by Harry Morris
If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9.
If you have low self-esteem, please hang up. Our operators are far too busy to talk with you.
If you are menopausal, please put the gun down! Hang up, turn on the fan, lie down and cry. It only lasts for a short period.
If you are blonde, don’t press any buttons, you’ll just mess up.
This coming week is National Mental Health Care Week. You can do your part by remembering to contact at least one unstable person to show you care.
(Well, my job is done. Now it’s your turn!)
The Blonde Story
…
A blonde woman returns home to discover her house has been broken into.
Upset by this discovery, she immediately contacts the police to report it and demands that they send over a patrol car to deal with it right away.
The police controller informs her that the only patrol car nearest to her home is a canine car.
The hysterical blonde screams at the controller that she doesn’t care what it is – ‘Just send the bloody thing over!’
Moments later, a police vehicle screeches to a stop outside her house.
The blonde woman looks out of her window and sees a policeman getting out the vehicle, holding onto his Alsatian dog.
She squeals out loud, ‘Just my fucking luck! My house gets robbed and they send over a blind policeman!’
Arthur or Martha?
…
A man I had great admiration for during the best part of my police service at Glasgow Sheriff Court in the seventies was the renowned Sheriff J. Irvine Smith, who was feared by the neds as being a ‘heavy hitter’.
In other words, he handed out proper monetary and custodial sentences to fit the crimes being committed.
He was also widely acknowledged and credited with being the Sheriff whom, after hearing an accused give his lame excuse as to why he had failed to appear at court on the correct date and time, listened intently to him before responding with the famous line:
‘Do you honestly think I came up the Clyde in a banana boat?’
There was also the time when a young transvestite appeared before him, still sprightly dressed up and looking the part as an attractive young female.
It was alleged that after hearing the case against the accused, the Sheriff deferred sentence for several weeks, instructing him to go home, maintain a low profile and steer clear of any other trouble, by basically behaving like a good little girl until the next court appearance!
No one had the nerve to tell him that’s why he/she was appearing before him in the first place.
PART TWO
A-ttention!
…
Alistair was of the old school in the City of Glasgow police, and, being ex-army, he was always immaculately turned out, with iron creases on his shirts and trousers so sharp that they could take the 7 o’clock shadow clean off your face with one swipe! Coupled with his boots that were so highly bulled up you could see your face in them.
All the above was complemented by his pencil-thin Clark Gable moustache and a hairstyle in vogue at the moment: that of the completely bald shiny napper!
Alistair’s beat consisted of the now defunct Kingston Docks with its huge sheds and it was considered amongst many of the shift as a punishment detail to work there. However, it was a detail that didn’t faze Alistair, who went about his duties on his own with only the pigeons for company. Some even suggested he was on first-name terms with them all!
One night, while attending a call at the rear of the docks, John Thompson and Dick Bruce decided that whilst there, they would pay Alistair a visit and have a blether.
After several minutes, driving around the area, they came across a shed with the door slightly open, and as they stopped outside it, they could hear shouting.
As they both entered the shed, being ex-army, they both recognised that the shouting was actually someone calling out military drill commands. ‘Lefffftt turn! By the lefffftt quick march! Left, right, left, right, left …Company … Halt!’
Intrigued by what they were hearing, they both looked down the bottom of the shed, where they observed Alistair, his police baton under his right arm, smartly marching back and forwards, calling out the precise orders and executing every drill movement with perfection. It was a sight that any Regimental Sergeant Major would have been proud of.
After several minutes of watching Alistair, they decided to leave him to his drill movements, although John swears that Dick was getting itchy feet and was beginning to carry out some of the commands on the spot!
They later learned that this behaviour was normal for Alistair at that time of night, in the sheds of the derelict dock area, with no one to talk to except for the pigeons. Co-Coo! Coo! Coo!
That’s pigeon English for ‘Company Halt! Halt! Halt!’
Harry’s Moneysaving Ideas
…
Don’t spend any more money getting your shirts laundered.
What you do is hand the dirty ones into your local charity shop, and after they’ve washed and ironed them, you buy them back! They’re definitely much cheaper than the prices charged at the laundrette!
National Service
…
When National Service was in force in Britain, a young man who received the call to attend pleaded he had a very bad eyesight problem.
He was given all the usual tests and, sure enough, he failed them all.
In desperation, the medical examiner held up a car tyre and asked, ‘Can you describe to me what I am holding up?’
The young man blinked several times before answering, ‘It’s either a two-shilling coin, or half a crown!’
Due to his failure to recognise it was a tyre, he was not accepted for National Service.
As a result of this rejection on medical grounds, he went out to celebrate his good fortune, deciding to treat himself with a visit to the cinema.
He took his seat and hadn’t been there long when, to his horror, who should take the seat beside him but the medical examiner, who instantly recognised him.
Quick as a flash, the rejected conscript said, ‘Is this the right bus for Govan?’
