It was written with my good friend Dom Bailey and is a collection of hundreds of the best food
gags foraged from the four corners of the Earth, as voted for by the
International Symposium On Food And Cookery Humour.
Ranging
from vintage cheese jokes - How do you approach an angry Welsh cheese? - to
curry gags - What’s a chicken tarka? - to celebrity chef jokes - What's the
difference between Gordon Ramsay and a cross-country run? - to the far more fruity
- What's the difference between marmalade and jam? - it will hopefully leave
you holding your sides more than a dodgy, late-night kebab in Blackpool.
Anyway, I hope you like it. Here’s a sample...
Q: Why should you never insult an Italian baker?
A: Because he’ll beat the focaccia.
Most of the jokes are pretty short. But here’s a
long one that I quite like that didn’t make the cut...
One day, a priest gets a bit bored and decides to
go for a walk, and walks down past his church to a huge lake. He looks around
and finally stops to watch a fisherman loading up his boat. The fisherman
notices, and asks the priest if he would like to join him for a couple of hours.
The fisherman asks if the priest has ever fished
before; the priest says no. He baits the hook for him and says, “Give it a
shot, father.”
After a few minutes, the priest hooks a huge
fish, the rod’s bending, and after an hour he manages to get it on to the boat.
The fisherman says: “Look at the size of that,
that’s a huge fucker, father!”
The priest crosses his chest and says: “Ah,
please sir, can you mind your language?”
The fisherman says: “I’m sorry father, but that’s
what the fish is called - it’s called a fucker! And an enormous one it is too!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the priest. “I didn't
know.”
The priest gets off the boat and slings the fish
over his shoulder and walks back to the church. He walks into the kitchen, and
the bishop comes in, and the priest says: “Bishop, will you look at the size of
this fucker!”
“Please father,” says the bishop. “This is a
house of God, we don’t use language like that here...”
“No, you don’t understand,” says the priest.
“That’s what the fish is called, it’s called a fucker!”
“Oh,” says the bishop. “I didn’t know. I
apologise father. Do you want me to clean it for you? The Pope’s coming round
tonight and we could have it for dinner...”
So the bishop takes the fish and cleans it, and
Mother Superior comes in.
“Mother Superior, look at the size of this
fucker,” says the bishop.
“My lord, what language!” says Mother Superior,
blushing.
“No, sister,” says the bishop. “That's what the
fish is called - it’s called a fucker! Father caught it, I cleaned it, and we
thought we could serve it to the Pope when he comes round for dinner tonight.”
“That’s a splendid idea bishop,” she says. “Would
you like me to cook it for you?”
The Pope comes round for dinner and they’re all
sitting there, eating the fish, and he says “This is a magnificent fish, where
did you get it?”
“Well,” says the priest. “I caught the fucker.”
“And I cleaned the fucker!” says the bishop.
“And I cooked the fucker!” says Mother Superior.
The Pope stares at them for a minute, rolls up
his sleeve, pulls out a spliff and says: “You know, you cunts are all right.”
