Bountiful bunkum and baloney from bounder Chester Draws...

                                            

Barmy Albert reluctantly agreed to paint the local church. Money was tight, so he surreptitiously watered down the paint to make it go a lot further. Halfway through the job, a violent storm rolled in. Thunder crashed. Lightning struck. Then a booming voice came from the sky: "How very dare you swindle MY church!" Albert fell to his knees and lay prostrate at the altar. "Lord, I'm sorry! What can I do to make recompense?" The voice replied: "Repaint... Repaint... and thin no more!"

I attended a dinner last week where they held a wine tasting event prior to the main event. I must admit that whenever I hear wine experts talk about a ‘complex’ wine, I assume they mean one that doesn't have a screw top. In an effort to improve my limited knowledge, I’ve joined a wine club. We meet at 9 am in the local park every morning.


In the spirit of Wimbledon, I bought a punnet of strawberries and looked on the internet to see the best way to serve them. It suggested I halve the strawberries, sprinkle them with icing sugar and pile cream on top. My verdict is that Preparation H tastes awful!

In the unlikely event I ever get offered three wishes by a genie, I not only have them all planned out in advance, but typed up in a Word document. One of them has fifteen subclauses (so far) to avoid any malicious genie skullduggery and malpractice.

Octogenarian Elsie Grabknuckle was telling Non-Stick Nora that her husband Tommy went to the local Co-op to get some spuds for their tea and he was hit by a van." Nora opined: "That’s terrible! What are you going to do now?" Elsie thought for a moment and replied: “I think I’ll go to the chippy!”.

Isn’t it fascinating how potatoes give us not only French fries, but vodka too! All the other vegetables should sort their life out and step up to the plate!

A shady character in my local pub, The Pitt Bull and Stanley Knife, asked if I wanted to buy a pocket calculator. I politely declined and told him in no uncertain terms: "No thanks, I already know how many pockets I have." The wife suggested, on the way to the pub, I drop my trousers at the dry cleaners, which I did. I got a round of applause but was banned from ever going in there again.

                                           

Master of bunkum and baloney, Chester Draws was on the prowl in his Double Glazed Windows company's reception area when he spotted a bloke languishing in the corner, doomscrolling on his phone. He asked him outright: "What are you doing?" The fella replied; wasting my time until I get paid." Chester was furious. "What is your monthly salary?" The guy replied: “Fifteen hundred quid.” Chester then counted out £1500 in cash and gave it to the man. "Take this money and get out! You don't work here anymore!" The bloke silently took the money and left. Chester walked up to the reception. "By the way, who was that guy?" With all the dignity that she could muster, the receptionist sez: "Pizza delivery."

I was in a Top Man store trying to buy a plain grey pin-striped jacket. The cashier asks for my email for the receipt. I told her: “No thanks. Just the jacket is fine.” She stops scanning, looks me dead in the eyes, and whispers: “Please just give me a fake one. My manager tracks my capture rate.” I panic and blurt out, batman@hotmail.com. She types it in, nods slowly, and says: “Thank you for your valued custom, Mr Wayne.”

Thursday Quiz: Q) How do you apply Tartan Paint? A) With a Bay City Roller.

I visited my local Chinese takeaway last night, and she asked me if I'd like to hear The Specials. They gave me Too Much Foo Yung....

                                              

Summer tales from the Scropton Street Back Snicket...

                    

It’s Saturday, and the heat has settled over Scropton Street like a damp towel someone forgot to wring out. Thirty‑six degrees, the kind of temperature that makes even the brickwork sweat. You stand at your window, watching the neighbourhood come to life in its usual, unhinged choreography.

Up the back snicket, the miscreants are stirring — a slow, feral awakening. Paddling pools materialise from sheds like relics of a forgotten civilisation, each one held together by 79% masking tape and 21% blind optimism. Four kids are already submerged in one, splashing around with a lolloping Lurcher and Uncle Derek, who’s cooling his cans of Carlsberg in the same tepid broth.

The shirtless tattooed blokes have emerged for their annual migration, pale as Matthews Turkey Twizzlers now, destined to resemble lobster thermidor by teatime. They still insist they “don’t burn, me,” even as their shoulders audibly sizzle.