Which reminds me of the time when I was in the Royal Engineers and, on parade, the Sergeant Major asked, ‘Are any of you lot here particularly fond of music?’
Immediately, several of the Channel Islanders and Welsh lads threw their hands up with gusto. To which he responded, ‘Right, fall out and report to the canteen and shift the piano!’
Toe Nails?
…
Having recently returned from picket line duty at the Lady Victoria Colliery during the miners’ strike, and still sporting the bruises to prove it, Dick was back out on his beat patrol in the Woodburn housing scheme at Dalkeith, affectionately referred to by the locals as The Bronx.
It was a quiet Sunday and he was just enjoying the peace of an early morning, when all was shattered by a woman appearing in the street in front of him, screaming and squealing hysterically as she ran towards him.
He instantly recognised her as the loudmouth trouble maker of the area, ‘Sweaty’ Betty McDougal, closely followed by two of her thieving sons … Allegedly!
‘Quick! Come quick! Its ma daddy. Hurry!’ she shouted.
He followed her to the house, with fingers crossed that if it was a sudden illness he had suffered, it wasn’t trivial!
As he entered the midden of a house with its over-whelming stench of shit and urine, he was led into the living room area, where old man McDougal was sat in his chair in front of the fire, face contorted with pain, with both his bare feet nailed to the floor.
‘What sadistic bastard did that to you?’ Dick asked.
‘The silly auld bugger did it tae himself,’ Sweaty replied, quite matter of fact. ‘An armchair demonstration, he called it! Anyways, ah was in my bed and just heard him moaning. When ah came through, he was
sitting in his chair – like that!’
‘Hoh, Granda! Who the hell dae ye think ye are – Jesus?’ one of the grandsons asked.
‘Shut yer gub! Ya insensitive wee diddy,’ snapped Sweaty.
Apparently he had taken this drastic and painful action the previous night, after downing a bottle of vodka in protest at the miners’ strike, and only realised the painful consequences of his actions when he awoke from his drunken sleep and tried to get up out of his chair to go to the toilet.
Now, with the alcohol rapidly wearing off, he was experiencing extreme pain – as well as bursting for a much needed pee!
‘D’you want a drink o’ water, Granda?’ he was asked.
‘Stop bloody annoying him! He’s liable tae pish himsel’ and ruin my chair any minute!’ Sweaty blurted out.
An ambulance was summoned, and whilst awaiting its arrival, Sweaty asked the cop, ‘Can ye no’ dae somethin’ tae relieve his pain?’
(Dick thought for a moment. ‘Yeah! We could call a vet and have him put down. Now that would work! Na, too good’!)
However, in an attempt to free him and alleviate his excruciating pain, Dick picked up the claw hammer that the old man had used to carry out this horrific hammer and nail trick.
He then asked Sweaty and her sons to hold him down tightly, while he extracted the four-inch nails from his feet.
His squeals could be heard along the length of the street and beyond.
Shortly after this, the Paramedics arrived and tended to the old man before carrying him out on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance, and whisked him off to hospital, but not before they had a word with Dick with regards to his ‘first-aid’ action.
It would appear that the police officer should have lifted the wooden floorboards to prevent further injury and suffering being sustained by the old man.
Dick explained that it was his belief that he was acting in the best interests of the old man, and at the request of his next of kin – namely Sweaty – before politely adding that he was a police officer, not a joiner, and therefore the injuries sustained by their patient were self-inflicted prior to the involvement of the police!
This drastic action adds a new meaning to the idea of wearing false nails!
It is worth mentioning that during the coal miners’ strike, several police officers sustained minor injuries at the hands of the miners, and several miners sustained major injuries at the hands of the police!
Only joking, Arfur!
That’s My Mother!
…
‘Harry! Can ye come over, I need tae see you, son!’
That was the first message on my answer machine and it was from my mother, who sounded slightly upset.
I immediately called her and she answered right away.
‘It’s Harry, what’s up?’ I asked, concerned by her message.
‘Och, I’ll tell you about it when you come over. I’m just a bit upset!’ she replied.
‘Right! I’m on my way,’ I said, replacing the phone.
I picked up my house keys and ran out the front door, before I realised I had no car keys. As I ran back up the stairs, I could hear my telephone ringing, and I rushed back inside to answer it. ‘Hello!’ But I was too late.
I waited to hear the message, which again was from my mother.
‘Is that you, Harry? Christ, you don’t stay in for long. Anyways, it’s your mum again. Can you bring me over a fish supper from the chippie up the road? It’ll save me having to make something for my dinner.’
Having fortunately heard the message, I stopped off, bought her a fish supper, then arrived at her house, and there she was, totally engrossed in watching River City on the TV.
