Joke thread

.db. said:
Went to the Pound Bakery and the assistant said, ‘choose what you want, everything a pound’.

I noticed one of the cakes said ‘£3’ so made the point, ‘but that’s not a pound’.

The assistant replied, ‘I know, that’s Madeira cake’.
Click to expand...
We should have a 'wah, wah, wah, waaaahhh' icon for that one...
 
bluethrunthru said:
Guy walks into the pub orders a pint and says to the barman

" I have a great joke about Reform voters - want to here it?"

The barman flinches and stands upright and replies

" I'm a Reform voter, so are the two women sat at that table as are the 3 big lads playing darts over there. Still fancy telling it?"

The guy responds

" nah - to be honest I don't want to have to explain it 6 times"
Click to expand...

A plane is flying over the Mediterranean​

A pilots voice comes on
And says a terrible thing has happened.

We’ve lost both engines and we’re gonna have to land in the Mediterranean.

The plane will stay afloat for a very short time.

And we’ll be able to open the door just long enough that everyone can get out.
We have to do this in an orderly fashion.

Everyone that can swim just go to the right wing and stand there.

Everyone who can’t swim just go to the left wing and just stand there.

Those of you on the right wing you’ll find a little island it’s in the direction of the Sun about two miles off, and as the plane goes under just swim in an orderly fashion out and you’ll be fine.

And for those of you on the left wing…

I want to thank you for flying Air Italia.
 
Once upon a time in a small, sleepy town, there lived a boy named Bobby. Bobby was an ordinary sort of lad — scuffed knees, perpetually untied shoelaces, and a head full of grand ideas that usually ended in minor disasters. But Bobby had one thing that made him quite extraordinary: a pet maggot.


Now, most people, when they hear “pet maggot,” react with a shudder or a “yuck,” but not Bobby. To Bobby, this little wriggly creature was a marvel of nature, a tiny, pale gymnast who could twist, curl, and wriggle faster than anything else in the garden. He was sleek, swift, and surprisingly charming — well, to Bobby, anyway. And because of that uncanny speed, Bobby decided to name him Motor.

Motor lived in a little matchbox lined with damp leaves and bits of apple peel. Bobby carried him everywhere — to school, to the park, even to Grandma’s house (though she nearly fainted when he showed her). They were inseparable.

Every day after school, Bobby and Motor would go adventuring. Motor would race along the windowsill while Bobby timed him with his old wristwatch. Sometimes, Motor would win, and Bobby would cheer. Other times, Motor would stop to nap halfway through, and Bobby would give him a pep talk about “training discipline.” They were quite the pair.

One afternoon, Bobby took Motor to the big oak tree at the end of the lane — their favorite spot. They built obstacle courses out of twigs and pebbles, drew chalk racetracks on the patio, and even tried to teach Motor how to climb a leaf (he got halfway up before tumbling down and landing in a dramatic little squirm). It was the happiest summer Bobby could remember.

But then — tragedy struck.

One morning, just as the school holidays began, Bobby went to get Motor from his matchbox… and he was gone.

At first, Bobby thought he’d just crawled under the tissue paper. He checked every corner, every fold. Nothing. He searched the windowsill, the carpet, the flowerpots. He turned over every stone in the garden, called softly into the grass, even left bits of apple out overnight, hoping Motor would wriggle back for a snack.

But Motor never returned.

Bobby was heartbroken. He searched high and low for days, then weeks. His parents tried to cheer him up with trips to the seaside, but even as he built sandcastles, Bobby found himself thinking, Maybe Motor likes sand. Maybe he’s here somewhere.

Every wriggle of seaweed caught his eye. Every noodle at dinner made his heart skip. But alas — no Motor.

By the end of the summer holidays, Bobby was exhausted. School was starting again, and he had to face the fact that Motor was gone for good.

The first day back was glum. Bobby trudged through lessons, staring out the window, doodling tiny maggots with racing stripes in his notebook. When lunchtime came, he wasn’t even hungry. Still, he sat down, opened his lunchbox, and tried to muster up an appetite.

He took out a sandwich. Not interested.

He lifted out a packet of crisps. Nah.

