by Harry Morris
He then flicked the switch down and out blasted a David Bowie song. ‘And this one—’
At this point, I interrupted him as smoke began belching out from behind his new ‘switch’ dashboard.
‘I take it this one operates a getaway smokescreen, or is it a direct line to the local fire station?’
O’Reilly looked on in disbelief. ‘Shit! The wiring system’s faulty!’ he replied, panicking. ‘Quick, Harry, get a fire extinguisher!’
‘What switch should I press for that, then?’ I asked, while trying to remain calm.
Within five minutes, O’Reilly’s pride and joy was reduced to ‘Ashes to Ashes’!!
And O’Reilly was left ‘Aladdin Sane’!!
The Music of Life
. . .
The police were attending a call regarding the suicide of a man in a tenement building.
Whilst awaiting the arrival of the casualty surgeon and staff from the city mortuary, a neighbour appeared at her door and enquired, ‘What’s the matter, Constable?’
‘It’s your neighbour, hen – he’s committed suicide!’ replied the officer.
The shocked woman gasped in horror. ‘How did he do it?’ she asked, deeply concerned.
‘He hung himself last night!’ responded the officer.
The woman paused for a moment, before turning around to her son, who was standing just inside the door, and saying, ‘Here, I hope you weren’t playing that bloody Bob Dylan again!’
Funny Text from a Friend
. . .
My missus came out of the shower one morning and stood naked in front of the bedroom mirror, looking at herself.
She said, ‘My eyes are baggy, my tits are sagging and I look horribly fat and ugly! Pay me a compliment, darling!’
To which I replied, ‘OK – your eyesight’s fuckin’ spot on!’
I Never Parked It Like That
. . .
Colin Muir was a very laid-back cop whom I worked with for a short time as a young probationer.
His nickname amongst the local neds was ‘Gallus’ owing to his laid-back attitude and the way he reacted when dealing with them.
He also loved himself to bits and fancied himself as a charmer.
One night we received a call to attend a disturbance at a wedding reception at the Pollokshaws Burgh Halls, caused by local gatecrashers!
On our arrival we parked and locked the panda outside the main door and entered the hall to deal with the complaint.
There was a large crowd in the hallway that dispersed sharpish on seeing us enter the main reception hall.
‘Right, what’s the problem, my man?’ Gallus asked one of the guests.
That was the signal for the entire wedding party to try and all speak at the one time.
‘Woh, woh, woh! Cool the beans! Now, what about you, sweetheart – can you tell me what happened?’ said Gallus as he pointed to a rather pretty young woman, taking hold of her arm and leading her to one side.
During the conversation that followed, Gallus spent more time chatting up his handpicked witness, noting her name, address and telephone number.
While this was taking place, the elderly hall keeper tried several times to interrupt Gallus – in full flow – but Gallus repeatedly told him not to interrupt and to wait his turn.
Finally Gallus walked over to the stage and interrupted the wedding band in the middle of their performance of ‘You’re the One that I Want’ and took the microphone off the singer.
All the while, I stood there, being the boy, quietly cringing with embarrassment at the unbelievable way he was dealing with this complaint.
He then assured the entire wedding party, using the microphone, that he was the local sheriff and this was his area and all the neds feared him.
Now that he had made a personal appearance at the wedding reception, they would be too frightened to return because, more than anything, they wouldn’t want to upset him.
He finished off like a master of ceremonies by announcing, ‘I want you all to enjoy the rest of your night, especially John and Morag, the happy couple.’
He then led the wedding party with a toast to the happy couple before handing the microphone back to the band singer.
I couldn’t believe it when the wedding party, table after table, stood up and applauded him.
Some of the guests even held out their hands to shake his and a few of the ladies even kissed him as he left the hall, waving them goodbye.
Out in the hallway, the elderly hall keeper was still waiting to speak with him.
‘Right, my man, what’s your problem, then?’ asked a confident Gallus.
The old hall keeper said, ‘I don’t have one, sir, but I think you do! Look!’
He then ushered us to the main door of the hall where – to the total embarrassment and humiliation of Gallus and, I must admit, the complete and total amusement of the old hall keeper and myself – the neds, on their way out, had overturned our panda car on to its roof.
Ladies and Gentlemen – Ben Doon
. . .
Whilst a member of the Police Social Committee, it was my duty from time to time to act as the master of ceremonies at cabaret functions.
I had always managed to avoid it but, with the absence of some of the other members, I was nominated to take my turn.
The star of the cabaret was a very funny comedian called Ben Gunn, whom I was introduced to on his arrival at the club.
He gave me this spiel that he wanted me to say when I introduced him, about how he had just returned from a very successful tour of America and was now appearing at the top of the bill on the Sydney Devine Silver Jubilee Show at the Pavilion Theatre in Glasgow.
‘After the performance,’ he said, ‘we’ll have a drink!’
