Sadly, this sweetcorn has been infected with Common Smut. O, how the gardeners giggle when discussing the afflictions of sweetcorn!
Actually they don't which is why I was blackballed from the Local Allotment Society.
Blackballed. There I go again.
Give me an entendre and I will double it. I'll see your Double Entendre and raise it. And so on. Smut which comes naturally should be considered an innate talent rather than an embarrassing affliction. I thought I'd just slip that one in.
Here is but one example. Once, a compere at an open mic event explained that the microphone stand had been stolen and that the microphone would have to be held by each performer. She said kindly, "If any of you poets are having problems performing and need to use two hands, I can kneel down and hold it for you."
Humphrey Littleton eat your heart out.
Smut is wonderful, enlivening, life-affirming (not like that bloody play The Sea - see posts passim), flirtatious, silly. It creates alliances and exposes puritans. Good smut is the mille-feuille (cream puff doesn't sound half so light and airy) of the English language; poor smut, the claggy bread and butter pudding. It relies on understanding subtle differences in word definitions, Music Hall timing, and not being American.
I could discourse at length on this subject, but I have a Man of the Cloth coming to tea. "More butter up your end, Vicar? Or may I press you to another tart?"
The mrs joyful prize for raffia work *, dinner parties, drunken doctors, dessert wine, quince blossom, ice cubes, vests, gin, Bakelite telephones (adds gravitas to every conversation), shouting lessons, oysters, grilled squid, cafe bars, loofahs, plump cheeks, second-hand bookshops, Illy Dark Roast, steamed milk, big mugs, boots, narcissi, debate, silence, bottlebanks, toast, The Sullenness of Youth, bad influences, passing fancies, glace cherries.
Posts
