by Harry Morris
I stood there in total amazement. I couldn’t believe it – a talking dog! I had to know more and hear his little Scottish voice answering all my questions.
‘So tell me a bit about yourself, Jock! Like, how old are you? What’s your background?’
‘Awright! Pin yer ears back.’ said Jock. ‘When I was born, I was the wee runt in a litter of three. My mother never showed me any true love or attention and blamed me for my father running away with a border collie who just happened to work down the road at a nearby farm. She claimed it was my fault because he didn’t want tae be associated wi’ a wee runt like me.
‘Anyways, she had a breakdown after this and went to the dogs, if you’ll pardon the pun!
‘She began hanging around with the homeless mongrel bitches in the area and getting involved in street fights as well as engaging in casual sex wi’ the leader of the pack.
‘My big brother Hamish spotted her having a gang bang with a boxer and his mates on a street corner. The dirty cow! Well wrong choice of species, but I’m sure you get my jist!
‘As it was, I ended up being taken into care by a police dog handler, who brought me up with an alsatian called Rex and it wasn’t long before I was allowed to go to work with him and very soon it became clear, I had a nose for sniffing out illegal substances!
‘You name the drug, and I’ve snorted it! So to speak. I would go into an airport baggage hall and within minutes, I would have pin-pointed all the hold-alls, bags and suitcases that contained even the least wee bit of gear. Aspirin! Hash! Coke! Within a very short period of time, I was the dog’s bollocks. The chief constable awarded me commendation after commendation for the amount of illegal drugs I was finding and the number of crimes I was detecting.
‘I was the Scottish Drug Squad’s biggest asset!
‘My handler used to joke that they should rename it the Scottish Dug Squad! After me.
‘Here, check my basket by the way – it’s full of police awards and rosettes. I was getting more publicity headlines than Lassie, in fact I was even collared and offered a film part in the re-make of Greyfriars Bobby, playing the lead, no less.
‘Check my basket oot and read all the letters and fan mail I get. I’m not kidding you, and that’s jist some o’ it!
‘Next thing I know, Her Majesty the Queen has contacted the chief constable, asking if I could come down to Buckingham Palace and sort out a few of her young royal corgis who were misbehaving, peeing and shitting all over one’s Persian rugs and the carpets in the banquet hall. “Not a problem, Your Majesty”, said the chief constable, seeing a knighthood in the offing. Within 24 hours, I was whisked off down to London to work in the palace.
‘It was an absolute dawdle working for the royals and the food was pure nectar. The top chef was that Gordon Setter … or is it Ramsay? Y’know who I mean? Swears like a trooper.
‘I sorted out the problem in jig time in my own sweet fashion by introducing a few of the cheeky corgi boys to my Glesca kiss and having a bite at another.
‘I even took the opportunity to have a one-night stand and shagged one of them they called Fergie – she was a right randy wee bitch, but very accommodating. So, ye could say I’ve left a wee bit of Scottish bloodline among one’s royal corgis.
‘Mind you! I was CORGI registered! So I had authorisation.
‘The entire episode was like nothing I’d ever experienced before, waking up every morning between Prince Phil and the Queen, I totally loved it and it didn’t go unnoticed with Her (Majesty) indoors either, the job I had performed, teaching they young royal rascals a bit of etiquette à la Jock style.
‘As a reward for all my efforts, I was recognised in her New Year Honours list. I’m sure you must have read about it! I was in all the newspapers, Wee Jock CBE, (Corgi Behavioural Expert), I was even pictured alongside big Sean Connery. He was a “shite for shore eyes!”. That’s one of the many impressions I do!
‘However, if you don’t believe me? Please! Check it out, it’s all in my basket and it’s officially stamped with the royal approval!’
I stood there full of intense anticipation and excitement, totally mesmerised by this fascinating wee dog. I was in awe of his incredible stories about his life.
‘Please! Please Jock, carry on!’ I pleaded. As I glanced over my left shoulder to catch a glimpse of his owner standing in the doorway, shaking his head in disbelief at my eagerness to digest more.
