PicVault

No pics in this post, but these are really funny:

On a train from London to Manchester, an American was telling off the Englishman sitting across from him in the compartment.

“You English are too stuffy. You set yourselves apart too much. Look at me… I have Italian blood, French blood, a little Australian blood, and some Swedish blood. What do you say to that?”

The Englishman replied, with a smile, “Very sporting of your Mother.”

———————————————-

Thirty years have passed since the war. Three war veterans, an American, a German and an Englishman, happen to meet in a pub and they start discussing the qualities of their compatriots during the war.

“When I was a G.I., buddies, there was nothing could beat my sergeant! He got shot right in the belly. Half his guts spilled out on the ground. He picked up and carried what he could, and we took him to the field hospital where the doctor sewed him up. Two days later he was on parade!”

“I can tell you, my friendz, zere is nussing like my sergeant. He got a bullet exactly in za middle of his head. His brains spilled out all over ze ground. He pushed most of them back in, walked himself to za field infirmary where zey put a cork in his head. He was on parade za next day!”

“I say, my dear fellows, nothing beats the British, absolutely nothing. No guts, no brains, on parade every day!”

———————————————-

During World War II, a British pilot was shot down while on a bombing mission over Germany. He sustained terrible injuries when he crash-landed, but he was pulled unconscious from his plane and taken to a German military hospital to recover.

When he regained consciousness a few days later, a kindly German doctor was at his bedside. “Major Howe,” said the doctor, “the injuries that you received when your plane crashed are most severe. Both of your legs and both of your arms have extensive damage. In fact, your right leg has been crushed so badly, we have to amputate it immediately. I realize how terrible this must make you feel. I am a doctor first, and a German second. If I can do anything to comfort you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Well, Doctor,” replied Major Howe, “there is something that you can do for me. Can you give my amputated leg to the Luftwaffe and ask them to drop it over England during their next bombing mission. I sure would feel better if my leg wound up in good old England.”

“I see no problem with that,” said the doctor. “Consider it done.”

So after the operation, the doctor gave the amputated leg to a German officer with instructions to drop it over England.

Unfortunately, two days later the doctor had to give Major Howe some more bad news. “Major Howe,” said the doctor, “I’m afraid that gangrene has set in on your left leg, and it too must be amputated. Any requests?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Could you drop that leg over England also?”

“Ya,” said the doctor, and after the operation he gave the Brit’s leg to the same German officer and asked him to dispose of it as before.

One week later, the doctor had still more bad news for the Major.

“Major Howe,” said the doctor, “we have done everything in our power to save your two arms, but I’m afraid that gangrene has set in on both of them and we must amputate immediately. Can I assume that …”

“Yes,” interrupted the Major. “If you would be so kind, old boy, please see that both of my arms are dropped over good old England.”

The doctor promised to take care of his request and he again asked the same German officer to drop the amputated limbs over England. This time, however, the officer became perturbed and insisted on speaking with the British pilot.

“So,” said the German officer. “You are the pilot who wanted his right leg dropped over England?”

“Yes,” replied Major Howe. “That is jolly well correct.”

“Hmmmm. And then you wanted your left leg dropped over England?”

“Yes,” replied the Major. “That is correct as well.”

“And now you say you want both of your arms dropped over England?”

“Correct again,” replied the Major.

“Hmmmm, very interesting,” mused the suspicious German officer. “Tell me something, Major… you’re not trying to escape, are you?”

——————————————

John Howard the Australian Prime Minister, flies to England for an audience with the Queen. Howard brings up his grand plans for the future of Australia. “Your majesty”, he begins, “can we turn Australia into a Kingdom in order to increase its status in the world?”

The Queen shakes her head and replies, “One needs a King for a Kingdom and you are most certainly not a King, Mr Howard.”

Not to be dissuaded, he asks “Would it possible to be an Empire then?”

“No,” retorts the Queen. “You need an Emperor for an Empire and you are most certainly not an Emperor.”

“Aw shucks, what about a Principality then?” tries Howard.

Predictably, the Queen replies, “You need a Prince for a Principality and you are most certainly not a Prince.”

Her Majesty takes a sip of tea and adds, “Mr. Howard, having met you and several other Australians I think Australia is perfectly suited to being a country.”

——————————————-

The British are wonders of craftsmanship, always trying to invent new weapons for war. They have invented a weapon which flings a pointed stick thru the internet. Of course they had to give them a sexy name.

They are called…….. Britain E-Spears

——————————————-

What follows is a superb example of English humour. The piece proves two things:

1) You’re not the only one who gets poor service from your ISP. (NTL is a cable operator in Britain.)

2) The Brits get a better education than most Americans, enabling them to write some fine letters of complaint.

Dear Cretins, I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for your three-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem and telephone.

During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions.

Please allow me to provide specific details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative, and seek to rectify these difficulties - or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office.

