On the line

9 Dec

TROUT MAN is one of those blokes who lives in another era. There’s a between-the-wars air about him – BBC accent; tweed jacket; corduroy slacks; pipe in breast pocket; crinkly red hair perfectly parted; complete indifference to anything except cricket.

As the Editor passes his desk, Trout Man bellows: “Hey boss. Heard a good joke this morning. What do you call the area around the vagina?”

The Editor stares back like a grey squirrel caught in the headlights, searching for a response that’s going to amuse Trout Man but not antagonise the women in the office who have all frozen like praying mantises.

“Dunno,” he says lamely.

Trout Man: “The kitchen. Arf, arf.”

Normality resumes like a warm wave washing up a beach. The Pork Chop sits there wondering why it is that some people have a knack of getting away with stuff like that.


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