Odds And Sods - The Pun Appeal 2

Sign of the Times

In periods of high unemployment the state of the economy is often reflected in the struggle of many small shopkeepers to keep going when people haven't got the money to spend.

A most poignant remark on the adverse effect of that general trend of affairs was having on his business, was shown in the window of a shop in one of the more depressed areas of London.

In the middle of a bare window which displayed absolutely nothing at all, hung a sign which simply stated:

"Customers Wanted . No Experience Necessary"

DIY

Must tell you about the bloke who sang so off key that he couldn't get anybody to sing with him.

Went out and bought himself a duet yourself kit.

Now Here's A Funny Thing

Recently an American dealer acquired a small painting at an auction at Sothebys for a world record price of $2.5million. All dealers have their own method of bidding. Some raise their eyebrows, some make a slight movement of the fore-finger, others a barely noticeable wave of their catalogue. The American made the successful bid with nods of his head. 

Which goes to show that when at an auction, even though the goods are valuable you can get something for nodding

Encore

Have you heard of the new entrant who thought that rebate was putting another worm on the hook?

Datsun Cogs

'Arry got a job as a cleaner at the Datsun Car Assembly Plant and was told to sweep up the yard around the loading bay. 

He was busy sweeping when a fork lift truck, stacking crates of flywheels, dropped one which burst open, scattering its contents dangerously near him.

Going back to the foreman he asked to be given another job.

"Finished that already?" asked the gaffer "That was quick"

"No I ain't" said 'Arry "but I'm not working out there anymore. Its raining Datsun cogs"

Don't Panic

Heard a yarn from Dave Bywater about a friend of his mother's which you would like to hear.

The lady packed some salmon sandwiches late one evening for her husband to take to work next day. Having some salmon left over, she put it down for her cat, to eat for it's supper, who, as is the nature of cats, ate it up with great relish.

Next morning, fairly late-ish, she went out front to bring in the milk, and found one dead cat on the doorstep.

Immediately she thought the obvious. The salmon she had fed it had been off and had poisoned the cat. Then, horrified thought of her husbands sandwiches.

She phoned his work to warn him not to eat them, but he already had. They rushed him to hospital, where he was put under treatment for food poisoning, and kept in for observation.

Returning home, the lady was making a cuppa to calm her shattered nerves when the doorbell rang. Opening the door she was confronted by the milkman who said "I've been trying to see you but you must have gone out. I've called to see how your cat is"

"The cat" said the lady "it's dead. But how did you know about it?"

"Well I didn't know it was dead, and I'm sorry about that" said Milky "but when I delivered the milk this morning it got under my feet and tripped me up, and I dropped the crate of milk on him"!!!

Hubby's comments after being told are not available for print.

Leak Before You Loop

The young pilot was about to take his test in aerobatics. To bolster up his confidence he had imbibed a few jar of wallop and had forgotten his instructors strict order to go to the toilet before diving all over the sky.

"Keep a clear head and an empty bladder, my lad" had been his repeated advice.

All went well until he performed a figure of eight, when he felt the beer exiting and spreading over his uniform. On landing, he clambered out of the plane and stood to attention as the inspector strolled up, took one look at his sodden trousers and roared-

"If you don't want to break your bloody neck in future, you'll learn to leak before you loop"

Mind Shrinker

The psychologist made his patient comfortable on the couch and said "What I propose to do, to help you understand what is worrying you, is to show you some pictures. Immediately I show you one, I want you to tell me the first thing that comes into your mind"

He held up a photo of the Taj Mahal and the patient said "frilly knickers"

He held up a photo of Buckingham Palace and the patient said "black silk stockings"

He held up a photo of Windsor Castle. The patient said "see-through nighties"

The psychologist said "The answer is fairly obvious. You're trouble is that you're a sex maniac, although you don't realise it".

The patient sat up and said "I'm a sex maniac? Looks who's talking. Who's been showing me all those dirty photos then?"

The Things We Take For Granted 

We don't realise our blessings until we get something go wrong. For instance, until you get a bit of dirt in your eye you don't appreciate what a marvellous thing sight is.

