Tall stories anyone?

The OP reminds me of the time I was on holiday in Sardinia. Sitting at a small bar in the harbour with a glass of wine watching for the impending sunset, I watched a small fleet of fishing boats pull up at the dock. The fishermen climbed off their boats, set up tables and put that day's catch on them to sell to cafe owners and locals. They were all in one group save for one wizened old man who stood apart.

A short while later, two nuns arrived at his table and he handed over two of the largest fish. Both nuns crossed themselves, rattled their rosaries and walked on tutting to themselves. Soon, a pompous official looking man arrived at the old fisherman's table, took a couple of fish, muttered something I couldn't make out, spat on the floor and walked off with his fish. Presently, a nurse in a blue uniform arrived and the old man gave her two of the best fish remaining on the table. She too muttered something, spat on the floor and walked off.

As she disappeared, the old man wrapped up what was left of his catch and set off presumably to his home. Intrigued, I called to him to join me in a glass of wine and taking the chair opposite to me I asked about the events at his table. Taking a sip of his wine he said...

"Do you see that bell tower on Our Lady's church? I built that with my own two hands. Do they call me Luigi the builder? No, they do not. At the top of the village is on orphanage where I tend the gardens and for which I raise a lot of money from selling my fish. Do they call me Luigi the benefactor? No they do not. At the local hospital I do voluntary work transferring patients from ward to ward. Do they call me Luigi the porter? No, they do not, but get caught sucking one lousy cock......."

How Hai's a Chinaman?

At this time of year, I'm minded of a tale my father (an ex-postman) told me.

Every year, selected postmen had to do the `Santa Run`- this meant them sat in the sorting office for hours on end sifting out the dear Santa letters, opening them to get reply addresses (if any) and sending a standard Santa's reply letter.

One one occasion, my dad said he noticed his friend Bob's eyes well up with tears at a letter he had just read and couldn't speak he was that choked up with emotion. Taking the unstamped, poorly hand-written letter from Bob, he read it himself then stood up and announced.

"Listen to this lads... it's from an elderly lady, distressed because some thief robbed her of a hundred quid out of this month's pension money and will be cold and hungry for the rest of the month if she doesn't receive some financial help"

He and his mates organised a collection amongst the other postal workers, who dig deep and come up with 94 pounds and got it to her by special delivery the same morning.
A week later, Bob recognises the same hand on another envelope. "Hey look lads!" he announces, "We've got a reply from the old lady"
He opens it and reads: "Dear Santa, Thank you for the £94, this month would have certainly bleak without it.
P.S. It was six pounds short but that was probably those thieving bastards at the Post Office."

Well that was a kick in the teeth wasn't it.
I bet they never bothered again... poor lads.

Judd wrote:

At this time of year, I'm minded of a tale my father (an ex-postman) told me.

Every year, selected postmen had to do the `Santa Run`- this meant them sat in the sorting office for hours on end sifting out the dear Santa letters, opening them to get reply addresses (if any) and sending a standard Santa's reply letter.

One one occasion, my dad said he noticed his friend Bob's eyes well up with tears at a letter he had just read and couldn't speak he was that choked up with emotion. Taking the unstamped, poorly hand-written letter from Bob, he read it himself then stood up and announced.

"Listen to this lads... it's from an elderly lady, distressed because some thief robbed her of a hundred quid out of this month's pension money and will be cold and hungry for the rest of the month if she doesn't receive some financial help"

He and his mates organised a collection amongst the other postal workers, who dig deep and come up with 94 pounds and got it to her by special delivery the same morning.
A week later, Bob recognises the same hand on another envelope. "Hey look lads!" he announces, "We've got a reply from the old lady"
He opens it and reads: "Dear Santa, Thank you for the £94, this month would have certainly bleak without it.
P.S. It was four pounds short but that was probably those thieving bastards at the Post Office."

