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 killed. 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 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...
The door to the lavish hotel suite clicked shut, sealing the new husband and wife in the quiet intimacy of their wedding night. With a playful, triumphant glint in his eye, the groom slipped out of his tailored trousers and held them out to his bride. "Here, my love," he said, his voice dripping with mock ceremony. "A gift for you. Put these on." The bride took the heavy wool pants, holding them up against her waist. The legs pooled comically on the floor. She raised an eyebrow. "Darling, 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 family." The bride 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." The groom 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 placed them back in the drawer. "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.
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