Category: Giggle Category

Saw these two nsects on a window. If the blob in the middle was superglue it did not work – they flew off in different directions after a few minutes. So it must have been Love!

Different sizes, different shapes, makes for different thinking!

The wine in these three glasses is the same and they have been left to ‘air’ for five minutes.

Imagine my surprise when I tasted the wine, it tasted different in each glass!

And my sense of taste is poor!

Les Imberts is a village, no, a few houses with a garage. The garage is where it all happened.

It is Sunday morning, The garage is closed. There are two sets of petrol pumps. One set is controlled by the garage and is tuned off, the other set is twenty four hours and is used with credit cards.

I pull up at the credit card pumps on the garage side, do the necessary with my card and the screen tells me to fill my car. The roadside pump is in use by another driver filling up.

A few seconds later my car moves slightly, a rather wide Mercedes has nudged my rear bumper.

A rather wide Belgian driver is pointing at the pump, then at me, and then at his rather wide Rolex watch.

I switch on a disdainful look but obviously do not make a good job of it as he now hoots as well as pointing at his watch. I blink at him and deepen my distain. He slams his car in reverse and does a wheelie out of the garage, I thought.

Not at all, he has swerved around the live pumps and stopped next to one of the dead pumps.

The driver at the roadside pump has filled his car and driven off. To my amazement the wide Belgian figure has got out of his car walked back to the twenty four hour pumps and done the necessary with his credit card and has been told to fill up his car.

A young French lad arrives, stops beside the roadside pump, tries to insert his credit card which he cannot but reads the screen that is telling him fill up his car.

I watch his expression as he pumps free petrol. He has a puzzled look at the garage, a puzzled look at the pump, a puzzled look for me and a puzzled look at the petrol nozzle.

The wide Belgian figure meanwhile is in no hurry. He has put his wide Belgian credit card into a wide Belgian wallet, stretched across his wide Belgian wife and put the wallet in a wide Mercedes glove pocket.

The French lad has filled up and disappeared in cloud of astonished and happy French dust, leaving the wide Belgian gentleman kicking a dead French petrol pump with a wide Belgian foot.

I have moved across to allow another car to fill up and to my surprise the wide Belgian body crosses to my car and snarls in the window.

“I have a problem with my petrol pump!”

I should not have but I could not resist it.

I shake my head “You don’t have a problem with your petrol pump – you have a problem with your intelligence.

A friend was suffering from hypertension and the medic attached a recorder, with a pressure band, around her arm. Every fifteen minutes the band would inflate, record her blood pressure and at this moment she had to stop whatever she was doing until the band deflated.
At ten thirty that evening the box made a funny noise and stopped inflating the band. The next morning the specialist was most concerned the machine had stopped functioning, but decided with the amount of data they had collected during the day a rerun was unnecessary.
The results arrived two days later with a copy sent to her doctor.
Her husband had appointment with the same doctor in the afternoon.
Puzzled by the extra attention he was receiving in the surgery, he was astonished when the doctor actually came out of his room and led him tenderly into his office.
“Please accept my condolences over your wife,” the doctor whispered.
“Condolences?” The husband was now totally perplexed.
“I understand she passed away at ten thirty the other evening.” Explained the doctor.
As I said, the wonders of modern medicine!

It’s Christmas, creches are being created everywhere to celebrate the birth of Jesus. 

This is a sign in French village. It is for selling apples. But when you see the eyes light up when they see the sign, they think they are selling something else.

This is a policeman directing a motor cyclist. All made from electronic components!

This conversation actually took place outside a post office that was closed
when it should not have been.

A man drives up in a post office van and takes out a sackful of letters.

Me: Ah! Good, could you please take this parcel.

Man: No, I’m not a postman.

Me: But have a post van and a sack of letters.

Man: Yes.

Me: But you are not a postman?

Man: No.

Me: So what can I do with this parcel?

Man: Take to to the post office.