‘Okay then!’ Continued Jock. ‘So I’m back home in Glesca, still working alongside the police Drug Squad, when all hell broke loose and I hear about the Iranian Embassy siege down in London.
‘I couldn’t believe what I was hearing on the news. This terrorist mob of murdering bastards were holding innocent people hostage! Sorry for swearing boss, but I was barking mad, if ye get my drift!
‘Anyhow, the door burst open and in walked the chief constable, Sir David. “Jock!” he shouted. “Prime Minister Thatcher has been on the telephone and she wants you down at the Iranian Embassy asap, to work in conjunction with the elite SAS in a covert operation.”
‘Will they gie me a gun? Will they gie me a gun? I pleaded with him. Oh please, gie me a gun and let me shoot the buggers!
“Can’t do it Jock!” he said. “We’re British, it’s not our way. Anyways, the SAS have a special assignment in mind that only you can do! Even I don’t know what it is. So, good luck Jock. Go forth and do us proud, son!” He then lifted me up onto his knee, gave me a cuddle, rubbed noses with me, patted me on the head and said “I love you Jock, take care wee man!”
I got a bit worried about that last remark, ’cause I’ve never seen him look at me like that before, never mind uttering the words “I love you”. ‘Anyway, I was whisked away to Glesca Airport to be flown down south first class, where I was met by Maggie’s private secretary and a driver. All very top secret, but that’s the way it had to be … ’
‘Aw hurry up, for God’s sake!’ interrupted Jock’s owner.
‘Hey, you!’ said Jock. ‘Keep it shut or I’ll tell him about the special DVDs’ you hide under yer bed for night-time viewing!’
The owner clamped up and stepped back out of the doorway.
‘Right now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?’ asked Jock.
‘You had arrived in London and were being driven to the hostage siege at the embassy.’ I replied excitedly, fully engrossed in every bit of his story.
‘Oh, aye! Well, I arrived there and was taken to see the PM and her commander in chief, who was directing the operation. “Jock!” he said, recognising me instantly from my photos in the paper and delighted to see me. Then putting his arm around me, he ushered me over.
“Here’s what we want you to do.”
‘He then explained they were going to fit a small video camera to my collar after which I would wander over and locate the cat flap at the rear door of the embassy. Once there, I would enter the embassy building and casually walk around the various rooms and floors, videoing the terrorists and their positions within the offices for the information of the SAS. As an added extra, whilst carrying out this task and being virtually unnoticed by the terrorist bastards, I was to casually piddle down the left leg of every one I came across, marking them with my urine!
‘Now the boys in the SAS, for their part, would burst in wearing special night-sight, pish-detecting goggles that would show up my urine like a luminous yellow stain, thereby identifying the bastards to be shot. Easy-Peasy!
‘So off I went, through the door and as I walked up to the first big mother f****r, nice as you like, I lifted my leg and skooshed him. Not one of them paid any notice to me, as I wandered about the rooms amongst them like a ghost though one o’ the manky bastards did try to entice me o’er with a chocolate biscuit. But he was pure mocket and had black teeth so I just kidded him on I was friendly, then had a quick skoosh o’er his leg, before buggering off sharpish.
‘After the initial few squirts down the leg of the ones I’d met, I was get
ting right into my stride. Showing some neat versatility in the process.
‘I was ambidextrous and displayed a variety of special moves, lifting either leg to skoosh the bastards. Left leg, right leg. I got carried away that much, I fell over a couple o’ times, trying tae lift both my legs at the same time.
‘I kept this up, sometimes double-dunking a particular big diddy that I really disliked, just to make sure he was a target and not mistaken for one of the good guys.
‘I continued in this vein until, inevitably, I had completely emptied my tank! I was dehydrated. Now running on empty, I made my way back out, armed with my video pictures of some right pishy-looking terrorists and gave it to the boys of the SAS to view, before preparing to storm the embassy. As soon as they entered, they couldn’t miss the terrorists and their bright yellow left legs. I couldn’t have done better. It was as if I’d stuck a poster on each one stating, “Shoot me, I’m a baddie.”
