Aye That Will Be Right

by Harry Morris

Sexthis, sexis, sexa, sexgood, sexway, sexto, sexkeep, sexa, sexthick, sexbam, sexpot, sexlike, sexyou, sexbusy, sexfor, sextwenty, sexseconds, sexat, sexleast!

  Now read it all again without the word sex in it.

  Was I wrong?

  A Bridge too Close

  • • •

  One evening, during my learning probationary period, my senior colleague approached me and said in his soft South Uist accent, ‘Harry, we are going to follow PC MacLeish down the road for a bit, just to make sure he makes it home safely. He’s downed a few whiskies in the back office and is ready to leave for home any minute in his private car. OK?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Donal, you’re the boss!’ I replied.

  Several moments later, while sitting waiting in my police panda at the rear of the station, MacLeish appeared out from a back door and gave me a wave, followed by the thumbs-up, before he poured himself into the driver’s seat of his car.

  Closely pursuing and bringing up the rear was Donal, who got into the police van beside me.

  I started up the van and slowly followed MacLeish out of the yard and along the road, at a safe distance, for about a mile, before he turned off and drove along a local, poorly illuminated back road.

  ‘Just keep with him, Harry, but don’t get too close,’ said Donal. ‘Just in case he looks in his rear-view mirror and we spook him.’

  Mind you, I think MacLeish had enough problems trying to focus on the road ahead, never mind what was behind him.

  I kept my distance, while maintaining a reasonably close contact with MacLeish, until we came to a part of the road approaching a small narrow stone bridge.

  ‘Right, Harry,’ said Donal as he squirmed about in his passenger seat, bracing himself. ‘Ease right off the accelerator and slow down here and let’s create some distance between us and MacLeish, because as often as not, he has a nasty habit of clipping the edge of that bloody stone bridge.’

  The words were barely out of his mouth when bang! scud! wallop!

  ‘I fuckin’ knew it!’ said Donal like a psychic. ‘It never fails – even when he drives sober, he can’t avoid hitting that bloody bridge. You’d think he’d frigging know it was there by now!’

  I couldn’t resist my moment and said, ‘Do you think he wants it moved and is maybe demolishing it in instalments, to clear it out of his way and avoid future obstructions for himself?’

  Donal looked at me, deep in thought, and replied, ‘Do you know what, you could be bloody right there, Harry! He’s daft enough.’

  At that, we followed him for another few hundred metres along the road, before turning off on a different route, as he drove into the street where he lived.

  Did Ye Hear That?

  • • •

  A wee woman called at Castlemilk police station one day to report having lost her hearing aid.

  Now this wasn’t your everyday NHS hearing aid – this particular aid was bought privately and had cost her over £400, due to its sharp sound and minuscule size.

  It also, due to its modern design, fitted discreetly into the ear, making it scarcely visible.

  Whilst noting the loss report, she informed me that she thought it had been lost over a week earlier.

  This prompted me to ask her if she could be more specific about the time and date of her loss.

  I had naturally assumed that she would have been listening to somebody talking one minute, then hear absolutely nothing and realise there and then that she had lost her hearing aid, but apparently, because deaf people tend to lip-read all the time, she didn’t realise she wasn’t hearing anything until the night before, when she’d tried to adjust it whilst watching Coronation Street on the television and realised she couldn’t hear Ken Barlow talking, and that was because … she wasn’t wearing it!

  Never Trust a Woman

  • • •

  A man and woman were involved in a road accident, whereby their vehicles were totally written off but, amazingly, neither of them were injured.

  After they both crawled from their cars, the woman driver said, ‘Gee whiz! Would you just look at our cars – they’re totally demolished, but fortunately we are both all right! You’re a man and I’m a woman – this must be a sign from God that we were destined to meet as friends and live in peace and harmony for the rest of our lives.’

  Flattered by this statement, the man replied, ‘Absolutely! I agree with you completely!’

  The woman continued, ‘Look! There’s another miracle – my car is completely wrecked, yet this bottle of wine did not break. Surely it’s another sign that God wants us to drink it and celebrate our good fortune?’

  She handed the bottle to the man who nodded his head in agreement, opened it up and drank half of it down, before handing it back to the woman.

  The woman took the bottle and put the cork back in it.

  ‘Aren’t you having a drink?’ asked the man.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I think I’ll just wait for the police to arrive.’

  Playtime

  • • •

  One of the many duties of a police cadet is to assist at certain times in and around the police station.

  One particular day, the force station assistant was engaged in dealing with another matter when a member of the public attended at the station to report the theft of his motor vehicle.

  The young cadet, eager to assist, decided to note the report, taking down all the details from the reporter.

  Later that same day, the reporter’s car was recovered abandoned and the duty officer looked out the crime report from the file, in order to contact the owner, only to discover the reporting officer (cadet) had omitted to note down his contact details.

  As a result of this, the duty officer telephoned the young police cadet at home to check with him if he had a note of the owner’s telephone number in his notebook.

  The telephone was answered by the young cadet’s mother and the duty officer, after identifying himself to her, asked if he could speak with him regarding a police matter.