Now, earlier in the evening this would not have been a problem but, after several large Whyte & Mackay whiskies, the art of breathing was becoming a big problem for me.
It came to the penultimate act, a Caribbean steel band dressed in bright orange shirts. They looked like they had all been Tangoed as they played their big oil drums.
By the way, the nearest they came to the Caribbean was in a holiday brochure – I knew three out of the four of them personally, having recognised them as drivers on the Corporation buses, working out of the Larkfield bus garage.
With the previous turn, a country and western act called the Pheasant Pluckers, I had developed dyslexia and read their introduction wrong, referring to them as some ‘C***s with vests on’ and ‘They’re the Pleasant F***ers.’
The other committee members were telling me, ‘Right, Harry, we think you got away with that one,’ but not to make any mistakes with the introduction of Ben!
I jumped on to the stage with my microphone and said confidently, ‘Let’s hear it one more time – all the way from Jamaica (Street), the Caribbean Steel Band!’
The audience applauded enthusiastically.
As the applause died down I said, ‘They rejected an engagement to go on a worldwide tour. Apparently two of the band members wanted to go somewhere else! I’m also informed that the boys want me to tell you they’re sorry there will be no encores as there’s a shortage of bus drivers tonight and they’ve all got to report for double shifts!’
I continued in this vein, getting carried away with myself, leaning on the microphone stand like a real pro.
‘Two of the band members are actual twins! They used to be triplets but they ate the other brother between them one night! In true conundrum fashion, he was ate before he was seven! Now, we have come to the star of our show, an act that has been thrown off more stages than big John Wayne! In fact, he tells me he is just back from America where he underwent a nose transplant but, unfortunately, his finger rejected it!’
Suddenly, through the smoky haze I could see some of the committee members making their way down the sides of the hall, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves, but I was on a roll and wasn’t going to get off the stage that ea
sily, so I continued, ‘He was telling me earlier that while he was in America for three weeks, he lost nine stone of ugly fat – apparently he got a quickie divorce!’
That was the last straw – one of the committee had the other end of the microphone and was pulling and tugging it, so in order to prevent any further embarrassment, I quickly announced, ‘So will you please put your hands together and give a big Lochinch police club welcome to the one and only Mr Ben Doon!! Hic!’
Ben was not one bit amused at my introduction. He took the mike off me and called me a frustrated comedian.
He then did his performance, cutting his act short by twenty minutes, and promptly left the club.
Needless to say I was never again asked to perform as the MC at a police social club!! Although I did apologise to Ben when we met on another occasion! I think he still held a grudge!!
Grass is Grass
. . .
A professional footballer was arrested for possession of cannabis.
The young arresting cop, on recognising him as a sportsman, asked, ‘What’s the best, grass or AstroTurf?’
To which the footballer replied, ‘I don’t know – I’ve never smoked AstroTurf!’
Bombs Away
. . .
In the late seventies and early eighties we were receiving numerous bomb alerts – all false alarms, except for one night when I received a call to attend a well-known Irish pub in the Gorbals.
While en route I received another call, confirming it as a genuine bomb gone off!
Within several minutes I arrived at the locus to find the entire area swamped with police personnel.
Fortunately no one was seriously injured.
I left after a short time and was instructed to return to my station and see the patrol inspector.
Now this patrol inspector was nicknamed ‘the Olympic Flame’ because he never went out!
On my return, he wanted to be fully appraised of the situation.
Keeping a straight face, I began, ‘Right, allegedly a man wearing a Rangers scarf entered the pub and walked up to the barman and asked for three bottles of Bell’s whisky, four bottles of Smirnoff vodka, three bottles of Gordon’s gin, two dozen cans of Tennent’s lager, two dozen cans of McEwan’s Pale Ale and four dozen cans of McEwan’s Export. At this point the barman interrupted him and said, “Excuse me, but this is going to cost you a bomb!”
‘The man took an object out of his jacket pocket, threw it towards the barman and said, “There you are – you have two minutes.” ’
The Flame looked puzzled, laughed nervously then asked, ‘Is that true?’
Harry the Unknown Osmond
. . .
I shall now reveal a hidden talent and long-time secret of mine.
Back in the early seventies, the Apollo Theatre in Glasgow was a very popular venue for all the big music acts – Status Quo, Thin Lizzy, Dr Hook, the Osmonds …
During this time I had the good fortune to work at one of the Osmond brothers’ concerts. I was also quite friendly with Jan, the manager of the Apollo at the time.
Whilst on duty, I asked Jan if he could get me a souvenir or autograph from the band for my young sister Kim, who was about twelve years old and a really big fan.
Jan said he would see what he could do for me.
A short time later, Jan called me over and said he had managed to secure an autographed copy of their album The Plan, which he would keep in his office until after the concert.
I was over the moon and couldn’t contain my excitement, so I telephoned my mother to let Kim know what I had for her.
