This joke comes from the trove accumulated by Roland (alias the Birdman from Brisbane)…

The Millionaire’s Wife Buys Art Treasures

A Californian multi-millionaire receives a phone call from his lawyer.

“You’d better get down to my office real quick,” began the hot-shot lawyer with some urgency in his voice, “there’s something important that I need to discuss with you!”

“What’s up Sam?” asked the millionaire.

“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone – let’s just say it’s about art, something your wife bought recently,” said the lawyer mysteriously.

Half an hour later the millionaire was led into the lawyer’s office.

“Now tell me what this is all about Sam,” insisted the millionaire.

“Sure, well I’ve been racking my brains trying to think of how to tell you. Now the good news is that your wife recently paid $500 a piece for two artworks that she reckons are worth at least $3,000,000 – possibly more,” the lawyer paused.

“Sounds like a pretty shrewd move on Ruthie’s part but why did I have to come down here? Why couldn’t she tell me the good news herself? And what’s the bad news?” the millionaire was baffled.

“Well I’m coming to that. You see, the pictures are both shots of you making love to your secretary…”

“Are you alright Mum,” I asked.

“Well, I was quite happy sat here by the door until a man came up to me,” answered Mum intriguingly.

We were in Tescos Newton Abbot store at the time. Mum was looking very sweet, wearing her candy-stripe frock and pink straw hat, and sat on a pile of boxes containing Masterchef barbecues.

“Look,” said Chris with a chuckle, “your mum is on sale for forty-five pounds!”

A short while later we were going home in the car and Mum said:

“I didn’t like it when the man came up to me.”

“He probably thought you looked cute,” I suggested.

“No, he asked me if I was alright,” Mum replied in a hurt voice, “and he asked if anyone was coming to pick me up. It made me feel old.”

“What did you answer, Mum?”

“I just said ‘Yes’ and turned away from him,” Mum sounded sad.

“Maybe he was the opposite of a paedophile – a nonagenarianphile? – and he was grooming you, Mum,” I joked.

“A geriatricaphile,” helped Chris (with his greater knowledge).

“Who would be that mad?” asked Mum after a moments conjecture.

“You’d be surprised,” I said, “there are quite a few men who fancy old ladies!”

“Perhaps I should have said ‘No’ then,” Mum quipped and we all laughed.

I had been in bed for some minutes, long enough for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, when someone entered my bedroom. I can’t say that it was unexpected; actually, I have to own that I had been hoping for this circumstance.

“I suppose you want to sleep with me,” I said provocatively to the large dark figure who was by now almost at my bedside.

There was no answer. There was no requirement, other than the physical response, and soon I felt a gorgeous muscular body against me; it pressed so hard that I was pushed to edge of the big four-poster bed.

“Calm down,” I whispered, “and give me a bit more room.”

Still no reply, but my hands recognised the feel of smooth velvety skin, which was blacker than the night outside the window. And although I couldn’t see the deep brown eyes or facial features, I knew them well.

In the initial excitement we tossed and turned – on our backs, sideways and diagonally – but at length, we lay close like spoons that fit perfectly against one another. We were about to fall asleep when someone else came into the bedroom. The small figure approached the high wooden side of my bed and nudged me tentatively.

“I suppose you want to sleep with me too?” I asked.

Yet again, no words but there was an affirmation in the silence. I helped the white-haired figure onto the bed and the dark one, slightly put out, nevertheless made room for the venerable one.

There was much kissing, petting, licking, and getting into comfortable positions, after which we three we were finally ready to sleep. Before sleep came I said a little prayer to myself:

“Please don’t let the other two come in!”

And they didn’t. We all know that that five in a bed doesn’t work – we already tried it on another occasion that I slept over at the farm. Even a king-sized four-poster doesn’t have room for three big black Labradors, a Yorkshire terrier and me!