  To which his mother innocently responded, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector, but he’s outside playing.’

  Now, I wonder if his daddy was pushing him on a swing?

  Check out the Library

  • • •

  Donnie Henderson, my former police colleague and trusted professional funeral mourner, contacted me out of the blue, as usual, only this time he called at the house.

  ‘Hello, Harry boy, how the fuck are you?’ he greeted me in his own inimitable, subtle style, making use of a Glasgow endearment.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Donnie, and before you ask me, I definitely don’t wish to go to another funeral with you, so let’s cut to the chase. What other little scam have you devised for me this time?’ I asked, expecting the worse.

  ‘Right, are you quite finished giving me the sermon? Because you’re never going to believe this one, Harry, but I was in my local library the other day and – I kid you not – they are advertising for “Support Groups for Breastfeeding Classes”! Can you imagine it? You and me supplying the necessary support needed to hold up some voluptuous pair of young “Bristol Cities”, while they demonstrate breastfeeding! I just can’t resist it, Harry, I’m putting my name down as a volunteer supporter and I’m taking every class, I’ve just got to be a part of this. “Help in the community” and all that. Oh, and by the way, ye get a discount off the course if you’re on invalidity.’

  At that point, he winked at me.

  ‘You probably don’t know this, Harry boy, but I’m a keen supporter of breastfeeding, having been breastfed on Marvel powder as a boy up until I was given the real thing, but by then, I had reached the age of seventeen years and was eventually put off for biting! Will I put your name down for the role of a caring and willing “supporter” of the young voluptuous Bristol Cities? We’re bound to get a good laugh, and who knows, if we’re lucky, maybe even an unexpected mouthful. Just think about it for a minute – if this is a success, who knows, the
next course they run could be nappy-changing classes, where they require some mature adult models to help out!’ he suggested, while performing a ‘Nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ gesture, tapping away with his forefinger on the side of his nose.

  There was silence for a few moments, while I digested what Donnie had just said to me, before I replied, ‘You are one sick man, Donnie Henderson!’

  ‘Correct!’ he responded proudly, sporting a big grin. ‘So what’s your answer, Harry boy? Are we going for a double, one of us on each side of a young pregnant mother, assisting in the course of motherhood, or not?’

  That was the final straw for me. As I escorted him to my front door and showed him out, I said, ‘Bye, Donnie. And don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ … Not!

  You Tube!

  • • •

  It’s good to know that computer technology is helping enormously to fight crime, but this story really takes the biscuit and proves that you don’t have to be very clever to work a computer.

  Apparently an experienced motorcyclist is facing a lengthy ban after he ‘stupidly’ filmed himself with a video camera fitted to his bike, travelling at 100mph, and then posted the footage of it on the YouTube website for all to see.

  This is where his lack of brains and common sense come in, because he was easily identified, due to starting his video recording of himself leaving the front door of his own house.

  As it was, a serving police officer just happened to be browsing on YouTube when he came across the video playing.

  Now a copy of the footage is being used as evidence to prosecute the ‘speeding’ motorcyclist, who was just intent on showing off.

  Well, my fellow motorcyclist, I only have two words to say to you: ‘You tube!’

  Black Mark for Frankie!

  • • •

  During my time with a folk band, we were performing in a music festival in a place called Fyvie in Scotland.

  Afterwards, Frankie learned that there was a party being held in one of the festival organiser’s houses and that many of the folk music ‘clique’ of performers would be attending.

  As a band we were slightly different from the norm. We were lively, played live music without the aid of backing tracks, and didn’t play mournful dirges or sing monotonous suicidal songs about the man of the house having run off with his best buddy, ‘Molly’, the farm sheep-dog, following a brief affair, and been caught in a compromising position with a black-faced ewe from his herd.

  Anyway, not to be outdone or miss out on a free drink, Frankie had secured the address of where the party was being held.

  As we ambled our way along the streets, searching out the location, we eventually found it and, pure and simple, gate-crashed the proceedings.

  The funeral – sorry, the party – was in full swing, with each of the artistes present taking it in turn to perform their party piece and sing a Scottish folk song or relate an old Scottish poem full of unpronounceable and out-of-date words.

  After suffering this torture, it was a straight choice between getting pissed on the free alcohol available in the house or heading to the toilet with a razor blade in your hand to complete the objective of the present artiste, by slashing one’s wrists and bleeding to death. Thereby putting you immediately out of our misery much quicker and certainly more humanely.

  We decided to postpone the latter and just combine both by getting pissed and deeply depressed at the same time.

  After a short while, during a long pause in the music and when everyone present was engaged in the art of conversation, this well-known female soloist, suddenly, without prior warning and, for no apparent reason as to why she would want to offend us as we hardly knew her, began moaning and howling with her eyes tightly closed and her right hand up to her head with her forefinger poked in her ear.

  The house owner immediately called for ‘quiet’ around the room as, apparently, she was not suffering from an excruciating bowel pain, but was indeed singing.

  This prompted Frankie to display some subtlety and blurt out loudly, ‘Fuck me! Is that no’ hellish?’

  ‘Sshhhhttt!’ A man responded. ‘It’s called a lament.’

