Lame Jokes 2

LAME JOKES 2

If you are still reading this nonsense in the hope of being offended, then it is only your own silly fault.
On Wednesday the Twelfth of September 2001, I bumped into a mate of mine, Chris, by the bottle banks down the road.
‘Hello Jude.’
‘Hello mate, how’s you?’
‘Great. Did you see ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’ yesterday?’
‘No. I try not to watch day-time television.’
‘They had Osama Bin Laden on.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Making Apple Crumble.’
Genius.
Newsflash; in a desperate attempt at credibility; Jade Goody now has cancer.
The other night I watched television so I must have been sober. After ploughing through the ten pages of visual doggerel listed in the Radio Times I settled on an old Doctor Who. When I say ‘old’ I mean Christopher Ecclestone and Billie Piper. It was a tremendous episode and I was entranced for forty-five minutes. Rose asked The Doctor to take her back to the day her father died, when she had been but a bairn. Of course the inevitable happened and she could not stop herself from saving him from the hit and run driver. Unforeseen and exciting consequences ensued and the world was nearly destroyed. Obviously. It was an especially interesting episode for me as Rose’s father slowly became aware that he should not still be alive, something I can relate to deeply.
The premise of that installment made me ponder what I would ask for if the good Doctor’s Tardis suddenly appeared in my little flat. That thought had to be quickly altered to just outside my abode. My home is so small that even the diminutive outer version of The Tardis would not squeeze in here. Nonetheless, with reality so suspended in my foolish thoughts I ran with the idea. I decided that I would ask to be transported back to, say, 22 AD and Nazareth. The Tardis being the remarkable thing that it is we would, of course, alight just by the Village Carpentry Workshop. I would bound from the incredible machine to find the young man of the house. As you would expect, I would be o’erbrimming with enthusiasm.
‘It’s amazing to meet you. You’re a long way from Caucasian aren’t you? Wow. This is incredible.’
At this point the good Doctor would point out that the bemused young Hebrew probably wouldn’t understand twenty-first century English. Undaunted I would revert to universal sign language and radiant smiles. I would then thrust a bottle of Perrier into the gentleman’s hands. Although, outwardly, I would appear calm, composed and relaxed, in my head I would be shouting, ‘CHAMPAGNE.’