Me: The post office is closed.

Man: Yes.

Me Why?

Man: The girls on holiday.

Me: Couldn’t you put a sign to say so?

Man: No.

Me: Why not?

Man: It’s obvious.

Me: No it’s not.

Man: She can’t, she’s on holiday.

He then picked up the sack of letters, put them back in the van and drove off.

I walked back home with my parcel and took one of my anti-insanity pills.

A bad case of galloping garden gnome disease – a cure is still being sought.

The picture above was taken in 2010. The one below two years later. The contagion has spread, leaving the only one cure – a couple of sticks of dynamite.

The Internet is awash with get rich quick schemes, especially surrounding the stock market.

All these systems are useless, failing to answer four simple questions.

1. If the scheme is so good, why are we being told, why isn’t the seller of the scheme on a beach in Bermuda working out how to spend his next million?

2. If the scheme is so good, why charge for it? The seller must already be stinking rich.

3. Why don’t the big banks use it to stop huge losses in their dealing rooms?

4. If everyone uses it, the stock market will run out of money.

Then I came across this very clever idea.

A trader with a website with a large following, has opened his dealing bank account for the public to see. He also tells you when he has bought a share and also when he has sold it.

And all this information is free!

Last year he made £300,000! So by following him you can make the same!… Er, not quite.

The clever bit is the ‘when he has’. His followers rush and buy a share he has just bought. The price of the share rises. When he has made his twenty per cent the trader sells. The price goes down. The first few of his followers indeed do make money but the majority do not.

And there is a second profit for the trader. He shorts the share before he sells, when the price drops he buys at the lower price and makes even more money.

Now this is not the usual get rich quick rip off. But a bright lad who has worked out a nifty way to make a fortune with your money. Not bad!

After a particularly loud release of pressure she covered it beautifully.

“Excuse me, but my body is interfering with me again!”

A man in the village wanted to sell his house. During the solicitor’s search it transpired the stairs leading to the house did not belong to the house, but to the village.
This made the house impossible to sell.
The mayor of the village could not give the stairs to the house owner because they belong to the commune.
It really was not a big deal as the stairs only led to the house and are of no interest to anyone else.
But now the newspapers are involved.
Why?
The owner of the house has gone on hunger strike until he gets the staircase.
Poor timing, it’s two weeks to Christmas, bet not many people buy him presents!

A Christmas Giggle.

I bough myself a small remote control helicopter (because no one else would buy me one – big kid, childish, etc) for Christmas.
Learned to fly it and when the family was in front of a roaring log fire, decided to show off my prowess as a helicopter pilot.
The flight from my study, across the hall, into the sitting room and the hover down to the coffee table in front of the fire was impeccable.
I then hung the model in a hover half a metre above the coffee table, looked down to the remote control to check the trim, looked up, and blinked – my helicopter had vanished.
“That was clever!” admired an uncle. “How did you do it?”
I had no idea where my helicopter was.
“It shot up the chimney,” giggled a grandchild.
MORAL: Don’t fly small helicopters near a roaring fire, the draught sucks them in.
I never saw the helicopter again, but I still had the box. That came in handy to light the next fire!

