Some more Irish humor

The Irish Millionaire
Mick, from Dublin, appeared on ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’
and towards the end of the program had already won 500,000 euros.
 “You’ve done very well so far”, said Chris Tarrant, the show’s presenter.
“Now for a million euros, and you’ve only got one life-line left and that
is ‘Phone a Friend’.  Everything is riding on this question………..
will you go for it?”
 “Sure,” said Mick. “I’ll have a go!”
“Which of the following birds does NOT build its own nest?
 a) Sparrow
 b) Thrush,
 c) Magpie,
 d) Cuckoo?”
“I haven’t got a clue” said Mick, “so I’ll use my last lifeline and phone my friend Willie back home in Dublin.”
Mick called up his mate, told him the circumstances and repeated the question to him.
“Feckin’ hell, Mick!” cried Willie. “Dat’s simple……It’s a cuckoo.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m feckin’ sure.”
Mick hung up the phone and told Chris, “I’ll go wit Cuckoo as me answer.”
“Is that your final answer?” asked Chris.
“Dat it is, Sir.”
There was a long – long pause, and then the presenter screamed, “Cuckoo is
 the correct answer!  Mick, you’ve won 1 million euros!”
The next night, Mick invited Willie to their local pub to buy him a drink.
“Tell me, Willie?  How in Heaven’s name did you know it was da Cuckoo that doesn’t build its own nest?”
“Because he lives in a feckin’ clock!”

June 1st – The appliance of science …

May 31st, for those of us who lack the confidence to complete their Déclaration d’Impôt on-line, is D-day for French tax returns. Since our (French-registered) car and bike insurance are also due for renewal around now, a trip home was in order. Mum is, to all intents and purposes, fully mobile again so, having not spent a single night alone for nearly a year, this would be a fine chance for her to prove her independence. The lovely girls from the home care agency visit every morning and Mum’s beloved daily agreed to come out of retirement to do a few hours of housework while we were away, so she wouldn’t be entirely abandoned.

The only real issue was how Mum was going to feed herself during our absence. Despite her protests to the contrary, a week’s diet of soup, sandwiches and ginger biscuits, is hardly ideal for one who is meant to be gaining weight. Pre-prepared meals might be an answer but there was always the question of reheating them … or not, as the case may be. Since her illness, Mum gets ravinously hungry and needs to eat … now! As in immediately – not in 20 minutes’ time, when the oven has reached temperature. Left to her own devices, she would happily spread fish pie on bread and eat it as a sandwich rather than heat it up. Even so, having once or twice nearly melted a plastic freezer container in the oven, John and I decided she needed a microwave.

We found a neat little combination microwave with, needless to say, a dozen functions that Mum will never use, and I cleared a convenient corner of the kitchen worksurface of the ‘coral reef’: an accumulation of lovingly-collected tins and boxes, old menus, a dozen bottles of vitamin pills, “useful” plastic bags, kitchen scales (2 sets, with weights), paper napkins and a couple of hot water bottles … Of course, I couldn’t throw any of this away but, by the time I had found most of it a new home, I must say that the new microwave looked very handsome in its new oasis of quiet organisation.

And Mum seemed approving. She even put on her reading specs to examine the new apparatus. I gave her a brief demonstration with a cup of water, and stuck three flourescent yellow stickers next to the most essential buttons, marking them steps #1, #2 and #3. Nothing could be simpler.

Or so I thought. In fact, when I dared to suggest, an hour later, that Mum might like to heat up her dinner in the new oven, her face was a picture. The look of horror was such that I might as well have suggested grilling a live rattlesnake with a flame-thrower. No! Really!”, she said with genuine panic in her voice, “I’ll make an omelette”.

How guilty did I feel when John and I came home from our evening out, to find that she hadn’t located the eggs …?!

Ooooooh Feck!!!

Here’s a little technical quiz for you.  John’s rear brake suddenly failed on the way up to London on Sunday.  Can you spot what might have caused it?!

Ooooh feck!

Luckily John didn’t have to stop too fast.  Still, one can’t help but wonder what happened to the missing section of brake line. He had ridden over 50 miles from Portsmouth without incident.  Then, suddenly ….!