But then he grabbed his apple, lifted it to his lips to take a bite, but joys of joys, he couldn't believe it...









Out bored Motor.
 
SCEtoAUX said:
Once upon a time in a small, sleepy town, there lived a boy named Bobby. Bobby was an ordinary sort of lad — scuffed knees, perpetually untied shoelaces, and a head full of grand ideas that usually ended in minor disasters. But Bobby had one thing that made him quite extraordinary: a pet maggot.


Now, most people, when they hear “pet maggot,” react with a shudder or a “yuck,” but not Bobby. To Bobby, this little wriggly creature was a marvel of nature, a tiny, pale gymnast who could twist, curl, and wriggle faster than anything else in the garden. He was sleek, swift, and surprisingly charming — well, to Bobby, anyway. And because of that uncanny speed, Bobby decided to name him Motor.

Motor lived in a little matchbox lined with damp leaves and bits of apple peel. Bobby carried him everywhere — to school, to the park, even to Grandma’s house (though she nearly fainted when he showed her). They were inseparable.

Every day after school, Bobby and Motor would go adventuring. Motor would race along the windowsill while Bobby timed him with his old wristwatch. Sometimes, Motor would win, and Bobby would cheer. Other times, Motor would stop to nap halfway through, and Bobby would give him a pep talk about “training discipline.” They were quite the pair.

One afternoon, Bobby took Motor to the big oak tree at the end of the lane — their favorite spot. They built obstacle courses out of twigs and pebbles, drew chalk racetracks on the patio, and even tried to teach Motor how to climb a leaf (he got halfway up before tumbling down and landing in a dramatic little squirm). It was the happiest summer Bobby could remember.

But then — tragedy struck.

One morning, just as the school holidays began, Bobby went to get Motor from his matchbox… and he was gone.

At first, Bobby thought he’d just crawled under the tissue paper. He checked every corner, every fold. Nothing. He searched the windowsill, the carpet, the flowerpots. He turned over every stone in the garden, called softly into the grass, even left bits of apple out overnight, hoping Motor would wriggle back for a snack.

But Motor never returned.

Bobby was heartbroken. He searched high and low for days, then weeks. His parents tried to cheer him up with trips to the seaside, but even as he built sandcastles, Bobby found himself thinking, Maybe Motor likes sand. Maybe he’s here somewhere.

Every wriggle of seaweed caught his eye. Every noodle at dinner made his heart skip. But alas — no Motor.

By the end of the summer holidays, Bobby was exhausted. School was starting again, and he had to face the fact that Motor was gone for good.

The first day back was glum. Bobby trudged through lessons, staring out the window, doodling tiny maggots with racing stripes in his notebook. When lunchtime came, he wasn’t even hungry. Still, he sat down, opened his lunchbox, and tried to muster up an appetite.

He took out a sandwich. Not interested.

He lifted out a packet of crisps. Nah.

But then he grabbed his apple, lifted it to his lips to take a bite, but joys of joys, he couldn't believe it...









Out bored Motor.
Click to expand...
Thread ban now!
 
SCEtoAUX said:
Once upon a time in a small, sleepy town, there lived a boy named Bobby. Bobby was an ordinary sort of lad — scuffed knees, perpetually untied shoelaces, and a head full of grand ideas that usually ended in minor disasters. But Bobby had one thing that made him quite extraordinary: a pet maggot.


Now, most people, when they hear “pet maggot,” react with a shudder or a “yuck,” but not Bobby. To Bobby, this little wriggly creature was a marvel of nature, a tiny, pale gymnast who could twist, curl, and wriggle faster than anything else in the garden. He was sleek, swift, and surprisingly charming — well, to Bobby, anyway. And because of that uncanny speed, Bobby decided to name him Motor.

Motor lived in a little matchbox lined with damp leaves and bits of apple peel. Bobby carried him everywhere — to school, to the park, even to Grandma’s house (though she nearly fainted when he showed her). They were inseparable.

Every day after school, Bobby and Motor would go adventuring. Motor would race along the windowsill while Bobby timed him with his old wristwatch. Sometimes, Motor would win, and Bobby would cheer. Other times, Motor would stop to nap halfway through, and Bobby would give him a pep talk about “training discipline.” They were quite the pair.

