by Harry Morris
Apparently, just about every Police Officer sitting the Exams on the day, admitted guilty to the definition answer of number (4).
Show Me Yer Jean Brody!
…
A police officer was awaiting his wife coming out of the bath, so that he could go into the bathroom and perform the three S’s: a shave, a shower and a sh-sh-shampoo!
After a few moments, his wife entered the lounge with a turban-style towel wrapped around her damp hair and wearing a rather elegant and comfortable-looking dressing gown and sat down, whilst her husband went upstairs, swapping places with her and entering the bathroom.
A few minutes passed, when there was a knock on the front door and the wife answered it.
Standing on the doorstep was David Paisley, a former police colleague of her husband.
‘Hi Helen. Is Robert in?’ he asked her.
‘He is,’ she replied. ‘But he’s just gone upstairs for a shower.’
‘Is that right?’ he replied, his body language changing. He then said, ‘I bet you look absolutely gorgeous under that dressing gown.’ Helen was flattered but also very embarrassed at David’s personal comments and attention.
‘I’ll tell you what Helen – I’ll give you a hundred pounds, if you let me see yer tits!’ he asked her out of the blue.
‘What?! What the hell do you think I am, David Paisley?!’ she replied in disgust.
‘Woah, woah! Calm down, Helen darling. It’s not a big deal! You’re a gorgeous looking woman. I’m only asking for a wee look at yer diddies! Even just the one – just slip yer dressing gown to one side, so I can have a wee butcher’s hook at them and I’ll give ye a hundred quid!’ he pleaded.
Helen pondered for a moment while thinking over his offer.
(‘£100 pounds just to see one of my breasts …’)
‘OK!’ she said, ‘But just the one and nae groping me.’
At that she put her head to the side, making sure her husband was still in the bathroom and satisfied that he was, she pulled her dressing gown to one side exposing her bare left breast.
As she covered herself up again, David handed her over the agreed £100 in cash.
Helen quickly took possession of the money and placed it in her dressing gown pocket.
‘Helen! Helen,’ David said, shaking his head. ‘Helen, that was amazing! Better than I could ever have imagined. Please don’t be embarrassed – you have a beautiful body for your age! In fact, I’ll tell you what – you’ve excited me and turned me on that much,’ he paused! ‘I’ll give you another hundred pounds, if you give me a swatch downstairs.’
Helen was shocked and blushed at this next request.
‘C’mon, Helen, a hundred pounds just to pull yer dressing gown to one side and gie me a wee peek at yer beaver!’ he offered her.
Again she thought for a moment, before tilting her head to one side to listen out for her husband. Convinced he was still in the shower and flattered by her door step admirer, she said, ‘Aw right, but ye better no’ try and touch me, ya clatty bastert, or I’ll kick ye in the balls!’ At that, she then pulled her dressing gown up and to the side, exposing her downstairs private parts.
As she again covered up, she said, ‘Quick! Give me my money.’
David held up his side of the bargain and having paid her the money, said. ‘I’ll tell ye what, Helen, if I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me’? Cause I’ve got another hundred pounds here and it’s all yours, if ye open up yer dressing gown and let me gie ye a squeeze and a wee cuddle.’
Helen responded immediately, ‘Away you an’ bile yer heid, ya bloody sick pervert! Coming to my front door and asking me tae dae aw that! Whit dae ye take me for?’ She continued, ‘And another thing – whit if some bugger was tae see us?’
‘Aw! C’mon, Helen, nae bugger can see us here! Just a wee cuddle, that’s all. I’ve always fancied you big time! What harm can it do?’ he reasoned with her. ‘C’mon Helen!’ At that, David began to sing to her, ‘If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?’
Quick as a flash, Helen responded, ‘A hundred pounds?’
‘My hand tae God, a hundred quid, in yer hand, like before!’ replied David sincerely.
Helen again thought for a moment, pondering over David’s latest proposition, while listening out for her husband getting out of the shower and with her mind made up, she said, ‘Right!’ Putting her hand out to relieve David of his third £100 pounds, she placed it into her pocket before loosening off her dressing-gown belt and revealing her shapely, mature naked body.
At that moment, David put his hands around the inside of her dressing gown and gave her a tight squeeze and a cuddle for a brief moment.
Suddenly, she could hear her husband Robert getting out of the shower.
‘Right! Enough! Enough! she said. ‘Now bugger off.’ Pushing David away, she closed her front door over and stood for a moment, composing herself as she reflected on her easy earnings, before re-entering the lounge, where Robert was about to sit down in his armchair in front of the television.
‘Was that the front door I heard?’ he asked her.
‘The front door? No!’ replied Helen. ‘Why, are you expecting someone?’
To which Robert replied, ‘Aye! That wee sleekit bastard David Paisley! He owes me three hundred quid for my trailer and promised me faithfully, he would call at the house tonight and hand it over!’
No Age Limits
…
George Hyslop, an ageing inspector, soon to retire from the police force, announced to colleagues on his shift that his retirement party would also be his stag night, because after twelve years as a widower, he had decided to remarry. Everyone present offered his and her congratulations.
