The Chav Nativity....

                                         

Santa is chatting to ten-year-old Jason and asks him what he would like for Christmas. Jason tells him that he wants a Mercedes-Maybach EQS 680 First Class SUV or a track-focused BMW iX M Model, the ultimate performance machine. Santa chortles and replies: “Now ask for something a little more realistic." Jason told him: “Well, my dad would really like Keir Starmer to grow a backbone, stop kissing the lily-livered liberal lefties' backsides, stop the boats, repair the potholes, bring down energy prices and the cost of living, shut down all asylum seekers' hotels and admit he is the worst Labour Prime Minister in the history of mankind." With all the dignity that Santa could muster, he sez: "And what colour did you say you want this Mercedes to be again?"



I asked the missus what she would like for Christmas, and she sez: “Chanel No 5.” So, I’ve re-tuned the Freeview Box. She also told me that I could get her anything from The Body Shop. So, I’ve got her a front near-side wing for a Ford Focus.

My next-door neighbour Barmy Albert is a creature of strange habits. He retired from work last year and now refuses to look out of his front window in the morning, primarily because; he’ll have nowt to do in the afternoon! He was leaning over the back fence droning on in a nasal whine about his granddad being killed whilst bungee jumping. Apparently, his granddad didn’t think to tell ’em about his artificial leg.

                                                   

 

I have discovered why men die many years before women do. It’s because they want to! The wife (I call her ’Babe’ – you’ve seen the film) isn’t speaking to me right now, and all because I put a cat flap in the budgie's cage. I was sitting in the living room last night and I said to the missus, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.” She got up, unplugged the telly and emptied my glass of malbec down the sink. Some women possess no sense of humour whatsoever.



When I bought the Christmas tree from the local garden centre, the salesman sez, “Are you putting it up yourself?” I replied, “No. It’s for the living room…”

                             

THE CHAV NATIVITY:

There’s this bird called Mary, yeah? She’s a virgin (wossat then?) She’s not married or nuffink, but she’s got this boyfriend, Joey, innit? He does joinery an’ that. Mary lives with him in a crib darn Nazaref. One day, Mary meets this dude Gabriel. She’s like “Oi Oo ya lookin’ at?” Gabriel just goes “You got one in da club, sista” Mary’s totally gobsmacked. She gives it to him, Large “Stop dissin’ me yeah? I ain’t no Kappa-slapper. I ain't never bin wiv no one! Yeah, but no, but yeah!” What in the universal credit, fridge in the front garden, Peppa Pig plate used as an ashtray, payday loan, this town is fuller snakes, Strongbow Dark Fruits, Tesco value ham, front garden trampoline, lip filler paid with child benefit, just me and me kids now on, 35p energy drink, shouting in Aldi in your PJ’s , I swear down on me mam’s life, here’s me hand, here’s me heart, sixes and sevens? silver crushed velvet living room wallpaper, only one pouch of baccy til Boxing Day, mattress in the back ginnel is going on here?

The only surviving brain transplant donor....

                            

When I was a kid, we were quite poor. My mam used to sit up all Christmas Eve, stitching a turkey's head on a kipper. On Christmas morning, I opened my present, and it was two AA batteries and a note which said: “Toys Not Included.”

WARNING! If you receive an email with a link titled: “Ronan Keating sings Christmas Carols.” DON’T open it! It’s a link to Ronan Keating singing Christmas Carols!

I went to a Christmas fancy dress party last night dressed as a screwdriver. I must admit, I turned a few heads. Especially Phillips.

                                       

 

They interviewed me on Tameside Radio last week. The presenter asked me: “Do you have a celebrity crush?” “Yes.” I replied,” Piers Morgan in an earthquake.”




On Christmas Eve, a police officer came upon a terrible road traffic accident, where the driver and passengers had been injured and taken away in an ambulance. As he looked upon the wreckage, a little monkey appeared out of the hedgerow and ambled around the battered vehicle. The officer looked down at the monkey and sez: "I wish you could talk." The monkey gazed up at the efficient policeman and shook his head up and down. "You can understand what I'm saying?" asked the officer. Again, the monkey shook his head up and down. "Well, did you see this?" "Yes," motioned the monkey. "What happened?" The monkey pretended to have a beer can in his hand and turned it up to his mouth. "They were drinking?" asked the officer. "Yes!” "What else?" The monkey pinched his fingers together and held them to his mouth. "They were smoking marijuana?" "Yes." "Now wait, you're saying your owners were drinking and smoking marijuana before they crashed?" "Yes." "What were you doing during all this?" The monkey motioned: "Driving!"Fascinating Fact: Mentally, I'm still 29, humour-wise I'm 12, but physically I'm pretty sure I fought in the First World War...

                                   

  


Many moons ago, when Barmy Albert and Non-Stick Nora tied the knot, the new husband and wife spent the quiet intimacy of their wedding night. With a playful, triumphant glint in his eye, Albert slipped out of his tailored trousers and held them out to Nora. "Here, my love," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A gift for you. Put these on." Nora took the heavy wool pants, holding them up against her waist. The legs pooled comically on the floor. She raised an eyebrow. "Albert, these are enormous. I'd be swimming in them." "Exactly," he declared, puffing out his chest with a smug grin. "And that's how you know I'm the one who wears the pants in this relationship." Nora didn't flinch. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. She gracefully bent down, opened her own suitcase, and retrieved a delicate pair of lace underwear. "Wonderful," she cooed, handing them over. "Now it's your turn. Put these on." Barmy Albert stared at the flimsy silk in his large hands. He tried to stretch them, his face a mask of confusion and futility. "Don't be absurd! I could never get into these!" In one smooth motion, she plucked them from his grasp, folded them with deliberate care, and returned them to the suitcase. "And you never will," she said, her voice soft but firm as steel, "if you keep that attitude."

55 years ago this week, a 52-year-old bachelor, a popular local man, was killed in Middlesex in a street fight over a woman. The victim, who was a milk deliveryman, died in the gutter from his injuries without medical attention or intervention, witnessed by his then-girlfriend, and in full view of the public. The assailant, a local baker, was never charged with any offence, despite the conflict happening in broad daylight.