Sean Connery Joke Thread (Vol 11)
Discussion
There was an Army Regiment about to do some jungle training and the RSM was given them instructions on how to deal with any wildlife they may come across. He finally go to how to deal with snakes and described the method as follows as the striped ones were very poisonous.
"Ok you lads... if you see a snake in front of you, the best way to despatch it is to grab it firmly by the other end to its head. With your other hand you position it with the thumb pointing towards its head and swiftly run you hand up to its head, this paralyses it thus breaking the neck bones.
One corporal was excellent at this and the BSM was concerned when he heard the lad had been hospitalised on his first day in the Jungle.
He hurries to the ward sees this soldier bandaged head to foot and asks him what happened
The corporal says. "I did everything i was trained for. I saw a red and blue striped snake grabbed its tail with my left hand, my right hand with thumb pointing up to its head., a swift movement and snake was dead. I then saw a green and white striped snake and did the same..Then i saw a black and yellow snake did the movement and..... .....Have you ever stuck your thumb up a tigers arse?"
"Ok you lads... if you see a snake in front of you, the best way to despatch it is to grab it firmly by the other end to its head. With your other hand you position it with the thumb pointing towards its head and swiftly run you hand up to its head, this paralyses it thus breaking the neck bones.
One corporal was excellent at this and the BSM was concerned when he heard the lad had been hospitalised on his first day in the Jungle.
He hurries to the ward sees this soldier bandaged head to foot and asks him what happened
The corporal says. "I did everything i was trained for. I saw a red and blue striped snake grabbed its tail with my left hand, my right hand with thumb pointing up to its head., a swift movement and snake was dead. I then saw a green and white striped snake and did the same..Then i saw a black and yellow snake did the movement and..... .....Have you ever stuck your thumb up a tigers arse?"
A nun, badly needing to use the restroom walked into a local bar. The place was hopping with music and loud conversation, and every once in a while the lights would turn off. Each time the lights would go out, the place would erupt into cheers. But when the revelers saw the nun, the room went dead silent.
She walked up to the bartender and asked, "May I please use the restroom?" The bartender replied, "Okay, but I should warn you that there is a statue of a naked man in there wearing only a fig leaf." The nun said, "Well, in that case, I'll just look the other way."
So the bartender showed the nun to the back of the restaurant. After a few minutes, she came back out, and the whole place stopped just long enough to give the nun a loud round of applause.
She went to the bartender and said, "Sir, I don't understand. Why did they applaud for me just because I went to the restroom?" - "Well, now they know you're one of us," said the bartender. "Would you like a drink?" - "No, thank you. But I still don't understand," said the puzzled nun.
"You see," laughed the bartender, “every time someone lifts the fig leaf on that statue, the lights go out. Now, how about that drink?"
She walked up to the bartender and asked, "May I please use the restroom?" The bartender replied, "Okay, but I should warn you that there is a statue of a naked man in there wearing only a fig leaf." The nun said, "Well, in that case, I'll just look the other way."
So the bartender showed the nun to the back of the restaurant. After a few minutes, she came back out, and the whole place stopped just long enough to give the nun a loud round of applause.
She went to the bartender and said, "Sir, I don't understand. Why did they applaud for me just because I went to the restroom?" - "Well, now they know you're one of us," said the bartender. "Would you like a drink?" - "No, thank you. But I still don't understand," said the puzzled nun.
"You see," laughed the bartender, “every time someone lifts the fig leaf on that statue, the lights go out. Now, how about that drink?"
The SAS, the Parachute Regiment and the Police decide to go on a survival weekend together to see who comes out on top. After some basic exercises the trainer tells them that their next objective is to go down into the woods and catch a rabbit, returning with it ready to skin and cook. Night falls.
First up - the SAS. They don infrared goggles, drop to the ground and crawl into the woods in formation. Absolute silence for 5 minutes, followed by the unmistakable muffled "phut-phut" of their trademark silenced "double-tap". They emerge with a large rabbit shot cleanly between the eyes.
