The Milk Is Fresh But The Customers Are Spoiled

My Dad was a milkman for around twenty-five years, in the days when most people had bottles of milk delivered to their doorsteps. He used to deliver seven mornings a week, starting around 5 am, then go out Thursday and Friday evenings collecting the money.

One winter evening he knocks on the kitchen door of one house. The wife opens the door and steps out.

Wife: “I’m just on my way out, but he’ll pay you.”

She points to her husband, who is sitting on the far side of the kitchen by the fire. My Dad looks at the husband, the husband looks at Dad.

Husband: “No, I’m too warm by this fire, I’m not moving. Come back tomorrow.”

Dad: “Come on, stop mucking around. I want to get home tonight.”

Husband: Adamant. “No, I’m too cosy. Come back tomorrow.”

At 5.30 am the next morning, my Dad is standing on their front doorstep, thumping on their door as hard as he can:

Dad: “Morning! Milko! I’ve come for the money.”

He can hear them starting shouting indoors:

Wife: “You go down.”

Husband: “I’m not going down.”

Wife: “You were the one who wouldn’t bloody pay him!”

Eventually, the wife opens the door and hands the money to Dad. As she does so, she looks him straight in the eye and just says:

Wife: “You Sod!”

The money was always waiting for him at that house after that.