My initial installation was cancelled without warning, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your technician to arrive. When he did not arrive, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website. HOW? I alleviated the boredom by playing with my testicles for a few minutes - an activity at which you are no-doubt both familiar and highly adept. The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools - such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum.

Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After 15 telephone calls over four weeks my modem arrived … six weeks after I had requested it, and begun to pay for it.

I estimate your internet servers downtime is roughly 35% - the hours between about 6 pm and midnight, Monday through Friday, and most of the weekend.

I am still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made nine calls on my mobile to your no-help line, and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals, who are it seems also highly skilled bollock jugglers.

I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone (and then been redirected to an answer machine informing me that your office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman.

And several other variations on this theme.

Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important testicle moments to attend to.

Frankly I don’t care. It’s far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music.

Forgive me, therefore, if I continue. I thought British Telecom was shit; that they had attained the holy piss-pot of god-awful customer relations; and that no one, anywhere, ever, could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That’s why I chose NTL, and because, well, there isn’t anyone else is there?

How surprised I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum incompetents of the highest order.

BT - wankers though they are — shine like brilliant beacons of success, in the filthy mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy. Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you.

I suggest that you cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver. Any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief — quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps bemused rage.

I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cat’s litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit — they were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and its worthless employees.

Have a nice day. May it be the last in your miserable short life, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of twats.

———————————————-

Below are genuine announcements made by Tube Drivers on the London Underground.

“To the gentleman wearing the long grey coat trying to get on the second carriage, what part of ‘Stand clear of the doors!’ don’t you understand?”

At Camden town station (on a crowded Saturday afternoon): “Please let the passengers off the train first. Please let the passengers off the train first. Please let the passengers off the train first. Let the passengers off the train FIRST! Oh go on then, stuff yourselves in like Sardines, see if I care, I’m going home.”

“Ladies & Gentleman, upon departing the train may I remind you to take your rubbish with you. Despite the fact that you are in something that is metal, fairly round, filthy and smells, this is a tube train for public transport and not a bin on wheels.”

Driver: “I apologise for the delay leaving the station ladies and gentlemen, this is due to a passenger m*st*rb*ting on the train at Edgware Road. Someone has activated the alarm and he is being removed from the train.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, do you want the good news first or the bad news? The good news is that last Friday was my birthday and I hit the town and had a great time. I felt sadly let down by the fact that none of you sent me a card! I drive you to work and home each day and not even a card. The bad news is that there is a point’s failure somewhere between Stratford and East Ham, which means that we probably won’t reach our destination. We may have to stop and return. I won’t reverse back up the line - simply get out walk up the platform and go back to where we started. In the mean time if you get bored you can simply talk to the man in front or beside you or opposite you. Let me start you off: ‘Hi, my name’s Gary how do you do?’.”

“Your delay this evening is caused by the line controller suffering from elbow and backside syndrome, not knowing his elbow from his backside. I’ll let you know any further information as soon as I’m given any.”

“Please mind the closing doors…” The doors close… The doors reopen. “Passengers are reminded that the big red slidey things on the side of the train are called the doors. Let’s try it again. Please stand clear of the doors.” The doors close… “Thank you.”

“I am sorry about the delay, apparently some nutter has just wandered into the tunnel at Euston. We don’t know when we’ll be moving again, but these people tend to come out pretty quickly… usually in bits.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I do apologise for the delay to your service. I know you’re all dying to get home, unless, of course, you happen to be married to my ex-wife, in which case you’ll want to cross over to the Westbound and go in the opposite direction”.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the delay, but there is a security alert at Victoria station and we are therefore stuck here for the foreseeable future, so let’s take our minds off it and pass some time together. All together now…. ‘Ten green bottles, hanging on a wall…..’.”

“We are now travelling through Baker Street, as you can see Baker Street is closed. It would have been nice if they had actually told me, so I could tell you earlier, but no, they don’t think about things like that”.

“Beggars are operating on this train, please do NOT encourage these professional beggars, if you have any spare change, please give it to a registered charity, failing that, give it to me.”

During an extremely hot rush hour on the Central Line, the driver announced in a West Indian drawl: “Step right this way for the sauna, ladies and gentlemen… unfortunately towels are not provided.”

“Please allow the doors to close! Try not to confuse this with ‘Please hold the doors open’. The two are distinct and separate instructions.”

“Please note that the beeping noise coming from the doors means that the doors are about to close. It does not mean throw yourself or your bags into the doors.”

“We can’t move off because some idiot has their f***ing hand stuck in the door.”

“Please move all baggage away from the doors (Pause..) Please move ALL belongings away from the doors (Pause…) This is a personal message to the man in the brown suit wearing glasses at the rear of the train - put the pie down, four-eyes, and move your bloody golf clubs away from the door before I come down there and shove them up your a**e - sideways.”

“May I remind all passengers that there is strictly no smoking allowed on any part of the Underground. However, if you are smoking a joint, it’s only fair that you pass it round the rest of the carriage.”