‘Who is the lucky woman then?’ they asked him.
‘Mary Brown!’ he proudly announced out loud.
His shift personnel were stunned. Mary Brown was a young probationer policewoman in her twenties.
This prompted one of the assembled officers to ask, ‘What about the age difference George?’
To which George replied with a straight face, whilst sipping away on his gin and tonic. ‘If she dies, she dies!’
The Patient’s Armless!
…
Early one morning, prior to going off duty after a long and arduous twelve-hour shift, Barry Potts (nicknamed ‘Bam’) and I, along with the rest of our colleagues were gathered in the police garage when a call came over the radio regarding a train crash at Polmadie in Glasgow.
Everyone present jumped back into their patrol cars and headed for the location to give assistance, where on our arrival, there were sirens wailing and klaxons blaring as all the emergency units of police, fire and ambulance descended upon the area as one.
A quick assessment of the devastation caused, revealed the traction engine and several of the carriages had been derailed and overturned, with the train driver trapped under the overturned traction engine.
The fire service personnel worked away, in an effort to free the trapped driver and using their portable hydraulic jacks, they made several attempts to lift the engine off his trapped arm, but to no avail. Eventually, the Royal Infirmary surgical squad, or as some of the services cruelly dubbed them, the Butcher’s Department, arrived to take over the situation.
With the driver suffering post-traumatic shock and excessive blood loss, the decision was taken by the senior member of the surgical Butcher’s Squad to amputate the trapped arm to free him and have him conveyed by ambulance and police escort to the nearest Accident and Emergency Dept.
For our part, Bam and I were detailed to provide the high-speed police escort through the busy Glasgow streets.
The Royal’s surgical squad crawled under the engine and in dangerous and difficult circumstances, they performed the amputation, thereby freeing the trapped driver.
We then carried out the next part of the emergency proceedings, arriving at our destination in practically no time at all
.
As we were about to drive off, a young nurse came running out of the entrance, frantically waving her arms at us, in an obvious attempt to attract our attention. We immediately pulled up and stopped, as she ran over to us.
‘His arm!’ she screamed. ‘Where is his arm?’
Bam and I both looked at each other slightly puzzled and replied, ‘We assumed it was in the ambulance alongside him!’
‘Well, it’s not there and the surgeon requires it here immediately in order to try and save it. So will you go back and get it?’ she asked.
In layman’s terms, the emergency team and their patient were completely ‘armless’!
As quick as we had arrived at the hospital, we had returned to the scene of the train crash and in less than no time collected our missing arm.
Having radioed ahead about our dilemma, a rail worker was waiting for us and on seeing us arrive, he began pointing to himself and holding up a white blood sodden towel. As we drove over to him, he came over to our car with the arm.
‘Excuse me, sir, but wid ye just like tae check the fingers on this left arm and confirm there are two gold rings and a tattoo of a highland bagpiper on it?’ He then opened the towel to expose the train driver’s full arm, which was saturated with his blood.
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard, so I asked him, ‘What did you just say there?’
Whereby he repeated, ‘I want you to check out his hand, because I need a signature from you that I gave you an arm with two gold rings and a tattoo on it. It’s just tae keep me right wi’ my gaffers in case they had to go missing. Know whit a mean?’ he explained.
Bam looked at him and said, ‘Are you fucken stupid? Who the fuck is going tae steal an amputated arm, with a tattoo of a highland bagpiper and two rings on it, ya bammy bastard?’
‘Well ye never know!’ He replied in all seriousness. ‘I’m just covering my back and keeping mysel’ right.’
‘Well ye can get tae fuck, cause I’m not signing anything,’ said Bam rather indignantly.
‘Fine!’ said the rail worker. ‘Then I’m not giving you his arm?’
At this point, I had to intervene to calm things down. ‘Woah there, mate!’ I said. ‘Put the arm in the back seat of the police car and don’t be so stupid!’
‘No way, not without a signature in my book!’ he replied.
Bam interrupted, ‘A signature! How about I give ye a signature wi’ my police baton across yer stupid heid, ya thick bastard?’
‘Right, that’s it, I’m going tae see my gaffer about you swearing and threatening me.’ At that, he began to walk away.
Whereby, I quickly got out of the police car and shouted, ‘Wait a minute there, mate. Let’s get a reality check here. There’s a colleague of yours lying in the operating theatre of the hospital down the road, with a team of surgeons standing around him, waiting patiently on us arriving back with an arm, in order to try and sew it back on. Now unless you’ve got something better to do with it, like maybe a triple-arm-wrestling competition, I suggest ye give it to me and let me get on with my job of ‘hand’ delivering it!’ (pardon the pun)
He thought for a moment, before handing me the arm.
As I took possession of it, he said, ‘Just check the rings and tattoo are there.’ before adding, ‘I just hope this left arm is the right one.’
There was no answer to that last remark, apart from the fact he had just confirmed to both of us, he was definitely a thick bastard!
As I placed the arm on the rear passenger seat, he shouted over, ‘I hope it doesn’t fall off that seat!’
To which I responded, ‘Don’t be silly! It’s holding onto the door handle.’
