Aye That Will Be Right Read online

  ‘I don’t suppose that you’ll want any scented lotion on your hair, in case your wife thinks you were in a brothel?’

  To which the cop replied, ‘No, go ahead. Unlike his wife, my wife has never been in a brothel!’

  Spell It?

  • • •

  Having performed some renovation work on my house, I had accumulated a small pile of household rubbish, in the shape of two old doors and some plasterboard Gyproc.

  I was deciding how to dispose of it, when Tank, the local scrap man from the area, approached me, having heard of my plight, and immediately volunteered to take it away and dump it.

  I arranged for him to call at my house just prior to leaving to take up my police duties.

  Having loaded the rubbish on to the back of his pick-up truck with the assistance of his son George, he then offered to drop me off at my station.

  I agreed to his kind offer and got into the front cab of his vehicle, sitting between him and George, wearing a civilian jacket to cover up my police tunic.

  On the way to the station, Tank took a slight detour and called into the Corporation Cleansing Department en route to dispose of my household refuse.

  As we stopped at the gatehouse entry to the yard, the gatehouse man, armed with a pen and clipboard, came out to greet us and check on the rubbish to be dumped.

  After doing so, he then approached the driver’s window to speak with Tank.

  ‘That looks like building stuff ye have there, mate, so there will be a small council charge.’

  At that he wrote down the make and registration of the pick-up before asking Tank, ‘Whit’s yer name, mate?’

  ‘Jimmy Krankie,’ Tank nonchalantly responded.

  I immediately raised my eyebrows and glanced towards Tank, who was sitting impassively as the council worker wrote the name down on his clipboard.

  ‘Address?’ he then asked.

  ‘73 Molendinar Street, Glasgow,’ Tank responded.

  ‘How dae ye spell Molendinar Street?’ he asked Tank, who then looked at me and said, ‘How dae ye spell Molendinar Street, Harry?’

  I quickly spelt it out for him and he wrote it on to his clipboard, before asking, ‘Postcode?’

  ‘Postcode? Who the fuck knows their ain postcode?’ Tank responded.

  To which the council worker replied, ‘Aye, ye’re right enough, mate,’ before adding, ‘Dump it in rubbish bay fourteen.’

  As we drove up to the bay, Tank and George got out and dumped the refuse.

  We were driving back out of the place when the council worker, with a grin on his face, shouted over, ‘See ye later, Tank, George! And you, Harry the Polis!’

  I quickly realised they had all been winding me up.

  Ask a Stupid Question

  • • •

  The duty officer at Govan was checking on a drunk and incapable male who had been detained in police custody earlier that day, prior to him taking up his duty, to see if he was now in a fit state to be released to go home.

  ‘Hello, John, it’s Inspector Cartwright the duty officer here. How are you feeling after your sleep?’

  ‘I’m feeling fine,’ he replied as he sat up in his cell.

  ‘Can you tell me how many drinks you consumed today?’ he was asked.

  ‘One or two, Ah think,’ was his estimate.

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way,’ the duty officer said, ‘when did you start drinking?’

  John thought long and hard for several moments before replying, ‘On my eighteenth birthday, when dae ye think?’

  Disabled Parking

  • • •

  A Glesca wag parked his car in a disabled bay and as he walked off, a parking attendant called out, ‘Here you! What’s your disability?’

  Quick as a flash he shouted back, ‘Tourette’s syndrome, ya bastard – now fuck off!’

  What Window?

  • • •

  I can now reveal a mystery that has probably caused a lot of confusion and prompted hundreds of questions.

  ‘Why is there a window on that wall looking on to a brick wall?’

  And the answer is very simple.

  Apparently, several years ago, when the police station at Garscadden in Glasgow was being erected, it was decided that during the building process, for security purposes, a uniformed officer would be detailed his night-shift duty to be spent on the site. How boring!

  It was while this duty was being performed that the officer involved, who shall remain anonymous, was searching the makeshift office of the contract builder, and discovered the building plans of the new station lying in a drawer.

  As he passed the hours away, looking over the drawn-up plans, being a bit of an architectural-type person, he decided for a laugh to insert the inclusion of a window on a bare wall, making sure it was to scale.

  When finished, he replaced the ‘altered’ building plans in the drawer.

  Several weeks later, he was detailed security duty at the new station and whilst looking through it, he couldn’t believe it when he entered a room with a window in the middle of the wall, looking on to … a brick wall! Ooops!

  Gimme the Job?

  • • •

  I was sitting reading the paper the other day and saw a great job advertisement.

  The job description was: ‘Mature male wanted, must have good nature, soft gentle hands, able to give gentle massage, have good patience and willing to supply lots of TLC.’

  It then went on to show you a picture of this beautiful young woman, lying naked on a sunbed, beside a private swimming pool.

  I immediately called the number and was asked if I could come along right away to the Holiday Inn for a one-on-one meeting.