After the Osmonds and the screaming teenage girl audience had all but gone, I went to Jan’s office to collect my prized possession.
To my complete and utter disappointment, Jan informed me that during the concert a thief entered his office and had stolen various items, the autographed album included.
I was devastated at this news.
What was I going to do? I had promised my little sister an autographed Osmonds album.
Fortunately Jan came to the rescue with another Osmonds album, minus the autographs of one of the biggest and most popular bands in the world.
What was I going to do? Simple! I signed the autographs of Donny, Merrill and Jay!
As for the rest of the brothers … well, that was my colleagues accompanying me on the night.
I’ll spare the blushes of who were little Jimmy and Marie!
So, Kim, who treasured her copy of The Plan for all these years – the secret’s out. Your big brother Harry was Donny Osmond!
‘And they called it puppy lov—’
‘Shuut uupp!’
‘Oops! Sorry, pet!’
Guess Who?
. . .
Imagine working for a company with slightly more than 500 employees which has the following statistics:
Twenty-nine have been accused of wife abuse, 7 have been arrested for fraud, 19 have been accused of writing bad cheques, 119 have directly or indirectly been responsible for bankrupting at least 3 businesses, 3 have been convicted for assault, 70 have been refused credit cards due to bad debt, 14 have been arrested on drug-related charges, 8 have been imprisoned for theft by shoplifting, 20 are currently defendants in criminal lawsuits and, in the last year, 83 have been arrested for drunk driving.
Can you guess what the organisation is?
It’s the 535 members of the United States Congress! The same people who implement hundreds of new laws each year.
Makes you wonder how the British Government would fare.
To Hell with Tulliallan
. . .
While attending the Tulliallan Police College for my three-month probationer training spell, I was taking part in a football tournament.
Several teams were made up from the large contingent of probationer students.
My team had qualified for the second round and I was supporting my mate, Jimmy Clark, playing for his team in the hope that he would also qualify.
Unbeknown to me, also present as a spectator at the rear of the hall was none other than the director of junior training – or DJT as he was better known – and Inspector John Elliot, head of the junior training instructors.
During the game, Jimmy had the ball at his feet, beat two defenders and, with only the goalkeeper in front of him, missed and knocked the ball wide of the post.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I shouted in sheer frustration.
At this blasphemous outburst, the DJT asked Inspector Elliot, ‘Who shouted that?’
The inspector called to me, ‘Was that you, Mr Morris?’
‘Yes, sir!’ I replied, annoyed at myself for the outburst.
‘You’ll go to hell for that, Morris!’ he said.
To which I responded in a jocular manner, ‘With all due respect, sir, I’ve been here for two months and three weeks!’ That raised a laugh from the students!
Later the same day, I was called up to the DJT’s office and disciplined for my remarks and warned regarding my future conduct.
How trivial!!
Anti-Abortion Demo
. . .
I was on duty at a large public demonstration (yes – another demonstration in Scotland) by a group of anti-abortionists!
It was a beautiful bright sunny day in Glasgow and they were marching all the way from Blythswood Square to Glasgow Green in the East End of the city.
My attention was drawn to the 2,500 or so demonstrators and wondering how I could divide them up into five sections, which were the following.
One fifth of the demonstrators were men! C’mon, guys!
The second fifth was made up of children, and most of them had an awful lot of growing up to do before they needed to worry about abortions.
My third section was made up of nuns! I’m saying absolutely nothing because I respect their total commitment to the Church.
The fourth section was made from old-age pensioners. Now let’s face it, there’s virtually no chance, unless you’re So
phia Loren, of ever getting pregnant at their age, so what have they got to be worried about?
Which brings me to my last section, which was made up with heavily pregnant mothers-to-be. Most of them, by the end of the march, were so exhausted and totally exasperated with the heat, coupled with the constant greeting, moaning and complaining of their own children and those belonging to the other demonstrators, that several had already changed their opinions and were now definitely for it.
The following week there was a pro-abortion demonstration and I’m positive I recognised several familiar faces!
What Are You Doing?
. . .
I called at the local police station and entered the radio control room. I asked a female civilian computer operator to check the registration number of a suspected stolen car.
The assistant was about to drink a cup of coffee at the time but she agreed to my request.
While she was entering the details of the car, I lit up a cigarette and hovered behind her, leaning over her shoulder.
I saw out of the corner of my eye what appeared to be a round ashtray, to my right-hand side.
Still looking at the computer screen, I reached over and began to stub out my cigarette butt!
After three or four attempts to put my cigarette out, I looked over towards the ashtray and, to my horror, discovered what turned out to be her Wagon Wheel chocolate biscuit!
Frantically I began to try and discreetly wipe off the ash and return the biscuit to its original appearance and appetising best, but the computer operator turned around and caught me in the act.
Over the years that followed, I presented her with numerous packets of biscuits but I don’t think she ever forgave me for what I did with her smoky Wagon Wheel!