I was talking to Ernie Negus, one of our one-armed lads, soon after he resumed duty from a long spell off sick recovering from his unfortunate fall when he broke his existing arm. 

I said that it must have been a relief to be able to do all the things that he normally does, like handling tools etc (he's a great mechanic), and he said yes, it was, but the thing he was most happy to be able to do was being able to wipe his own backside again. Most embarrassing, he said.

True, its the little things that count.

Necessity Is The Mother Of Invention

An invaluable hint for motorists on how to get home in an emergency an be learned from PS Terry Savage when his radiator sprang a leak miles from anywhere t'other day. Stopping near a pond he ensured a continual supply of topping-up water by filling up his wellies which he happened to have aboard. Full marks for ingenuity, Terry, but a word of warning to other travelers in a like situation. Be very careful how you word your reply should a member of the fuzz stop you and ask what you've got in the boot.

Poetic Justice?

In our job there's always the bod who craftily works the mail for awkward delivery points on to the day mail officer. Like top flats, long driveways, etc etc, and the man on the double wonders how come he always gets all this stuff on his walk.

Heated words were heard the other morning between the night mail officer and the day mail officer of the walk which delivers to the Harrow Football Club, which is one of these points

Apparently DMO accused NMA of deliberately leaving this stuff for him, whereas NMO insisted that it was an agreement between the rotates that is should be worked this way.

After many uncomplimentary references to each others parentages and dire threats as to the eventual fate of either officer, NMO backed down and agreed to take any mail that turned up in time for the first delivery. Which he did the very next day and got bitten three times on the arm by the caretakers dog.

DMO was heard to remark that it was bound to happen and NMO was a stranger to the dog, but it took no notice of the DMO cos he was always bloody well going up there, wasn't he?!

29. The Barbershop

aka Old Fashioned Barbers

The conservationists are continually on about preserving England's heritage and blow their tops whenever anybody threatens to chop down a tree or pull down a tumbledown old building.

No matter whether the tree is rotten and liable to be blown over with the next gust of wind, or the house will collapse if the tenant slams the bog door a bit too hard, somebody will plead that Bonny Prince Charlie hid in it's branches or Liz the One once kipped in the front bedroom.

Generally speaking, they do a good job for if the developers had their way we'd all be living in concrete jungles like the Chalkhill Estate in Wembley, and Mothercare would be flogging cement mixers to young parents instead of prams.

So I would like to bring to the notice of the people who are so concerned about retaining parts of Merrie Old England's heritage, of a fast disappearing trade, and it's environment, that is as dear as the British pub to the hearts of all true Britishers, no matter what part of the globe they happen to hail

from originally. 

I'm talking about the good old fashioned short back and sides barber and his barber shop, which should be in the back room behind a confectioner and tobacconist, if it is the genuine article.

They are few and far between and have been swamped by the malignant growth of Unisex salons and His 'n Hers parlours, which grew from long hair, the burning of the bra, and equal rights.

All democratic men are agreed that women's place is not solely in the home, but wherever it is, it certainly ain't in the barber shop. They are as out of place there as a monk in a nunnery.

The days when a chap could be happy in the thought that should he feel the need to escape from female tantrums, there existed a haven where he could claim sanctuary, over the threshold of which no woman would dare to cross, are almost gone. The most exclusive man's club in the world is practically non-existent.

The barbershop I went to many years ago, was not behind a sweet shop, as were most barbers, but was on the ground floor of a tenement house. People lived above and underneath but it was completely isolated from them as it had it's own steps outside leading to the shop door, over which a barber's pole stuck out, and a sign stating that Alf Mantel, barber, cut Gents hair, trimmed moustaches, and shaved with the finest honed razors.

Alf had three blokes working with him and a lather boy. The lather boy is an extinct species now but was as inevitable in a barber shop as eggs are to bacon. His job was to apply a thick layer of shaving soap to the chins of customers wanting a shave, ready for the barber to shave off. As it only cost tuppence most gents had a shave, especially on Saturday afternoon in readiness for the evenings activities, and he was kept on the go all the time, lathering, working the green solidified brilliantine in the hair of finished customers for the barber to comb, sweeping up the piles of cut hair and being a general dogsbody.

