Once again I'm indebted to Alastair's Heart Monitor for inspiration here. Whilst replying to one of Al's threads about courtroom goings on, I had occasion to refer to one of Tom Shield's excellect compendiums of his diaries in the Herald. I then went on to look at a few of the other chapters. The one about Chic Murray caught my eye. It is a long time since I have literally cried with laughter but it happened today when I read some of the following anecdotes:
"What's your problem?" asked the doctor. "I've got butterflies in my stomach" said Chic. "Have you eaten anything recently?" inquired the doc. "Butterflies actually" came the reply.
My mother was so house proud that when my father got up to sleepwalk she had the bed made by the time he got back.
I had a tragic childhood. My parents never understood me. They were Japanese.
My wife went to a beauty parlour and got a mud pack. For two days she looked nice, then the mud fell off. She's a classy girl though, at least all her tattoos are spelt right.
Scene ; Chic and Maidie at Edinburgh airport , next in line to check in , festooned with luggage – en route to, let’s say, Lanzarote.
Maidie; You’re very quiet, Chic –everything all right?
Chic; Och, I’m just wishing we had our piano here…
Maidie; The piano?? Why on earth would we want the piano at an airport?
Chic; because our flight tickets – and the passports – are on it.
I knocked and the woman opened the door in her night dress. I thought to myself at the time what a strange place to have a door.
I met this chap at the Olympics. I said to him, "Excuse me but are you a pole vaulter?", he replied,"No, I'm German, but how did you know my name was Walter?"
When staying at a Rothesay hotel, there were the usual toast and marmalade (in little round pots) on the breakfast table in the morning. When the landlady came into the room, Chic lifted a tiny pot of honey and said "I see you keep a bee!"
On the platform on the Glasgow Underground Chic enquired of a ticket collector if the next train had a buffet car.
Whit?” “I was wondering if the next train ran a restaurant car,” inquired Chic. Nonplussed, the wee ticket collector looked at him and gave him another “Whit?” “The next train – does it have a restaurant car – you know, a buffet – somewhere where one can partake of a refreshment – a meal perchance?” This enticed an even more doubtful, but equally short retort, “Naw”. “Why not?” returned the baffled Chic. “Cos it’s a train, that’s why. It’s just a train. We dinnae serve food on oor trains.” “You mean I’ve got to starve all the way to Merkland Street?” retorted the incredulous Chic.
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