While patrolling country lanes around his local village, a young policeman notices a car being driven erratically. With a quick burst of the siren he pulls the driver over, and sternly walks up to the car to ask the gentleman whether he’s been drinking.
‘Oh aye,’ says the man, quite proudly. ‘It’s Friday, so a few of the lads and I went straight to the pub after work, and I must have had about six or seven there. Then we went to the bar next door for happy hour, and they were serving these great cocktails for a pound, so I had three or four of those.
Then my cousin Mick asked for a lift home – his sister’s sick, you see – so I drove him back. Of course, he asked me in, so I had a Murphy’s – lovely stuff it is, too – and took a bottle for the road.’
With that, the man reaches into his coat, pulls out a bottle of scotch, waves it at the policeman, and beams happily.
‘Sir, would you exit the vehicle immediately for a breathalyser test,’ the officer says as calmly as he can.
‘Why?’ asks the man. ‘Don’t you believe me?’