Dog Brothels

It was an amusing story, certainly, but my attention was grabbed by that introduction!  Most dogs in this city get only a five-minute walk on a lead each day.  That was a great solace to me for I’d laboured under the illusion that I alone suffered from pet-owners on this count.  It’s because a number of my neighbours consider their dogs to be house-trained when they deposit their treasures in someone else’s garden [preferably mine!].  If the unfortunate mutt is so precipitate as to choose mine, then his evening walkies is immediately terminated and he is returned to his paddock.  If you don’t believe me, come and examine the evidence!

‘Most dogs in this city get only a five-minute walk on a lead each day,’ Karl Lentze told reporters in Berlin.  But I’d got the wrong end of the lead!  He was on a sales pitch.

‘That’s not long enough to sniff another canine, let alone indulge in a bit of fun.  Our dog brothel will allow them to release their frustrations and will suit the fast-paced modern life of their owners too.


Stick them up!


‘We weren’t being brave!  We just couldn’t understand what he wanted.’  So said staff from William Hill Bookmaker’s shop at the High Court in Glasgow.  ‘He pointed what looked like a gun at us and kept saying, ‘giv.. giv.. give me the, or..or..’ but he had a speech impediment and couldn’t finish the sentence.  We knew he was up to no good so we pushed the alarm button.  But he still kept spluttering and stammering, when the police came to arrest him, so he never got the money. He climbed on to the anti-bandit screen and was mouthing incoherent sounds when the police arrived with CS canisters and riot shields.  He got six years.

It brought to mind a similar occurrence some years ago in Scoot O’Neills in Lower Mill Street.  One particularly unlucky regular had lost his all when he returned with a weapon and wearing a balaclava, and demanded the takings.  My old mate Peter Donaghy was behind the screen.

‘B****r off, Mickey!  We’re busy!’ he ordered.
‘H..H..How di.. di.. did you kno.. know it.. it wa..wa..was me?’ he enquired, clearly puzzled.  The place erupted in laughter and applause.  Micky retired lootless, wearing a particularly quizzical expression on his hunched shoulders!

Newry Journal