‘Armed’ with our important despatch, we delivered it safely to its destination with tattoo and rings still intact and the surgeons were able to perform a successful operation to reattach it.
Although Bam reckons they sewed his arm on back to front and he now gives you the thumbs up and thumbs down at the same time!
You’re a sick man, Potsy!
My Uncle Tommy
…
My uncle Tommy was a Royal Mail postman who, after many years of climbing up tenement stairs to deliver the mail, decided he would go for a job as a collecting van driver.
Not in possession of a full driving licence, he set about getting lessons in order to redress this situation and sit his driving test.
After many hours of costly lessons came the big day for his driving test. Off he went with ‘good luck’ messages from all his family ringing in his ears.
However, en-route to the test centre his nerves got the better of him so, in order to get back on course and settle himself down, Uncle Tommy decided to stop off at his local public house, where he quickly downed two large whiskies.
Feeling slightly more confident and relaxed, Uncle Tommy continued on his way, arriving at the test centre a short time later.
As he sat in the waiting room, he eventually got the call, ‘Thomas Docherty!’
‘That’s me pal!’ Tommy replied, to the examiner, who was standing before him with a pen and clipboard in hand.
As the examiner greeted him, a strong waft of stale Scotch whisky tested his senses.
‘Excuse me Mr Docherty, but have you been drinking?’ asked the examiner.
Uncle Tommy replied, ‘Drinking? In the plural, naw! Drink? In the singular, Yes! As you can see for yersel’ son, I’ve only had the wan, purely for medicinal purposes, you understand, just to calm my nerves. You know what Ah mean, pal? It can be bloody nerve-racking out on they busy roads! Mind you, I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve probably had a few haufs yersel’ afore ye started yer work!’
‘Indeed I did not! And you can’t have a drink either and expect to come along here today and sit a driving test!’ said the irate examiner.
‘And why not?’ asked Uncle Tommy in all sincerity. ‘The boys in my mail depot told me you are allowed up to two drinks at least!’
The examiner gave him a stern look before cancelling his test and walking off in total disgust and disbelief.
Several years later, after he emigrated to Australia, I learned that Uncle Tommy had finally passed his driving test, which I found hard to believe, but then again, ‘Foster’s’ Driving Test Centre in Castlemaine, don’t really give a XXXX!
Profumo Affair
…
During the government minister John Profumo’s sex scandal affair involving the infamous Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice Davies, it was alleged that a senior Scotland Yard, investigating police officer remarked, ‘Christine Keeler has more fingerprints up her arse, than we have in our files!’
The Traffic Camera
…
A man was driving along in his car when he saw the flash from a traffic camera. He figured that his picture had been taken for exceeding the speed limit, even though he knew that he was not speeding.
Just to be sure, he drove his car around the block and passed the same traffic camera, driving much more slowly than previously, but again the camera flashed. Now he began to think that this was quite funny, so he drove even slower as he passed the area once again, but just as before, the traffic camera again flashed.
He tried it a fourth time with the same result, but this time he had taken a photo of his speedometer reading with his phone camera.
Having photographed his speed, he repeated his actions and drove past the traffic camera a fifth time. By now, he was laughing hysterically, when the camera flashed as he rolled past, this time at a speed that can only be described as a snail’s pace.
Armed with his phone camera photographs of his speedometer, coinciding with the traffic camera flash, he waited to see what would happen.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within two weeks, he got five tickets in the mail … for driving his car without wearing a seat belt!
Bethnall Green Escort Duty
…
Along with my partner Big Joe Kelly we were performing surveillance on parti
cular premises when we received a call to return to the office as we were required for a prisoner escort.
‘Go home, get changed and return as quickly as possible!’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘I want you both to catch the 4:00pm train from Glasgow Central to Euston Station, London and collect a prisoner on warrant, being held at Bethnall Green police office. You’ll return with him on the following morning train.’
Off we went, returning in no time at all, to be whisked off to the station, via the off licence for a much needed carry out for the long train journey.
‘What’s in the wee bag?’ Big Joe asked me.
‘I’ll tell you later big man! It’s on a need to know basis, it doesn’t affect you right now though!’ I replied.
Once the train had left the station, I was aware that Big Joe was not in possession of an overnight bag, like mine, with toiletries or a change of shirt. I made no mention of it to him at the time, but I knew from experience what was ahead for him.
After several hours, drinking on the train, we had exhausted our carry out and required to visit the buffet bar for some much-needed reinforcements (because we were both greedy bastards) before our arrival at Euston Station. Prior to the bar closing, Big Joe ordered two extra bottles of Grolsch beer, for his morning after, hair of the dog Scottish remedy for hangovers! He concealed them in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, while I visited the toilet to wash my face and smarten myself up for our meeting with the officers who would be at the station to greet us.
On our arrival, we were met by our transport and whisked off to Bethnall Green police office to check in on our prisoner and submit the necessary warrant documentation required in order to transfer him into our custody and bring him back to Scotland.
After the pleasantries involved, I made arrangements for us to collect our prisoner the following morning and then asked our driver, if he could drive us to a public house for a few beers before we went to our overnight accommodation.