The air outside is a cocktail of Factor 30, Lynx Africa, Hollands meat‑and‑potato pies, and the rancid pong of No. 32’s wheelie bin, which has been quietly fermenting since last Monday. Non‑Stick Nora is parading her new £15 fan from B&M like she’s installed full air‑con, while Barmy Albert’s nan sits in her conservatory in a buttoned‑up cardigan muttering, “It’s not that warm.”

The local Facebook group is already in meltdown. Half the posts are “Is this your dog?” The other half are people complaining about children screaming. It’s the first sunny weekend in eight months — they’re feral now. Accept it.

Tommy Grabknuckle is washing his Skoda with Fairy Liquid, blasting Max Bygraves’ 12‑inch Megamix cassette loud enough for three postcodes to harmonise. By early evening, two blokes will be arguing about whose turn it is to fetch more ale, someone’s kid will have lost his front teeth, and the air ambulance will probably be landing because Big and Daft Dave has attempted a somersault off the dog kennel into two feet of water.

Burnham BBC Breaking News Breakfast Bulletin....

 Young Woody Eckerslyke told Barmy Albert: "I'm having a clandestine dalliance with the vicar's wife. Could you distract him and have a long conversation about God and the bible in church for an hour after the service for me?" Woody asked. Albert wasn't comfortable with the concept, but as a good pal, he reluctantly agreed. Once the service ended, Albert began engaging the vicar with all sorts of pointless questions in an effort to buy Woody some time. Eventually, the vicar grew impatient and asked Albert what he was really up to. Riddled with guilt, Albert finally confessed, "Look, I'm very sorry. My mate Woody is having an assignation with your missus right now, and he asked me to keep you distracted." The vicar paused for a moment, smiled warmly, and with all the decorum that he could rally, placed a comforting hand on Barmy Albert's shoulder and sez: "You might want to hurry home, dear boy," he said. "My wife died over two years ago.”

                                                            

                                              

Andy Burnham visited one of the poorest towns in the North of England yesterday and asked the local mayor what the three priorities were to revitalise the area. “The first is the hospital”, he said. “It’s there, but there are just not enough doctors and nurses to fully staff it. Andy pulls out his cell phone, talks for a couple of minutes, and then announces: “Done. When I become Prime Minister, a team of doctors and nurses will arrive at the end of the month” “The second is the potholes; they’re everywhere” He picks up the cell phone again, says a couple more words, and announces: “Sorted! When I’m PM, they’ll be filled within a month. “And the third?” He asks. “The third is cell phones,” the mayor replies. “There’s just no signal whatsoever, and nothing works around here.”



Last weekend, I got home from a gig, and the wife wasn’t there; all her stuff was gone, and her wardrobe was empty. Then right in the middle of the TV screen, I spotted a Post-it note. It read as follows: “This isn’t working – Goodbye.” However, when I picked up the remote control and switched the telly on, it was working perfectly; Graham Norton was on, interviewing Madonna. The missus had me worried for a minute or two there. She’s in a bad place right now. Not mentally, just Gorton town centre.


                                                                

Q) What’s green, fuzzy, and if it fell out of a tree, it would kill you?

A) A pool table.


                                  

A harridan with a face like a bulldog licking frog spawn from a thistle was in Tesco yesterday morning. She put the divider down for the bloke behind her in the queue. He didn't thank her, so she just picked it up and put it back. Honestly, that level of curmudgeonly, misanthropic pettiness was just awesome to witness.





A Moscow citizen goes to buy a car. He goes through all the endless red tape and bureaucracy, fills out the copious paperwork, and counts out all his rubles to pay for the car in advance. The official stamps his papers and says: "All right. Everything is in order. Come back in exactly ten years to pick up your car." The buyer scratches his head and asks: "Should I come back in the morning or the afternoon?" The official gets annoyed: "It's ten years from now! What difference does it make?" The citizen replies: "Well, the plumber is scheduled to come in the morning."



Here we are, 30-odd years on, and the Spice Girls' music has really stood the test of time. It's still bobbins!



An airline pilot goes to his wife and declares: "All my mates are telling me you are having an affair with an air traffic controller." "No, Roger.", says his wife with a big sigh, "I'm not having an affair with an air traffic controller. If I've told you once, I've told you niner-niner times. Roger. Over."

