Before the boot of political correctness tramples my sense of humour into the bin of history, here’s the best joke I’ve heard for some time. Maureen laughed out loud at this for longer than usual, so I’ll replay it.
A man wakes up in considerable pain, unsure of what has happened or where he is. As his vision clears, he sees that he is in a hospital room, with his wife at his bedside. A surgeon enters the room.
“What’s happened to me?” says the guy. “I can’t remember a thing.”
“Brace yourself for some distressing news. You have lost your penis in an accident.”
As the bloke gasps, the surgeon informs him that he is fortunate in one respect. “You are in the UK’s sole hospital that carries out instant penile transplants. These are private operations, which come at a cost, but you have options.”
The guy is still groggy. “What do you mean?”
The surgeon lists three choices. “We can issue you with the standard white British prototype, for £2,000. Moving up the market, there is a Scottish option, designed to swing more heavily, ideal beneath a kilt. That carries a £3,000 price tag.”
The bloke is wide awake now. “What’s the third choice?”
“The West Indian model. More expensive, of course, at £5,000.”
“Blimey. I think me and the wife need to have a chat.”
“We need to act quickly. I’ll be back in five minutes,” the surgeon says.
When he returns, the woman has a glint in her eye.
“Very good news, we can operate this afternoon,” the surgeon says. “So, what have you decided upon?”
“A new kitchen.”