Rutland columnist Allan Grey doesn’t mean for joke to be offensive
I must issue a trigger warning before you get to the next couple of paragraphs because I’m going to tell a joke and it’s quite possible someone might be offended, writes Rutland columnist Allan Grey.
I am aware that copies of this paper make it way beyond the borders of Rutland, some a few hundred miles, one or two thousands of miles away, I‘ve even heard, although never had BBC Verify confirm, that one or two eskimos, sorry Inuits, are regular subscribers from their centrally heated igloos up in the Arctic.
However, I’m fairly confident I’m on safe ground as the joke concerns white males, one of the last remaining species on earth we can poke fun at without fear of being digitally abused on X by perpetually outraged ‘keyboard warriors’, but you never know who might be reading this column, so if you are a bit fearful, a bit sensitive, or even worse, a bit righteous, put the paper down, take a chill pill and read something entirely uncontentious, possibly ‘Unleashed’ by a recent ex-Prime Minister, if not, then here goes…
Lounging around on their weekend Airbnb iceberg, a young polar bear says to his father: “Dad, am I 100% polar bear?”
Yes son, definitely”, answers his father.
“Are you sure there’s no brown bear in me Dad?”
“No son, you’re definitely a thoroughbred polar bear.”
“Are you sure there’s no koala bear in me Dad?”
“No son, I checked carefully with your mother and she assures me that you are 100% white polar bear.”
“OK Dad, then please explain to me why I’m always so cold?”
OK, not offended, thank goodness for that, now let’s move on. I may have mentioned that I have been donning my Lions tabard recently and doing some meet ’n’ greet in the Late Night Pharmacy, managing the flow of senior citizens coming in for their covid and flu jabs, taking the load off the vaccinators. The new system we’ve introduced, ya know, first come first served and here’s your raffle ticket, and yes, the first prize is a quick jab in one arm, second prize, quick jabs in both arms, has been quietly accepted by the majority, but there are one or two of the ‘don’t you know who I am brigade?’ who are not quite so sure.
One gentleman visiting last week, strode in at 12.15pm and in a loud baritone voice that would have graced a Shakespearean play at London’s Globe theatre exclaimed “I’ve got a 12.20pm appointment, and after that I’ve a train to catch.”
I explained the system, offered him a ticket and commented that there were ten people in front of him.
“Well exactly how long is it going to take?” he boomed. I replied: “Would you like an answer in minutes or minutes and seconds?” He looked at me somewhat quizzically and then commanded: “The latter I suppose.” By this time I’m playing to the crowd, that is all the seated folk in the queue quietly lapping it up, and I replied, “24 minutes and 33 seconds sir.” Taking his ticket he responded: “Right, I’ll be back in 24 minutes”, and good to his word he returned about 20 minutes later to find that remarkably his number was the very next to be called. As he left the pharmacy, he smiled and shook my hand, demonstrating a graciousness that had eluded him initially, recognising that I was not to be intimidated by a ‘don’t you know who I am’. I do hope he caught his train back to Stamford.
Now I have it on good authority that a well known local town council, having resurfaced the children’s play area in Cutts Close recently, albeit spending a smidgeon over the original budget, are now planning to returf the whole of Cutts Close early in 2025 in order to keep the park in tip top condition for the popular summer concert season and also to demonstrate that they have learnt a tough lesson. Recognising just how easy it is to mistake rainbow green for jet black and that ordinary turf is multi-coloured, that is green on one side and brown on the other side, the council have decided to contract a team from Specsavers, supplying them with loud hailers with instructions to constantly remind the turf layers, “green side up, green side up”, in order to avoid another fiscal embarrassment. Yes, I know, it’s an old joke, but these days, if told in it’s original form, it might offend the population of a certain bright green western part of the geographic British Isles, and I don’t want that on my conscience to be sure, to be sure.
Now, by the time you read this erudite edition, I will have completed the entry auditions for next year’s Strictly Come Grandad Dancing, namely a four part ballroom dancing class at the stricken Victoria Hall. I’ve participated in a few athletic pursuits in my time, and been acceptably adept at football, squash, running, cycling and cutting the grass, but dancing elegantly, leading my partner with a graceful upper line has always eluded me, my feet and brain always struggling to synchronise, much like my fingers and my brain when typing this column.
Naturally, I will be waiting with baited breath for my invitation to participate from Shirley and her fellow judges and you’ll be the first know if I get selected.