It's Not Cricket

It’s Not Cricket

Da-de-da, dum-da-dum, la-la-la. I was probably about 5yrs old, singing my heart out and typically, lost in my own little world in my own little bedroom. Continuing to sing, tra-la-la-la, I began to skip down the stairs, my sweet, sweet tones growing louder and louder as I reached the bottom step. La-la-la, de-de-de-, fe-fi-fo-fum, fum fum fuc fuc fuckFUCK. I flung open the door to the living room, stepped in and dramatically flinging my arms right out,I made my grand finale. Oh God, I can see it right now. I stood, poised like a star-in-waiting (and still waiting, unfortunately) in front of my lovely turban-headed mum, herself having just been lost in her own world whilst black-leading the fireplace (we lived in a very old house with a very old fireplace). She had turned to face me, mouth almost wide enough to swallow her own face as with all the breath in my very young body I belted out

                                      "FUCK OFF!"

"Where did you pick those up from?", she demanded to know, I think as calmly as only mums know how but certainly I can remember a weird look on her face.

Mumbling “what?”, from the corner of my mouth because, now tired with all the effort of performing, I had shoved my thumb in its usual resting place when speaking, the other corner of my mouth.

"Those words. The ones you were just singing.”

Honestly, I could see something wasn’t quite right, mum was rarely without a big smile, but I didn’t have a clue what. She wasn’t smiling then, that’s for sure. Taking my thumb out for a brief moment I told her, "I asked our Colin and Tony Miller if I could play cricket with them and Tony Miller said ‘fuck off’.

"Don't ever let me hear you say them again", she said and went back to her black-leading

"Ok", says I, returning my thumb to where it belonged. Centre stage of La Bouche! 

That reminds me of virtually the only French I ever made use of after 2yrs of being Paulette in Miss Walton’s class. I’d tease mum when she rabbited on, which was fairly often (heh, I can hear you. J) with “ferme la grande bouche”. She didn’t have a clue, “Oh, stop it”, she’d say, always with a hint of a smile. To this day I still don’t know if that is actually correct but it worked for me and was a great one to use against a bad-tempered welsh-speaking dad who didn’t like foreign food, especially curry. “I’m not eating that muck”, he’d say. He was very proud of his Welsh heritage, was my dad and it’s a shame that we only found out after he died that he was actually of Indian and English descent. Not a spot of Welsh blood in him. I wonder what he’d have said. “Ooh, I love curry, I do”. He was a very contrary man.

                 

We grew up knowing the only person in our house permitted to use bad language was dad when he was in a bad mood and then it was a case of ‘bloody’ or ‘bugger’ and he was permitted because he was head of the house which he frequently informed us. Actually, he’d tell us he was Head Serak. I reckon that’s Welsh! Mum would occasionally say ‘damn and blast’ which I always thought was like a little song. Not that I’d dare sing that. No, I’d learnt my lesson. We could never have said God, either. Never. Mum was firm on that one.

Hard to believe though it is, No1 Son and No1 Daughter were brought up in a strictly non-swearing household. Honest! Although their dad would, out of sheer devilment and to their delight, suddenly say, “bloody bugger sodface”. I’d feign shock and tell him to behave, they’d go,” aah dad, you can’t say that”. “What?” he’d ask, “What did I say?” “You know. You said naughty words”. “I didn’t did I? Tell me what I said”. "Nooooo. We can't do that". And on it would go until one of my beautiful, perfect children would give in and with a quick look at me, the words would spurt out, “bloody bugger sodface”.

It wasn’t really until 1984 I started to swear. George Orwell didn’t predict that one did he? What turned me on, so to speak, was an extremely intelligent, erudite, confident young woman who worked in same office as I. It was the middle of a morning in the middle of the office and she was bemoaning about something or other. I have no idea what as all I could hear was ‘fucking’. I was so shocked. I mean she was stone-cold sober! No excuse! It was at work. Open plan office. Quiet as a turned off telly. An office full of serious people doing serious things in a serious nuclear industry. And she said THAT WORD. Aaarrgh! Oh, how I loved it. I was mightily impressed. The effect on me was so great I swore then to swear! And I do, as and when necessary J

Having said that, there have always been three words that I have found embarrassing to say, not including the ‘c’ word which I would never say. S H 1 T is one. In my day it was sugar! I once heard a very respectable, well-turned out older lady say that word and it sounded just so wrong! Pure filth spewing from her delicately painted lips. Yuk.

At that same serious office with the same serious people in the same serious nuclear industry as I mentioned earlier, I’d stupidly told someone the other two words that made me blush to high heaven. One day, my head down, busy working, I heard my name called, “P”. I looked up to find quite a gathering of men which could have been very welcome but readers, they were not. One of them said those two words and all of them laughed their daft heads off as they watched my face turning redder than the apple of my eye, redder than a post office van, oh for God’s sake, redder than redder! Yes, that red. Since then I’ve made myself say those words out loud to cure myself of blushing. 

Oh, you want to know what they are? Sorry, I may be blush cured but I can’t give you jam on your bread.