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The DC managed to explain that he DID understand the Scotsman, so the DS let the DC ask some questions. "Where are the spares you stole?" asked the DC. The Scotsman, who had understood the DS, replied," They are all in the cellar in the house next door to where you arrested me. Please do not let the Sergeant shoot me. There are lots of MG spares there, I saw ZA hockey sticks, Y type overiders and ashtrays, MGA original front and rear bumpers, MGB pull handle door handles, complete MGA twin-cam engines, loads and loads of good parts." The DC turned to the DS and said, " He says piss off you fat sod, I am saying nothing." BanG! |
The police officer was closely watching the parking lot of a notorious LBC bar hoping to catch an intoxicated driver. About fifteen minutes before closing, a lone gentleman weaves his way out the bar, and wanders through the various MGB's, MGA's, Midgets, Sprites, big Healeys, and even the assorted Tr***ph or two. The LBC'er bends closely down to examine each license plate (almost falling in the process, and occasionally actually falling), shake his head, and stagger off to the next LBC. Finally, the LBC'er seems to arrive at the correct one, hugs the bonnet, kisses the grill badge, and pours himself into the driver's seat (after four or five attempts to open the door). The officer watches the LBC'er closely. As the LBC'er vainly attempts to start his LBC -- it seems he cannot locate the starter button, and even if he could, he seems to forgot to switch the ignition on (which wouldn't do any good since it seems he doesn't know which key it is....), the officer watches with even more attention. Finally, the LBC'er starts the LBC just as the bar closes, and with the most painstaking care and caution, eases his LBC out of the parking lot. |
Naturally, the officer's cruiser is behind him in an instant, lights flashing, and the officer pulls the LBC over. As the officer walks to the LBC and goes through the standard routine -- license, registration, etc -- the bar closes. LBC's leave the parking lot and it is empty as the officer administers the breathalyzer to the LBC'er and puts him through the assorted coordination tests. The LBC'er passes each test with flying colors. "0.0 percent -- I don't believe it!" says the officer in puzzlement. Replies the LBC'er: "You should. I'm the designated decoy." HEAVEN is where the police are British, the cooks are French, the mechanics German, the lovers Italian and it's all organised by the Swiss. HELL is where the chefs are British, the mechanics French, the lovers Swiss, the police German and its all organised by the Italians. |
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