A bloke walks into a brothel, and asks for the Madame. “How can I help you, Sir?” she inquired. “I’m looking for a special woman,” he said. “A tall blonde, but with no figure whatsoever. No bum, no waist, no tits – nothing. Could you provide such a woman?” “Mmmmmm,” mused the Madame, “difficult, but I’ll see what I can do. If you leave me your address and telephone number, I’ll get back to you.” The bloke writes down the number, leaves £50 on account and returns home. As soon as he gets home, his phone is ringing, and it’s the Madame. “I’ve got the girl. She’s exactly as you requested – an animated knitting needle,” and she goes into more detail. “Perfect,” said the bloke. “If the £50 covers everything, could you send her over immediately?” “She’s on her way,” said the Madame. Fifteen minutes later, the bloke gets a knock on the door. Standing on the doorstep is the skinniest woman you have ever seen in your life. Compared to her, an Ethiopian would have been called ‘fat’. The bloke invited her into his lounge. “What I’d like you to do is to take all your clothes off and get on your hands and knees in the middle of the room. I won’t be a moment.” As the bloke left the room, the woman removed her clothes. As she got down on the hands and knees, she heard a deep throated ‘WOOF, WOOF’ and the biggest Old English Sheepdog she had ever seen bounded into the room, followed by the bloke. Before she had time to protest, the bloke pointed at the woman, looked at the dog and said, “THAT’S what you look like when you don’t eat you Winalot!”
A typist, just starting work for the day, noticed that the crack in her window pane had got noticeably longer, so she rang up the maintenance department and reported it as a fault. An hour later, an engineer arrived to sort the problem out. He took one look at the crack, and pulled out a hand drill from his tool-bag. He then slowly drilled a small hole in the pane just ahead of the encroaching crack. The typist was watching this with some interest. “Excuse my curiosity, but what, exactly, are you doing? I don’t see the point of it.” “Well,” explained the engineer, “ we let the crack spread of its own accord, but when it reaches the drilled hole, it stops.” “Oh,” exclaimed the typist. “Is that why I’ve got a belly-button?”
As Colonel-in-Chief of the regiment, the Queen makes a tour of the regimental barracks. This takes in a visit to the Medical Wing, where the sole occupant was a private. “What ails you?” asked her majesty. “I’ve got a rash on my b#llocks, Ma’am”, replies the soldier. The Queen makes a hurried departure. The Regimental Sergeant Major heard about this, and strode to the Medical Wing. “WHAT THE F#CKING HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING, YOU F#CKING STUPID C#NT? “ roared the R.S.M. “HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD OF TACT... DIPLOMACY...ANYTHING LIKE THAT?????” “N..N..N..No,” quivered the private, clearly shaking with fear at this verbal assault. The R.S.M. lowered his voice, but just as sternly explained. “You don’t mention your private parts like that to a lady, never mind the Queen. You should have said that you had a rash on your feet, or something like that. Yes, it isn’t the whole truth, but it sounds better. You got that?” “Y..Y..Yes, Sar’nt Major.” Two days later, as the honorary C.O. Princess Anne was on a similar tour of the barracks. She, too, visited the Medical Wing, and spoke to the private. “What are you suffering from, private?” Remembering the bollocking he received from his R.S.M. the private replied, “I’ve got a rash all over my feet, Ma’am”. “Oh,” responded Anne, “so it’s spread, then?”
Izzy was walking down Golders Green High Street, and he looked into a butchers shop. He saw a selection of beautiful pork fillet steaks, so he thought, “Bugger the religion, I’m having them.” So he walked into the shop a bought a couple. He took them home, put them under the grill and put some onions and mushrooms into a frying pan. As this lot is cooking, his son walks in. “Watcha doing, Papa?” He looks into the grill. “A pork fillet. I’m going straight to the Rabbi!” “No, no, son, there’s no need for that. Tell you what, I’ll give you 50 quid or a new suit. What do you want?” “I’ll take the 50 quid, Papa.” “OK, Son”, he says, pulling £50 out of his wallet, “there you go, now don’t mention this to the Rabbi, OK?” “OK, Papa,” said his son, who now disappears off. Just then, his daughter walked into the kitchen. “Hi, Papa, what’s cooking?” She too looked into the grill. “Pork fillets? I’m going to tell Momma!” “No, no,” pleaded her father. “I’ll give you 50 quid or a new outfit, What do you want?” “OK, Papa, I’ll have a new outfit.” “Right, when you need it, let me know. Until then, keep schtum, OK?” “OK, Papa”. Shortly after she left, the pork was ready, and Izzy devoured it. The following morning, Izzy was walking to the newsagent, feeling miserable as sin, when he bumped into his old friend Moshe. “Hello, Izzy,” greeted Moshe, “why the long face?” “Well,” said Izzy, “I turned Christian yesterday for 20 minutes, and straight away, I got turned over by a couple of Jews!”
Remember I was asking (asking? Pleading, more like!) for an M400 Mellotron? Well.....