My friend Sally, who lives in Cyprus these days, but is in Turkey on holiday at the moment, sent me some lovely pictures today. I was particularly smitten by the arcades shaded by rows of colourful parasols – what a wonderful and apt idea! Then I got to thinking what happens to umbrellas when a strong gust of wind gets under them…

On the Internet one thing leads quickly on to another and I soon found myself in the windy weddings section…

John-the-roofer and his mate were on the roof perhaps forty feet above me while I was skimming the cracked lower steps with new cement. This was several years ago when we had our big works done to the house and the new roof was going on, and we hadn’t tiled the old steps yet. I didn’t know the roofer’s surname; Mr Murphy, the building contractor, had introduced the roofer only as “John from Torquay” and the young roofer apprentice wasn’t introduced at all.

If, like me, you expect a roofer to be built like a grasshopper or, at most, like a tall jockey, you’d have quite the wrong mental image of John-the-roofer, who was a big burly man with little or no hair and a big booming voice to match his frame. Strangely, the booming voice was incomprehensible to our ears as it sounded like it was coming through fifty feet of drainpipe.

It was summer and sunny, which was why the roof was going on during that week and why, on that particular day, I chose to work outside. Every so often, while I was occupied with my trowel on the wet cement, I heard above me the loud and incoherent sound of John the roofer’s drainpipe voice giving orders to his twenty-year-old apprentice. At around midday I was mixing up some new cement when I heard the younger man ask:

“What are you having for lunch Shag Nasty?”

“Did I hear right?” I thought to myself, a bit shocked, and I waited for a response.

To my even greater surprise, John-the-roofer replied in his normal unintelligible tones, no louder or with any sound of irritation.

I decided that my hearing was playing tricks on me.

A few minutes passed and the apprentice piped up again:

“Think I’ll have a nice steak tonight. What about you Shag Nasty?” he couldn’t contain a little laugh.

This time I was convinced. For a moment or two I felt upset for poor John-the-roofer from Torquay, then I was indignant on his behalf, and finally, when I got to thinking about how a man could come to be dubbed with such a horrible nickname (there was nothing much else to consider whilst mixing concrete), I wanted to laugh aloud. I went inside and did so. I came back outside, got the giggles, and went indoors again to have a good laugh without incensing or hurting the feelings of John (alias Shag Nasty).

At length, after several more “Shag Nasty” comments (all said apparently quite casually, without malice or sarcasm) and corresponding bouts of giggles from me, I managed to finish my work and went to look for Chris.

“The young roofer kept calling John-the-roofer ‘Mr Shag Nasty’ or just ‘Shag Nasty’,” I whispered to Chris, “Did you hear them?”.

“No! And no.”

“Yes!” I said, “and he didn’t seem upset – not that I could understand because to me he always sounds like he’s talking through a fifty foot drainpipe. What can it mean?”

“They could probably see you working on the steps and were having a bit of fun trying to shock you and see your response,” suggested Chris.

I agreed that might have been the case but then I saw an additional possibility…

“I wonder if John’s surname is Shaughnessy?”

~~~~~~~

While I’m on the subject of the name Shaughnessy I’d like to tell you about two others of the Shaughnessy clan.

Patrick Shaughnessy was a member of the highly successful Texan contingent who made their vast millions from cattle and oil. When at last Patrick felt wealthy and secure enough to leave his holdings in the hands of others for six months, he decided to take a well-earned holiday and travel the world to meet up with his cousins around the globe. He ended up on the cattle station owned by his cousin Paddy out at Winton, far West Queensland.

After an hour or two the novelty of entertaining the American cousin had worn off for Paddy. He had tired of the fact that anything he mentioned was bettered and outdone by the Texan. If he said he owned one helicopter, Patrick had two – plus a private jet. His 15,000 square kilometres could apparently fit in the Texan’s “back yard – and then some!” Patrick boasted of pocketing $5,000,000 each year (after tax) while Paddy admitted to earning a paltry $500,000.

The cousins were enjoying a couple of gallons of beer out on the verandah when a red kangaroo jumped over one wall of the front enclosure, hopped past the swimming pool and the AstroTurf lawn, then jumped over the opposite wall and was gone. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that the American cousin wondered what it was.

“Say cous’, what in the heck was that?” asked Patrick.

“Well, I’ll be blowed,” began Paddy, “Don’t you get grasshoppers in Texas?”