National Euphemism Week - Day 2

Before supper, I popped out for a bit of Poet on Toast - and very good it was too. In fact, after having got lost on the Wirral Peninsula (which breaks all the laws of geography, geology, gravity and doubtless genealogy) again, failing to find West Kirby again, and wondering why it is impossible to tell whether you are heading North, South, East or West on The W.P. again, I was relieved that the toast hadn't taken on the consistency of a rubber car mat.

Still, I'd missed none of the poetry because a gallimaufry of musicians had assembled and had bagsied the mic first.

[A word to the wise during National Euphemism Week: Avoid Folk Music Clubs and Anyone With a Banjo.]

Titles of traditional songs are inordinately suggestive. First on, a woman in a fleece who sang (loudly) Keep Your Wick Well Trimmed and Burning.

I bit my lip.

Next, a chap in a checked shirt sang Goliath of Garth - which I misheard as girth.

I bit my lip harder.

Then a duo; winsome boys with sweet voices. In a lengthy preamble to All That Meat and No Potatoes, the one without a beard said, "So I grabbed my dictaphone -". Which I also misheard.

I chewed the knuckle of my left hand.

This segued into a rousing rendition of Bang Lulu, which I thought meretricious. A euphemism has to have the possibility of doubtful intent.

I sipped my peppermint tea calmly and with dignity.

The man with the fiddle (and a beard) then played a lament: Put It In a Cool Dry Place.

Well, I ask you. Luckily, some paper towels were at hand so I could mop up the tea.

If You're Irish You Can Come Into My Parlour had the audience clapping - and me slowly rocking. O so slowly. I've had an Irishman in my parlour. Once.

Fanny Power and This Way and That Way were both performed without an ounce of self-awareness. If irony is the first defence against feeling, then these musicians were feeling their banjos most unironically. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that their intruments were being strummed vigorously.

At this point I left the room before I disgraced myself completely. Sadly, this meant that I missed out on all twenty-two versions of Robin Hood and the ------ (You can fill in the blank with any aristocratic or clerical title: Earl, Lord, Abbot, Nun - that sort of thing.)

But I calmed myself in time for Broken Biro's poetry, which was subtle, moving, funny, clever and not the least bit euphemistic.

Alas.

My Tubs Are Blooming

Would you believe that such an innocent remark about my spring bulbs would provoke so much hilarity? I was questioned as to whether my crocus was engorged? Were my tulips drooping? Audrey Hawthorn-Hedge, last week's guest on Gardeners' Question Time, doesn't have to deal with this sort of thing. I understand why Gordon Brown throws things (allegedly). You just can't get the staff.

Only the other day someone - whoshallremainnamelessyouknowwhoyouareDeborah - someone asked me what friend of the preserving pan meant? It might mean I'm a dab hand at making jam, or it could mean I'm rather fond of fruity 'n' sticky situations. Or it could mean I've become an objectophile and am taking the relationship slowly. (It doesn't do to rush these things.)

But putting my personal life to one side, this question put me in mind of all the euphemisms we use daily and how they seem to be increasing, erm, daily.

Bill: He dances on the other side of the ballroom, him.
Bob: Really? An afficionado of the patent shoe?
Bill: So I've heard. I think he's a pain-au-chocolat short of a continental breakfast.
Bob: And not unfamiliar with the preserving pan.
Bill (AGHAST): Not the (WHISPERS) preserving pan?
Bob: Indeed. (BEAT). Lately, he's become a solo-oboist.
Bill: Double-jointed then?
Bob: No, he really does play the oboe.

You see, it's very easy to take things the wrong way - Enough! - and one could get into terrible trouble supposing a chap was being euphemistic when he wasn't.

Would you like to see my etchings?

He disappears, one disrobes swiftly and - p'rhaps - drapes oneself artistically over his sofa (displaying ones perfect peach of a bottom to its best advantage). He comes back with a leather-bound album full of not very good drawings of his cat.

