On the plane back to Moora the other day, I found myself seated beside a seventy something year old, scrawny, hatchet faced priest. The old rotter was dressed in the full sermon outfit, reversed collar, the lot. He had me in mind of someone that had just eaten a raw onion, then followed it up with a glass of vinegar.
After take off the stewardess came around offering drinks from her cart; when she finally reached me she said,
“Would you care for a drink Sir?” Being the cunning devil and dashing rogue that I am, I replied,
“I would love a rum and Coca-Cola.” and she conjured one up for me, a small yellow labeled bottle and red can appearing as if by magic on to my little folding table. Turning to the Priest beside me, she asked,
“A drink for you Father?” His answer to that was,
“I would rather be ravaged by a dozen harlots than have alcohol pass my lips!”
Whilst the rather taken-a-back stewardess considered this, I picked up the little unopened rum bottle and Coke can and handed them back to her. Looking at me with a somewhat bemused expression running across her face, she politely accepted them, and said,
“Something else then Sir?”
“I didn’t realise there was a choice, I’ll take the harlots too.”
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