Haha, about time he got the sack. In March this year I bought a new car. Two days ago I noticed that it hasn’t got an ashtray. I want it for my little bits and pieces since I don’t smoke. 
reminds me of the definition of an ‘expert’!
‘Expert’…a person who knows better than you and can prove it by using inconclusive multisyllabic non-secular parentheses containing indefinite articles.
[in the trade,this mode of communication is known as ‘Bullsh*t’]
Ah Pug me lad, how are you these times?
When I was younger experts were the very last word on the subject, the top, the uitimate person, I admired the few I knew of then and who were worthy of the name ‘expert’, people like David Attenborough, ace, top man on nature. Rocket scientist Wernher Von Braun, Guglielmo Marconi for inventing Macaroni, and Fanny Craddock for her delicious tarts and crumpets, real experts in my book.
Since google came along experts are twelve a penny, it used to be ten a penny but you get two extra experts free these days.
well was thinkin of a shorter version - midget size to be precise = X is the unknown qunantity and SPURT is a drip under pressure?
I believe the correct medical term is "Projectile dysfunction Paul
Aah My Dear Fanny,
When Fanny Craddock was on Nationwide demonstrating the gentle art of making doughnuts and Frank Bough remarked “…and I hope all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny’s” (probably apocryphal but none the less funny for all that)
ex
Wiki
Phyllis Nan Sortain Pechey (26 February 1909 – 27 December 1994), better known as Fanny Cradock, was an English restaurant critic, television cook and writer frequently appearing on television, at cookery demonstrations and in print with Major Johnnie Cradock who played the part of a slightly bumbling husband.
Fanny Cradock came to the attention of the public in the postwar-utility years, trying to inspire the average housewife with an exotic approach to cooking.[1] She famously worked in various ball-gowns without the customary cook’s apron, averring that women should feel cooking was easy and enjoyable, rather than messy and intimidating.[2]
27/12/1994, that was a long time ago, no wonder it is hard to visualize Fanny.
I can’t resist a little alliteration .These 3 words, Fanny, Faggot & Faucet mean totally different things in the U.S of A…
(Earth , fire & water) but I guess that’s common knowledge. Don’t know why I mentioned it.
I didn’t know that and I am common.
I’m still thinking about it. 
Common…never…vulgar…possibly…not.
BTW my birth took place on Southampton Common, tis my only claim to fame & dashed totally recently, for when I announced this remarkable fact at my local history group all manner of people stood up announcing that they too were born on the common.
I know now how dear old Kirk Douglas, now in his 99th year,felt whenever he appeared in public , to be greeted with a chorus of voices declaring “I AM SPARTACUS”
BLESS HIM
There are many pretenders to commonerism, I reckon the folks you talk of were merely conceived there.
muck’muck’ glorious muck
nothing quite like it for cooling the blood
so follow me’ follow down the the common
and there we will wallow in glorious muck!
I remember Heather, she was common as muck.
I once knew a Heather – used to meet her every Sunday arvo on the moors. She was never very talkative and so I would just eat me sarnies and sup me tea and make the odd non-descript comment to her. But her head would just quiver occasionally and I thought I was going to get a comment and then nothing – just the wind howling as usual. In the end I just got bloody annoyed and snipped her off at the roots – stuck her in me button hole and marched off home!
Knew some girls of low aspiration
Strange, they held some fascination
Verbally challenged and Void of couth
You asked a question, you got the truth
Spiel and flannel would make them splutter
Philosophical banter indicative of nutter
No place for small talk, no meaning of life
Keep it in the Ball Park, no thought of Wife
Where are they now, you’ve got to laugh
Out there in suburbia, some blokes better half.
Another tale in the life of a London cabbie.
On another thread it was mentioned about the everyday hardships of my cabbing life, and the things that had to be dealt with.
This is the tale of a vomit.
It was a few days before Christmas, and the office parties were in full swing.
I was given a radio job for one of the account companies. Pick up one of their staff and take where they wanted to go.
After a short wait, he staggered down the steps, I knew the guy as I have had him I n the past.
“Take me home” he requested. I knew where it was as I had done the job before. (Nice earner).
Off I went and I noticed he was already snoozing on the back seat.
A little later I hear him groaning. " Driver, I don’t feel well".
“Pull the window down and stick your head out” this he did and shortly… Whoop, out the window.
A short while later, whoop again and as I looked round, there it was all over the window and door, and over his clothes.
What had happened, was the the widow had crept up.
Well you can quess the rest.
After I dropped him home. I blew in over the radio. “Passenger fouled in the cab.”
“Fouling charge will be added to your job” I was told.
Being an old Boy Scout and ever ready. With the cans of water and brush, soon cleaned up. A spray with smelly stuff, and back to work.
There was a young lady from leeds
Who would make me feel weak at the knees
She would press up real close and nibble me throat
And then whisper “don’t make me beg please”!
I had a brother in law who was a taxi driver all his life Emjay, the one thing that used to really get him angry was people vomiting in his taxi, took him ages to get the smell out of the car, can’t say I blame him getting annoyed or any other taximan for the matter, anyway he’s no longer with us.
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
Wherever he is he’s away from the smell.