"Excellent!" remarks the trainer.
Next up - the Para 's. They finish their cans of lager, smear themselves with camouflage cream, fix bayonets and charge down into the woods, screaming at the top of their lungs. For the next hour the woods ring with the sound of rifle and machine-gun fire, hand grenades, mortar bombs and blood curdling war cries.
Eventually they emerge, carrying the charred remains of a rabbit.
"A bit messy, but you achieved the aim; well done", says the trainer.
Lastly, in go the Coppers, walking slowly, hands behind backs whistling Dixon of Dock Green. For the next few hours, the silence is only broken by the occasional crackle of a walkie-talkie "Sierra Lima Whisky Tango Fanta One, suspect headed straight for you..." etc. After what seems an eternity, they emerge
escorting a squirrel in handcuffs.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" asks the incredulous trainer, "Take this squirrel back and get me a rabbit like I asked you five hours ago!".
So back they go. Minutes pass. Minutes turn to hours, night drags on and turns to day. The next morning, the trainer and the other teams are awakened by the police, holding the handcuffed squirrel, now covered in bruises, one eye nearly shut.
"Are you taking the piss!!??" asks the now seriously irate trainer.
The police team leader nudges the squirrel, who squeaks:
"Alright, alright, I'm a f**kin' rabbit!"
First up - the SAS. They don infrared goggles, drop to the ground and crawl into the woods in formation. Absolute silence for 5 minutes, followed by the unmistakable muffled "phut-phut" of their trademark silenced "double-tap". They emerge with a large rabbit shot cleanly between the eyes.
"Excellent!" remarks the trainer.
Next up - the Para 's. They finish their cans of lager, smear themselves with camouflage cream, fix bayonets and charge down into the woods, screaming at the top of their lungs. For the next hour the woods ring with the sound of rifle and machine-gun fire, hand grenades, mortar bombs and blood curdling war cries.
Eventually they emerge, carrying the charred remains of a rabbit.
"A bit messy, but you achieved the aim; well done", says the trainer.
Lastly, in go the Coppers, walking slowly, hands behind backs whistling Dixon of Dock Green. For the next few hours, the silence is only broken by the occasional crackle of a walkie-talkie "Sierra Lima Whisky Tango Fanta One, suspect headed straight for you..." etc. After what seems an eternity, they emerge
escorting a squirrel in handcuffs.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" asks the incredulous trainer, "Take this squirrel back and get me a rabbit like I asked you five hours ago!".
So back they go. Minutes pass. Minutes turn to hours, night drags on and turns to day. The next morning, the trainer and the other teams are awakened by the police, holding the handcuffed squirrel, now covered in bruises, one eye nearly shut.
"Are you taking the piss!!??" asks the now seriously irate trainer.
The police team leader nudges the squirrel, who squeaks:
"Alright, alright, I'm a f**kin' rabbit!"
A high-flying London surgeon decides to treat himself to the fastest car on the market: a brand-new Ferrari SF90. After adding every bespoke carbon-fibre extra available, it costs him more than a Mayfair penthouse.
On his first Saturday out, he’s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what’ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It’s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour’s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why’s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it’s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I’ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It’s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly—WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It’s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he’s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That’s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He’s flat out. There’s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he’s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I’m a doctor—stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
On his first Saturday out, he’s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what’ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It’s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour’s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why’s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it’s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I’ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It’s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly—WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It’s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he’s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That’s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He’s flat out. There’s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he’s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I’m a doctor—stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
Took the wife out for a nice meal last night. Bit of romance and that. Candles, snooty waiter the whole nine yards
As she is driving home my wife pulled into an empty carpark and tried to make me have sex on the bonnet of her Honda Civic
But if I'm gonna have sex it's going to be on my own Accord
As she is driving home my wife pulled into an empty carpark and tried to make me have sex on the bonnet of her Honda Civic
But if I'm gonna have sex it's going to be on my own Accord
Edited by a_dreamer on Saturday 24th January 09:53
a_dreamer said:
A high-flying London surgeon decides to treat himself to the fastest car on the market: a brand-new Ferrari SF90. After adding every bespoke carbon-fibre extra available, it costs him more than a Mayfair penthouse.