Like it

For a few years in the late 70’s and early 80’s, I was lucky enough to have had a few bob and spent some years working and playing along the Cote d’Azur in the south of France. It is where I met the missus who at the time was working as a cook on an ocean going yacht running charters out of Cannes, I say yacht but it was an enormous ocean going vessel with huge ‘ Penthouse’ engines and room for thirty people on board.
It was coming to the end of a beautiful summer in October 1980 and I was at a loose end after having run a busy campsite for the last 7 months in a little town called Cavalaire. My new companion suggested joining her on her next long haul charter heading for South Africa as a cleaner/waiter/deckhand…..I jumped at the chance and after some cajoling on her part the owners of the yacht agreed to employ me…..No CBC’s or EBC’s or contract signings back in those days……Just a handshake!
We left Cannes on a spectacular morning on October 28^th 1980 heading for Cape Town, South Africa, a journey expecting to take three months hugging the coast all the way down the Western coast of the African continent……I was overwhelmed by it all and delighted in the menial but often hard tasks of cleaning up after and serving meals to the 12 members of 2 very rich American families, there was also a crew of 7 including myself, so you can imagine the size of the vessel. It was a fantastic experience and I hold many fond memories of the trip.
One of the most bizarre events we experienced and has always had an impact on my outlook on life was off the coast of Angola. It was a few days before Christmas and the mood of everyone on the yacht was easy and upbeat. On the morning of the 23^rd a commotion ensued when one of the crew noticed a small motor dingy running close by us with what appeared to be a number of people huddled miserably aboard. Anyway, after a lot of confusion and hairy maneuvering, six frightening looking Africans were helped from their small vessel onto ours, three of whom were small children.
Well, apparently, according to maritime law and the captains understanding and prior knowledge of the current situation in the countries we were passing and numerous calls to whatever hierarchy he contacted, the refugees, as that as what we all believed them to be, were accommodated below and informed they would be handed over to international authorities when we reached our destination.
During the next month I spent a great deal of time with the family as that is what they turned out to be. Father, mother, three children and brother of the mother, the only one who spoke English.  He was Albert, a journalist who was escaping from what he implied as certain death from authorities in Angola and had taken his sisters family on a desperate attempt to escape whatever persecution he was under. The kids were great fun and my girlfriend and I spent hours with them most days. Ngumo, Aldela and Kyoti were their names. Our destination was south of Cape town at an area known as ‘Agulhas national park ‘, where the American families owned property. As we sailed down the African continent, Albert spoke a little about life in his country and the oppression from opposing political parties and the military regime governing all...It sounded like a nightmare life! We spent many hours talking through the balmy nights and we got on quite well.
Before we reached our final destination, the yacht stopped at Cape town and whatever machinations had to take place to place the African family into the hands of whoever took them, took place. It was an emotional farewell to the refugee family as we had grown quite close in the weeks since our paths crossed and photos were taken and addresses swapped , well, at least we gave ours.
My girlfriend was travelling on further with another charter and I was due back in France by the end of January, so I took a couple of weeks travelling back by sea and air and later in the summer met up with my girlfriend and we are still together, living here in Catalonia between Barcelona and Girona.
Anyway, a couple, of years ago, I had to renew a residence permit I hold. I don’t know what it’s like in the UK but anything to do with local bureaucracy over here is a fiscal and physical nightmare to maneuver, the Catalan generalitat being the biggest employer in Catalonia, they don’t discriminate against anybody at all. They employ the biggest, obnoxious, ill-mannered, slope-fore headed racists you will ever meet and give them the power to abuse the power they have. The only proviso, is that you have to be fluent in catalan!. Arse holes to a man/woman.
After having queued for a day to obtain a number to allow oneself to queue at another office to arrange an appointment for another office, I was a little wound up to say the least.  But all I had to do to ease my frustration was to gaze across the vast chamber of an office I was presently in to observe the unending, meandering queue that wound in several loops around little green flags that stretched out of the actual building and down the street for the NON EU members that were in the very same process I was partaking in. These people from countries from around the globe attempting to settle in Spain were given short shrift, to say the least. They had to queue for days at a time! And they came with their families. There were more gas burners cooking meals and heating coffee and crying children than I could count.
It is always a good idea to go to these bureaucratic edifices of hell with a companion, as sure as anything, you will need to find a bank or post office to pay some derisory sum to a generalitat bank account and receive an official stamp on some form or another several times a visit, before you can move on to the next step. The companion is there to keep your place in the queue.
One of the numerous times I was returning to my guarded place in the queue from yet another visit to pay more sheckles into the Catalan government bank vaults , I heard my name being called across the vast hall in a deep booming voice. I turned to look for the source of the call but just saw a snaking line of black, white, Asian and oriental faces gazing back……
Like a sea parting, the masses in front of me opened up and a huge form appeared , giant arms stretched out to greet me, the deep booming voice all the time crying out my name……….




Yes…..
 
It was….
 
 
It was …….






 

It was Jessie, a bloke that works at my local garage!

This thread was well worth waking up - otherwise I would have missed it..........great funny stories.

The Beast wrote:

