Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

The place: Bordar House Cafe, Masham, North Yorkshire.

The year: 2003.

The time: 11:00.

Sunray and I are both enjoying a 10 000 calories belly-buster.  If you want to eat well in England, eat cooked breakfast three times a day.

brekkie

A random stranger walks in, decides he is God’s gift to comedy.

Looks like you two are enjoying that!  Is that your third one of today?

I look at Sunray.  Sunray looks back at me.  He nods and winks to me.  Mr Comedian wants to have some fun at us.  We’ll have some fun with him.

I am wearing my DDR (German Democratic Republic t-shirt).

DDRtop

I speak:

Wie bitte?  Ich hab’ überhaupt keine Ahnung was Sie sagen.  Tut mir leid.

Mr Comedian:

Oh, you don’t speak English.  Foreigner, yeah?

I point to my DDR logo:

Ja ja ja!  Bear-leen, Cher-mun-ee, ja.  Sorry, my English ist not gut.

Mr Comedian:

Oh right, bloody krauts, yeah?

G in G:

Ja, ja, crowd of chermans here, ja.  Big crowd at ze market place, ja!

Our man finally leaves us to our maple-cured bacon, baked beans and black pudding and sup our tea in peace.

Two minutes later…

Mornin’, Sunray!  Mornin’, Ginge in Germany!  How are you doin’, fellas?

Ron, one of the locals, had just walked in to order his Saturday bacon sandwich and had decided to greet us.

Sunray replies:

Morning, Ron!  Good to see you.  Come and sit down with us.

Mr Comedian hears Sunray, me and Ron chatting away (in English).  He realises the laugh is on him.  He scowls.  He purses his lips so tightly, that they look a cat’s anus.  He curses us as he leaves the cafe.

You two tw*ts think you’re so clever, don’t you!

Sunray and I laugh uncontrollably.  Ron asks:

Er, what’s the joke, fellas?

Have a Teutonic day, won’t you!

 

 

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On the Pious and Glorious Twelfth

Today is the Pious and Glorious Twelfth of July, on which the Laurel and Hardy Fan Club Orange Loyalists parade in their bowler hats to celebrate Good King Billy’s victory many years ago.

bowlers

To mark the occasion, I bought my mate from East Belfast a wee rubber ball. Every time it bounces on the ground, it goes, “Boyne! Boyne! Boyne!”

Have a bouncy day, won’t you!

 

A warning about your health

Men, please don’t be shy about going to the doctor.  Now, let me give you a personal insight.

Last week I had been feeling discomfort “down below” for several days. I went and saw my (female) doctor, who took a careful look.

She then told me, “I think everything’s alright.  However, next time, please do that in my surgery, and not while we both happen to be doing the shopping down at Aldi.”

***

Have a healthy day, won’t you!

doctorFem

Spud-u-Like

Gorbachev visits a collective farm to check on the potato harvest.

The comrade tells Mikhail Sergeyevich, “We have harvested so many potatoes this year, that if we stacked them up one above another, they would rech the feet of God.”

Gorbachev replies, “But, comrade, there is no God.” Our farm worker replies,

“Ha, well, there are no potatoes, either.”

***

Have a collective day, won’t you!

spuds

Stalin and his pipe

They come, they talk to Stalin, and then they go, heading off down the Kremlin’s corridors.  Stalin starts looking for his pipe.  He can’t find it.  He calls in Beria, the dreaded head of his secret police.

“Go after the delegation, and find out which one took my pipe,” he says.

Beria scuttles off down the corridor.

Five minutes later Stalin finds his pipe under a pile of papers. He calls Beria:
“Look, I’ve found my pipe.”


“It’s too late,” Beria says, “half the delegation admitted they took your pipe, and the other half died during questioning.”

***

Have a questionable day, won’t you!

stalinPipe

Let’s lighten things up…

I’ve recently been writing about death and dying an’ all that.  Today I’m going to lighten up the mood with a joke or two, albeit with a Soviet/DDR flavour.

Here comes number one.

***

Stalin reads his report to the Party Congress.

Suddenly someone sneezes. “Who sneezed?”

Silence.

“First row! On your feet! Shoot them!”

They are shot, and he asks again, “Who sneezed, Comrades?”

No answer.

“Second row! On your feet! Shoot them!”

They are shot too. “Well, who sneezed?”

At last a sobbing cry resounds in the Congress Hall, “It was me! Me!”

Stalin says, “Bless you, Comrade!”

***

Have a blessed day, won’t you!