I know what you're thinking - those coppers at the Bruche training college can't half tell them, can they? Alas, though, this isn't an outtake from The Secret Policeman, the BBC's documentary expose of police racism screened this week. In fact, if it was imbecile bigotry they were after they could have saved the travel expenses, as this joke originates with Mr Jim Davidson, a BBC presenter whose attitudes so disgust the corporation that they have just given him another series, and a special to be screened next year.
Meanwhile, you can hear plenty more like that at Jim's stage show (currently touring), as long as you don't live in Plymouth, where this week he refused to perform at the last minute after organisers declined to move the disabled people from the front rows.
It's hard to say which is more pathetic - the BBC, which when called for a comment on Tuesday, parroted his defence that as it was his wont to pick on the front row, he didn't want it to seem as if he was having a go at disabled people; or Jim's decision to confirm this by opening the next night's show with a regretful mea culpa. "Do we have any disabled people in here tonight?" he shouted. "Well fuck off."
"If you women liked to shag a little fucking more," ran a later observation, "There wouldn't be any rape cases". And here he is on prostitution: "Get a few Kosovan girls in. I'm sure they'd rather be screwed than wash your windscreen."
The BBC's argument as to why they continue to employ Mr Davidson when his publicly expressed views are this repugnant could be demolished by a five-year-old with a vague interest in fair play.
Not two months ago he told the Radio Times that his annual summer season in Great Yarmouth was being sullied by "fat children of all colours and no class". On that occasion I placed a call to the press office, again to discuss whether the corporation was suffering some sort of collective delusion in which Mr Davidson - a man who still deploys his hilarious West Indian character Chalky White on occasion - was deemed a comic property of the calibre and bankability of Jerry Seinfeld.
Then, as on Tuesday, the justification was the same: he's not solely contracted to the BBC (though he works for no other station) and they can't legislate for comments he makes elsewhere, suggesting that if Eugene Terreblanche had displayed a minimal aptitude for hosting teatime snooker shows, he'd have been in with a shout for Big Break.
As for the coda that many people tune into his programmes (wishful thinking in itself, on recent form), well, the retort that people would watch a hanging if it was on seemed too obvious to state, and anyway by this stage the spokesperson seemed anxious to end the call swiftly, presumably keen to trumpet the shocking police racism exclusive elsewhere.
Obviously, press officers are merely constrained to toe the BBC's unfathomable line on this one. But it beggars belief that Angus Deayton can be sacked for a few lines of coke and some illicit sex, when Jim Davidson is cosseted with new series and specials while publicly espousing views that would make Pat Buchanan blush. And if the BBC can't summon the moral courage or even the common sense to deal a crushing blow to British light entertainment and sack him, then it must accept that the shine on worthy investigations like the one at Bruche college is rather dulled.
