Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Shamus, having left the pub a wee bit late one night, found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard.
“Come have a look over here,” says Paddy, “it’s Michael O’Grady’s grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87. Good blood, those O’Gradys!”
“That’s nothing,” says Sean. “Here’s one named Patrick O’Toole, it says here that he was 95 when he died. Aye, those O’Tooles are a hardy bunch, they are!”
Tim O’Rourke was walking his Irish Setter in the country side. He picked up a stick and threw it, the dog went and retrieved it and brought it back. Tim then threw it in a different direction and the dog once again went and retrieved it and brought it back.
Tim then threw it in another direction and it landed in a small lake. The dog went down to the water’s edge, walked across the water, picked up the stick and brought it back.
The French President, is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.
“Hallo, Mr. Chirac!” 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!”
“Well, Paddy,” Chirac replied, “This is indeed important news! How big is your army?”
“Right now,” says Paddy, after a moment’s calculation, “there is meself, me cousin Sean, me next door neighbour Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!”
