The Irish vs. The French

[KBs PensNmore]

The French President is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.


‘Hallo, Mr Macron !' A heavily accented voice said. 'This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you !


We voted to reject the Lisbon treaty !'


'Well Paddy, Macron replied……………. How big is your army ?'


'Right now,' says Paddy, after a moment's calculation, 'there is myself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbour Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eleven !'


Macron paused. 'I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command.'


'Begorrah!' says Paddy………….'I'll have to ring you back.'


Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. 'Mr Macron, the war is still on, we have managed to get us some infantry equipment !'


'And what equipment would that be Paddy ?' Macron asks……………. 'Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy's farm tractor.'


Macron sighs amused………'I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armoured personnel carriers, also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke.


''Saints preserve us !' says Paddy……….'I'll have to get back to you.'


Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day………….'Mr Macron, the war is still on !.............We have managed to get ourselves airborne !


We have modified Jackie McLaughlin's ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well !'


Macron was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat……….. 'I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes, my military-bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites, and since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000 !'


'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph !' says Paddy, 'I will have to ring you back, sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day…………….'Top o' the mornin', Mr Macron !............I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war.'


'Really ?..................I am sorry to hear that,' says Macron, 'why the sudden change of heart ?'


'Well,' says Paddy, 'we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and packets of crisps, and we decided there is no way we can feed 200,000 prisoners.

[Old Croc]

OMG. Where is that giant Groan button??????
Rgds,
Crocy.

[AlexS]

Then there's the Scots v the English...

A long time ago a battalion of English infantry were facing a recalcitrant Scottish clan across a mist-shrouded glen, when a voice with a strong brogue echoed up through the ghostly fog..."One Scotsman can defeat any Englishman!" Unable to resist a challenge, the colonel chose his most savage soldier and sent him into the unknown, to destroy this uppity Scot.

There were the sounds of battle, the clash of sword and shillela, murderous screams, then silence. The colonel was basking in the glow of presumed victory, when a voice came from the glen..."One Scotsman can defeat any ten Englishmen!"

Eager to salve the pride of the battalion, the colonel detailed a corporal, the leader of the meanest, roughest section in the battalion, take them down and sort this Scot out. This time there was silence for a few minutes. "Ah", thought the colonel, "he's setting an ambush, and all that will be left of the cheeky Celt will be a scrap of tartan."

Suddenly, all hell broke out. Sounds of shot and shell rang out, smoke rose from the glen and the smell of black powder permeated the air. Then silence. The colonel allowed himself a tot of rum. Then, from the valley, "One Scotsman can defeat any hundred Englishmen!" The colonel choked on his rum.
He briefed his most decorated major. This man had helped Britain civilise the world, from India to Ireland, Africa to Afghanistan and everywhere in between. He would know how to calm the natives.

The major marched into the smoke and fog-filled glen, leading his company of bloodthirsty veterans, eager to avenge their comrades. They disappeared through the misty gates of hell. Suddenly, war cries filled the air, thunder of shot, flashes of grenades, the slurp of bayonets being inserted and withdrawn, and the clash of hand weapons. A little less comfortable now, the colonel had another tot of rum.

Then came the sound he dreaded. "One Scotsman can defeat any thousand Englishman!"

The colonel knew his duty. After one more tot of rum, he mustered the remainder of his battalion. He briefed them on their do-or-die mission. He promised them death or glory, or maybe both. No quarter was to be given to this impudent Scot. He formed his men up with bayonets fixed, and was about to lead them into the now silent glen when a strangled, weak voice, barely audible, filtered through the fog.






"Don't go down, sir. It's a trap. There's two of 'em."