Alf's boy was named Reggie and he always wore a cloth cap with his ears tucked under the sides, even while he was working. 

He was unmercifully bullied by the barbers and teased by the herbs who pinched his cap and threw it to each other when he tried to get it back. He got very upset and tearful which made the lads tease all the more until Alf got fed up with the noise and scuffling and finished the joking by snatching the cap

from whoever had it saying "Pack it up. If you want to sod about, do it outside" and tossing it back to Reggie, always said "If your earoles ain't back in bed and this bloody floor swept up in two minutes, you're sacked " As this happened several times a week it was purely a ritual, but Reggie never got used to it and was haunted by fear of getting his cards.

I felt sorry for him, as he lived down my street and I knew he lived alone with his mum as his old man had scarpered when he was at school, and he had to give her the 10/6d a week he earned there.

The only money he got for himself was the odd penny tip he got, and they were few and far between, as the crafty barbers did the final brush up of the coat to make sure they got any dropsy going, and

who could blame 'em ? They was only on a couple of quid a week.

Funny enough, it wasn't until his dad hopped it that Reggie started tucking his ears under his cap. Wonder what the mind shrinkers would make of that ?

Anyway, did a roaring trade, did Alf, what with all the kids during the week, and there were thousands of 'em, there being no telly in them days and folk had to do something to pass away the time; and all the herbs on Sats who came in for the three S’s in readiness for the evening festivities like taking a bride up the pictures, going to the local dance hall, having a few jars round the boozer, or simply having a roll round the town in the hopes of having a bit of luck where the birds were concerned. Leastways, a lot of them did that, as Alf sold a hell of a lot of the old packets of three which hung on cards next to the mirrors in front of the chairs. The three S's, by the way, were what you asked for if you wanted a complete going over, being literally interpreted as a s---, shave and shampoo.

Like a beehive it was with all the yatter of blokes arguing the merits of their local teams, favourite fighters, or fancied horses. Every topic under the sun came up in discussion but no aggro occurred as Alf, with one of his finest honed razors in his mitt, could have sliced an earole on any troublemaker before he shaped up. And would have, and all, cos many a lad went out with plaster stuck on his earlobe and Alf's stock apology of "Sorry mate, but what do you expect if you don't keep your loaf still" after having said something that he hadn't liked.

It was always a bit dodgy sitting in Alf's chair after you'd been chatting football with someone. If you'd been taking the mick out of Millwall, who he supported, it was odds on that he'd have heard you, and you got yourself a bloody collar. But it never stopped blokes going there as in the room behind the shop were a couple of tables where you could sit and get a cup of tea and a saveloy or have a go on the pin tables and one-armed bandits round the walls, after your trim up.

Another of Reggie's jobs that was, dishing out the char and serving the savs, which he had to stop in a hurry when one of the barbers hollered through the door "Lather up " or "Brill on." or Alf shouted "Get the hair off this bloody floor, it's up round our knees"

Like I said, there ain't many of the good old S.B.& S's shops around, which is more the pity, and the conservationists should fight tooth and nail to preserve those that still exist.

When a chap wants his hair cut, if he wants a shampoo to follow he'll tell the barber so. He don't want some scissor-wrangler to tell him "I couldn't possibly cut your hair without washing it first, darling" 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an anti long, hair style fanatic. Everyone is entitled to wear his loaf the way he likes it, and if he desires to let it spread all over his boat race, that's up to him. I don't exactly agree with my brother, who once said to me "Can't understand why young fellows today, go to such pains and expense to grow on their face what grows in profusion and for nothing round their backside".

But I know what he felt.

And I plead for the preservation of some the places where old fashioned blokes as us can still be asked "how would you like it, sir ?" and no matter what you say, you still get a short back and sides.

The barbers I go to is one of these peaceful backwaters behind a Tob. and Con. shop, where you're as likely to see a female as you are a Rabbi at a Catholic jumble sale.

The chap who runs it calls it "The last of the Summer Wine" I'm not sure whether he means the shop or the piles of grey hair which is over the floor. Or the customers. But I don't think anything could be more aptly named.