‘As a result, it was all over in minutes, with the terrorists overpowered and not a hair on a hostage harmed. Thanks to me!
‘The Prime Minister was ecstatic! She couldn’t believe that Operation Iranian Embassy had gone so smoothly. She cuddled me! Denis breathed whisky on me and that Kate Adie couldn’t keep her hands off me – desperate for me to give her one! An exclusive story that is! But I kept shtoom!
‘I ended up back at the palace getting awarded with a bravery medal from the Queen who, along with Prince Philip was delighted for me.’
Totally amazed with his wonderful stories, I turned to Wee Jock’s owner standing in the hallway and said, ‘Why would anyone want to get rid of this wee heroic dog, his stories about his life are totally amazing?’
At which point, his owner put his hands up to his head in sheer frustration and anguish before screaming:
‘It’s the LIES! I just can’t stand his BLOODY LIES!’
My Deaf Wife …
…
Recently, I’ve felt that my missus wasn’t hearing as well as she used to, and thought she might be needing a hearing aid. Not quite sure how to approach her, I contacted our family doctor to discuss her problem.
The doctor told me there was a simple informal test that I could perform in order to give him a better idea about her hearing loss.
‘Here’s what you do,’ said the doctor. ‘You stand about twenty feet away, and in a normal conversational speaking voice, ask her a question and see if she hears you.
‘If she doesn’t respond, go to fifteen feet, then ten feet, and so on until you get a response.’
That evening, my missus was in the kitchen preparing the dinner, and I was in my wee office. So I thought to myself, ‘I’m about twenty feet away, I’ll try out what the doctor suggested and see what happens.’
Then in a normal speaking tone I asked her, ‘Darling, what’s for the dinner?’ … No response.
So I decided to move up closer to the kitchen, till about fifteen feet away from her and repeated, ‘Darling, what’s for the dinner?’ Still no response.
Next, I moved into the dining room where I was only about ten feet from her and I asked her again, ‘Darling, what’s for the dinner?’ Again I got no response.
So, I walked up to the kitchen door, about five feet away and said. ‘Darling, what’s for the dinner?’
Just like my previous attempts there was no response.
Finally, I walked right up and stood behind her and said. ‘Darling what’s for the dinner?’
To which she turned around to face me and replied rather irately, ‘For the fifth time Harry, … It’s f*cken MINCE!’
It’s In The Stars
…
My old mate Jimmy Clark and I were on patrol duty one evening, parked within a pedestrian precinct, in Glasgow, when I recognised a well-known female clairvoyant/fortune-teller, coming out of a restaurant, where a charity celebrity dinner was being held by astrologers, clairvoyants and psychos … Sorry, psychics!
We watched her as she unsteadily made her way over to a parked vehicle, opened the door and got into the driver’s seat.
She started the vehicle up and promptly reversed it into a concrete plant pot in the precinct, before driving off.
We quickly followed her out and after a short distance, signalled for her to pull over and stop. As I suspected, she was driving under the influence of alcohol.
I informed her of my suspicion and proceeded to give her a breath test, which proved positive.
As procedure dictates, I informed her, ‘I arrest you!’
She then looked Jimmy straight in the eye with a bewildered, glazed expression on her face and said in all sincerity, ‘What is going to happen now?’
To which Jimmy couldn’t resist replying, ‘You’re the clairvoyant-you tell me!!’
Guess My Age!
…
This is one of those stories you hear over the years that you just have to include for old time’s sake, if nothing else.
Old Tommy Boyd, an elderly retired cop, was fed up looking in the mirror every morning at his heavily lined, baggy eyes and drooping excess skin on his ageing face. So one day, whilst reading an article on cosmetic surgery, he decided to withdraw some of his hard earned savings from his bank account and do something about it.
He rang the number in the advert and requested an initial appointment, to see a specialist consultant regarding some facial surgery.