  ‘Naw pal, It’s called fuckin’ murder! No wonder she’s got her finger in her ear. Even she cannae believe the noise she’s making.’ Frankie replied.

  Having heard his remarks, the female singer got up from her seat and left the room apparently upset, as the owner of the house approached Frankie.

  ‘If you don’t mind, keep the noise down and show some manners. Geraldine is one of our national treasures.’

  ‘Is that right? Well the sadistic bastert responsible for digging her up, should be jailed. Ah mean, come tae fuck mate, you’ve got to be winding me up. That’s no’ singing, she sounded like she was suffering from some heavy duty labour pains and in need of a stiff dose of the epidural stuff to put her out of her misery and give us all a break!’ Frankie argued.

  ‘Look here, if you’re not enjoying it, you are more than welcome to leave.’ replied the householder.

  Frankie looked around the room at everyone, with some looking back at him in disgust at his outburst, before he then focussed on me.

  ‘Harry! For fuxsakes back me up here. You must have jailed some poor basterts for making less of a disturbance than what she was doing there. Come on noo, admit it?’

  I just looked straight through Frankie, trying hard not to laugh, as I did not wish to be rude but, to hell with it, I couldn’t hide my feelings either … she was absolutely shite!

  Frankie continued with his ranting and by now, he had the full attention of the entire assembled party.

  ‘Is it me? Or have you lot just had a bit more to drink? You’re not serious? You can’t sit there with a straight face and tell me that was good.’

  Then he pointed at an elderly couple sharing a chair and started chanting, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ Before snapping his fingers, like the penny had dropped and he had discovered an explanation for it all.

  ‘Ah should have guessed it. Ah know whit it is. You’re all members of the ‘Fyvie Deaf Mute Society’ and none of you are wearing a hearing aid tonight, right!’

  ‘That’s it. You’ll have to leave. Your insults are totally unacceptable.’ said the irate householder.

  ‘Well if you can think of any better ones mate, let’s hear them!’ replied Frankie, sarcastically.

  At that, several other big teuchter characters got to their feet to lend their physical support to the householder in his quest to have Frankie ejected.

  As it was, it was time for me to intervene and persuade Frankie to leave with me before the situation became ugly and they beat us up.

  Which in hindsight, was probably a better option, than the thought of Geraldine returning to the party and singing an encore.

  However, as I left, I couldn’t resist suggesting to the remainder of the party, that if she returned to sing and placed her finger in her ear. That was their cue, to do likewise and cover up both ears, El Pronto!

  Order in the Court

  • • •

  True Stories from the Law Courts

  PROCURATOR FISCAL: What gear were you in at the moment of impact?

  WITNESS: My Gucci sweatshirt and denim jeans!

  Harry’s Wig

  • • •

  From The Adventures of Harry the Polis

  (Harry’s bought himself a new hairpiece and wore it for the first time to work.)

  SPOOK: Morning, Harry.

  (Harry is standing with his back to Spook and mumbles something back. Spook then turns around and has a close look at Harry’s appearance.)

  SPOOK: What you got on youse head der, man?

  HARRY: Nothing! I’m just combing my hair in a different way! It’s a new pattern.

  (Spook has a closer look at Harry’s head.)

  SPOOK: You is wearing a syrup of fig!

  HARRY: It’s not a wig, or whatever you want to call it. It’s the latest in hairpieces!

&
nbsp; SPOOK: Well I hates to tell ya, but it’s got da big hole in it!

  HARRY: Here, you, this wasn’t a cheap one, you know. They weave it into your own hair to make it look natural!

  SPOOK: Well, if you’s asking me, you’d have been better going to da Maryhill Carpets, at least you’d get da good underlay and free fitting with dem RUGS!

  Centre Stand

  • • •

  Whilst out on motorcycle patrol duty one very hot day, my senior partner, David Hall, and I had occasion to call at an office at George Square, in the city centre.

  David parked his bike on the side stand, while I put mine up on the centre stand.

  Once inside the office, we removed our helmets and placed them on a nearby table, along with our motorcycle keys, and while waiting for the arrival of the person we had called to see, David came across all very smug and said, ‘Oh, Harry, I forgot to mention it, but on a hot day like this, the road surface gets very soft and as a result, if you park your bike on the centre stand, the least bit of vibration can cause it to topple over.’

  At that moment, right on cue, we both looked out of the office window just in time to see a bus passing and, lo and behold, because I had parked my bike on its centre stand – clatter! clatter! bang!

  It toppled over, crashing on to the road.

  David immediately burst out laughing and said in his smug manner, ‘Ooops! Told you!’

  I gave him a look of utter disgust for not informing me sooner of the dangers of soft tar and laughing at my expense.

  Just at that moment, the person he had called to interview arrived and before engaging in conversation with him, he looked over at me and said, ‘I think you have something to deal with, Harry!’

  At that, I lifted my helmet and keys and left them talking, while I walked back outside – as David thought – to pick up my ‘fallen’ bike, but instead of picking up my motorcycle keys from the table, I had deliberately picked up David’s and walked out and over to his motorbike, which I casually mounted before starting it up.