It takes years to get over a mistake like that.

Why he couldn't just say that he danced on the other side of the ballroom and wasn't interested in my spring bulbs is beyond me. Bloody periphrasis.

There are euphemism generators to be found on The Internet, but I shall not direct you to them as they are uniformly sordid. However, I shall direct you to an excellent blog about the English Language. X marks the spot. Here, Mr Fool discusses euphemisms for death - which was, apparently, the very first word that Broken Biro looked up in a thesaurus. (Whereas in my first deflowering of a thesaurus, I looked up variations of the word slut as I wasn't very happy with one Bronwyn Smallbones at the time.)

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex

...but were too afraid to ask.

Q: My friend (who is a missionary) says that most sex is immoral, and unmarried sex is an abomination before the Lord. Is this the Missionary Position?

A:Yes. Indeed. However, may I suggest your friend tries the Reverse Cowgirl and thus avoid the dirty looks.

Q: Since it's called blow job.....do you have to blow?

A: Most certainly. But don't expect to get a tune out of it.

Q: My Friend Ivor Biggun is having a few issues settling in. Any suggestions?

A: Yes. He should explore the area, making a note of major landmarks. Joining a group activity is never a mistake. Classes are good. Car maintenance or upholstery. Something will always need stuffing.

Q: Should all orifices be made available for all purposes?

A: No, some should be reserved for typing, filing and shorthand.

Q: A gentleman of my acquaintance respectfully asks what is the proper post-coital etiquette......does one fart before or after falling asleep?

A: DURING coitus trumps before AND after.

Q: Should one spit or swallow?

A: This is entirely a matter of personal taste.

Overheard Conversations #5

Location: Cafe bar. Late afternoon. Interior.

Characters: Two women in their 30s sit at a table chatting.

Brunette: I wasn't going to tell you this...

Blonde: I can guess.

Brunette: I called round to see -

Blonde (TRIUMPHANT): Rick.

Brunette: Yes.

Blonde: Rick the Prick

Brunette: Ha-ha.

Blonde: Why?

Brunette: I wanted a damn good seeing to.

Blonde: And?

Brunette: He had a headache.

Blonde: Rick never has headaches.

Brunette: I know. (BEAT). That's why I'm depressed.

Blonde: Buy a rabbit. (BEAT). Not the furry kind.

Brunette: Got one. (BEAT). Sometimes y'fancy the real thing, y'know?

Blonde (SIGHS): Yup. (BEAT). Women like sex more than men.

Brunette: Y'think?

Blonde: For all those jokes about electric blankets and flannel nighties.

Brunette: You could be right. (BEAT). I've never had a headache.

Blonde: Not even with -?

Brunette: No. (LAUGHS). He just made me physically sick.

Blonde: Ewww!

Brunette: Not at the time. But now - the thought!

Blonde: Don't. (SHUDDERS).

Brunette: Cheer me up. Tell me about Spanker.

Blonde: No! I'm not doing all my yesterdays.

Brunette: About Honey Boy.

Blonde: No!

Brunette (PERSUASIVELY): About Darren...

Blonde (ROLLS HER EYES): Okay. Because Rick's been a dick.

Brunette: You're a mate.

Blonde: He was going back to Portsmouth.

Brunette: And?

Blonde: I got on the train at Lime Street to kiss him goodbye -

Brunette: And?

Blonde: The carriage was empty.

Brunette: And?

Blonde: We had a cuddle.

Brunette: And?

Blonde: I gave him a blow job -

Blonde: Did you go all the way?

Brunette: No, only to Runcorn -

Blonde & Brunette (TOGETHER): Then I got the train back!

THEY BOTH LAUGH.

Brunette: Sod coffee. I need a drink.

Blonde: Gin?

Brunette: Only if it's a stiff one.

ROLL CREDITS

The Joy of Smut

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?"