Avert your eyes, sensitive readers

My ex-partner Glenmore Trenear-Harvey is an intelligence expert who appears fairly regularly on screen . Here he is on Russian TV, looking as though someone had just made an excessively obscene suggestion.

To me, though, his most agreeable speciality has been a never-ending fund of jokes.

The latest is about the man who walks into a library and asks for a book on
Tourette’s. The librarian says, “Fuck off, you cunt.”

The man says, “Yep, that’s the one.”

This is the more polite of the two jokes I have on Tourette’s. Another one is unspeakably obscene, and never fails to convulse me with laughter. I did warn you not to read this if you’re easily shocked didn’t I?

You can blame my son Nick the musician for this one.

An out of work pianist with Tourette’s Syndrome is strolling around the streets and bars of Soho one unemployed afternoon.

Walking down Dean Street he sees a lounge bar with a sign in the window ‘Pianist wanted for evening performances’.

‘Fucking get in there, you cunt!’ he says to himself and goes enters the bar.

‘Get the fucking manager of this pig-shit middle class wankhole please, you cunt’, he says to a somewhat startled barman.

The barman however obliges – and his manager comes upstairs. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he enquires

‘Yes you can, you fat piece of shit, I saw your poxy advert in the cunting window and I’m here to audition – wanker!’

The manager is naturally put off by the man’s abrasive manner, but his dire need for a top class pianist forces him to agree to an audition.

The first tune the Pianist plays is an uplifting jazzy number – not too involving, yet utterly melodic.

At the end the thrilled barman cries, ‘Wonderful, wonderful. What was that called?’

‘That song, you big-nosed twat, was called “Excuse me, prime minister, but I just jizzed in your daughter’s eye, and now the cunt’s blind”

‘Oh’ says the manager. ‘Er, can you play me another? Something a little less “lively”.

‘Wanker!” interjects the pianist before launching into a powerful ballad which leaves the manager in tears.

The manager, through his salty teardrops, asks him the title. ‘That little number was called “Sometimes when you do a bird up the shitbox you get crap on your bell end.’

‘I see’ says the manager, ‘Have you any songs with less offensive titles?’

‘Well, there’s my jazz number “Do you want me to split your ringpiece”, or there’s the epic “I don’t care if you’re older, my dear, you’ve still got gorgeous jugs”.

‘Look’ says the manager interrupting, ‘I think you’re a superb pianist, but the titles of your songs are a little “racy”. I will hire you on condition that you do not introduce your songs or speak to the audience.’

‘Fuck it’ says the pianist ‘Why not?’

On his first night everything is going superbly; the crowd is lapping up his repertoire and his silence is being perceived as modesty.

The only thing putting him off is that in the front row there is a gorgeous blonde in a black evening dress with a split up the side revealing the tops of her stockings, and a plunging neckline which boasts a proud and inviting cleavage.

During the interval the pianist has such a stonking hard-on that he decides to go to the bog and knock one out.

Just as he has shot his muck he hears himself being re-introduced over the tannoy, so he rushes back to the stage and finishes his act.

After the show he is at the bar relaxing when the blonde approaches him. ‘Hi’ she says in a sultry voice.

‘Hello’ he winces, struggling to hold in the expletives.

She leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘Do you know your cock is hanging out of your trousers, and spunk is dribbling onto your shoes?’

‘Know it?’ says the pianist putting his beer on the bar confidently …

‘I fucking wrote it’.