After the consultation with the cosmetic surgeon and his assurances of what he could do for him, coupled with the promise that he would look much younger afterwards, Tommy decided, ‘What the Hell’! And booked up with the surgeon to go ahead and have it done.
Several weeks later, after the superficial scarring disappeared from his facial surgery, old Tommy – sorry, ‘young’ Tommy – decided it was time to literally face the outside world with his new look.
Dressed to kill and looking very dapper in his best suit, collar and tie, Tommy made his way down the main street, stopping off at the local newsagent’s shop.
‘I’ll have a Daily Record please, Martha’. he said to the female counter assistant.
The counter assistant looked at him as she handed over the paper and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry sir, but do I know you’?
‘Of course you do Martha, it’s me – Tommy Boyd!’ he replied.
‘Good God, Tommy Boyd!’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t recognise you. You look absolutely fantastic in fact, you look about forty years-of- age!’
A very proud Tommy responded, ‘Well I’m actually sixty-seven years old!’
‘That’s incredible, Tommy, you’re looking truly amazing!’ she said.
After some further small talk, Tommy left the newsagent to continue his shopping.
As he walked along past the shops, he stopped off and entered the butcher’s shop.
While standing in a queue, he couldn’t resist tapping the shoulder of the woman in front of him and asking her, ‘Excuse me hen, but what age do you think I am?’
The woman looked Tommy up and down before commenting, ‘Ye’re about forty-five, forty-six’! She replied confidently.
This prompted Tommy to ask the butcher behind the counter, to have a guess.
‘I’d say you’re probably between forty-two and forty-five years of age.’ said the butcher.
Smiling proudly and totally delighted with the responses, Tommy replied, ‘Well ye’re both wrong. I’m actually sixty-seven years old!’
The people in the butcher shop were amazed at his youthful looks and there were several ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ amongst them.
A short time later, after being served, Tommy left the butcher shop and jauntily walked down the road to the nearby bus stop to await the arrival of a bus, to take him into the city centre for the first time in months.
Standing there waiting and completely ecstatic with the response his new look appearance was attracting, Tommy decided to ask the only other person in the bus shelter, an elderly woman, dressed in a tweed coat, rain-mate and with her shopping
trolley. ‘Excuse me missus, but do you mind if I ask you a personal question’?
‘Not at all son.’ She replied, agreeing to his request. ‘Ask away.’
‘How old do you think I am?’ he asked.
The elderly woman looked intently at him, pausing for a brief moment, before answering, ‘I’m not really sure son. I’d need to feel yer boaby to be able to tell ye exactly!’ she replied.
‘Feel my boaby? D’you mean my penis?’ responded a surprised Tommy.
‘Aye yer boaby! Penis! Tadger! Nob! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Whitever ye want tae call it.’ Said the old woman. ‘That is if ye have one and ye really want me to guess yer age exactly right!’
Confident he could comply with this unusual request, Tommy agreed, ‘Right hen, you’re on!’
Tommy slipped his trouser zip down and the elderly woman inserted her hand through the opening in his underpants and grabbing hold of his penis, she then fondled and rolled it around in her hand, having a right old grope at it, before taking her hand back out of his trouser opening.
Tommy promptly zipped up his trousers and said, ‘Right, my age!’
‘I’m no’ very sure!’ she said. ‘I’d need to feel yer testes!’
‘My testes’? Tommy enquired. ‘What’s my testes?’
Quick as a flash the elderly woman said, ‘Aye, yer testes! Ye know, yer bollocks! The place where awe you men keep a nursery full of potential screaming weans! Mind you that is if you want me tae guess yer age exactly right!’
Tommy thought for a moment, then relented, ‘Okay, then, have a feel at my testes if you think it will help you guess my age exactly right!’
The elderly woman performed the same procedure, this time grabbing his bollocks and rolling them around in the palm of her hand like the Humphrey Bogart character with stress balls in The Caine Mutiny.
After several minutes, she withdrew her hand.