my left and noticed Sara Harkin, a friend from the BBC, who informed me she was down for a meeting. Fortunately for Sara, she was being met by the BBC transport vehicle. Unfortunately for us, there was no room for outsiders.
In the end we managed to squeeze ourselves onto the front of a bus and the driver didn't give a hoot when I plonked two of my pieces of luggage onto his front window ledge. He'd probably had enough hassle that day.
Thereafter, for the next hour or so, it was on bus, off bus as we weaved our way through the heavy London traffic to our hotel destination at Earls Court.
It was a hive of activity when we arrived and as a result, we had to wait for an hour to get into our room.
Sitting in the hotel foyer was a lesson in geography, as we racked our brains trying to work out the nationalities of the staff, which ranged from Asian, Romanian, Lithuanian, Australian, Russian, Canadian, Hungarian, Ukrainian and Austrian, with no English representatives to be seen.
And it didn't go unnoticed with me that their nationalities all ended in IAN! He must have been a more popular lover than Casanova around these parts!
Fire and Brimstone!
• • •
An ex-colleague was relating a story to me regarding his former partner in the police, who had been admitted to hospital for a simple operation.
Apparently while in the operating theatre having this routine procedure to remove a mole from his bottom, he broke wind during the operation and as a result set fire to his genitals when they were ignited by a spark from the laser instrument being used by the surgeon.
Worse was to follow, as the surgical spirits used to sterilise the area around his ‘family jewels’ caught fire.
No jokes please about being in the ‘Burns’ unit.
Due to his testicles now resembling two overcooked meatballs from Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, he is now suing the hospital.