One afternoon, Bobby took Motor to the big oak tree at the end of the lane — their favorite spot. They built obstacle courses out of twigs and pebbles, drew chalk racetracks on the patio, and even tried to teach Motor how to climb a leaf (he got halfway up before tumbling down and landing in a dramatic little squirm). It was the happiest summer Bobby could remember.

But then — tragedy struck.

One morning, just as the school holidays began, Bobby went to get Motor from his matchbox… and he was gone.

At first, Bobby thought he’d just crawled under the tissue paper. He checked every corner, every fold. Nothing. He searched the windowsill, the carpet, the flowerpots. He turned over every stone in the garden, called softly into the grass, even left bits of apple out overnight, hoping Motor would wriggle back for a snack.

But Motor never returned.

Bobby was heartbroken. He searched high and low for days, then weeks. His parents tried to cheer him up with trips to the seaside, but even as he built sandcastles, Bobby found himself thinking, Maybe Motor likes sand. Maybe he’s here somewhere.

Every wriggle of seaweed caught his eye. Every noodle at dinner made his heart skip. But alas — no Motor.

By the end of the summer holidays, Bobby was exhausted. School was starting again, and he had to face the fact that Motor was gone for good.

The first day back was glum. Bobby trudged through lessons, staring out the window, doodling tiny maggots with racing stripes in his notebook. When lunchtime came, he wasn’t even hungry. Still, he sat down, opened his lunchbox, and tried to muster up an appetite.

He took out a sandwich. Not interested.

He lifted out a packet of crisps. Nah.

But then he grabbed his apple, lifted it to his lips to take a bite, but joys of joys, he couldn't believe it...









Out bored Motor.
Click to expand...
That
Was
Fuckin
Shiyte
 
SCEtoAUX said:
Once upon a time in a small, sleepy town, there lived a boy named Bobby. Bobby was an ordinary sort of lad — scuffed knees, perpetually untied shoelaces, and a head full of grand ideas that usually ended in minor disasters. But Bobby had one thing that made him quite extraordinary: a pet maggot.


Now, most people, when they hear “pet maggot,” react with a shudder or a “yuck,” but not Bobby. To Bobby, this little wriggly creature was a marvel of nature, a tiny, pale gymnast who could twist, curl, and wriggle faster than anything else in the garden. He was sleek, swift, and surprisingly charming — well, to Bobby, anyway. And because of that uncanny speed, Bobby decided to name him Motor.

Motor lived in a little matchbox lined with damp leaves and bits of apple peel. Bobby carried him everywhere — to school, to the park, even to Grandma’s house (though she nearly fainted when he showed her). They were inseparable.

Every day after school, Bobby and Motor would go adventuring. Motor would race along the windowsill while Bobby timed him with his old wristwatch. Sometimes, Motor would win, and Bobby would cheer. Other times, Motor would stop to nap halfway through, and Bobby would give him a pep talk about “training discipline.” They were quite the pair.

One afternoon, Bobby took Motor to the big oak tree at the end of the lane — their favorite spot. They built obstacle courses out of twigs and pebbles, drew chalk racetracks on the patio, and even tried to teach Motor how to climb a leaf (he got halfway up before tumbling down and landing in a dramatic little squirm). It was the happiest summer Bobby could remember.

But then — tragedy struck.

One morning, just as the school holidays began, Bobby went to get Motor from his matchbox… and he was gone.

At first, Bobby thought he’d just crawled under the tissue paper. He checked every corner, every fold. Nothing. He searched the windowsill, the carpet, the flowerpots. He turned over every stone in the garden, called softly into the grass, even left bits of apple out overnight, hoping Motor would wriggle back for a snack.

But Motor never returned.

Bobby was heartbroken. He searched high and low for days, then weeks. His parents tried to cheer him up with trips to the seaside, but even as he built sandcastles, Bobby found himself thinking, Maybe Motor likes sand. Maybe he’s here somewhere.

Every wriggle of seaweed caught his eye. Every noodle at dinner made his heart skip. But alas — no Motor.

By the end of the summer holidays, Bobby was exhausted. School was starting again, and he had to face the fact that Motor was gone for good.

