Throw another bottle!

The former model and wife of Sir David Frost is recovering in hospital from the effects of an overdose.  Sir David found wife Lady Carina (50) unconscious at their Chelsea home after returning from a US interview with ‘President’ George W Bush.


 ‘Easy diagnosis!’ the doctor uttered.  ‘An allergic reaction to the Toxic Texan.’ 


It had to be explained to him that the interview was conducted not by her but by the dithering drawler, her husband.



Talking of Carina as a name, did you know that hundreds of Americans have taken to calling their children after commercial products?  L’Oreal, Canon, Armani, Del Monte.  A Makeover and a quick flash suits the orangeman.  How sad…



The unemployed have to submit themselves to an interview to determine both their desire for employment and their suitability for specific types of employment.  You may struggle to reconcile the following real questions posed at such interviews with the above criteria:

Impersonate an animal

Hum me a melody

Play a piano tune

Make a paper horse from this sheet of A4

If you were a roundabout, what tune would you play?

If you were a fish, what fish would you be, and why?


The mind boggles in attempting to suit the questions to possible job openings.



Back to David Frost.  When he’s not boring the pants off us on television, he’s boring the pants off executives and guests at gala events in the U.S. where he regularly features on the after-dinner speech circuit.   During a particularly tedious delivery, one inebriated guest could take no more, stood up and threw an empty beer bottle at him.  Sadly it missed and struck an innocent guest sitting close to him, knocking him out cold.  There was a great hullabaloo, but eventually he came round, was re-seated and Frost resumed his speech.  At that point, the recent casualty was loudly heard to exclaim,


 ‘Throw another bottle!  I can still hear him!’



Paddy was already well-oiled when the barman called last orders.  Outraged, he demanded that the bar stay open until he determined that he’d had enough.  Not for the first time, this request was refused.  He felt a tap on his shoulder.


‘If I may interrupt,’ said an English accent, ‘but I know where you can have all the drink you want, and at no cost!’


‘Ah me aul’Segotia!’ exclaimed Paddy.  ‘You’re a life-saver.  Now, where would this Paradise be?’


‘Back in my hotel room’, he beamed.  ‘I have an unopened bottle of Jameson Whiskey and you can have it all.  Do you drink whiskey, Paddy?’ he asked.


‘Does a duck swim?’ Paddy replied.  ‘Ready when you are, Macduff.  Lead on.’


Back in the hotel room, the bottle and an empty glass was produced and Paddy was invited to partake.


‘I’m just using the bathroom.  I’ll be with you shortly.’


Paddy got stuck in.  Ten minutes later the bottle was half empty and no sign of the Englishman.  Twenty minutes passed and the whiskey was nearly gone when he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a little boy’s school uniform, complete with blazer, shirt and tie, short trousers and a peaked cap.  In addition he had a bull-whip in his hand.  In his drunken state Paddy had to do a double-take, but there was no doubt about it. 


‘I’ve been a bold boy,’ he whimpered.  ‘I’ve been late for school again.  You’re going to have to punish me.’


Paddy was trying hard to adjust, but he held on tight to the whiskey glass.  The Englishman handed him the whip and stood by the bed where he pulled down the trousers to expose his buttocks.  Paddy took the hint and lightly touched the bare backside with the thong of the whip.


‘Ah, no, no, no!’ Paddy, the Englishman protested.  ‘You don’t understand.  I’ve been late for school all week.  You’re going to have to do better than that!’


Reluctantly, at first, and through a drunken fog, Paddy leaned his weight against the bedroom wall and rested one foot on the bed for purchase.  Then he began to wield the lash in earnest.  Ten minutes later, after he had warmed to his task, there was skin and hair flying, as they say, and little left of yer man’s buttocks but a mash of blood and lacerated flesh.  Paddy finished the whiskey and left.


On his way out, the night porter called him over.


‘You know of course about that Englishman you came in with,’ he said, confidentially.  ‘That he’s a homosexual!’


A puzzled expression creased Paddy’s face.


‘I mean ‘gay’ ?’  No sign of recognition.  ‘A queen?  A queer?’  The same.


‘I know nothing about any of that,’ said Paddy.


 ‘But I can tell you one thing for sure!  He won’t be late for school tomorrow!’

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