  I didn’t need to be asked twice and jumped into the car and drove straight over there!

  I was pleasantly surprised to see that there were no other applicants waiting.

  I was met by this young attractive lady, who asked me a few questions, like was I prepared to fly.

  ‘Fly?’ I replied. ‘You bet I am!’

  She then handed me an airline ticket and said, ‘If you hurry, you’ll be able to catch the next flight down to Manchester.’

  ‘Manchester?’ I said. ‘So I take it I have the job?’

  She looked at me strangely, shook her head and said, ‘No, not at all. It’s just that Manchester is where the end of the queue is.’

  The Language Barrier

  • • •

  Sometimes, if we know a little bit of a foreign language, we tend to exaggerate just how much of it we really know, and we also don’t like to backtrack.

  Such was the case with Frankie in my folk band, when we visited Moscow to perform some concerts.

  As it was, Frankie had managed to obtain some tapes on the Russian language and had played them over and over to himself.

  I must admit to having heard him talking to one of the other band members, and thinking to myself, ‘He’s really picking up the Russian language very well.’

  Unbeknown to me, although he was talking in a deeper voice and sounding very ‘Russsssiannn’, he was actually talking, as we say in Glesca, complete and utter pish!

  This was soon to come embarrassingly to light during our first Russian press conference, when asked by one of the many reporters, assembled before us, ‘Does any of your band members speak Russsssiannn?’

  I immediately turned to Frankie, pointed towards him and said through our interpreter, ‘Frankie has been taking Russian language lessons and has managed to pick it up relatively fast.’

  Several of the reporters showed a great interest in this, as Frankie smiled at them and politely nodded his head in full agreement, delighted to be the focus.

  This prompted one of the reporters to immediately direct a question at Frankie, without going through our interpreter.

  Surprisingly, Frankie appeared to understand his question and, nodding his head, he replied, ‘Dah! Dah!’

  Impressed or what? I looked at the interpreter
, raised my eyebrows and smiled. Really chuffed by this!

  The reporter then smiled, before he continued by rattling off another question directed at Frankie.

  Frankie hesitated for a moment, before repeating his previous words of, ‘Dah! Dah!’

  He then went on to string several Russian words together into a fluent sentence.

  The reporter looked totally confused by this reply and said something back, as a smile broke out across his face.

  At which point Frankie confidently spouted off more of his Russian patter.

  There were several moments of silence before the assembled reporters, one after another, sniggered and then broke out into fits of hysterical laughter.

  I turned to our interpreter, who was struggling to keep a straight face in the midst of all that was going on, and asked her, ‘What did he say that was so funny?’

  The interpreter replied, while trying desperately to compose herself, ‘Frankie just asked him if he would like to dance, and did he own a goat with diabetes?’

  Cannae Even Say It

  • • •

  Out with my elderly mother, we visited the local B&Q superstore on Wednesday, the old-aged pensioner’s day, to purchase some garden equipment.

  As we stood in the queue waiting to be served, there was an old woman in a wheelchair being pushed ahead of us and as she reached the cashier, she asked, ‘Can you tell me where your clitoris is, hen?’

  The young girl immediately blushed with embarrassment, but asked the elderly customer to repeat her question.

  ‘Can you tell me where your clitoris is?’

  There was an immediate reaction of sporadic giggles and sniggers of laughter among several of the elderly customers in the queue, before the home help accompanying her leaned over and explained that what her elderly client meant to say was: ‘Can you tell her where your clematis are?’

  Order in the Court

  • • •

  True Stories from the Law Courts

  DEFENCE SOLICITOR: Were you present when your picture was taken?

  CONFUSED WITNESS: Would you repeat the question?

  Lock Up a Body

  • • •

  Out on patrol one day with Robert Rennie, we received a call to attend a report of a man seen jumping out of a high-rise flat.

  We made our way to the location expecting the worse, but to our surprise there was nothing to see in the car park or surrounding area.

  Having traced the reporter, we called at her house to speak with her and she confirmed again to us what she had seen, even pointing to the exact flat where the man had jumped from.

  Back down to the car park we went to have another look for our mystery jumper, but to no avail.

  I therefore broadcasted a result for the call as ‘no trace’ and continued with my duties.

  However, about two hours later, I was to receive another call for the same location, only this time it was a report of a man injured by a motor vehicle.

  Assuming it was a road accident, we again attended, where we were met by a male motorist, whiter in complexion than Casper the Friendly Ghost, reporting that he had gone to his lock-up to get his car out and on opening it up, he found the body of a man strewn across the roof of his car.

  When we went around to investigate the lock-up for ourselves, we discovered that the dead man was the same unidentified male seen earlier jumping from the high-rise flat.

  Apparently, when he jumped out of his window, instead of going straight down, the swirling draught between the high-rise flats caught hold of him and blew him away from the flats and over towards the car park, eventually coming to rest when he plummeted through the roof of the lock-up, landing on top of the car parked inside.