On his first Saturday out, he s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He s flat out. There s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I m a doctor stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
Reminds me of this.On his first Saturday out, he s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He s flat out. There s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I m a doctor stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
https://open.spotify.com/track/4dHj1lNBs6aWDiki4LX...
a_dreamer said:
A high-flying London surgeon decides to treat himself to the fastest car on the market: a brand-new Ferrari SF90. After adding every bespoke carbon-fibre extra available, it costs him more than a Mayfair penthouse.
On his first Saturday out, he s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He s flat out. There s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I m a doctor stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
Have a proper guffaw at that On his first Saturday out, he s idling at a set of traffic lights in the Cotswolds. An old chap, easily in his nineties and wearing a battered flat cap, pulls up alongside on a rusty old moped. The old man peers over his spectacles at the sleek, scarlet machine and croaks, "Right then, young man... what ve you got there?"
The surgeon, feeling particularly full of himself, glances down. "It s a Ferrari SF90, grandad. It cost more than your house, your neighbour s house, and the local pub put together."
"Blimey," says the old man. "Why s it worth all that, then?"
"Because," the surgeon smirks, "this can do 211 miles per hour."
The old man whistles. "Mind if I have a quick look inside?"
"Be my guest," the surgeon sighs. The old boy leans over, pokes his head through the window, and spends a good minute squinting at the digital dash and the leather stitching. He pops back onto his moped and nods. "Aye, it s a lovely bit of kit, but I think I ll stick to my twist-and-go!"
The lights go green. The surgeon decides to show the old-timer exactly what he paid for. He plants his foot, and within seconds, the speedo is screaming past 100 mph. Suddenly, he spots a tiny speck in his mirror. It s gaining on him.
He taps the brakes to get a better look, and suddenly WHIRRRRRRRR! Something blurs past him like a low-flying jet. "What the bloody hell?" he shouts. He drops a gear and pushes the Ferrari up to 150 mph.
Up ahead, he sees it. It s the old man on the moped! His flat cap is pinned back by the wind, and he s hunched over the handlebars. Doubting his own sanity, the surgeon floors it and overtakes the moped at 175 mph. "That s more like it," he mutters.
But a few seconds later, he looks back. The old man is coming up behind him again! The surgeon is absolutely stunned. He pushes the Ferrari to its absolute limit, the engine roaring as he hits 200 mph.
He s flat out. There s nothing left in the tank. But not ten seconds later, the moped comes screaming up behind him yet again.
Suddenly, the moped swerves wildly and ploughs straight into the back of the Ferrari, shattering the carbon-fibre diffuser and sending debris across the road. The surgeon slams on the brakes and leaps out, terrified. To his amazement, the old man is still breathing, though he s looking a bit worse for wear in the middle of the tarmac.
The surgeon runs over, falls to his knees, and cries, "My God! I m a doctor stay still! Is there anything I can do for you?"
The old man gasps, clutching his chest, and whispers:
"Unhook... my braces... from your... wing mirror!"
Rayny said:
Mammasaid said:
silverfoxcc said:
My local cinema is showing a remake of Tommy Steele in Half a sixpence'.... It is in 3d
One for the youngsters there 
Tommy Steele - Who's that (he/she)?
Sixpence - What's one of them?
Vipers said:
Fact. Just after we went metric, when someone mentioned metres in the office, I said meters is what you put a shilling in. All well and good until a young woman looked at me after I said that and said "Whats a shilling?".
Back in the days when you could talk about thrupenny bits, without getting frog-marched to HR ...Frimley111R said:
silverfoxcc said:
Celine Dion has said that she will be supporting all farmers by removing all the constanants in her name
Who the hell managed to work that one out?If you took them out he would be Ewar Woowar
Gassing Station | The Lounge | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff