Neil Francis

[SerjeantWildgoose]

The gob-shyte often makes me want to vomit with anger but today, in a truly genuine departure, the opening passage of his column in the Independent made me LOL.

"An elderly man is on his deathbed. Although he can feel the end is near, his senses are suddenly aroused by a wonderful aroma. He realises his loving wife of 60 years is baking his favourite cakes.

He finds the strength to drag his tired body to the kitchen and as his frail, withered hand reaches over to the table, he suddenly feels the whack of a wooden spoon on his knuckles as his wife barks, "Feck off, they're for the funeral!"

[francoisfou]

The gob-shyte often makes me want to vomit with anger but today, in a truly genuine departure, the opening passage of his column in the Independent made me LOL.

"An elderly man is on his deathbed. Although he can feel the end is near, his senses are suddenly aroused by a wonderful aroma. He realises his loving wife of 60 years is baking his favourite cakes.

He finds the strength to drag his tired body to the kitchen and as his frail, withered hand reaches over to the table, he suddenly feels the whack of a wooden spoon on his knuckles as his wife barks, "Feck off, they're for the funeral!"

[Spiffy]

The gob-shyte often makes me want to vomit with anger but today, in a truly genuine departure, the opening passage of his column in the Independent made me LOL.

"An elderly man is on his deathbed. Although he can feel the end is near, his senses are suddenly aroused by a wonderful aroma. He realises his loving wife of 60 years is baking his favourite cakes.

He finds the strength to drag his tired body to the kitchen and as his frail, withered hand reaches over to the table, he suddenly feels the whack of a wooden spoon on his knuckles as his wife barks, "Feck off, they're for the funeral!"

Not long after, that same bloke, who had retired back to his deathbed sent urgent word for his wife, who was talking to her sister in the kitchen and guarding the cakes, to come and see him.
The missus returned after a few monemts and the sister says "What was all that about?"
"Ahh the silly oul bogger - said he was about to peg it but had a burning final question that had to be answered honestly before he handed in his clogs with peace of mind. We've four sons, three strong big brutes, well over six fut, black hair, brown eyes, intelligent, great sportsmen; the fourth is a scrawney wee mite, with red hair, blue eyes, thick as champ, never kicked a ball in his life. He wanted me to swear that last wee fella really was his son"
"And what did yiz say?"
"Told him there was absolutely no doubt about, he certainly was. - But thank Jaysus he didn't ask about the first three."