Took my dog for quiet evening walk in the forest. We passed several houses, all quite isolated with large guard dogs that snarled as we past – except for one.
An Alsation had dug a hole under it’s fence and, with teeth glinting, hair raising, and barking furiously was charging towards me.
I had only one weapon, a foot, that I raised as the animal prepared to leap. A brown and white flash zipped between my legs. My Jack Russel does not allow anyone to threaten me, with at least five teeth she attached herself to the Alsation.
The barks of fury from the guard dog turned to yelps of pain as the Jack Russel grabbed a bigger mouthful of the Alsation.
A scrabbled turn and the dog raced back to the safety of it’s garden. Problem. The hole was only just big enough for the Alsation, so I watched helpless as the windmill of dogs raised dust and damaged everything near them.
Jack Russels never let go. If I tried to prise my dog off I would also get an Alsation that I did not want.
My timid jabbing with a hand at the melee was stopped by a yell. The Alsation’s owner was swearing at me on the run from his house.
Apparently it was my fault his dog had got out. My reply did ot please him. He picked up a stick and ran around his garden to the gate to get at me.
It was obvious, as I could see him running at me with a stick raised, my Jack Russel could also. Like I said, no one is allowed to attack me and the brown and white flash released the yelping Asation to attend to it’s owner.
The Alsation shot through the fence and hid under a tractor in the garden.
The yelps of pain turned from animal to human as the Jack Russel sampled a piece of leg. The victim tried to hit my dog with the stick. No one is allowed to touch my dog! The stick snapped easily as I caught it and threw it in the garden.
Another yell eurupted. Mrs Alsation had joined the party. She took one look at the scene, summed up the problem and like all good wives, blamed her husband for eveything.
“I told you five time to fix that fence!”
Her husband was holding on to tree and swearing at me. Now I was getting annoyed. I can speak French, but when I get annoyed my French changes to a type of French the French do not understand, which I forgive them for as I can’t understand what I am saying either.
But I was ignored. Madam Alsation was slipping into top gear.
“And you haven’t fixed the bath tap, or the chair leg, or the fireplace, or…”
The list went on and on. Now I can deal with a maniac dog attacking me, I can deal with someone trying to hit me with a stick, but a list of domestic chores strikes fear into my core.
Even the Alsation was covering it’s ears with it’s paws under the tractor.
I needed to retreat but my dog was still attached to the wilting form of the husband.
But when the going gets tough, the tough go for a walk. My Jack Russel, seeing her master walking away without hindrence, let go of Mr Alsation and trotted, with her tail up and only a trace of Mr Alsations bood on her fur, happily behind me. And we continued our quiet evening walk in the forest.

James Bond was around thirty-five years old when we met him for the first time. That was over fifty years ago. I thought it was time someone wrote an update on his adventures…

The black ink of night betrayed nothing as Bond slowly opened his eyes. The noise had come from the sitting room.

His hand reached out and grasped the cold hard shape of the glass on his bedside table, he would need his dentures.

Swinging out of the bed he slipped on his slippers and slipped in his teeth. His walking stick fell into his grip as he hobbled across the bed room. He was naked, it did not matter, this would be quick. Holding his left knee to stop a revealing creek, his gnarled hand quietly pushed open the door of the sitting room. The lights blazed as his stick prodded the switch.

“Oh God!” She gasped, her gaze travelling over his nakedness, at what was left of his body.

He smiled. “He won’t help you my darling.” Bond purred, pleased, that for once the cackled of age did not lace his sexy tone. But the familiar tensing of danger now ached across his shoulders.

Pussy Galore straightened, as much as her hunchback would allow. In one hand, it’s hole of death pointing at Bond’s head, glinted the black metal of a Mauser pistol. In the other, the steadying reassurance of her Zimmer frame.

“You know what I’ve come for.” She croaked. “Take those – now!” The Mauser muzzle moved menacingly.

Bond paled. The three tablets on the coffee table were certain death, an overdose of Viagra. They were Pussy’s favourite weapon. The Viagra caused an erection so huge the victim’s brain died from the lack of blood.

“Drop your stick!” She commanded. Bond’s stick, with the deadly darts in the handle, the canister of nerve gas in the middle, and the atomic bomb in the tip, that he had stolen when M was not looking, clattered to the floor.

He did not hesitate, a tap from his heel and the pink pom-pom from his right slipper hit Pussy’s forehead, dropping her instantly.

Dragging himself around the inert form and then untangling himself from her Zimmer, he hobbled to the kitchen.

He needed a drink.

Taking down his extra strong cocoa, he smiled as he stirred in the hot milk. The name James Bond still meant something. Especially when it was written on something they were all after.

His pension book.