‘What’s the big panic? What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Och, it’s that lot down at the doctor’s surgery. They called me this morning and asked me to come down. There’s something wrong with my thyroid!’ she said. ‘Now, I don’t know how that can be, ‘cause I take my pills every day. They’re at it! Anyways, I walked in and the nurse said they had found something and so they were prescribing stronger pills! I just told her straight that I’m fed up to the teeth wi’ them. They keep finding something else wrong wi’ me every bloody time I go down. I’m just fed up wi’ it. I’ve told her, ‘That’s it, I’m no’ coming back!’
Now excuse me, but is that not what a doctor is meant to do?
Van Graffiti
…
Just passed a van today that displayed a notice on the rear: ‘NO HAND SIGNALS’. Driver convicted Arab shoplifter!
Then I saw another one with an official notice on the rear saying, ‘HOW AM I DRIVING?’ Presumably you passed a test?
What next: ‘WHERE AM I GOING?’ or ‘PLEASE PASS QUIETLY, DRIVER ASLEEP’ or ‘DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE, ROLL A JOINT AND FLY HOME!’
And the best advice of all: ‘IF YOUR WIFE WANTS TO LEARN TO DRIVE, FOR FUXSAKES, DON’T STAND IN HER WAY!’
Speeding
…
An elderly lady was stopped for speeding. As the police officer approached her driver window, she asked, ‘Is there a problem, Officer?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the officer replied. ‘You’ve been stopped for speeding. Can I see your driver’s licence?’
‘I’d love to let you see it, but I don’t have one,’ she replied.
‘You don’t have a driver’s licence?’ the officer asked.
‘No! Unfortunately, I lost it three years ago for drink driving.’
‘Well, who is the registered owner of the car?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Officer,’ she replied. ‘I just stole it today!’
‘Are you telling me this is a stolen car you’re driving?’
‘Yes!’ she responded. ‘And I’d also like to confess to killing the owner of it!’
‘You what?’ the startled officer replied.
‘I killed the owner,’ she repeated calmly. ‘I’ve chopped up his body and stuffed it into some black plastic bin bags in the boot of the car! Do you want to see them?’
The officer was stunned by her confession and slowly backed off to his police vehicle and called for some back-up.
Within minutes, several police cars arrived at the scene, where the senior officer slowly approached the elderly woman’s car, his hand tightly gripping his gun in its holster.
He ordered the driver to step out of her car.
Once outside her car she asked, ‘Is there a problem here, Officer?’
‘There sure is, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘One of my officers has just reported that you have stolen this car and murdered the owner!’
‘Me!’ she responded, surprised by this allegation. ‘Murdered the owner?’
‘Yes, ma’am, so would you please open the boot of the car?’ he asked.
The elderly woman walked to the rear of the car and opened the boot, showing it to be empty.
The senior police officer was stunned.
‘Is this your car, ma’am?’
‘Of course it’s my car. Whose do you think it is? Do you want to see my registration documents for it?’ she answered.
The officer was confused by this reply.
‘One of my officers claims you do not have a driving licence.’
The woman delved into the bottom of her handbag and pulled out her driver’s licence and handed it over to him to examine, after which he appeared quite puzzled and unsure about all that had taken place.
As he handed her back the licence, he said, ‘Thank you, ma’am. But I was led to believe by one of my officers that you did not have a driver’s licence, that you stole this car, that you murdered the owner and that you chopped up his body and stuffed it into plastic bags within the boot.’
The elderly woman gave him a look of pure innocence and, shaking her head, said, ‘I bet the bloody big liar told you I was speeding too?’
Honey Come Back!
…
When my former colleague Tom Kelly’s young daughter Nicola was five years old, she ha
d a hamster called Honey.
Unfortunately, Honey developed a tumour, which was clearly visible on her side, due to the large swelling.
After a family meeting, Nicola and Tom agreed that Honey had to be seen to by the vet.
The following Monday morning, Tom was walking Nicola along the footpath to her school. She was upset and crying, knowing that today was the day that Honey would be taken to the vet, once Tom had left her at the school.
‘Daddy, will you promise me you’ll take Honey to the doctor’s and make sure that she gets medicine to make her well again?’ she asked.
Tom immediately responded that he would.
They both stood there for several minutes, Nicola crying and Tom trying to stop his eyes from filling up with tears watching her.
After he left her, Tom collected Honey and took her to the vet.
He confirmed it was a tumour and said it would be kinder for Honey to put her to sleep there and then.
Tom explained his fear of meeting Nicola after school and telling her the news, but reluctantly he had to agree with the vet’s professional advice.
Once the deed was done, Tom asked the vet what he owed him for his services.
‘Just give me a fiver,’ the vet said.
Tom paid him the money and slowly walked out of the surgery, upset, but more importantly, worried about how Nicola would react to the news.
He arrived outside the school gates early and waited nervously for her to come out.
Suddenly, he was alerted by the school bell ringing and looked up to see Nicola running across the school playground towards the gates.
She was wearing a big smile on her face and shouting, ‘Daddy, did you get Honey to the doctor? Is she all better now?’
Tom looked down at her innocent little face and said, ‘Nicola, Daddy has some bad news for you.’