Vulgarity

The recent YouTube video of a woman launching a racist diatribe on a London tram has shocked and appalled most who’ve watched it. Secretly filmed, the woman can be seen abusing and ranting at fellow passengers on the tram, many of different ethnicities, and blaming them for the downfall in Britain’s fortunes. It is a disgusting display of bigotry and ignorance which I won’t link to here because it doesn’t need any more exposure.

While the hate filled woman spouts her small minded, verbal diarrhoea, a small child sits on her lap. Whatever about her wanting to voice her hatred for other ‘non British’ races surely she should be concerned about the language she is using in front of what she says is her child. Cursing and swearing in front of her offspring is hardly good parenting (I’m aware, neither is being an ignorant racist. You need a licence for a dog but anyone can have kids.)

Unfortunately I’ve had a real life example of children exposed to inappropriate language on public transport. Only in this instance, it was the cute and innocent 5 year old boy who was walking up to passengers on the 150 bus Monday evening and telling us all to ‘Fuck off.’ If it had been a Roddy Doyle book it might be amusing but in this case the aggressive tiny tot was a little uncomfortable.

The toddler was marching up and down the upstairs aisle of the bus shouting at the other passengers while the person responsible for him sat down the back laughing and telling him he was ‘the best boy’ and ‘he could say whatever he wanted.’ She was about sixteen so I’m not sure if she was the child’s mother but it did seem that way despite her lack of concern for the kid’s behaviour. Actually that’s not entirely true; she did make sure he blessed himself when the bus passed a church.

I enjoy a good curse. I can ‘fuck’ ‘bollix’ ‘wank’ with the best of them, but I would never have dared to curse in front of my elders and most definitely not my parents. You can say a five year old knows no better, but whose fault is that?

The first time I swore in front of my mother was in 1984 when I said shit. That was only after seeing Harrison Ford say it in Temple of Doom. If it was ok for Indiana Jones surely it was ok for me. It wasn’t. Then there was the time I got grounded for a week for telling James Cooper to ‘Fuck off.’

We were playing with our toy cars on the street outside his house, which was three doors down from mine and we were wheeling the Corgi James Bond Lotus Espirt to each when James wheeled it too hard and it bounced up and hit me in the face. Shocked, in pain and forgetting where I was I screamed at him using language fitting of a docker. A couple of moments later my Dad, who was never shy of choice vulgarity himself, appeared at our front door and beckoned me.

“Did I just hear you telling James to Fuck Off” he asked.

Well what could I say? I hadn’t actually realised I cursed, it just came out. I was told to come in and that I wasn’t allowed out for a week. In fairness the grounding probably lasted for the rest of the day. If I’d been smarter I could have argued the hypocrisy of my dad scolding me for swearing. But I was 6.

Kids these days are a lot smarter. And vulgar.

Undertaker

My collection of tweaks and aches brought on by everyday events is gathering momentum. When I bend down my knees click, when I stand my ankles wobble. The collarbone I broke the night before my inter cert has started to throb when it’s cold and sting when it's hot. I ran for the bus earlier only to feel my back spasm in my first stride. When I was younger I could play full length football matches everyday without even stretching. These days when I play badminton the warm ups last longer than the game.

I was watching some WWE recently. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Big Show have grey in their goatee. So do I, now that I think of it.

It's hard to say anything new and fresh about ageing that hasn't been said countless times before by bad TV comedians. I guess we're just lucky that we are alive now. The life expectancy of affluent men living in London in the 16th century was 35, 25 if they were poor. I imagine a jippy knee is preferable to the smallpox or diphtheria.

There is the wide held belief that men tend to make a bigger deal of being sick than women do. It is, of course, the fairer sex who makes these claims but, as a man, it’s hard to refute these allegations. Especially when you submit the evidence of my behaviour the last time I was properly ill.

In mid February 2010 I looked death square in the face and cried like a little baby. I’m not a big believer in putting a brave face on things, so when I was suffering from a tummy bug, I suffered aloud.

Anyone who would listen got to hear of how much pain I was in and a blow by blow description of my constant back and forth visits to the toilet. I was convinced my insides wanted to get out one way or another. If I wasn’t in the bathroom I was lying on bed feeling very sorry for myself.

Such was my misery and my conviction that my appointment with the grim reaper was imminent that I began to plan my own funeral.  The type of service, the music, the food served. In my self pity I event managed the world’s greatest send off.

I would like a non secular ceremony, with an open forum so if someone wished to share a story about me, good or bad, they could so. I don’t want it to be a place for people to mourn but to come and remember me.

 I want the cheapest coffin available, wicker or plywood, as I would prefer to be cremated and there is no point wasting money on expensive firewood. Ideally I think I’d like my box to purple but I won’t complain if it’s not.