  What a shock for the unsuspecting car owner and his wife, who had been expecting to go out for a drive.

  However, I suspect he had a job trying to explain the unbelievable circumstances of events to his insurance company as to how his car just happened to be written off by a pedestrian while parked securely in his lock-up garage!

  Order in the Court

  • • •

  True Stories from the Law Courts

  ADVOCATE DEPUTE: Are you qualified to give urine?

  WITNESS: Huh?

  Who Would Have Guessed?

  • • •

  I received a call to attend and assist a home help who suspected a sudden illness had befallen her aging client.

  I attended and went through the usual procedure of inquiries by asking neighbours when they had last seen him and did they know of any relatives.

  After performing this duty and receiving a negative result, I made the decision to force the main door.

  Several attempts later, with the use of my Doc Marten boots, the door succumbed to my pressure and I entered the house, accompanied by the home help, expecting to find the worst.

  After a search of the house, I could find no trace of the occupant.

  Then as I looked over at the mantelpiece, I saw a letter.

  The letter contained a set of house keys and a note addressed to the home help which said:

  Dear Mary (home help),

  Off to visit my daughter in Cornwall for a week. I’ve left you a set of house keys to let yourself in and check things for me. See you when I get back.

  Cheers,

  Jimmy

  Anniversary Gifts

  • • •

  Like every other man on the planet, finding the ideal gift for my wife is a task in itself, never mind a silver wedding anniversary gift for putting up with her – sorry, for putting up with me for twenty-five years.

  So there I am, passing a shop in Argyle Street in Glasgow, when I see it: pocket taser stun gun.

  The fact that she was going through a keep-fit phase, which required her to attend slimmer’s clubs and gyms at night, made me confident that this would be the perfect gift to protect her and make her feel safe from the threat of any possible attackers.

  And it was, after all, our silver wedding anniversary.

  Now this wee gadget was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser, the effects of which were supposed to be short-lived with absolutely no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, thereby allowing her adequate time to move far enough away to safety. It sounded too cool!

  Long story cut short, I purchased the device and took it home, where I loaded it with two AAA batteries and pressed the button … Nothing, nada, zilch.

  I was disappointed by this first attempt, but soon realised that if I pressed the button in and then pressed the taser against a metal surface at the same time, I’d get the blue arc electricity spark, darting back and forth between the prongs … Totally awesome!

  Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to my missus, what the brown burn spot is on the front of her new microwave oven.

  OK! So I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself, ‘It can’t be all that bad or powerful, having only two AAA batteries, right?’

  I sat back in my recliner with my cat Jasper looking on intently (the trusting wee soul) while I read over the instructions, and thought that I really did need to try this wee gadget out on a flesh and blood moving target …

  No I didn’t!

  But for a few moments, I did think about zapping Jasper (only for a fraction of a second), but I thought better of it.

  He’s such a sweet cat, although he did at one time piss all over my tomato plants!

  However, if I was going to give this gadget to my wife to protect herself against a possible attack from a mugger, then I needed some assurance that it would work like the instructions said. Am I wrong or what?

  So there I was, sitting, wearing a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt, with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, the directions in one hand and the taser in my other.

  The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorientate any assailant.

  A two-second burst would cause muscle spasms and a major loss of
his, or her, body functions.

  A three-second burst would purportedly make the assailant drop immediately to the ground like a sack of potatoes, rendering his body limp and totally useless.

  Anything longer than a three-second burst would be just wasting the batteries.

  All the while I was reading this, I was pausing every two seconds to look at this little device, measuring about five inches long and less than three-quarters of an inch in circumference, and, might I add, very cute, and loaded with its two wee itsy-bitsy AAA batteries, thinking to myself, ‘No bloody way!’

  Now what happened next is almost beyond description, but I will do my best.

  So, I was sitting there alone, with Jasper the piss artist looking on with his head cocked to one side, as if to say, ‘Don’t do it, master!’, convincing myself that a teeny-weeny one-second burst from such a tiny little gadget couldn’t possibly hurt you all that bad.

  So I decided, ‘Bugger it! I’ll give myself a one-second burst, just for the heck of it.’

  I touched the prongs against my naked thigh and pressed the button.

  ‘HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION! F@$$!%*CK’$^NG HELL!’

  I’m pretty sure that big bullying bastard Hulk Hogan burst in through my side door, picked me up in my recliner and body-slammed both of us on to the floor – over and over and over again.

  I vaguely recall waking up, lying on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, my body twitching and both my nipples on fire.

  As for my testicles, they were nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked up my arse in the oddest way, like the handle of a teapot, ‘short and stout’, and a tingling, pins-and-needles feeling in my legs.

  Jasper was standing over me meowing like I’ve never heard before and licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to himself, ‘I’d love to see you do that one again, you big diddy. Go on, do it again, please!’