The first day back was glum. Bobby trudged through lessons, staring out the window, doodling tiny maggots with racing stripes in his notebook. When lunchtime came, he wasn’t even hungry. Still, he sat down, opened his lunchbox, and tried to muster up an appetite.

He took out a sandwich. Not interested.

He lifted out a packet of crisps. Nah.

But then he grabbed his apple, lifted it to his lips to take a bite, but joys of joys, he couldn't believe it...









Out bored Motor.
Click to expand...
mike.gif
 
SCEtoAUX said:
Once upon a time in a small, sleepy town, there lived a boy named Bobby. Bobby was an ordinary sort of lad — scuffed knees, perpetually untied shoelaces, and a head full of grand ideas that usually ended in minor disasters. But Bobby had one thing that made him quite extraordinary: a pet maggot.


Now, most people, when they hear “pet maggot,” react with a shudder or a “yuck,” but not Bobby. To Bobby, this little wriggly creature was a marvel of nature, a tiny, pale gymnast who could twist, curl, and wriggle faster than anything else in the garden. He was sleek, swift, and surprisingly charming — well, to Bobby, anyway. And because of that uncanny speed, Bobby decided to name him Motor.

Motor lived in a little matchbox lined with damp leaves and bits of apple peel. Bobby carried him everywhere — to school, to the park, even to Grandma’s house (though she nearly fainted when he showed her). They were inseparable.

Every day after school, Bobby and Motor would go adventuring. Motor would race along the windowsill while Bobby timed him with his old wristwatch. Sometimes, Motor would win, and Bobby would cheer. Other times, Motor would stop to nap halfway through, and Bobby would give him a pep talk about “training discipline.” They were quite the pair.

One afternoon, Bobby took Motor to the big oak tree at the end of the lane — their favorite spot. They built obstacle courses out of twigs and pebbles, drew chalk racetracks on the patio, and even tried to teach Motor how to climb a leaf (he got halfway up before tumbling down and landing in a dramatic little squirm). It was the happiest summer Bobby could remember.

But then — tragedy struck.

One morning, just as the school holidays began, Bobby went to get Motor from his matchbox… and he was gone.

At first, Bobby thought he’d just crawled under the tissue paper. He checked every corner, every fold. Nothing. He searched the windowsill, the carpet, the flowerpots. He turned over every stone in the garden, called softly into the grass, even left bits of apple out overnight, hoping Motor would wriggle back for a snack.

But Motor never returned.

Bobby was heartbroken. He searched high and low for days, then weeks. His parents tried to cheer him up with trips to the seaside, but even as he built sandcastles, Bobby found himself thinking, Maybe Motor likes sand. Maybe he’s here somewhere.

Every wriggle of seaweed caught his eye. Every noodle at dinner made his heart skip. But alas — no Motor.

By the end of the summer holidays, Bobby was exhausted. School was starting again, and he had to face the fact that Motor was gone for good.

The first day back was glum. Bobby trudged through lessons, staring out the window, doodling tiny maggots with racing stripes in his notebook. When lunchtime came, he wasn’t even hungry. Still, he sat down, opened his lunchbox, and tried to muster up an appetite.

He took out a sandwich. Not interested.

He lifted out a packet of crisps. Nah.

But then he grabbed his apple, lifted it to his lips to take a bite, but joys of joys, he couldn't believe it...









Out bored Motor.
Click to expand...
We need the reintroduction of stocks in town centres for crimes like this
 
Andrew Mountbatten Windsor is driving round Sandringham in the Range Rover and cos his mind is on all his troubles, he does not see the corgi run out in front of him. He steps out to see he has run it over and thinks "Bloody hell, that was one of mum's favourites. I will be in even more shite now". At the side of the road he sees an old lamp and he picks it up and gives it a quick buff and out pops a genie. "What is your desire oh master" The Genie ignored his first couple of the grounds of legality then Andrew requested that he brought the corgi back to life.
"But master it is too mangled to be brought back to life, it has been round both wheel arches and you panicked and reversed over it"

"Oh well says Andrew", pulling out his wallet and showing the genie a picture of his ex wife."I wish that you make her beautiful" he requests.

"Lets have a look at that corgi again" replies the genie.
 
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