                                             

Non-Stick Nora has two handsome admirers. One of them is a doctor, and the other is a deaf guy. Every day, the doctor gives Nora a red rose. And every day, the deaf bloke gives her an apple.
One day, Nora asks the deaf geezer: "Hey, that doctor friend of mine gives me a red rose every day, and I get the symbolism of that. But why do you give me an apple a day?" And the deaf guy sez: "Eh?”



It was roasting hot last week, and we all should be thankful that it wasn’t snowing. Just imagine trying to shovel snow in that heat!

                                                                      

The thin line between success and failure...

                                                 

The missus was on the warpath. She shouted at me: “You’ve been sat here watching Wimbledon tennis day in and day out. You have no consideration for how I feel. I bet you can't even remember how many years we've been together!" "Fifteen Love," I replied. That’s when the fight started!

It’s Saturday, and it’s 36 degrees. All the miscreants and reprobates who are domiciled up Scropton Street back snicket are awakening. The paddling pools have appeared from the rear of the shed. Every front garden has one that is 79% masking tape and 21% optimism. There are at least four kids ensconced in it, one lolloping Lurcher, and Uncle Derek cooling his cans of Carlsberg in the same tepid water. The shirtless tattooed blokes have emerged like they’re migrating for summer. Pale as a packet of Matthews Turkey Twizzlers at 12 noon, then resembling a lobster thermidor by teatime, still insisting, “I don’t burn, me.” The ambience outside is a fascinating mix of Factor 30, Lynx Africa, Hollands meat-and-potato pies, coupled with the rancid pong of No 32’s wheelie bin that’s been percolating nicely in the heat since a week last Monday. Non-Stick Nora has purchased a 15-quid fan from B&M and is acting like she’s installed full air conditioning in her hovel. Meanwhile, Barmy Alberts nan is sat in the conservatory wearing a buttoned-up cardigan and opining: “It’s not that warm.” The local Facebook group is in meltdown. Half the posts are “Is this your dog?” The other half are people moaning about kids playing outside. “Can they stop screaming?” Karen, it’s the first sunny weekend we’ve had in about eight months. They’re feral now. Accept it. Meanwhile, Tommy Grabknuckle is washing his Skoda with Fairy Liquid while blasting Max Bygraves’ 12inch Megamix cassette tape on his ghetto-blaster loud enough for three adjacent postcodes to sing along to. By early eventide, there’ll be at least two blokes arguing over whose turn it is to visit the corner shop to buy more ale, someone's kid will have lost his two front teeth, and the air ambulance will probably be landing because Big and Daft Dave thought it’d be a good idea to somersault off the dog kennel into two feet of water. Such is life.

                         

 

Fascinating Fact: In football, there's a thin line between success and failure. It’s called Hadrian's Wall.

Further Fascinating Fact: Many moons ago, Little Richard once helped me with the gardening. He lopped all the rhubarb; he lopped bamboo.

TV Top Tips: Watching a fabulous show on Netflix called “The Snotty Conk.” It’s streaming now!
                                  

Back in the day, Adam Ant sold me a guitar for fifty quid, but he told me that for an extra tenner, he would throw in a Stand and Deliver…

 
Young Woody Eckerslyke asked Barmy Albert if he could help re-turf an entire field so he can stage a civil war re-enactment over the Bank Holiday weekend. Albert said: “Sod that for a game of soldiers!”


The missus will NEVER have to worry about me being unfaithful. She’d have to arrange it, forward plan it and then remind me of what time I’m supposed to be there. Then she’d have to tell me what to wear and yell at me while I’m getting ready and tell me that I’m going to be late.

Renowned master of bunkum and baloney, Chester Draws was in his local pub, The Pitt Bull and Stanley Knife, trying to chat up his ex-wife in a futile effort to rekindle their failed relationship. However, she wasn’t having any of his pleading, because she realised that he was only after his money back! Divorce is like algebra. You look at the X and think Y?



Thought for Thursday: A baby’s laughter is one of the most wonderful sounds that you will ever hear. Unless it is 3 am, you are home alone, and you don’t have a baby…