Hungover from last night, I’m sat listening to the Stones in my office, with the beautiful day passing by just outside my window and wishing that the telephone would stop ringing, or at least someone else would pick it up so I don’t have to talk to anymore mildly efficient and frustratingly rude people asking me things I don’t know and not wanting to go away and call back when someone who gives a damn is around.
I have to complete a section of website today concerning falls prevention in Swansea; preventing Welsh people falling over. On some level I think that I am somehow colluding with dark forces who wish to drain all humour from the world by outlawing one of the funniest things known to man and monkey. Who would want to prevent people from falling over? Some of the best times of my life have been spent falling over. I imagine that it does not hold the same appeal for everyone and a week in hospital with a smashed pelvis may be shorter on laughs than I suppose.
Satori were great last night, both musically and in terms of the high quality produce we received. John gave us half a dozen eggs and Lee gave us a pair of basil plants, a tomato plant, some butternut squash seedlings and a punnet of wonderful strawberries. It was a musical farmers’ market. Three of them are now living in the countryside and loving it. I would warn them that country folk harbour great evil amongst them but they won’t believe me until they are having their doors kicked in and being dragged off to a dank barn somewhere to be put to the question by Witch Finders who suspect them of queer behaviour that be roite unnaturaaaal. Yes I am reinforcing stereotypes, but I was a country bumpkin myself; I could tell what sort of dung had been spread on the field by smell alone at a distance of many miles. I knew when blackberry season was at its peak and how to tickle a salmon. I know of what I speak!
You’ll be quietly worshipping our Lord Beelzebub in the comfort of your own conservatory or gazebo when acolytes clad in Hessian will smash your French windows in with their plough shears and hoes, drag you and your loved ones to the “Gizzard Tree” and flay the flesh from your bones. Then they’ll put your house on the market, stick the proceeds from the sale into commodities speculation, make a bundle which they’ll invest in lunar exploration, go to the moon, put an Anglican church up and a cricket pitch down and write embittered letters to the council about the inconsiderate nature of the planet Earth and how it does not turn out the lights at night. Happens all the time, but they don’t put it in the papers and the BBC won’t tell you about it, because they’re all in on the deal.
My childhood memories are so vivid. I still have my old cowl and Giblet Spoon in a box upstairs. Of course I can't look at them these days, since the EST. But, in the dead of night when the drunks reel down the street and smash their faces on fists and lampposts I can snuggle into my restraints and hum “We’ve all gone to the Disembowelling” until Monica administers the Fluphenazine.
3 comments:
You forgot to mention the buggery! Or, as it has now come to be known in modern society, 'bumming'.
Ah the sweet and rich development of our language! I remember when 'Bumming around' was simply doing not-a-lot in a lacksadaisical manner; I remember when 'Bumming' meant 'cadging'... oh how cruelly simple words are corrupted.
Perfectly ordinary words like 'rimming', 'felching', 'fisting' and 'piss flaps' are, even as we speak, probably developing their own secondary meanings.
Soon they'll be quite innocent parts of our language and all the fun will be taken out of them.
It won't be long before someone on children's telly accuses someone else of being a rimmer, or laughingly tells them to shift their piss flaps.
A sad day for us all.
Ah yes, I see that due to your upbringing in the wilds of the Gower, the corrupted version of 'bumming' reached your ears somewhat later than mine. As for me, having grown up in the suburbs of South London amidst the cries of 'spaz' and 'Joey'(not usually directed at myself), 'bumming' has always meant sticking your cock in someone's arse. Of course, the alternative meanings such as 'cadging' also continued, leading to much hilarity whenever someone would say, "Can I bum a fag?".
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