|Here’s a very funny joke, which I picked
up cheap the other Friday at our local jumble sale.
Incidentally, at various points in the story, a man over there in the corner will be holding up a big card with the word “LAUGH” written on it. Take no notice of him. He’s got laryngitis.
Actually, now that I come to think of it, it was Thursday that I went to this jumble sale, because Friday was the thirteenth, and I never go out on Friday the thirteenth because I’m very superstitious, ever since the disaster that occurred the last time I walked under a ladder. I clean forgot the budgie was still up there.
My wife warned me. She said, “On your own head be it!” She was right.
She can talk! (I suppose that’s pretty obvious, otherwise she wouldn’t have said, “On your own head be it”.)
Anyway, she was a little tense this day and wanted to be left alone, so she said, “Why don’t you take the kids down to The Vicar’s jumble sale? You never know. They might fetch a few quid.”
So, there I am in this church hall, perusing the oddments and looking through old magazines.
By the way, tonight, I am determined not to ramble on at any price. I’ve already had two public warnings from the high echelons of the BBC. They keep a very close watch on this show.
This lunchtime, I was up in the BBC canteen carbon dating a piece of burned toast. That’s an exaggeration. The service up there is incredibly slow. Would you believe that the meals take so long now, that they have to put mothballs in jacket potatoes? It sounds revolting, I know. But it does improve the flavor.
On quickly to this cheap joke that I am going to tell (The one I bought in the jumble sale.), which concerns this chap who goes to the doctors.
I went to the doctors the other day about this cold that I’ve got. I’ve got this cold, and I can’t get rid of it. I’ve had it since I was eleven.
I went to see the doctor the other day with my nose. Well, actually, I saw him with my eyes. I mean, I had my nose with me.
This chap goes to the doctor. He says “I feel a bit rough, or so the wife tells me, and I’m rather worried. I’m losing a lot of weight.”
So the doctor has him undress. It’s rather a disturbing sight. Incredibly thin, this chap, with a very, very hairy chest. With his shirt off, he looks like a toothbrush.
The doctor examines him thoroughly with a telescope (I forgot to tell you, he’s very shy.).
He says, “In my opinion, you’re overworking. What you need is a complete break. Get away from crowds. Get away from excitement. Go and see Ronnie Corbett in cabaret.”
A little plug for my cabaret act, which, to be honest, is going through a bad patch. These days, I do an hour and a half, then the audience selects a foreman and they go away and consider their verdict.
If it’s going really well, I invite one or two members of the audience up and do a card trick. Sometimes, I invite them all up and we have a game of bridge.
Anyway, off goes this chap, home to his wife. Now I must point out that this is not the happiest of marriages.
The truth is, they’re both total opposites. He’s a man and she’s a woman. He’s thin, she’s a little bit on the tubby side.
So he goes in for a chat. There is his wife in the front room, ironing the cat. She’s very house proud. She’s the sort of woman that would put a hair net on a peach.
And he tells her what the doctor has said. He says “There is only one thing for it. A holiday.”
“About time, too,” says the wife, “I haven’t had a decent holiday in years.”
“How can you say that?” he repostes. “What about that place we went to last year? Sand everywhere, temperature up in the nineties, dark skinned natives toiling at their local crafts.”
She said, “I’m sorry, Bradford Cement Works is not my idea of a good time!”
He said, “Well never mind,” he said, “I’ve been making inquiries and I’ve fixed up to spend a fantastic summer this year in Morocco.”
She says, “That sounds terrific. I can’t wait to see what it all looks like.”
He says, “Well, you won’t have to wait long. I’ll send you a postcard.”
She says, “You miserly old skinflint! You don’t mean you’re going there without me!”
He said “Now, look, dearest treasure of my heart, this holiday wouldn’t suit you at all, but I’ve found a somewhat naughty Arab quarter where, apparently, the husbands have so many girls in the harems, they actually pay gentlemen seven pounds a time to provide a night of passion for one of their wives.”
His wife says, “Well, in that case, I’m definitely coming with you.”
He said “Why?”
She said, “I can’t wait to see how you’ll get by on fourteen quid a month.”