For a few years in the late 70’s and early 80’s, I was lucky enough to have had a few bob and spent some years working and playing along the Cote d’Azur in the south of France. It is where I met the missus who at the time was working as a cook on an ocean going yacht running charters out of Cannes, I say yacht but it was an enormous ocean going vessel with huge ‘ Penthouse’ engines and room for thirty people on board.
It was coming to the end of a beautiful summer in October 1980 and I was at a loose end after having run a busy campsite for the last 7 months in a little town called Cavalaire. My new companion suggested joining her on her next long haul charter heading for South Africa as a cleaner/waiter/deckhand…..I jumped at the chance and after some cajoling on her part the owners of the yacht agreed to employ me…..No CBC’s or EBC’s or contract signings back in those days……Just a handshake!
We left Cannes on a spectacular morning on October 28^th 1980 heading for Cape Town, South Africa, a journey expecting to take three months hugging the coast all the way down the Western coast of the African continent……I was overwhelmed by it all and delighted in the menial but often hard tasks of cleaning up after and serving meals to the 12 members of 2 very rich American families, there was also a crew of 7 including myself, so you can imagine the size of the vessel. It was a fantastic experience and I hold many fond memories of the trip.
One of the most bizarre events we experienced and has always had an impact on my outlook on life was off the coast of Angola. It was a few days before Christmas and the mood of everyone on the yacht was easy and upbeat. On the morning of the 23^rd a commotion ensued when one of the crew noticed a small motor dingy running close by us with what appeared to be a number of people huddled miserably aboard. Anyway, after a lot of confusion and hairy maneuvering, six frightening looking Africans were helped from their small vessel onto ours, three of whom were small children.
Well, apparently, according to maritime law and the captains understanding and prior knowledge of the current situation in the countries we were passing and numerous calls to whatever hierarchy he contacted, the refugees, as that as what we all believed them to be, were accommodated below and informed they would be handed over to international authorities when we reached our destination.
During the next month I spent a great deal of time with the family as that is what they turned out to be. Father, mother, three children and brother of the mother, the only one who spoke English.  He was Albert, a journalist who was escaping from what he implied as certain death from authorities in Angola and had taken his sisters family on a desperate attempt to escape whatever persecution he was under. The kids were great fun and my girlfriend and I spent hours with them most days. Ngumo, Aldela and Kyoti were their names. Our destination was south of Cape town at an area known as ‘Agulhas national park ‘, where the American families owned property. As we sailed down the African continent, Albert spoke a little about life in his country and the oppression from opposing political parties and the military regime governing all...It sounded like a nightmare life! We spent many hours talking through the balmy nights and we got on quite well.
Before we reached our final destination, the yacht stopped at Cape town and whatever machinations had to take place to place the African family into the hands of whoever took them, took place. It was an emotional farewell to the refugee family as we had grown quite close in the weeks since our paths crossed and photos were taken and addresses swapped , well, at least we gave ours.
My girlfriend was travelling on further with another charter and I was due back in France by the end of January, so I took a couple of weeks travelling back by sea and air and later in the summer met up with my girlfriend and we are still together, living here in Catalonia between Barcelona and Girona.
Anyway, a couple, of years ago, I had to renew a residence permit I hold. I don’t know what it’s like in the UK but anything to do with local bureaucracy over here is a fiscal and physical nightmare to maneuver, the Catalan generalitat being the biggest employer in Catalonia, they don’t discriminate against anybody at all. They employ the biggest, obnoxious, ill-mannered, slope-fore headed racists you will ever meet and give them the power to abuse the power they have. The only proviso, is that you have to be fluent in catalan!. Arse holes to a man/woman.
After having queued for a day to obtain a number to allow oneself to queue at another office to arrange an appointment for another office, I was a little wound up to say the least.  But all I had to do to ease my frustration was to gaze across the vast chamber of an office I was presently in to observe the unending, meandering queue that wound in several loops around little green flags that stretched out of the actual building and down the street for the NON EU members that were in the very same process I was partaking in. These people from countries from around the globe attempting to settle in Spain were given short shrift, to say the least. They had to queue for days at a time! And they came with their families. There were more gas burners cooking meals and heating coffee and crying children than I could count.
It is always a good idea to go to these bureaucratic edifices of hell with a companion, as sure as anything, you will need to find a bank or post office to pay some derisory sum to a generalitat bank account and receive an official stamp on some form or another several times a visit, before you can move on to the next step. The companion is there to keep your place in the queue.
One of the numerous times I was returning to my guarded place in the queue from yet another visit to pay more sheckles into the Catalan government bank vaults , I heard my name being called across the vast hall in a deep booming voice. I turned to look for the source of the call but just saw a snaking line of black, white, Asian and oriental faces gazing back……
Like a sea parting, the masses in front of me opened up and a huge form appeared , giant arms stretched out to greet me, the deep booming voice all the time crying out my name……….




Yes…..
 
It was….
 
 
It was …….






 

It was Jessie, a bloke that works at my local garage!

GROAN!!!!!I spent half an hour wading through that lot.

I wrote this several years ago as an experiment in alternative thought...


Read it through, then read it line for line backwards. A bit like life!!!


This may seem a little confusing to some people who have come to know me but it’s what I truly believe,
 ‘Charity begins at home’                     
Is the biggest load of bollocks you will ever hear and                                                            
 That Chasing the £ sign is good,                                                                 
So in the future I’ll tell all my friends and family                     
They mean feck all to me in this life,
My peers will understand that                                  
I’ve got my goals set on course and
The pursuit of the golden egg and shallow riches
Mean more than
Close family and friends,
 I will say to you from deep down in the depths of my heart
From the beginning of time
Friends and families stayed, played and loved together,
But this will not be so in my grand kids lifetime,
This is a cheap crass, can’t be arsed throwaway generation,
Those supposedly in the know saying
25 years in the future no one will give a flying feck,
I am certainly not convinced that
The world will be a much happier, safer and better place to live in
 A quarter of a century down the line,
Climate change and Mother Nature will be global and destructive,
We won’t stand around winging that
I, my family and friends care about the world I which we live,
It’ll be plain for all to see
This race of humans is blind, careless and don’t give a toss,
It’s downright crazy to assume that
There is some anticipation and the remotest possibility of salvation