Food wise, I had thought that my ashes could be used to season a casserole but this sounds distasteful to anyone who I have suggested it to, so I’ll probably stick to sandwiches. I would like a variety of music played including Vanderlyle Cry-baby Geek by The National, Mr. Boombastic by Shaggy and Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs. I don’t particularly like the Kaiser Chiefs song but it’s impossible not to sing along to and I think that would be pretty amusing at a funeral.

My religious beliefs, or lack thereof, mean I don’t really have lot expectancy from death. I hope it’s painless and quick. I’d be very surprised if there is an afterlife but if there is I’ll gladly hold my hand up and admit that I was wrong.

This might not be a subject that’s to your taste. Some people don’t like to think about death. And if anyone is experiencing a loss that is still raw, I don’t want to bring up sad memories or make light of the subject. Death is something that comes to us all and we deal with in our own way. I just want to make sure mine is done right.

The start of this piece was taken from a post I did on my other blog Bus-to-Move. It came from a random thought as do all the posts on the site but it led to me to want to write about this in a bit more detail.

Transport

Public transport is never the most pleasant of experiences. Fellow passengers can be smelly, germ ridden, inconsiderate or just downright annoying. Drivers can be impatient, rude and obnoxious. But it is a very necessary evil especially to those without a car.

So far this year, I have been forced to sit on buses for longer than I’d expected because of floods, snow, fallen trees, broken down bin lorries, livestock, Queens of England and Presidents of the United States of America. There is no more frustrating waste of time than to be sitting on a large people carrier surrounded by angry commuters who just want to get to where ever they are supposed to be going.

I’ve also just moved house and my new bus routes seem to go the longest way around to get to any point. Through various housing estates and up and down the back roads, it ensures a journey that should take twenty minutes actually takes twice as long. That is a lot of me time that I’m losing out on.

So I’ve come up with a plan that stops them stealing my time and it keeps my brain occupied. I’ve started a new blog. Yea, another one. It’s called Bus-To-Move (inspired by the Young MC 1989 hip hop classic.)

It is yet another collection of my yammering on about the random shite that enters my head but this one is slightly different to the anthology you are currently perusing. The newest blog has certain rules that have to be adhered to.

• The Blog will run for the month of November 2011 only.
• All bus journeys will be chronicled unless I have company on the bus.
• All entries must be time stamped with the same details as the bus ticket.
•    All entries have to be written while on the bus with the use of blogger on my HTC phone.
• They can only be as long as the journey takes (in the interest of logic the very last sentence can be completed after getting off.)
• All thoughts have to enter my head while on the bus. They cannot be thought about previously.
• Editing and proof reading can be done at a later date but the content of an entry cannot be changed
•     Suitable photos, videos or links can be added at a later date

In case you were worried I might start taking over your Facebook news feed or your Twitter timeline, whoring each entry, you can rest easy. I’m looking at this as a project, which you are welcome to look at if you like, but I’m not going to be pushing it.

Last November I was working on NaNoWriMo and it felt like I should do something this year to keep me busy. So it was either that or grow a Movember. And I think I’ve made my feelings clear on that topic.

So I’m only going to be doing Bus-To-Move until the end of November. I’d appreciate anyone who wants, taking a look at it then, but if you want to check out the progress as it evolves, you can find it here.

Synopsis

This time last year I started to write a book. Next week I'm submitting it for the first time to some people who might do something with it. I've to give them a couple of chapters and a synopsis. Below is that synopsis (give or take 16 words). If anyone has any comments or feedback I'd love it the next few days.



Dominic ‘Bucky’ Buckingham has a headache. He’s had it for a few months now. The doctors say he is ‘stressed.’ And who can blame him; he is stuck in a job he hates at a time when he is ‘lucky to have a job,’ saddled with a mortgage for an apartment he never really wanted and is a constant source of disappointment to women in his life. This is not where he imagined he would be at 33 years of age.

Constantly being told what to do by domineering women, his mother, girlfriend, boss, even his therapist, Bucky wonders if he’ll ever have control of his balls long enough to stand up for himself.

When Re-port International announces widespread redundancies his colleagues are justifiably panicking but Bucky can’t help but wonder if it’s a good thing. He hates his job, the boss, the customers, even the cleaning lady. But can he convince his girlfriend Hannah that it’s for the best.

Hannah is the woman who he is prepared to spend the rest of his life with but sometimes he is not sure what kind of life that will be. On a holiday with Hannah in Gran Canaria he starts to believe he is finally getting to grips with his relationship and it starts to make more sense to him.

It’s only following his trip to mainland Spain where he spends time with a group of open minded Spaniards and a free spirited American call Mirabelle that he starts to see the power of positive people and question if the path he’s expected to take is the right one for him.

A humorous character piece, Status Update focuses on Bucky’s journey from pod employee of Re-Port International to proprietor of a market stall selling bespoke crockery. Along the way we get insights into the relationships that have formed and, for the time being at least, frustrate him.